The Lost Prince (legends of Ansu Book 3)

by J. W. Webb

  Barin would say farewell to the queen in Port Sarfe, together with Tomais, his daughter and Silon. At the town quay they would await his ship’s return to the harbour. Silon had sent a rider out the previous night to inform Barin’s crew that they were once again welcome in Port Sarfe. Barin surmised Fassof would already have The Starlight Wanderer under sail.

  Throughout last night soldiers had lined the headlands along the coast as far south as the Liaho’s delta keeping watch for pirates, but none were seen. Rael Hakkenon, it seemed, was licking his wounds elsewhere.

  Corin patted Thunderhoof’s flank as he said an awkward farewell to the queen and Galed, who had been given new horses from the master of the house. Ariane looked stunning this morning—a young warrior queen dressed in flared navy trousers and suede tunic, over which she favoured a short hauberk of glittering steel rings, the rapier gleaming at her side. Behind Ariane, Cale fought to hold back tears. Corin winked at the boy and Cale managed a valiant smile.

  “Look after yourself, you rogue,” smiled Ariane, her gloved left hand resting slightly on Corin’s shoulder before their jostling steeds forced them apart.

  “My thoughts will be with you,” Ariane told him. Corin noticed a slight dampness lining the rim of her eyes. A part of him felt heartily ashamed about last night, although a greater part cried out in joy. He was torn—caught like a moon-gazy hare between these two bewitching women.

  He did love Ariane, but lying with Shallan had eased his soul in a way he’d never known before. Her touch, her smile, her lips and subtle scent. Everything had felt so right. Corin could think of little else this morning.

  “You too, my Queen,” he managed eventually. “We’ll meet again in due course—of that I’m sure. You’re the best, Ariane. May Elanion watch over you in the days ahead.”

  Ariane glanced across at Shallan who was avoiding her gaze this morning. “You’ve a deal to live for now I deem,” Ariane spoke softly, and if Corin heard her he didn’t answer. He seemed edgy, awkward—lost in thought. Ariane smiled wryly. It was the old pattern repeating itself again. The game Shallan and Ariane had always played and the outcome inevitably the same. So be it…

  I am a queen.

  “Farewell, Corin an Fol.” Ariane smiled at him briefly then turned her attention to more important matters.

  Barin strode up and thumped the brooding Corin on the chest.

  “Take care, Longswordsman,” he grinned as his hand ruffled Thunder’s mane.

  “Don’t have too many adventures without me, and keep an eye on that crafty wizard!” Barin’s glance shifted to the other side of the terrace where Zallerak stood consulting with the desert warrior, Yashan.

  The bard/magician had donned his sapphire cloak. Corin also noted that Zallerak carried a long spear, the broad point sparkling like polished glass in the morning sun. There was no sign of his harp; perhaps it was hidden behind the ample folds of his cloak. Zallerak’s silvery gold hair was swept back and contained by a simple steel circlet. He looked like a peacock, preening himself whilst the desert warrior looked on.

  Corin shrugged. He punched Barin affectionately in return.

  “Aye and you,” he replied. “Have a care with that unwieldy hatchet, and don’t pick any fights on your way home, you’ve noble passengers to mind. I will expect to see you in one piece when I come and visit your daughters!” He clasped his friend’s dinner plate hand and shook it hard. “Mayhap I’ll run off with one of them!”

  “They wouldn’t like you,” countered Barin. “They prefer real men, fair-haired handsome bearded giants like me.” In a softer voice he added. “Besides, it appears to me that you have already chosen where your heart lies, my friend. I don’t know how you do it, Longswordsman, but you have two lovely ladies fretting over you this morning.”

  “You are observant as usual.” Corin glanced over to where Shallan sat neatly upon her mare surrounded by the city guard. She was speaking with the queen as her duty bade her. Neither woman looked comfortable.

  “I have eyes,” answered Barin. “Farewell, Longfellow.”

  The outgoing party rode through the quiet vineyard together, most kept to their thoughts, though Cale who had recovered his humour questioned Silon on the wily ways of merchants. Silon raised an eyebrow once or twice. The queen would have to watch this one. Cale the guttersnipe was no simple urchin.

