The Lost Prince (legends of Ansu Book 3)

by J. W. Webb

  The sultan’s elite formed a ring of steel just out of range of Bleyne’s bow. They waited, shifting in saddle and muttering. Their horses frothed and snorted and hoofed the ground.

  Arrogant they might be but they looked splendid in their crimson cloaks, sparkling ring mail and polished half-helms. Corin could see that they had tight discipline and anticipated a hard fight ahead.

  Bleyne had an arrow ready on the nock. The archer waited impassive as ever. The Permians tightened the noose. There must have been over a hundred of them.

  Long minutes passed, Bleyne’s arm was taut with tension as he pulled the bowstring back level with his right ear. He waited.

  Still they hesitated: the riders jiffleling and cursing, their horses blowing and drumming their hooves on the dusty ground.

  Dark faces mocked them from beneath those conical half-helms. Corin slid Polin’s bow from Thunder’s saddle. Time to give it a go. He wasn’t the best shot but you never know. Eyes squinting, he picked out his man.

  Attack, you shitheads.

  He wished Zallerak would get on with whatever he was doing. But the delay could only help them. Corin could hear weird grunts and moans coming from the wizard’s direction. Now and then a sudden puff of smoke announced that something was happening; however, it didn’t amount to much.

  “I think he’s lost his spark,” Ulani said, which wasn’t very helpful.

  Someone snapped an order from behind the crimson ranks. The circle of spears parted just wide enough to allow two swarthy horsemen through. Corin spat in disgust, recognising the oily Sulimo who they had encountered north of Agmandeur. The sultan’s spy and Caswallon’s man in the south.

  It was the other man that held his attention. He was young and rotund, garbed in crimson and gold robes, with a gold and black turban wrapped around his head. He sweated on his gold-trimmed saddle and glared at them with contemptuous loathing.

  The sultan?

  Corin pulled back on the bowstring.

  Ready when you are, fat boy.

  Samadin the Marvellous stared coldly at the tiny knot of fugitives daring to show defiance in his august presence. His mood was black. He missed his harem and boys. He detested this relentless desert heat and was melting beneath his gold-laced purple robes.

  Damazen Kand had failed him and the fool had got himself killed to boot. Just as well for him. Were he still alive Kand would be stretched out by pegs, naked and screaming—food for scavengers.

  The sultan glared at the northerners who dared stare back at him in mutual loathing. His jaw dropped in surprise when he recognised the king of Yamondo amongst them. Permio had no issue with that jungle country; they traded coldly to mutual gain. There was little love lost but that didn’t mean they were enemies.

  “So you conspire against me also, Ulani of the Baha, siding with craven spies and impostors.”

  The sultan’s nasal voice was like a fly buzzing in Corin’s ear. It cut through the other sounds. “I know these villains you side with, renegades from the north countries. I will remind you of your folly, king, while my executioner separates your ugly head slowly from your shoulders with a rusty saw. After that your body will be dismembered, broken and fed to my slaves.”

  Ulani laughed. He had met Samadin some years past when the young sultan had received the king and his retinue in the palace at Sedinadola. King and sultan hadn’t cared for each other.

  Samadin’s face mirrored his crimson robe, hearing Ulani laugh. No one laughed at the sultan. His men looked worried and Sulimo’s eyes were everywhere.

  Then Ulani stopped laughing. “Speak not of cooking the fish until the fish is hooked!” Before any could react the king had spurred his horse forward, brandishing a short spear in his ebony fist. He let fly, the spear slicing air toward the sultan’s neck.

  A guard leapt from his saddle, receiving the spear in his chest. The man gurgled and slid to the ground; Samadin glanced briefly down in disdain at the mess.

  Then the sultan kicked the merchant Sulimo’s horse forward whilst urging his own beast back through the ranks. Sulimo, terrified, tried to turn his beast around but left it too late.

  Corin and Bleyne had both urged their steeds join Ulani’s. Corin’s wild arrow sang past Sulimo’s ear, but Bleyne’s pierced the merchant’s right eye. Corin was fumbling for another arrow. By the time he had it on the nock Bleyne had punctured three more elite. Fortunately the sultan’s archers were sluggish in response, being too stunned by what had happened to return prompt fire. But now they were getting their act together.

