The Lost Prince (legends of Ansu Book 3)

by J. W. Webb

The shouts of the enemy loomed closer but were replaced by screams as another wave of arrows struck.

  Then the sultan’s bowmen answered.

  Silon ducked as a crimson-shafted dart struck a rock to his left. Another whizzed past his ear before lodging itself in a tree behind him.

  “That was close,” Rassan grinned across at him. Silon grinned back more out of stress than joy. All seven of Barakani’s boys were wild.

  He peered over the ledge rim and saw that the elite had regrouped and were waiting beyond bowshot whilst the newcomers joined them. Once bolstered by these reinforcements they’d attack again, but for the meanwhile they had reached an impasse. Rassan was undeterred. He jumped down to join Silon behind the rock.

  “We’ve lost four men,” he said, “and two others will be joining them at the silent shore of the Black River.” Rassan showed those dazzling teeth again. Silon, looking at those flawless molars, recalled how all Barakani’s sons courted danger like a wanton maiden.

  “Our lads died well, those of us surviving will cheer them on their way across the Black River as we revel in my father’s camp. The sultan has lost at least a score of his elite crimson,” laughed Rassan. “The rest will not risk a full attack in daylight. It would prove too costly for them.”

  “So do we sit tight until then? We are still heavily outnumbered, Rassan. If we wait till tonight their numbers may have swelled again, enabling them to surround these hills and starve us out if they can’t kill us earlier.”

  “I had already thought of that,” replied Rassan. “That is precisely why you will slip away now, friend Silon. You are too valuable to lose. With you will go all but a dozen of us. We twelve happy stragglers will stay here to keep an eye on our crimson friends over there and stop any of them becoming overzealous.” Rassan unfastened his quiver from his saddle pack and carefully placed a number of shafts close to hand.

  “What of yourselves?” Silon’s face showed concern. “I don’t like leaving you here.”

  “Don’t worry,” replied Rassan. “We will give you a head start then lead them on a merry chase across these hills. Those fools are no match for my boys, merchant!”

  “They are the sultan’s elite, Rassan!” Silon rolled his eyes. “Dangerous bastards.”

  “And overrated. They don’t know the desert like we do. Relax, Silon! Jarrof here knows the way to the Turquoise Oasis. He’ll lead you to Father and we will join you tonight, after we have lost those crimson clowns in the dunes. Prepare to get drunk later!”

  Silon was still worried about the risk young Rassan was taking but he agreed the plan made sense. The merchant had shed his priest’s robe and re-mounted his borrowed horse. Calmly Silon waited for the word to flee. He was more than ready to leave the Silver Strand.

  Rassan fired a casual arrow at the enemy still mustering beyond bowshot and then waved Jarrof depart. Hastily the others took to saddle joining Silon, keeping low and dodging the odd arrow—fired by encroaching scouts before Rassan’s rear-guard brought them down. Within minutes Silon and company were out of range.

  The silent bearded Jarrof led the way, threading his horse carefully through the maze of twisted rocks. Next rode Silon, glancing about warily while the other nomads followed close behind. Jarrof led them skilfully through the strewn rocks in a series of bewildering loops for what must have been well over a mile. Silon struggled to glean where they were headed. There seemed no end to this stony jumble.

  At last they reached a high point awarding a wide view of the arid terrain south. The rocks fell away suddenly as though losing interest. Ahead was an ocean of sand. Nothing stirred amongst those dunes. Satisfied; they made their way down to the foot of the rocks and entered the desert beyond.

  “We ride hard!” barked the lean-faced Jarrof. “I want to make the oasis by dusk! Are you fit, merchant?” Silon gave a breathless nod and Jarrof led them forward with a sharp click of his spurs.

  “I’m just happy to be alive,” he answered though no one heard him.

  Elanion, Bright Goddess—I thank you!

  ***

  Shallan watched the strange rocks loom closer. There were three of them, each rounded and caked with weed. They rose out of the waves like the humps of a slumbering sea snake.

  “The Snags!” announced Barin from behind her.

  “Many a ship’s come to grief in the shadow of those treacherous skerries. There are hidden reefs joining them beneath the waves.” Barin had regained his customary good humour when he saw the odd-looking rocks. They were back in familiar waters.

