The Lost Prince (legends of Ansu Book 3)

by J. W. Webb

  Somewhere a dog snarled and yelped, but all else seemed quiet. Too quiet, thought Hagan. Then he cursed himself for a fool. Crimson cloaked soldiers had suddenly appeared in the alley ahead, blocking their way. Turning, Hagan saw that others had followed behind cutting off any chance of escape. They were trapped! Caught neatly like bugs in a jar. Hagan cursed colourfully when he heard leathery wings beat overhead and saw a dark shape winging up into the night.

  The Soilfin had betrayed them. Hagan vowed to pickle that goblin alive if ever he saw it again. He levelled his stolen sword at the approaching soldiers but it was hopeless. They were greatly outnumbered and hemmed tight in the narrow alley. The sultan’s elite bore down on them with long pointed lances. Swift surrender was the only option.

  Relieved promptly of their new weapons; the mercenaries had been stripped naked, hog-tied to horses and blindfolded. Hagan demanded to know where they were bound. The only answer he received was a blow on the skull from the nearest lancer’s spear butt. Hagan’s head exploded with pain and nausea. He spewed.

  The dark hours passed with hoof clatter and groans; Hagan lost consciousness once or twice, but his waking complaints only gained him another blow. He decided to suffer in silence after that.

  At last the torment ended. The mercenaries were pitched unceremoniously from their saddles, to lie naked, bound and trussed on the ant-infested ground. Exhausted, some of them managed to sleep. Hagan wasn’t one of them. At sun up they were kicked awake and beaten again. Then someone ripped the blindfolds from their swollen faces.

  Hagan’s eyes stung under the morning glare. He spat at a guard, receiving a painful kick in return. His head throbbed and his body was a mass of sores and minor wounds, nevertheless Hagan was defiant, determined to survive this last unfortunate turn of events.

  He looked about, squinting painfully as the desert sun speared his eyes from out beneath a stubby grove of palms. Flies settled on his swollen lips, they buzzed around his face. Hagan ignored them.

  Instead he studied their surroundings, scanning for weak points where he could slip out were the chance to occur. They appeared to be in a large camp. Soldiers abounded everywhere, swiftly dispelling any hope of his escape. Here and there were oval tents flapping idly in the wind, the largest of which bore a long banner showing a golden serpent, coiled rearing over a crimson background.

  Hagan and his men were given some water and were unfettered, allowed to don their rough clothes again. They were told nothing of the fate awaiting them and just sat bleary-eyed and silent under the relentless sun.

  A score of lancers stood watch close by, their dark eyes cruel and mocking. Occasionally a guard would come over and award one of the prisoners a hard kick or else a sharp prod from his spear butt. Apart from those joyful moments their only company were the flies and ants, some of which were biting enthusiastically.

  Hours passed and Hagan fretted. Sometime during the morning there sounded a peel of trumpets. The flaps of the great tent were opened wide to let a corpulent, balding man waddle out. He wore a silk robe of shimmering crimson tied fast by a golden cord. This he promptly untied and commenced urinating noisily on the dirt beneath him. The soldiers dropped to their knees instantly. The guards kicked their prisoners hard until the mercenaries lay face down in the dirt.

  Hagan, glancing sideways, saw the balding man whisper something to another man who had just appeared at his side. This was a tall hawk-faced officer, resplendently garbed in purple and gold armour with crimson cloak on top. The balding leader fiddled with his manhood for a nonce then retied his cord. He pointed in Hagan’s direction before vanishing once again behind his tent.

  Hagan watched the captain approach. He noticed that the guards were looking nervous. This officer was clearly not to be trifled with.

  “You there!” snapped the captain, pointing at the nearest guard. “Gamesh, isn’t it?”

  “Migen, captain,” answered the fellow, his eyes down at the ground.

  “Well then, Migen,” snapped the officer. “See that this northern scum is scrubbed clean and made presentable at once. His Eminence wishes to address them shortly!” He turned on his heels and made for the great tent in clipped measured steps.

  The guards leapt to obey. Migen ordered some camp women to scour the prisoners clean. A wrinkled crone seized Hagan’s, hair pulling it back sharply. She spat in his eye and then assaulted his body with an abrasive cloth until his flesh felt like grilled bacon. He was relieved when the guards took over.

