The Lost Prince (legends of Ansu Book 3)

by J. W. Webb

  “Then we had better make our way down there,” said Corin. “Hopefully it will lead to a gateway within.”

  “I know of only one entrance to the fabled caves hidden beneath the mountains,” answered Ulani. “I saw it long ago,” he told them. “It lies to the south of the range, still many leagues away. But it would make sense that there is northern entrance,” he agreed. “After all, lore states that the Golden Ones dwelt mainly in this region. They’d hardly want to skirt the mountains every time they mined below. I expect Zallerak has gone that way to find his little prince.”

  “Little prick,” corrected Corin. “I suppose we had better go see for ourselves. Finish what that shithead Tarin started.” He made to start down the hill, tugging Thunderhoof’s reins behind him when Tamersane’s urgent call stopped him in his tracks.

  “There are riders far to the west of us! See over there.” They turned to see where he was pointing. “There must be over a hundred!”

  “The sultan’s elite, I expect,” cursed Corin.

  “It’s hard to tell,” replied his friend. “They are still many miles away.”

  “But those are not,” barked Ulani, pointing across to where a thin column of horsemen were winding their way towards Orlot from the valley they had left earlier. Corin could see their crimson cloaks rippling in the breeze as they cantered on, the evening sun glancing off their pointed lances.

  “We had better make haste,” he said, tugging on Thunder’s reins and briskly commencing the descent towards the distant road below. His friends followed without further comment. After a while they mounted their steeds. This southern slope was even gentler. It rolled without break down to the desert floor and thus their mounted progress was swift. Orlot’s southern flanks were a mass of shrubby acacia bushes, which sighed mournfully as they hastened through.

  The light was fading fast by the time the three riders reached the old road. The setting sun’s reflection almost blinded them as they turned to face the towering heights ahead.

  The mountains reared before them; a wall of mirrors ten thousand feet high, glowing crimson red to golden brown, casting weird light among the scrubland hedging the road.

  Towards these peaks they now urged their steeds, shielding their eyes from the blinding glare of the nearest mountain until at last the pitiless orb was swallowed by western sand. As he rode, Corin marvelled at the road beneath them. It showed no sign of disrepair. Its surface was smooth and even, showing no crack nor pothole. Whoever built it had meant it to last.

  As dusk’s grey light descended on the desert, the painful glare faded from the mountains. They now appeared a dull pinky-blue, blocking out the sky ahead. The travellers were able to see more clearly. They could see no gap in those towering walls of crystal.

  The smooth road led arrow-straight towards the peaks with no sign of any deviations, hence their progress was good and they made the most of the fading light. It was not long before they had reached the glistening slopes of the nearest height.

  Corin stared in wonder at the scene ahead. Here and there rocks were strewn about its base, glowing faintly in a myriad of colours like giant gemstones. Above and ahead, the mountains were now stained dark purple, rising up flawless and sheer from the desert floor, their slopes reflecting starlight. The lofty crowns swallowed in the immense canopy of the heavens above.

  On meeting the closest mountain the road veered sharply to the left. After that its course cut parallel with the peak’s hem. They could see the faint thread-line of its surface ribboning higher, skirting the lower slopes before vanishing from view.

  They reined in at the turn of the road; allowing their horses to drink and crop the stubby sparse grass while they sat their saddles, gazing wide-eyed at the surreal landscape whilst sharing a gourd.

  Refreshed, they pressed ahead, looking forward to the cover both night and mountain would award them. Within an hour it was fully dark. Looking along the track as far as the gloom would allow, Corin noticed that the route became narrower ahead cutting into the sheer surface of rock. On reaching this point they were forced to dismount and continue on foot with care.

  Up and up curved the road hugging the mountain’s knees, the shining flawless rock looming over them. Polished by night to gleaming obsidian, the height’s flanks bulged outwards on their right. To their left, dangerously close, the road edge fell away sheer in a single giddying plunge to the desert floor, now far below.

  It was getting cold. The mountain air was intoxicating. Corin felt light-headed, dizzied by the vastness of the desert night seen from this lofty elevation. He watched the stars’ reflections dance in the polished black surface of the road beneath his feet.