  “If we held this course for a while, we would arrive somewhere between Port Sarfe and South Head,” he told her. “That Assassin will be prowling the coast like a fire demon now that Corin’s spoiled his good looks, so we’ll fare north instead. You had best be prepared for a long spell at sea, lassie.”

  Shallan nodded, saying nothing as she watched the slimy black rocks slip astern. Two blue-sky days had passed since they left the coast of Golt. Still she was haunted by the memory of the creatures she had seen on the shore that night. She had seen them and Zukei had too. Their cool clear alien voices still echoed through her head.

  Shallan cast her mind back, trying to remember what her tutors had told her of the mysterious folk said to dwell within the many uncharted forests of Ansu. The Faen. The faerie folk. They were an ancient people that had lived for thousands of years before her ancestors had sailed from Gol. Long before the time of the Aralais and their shadowy foe, the secretive Faen had walked the wide realms in freedom—or so the stories in her library had said.

  Before Golt the Faen had just been another legend in a world of mysteries. Now, like the Horned Man, they were very real for Shallan. And like him they were her kin. Their faerie blood flowed in her veins also. Shallan was determined to seek out Zukei again, and this time press the strange girl into revealing all she knew. No need to rush, as Barin said this would prove a long voyage.

  Those alien women had called Shallan their sister, and for some reason Shallan couldn’t yet understand, she believed them. Though how such a thing could be possible she had no idea. The Horned Man had hinted at it, but she’d been so stressed at that time she’d all but forgotten his words. Perhaps he was Faen too.

  The Horned Man is my real father.

  Zukei was right about that. It was the only thing that made sense, though it made no sense at all. Another thing she had in common with Corin an Fol.

  Shallan remembered when her eldest brother had ventured into the Forest of Dreams that lay close to the west of her country, after boasting his proposal to his friends. Although he had emerged safely the next afternoon later, he hadn’t spoken for days and clearly had been badly spooked.

  It was all so strange. She thought of Corin an Fol and the weighty fate that hung over him—hung over them both, she corrected. Her life was unfolding in ways she’d never foreseen. Shallan wondered how she would fare in the turbulent days ahead.

  She shaded her eyes from the glare, and glanced up at the great sea eagle flapping proudly again above her head.

  Duke Tomais was dying. Shallan knew that now. He wasn’t eating and had lost so much weight since they had left Port Sarfe harbour. Shallan kept cheerful for his sake, but inwardly she wept. First her mother and now…

  Shallan made her way to the dancing prow of Barin’s ship. Once there she gazed down at the bowsprit as it plunged and lurched through the whitening waves. Shallan was lost on the ocean, caught between riddle and hint. The doldrums. Corin an Fol was so very far away. She was lost and alone. Only darkness and war lay ahead. The sea spray stung Shallan’s face and mingled with her tears.

  ***

  The riders arrived at the sparkling blue-green oasis just as the sun fell behind the sea of dunes ranging west into the shimmering horizon. Ahead of them a bold array of tents surrounded the fertile valley, the largest of which bore the emblem of a desert wolf—Barakani’s flag.

  Silon was bone-weary and travel sore, but once he had sate
d his thirst in the cool clear water of the oasis he felt revived enough to seek out the warlord.

  Barakani, Wolf of the Desert, embraced him as he entered the huge tent. All about were rich cloths and drapes of many colours. Beneath his feet, the deep pile of lush carpets depicted desert scenes and ornate, jewel-adorned lamps, hung from golden ropes, giving light to the sumptuous surroundings.

  Silon sat cross-legged in front of his friend and nodded in gratitude when the lean tribesman handed him a strong cup of coffee and a plate of figs.

  “You live well, Barakani—even in exile,” he said and the warlord smiled. Behind him were seated three of his sons, their sharp handsome faces reminded Silon of Rassan. He wondered how the young nomad warrior fared.

  “A diverting day, Silon,” Barakani answered. “And alarming. Now it seems we must act in haste, else all our plans shall be but sand grains lost beneath the dunes.”

