The Lost Prince (legends of Ansu Book 3)

by J. W. Webb

Damn you—kill quietly, I’m concentrating here.

  The fighters were hard pressed, he would have to work quickly else those Groil would get in and spoil everything. There was never enough bloody time. In all his long life Zallerak had had to rush about doing this and that for other people, and usually for scant appreciation. It vexed him so.

  Willpower.

  Zallerak closed his mind to the clash of steel and yells outside. He focused fully on the pulsating silver, forcing out the last of the cankerous green.

  Better.

  Click. Clonk.

  Two more traps sprung. Good. Zallerak pressed his right palm flat against the throbbing stone; immediately it responded to his touch, the colour deepening from white to a faint rose pink.

  That’s good. The bard began to chant, softly at first, his right palm pressing hard against the stone and his left gripping the golden harp. Zallerak channelled his thought and his voice grew in resonance, the woven words eclipsing both the sound of fighting close by and the continual monotonous booming of tortured Croagon.

  Zallerak let go his harp and placed his left hand hard on the surface of the prism. He leant into the statue, channelling, fusing with the boy trapped within.

  It was touch and go. There were more snares as he’d expected. One by one he sprung the hidden traps.

  Clunk. Clack! Fizz. Snap!

  Excellent.

  As Zallerak unravelled those inner snares, part of his mind reached back through the eons of his life, recalling a time when he had been foremost magician in the land. The good old days of golden splendour.

  Zallerak dug down for some of that ancient strength, summoning a lost reserve from deep within his soul. I’ve still got it somewhere. Yes, here it is!

  Slowly the power flowed into him. He felt himself changing; becoming taller, younger. His words encircled the statue then passed within. The light flared in return. The crystal shards of the crown, clutched in the frozen hands of the prince, throbbed excitingly in answer.

  Those sentient crystal slivers remembered the owner of this voice. Zallerak’s tone deepened to a growl. The statue flared scarlet; the glittering shards blazing into dazzling life.

  Almost cracked it.

  Then a noise like steam escaping from a kettle filled the chamber. The spell was broken! Zallerak had done it. Slowly the stone containing the prince turned to liquid, melting and streaking before his eyes. Like spring’s first kiss after a long pitiless winter, warmth filled the prism. Zallerak watched hawkish and tense. At last he relaxed. Tarin was alive. He could see the boy’s chest rising and sinking.

  It had worked.

  “Zallerak, we need help!” came a desperate shout from outside. That was Corin’s voice, a small part of Zallerak’s mind acknowledged. “We are hard pressed out here!” The words seemed far away, trying to reach him from another time and place. Zallerak closed his mind to the desperate sounds. A nuisance but one easily ignored.

  “Zallerak!” He resumed his incantation—he couldn’t stop now. Moments passed, frozen in time. Nearly there!

  Then at last the prone form of the prince stirred. The throbbing light of the Tekara’s shards filled the room with vivid translucence. Their strident glares shifting from one dazzling shade to another; casting weird and wonderful beams of light across the passage and into the giant cavern beyond.

  Zallerak chanted and channelled and focused. The prism had melted completely, leaving steaming puddles on the floor.

  The fighting sounded closer (part of him acknowledged that the Groil must be in the tunnel). They’d just have to hold them there. It wasn’t a lot to ask.

  Then the prince groaned and shivered into consciousness. His blue eyes stared about in bewildered alarm. He saw Zallerak standing before him and screamed, stopping suddenly after feeling the hard slap of the wizard’s palm.

  “Wake up, you twit! Much trouble you have caused me!” Zallerak’s eyes blazed cobalt fire down on the terrified prince. Tarin’s own eyes squinted, accustoming themselves to the glare. Then he recognised the tall figure leaning over him.

  “Zallerak!” he gasped. “I thought you one of them—the dog snarlers. They got inside my head. It was horrible!”

  “Yes, they do that—nasty trick they have. Never mind.”

  “What has happened to me?” The young prince shivered and shook as welcome heat coursed through his veins. His face was flushed, but at least he was stronger now. He shook his stiff limbs into movement, took a step forward and wobbled a bit.

