The Lost Prince (legends of Ansu Book 3)

by J. W. Webb

  “Perhaps we’ll loop back that way—after Agmandeur,” replied Zallerak. He too had noted the soldiers behind them, though he heeded them not.

  “There are fresh mercenaries in Agmandeur,” growled a hard voice. It was one of Sulimo’s armed fighters who had spoken. The merchant looked displeased that the man had opened his mouth.

  “Ah… yes, I was going to warn you,” he simpered. “Forgive me, it must be the heat!”

  “Where are they from?” Corin glowered at the merchant whilst mouthing a silent ‘thank you’ to his hired man.

  “The north,” replied the fighter. “Like you and me. They are searching for something, or more likely someone.”

  “Enough, Marl! I pay you for your skill with a sword not with your tongue!” Marl’s hard eyes flicked annoyance but he kept his lips together. “We had best be re-joining the train; I want to clear these dangerous hills before we set up camp.” Sulimo awarded them an oily smile. “I bid you good day, Lord Bormion! Enjoy Agmandeur. But don’t forget Cappel Cormac!”

  Without further ado the merchant nodded at his two men, and struck his camel three times with a thin stick urging the beast clump towards the fading column of dust, his guards following on their own mounts close behind.

  The soldiers on the ridge behind them waited until the merchant had passed, and then they too vanished from view. Corin watched the hillside suspiciously for some moments before urging Thunderhoof forward. He drew level with Zallerak who was already underway.

  “What was all that about?” Corin demanded as Yashan led them on again with a sharp trot towards the distant ribbon of river. “That merchant…”

  “He was no merchant,” responded Zallerak with an irritated glance back. “Sulimo is a spy from Sedinadola Palace. One of the sultan’s cleverest and most trusted advisors. The stuff about traveling to Shen was nonsense. His men were scouting these hills having got wind there are strangers about. And those wagons, master Tamersane, contained weaponry and reinforcements should they be needed. I suspect Sulimo’s men had already spotted us while we were in the ravine. We had little choice but to reveal ourselves. He’ll be sending a coded bird to inform the sultan soon.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” muttered Corin.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Chapter 15

  The Streets of Agmandeur

  They made haste towards the city as the afternoon drew on; Corin wondered why Marl had warned them about the mercenaries when his master had not wanted him to. Still the mercenaries in Agmandeur need not have anything to do with the missing prince or their quest.

  But why so many northerners in the desert? There were enough native freebooters in Permio without any need of fighting men from the Four Kingdoms and beyond. Merchants were different—they always employed outlanders as their travels took them far and wide. Even if that Sulimo had been a spy, his employing such fighters made sense and gave cover to his guise. But mercenaries stationed down here? That made no sense.

  Yashan had told them that fighting was forbidden behind the walls of Agmandeur and that would satisfy Corin for the moment. He felt restless though. Trouble lay ahead. It was just a matter of where and when.

  As afternoon waned and the sun slipped crimson behind distant dunes they finally arrived at the muddy banks of the Narion. This river was not as wide as the Liaho but was much livelier in its journey north to the ocean. Corin could see small eddies and whirlpools amongst the strong currents, but worryingly he saw no sight of a bridge when they drew near to the eastern bank. Ahead the grey walls of the city soaked in the last of the sunlight. Close by, but still the issue of the river.

  “So what do we do, fly across?” Corin asked sardonically as they rode on through the last dusty miles leading them down towards the steep banks of the river.

  “There is a causeway,” responded Yashan. “It isn’t far.”

  Soon enough they arrived at the stony banks of the Narion. Tamersane laughed when he saw what Yashan had described as a causeway. Some forty or fifty worn flat stones showed barely above the river’s weed-strewn, rushing water. Most of these looked treacherous and promised to prove slippery underfoot. Beyond the ford, the walls and domed clusters of Agmandeur’s houses bulked high against the darkening sky. These bastions appeared smaller than the walls of Port Sarfe but looked impressive enough from where they were standing.

  They dismounted and led their thirsty mounts down to the river, letting them drink from its cool, muddy waters. Thunderhoof slurped and guzzled and snorted bubbles.

