by J. W. Webb
“Er…no.”
“She is a strong woman. You could do worse.”
“You’re reading things that aren’t there.”
“Am I? We will see. I will miss you, you rogue.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yes you are. Your longsword will be needed in the desert. You’re the best man I know, Corin, that’s why Zallerak chose you.”
“I belong at your side,” Corin replied lamely. “Not his. With Roman gone you need me as a…protector, if nothing else.”
“I can handle myself and I need to return to Wynais—keep a close eye on Caswallon’s moves. I miss my city and my people, Corin. I will be just fine. Yours will prove the toughest task.”
“I will always love you.”
“I know that, you fool. I also know that our paths lead to different roads. Don’t fight your destiny, Corin. We both know what it is.”
“Do we?”
Ariane looked up as Cale joined them. As ever the boy steered close to his queen. “These gardens are awesome,” Cale told them.
Corin looked at the boy and sighed. “I promised Roman I would see you safe.”
“You have done that and more,” Ariane told him. “Enough for now, the others are returning.”
As Silon’s guests reclaimed their seats, Cale grabbed Ariane’s sleeve. His voice was insistent. “If Corin is off to the desert then I’m going with him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You, my boy, are coming back to Wynais with Galed and myself. There you will receive schooling in etiquette and courtly manners—all that’s involved in becoming a noble squire.”
“Why? There’s a war coming and I could be useful. I don’t need an education!”
“Yes, you do. Besides, you’re far too young for battle.”
“But I was fighting in Crenna,” Cale pleaded. “I want to be a warrior like Corin. I want to own a longsword and fight bad people.” The boy’s eyes caught Corin’s wry sideways glance.
“You, shithead, couldn’t lift a longsword.”
“I could if I worked out.”
“Enough, Cale!” Ariane’s hand rose with abrupt authority, closing the matter. Cale pulled a face as he took a seat beside her. “The council has resumed.”
“It’s stony for many miles.” Yashan informed them about Permio’s terrain whilst blowing smoke through his nose. He’d asked Silon’s permission to light his pipe, and with the host’s blessing sent whirls of wispy smoke up into the ceiling. The tobacco was blended with something sweet, it made Corin’s eyes water and his mind wander dreamy. Not ideal at councils.
“The lands between Liaho and Narion are awash with bandits,” Yashan explained. “I know most of them. They’ll not trouble us.” Belmarius snorted and Corin raised an eyebrow.
“The real desert lies beyond the River Narion crossed by most at Agmandeur. We will make for that walled city. I have a friend there who will supply us with capacious water gourds, camels and food for the deep desert terrain. Agmandeur is a free city—the sultan’s boys tend to stay away.”
“What’s a camel?” Cale asked Corin.
“A horrible horse-type thing with lumps on its back,” replied the longswordsman.
“South of Agmandeur the dunes rear up, higher and higher for many leagues,” Yashan told them. “Beyond these towers of sand lies the Copper Desert, realm of the Ty-Tander. We do not go that way! Instead we’ll follow the Narion southeast towards its source, making for a remote rock called Orlot. That hill’s flat summit awards a clear panorama of the terrain leading to the Crystal Mountains. Those legendary peaks lie some leagues south of Orlot. That is where I will leave you. The land beyond Orlot is forbidden to the tribes. Legends speak of fiends dwelling beneath those mountains.”
“Oh that’s good,” said Corin. “Anything else we need to worry about?”
There followed more discussion and considerably more wine before their various courses of action were finally decided upon. As evening beckoned they reached concord. Not before time, in Corin’s opinion.
General Belmarius would leave in the morning and venture east with his most prestigious regiment (he’d insisted on sending a small force of four hundred elite horse rangers to accompany Ariane, despite her assurance that she didn’t need them.)
“My Queen, I insist,” Belmarius said. “I would see you safe to Wynais. Stay here until they arrive. Captain Valentin will lead them, he’s one of my best.”
Ariane thanked him. Captain Valentin’s rangers were camped just three days’ ride away on the northern banks of the Liaho. Silon would send a pigeon there right away.