  “Nothing that bad—you were fortunate, prince. The dog-lords have other matters concerning them. Matters I must needs spoil for them. Now hand me those shards, boy, there is little time.”

  This last statement became evident. A large Groil had won free from Ulani’s spear and hurled itself through the postern. It clattered down the tunnel on all fours, teeth snarling and tongue lolling stinky.

  Zallerak looked up in alarm. He grunted in satisfaction when Bleyne’s hurled knife brought the fiend to the ground with a strangled cry.

  “Well done,” Zallerak said.

  “The crown is my responsibility.” Tarin still gripped the shards, unwilling to hand them over. “You told me that.” Tarin hadn’t seen the Groil. He gripped the throbbing translucent bag as if his young life depended on it.

  “I must redress the harm I’ve caused,” he insisted. “Who is that?” Corin had just appeared and was launching a tirade of profanities in their direction.

  “No one important. Give me the fucking shards!”

  “I cannot.”

  “Zallerak, for Elanion’s sake hurry!” Corin yelled. Beyond the door the howls of the Groil filled the cavern. Zallerak eyed Tarin warily, saying nothing. A moment passed, their eyes locked in silent confrontation. Then snake-swift Zallerak snatched the bag containing the shards of the Tekara from the young prince’s numb fingers.

  “Enough nonsense,” he snapped. “I have work to do.”

  ***

  Corin’s hands were drenched in blood; most of it fortunately belonged to the foul smelling Groil, but some was his own and he was tiring fast. Again.

  Beside him fought Ulani, wielding sword and mace with fury, his bearded ebony face drenched in blood, a torn cloth binding the wound in his thigh.

  Bleyne weaved between them, the long knife deadly in his sinewy palm. All the archer’s arrows were spent. Groil lay scattered in bits all around.

  Corin stepped back from the mound of stinking corpses. He let Ulani through.

  Your shift.

  The three had taken turns to face down the foe. Then that big one had got through, but Bleyne had followed and swiftly dealt with it.

  But as always there seemed no end to the murdering things. Ulani waded out, allowing Corin a second’s breather. His face and arms sizzled with Groil blood, the smell was beyond description. Corin yelled back at Zallerak. He had no notion what the wizard was up to back there.

  Ulani fell back. The Groil were breaking through again. Corin heard footsteps behind. He turned sharply, saw Zallerak had joined them at last.

  “About bloody time.”

  Behind him came the pale skinny prince, hobbling and shuffling. Corin glanced angrily at the bard. He noticed that Zallerak looked weary again.

  “What kept you?” Disgusted, Corin turned his back on them. Leaning over Ulani, he despatched another Groil with a backhanded swipe of his longsword.

  Zallerak didn’t respond. Instead he reached down and retrieved his abandoned spear. His eyes were blazing jewels of rage. He pointed its tip at the milling Groil and resumed his chant.

  The Groil hung back, uncertain of this new enemy. They could sense the raw power emanating from the spear shaft and were afraid. Their hesitation allowed the three fighters vital respite. Zallerak’s flaming eyes beguiled the Groil; they milled in confusion. Slowly Zallerak reached down, brought forth the bag of shards. He touched the tip of his spear with the glowing crystal within the bag.

  At that contact the spear�
�s tip blazed golden fury. The Groil howled and snarled and jumped about, cowering from the burnished glow flooding cavern and forge. The spear tip fizzed. It was too much for the Groil. They broke ranks and fled howling from the pit.

  Behind the fleeing Groil, the Urgolais warlocks ceased their chanting. Zallerak’s witch-light had distracted them and drawn them away from their task. The three turned to confront Zallerak, angry their work had been interrupted.

  Released from His torment and momentarily forgotten, Croagon the Smith let out a long exhausted groan. The chanting had stopped and with it the relentless assault on His body. Shattered and reeling with pain, the giant slumped forward, matted mane covering tortured face, His vast frame hanging limp and inert from the huge chains restricting Him.

  “Wake up, you three,” Zallerak shouted at Bleyne, Ulani and Corin who were taking a well-earned rest. “No time for shilly-shally. Follow me!” Zallerak led the way out into the cavern with an imperious stride, followed closely by the others.