  “What brought the sultan out of his lair, Barakani?” asked Silon, staring hard at the bearded nomad chief. “I overheard three of his elite in the temple. Their leader mentioned a certain ‘visitor’ from the north.”

  “Aye, it seems Caswallon has promised him aid in locating certain friends of yours,” replied the warlord.

  “The sultan has been informed of Prince Tarin’s foolish quest and his podgy mind has convinced itself a great treasure lies beneath those far off mountains. Hence the bulk of his force will soon be entering the desert.”

  “But who told him?”

  “That I do not know.”

  Silon thought of Corin and his friends having to watch out for the sultan’s army as well as their other enemies with only Zallerak’s spell craft to aid them. The merchant’s face was lined with worry.

  “What can we do?”

  “Go see what the fuss is about,” grinned Barakani. “It’s long years since last I saw the Crystal Mountains. Our situation here has altered. The game’s moved south. With that in mind I propose a trip into the deep desert to see what we can find.”

  “What of the sultan’s elite? They will be everywhere.” Silon sipped his coffee, letting the strong taste revive his flagging senses. It was cold tonight but then the desert was always cold at night—unlike the cities along the coast.

  “We will take the longer road,” Barakani replied. “By heading southwest we should avoid both the Ty-Tander’s lair and the sultan’s guard. We can gather allies along the way.”

  “That easy?”

  “The tribes are stirring; we’ll muster support, then meet with the sultan’s army at the foot of the mountains. Yes, that easy.” Barakani smiled. “Our presence should keep ‘Old Greasy’ (his name for the sultan) preoccupied while your friends engage in their subterranean venture.”

  Silon nodded approval, this made sound sense. He hoped Yashan’s desert knowledge would keep his friends out of the sultan’s reach before the nomads could intervene. Zallerak would know what to do in any case, he told himself. Despite everything things hadn’t turned out that bad.

  Silon sighed. He drained his coffee and smiled when Barakani produced a burning, bubbling water pipe. Gratefully Silon joined him in a smoke. He didn’t usually partake but today had been a tad rough on his nerves. At last Silon could relax and he was so very weary.

  They spoke deep into the night. There were many other matters to discuss and these two had known each other for long years. Silon was shattered when he finally staggered, slightly wobbly, into the tent that he’d been given. In moments the merchant was sound asleep.

  At some point he was awoken by the sound of horses entering the camp. Silon drew back the rich folds of his tent to see that Rassan and the other fighters had arrived safely back in camp. He curled back to sleep for a time, the shouts of Rassan’s boys faded. Silon smiled; they’d most likes be drinking till dawn.

  ***

  At first the pain of the arrow had threatened to consume him. He’d been carried far below the waves towards a watery grave. Fish food he would become, a sad fate that for one of his ancient pedigree. He had called out the name of his master but Mr Caswallon hadn’t answered—obviously big-ugly didn’t care.

  Gribble knew he was alone. No one liked him. No one ever had. He was misunderstood and now he was dying. It simply wasn’t fare. And the pain was horrible. The wound throbbed beneath his left wing and puss bubbled. The Soilfin could see the pale shaft still sticking in his side, whilst the ooze trickled out, staining the dark cold waters around him. So cold.

  Suddenly a great shark loomed above, its triple rows of teeth gleaming through the murk. “Hello fishy,” gurgled Gribble. The shark was quick but Gribble was quicker. Ravenous, he sank his fangs into the shark’s glistening flank.

  The great fish leapt and snapped its terrible jaws. But to no avail. Its potential dinner evaded its jaws and instead clung limpet-like to its back. Steel-strong talons gripped the shark’s gleaming skin with unnatural strength. The great fish wriggled but its unwelcome lodger hung on doggedly, his claws digging deeper.

  “Take me to the coast and I’ll let you be,” Gribble said, as he rode the shark’s back through the briny caverns of the deepest deep. “Try eating me and I’ll eat you first—you’re not in my league, big fishy.”

  Try as it might the shark could not shed its passenger. Eventually it succumbed and did the foul creature’s bidding just to be rid of it. It raced to the surface and followed the faint scent of the shore. Soon tall cliffs reared above the waves. Once they were reached, the Soilfin hopped from the shark’s back, carefully evading its vengeful jaws, and then limped ashore to rest.