  He felt like a trespasser—a bug on a noble hound’s back. Surely this was hallowed ground. Here nothing lived. No insects scurried among those shimmering rocks, and no proud eagle swooped imperious above. Here was only silence and a growing feeling of doom. An alien place. The path wound ever steeper, wrapping itself like cord, coiling around the flawless rock like a sleeping serpent. Above, the silent aura of the mountains bespoke a chilling watchfulness.

  They were about to give up on any hope of a northern gate when they felt (it had become too dark to see ahead) rock rising sheer to their left, hemming them tight on both sides. They had entered a kind of tunnel.

  Corin bemoaned the fact that they had no timber for torches. Their progress was very slow and for some time their vision impaired badly. Then the sky appeared above them again, shedding just enough light to allow a quicker pace.

  They saw a new path leading off to their right where the mountain folded behind a jagged spur. This deviant vanished in the blackness of the mountain wall. When their eyes adjusted they took stock. They stood on a high-scooped ledge overlooking the desert far below. To their right the almost hidden path looked like the gateway to Yffarn.

  “That must be our way in!” Corin was relieved; he had felt much too exposed on the side of the mountain, despite the dark. “Let’s go see.”

  They led their horses along the side cut until they spied a rough hole, a blacker blackness yawning deep into the rock. This they entered without hesitation, finding themselves in the cold damp atmosphere of what appeared to be a huge cavern. At first they were totally blind, but after a worrying time their eyes began to make out dim shapes and eventually the cavern revealed its secrets.

  The cave was enormous its source hidden deep beneath the mountain. Here and there the strange rock shimmered with glistening veins of crystal. Each of these layers gave off an odd pale light that aided their way forward until, after what seemed hours, the three reached the cave’s rear wall.

  Here they were confronted by a problem. Their path had led them to an arched entrance. Beyond this portal were worn steps leading up, almost sheer, into the heart of the mountain.

  “We’ll not drag our steeds up those stairs,” growled Ulani. “We had best return to the road and continue round until we reach the southern door.”

  “That could be miles away,” said Corin. “We’d waste precious time.” Corin could not rid himself of the feeling that they needed to hurry. That time was swiftly running out. “Besides, we can be certain Zallerak went this way.”

  “In which case his horse should be near,” said Tamersane. “Come on, let’s go find the animal.”

  They ventured back through the cave and returned to the mountain edge. Above their heads the stars blazed brighter than before and the air hung bitter chill. They searched about in vain for precious minutes. There was no sign of the bard’s horse. Corin found his patience fraying fast. He was about to grumble that they were wasting time when Tamersane gave a warning hiss. Corin could see that the Kelwynian was watching the road to the west of them.

  “Riders bearing torches,” he spat. “Dozens of them, they are coming our way fast!” He spat again. “I would guess that they are only half an hour behind us.” Corin and Ulani looked out to where he was pointing. Soon they both saw the weaving worm of torchlight fl
ickering along the road up towards them.

  “It looks like the sultan’s got wind of your intentions,” growled Ulani. “He doesn’t want to miss out. We had best get moving.” Corin watched the fire worm approach as the others waited, their eyes anxious. They looked to him for a decision.

  “Come, Corin, what choice do we have?” Tamersane sounded edgy. “We had best make haste along this road and pray to Elanion that the way is not too far.”

  Corin looked at his friends. They both looked bone weary, even Ulani seemed deflated. The wounds left by the monster and his heroic carrying of the prone Zallerak had taken heavy toll. As for Tamersane, Corin’s young friend was obviously still in pain from their encounter with the Ty-Tander the day before. Finally a decision reached him.

  “We will split up,” he told them. “It’s the only way.”

  They both shook their heads in disagreement but Corin continued before they could answer. “Time is running out for us,” he insisted. “Something inside warns me that our greatest peril yet lurks under these mountains, and that that loon Zallerak will need our assistance shortly. He thinks he’s got it all mapped out, but I reckon he’s over-optimistic.” He paused to look at them each in turn.