  Time for Clouter—stick with what you know.

  Corin slammed the bow back in its saddle harness and unleashed the longsword. Bleyne’s bow twanged and another rider fell from his saddle. Enemy arrows answered and the rest closed in with spears parallel.

  “Kill them all!” Samadin shrieked, kicking his horse back through the swiftly closing ranks. “I want them dead! And dismembered! And their fucking heads stuck on poles! I want to crap on their rotting corpses! Kill them all!”

  The elite pressed forward eager to obey, their horses’ hooves crushing the bodies of Sulimo and the other fallen into bloody pulp beneath them.

  Corin gripped Clouter hand over hand and braced his battered body for the oncoming assault. Arrows thudded into the ground on either side. As yet no one had been hit. But they couldn’t stay lucky for long.

  The crimson lancers were almost on him when Corin was nearly knocked from Thunderhoof’s back by the vortex of a colossal blast from somewhere behind.

  “By Telcanna’s seventh nipple—what the fuck was that!” Tamersane had nearly voided his smalls in shock, the blast having just missed his ear.

  “Fireworks!” Ulani was beaming from ear to ear. “I love fireworks.”

  “A warning would have been nice.” Tamersane rubbed his left ear.

  BOOM! HISS. THWANG! ZING! All around the ground quavered and shook. Jagged javelins of lighting flared skyward, arcing, and then shrieking down on the panicked riders and horses of Permio. Most blasts thudded into stone and sand, burning smouldering rings at impact.

  Others struck the elite’s armour frying the riders alive, grilling them to charcoal as their fellows struggled in vain to remain seated on their terrified mounts.

  Everywhere was panic and disarray. Men and horses scattered like dust as the lightning lanced mercilessly down from the clear blue sky above.

  “Impressive,” grinned Tamersane.

  “Spectacular,” added Ulani.

  “’Bout bloody time,” was all Corin could say. Thunderhoof wasn’t impressed either.

  It’s all right—these pyrotechnics are not meant for us, old fruit.

  Thunderhoof wasn’t convinced.

  On boomed the blasts, each one striking a hapless rider, burning him to cinders and tossing his blackened corpse from his terrified steed. There was no sign of the sultan. Samadin the Marvellous urgently needed to be elsewhere due to a sudden development inside his smallclothes. He’d fled from his horse and squatted straining behind a rock.

  Beside him, Corin saw Ulani carve a way forward into the tangled melee of horsemen, the king’s golden club trailing scarlet as it whirled through the air.

  Zallerak had remounted and joined them; beside him the young Tarin’s face was flushed with excitement, a stolen tulwar already bloodied in his hands. Corin raised a brow at that. The surviving Permians cowed in fear of Zallerak. His eyes like molten sapphires, Zallerak urged his mount forward and broke through their tangled line, winning free to the stony flats ahead.

  “Come on!” he shouted as the others urged their steeds to follow in his wake. “We can lose them under the shadow of night. See, even now evening approaches!”

  It took an hour for the Permians to regroup. At least seventy were dead. Their surviving captains cursed and kicked their men into a semblance of order.

  One of them found Samadin weeping behind his rock. The sultan emerged after a time with hands overhead. He’d soiled his ro
bes but chose to ignore that. Instead he stood berating his elite for being worse than cowards.

  “I’ll see you flayed alive!” Samadin’s face was as crimson as his robe. He still shivered in terror of lightning spears returning. “They’re escaping! I want them hacked to pieces! Trampled into dust! After them, you filthy craven worms!” Samadin could say no more; he’d erupted into a fit of coughing.

  Despite the sultan’s rage it took another chaotic hour before the Permians finally gave chase. They were much too late. Again the trap was sprung, and as night approached their enemy slipped from view.

  ***

  Eight lean-faced riders watched from the southern flanks of the Crystal Mountains. They saw the fugitives break free from the chaos occurring several miles away.

  Barakani had raised an eyebrow at the uncanny lightning but his nearest son had laughed in delight. Rassan as ever was eager for battle.