  Prodded by lances, Hagan and his nine freshly-scoured men were led like sacrificial lambs beneath the open flaps of the great tent. The mercenaries gaped in awe at the riches piled amongst golden threaded carpets. Everywhere was diffused lantern light and the soft jingle of watery music.

  Young near-naked girls danced skilfully before the prone figure of the fat man Hagan had seen earlier. It was apparent the man was nursing a growing bulge between his thighs as he idly watched the nubile entertainment. He turned away distracted as the troop filed in, allowing his fleshy hand to drop from inside his gown. He studied the captives with greedy currant eyes.

  The tall captain ordered them to their knees with a sharp bark. Behind him, the guard named Migen gave Hagan another hearty kick, sending him sprawling at the fat man’s feet.

  “Prostrate yourselves, dogs,” ordered the fierce-looking officer. “Pray that your deaths shall be swift!” He turned towards the fat man and bowed deeply, tugging his long black beard in submission. “Your Eminence,” the officer continued. “Here are the rogues the wizard’s creature informed us of. You wished to speak with them.”

  The fat man nodded. “I did, didn’t I? But I’m already losing interest.”

  ***

  Samadin the Marvellous (a title he had bestowed upon himself because all his predecessors had titles), twenty-third Sultan of Sedinadola, Ruler of Permio and self-proclaimed overlord of Golt, glanced down with idle disdain at the pale-faced northerners lying prone at his feet. Caswallon’s familiar had returned to him some days hence, informing him a great treasure lay as yet undiscovered beneath the Crystal Mountains, and adding that the rebel Queen of Kelwyn had sent an elite spy squad deep into his land to raid it.

  The goblin reported that its master, in empathy, had dispatched mercenaries to help Samadin recover the treasure. Caswallon’s only request was that the spies were to be handed over to these freebooters after their capture. They would then be taken north to await interrogation and public execution. The mercenaries had proved unreliable. The sultan got word of the trouble in the bandit city, Agmandeur.

  This was followed by a gracious apology from the sorcerer in Kelthaine, carried hence on the wings of the Soilfin creature. Caswallon, the Soilfin said, was not pleased with the mercenary leader, one Hagan Delmorier. He requested that his eminence the sultan seize the brigand and his surviving men as they enter Cappel Cormac.

  “Punish them, humiliate them, but spare their lives and make sure they can still fight,” these were Caswallon’s words. “They will prove useful to you as they know our enemy very well.” The goblin left then, the trap having been set.

  Samadin the Marvellous examined the northerners, regarding them with deep distaste, for they appeared ugly wretches. “Which of you offal is the man called Hagan?” demanded the sultan. His voice was oddly high and bespoke a serpent in a robe. His tone resembled that of an overindulged boy rather than a large man in his thirtieth year.

  “I am he,” came the gruff answer. Samadin stared coldly down at the hard unflinching grey eyes of the nearest brigand. Delmorier’s face was a sunburnt ruin of bruises splattered around a broken nose, a wicked scar, and peppered with greying stubble. The Sultan marvelled at the inherent ugliness of northerners.

  “You have committed theft and larceny in one of our cities,” Samadin said, “and have trespassed out into the desert without our royal permission.

  “Normally your limbs would be removed, your eyes gouged out and manhood cut off, before y
our bodies are fed to the crocodiles patrolling the waters of the Narion.

  “But it seems we have need of you, at least for the time being. Be sure of one thing. There will be no escape.”

  The sultan waved his jewel-adorned hand, dismissing the prisoners. At once Hagan and his men were ushered out into the midday heat. The sultan, bored again, turned to the dancers but he wasn’t in the mood for them anymore. Instead he would have one of the servant girls attend him at his leisure, that or one of the young men—it didn’t much matter. Samadin the Marvellous had a variety of needs. He pictured the fabled treasures of the Crystal Mountains and smiled. He would be the richest of Permio’s twenty-three rulers. That thought entertained him as he waited for the servant to arrive.

  ***

  So it was Hagan and his men were reunited with their stolen weapons, given hooded cloaks to protect them against the sun’s glare and ordered to accompany the sultan’s royal guard on their journey south across the desert.