  The crossing was even more treacherous than it had first appeared. Yashan explained that it was kept like it so inhabitants could get a clear view of who entered their city from the east.

  Corin found that idea unsettling; he imagined what an easy time archers would have firing down on them from the narrow slots in the walls above, or higher on the lofty battlement. He could not afford to look up for long. The strong current tugged at his ankles and Thunderhoof’s shod hoofs slipped on the fly and lice infested weed. Still, they made it over to the western bank without too much trouble. Bleyne’s horse was nervous at first, refusing to enter the causeway, but the archer had whispered to it calmly for some moments and the mare had given him no further trouble. Even so, they were all breathless and panting by the time they had clambered up the steep bank and arrived at the city gates. These stood ajar as if they were expected. And perhaps they were.

  Corin and Tamersane glanced around at the bastions which appeared strangely vacant. Yashan seemed relaxed as he led them forward, but Corin had the nasty suspicion that they were encroaching on a spider’s web. But then his feelings toward Permio were anything but neutral.

  That said, even Zallerak looked about sharply, as if he too were suspecting a trap. Bleyne was the last to lead his horse beneath the gateway. The archer was calm as usual, safe in his belief that the goddess watched his every move. Forlorn hope in Corin’s opinion—Elanion held little clout down here. This was Telcanna’s realm—the cruel petulant Sky God.

  Corin tensed when he heard the gates creak shut behind them. Turning, he saw swarthy guards acknowledge Yashan with a casual wave. With a sigh he let himself relax.

  “This way,” announced their guide. Yashan led them into a tumbled maze of cluttered narrow streets, criss-crossing and twisting upwards in all directions.

  These were not the ordered climb of Kranek Town, nor were they the narrow lanes and spirals of Port Sarfe. It was though the streets of Agmandeur had been deliberately constructed to confuse. It was not long before Corin gave up any attempt at trying to remember the way back down to the gates. Permio—nothing was straight forward down here.

  People stared at them warily as they passed but said nothing; some nodded at Yashan, though no words were exchanged. Mostly the townsfolk merely glared at them in open disapproval. Corin was amazed by the variety of dress worn by these desert people; many of the faces that watched him pass seemed strange and foreign to his eyes. There were tall aloof tribesmen who whispered amongst themselves and stared at them suspiciously from dusty corners. There were hard-faced warriors with wicked-looking curved scimitars at their hips, and dark-faced silent women who hurried by, their beauty hidden beneath alluring veils. Tamersane watched them pass with gormless gapes until Corin nudged him in the ribs.

  “We had best not cause offence,” he warned him.

  “I was merely admiring,” countered the Kelwynian.

  “Your incorrigible charm might not work here,” Corin told him. Tamersane scratched an ear and looked genuinely puzzled by that last comment.

  Yashan led them up a steep hill that spiralled towards the right. They had climbed a fair bit by now, the walls were both behind and beneath them. They were almost level with the largest building: a broad dome almost reaching to the floor—the temple of Telcanna and city’s central hub.

  Corin noted that folk thereabouts looked quite well to do. There were silk-garbed merchants like Sulimo who chatted noisily, while their har
d-eyed protectors watched warily from behind their dicing tables.

  Not all the tribesmen were dark-skinned either, which Corin found surprising. Here and there he noticed a blue-eyed stranger amongst the throng, clearly not from the Four Kingdoms but not Permian either by their look. Afterwards Yashan explained to him that these men came from the far western desert beyond Golt and little was known about them. He didn’t trust them, but then Yashan didn’t trust anyone not belonging to his tribe, and not all who did either.

  There was one man who caught even Yashan’s eye. This was a giant, hugely muscled warrior with skin the colour of ebony. The black man wore a magnificent scarlet robe over his otherwise naked chest. He looked ferocious, broad sinewy arms festooned with golden rings and hoops. He wore gold earrings and sported close cropped silvering hair and beard. Surely this was some warrior prince from the distant south. Around his waist the warrior sported the hide of some spotted creature. The man grinned evilly at Corin, before ducking into a dirty alley where chickens clucked and capered about.