  Birds sang on the swaying boughs of trees and late bees hummed busily amongst the morning blooms. Behind them Vioyamis’s white walls glistened before disappearing behind a hill.

  Tamersane, trotting next to Corin, glanced back to get a last look at the house. His young face was cheerfully thoughtful. The Kelwynian noble was garbed in a long polished mail shirt over soft leather trousers and vest. He wore a dun-coloured cloak of fine wool despite the heat. At his side hung a broadsword and long hunting knife. A steel helm rested jaunty on the pommel of Tamersane’s saddle, and a new bow with accompanying arrows sprouted from the saddlebags. He looked like a young prince off to some country joust.

  Corin cast a weary look in Tamersane’s direction. He was a peacock, but at least would prove good company, which was more than could be said for his other companions to the desert. Behind them, Bleyne sat on his beast in accustomed silence, his tattooed face as usual revealing no emotion, the long bow and arrows slung across his back and a leather cloak flapping behind him in the warm breeze.

  They passed through Silon’s fields reaching the road to Port Sarfe and beyond. Here they reined in. Just a few miles west the sandy walls of Port Sarfe’s Barbican shimmered in the sun. They’d reached the crossroads where the road from Silon’s villa met the broad way that would serve Zallerak’s party on their journey south to distant Permio. The riders sat on their steads in silence. Time to part and go their own ways.

  Corin’s head was heavy with thoughts of the journey ahead; he met Shallan’s gaze again, caught the glistening of a tear. She mouthed a silent brave farewell. For the briefest instant Corin’s eyes locked onto hers. He felt the electricity of that contact: sad and joyful. Then she turned away.

  Corin watched after her for a moment longer then he too turned away. Ariane witnessed that exchange. Corin nodded in her direction. The queen raised a hand in farewell, Corin saluted her, and then without further fuss bade Thunder follow the other five horsemen already heading south along the dusty road towards the desert lands, and Elanion knew what else.

  Corin turned in the saddle, gazed back just the once; saw that both Shallan and Ariane watched him still, as did Silon and Cale. Corin waved and saw their hands lift in answer. He mouthed a curse about his fate and bid Thunderhoof turn, canter and catch up with the others.

  “Hey, old lad,” he told the horse, “It looks like we’re stuck with each other again.” Thunderhoof flicked an ear. “I know,” said his owner. “It’s going to be fun.”

  Throughout that day and the next the five horsemen rode south, fording Kael’s stream and passing like grey shadows through the empty land known as South Kaelin, the troubled border country between Raleen and Permio. A bleak arid region, desolate and open. The scene of many an ambush during the Second Permian War.

  It was very warm. Corin had tied a dark strip of cloth around his head to keep his long hair in place.

  Beside him Tamersane had stowed his cloak and now sported his expensive leather sheaved ring mail above a linen shirt. A broad studded black leather belt supported the Kelwynian nobleman’s long sword and curved hunting knife.

  Yashan was dressed as he had been at the council, save that he now wore long boots instead of pointy shoes. Bleyne the archer was wrapped in his habitual leathers, the long bow slung across his back and slender knife at his side.

  The heavyset Belmarius rode encased in steel like a mobile fortress, an iron mace hung from the belt at his side and a broad square helmet occluded his features.

  Only Zallerak stood out, draped as he was in his magnificent blue cloak, the long spear resting easy in his right hand. The bard’s me
rcurial eyes studied the stony country as they cantered south. Already he worked on a plan.

  The terrain became even more arid when they approached the Permian frontier. Here and there were scattered clumps of trees, but mostly this was a land of sandy hills and hot dusty valleys, where lolling goats watched them pass with lazy curiosity.

  On the morning of the third day since their departure from Vioyamis, the six riders arrived at the old stone bridge that spanned the Liaho River. Corin marvelled at the sight as he always did. He couldn’t comprehend the skill of the ancients who had built it. Over fifty foot high, the bridge reached up and out across the wide muddy river, in a single unsupported span of sparkling stone. It favoured neither rail nor post, and at twenty feet wide allowed the swift passage of armies.

  For many years men had fought bitterly (himself included) back and forth across this bridge, their blood spilling on its shining stone. Yet still it stood there untainted by either time or conflict. A defiant symbol of an age long past.