  For some days they had ridden hard, passing close to Agmandeur until they reached the source of the Narion. They then turned due south crossing the open desert until the fabled mountains of glass hovered ominously before them.

  Some miles northeast of the mountains lay the large oasis of Isalyos. It was here that the sultan set up his camp. Hagan was sent out to accompany a hundred ‘elite’ as they scoured the nearby desert for any sign of the spies.

  On cresting the lone hill called Orlot, Hagan spied movement on the road ahead and he informed the Crimson Elite’s leader. Led by that grim-faced captain (whose name Hagan had learnt was Damazen Kand), they had given urgent chase along the road that furrowed lance-straight towards the glowing heights ahead.

  Evening loomed and the peaks reared tall; Hagan could see no sign of his enemy. He guessed that it had been Corin and co. on the road ahead. They would soon know for certain. Bearing torches aloft, the soldiers galloped up the ancient road skirting the mountain’s hem.

  Swiftly the sultan’s captain led his troop on. Kand was eager to succeed in his mission, and no longer gave thought to the mercenaries accompanying him. Hagan’s men found themselves slipping behind as they studied for signs of movement on the road ahead.

  After some time they entered a dark tunnel of rock leading out to a high shelf, allowing a broad view across the desert below. Already Kand’s troop were hastening ahead in their eagerness. Hagan let them go.

  He reined in, glanced about in the dark—his instincts telling him Corin had stopped here not long ago. Then Hagan spied the hidden fork leading off to the right and tugged the sleeve of his nearest man.

  “This way,” Hagan motioned, grinning. At last things were looking up. Whatever else lay beneath these mountains, there was bound to be gold. Pox take the sultan and Caswallon. Hagan would get to the treasure first and if Corin stood in his way then Corin would die. Hagan smiled; at last it was time for revenge and reward. The coin had turned. They dismounted and entered the cavern with swords drawn. On reaching the gateway and steps, Hagan bid they abandon the steeds and pursue the quarry on foot. Once again the chase was on.

  Chapter 30

  The Warrior Queen

  Queen Ariane woke suddenly from a troubled dream. It was the third morning since her return to Wynais. Each night the same dream had visited her, filling her heart with foreboding. Storm clouds coming their way.

  She rose and dressed swiftly in practical garb, ushering her eager servants out of the way. They had all been so pleased to see her again and her welcome home had been gratefully received. But Ariane could see the fear in their faces. She could sense it in the city too. Fear was everywhere throughout Wynais. Almost it felt tangible—a stalking canker sapping the will of her people. One word summed it up.

  Caswallon.

  The apprehension was contagious, a chilling thread of malcontent weaving its insidious path through the noble heart of the city. Dazaleon had informed her of Caswallon’s messenger and his menacing news; it seemed they stood on the brink of war. Alone against the sorcerer.

  Ariane knew Kelwyn lacked the strength to withstand the might of Caswallon’s ghoulish army, even with the aid of Belmarius’s Bears and the riders from Raleen.

  The rest of Belmarius’s loaned rangers had arrived late last night and were barracked below. The city was full of soldiers but no one felt reassured. But Ariane’s mind was resolved after her last dream. She would act as her father would have done, were he still alive. Queen Ariane would take the war to the enemy. Strike the first blow and strike it hard.

  She remembered her dead father’s warning just after she’d left the city. His hint that there was a traitor within Wynais. A worrying thought that had just returned to her on entering the city. There was much to discuss. Ariane bid Dazaleon join her later that morning, together with her new Captain of Guard, the dependable if stiff, Yail Tolranna. The queen was seated on her throne deep with her thoughts when Dazaleon’s rod rapped on the doors of the throne room.

  “Enter,” she announced calmly. Ariane looked up briefly as the aging priest of Elanion strode into the room, the long staff clutched tightly in his rheumy hands as he paced towards her. At his side clipped hawk-faced Yail, looking very sharp in gleaming mail with polished helmet wedged under his right arm. Stiffly he saluted. Ariane nodded and let her gaze drift to the window.

  “Be seated, my lords,” Queen Ariane bade them take their places at the table below. This they did quietly. Dazaleon appeared thoughtful, reflective. Tolranna looked anxious and eager, looking up to await her further word.

  “The Dreaming visited me again last night, Dazaleon,” she told her mentor. She couldn’t help but notice the worry lines on the high priest’s face.