Duke Tomais and his daughter Shallan would return north aboard The Starlight Wanderer. Barin would find a safe cove for them to disembark and slip through the hills to Car Carranis—taking Silon’s news from the council to Starkhold so that the Raleenian warlord knew he wasn’t fighting alone.
Once he’d parted with his passengers, Barin would return north to his island home. There he would hold council with his clan chiefs and raise a levy against Leeth. They would raid Grimhold—Haal’s castle town. Once he found out, the king of Leeth would be so enraged he’d abandon his siege of Car Carranis and march north—so Barin told them.
But first Barin would sail south and deposit Silon in Syrannos, where the merchant would seek further word with Barakani, ensuring the desert chief’s planned coup stayed intact. The Raleenians, Silon told them, would keep watch on events south of the Liaho.
That left the desert quest. Yashan would guide Zallerak, Bleyne, Tamersane and Corin an Fol deep into Permio, on the hunt for the Smith Croagon and disgraced Prince Tarin of Kelthaine. These five would depart in the morning with Belmarius. They would bid farewell to the general at the Liaho crossing.
Despite his earlier outburst, Corin was resigned to the task ahead. He was glad that Tamersane would be with them. The thought of being stuck in the desert with no ale, and Bleyne and Zallerak, and this Yashan for comrades was enough to leave him witless.
Decisions made, the council concluded. Silon’s guests retired to enjoy the evening. One by one they filtered off to gardens, rooms and terrace. Corin, alone again, found himself wandering the deserted corridors of Silon’s villa. He needed time to think. Although the council had gone on forever he’d had little time to absorb the result.
Another foolhardy quest. Why had he signed up to it despite his protestations? Vervandi appearing hadn’t helped, seeing her face occlude Bleyne’s had sapped his confidence and burst his bubble. Again he was being played for a fool. Corin passed the kitchen and drained a half-filled wineglass he found abandoned there.
I need air.
Chapter 11
The Gardens at Dusk
Outside, light was fading fast. Evening had fallen starry and serene. Corin took to strolling out into the quiet peace of Silon’s expansive gardens.
A lone bird sang for a time then all was still. The sweet scents of jasmine and honeysuckle rose up to greet Corin, reviving his senses. But not lifting his mood. He strode across the lawn towards the long ferns fanning the steep bank, before descending and vanishing into the shadowy maze of vineyard below. Tall columns of cypress stood silent as sentinels as he walked beneath.
Past those silent trees, the clear water of the lake darkened to spilt ink. Corin saw the tall figure of Zallerak standing there framed by swaying reeds. The bard was fingering his harp and gazing dreamily out across the water, idly watching the restful ripples chase each other along its darkening surface.
As he played, wisps of mist rose up from the lake’s surface. It was a haunting sight and an eerie sound. Corin tried not to listen to the clear melodic peel of music drifting up towards him. The harp song was beautiful yet sad. It spoke of days gone past. A splendour long forgotten. And a world that he would never know.
Corin turned away.
He still distrusted Zallerak, but now believed the bard needed their help as much as they needed his. Zallerak was an enigma. Only Silon seeme
d at ease in his presence, but then Silon was almost as bad as the bard. Barin was right, they were both clever players in some complicated game.
Corin pondered on Zallerak’s late arrival at the council. What was the real connection between him and the dog creature, Morak? One day he would know.
They were like two sides of the same coin, and although Zallerak was highly favourable compared to the hideous dog-thing, Corin suspected the bard to be equally manipulative and just as ruthless as his enemy. Time would tell—he just hoped he’d keep the skin on his back over the coming months.
Corin shook his head irritably. What was wrong with him this evening? He blamed Zallerak’s melancholy music. Corin liked a healthy jig—not this woeful dreary plucking. He sighed; took to strolling again. Down the ferny path toward the silent orchard grove below. He needed a clear head—space and time to think. That wasn’t happening at the moment.
Corin stopped, hearing soft footsteps behind. A twig snapped and whoever it was paused. Corin wished they’d go away. He suspected Silon or else young Cale sought his attentions. Deciding it useless to ignore them, he turned about.