  “Which way will they go?” he asked his father beside him.

  The Wolf of the Desert watched on in silence for a moment. “Silon believes the wizard will make for Isalyos,” he said eventually, his thin lips showing a slight smile.

  “Where the rest of the sultan’s finest await the return of their most beloved ruler,” grinned Rassan. “It’s as we planned, Father. We will meet them at the oasis.”

  “Aye,” laughed Barakani. “That we will, and put an end to this business at last!”

  They rode northeast for several hours, at last reaching the dusky valley where Barakani’s men awaited his return.

  A force ten thousand strong. Their spears gleaming in the weird glow. The tribes of Permio had mustered for war. In the morning they would ride.

  ***

  His body ached where it didn’t bleed. Pain soared behind his eyes; two fingers were broken on his left hand, and his hair was matted with congealed blood. He felt sick and weary to the bone.

  None of that mattered, Hagan told himself. He was alive. His men were all dead, broken beneath that dreadful mountain, but he, their captain had survived.

  That said Hagan was in desperate shape and much weakened by thirst. He had half crawled his way back to the waiting boatman on the shimmering lake. The ferryman’s cold stare had mocked him as he set him ashore on the far side.

  Hagan shuddered at the icy glance of the waterman’s single eye. He didn’t wait as the shadowy figure poled his mysterious craft silently away. Nor did he look back.

  Instead, Hagan staggered and hobbled towards the second stairway that led back up to the northern door whence he had entered the mountain. His mind wandered, he stumbled and fell, got up again. The climb almost finished him but somehow he made it to the top.

  Got to keep moving—not going to die in this place.

  Was he delirious? He heard strange sounds, voices in the passages below. Dark voices.

  Must keep…walking…not…dying…here.

  Other noises betrayed movement behind him but Hagan dare not look back. Something was stirring beneath this awful mountain. Something evil. Hagan didn’t dwell, just limped on, stopping only when he heard the urgent sound of whispers carried across from the weird light behind him.

  I am not alone.

  Ahead was darkness. Hagan was far from the giant crystal’s radiance now. He slipped into a side passage and waited in silence, allowing his battered body rest as his tired mind kept watch.

  The voices grew louder accompanied by the clear ring of shod feet. Soldiers were approaching in haste. The elite—some of them must have survived. Hagan waited and listened as the whisperers drew near…

  ***

  “He went this way—I know he did,” insisted Migen.

  “How do you know this bastard’s got the gold?” asked Gamesh. “Those other brigands could have taken it.”

  “No, the Morwellan’s got it alright; he’s a sly one.” Migen’s growl echoed through the passage ahead. “Waited till all his men were done for by those hooded horrors, he did. Then grabbed the treasure and fled with it! I tell you, Gamesh, our reward will be great when we return with the gold and this villain’s head.”

  Gamesh was about to reply when he stopped in surprise. He gave a startled grunt and stared down in disbelief at the long blade protruding from his belly. Gamesh shuddered and slumped trembling to the ground, his guts spilling forth as the sword slid free.

  Hagan stepped back and swung again. Migen’s head spun through the air, coming to rest by a sliver of crystal. The vein glowed scarlet. Hagan sheathed his sword and stepped over the thrashing body of the still living Gamesh.

  “Gold,” he snarled. “No fucking gold here—just death.” Hagan opened the dying man’s throat with a mercy cut from his knife. Hagan had few good traits but he wasn’t sadistic, only cruel by necessity—or so he told himself.

  After what seemed an age of climbing, crawling, hobbling and groping in the murk, Hagan, thirsty and weak beyond words, reached the stairway leading down to the hidden door.

  Nearly out.

  Hagan descended awkwardly, picking up his pace despite the pain and fatigue.

  Something evil back there. Gotta keep moving.

  Down Hagan clambered, half slipping and sliding until at last he reached the cave of stalactites marking the entrance to the mountain.

  Hagan stopped to drink deeply in the dark pool of the cavern. Once sated, he lurched out from under the mountain and stared in wonder at the sight greeting him. High above a diadem of stars furnished the sky, a billion blazing jewels winking down on the silvery sand of the desert below.