  All three fighters were filled with renewed energy. The Tekara’s light had worked upon them too, but whereas it had terrified the Groil, the shards’ sparkle filled Corin and his friends with new hope and strength. Corin noticed that Ulani no longer limped. Tarin the prince hesitated for a moment and then hurried after them. His young face stunned to silence by what he was witnessing.

  But worse was still to come.

  Outside the pit, the panicking Groil parted like an obedient wave to let three shadowy hooded figures approach. Corin felt the familiar dread return. His flesh crawled and his spine tingled but the Tekara’s light kept most of the fear at bay.

  The three dog-lords approached, a cold slither of menace emanating from beneath their sable robes. The largest one stopped. It sniffed the air, puzzled and confounded by the golden glow of Zallerak’s spear.

  “It’s time,” Zallerak strode forward to confront them. “Wait here—do nothing, I have business with these three.” Zallerak’s sapphire eyes shone cold and condemning. The three Urgolais sorcerers fanned out, forming another triangle surrounding Zallerak, their hidden eyes burning in yellow hatred from deep beneath the folds of their hoods. Then the foremost spoke. Its voice the dry rasp of frozen leaves tumbling down a wintry road.

  “Aralais!”

  The malice within those words caused the warriors to step back in alarm. Corin’s palm sweated as he clutched Clouter’s hilt. His mind was working overtime.

  Aralais and Urgolais.

  He really should have worked that out.

  Prince Tarin’s eyes were wide with terror. He kept swallowing but his mouth was dry. Ulani and Bleyne watched on from the shadows in numbed silence. Bleyne kept muttering to Elanion under his breath.

  The air was dry, the atmosphere taut.

  “You have failed.” The closest Urgolais confronted Zallerak, its appearance whip-lean and stooping, with dog snout and flaring nostrils just showing beneath that hood. Though it was similar, Corin could tell this wasn’t Morak. The snout wasn’t burnt like old Dog-face’s.

  “The Smith is completely in our power, Aralais. With Croagon’s skill we can forge new weapons for the coming war. Morak shall regain Golganak soon—the Smith alone knows where it lies. He will tell us before He dies—yes even the High Gods can die, Golden One. Their time is passing but we are stronger than ever.

  “Callanak, your only chance of salvation is lost forever—that sword cannot aid you this time. Morak has grown weary of your meddling, Aralais. He knows who challenged him at Kranek. You were fortunate there.

  “But your luck has run out. You have entered a trap!”

  All three Urgolais issued a doggy growly laughing sound. Not pleasant on the ears. Behind their masters the surviving Groil were regrouping.

  “Even now the sultan’s little army hastens hither to block your retreat, like you, his greed gets the better of him,” mocked the closest Urgolais. He pointed a cloak-draped claw at Zallerak and the four mortals standing behind him, then let it drop in a demonstrative chopping motion.

  “Time to die, fools!”

  Chapter 34

  The Clash in the Pit

  A great roar echoed beyond the cavern accompanied by the sound of many rushing feet. Corin leaned on Clouter’s cross guard and shook his head. Would this ever end? Corin liked scrapping but it would be nice to have the odds in their favour now and then.

  He swapped a wild glance with Ulani. “Permians?”

  “I guess so—unless that horror is lying.” They were both battle-weary despite the aid the shards’ diamond light had given them. The thought of facing fresh enemies hung heavy on them.

  Bleyne alone remained cool and ready, safe in his knowledge that the Goddess wouldn’t let him die. He appeared unaffected by the Urgolais’s malice, and had used the brief impasse to recover most of his arrows from the strewn bodies of the Groil.

  The sound of steel-shod feet on stone was closing fast. The sultan’s elite coming their way.

  Corin glanced across to the far side of the forge where sudden movement had caught his eye. “Hey, Hagan, I haven’t forgotten you.”

  The lean figure of the mercenary ignored him. Hagan, like Corin, had had enough of this business. Limping badly, Hagan slipped from the pit vanishing into the darkness beyond. Of Hagan’s men there was no sign. Corin assumed that they were all victims to the Groil. Too bad.

  He turned his gaze back to the three sorcerers still checked by the power radiating from Zallerak’s spear point. Corin stared hard at Zallerak’s back.

  Aralais…now I understand. Obvious really. You’re a bloody alien.