  “That was one big bugger,” Tamersane muttered in Corin’s ear. “I wonder if he has a daughter, hereabouts. I like exotic women.”

  “If he has she’d probably unravel your tripes for gawping,” Corin laughed.

  Tamersane looked pained. “I can’t help it, Corin. Foreign women fascinate me.”

  “Anything female fascinates you.”

  “There is that.”

  The smells were intense in the city as were the clamour of voices and the squawking of various beasts and fowl. Corin was relieved that evening was upon them, for surely things would quieten soon. Everywhere he looked in Agmandeur there seemed to be a mess. Skinny children scampered after scurrying mangy dogs, whilst thin pale-eyed lazy cats surveyed them coolly from the safety of faded whitewashed walls. The mainly mud-built houses leant towards each other like drunken comrades. From behind their doors middle-aged women berated small boys, these chasing leather balls through the dirt with their bare grubby feet.

  And this was the expensive quarter.

  It was almost dark when Yashan finally stopped. He dismounted outside a battered looking inn that bore no sign above its faded red door. Corin glimpsed some movement behind the blinds and curled his lip in distaste.

  “This is where we will be spending the night,” announced their guide handing his horse over to the care of a scrawny-looking dark-eyed youth with a squint.

  “Must we?” Corin complained before reluctantly unbridling Thunderhoof and giving the boy a withering stare. “See that he is well fed and watered,” he grumbled.

  “Aye, sir—of course,” the youth grinned after catching a friendly wink from Tamersane. He led their horses off to a stable hidden somewhere around the back.

  “Relax, Corin, Yashan trusts this fellow” said Tamersane. “Besides he might have daughters.”

  “I don’t trust anyone and nor should you,” muttered Corin, sulking as he followed his young friend inside the murky inn, narrowly avoiding striking his head on the low lintel above.

  Once inside Corin looked around at the room. He was relieved to discover the inn was much cleaner than it had appeared from without. They were promptly greeted by a portly man with a bristling black moustache who smiled warmly at Yashan before placing a kiss on either of his cheeks. Tamersane exchanged a disgusted glance at Corin, who shrugged in reply.

  “This is Hulm,” announced their guide. “He is my friend and here we can talk freely.”

  “Masters are welcome in my modest abode,” said Hulm, his voice deep and urbane.

  “It is hard to scrape a decent living on the edge of the desert but one tries one’s best. I trust you’ll take some wine with your supper.” Hulm smiled knowingly. The innkeeper had a lugubrious face and easy tongue. He appeared genuine but Corin would keep his eyes open. Before anyone could respond Hulm began complaining ardently about the cost of goods this far away from the coast.

  “Of course we manage well enough,” he explained, “but one misses the big city comforts from time to time,” he continued without so much as a pause for breath. “Agmandeur is quite provincial when one is used to the subtleties of Syrannos, not to mention Sedinadola.”

  “Then you have not always lived here, master Hulm?” Tamersane was the only one listening.

  “No indeed not,” responded Hulm with an expansive grin. “I hail from the sparkling streets of Syrannos on the Silver Strand,” he informed them. “I’m a coastal Permian. Unlike my old friend Yashan here who is a true son of the desert.”

  Corin rubbed his eyes and wondered when the wine would arrive; Hulm’s incessant chatter was giving him a headache. However he said nothing; Permians had their own way of doing things. And their words could be sharper than their scimitars. Corin knew that their host was shrewdly weighing them up as he spoke.

  “I hear there are other strangers in Agmandeur this evening,” cut in Zallerak who until now had not shown much interest and still stood gazing at the door.

  Hulm shot a questioning glance at Yashan who nodded in return. Meanwhile Zallerak folded his cloak and took his place at a table. He launched an arm at a nearby bowl of olives.

  “Hmm, these are good,” he added, consuming another then another.

  “Visitors, yes,” replied Hulm, slightly taken aback by the tall bard and making room for Yashan at the table. Their guide had removed his faded burnoose and was tugging his long black hair free of knots.

  “Mercenaries,” continued Zallerak, his pale eyes appraising their corpulent host.