  Yashan rode ahead scouting the way. He returned after a few minutes announcing the far bank deserted and their crossing into Permio unchecked. It was here that General Belmarius bade them gruff farewell. From here Belmarius would make his way eastwards alone along the northern bank of the river, to where his army was waiting at their encampment on Helbrone Island. On the way there he would divert to Valentin’s camp, order his second to lead his rangers north with the promised aid for Queen Ariane.

  The five remaining riders dismounted and led their horses across the gleaming bridge; despite its girth the bridge was worn by ages and safer to cross on foot.

  Behind, the brown ridges of South Kaelin faded distant into shimmering haze. Corin, glancing back, watched the tiny beetle figure of Belmarius disappear behind a rocky outcrop that marked a bend in the river.

  Corin thought of the risks they were taking coming here. He pictured Shallan’s lovely face and Barin’s bluff smile, and then thought of the queen’s courage as she faced the Assassin in his hall, and of little Cale, her most ardent servant who so wanted to become a fighting man.

  “Stay alive, all of you, until I’m back,” he muttered to the wind.

  Corin studied the country greeting them as he led Thunderhoof across the old bridge alongside his companions. Their horses’ hooves clattered noisily on the smooth surface of the bridge. Tamersane’s eyes widened when he glanced down at the broad expanse of river so far below.

  “Reckon there’s crocodiles amongst that sludge,” he said to Corin.

  “That and worse,” replied the Longswordsman.

  “What’s worse than a crocodile?”

  “Sea pikes—they swim up from the delta. Shred a man’s flesh in seconds. That and foot-long salt leaches that slide inside your private parts and commence sucking.”

  “Then best we don’t fall off this bridge,” grinned Tamersane. “What are the women like in Permio?”

  “Dark and hairy with foul tempers.”

  “Sounds like we’re on a fun trip.”

  The bridge’s apex awarded sweeping views of the lands around. Westward, the Liaho was split in two by a dark island cloaked in forest. Beyond that a hazy region of marshland showed tall reeds and stunted trees, occluding either bank before vanishing in shimmering murk. This was the beginning of the great swamp that straddled the river’s delta for miles on either side before finally reaching the sea. A dreary realm of strange fowl and poisonous gases, where weird creatures were rumoured to lurk in dank pools and glowing fungus festered on rotting wood. It was a place best avoided at all costs, though Tamersane seemed fascinated by it.

  They remounted at the south bank and again checked the terrain. They were in Permio. Enemy country. They must needs sharpen up. Corin cast his scout-trained eyes along the dusty ridges ahead but saw no sign of movement. Beside him Yashan appeared relaxed. Corin wondered whether they were wise to place complete trust in this Permian, despite the tribesman’s affable nature. Corin liked Yashan well enough, but found it hard to confide in him. Permians had ever been cunning foes.

  They rode till dusk darkened the way. Stopping for the night, they set up a sparse camp at the bank of a stony stream. Bleyne snared a leggy hare and this they spit roasted over a discreet fire.

  Water was not a problem in this region, though that would change once they entered the real desert south of Agmandeur. Corin gazed at his companions’ faces as they prepared their blankets for sleep. Nobody had spoken much; even Tamersane seemed oddly thoughtful, as if dwelling on the enormity of their task. The handsome Kelwynian idly watched their tiny fire whilst Bleyne fed it dry faggots from a dead tree nearby, before wandering off to take the first watch.

  Zallerak had kept his own counsel since leaving the merchant’s villa. He looked lost in thought sitting dreamily buried in his cloak, huddled cosy under the thorny arm of a shrubby tree. Corin yawned, checked Thunderhoof had enough water and then rolled over to sleep.

  The dream came almost immediately.

  ***

  Blood dripped down walls and filled the gutters of the streets. Close by someone screamed; a desperate sound cut short by the guttural growl of some nameless beast. Thin alien shadows stalked deserted streets. Blood was everywhere. Corin lay in a pool of blood; he did not know whose blood. Maybe it was his?

  A figure stood above him. A cowled figure—the dog snout thrust out with nostrils flaring and damp. Yellow eyes glared out from the hood and a stench of gallows filled the air.