  Zallerak’s eyes burnt into his foe, his silent challenge still checking them. The Urgolais waited, summoning spell-power.

  Zallerak’s words when they came were for Corin alone.

  “Yes, I am of the Aralais. The Golden People who ruled these lands and will again in time. But we were allies before and you should trust me.”

  “Why?” Corin yelled at Zallerak’s back.

  “Because you have no choice. Come, Corin. Now is your big chance to rock this cave. Your grand moment. I’ll mind these three—ignore their boasts, they are weaker than they once were and lack Morak’s knowledge.”

  Zallerak’s spear levelled at the sorcerers. Its crystal radiance again filling the cavern. Still the dog-lords hung back. Zallerak whispered a word and the light funnelled narrow, beaming outwards at the sorcerers.

  Though unaffected by the glow they hesitated, unwilling to attack. Beyond their masters, the Groil slunk about growling and mewling on all fours.

  “Take these shards,” Zallerak hissed at Corin without turning his head. “Strike the chains that bind the Smith God.”

  “What? He’s got to be bloody joking, surely?” Corin locked eyes with Ulani who shrugged. Meanwhile the cavern echoed with the sound of marching feet. The sultan’s soldiers were somewhere behind the forge coming from the other direction.

  “Bleyne will cover you. Do it!” Zallerak yelled at Corin.

  Before Corin could respond Zallerak turned in his direction, tossed the bag of crystal shards his way.

  “Go!” Zallerak hissed before returning to his silent battle with the three.

  And Corin went. Of course he did. Just another job really. Why complain? He cut silent and fast toward the distant stair, leaving the pit behind. His left hand clung to the bag of glowing shards whilst the right gripped Clouter.

  Groil sniffed the air. They saw him running and turned towards him. Corin ran for the stair. Two Groil barred his approach. He fended them off and won through hacking and slicing with Clouter.

  Three more had fallen to Corin’s sword by the time he reached the steep stairway leading up from the cavern.

  But others milled behind. Sheathing Clouter behind his back, Corin clutched the throbbing bag of light as though his life’s continuation depended on it.

  Fuelled by Zallerak’s words, he launched his battered body up the stairs. Up and up Corin climbed, hur
rying towards the nearest chain link bracing the slumped colossus of the Smith. Below him Corin heard a great shout, and glancing down saw that a score of crimson-cloaked spearmen had spilled into the cavern from behind. More work for Bleyne and Ulani.

  Corin’s knees hurt, his hands were chafed and his entire body battered. But both the shards’ light and his own bloody-mindedness kept him climbing up toward that nearest chain.

  ***

  Meanwhile below the Permians fanned out, their spears and tulwars at the ready. Their captain took stock of the scene: four sorcerers—three shadow-dark and one radiating gold. Not what they expected. This could be bad. The crimson elite looked worried. Whatever was going on they didn’t care for it. Both Zallerak and the Urgolais ignored them.

  Then Ulani of the Baha strode out from the shadows. The warrior king’s face was a mask of pride and fury.

  “Let the spell-weavers confront each other. I will deal with you maggots!” Ulani hurled his spear at the elite’s officer. The Permian collapsed gurgling, the shaft having passed clean through his neck almost severing his head in its passage. His men, shocked and enraged, circled the king of Yamondo. Ulani smiled. He would let them come to him.

  ***

  High above, Corin hauled his body up the stair. Behind a small knot of Groil followed snarling and barking. Corin could hear their rasping breath below and knew they were closing on him.

  The closest clawed at his exposed heel, trapping it briefly. Corin lashed out with a boot. The grip left his ankle.

  The Groil pitched howling to the ground with Bleyne’s arrow protruding from its snout. Other shafts followed, claiming more of the creatures. Bleyne never missed. But still they followed, closing all the time.

  Corin was level with the giant’s massive arms. He could see where the vast iron chains hung welded to the cavern wall, twenty yards from the stair. Corin gripped the bag of shards in his teeth. Time to be a human fly.

  With both hands free Corin started reaching out tenuously along the sheer sides of the wall, his body flat against its smooth surface. There were narrow indents, ridges and bumps allowing just enough purchase for finger and toe. But one slip and he was curtains.