  “Ulani and I shall journey into the roots of the mountain,” Corin said. “That’s if you’re willing to accompany me, I know this wasn’t part of your plan.”

  “Of course,” grunted the king. “I’d hardly let you venture in alone.”

  Corin nodded thanks, “Tamersane,” he said. “You will lead our friends away, await our arrival at the southern entrance of which Ulani has spoken.” Tamersane shook his head angrily but Corin placed a tanned hand on his shoulder. “It makes sense; you have more skill with horses than we two. It will give you a chance to hide up, recover your strength, once you have lost our pursuers.”

  Tamersane was still unhappy about the decision but Ulani nodded his approval. The king added that he knew of a fertile valley a mile west of the southern gate awarding cover, fresh water and shelter. Once there Tamersane could snare desert coneys and await them safely for as long as he needed to.

  Reluctantly the Kelwynian capitulated. Without further ado Tamersane unslung a rope from behind his saddle, tied the other mounts’ reins to his own, and glancing warily down at the approaching firebrands below, nodded curtly in his friends’ direction.

  The road ahead widened, allowing Tamersane to mount his own horse. He waved briefly, and in moments was clattering away out of sight and earshot. Behind the rider trotted Ulani’s horse and Bleyne’s animal, which had followed the others of its own volition. Corin saw Thunderhoof clopping doggedly at the rear, the big horse glanced back briefly in his direction with a look of deep reproach before being consumed by the night.

  “Look after him, Thunder,” Corin called out, “and watch yourself, you great lump!” He heard a faint snort then silence.

  Chapter 29

  Mercenaries

  Hagan’s luck had run from bad to worse. Ever since his humiliation at Agmandeur nothing had gone right. The hard-bitten mercenary captain rued the day he had accepted coin from Caswallon. Things were getting out of hand.

  Since that distant morning in Kella little had gone as planned. His men, particularly Borgil, were awarding him sideways glances. He knew they were losing faith in his judgment.

  He couldn’t blame them. Hagan Delmorier, their fearless captain, was totally out of his depth. Hagan was a fighting man, plain and simple, not some warlocks go-get.

  They were so far from their homes in the hills of Morwella—if those homes still stood and hadn’t been razed to the ground by some Leeth war party. They’d been cajoled to partake in a foolish quest that Hagan had no doubt would end in further trouble for him and his men. It was his fault. He should have quit after Kashorn. But then Hagan wasn’t a quitter. And then there was Corin an Fol.

  The only thought currently cheering him was that Corin was almost certainly bound for the same destination. This time Hagan would make the renegade swordsman pay dearly for shaming him in Agmandeur. Corin would die soon, Hagan decided. Aside that they’d get this shit job done and return to Kella for their gold. Then Caswallon and Rael Hakkenon and everyone else could go fuck themselves for all Hagan cared.

  Hagan and his mercenaries had nearly perished in the desert, their water supply barely enough to keep them alive on the harsh trek north to the coast. That wily snake Hulm had made sure of that when he had issued them with only half-filled gourds.

  Hagan swore one day he would return to that desert city and burn it to cinders. Hulm and his people would be crow food then. The thought went a tiny way to cheering him further.

  By the time they’d reached the great stinking fleshpot on the estuary of the Narion they were in a sorry state. Most of his men’s feet bore bloody blisters. The soaring heat had tortured their bare faces, driving one fellow beyond the edge of reason, so that he cast himself into the river in a fit of madness.

  Hagan had watched in horror as the unfortunate man had been torn apart by crocodiles, before disappearing screaming out of sight. They’d kept a wary distance from the Narion after that.

  Then there had been the quarrel; three of the mercenaries spoke out against him, blaming his allegiance to Caswallon for all their woes. Borgil had fuelled it, of course.

  Hagan had let it pass saying little, biding his time. He’d slit their throats two nights later when the three lay sleeping. Hulm’s guards hadn’t found the small knife Hagan always kept hidden inside the sole of his boot.