  “We encountered a certain merchant in the hills who claimed to come from Golt. Sulimo, I believe he called himself.”

  “Then you are lucky to be alive.” Hulm’s face was suddenly serious. “Sulimo is a treacherous dog. He is a spy and one high placed in the sultan’s service. The merchant’s a wily rogue, I would guess word is already on its way to Sedinadola announcing your visit, Lord Bormion.”

  Corin gasped at this.” How did you know that name?” he demanded.

  “Silon’s friend informed me of your imminent arrival, Corin an Fol,” responded Hulm with a smile. “He told me to keep a wary eye out for one Lord Bormion who would be travelling south with young Yashan. When I enquired further he divulged the identities and traits of those accompanying him, though this Bormion’s true name he wouldn’t disclose. Don’t worry, Corin—Silon and I go way back. And I know how you dislike this land. But not all Permians are your enemy. Take Yashan here.”

  Corin sunk into his chair. Silon was up to his old tricks again. He exchanged glances with Tamersane, who for his part looked baffled.

  “Silon’s friend…” Corin nodded slowly. “Who would that be?”

  “Barakani the desert chief.” Bleyne showed some interest. The archer had joined them at the table after washing his face free of dust and dirt in a ceramic bowl close by.

  “The very one,” replied Hulm. He turned to thank a thin, tired-looking man who had arrived with a large carafe of red wine, to both Corin and Tamersane’s relief.

  “My brother Olami,” their host informed them, “has not been of the soundest health lately. You will forgive him if he eats alone.” Hulm looked about the room in sudden frustration. “Where has that infernal Ragu got to? Ah, there you are, boy.”

  The squinty youth that had taken their mounts thrust his grinning head through the doorway.

  “Have you seen to the horses properly?” Hulm demanded. Ragu nodded a breathless ‘yes’ before hurrying out of view to assist Olami in the kitchens. “Be quick, boy!” Hulm chided. “I’ve a task for you later.”

  The wine was excellent and Corin found himself relaxing at last, though he questioned whether their affable host would ever desist from his incessant banter. At present he was extoling the virtues of Permian women to a captivated Tamersane. Corin rolled his eyes and swallowed some wine. Zallerak was off lurking in the next room and Bleyne dozed across the table. Corin missed Barin and his dice. Much more, he missed Shallan and Ariane
and wondered how they fared.

  Outside the street was turning dark as dusk gathered pace and happily, thought Corin, there was now little noise in the city. Someone had lit lanterns at the corners of the houses. A quiet peace had descended on the streets of Agmandeur.

  They talked their way through a delicious meal of spiced goat, lentils and humus. Zallerak, smelling food, had returned and now consulted their host with Corin and Tamersane adding the occasional helpful grunt. Yashan had retired to a dark corner of the room to smoke his weed, much to Hulm’s disgust.

  “A revolting habit,” proclaimed their host, waving his fleshy arms at the swirling, sweet smelling smoke. Yashan shrugged, nonplussed.

  “It keeps me content,” he said, sucking at the device. Corin saw that Bleyne was watching something outside though he could hear no movement in the street.

  “What is it?” Corin asked him.

  The archer shrugged in reply. “I cannot be certain but I think that we are being stalked.”

  “Mercenaries?”

  “No. something worse… something familiar.” The archer’s keen eyes gleamed like jet beads in the faintly tallow lit room. “You remember the valley near Kashorn?”

  Hulm stood up warily. He closed the curtains, leaving a slight gap so they could see if anyone entered the street.

  “Ragu!” he hissed and the sweating boy came into view. “I need you to get the supplies ready we talked about, and keep the saddles close to the horses. Also bring in those robes and stop jabbering nonsense with Olami!” The boy nodded and disappeared.

  Hulm poured himself out a small glass of wine and sighed while they waited for Ragu’s return. “Twenty mercenaries arrived two nights hence,” he said, his tone suddenly quiet and conspiratory. “They came on swift Rorshai steeds and have been asking strange questions. Their leader is a tall man with nasty eyes, a badly broken nose, and long scar across his face.”