  There were horsemen down there. Hagan saw hundreds—maybe even thousands. Tribesmen garbed in dark robes. On their shoulders were strapped broad tulwars, the curved blades gleaming beneath the starlight.

  Hagan sunk to his belly in utter exhaustion. He had survived but only just. And now what would he do? Ahead lay a sea of enemies and at least another week of hunger.

  And if he survived the journey north…? What then? Caswallon’s spy would be looking for him. That goblin was a spiteful little shit. The usurper would show no mercy this time. Hagan was a marked man, but then what else was new? He grinned suddenly, watching the army below.

  You win this round, Corin, but I’ll be back.

  And he would.

  Hagan had his stolen sword and his wits. He’d survived worse, though he couldn’t remember when or where. Hagan nursed his painful shoulder and started the long starlit trek down the mountain road.

  The game was far from over. He and Corin would meet again soon enough; in the meantime there were always those who could use a skilled blademaster. War was coming. He’d slot in somewhere. Perhaps Rael Hakkenon would take him back.

  Time will tell.

  Hagan felt sleep wash over him. He took shelter hidden by the road. Snatch a few hours here and there. Move by night, sleep by day. Survive. Then once back in the Four Kingdoms, Hagan would sell his sword arm to the highest bidder.

  He would do what he did best. Kill. Then once he was rich enough, Hagan would gather more men, better than the last lot, and seek out the renegade Corin an Fol and his friends. This time he would kill them all. Hagan focussed on that happy thought before sleep stole upon him like a thief in the night.

  ***

  Far below the mountain they stirred. Creatures older than time. Far below Croagon’s forge deep in the roots of the mountain’s heart. As the Smith’s snores resounded through the chamber of the crystal, they began to manifest and swarm. Their master would have need of them soon.

  It had been so long and they were all so very hungry. But it was almost time. They would have food aplenty before long.

  And so the long slow scrape up the mountain began. One by one the thousand famished Soilfins inched their way up from the bowels of the mountain. They were weak and frail, their wings broken and rotted. But they would mend, become strong again. Because He was back.

  Chapter 39

  Ariane of the Swords

  Snow fell in silent shrouds upon the sleeping h
ills of Kelthaine. The fields lay pristine white, barren and empty beneath a leaden sky. A raw wind cried chill out of the east.

  High on the battlements of Car Carranis a lone figure braved the winter cold. Joachim Starkhold had risen early, as was his habit. He stood in silent gloom, a woollen cloak draped about his broad shoulders as he surveyed the wintry scene outside.

  Starkhold could see the multitude of tents scattered like sleeping beasts below the dark canopy of the forest and out across the Gap of Leeth. There would be no attack today. The enemy waited for winter to ease or for Car Carranis to break under the withering embrace of the three destroyers: hunger, fear and cold.

  Three long hard weeks had passed since that first attack. King Haal had lost many men to Starkhold’s archers to no gain. After that day the barbarian king realised no swift victory could be achieved here.

  But King Haal knew it was only a matter of time before the city would break. They had only to wait. Let winter take its toll. Starkhold knew this, the barbarians knew this, and far away in Kella City Caswallon knew it too. The deceiver. Starkhold now suspected Caswallon had allied himself with Leeth. But why and for what gain? These barbarians had no concept of loyalty. Starkhold would probably never know.

  So against his wishes King Haal had changed tactics, retiring from the first snows of winter and waiting while his brutish warriors feasted and whored their days away with camp followers at the edge of the forest.

  And so the waiting game began again.

  Joachim Starkhold was as tough as the granite walls he stood upon, but this watchful waiting was wearing even him down. Car Carranis was the greatest of Kelthaine’s strongholds, wrought of iron and stone and cunningly wedged deep into the folds of the mountains, its flanks hugged by sheer crags awarding no purchase for attackers. There was a rear gate but the only way to reach it was via the high mountain passes, now buried in snow—hence that way was secure till spring.

  The city walls were seventy foot high and twelve foot thick. The fortress had been raised on the flat crown of the lowest foothill, commanding wide views over the Gap of Leeth to the northernmost slopes of the High Wall.