A hooded figure watched him from the dusky gloom. Corin froze, wishing he had brought Biter with him. Then when the hood slipped off her head Corin recognised Lady Shallan of Morwella.
***
Shallan had listened to the words spoken at the council with growing concern. She felt out of her depth. Nobody had mentioned the Groil attack this morning, she’d caught up with the bard Zallerak, asked him whether he thought Caswallon was onto them. He’d evaded the question instead, stating that these Groil had come from Olen Valek in the mountains, a place she’d never heard of.
“They are servants of my enemy the Dog-Lord,” Zallerak had said. “It’s true that Morak sent many to aid Caswallon but I believe our visitors last night serve their original master. I drove the rest away after your horn killed those six. A useful tool, my lady.” Shallan hadn’t replied.
She had hoped that by arriving here they would glean some answers. Instead she felt more confused. Enemies everywhere and Caswallon’s claws tightening by the day. Shallan thought of her beloved city crumbling beneath the hungry fires of Leeth. The library destroyed. Her favourite place—so much ancient lore and knowledge lost to the ignorance of hate. The sweet memories of her long dead mother sewing contentedly in her room. All buried forever beneath a pile of ash.
She felt fury too. Vengeful loathing. How dare they burn her city! Murder her people! Sometimes Shallan wished she were a man. Were it so, then she would pursue the king of Leeth and his foul sons to the far corners of this green world and tear their bloody hearts out! She had hoped to receive aid or at least assistance today. Instead she’d been faced by confusion, and a group of people clutching at straws.
Shallan was disappointed. She’d reported her opinions to her father and Tomais had replied that she was naïve, and that their only hopes lay in travelling as far from Kella City as was possible. Caswallon had already won, the duke told her. It was a view she wouldn’t subscribe to.
But then Shallan had never seen eye to eye with her father. Not since her mother’s sad demise. Though she loved him, his daughter never really trusted the duke. There were things he’d never told her. Bad things and difficult things. Something had happened between her parents rendering the once beautiful stately duchess haggard and frail, and resulting in her untimely death.
It had left the mourning duke stern and rigid—impossible to reach. That had been years ago but the strain still showed on his face. So when they had safely arrived at Vioyamis, Shallan had been more than ready for new company.
Instead she’d woken to Groil howls.
And she hadn’t expected to encounter her cousin Ariane. That had been a complete surprise as the young queen was rumoured on some wild sea venture beyond Kelthaine. For her part Shallan had masked her emotions and feigned friendship, but the queen had proved frosty as ever.
The two had never got on since the unfortunate business with Ladislaw, the handsome, glib courtier eventually outlawed for embezzlement.
A rake and villain he proved. But the teenage Ariane and twenty-year-old Shallan had both mooned after him. Though Ariane more than Shallan. When Ladislaw’s attentions favoured Shallan the young princess took it ill. Not that Shallan got any satisfaction in that quarter. She was stiff and remote and Ladislaw soon gave up on her. But the damage was done.
And now she was here with this strange company. Some she knew but most she didn’t. Tamersane reminded her just a little of Ladislaw with his easy smile and sunny laugh. But Tamersane was a good man unlike the other.
Galed she remembered as one of King Nogel’s scribes from earlier days visiting her cousin in Wynais. A fussy irritable little man. General Belmarius she knew also from her childhood. But who were the others?
Bleyne confused her; she’d been alarmed hearing his home was the haunted forest close to the borders of her country. Elanion’s forest—nobody went there.
The ginger boy Cale was evidently quite bright, although he looked like some wastrel Ariane had collected on the way; as a young princess she’d had a penchant for stray cats and puppies. Ariane seemed to view this lad in the same manner.
Yashan’s tribal features were frightening to behold, as was Barin of Valkador with his huge bulk, wild hair and grizzled beard. But Shallan had warmed to the Northman as the day wore on. Barin appeared a decent sort despite his girth and dishevelled looks, and had a kindly glint to his eye.