  Corin couldn’t move. His body was a block of ice. Looking up he noticed the dog creature was stroking, almost caressing something in its blackened claws. An object so dark it was difficult to define.

  Then he saw it. A shadowy spear: a black needle of pain, its serrated leaf two foot in length and six inches wide, tapering off to a fine needle point. The shaft was long: paradoxically it shimmered, and yet seemed to suck darkness into its essence from all around.

  Corin felt terror consuming him as he gazed at that spear. He knew somehow that the weapon was sentient. That it watched him, gauged and mocked him.

  Golganak…once more loose on the world.

  Corin felt the cold eat into his bones and the fear scrape inside his head. He closed his eyes, then opened them again as searing pain lanced into his belly. Morak had stabbed him with the spear! Corin voiced a silent scream as black fire erupted in his veins. The Urgolais lord stooped and drooled on all fours over his prey. Morak raised his spear again, and again it fell and once more he screamed.

  Then the pain vanished: he was spinning through air infused by light.

  I am no more…

  But Corin was alive—could feel the thumping of his chest as he fell free through space. Minutes passed, seconds, hours?—Impossible to know. Corin opened his eyes to blinding brightness and heard Vervandi whisper behind him.

  “Seek the sword of Light. Only with Callanak’s aid can you defeat the master of the spear.”

  “Why me!” he cried out but she was gone. Gone too were Morak and the dreadful spear. Gone were street and dripping blood. And gone the impossible brightness of that nothing place.

  Instead Corin stood at the prowl of The Starlight Wanderer; with him were others that he knew and loved, and strangers too. The sea below was dark and fathomless, above the sky hung heavy with metallic clouds. These scurried past, iron grey and full of doleful voices.

  Rime coated the decks of Barin’s ship. It clung to the stays, and long icicles bearded down from the furled frozen sails. Great mountains of ice loomed ahead and on either side of their narrow passage, grinding and booming. Beyond these an island rose sheer and serene.

  Corin yearned to reach it. He could see it was summer there. The mountain/island’s steep summit was crowned in golden rays and a rainbow spanned the peak. He looked closer, somehow his eyes pierced the rock of that summit and Corin saw within.

  A cave cut deep inside that mountain. This Corin entered without knowing how. Glowing sconces led to a hall of light. Corin walk
ed toward that cavern. He entered within.

  On the far wall of the cavern hung a sword of blazing crystal, its ethereal beauty filling that place with throbbing light. A multi-coloured coruscating light; silently the glaive beckoned him forward.

  Callanak—Sword of Light.

  Corin approached the weapon, reached out to touch it. And then the sword spoke to him.

  “Take me.”

  As it spoke Callanak’s colour changed from rose pink to scarlet.

  “I know thee for my master! Take me; together we can cleanse the stench of Old Night. Take me, Corin an Fol, chosen of the gods!”

  “No!” he heard himself shouting. “I’ll have no part in this; I’ll not be a pawn to your wishes!”

  Behind him a dark voice laughed like distant thunder.

  “Pawn you already are,” said the voice, “but you are my pawn and I watch over you.” Corin turned, saw the single eye of the Huntsman blazing down on him from the sky above. All about Oroonin thunder roared, and the stars spun crazily in the heavens. “Take Callanak, mortal warrior, it is your destiny! As my chosen champion you stand to gain much.”

  “I will not!” Corin cried before darkness descended on him again and he knew no more….

  ***

  Corin awoke with a start. He stood, shivered and shook himself, glancing about the camp wild-eyed as if expecting a score of dog-faced foes, but all seemed as it should be.

  He could smell the sweet smoke from Yashan’s pipe and guessed the tribesman must be on watch somewhere nearby. A desert habit, that pipe. Most Permians found recreation by inhaling the fermentation of certain toxic plants. Corin had tried this once but it made him woozy.

  Corin looked at his sleeping companions. The hour was late. He cursed vehemently, re-wrapped himself in his cloak, and stubbornly rolled over, within minutes sinking back into sleep. Thankfully this time he didn’t dream.

  It seemed to Corin he’d barely closed his eyes when Tamersane shook him, announcing it his turn to take watch.