  Next he’d woken Borgil, smiled at the horror on kettle helmet’s face as he stuck the knife in deep with a twist. Borgil took a while to die. Hagan would not be gainsaid. But that left him with only nine men. These remained surly but there was no more talk of his failures.

  When at last they entered the filthy streets of Cappel Cormac things only got worse. Hagan’s plan had been to raid a tavern that night; snatch weapons and supplies from the sleeping guests, then creep across to the harbour and commandeer a light vessel across the gulf of Permio. Let Old Night claim Caswallon and his plots, Hagan’s crew would take their chances in the Four Kingdoms. War was coming, with it plenty of chances for fighting men to get rich.

  The renegades had spied a likely inn, were about to enter when a furtive movement caught Hagan’s eye. They were being watched. The mercenary leader cursed under his breath when he recognised the scrawny bat winged shape of Gribble, Caswallon’s goblin spy.

  “My master is not pleased with you, Mr Hagan,” dribbled the Soilfin. “You and your men have become a liability of late.”

  “What do you want from us, shitling?” Hagan wished he still had his sword so he could slit the ugly creature’s gizzard. “I’ve done with your master. He can keep his money; we’ll take our chances with the coming war in the north.”

  “But my master has not done with you, fuckhead,” snickered the Soilfin. “He was informed of your failings at Agmandeur by another. But in his grace Mr Caswallon has blessed you with one final chance.”

  The Soilfin picked his nose with a grubby claw and swallowed the content, his ugly features half shrouded in gloom above them. “Tasty, that. I was sent to inform you twits of your new task,” continued Gribble, eyeing them with cold contempt.

  “Up yours, goblin.”

  Gribble made a sucking sound. “I’m not a goblin. I hate fucking goblins,” he complained. “You, Mr Hagan, are to accompany the sultan’s soldiers on their journey through the desert to the mountains of crystal. Easy peasy. There you will seek out the boy prince Tarin, and your friend Corin the terrorist, whom we believe are both in that region.

  “These two, as you are aware, are still wanted by Mr Caswallon and Bad Chief Morak for interrogation. You are lucky, Mr Hagan. I’ve been good to you. Acting on my valuable advice, Mr Caswallon wishes you to gut this Corin, whilst keeping an eye on the sultan’s guards. He doesn’t want them getting their grubby fingers on his prize.”

  “What prize
, goblin?”

  “Ssssh. That don’t concern you.”

  “Well, I say a pox on what your master wants!” Hagan swiped at the creature with his fist. The Soilfin spat acid mucus and retreated out of reach. “Did you not hear me, GOBLIN? I have done with your master!”

  “As you wish, Mr Tosspot,” replied Gribble almost purring, kneading the wall with his filthy talons. “However,” he unlaced his trousers and deposited a steaming nuisance on the street. It hissed and fizzled, melting some of the stone. “You may soon come to rue your decision. You have been warned.”

  Before Hagan could react the Soilfin had hopped over the wall and vanished from view. Wing beats drummed skyward. Hagan angrily hurled a rock in their direction but Gribble had gone. The night air was clean again. Clean as it could be in Cappel Cormac.

  Some of Hagan’s men were worried by the creature’s threats but their captain’s harsh bark had bullied them into motion. “Never mind that imp!” Hagan growled. “We’ve work to do.”

  And so they had stolen into a nearby inn under cover of darkness. Grey ghosts, they’d slipped across to the sleeping quarters at the rear, stealing what they could find among the various weapons and provisions while their drink and weed-befuddled owners snored.

  Hagan grunted in satisfaction when he lifted a huge broadsword out from underneath a sleeping northern warrior’s bed. It was a fine blade, even better than his lost weapon had been; now at last he felt better.

  Grabbing what wine and vittals they could, the Morwellan fighters slipped out into the nearest alley keeping a wary eye out for movement. The night air was sultry and thick. It was very quiet. They wound their way silently through the tangled, filthy streets of the sleeping city. Cappel Cormac sprawled and honked; a maze of ill-built hovels and stinking drains that led down to the broad muddy swirl of the Narion’s mouth. Feeling uneasy, they stole through the lanes in the general direction of the city’s dockyard.