  He waited until darkness then found a village. After some hours eating the occupants, his strength returned and he bloated to cow size. Once Gribble had digested his supper and shrunk again, he winged awkwardly and flap wobbly, upwards into the thermals of the night sky. Half drowned and very sore, but at least able to fly again.

  Through that clean air the Soilfin flew—a black spiteful lump of pain and malice and resentment. At last the Soilfin descried far beneath him, the lone tower where his master stood waiting beneath the single lantern.

  “Ah, Gribble.” Caswallon watched with mild interest as the Soilfin alighted on the recently repaired roof (Vaarg the dragon had paid a visit a while back). The sorcerer scratched his short beard with a dirty fingernail. “What has become of you?” Caswallon marked the creature’s sorry state as it sulked and hopped ugly outside the window. “I was almost concerned.”

  He unfastened the latch and Gribble hobbled in. The Soilfin then recounted his dreadful tale. Caswallon listened patiently while he pulled the grey-flecked arrow out of his pet’s rancid under-wing. He muttered a spell and the puss dried then vanished.

  “No matter,” said the sorcerer after the tale of woe concluded. “I have a new task for you, once you have your strength back.”

  So it was that a fully recovered, long flight ready Gribble, had journeyed south to the desert land the very next week. He’d made quite an impression down there, running amok in the fat sultan’s palace, eating slaves and pawing at the nubile wenches that screamed their way through the ornate gardens—all good clean fun.

  Gribble returned hours later with urgent news. From his high tower of pain Caswallon smiled. Again he rewarded his pet with warm, flaccid, greying flesh.

  The sorcerer’s coaly, far reaching gaze scanned the dark hills of Kelthaine, ranged south across the rolling wooded wilds of Kelwyn, and lightly touched on the rugged dry plains of Raleen.

  They glimpsed the waters of the Gulf, came to rest at last on the high dunes and sweltering deserts of Permio.

  Caswallon laughed then. He laughed loud and long at the folly of his enemies. Meanwhile Gribble crunched and dribbled at someone’s severed foot in his cot beneath the table. Occasionally he would look up and squint at his master. On such occasions Caswallon ignored him.

  Chapter 22

  Wynais

  The clear blue waters of Lake Wynais sparkled with early winter sunlight. Wind s
ighed through the reeds, ridging the glassy surface and distorting the reflections of the heather-clad hills flanking the lake’s eastern hem.

  Those purple crags rose up, ever steeper, until they embraced the timberline of the High Wall, the long mountain chain shielding the Four Kingdoms from the desolate lands beyond.

  Even now the first snow was settling on the Wild Way, the ancient track threading the haunches of those towering peaks, making it nigh impassable till spring. The wind whipped ice chill out of those mountains and the call of skeining geese carried far over water, as they descended in their hundreds onto the marshlands rimming Lake Wynais to the west. Close by the lake, and wedged between two forest-draped hills, stood a gleaming silver city.

  Wynais, home of the rulers of Kelwyn.

  Walls of shining granite caught the sun’s glare, as did the steel-polished helmets of the watchful guards, pacing back and forth across the battlements.

  Beyond these ramparts the elegant lofty towers of the Silver Palace pierced the winter sky. Streaming banners ruffled in the sharp breeze echoing a pride of days gone by. A long peace now lost, when noble rulers had steered these fertile lands, second only in their majesty to the proud overlords of Kelthaine.

  That time of peace, like the last king, had recently ceased to exist. Now this land’s fate hung frail and fragile in the inexperienced, but confident grip of late King Nogel’s only child, Queen Ariane.

  But the queen had deserted her city in its hour of need. Few knew where she’d gone, and the glittering halls of the fairest palace in the Four Kingdoms seemed stale and empty these days.

  Servants passed to and fro, whispering amongst the airy passageways and beneath the high-arched windows. Rumours were born of those idle whispers, portents of dread that wound their way down to the busy streets below.

  That talk grew legs; soon the cityfolk knew fear. The freshly drilled soldiers muttered on the walls, rubbing their frozen hands and staring out at the wide lands beyond.

  Nothing stirred. And still the portents were bad.