Shallan didn’t know where to start with Zallerak; she would have to probe Silon about that one. These guests of the merchant were so unlike the people she had known in Vangaris. Those polite smiling whisperers with never a hair out of place.
But it was the dark-haired warrior type with the scar on his forehead that fascinated Shallan. This one was unusual. Quite outspoken for a commoner. The Longswordsman. (Apparently he had a very long blade, which had caused Shallan to raise an eyebrow when Tamersane had told her).
“I so look forward to seeing it,” she’d replied without thinking what she’d said. This Corin had the manners of a tavern brawler. And his face—though raffishly appealing—had a dour set to it. He reminded Shallan of a bad-tempered hound who had recently had his bone confiscated. He didn’t seem one for smiling a lot. But clearly he was no ordinary mercenary, and Tamersane had told her how Corin knew Hagan and how they were bitter foes. But it had been when Shallan noticed how often Ariane glanced upon this Corin that she became curious.
Ariane loves this man. Why?
Corin an Fol: the name meant nothing to her except to announce he hailed from that bleak promontory west of Kashorn, where only poor fisherfolk dwelt. But as Shallan studied this Corin she came to see the strength in him. And when he spoke with such passion at the table Shallan began to comprehend why her cousin appeared to have fallen for this man.
Corin was attracted to her, of that there was no doubt. It was something Shallan was accustomed to. Shallan flirted subtly when in the mood. She’d not been in the mood of late. Not for many months, in fact. Besides, he wasn’t her type. But then again, nor were most men.
She’d trapped his gaze a few times, seen the colour of those stormy eyes. Blue/grey, much like her own. Northern eyes. Moody. Strong. Intelligent and perceptive, though haunted with self-doubt and irony. Shallan saw the anger surface so frequently in that gaze, but also she glimpsed a compassion and clemency buried beneath. This was a strange man. A contradiction.
Shallan had listened in interest when Corin first spoke out in anger. She noted how he alone (save perhaps Silon,) seemed undaunted by the weird, wild-eyed Zallerak.
Corin an Fol, Shallan decided from that point on, was worthy of her full attention.
And he would be gone tomorrow so she would make the most of him tonight. Try and find out what went on inside that rough head. Shallan felt a wicked little shudder of excitement. It wasn’t like her to act in this way. Usually she was remote. Austere, even. An
d it wasn’t that she wanted to spite Ariane again. This was something else. A kind of fascination for a type she had never encountered before.
Her arduous voyage had hardened Shallan. The Horned Man had hinted at her fate. Shallan knew she was different and that circumstances had changed for her. Not only externally with the war, but deep inside her hidden self. The horn and her power over the Groil creatures had given her new confidence. Her intuition had grown as her vanity faded.
The world outside was turning in on Shallan. The future so uncertain, death alone could be relied on. Shallan assumed her life would most likely prove short. The nets of the enemy were tightening. She might no longer be helpless and there were brave people here. But their chances of defeating Caswallon were woefully slim. Strangely that no longer worried Shallan.
And for once she needed male company (not her father’s) and perhaps, she allowed, Shallan needed love too. Love: a complicated word for so few letters. It was something she’d never really understood. Bizarrely, Shallan knew intuitively that with this Corin she could gain rare solace. A moment of light and joy in a world ever darkening and closing in. She recalled a phrase she’d read long ago written by an unknown hand; ‘Time scatters seeds to the wind, life is but a moment flowering’.
With those words in mind, Shallan took it upon herself to follow Corin an Fol when he left the house. After all, what had she to lose?
***
Corin stood frozen with a peculiar expression on his face. He couldn’t think of what to say or do. He managed a lopsided smile and,
“Hello.”
Shallan smiled back and Corin felt a tingling sensation up his spine.
“I saw you leave the villa. I don’t know why, but I followed you here. Hope you don’t mind.” Her smile fled as a shadow haunted her gaze. Corin felt a twig snap below his feet. She was so beautiful standing there, her long chestnut hair spilling free of the hood, and alluring figure hinting at him behind that cloak.