  “Tell me of it, Highness,” Dazaleon replied. He leaned forward, still gripping his long emerald-tipped staff with both hands. Elanion’s sacred green cloak enveloped his tall form. Ariane noted how Dazaleon appeared thinner than he had when she had left months earlier. It irked her that so strong a man was wasting with worry.

  “I dreamt of a great sea eagle struggling in the ocean, its wings broken and torn,” she told them. “The eagle is harangued by sharks, drowning while they tear at its flesh.

  “The dream shifted then after. I saw Calprissa our second city in ruins. Saw a rider in black leading Groil through the burning streets. Witnessed our people in that second city butchered like market beasts.”

  Ariane paused to draw breath. “My beloved citizens dying in horrible ways, Dazaleon. It was truly awful.

  “Then the dream shifts back again. The wounded eagle is torn cruelly apart by the sharks so hungry for its blood. And during all this, darkness spreads down from the north, blocking out the sky and threatening to consume us.” The queen paused to look down the sweeping columns of her hall before speaking again.

  “What make you of that, Dazaleon? Obvious, is it not?”

  The old man turned his attention to the high-arched windows filtering golden light into the throne room. “It is easy enough to interpret, yes. The sea eagle’s no doubt the ship of your friend Barin, the sharks those of your enemy the Assassin, whose craft we know lie skulking in coves along our coast.

  “You are worried about Barin and that is only to be expected. But my instinct tells me you will be reunited with your giant friend sooner than you think. I too have dreamed of the Northman.

  “The blackness is Caswallon’s wrath descending on our land. Your dream hints that Calprissa is where the usurper is planning his first assault. That makes sense. He’s doubtless liaised with the Assassin. Take that coastal city, restock then push inland to Wynais. That murderer’s sharks will be heading there, be sure of that. And Captain Barin also, I believe, caught up in the chaos.”

  “Why would Barin make for Calprissa?” Ariane asked. “Surely he would suspect Rael Hakkenon to trap him thereabouts?” She shook her head, trying to imagine what was going through the mind of that redoubtable mariner.

  “Maybe he has no choice,” replied Daza
leon. “One factor seems certain from not only your dream, but my foresight also. Both Barin and Calprissa will soon be in need of our aid. The black-garbed rider can only be that same Derino who paid us a call last month.”

  “Derino?”

  “Perani’s man. A brute,” continued Dazaleon. “He leads Caswallon’s horde. It will be this Derino that will head the assault on that city. With Calprissa and then Port Wind in his grasp Derino would cut off our access from the coast. From there he can harrow and burn at his leisure until all Kelwyn is laid waste and the Silver City surrounded and alone. Even with Belmarius’s troops and the Raleenians we have on loan, we could not hold out here all winter. Wynais has not the fortified strength of Car Carranis, or even Point Keep for that matter.”

  “Aye, and we can expect no help from that quarter,” cut in Yail, leaning forward at table. “Our friends in Kelthara are hemmed tight by the usurper’s Groil. Our spies inform us Point Keep has fallen to Leeth. That leaves Car Carranis holding out alone in the far country, surrounded by a sea of foes. Car Carranis is strong—but to hold out indefinite against the might of Leeth? Added to that Starkhold cannot be trusted. We are alone, Your Highness. We had best look to ourselves.”

  “We have the two hundred horse from Atarios, and Belmarius’s rangers under Valentin, all hardy veterans,” she responded, accepting a cool glass of water from a servant and drinking deep, before returning her gaze to her sharp-eyed new champion. “They will both prove invaluable. And the rangers have small love for Caswallon having been stung by his treachery before. So tell me, how many fighting ships have we moored in Calprissa, Captain Yail?”

  “A score, my princess, no more,” replied Tolranna. “The fleet has dwindled in recent decades as you know,” he answered. “But I cannot see the sense in rushing to aid that city. Rather we should wait here, as I see it, let Caswallon come to us.”

  “I disagree.” Ariane cursed the folly of her father’s fathers. They had lost interest in Kelwyn’s navy, believing entirely in the Tekara’s power. Even her father had scoffed at the notion that any threat could arrive from the ocean. Back then the Morwellan navy patrolled all coasts keeping the Crenise or any would-be invader at bay.