The Lost Prince (legends of Ansu Book 3)

by J. W. Webb

  “Ware the eastern walls,” came the shout. “Caswallon’s army approaches!”

  Barin cursed and dribbled into his beard.

  Bugger the bastards.

  He turned to Shallan who still gaped big-eyed beside him.

  “Wait here, girl,” he told her. “Don’t go anywhere. I will return in a moment.” Barin told Fassof and Taic to stick close to Shallan, then he shouldered his axe and vanished down into the citadel.

  Minutes later, Shallan saw him emerge below. She watched wide-eyed and dry-mouthed as her huge friend strode into the city, soon disappearing amidst the maze of buildings behind.

  She could hear the yells of the Assassin’s men as they approached from below. Shallan felt useless. She needed to do something, not just stand here like a wallflower waiting for them to come. No good blowing her horn, even if she hadn’t left it in her cabin it wouldn’t help here.

  To her right, Cogga winked reassuringly at her before rubbing his earring with a grubby finger and spitting down from the wall.

  “We’ll look after you, my lady. Taic, Sveyn and myself.” Shallan turned away. She didn’t want looking after, she wanted to help. But how?

  “My lord,” Shallan called across to Tolruan who still held his place at the other end of the balcony. “Have you a bow I could borrow?” Shallan asked him.

  “Can you shoot, my lady?” enquired Tolruan, evidently impressed.

  “I intend to learn how,” she answered, and then thanked a nearby grinning archer who leaned across and handed her a small horn bow with a hastily tied bundle of arrows.

  “It’s my boy’s,” he told her. “But he’s sick with winter ague down in the town house. So I brought it as a spare. You’re welcome to try it, my lady.” He strung the bow with expert ease and passed it over.

  Shallan was delighted; she thanked the archer and received the bow with a grin. At last she could act. Shallan held the bow in her left hand and placed an arrow on the nock. She remembered what her brothers had told her after their hunting trips.

  Be one with the arrow. Don’t rush.

  Shallan pulled back the sinewy cord, tensing her supple arms. Her face reddened slightly with the effort involved. She pulled harder, bringing the arrow’s flight back level with her right ear as she’d seen her brothers do. Shallan held it there, mouthing the words to an old hunting song.

  I am the arrow. I am the flight. I am the silent winged death in the night.

  Shallan calmed her nerves, stilled her twitching arm, and focussed on the approaching enemy below. Though most were hidden from view, a score or so pirates were visible and well within even her small bow’s range.

  I am the archer at one with my bow. Fly true, brave arrow, fly straight—now go!

  Shallan mouthed the words then on ‘go!’ she let fly, marvelling at the freedom she felt as she watched the shaft speed forth. Her first arrow went wide of the mark as did the second but the third one pierced the naked chest of a pirate. He slumped to the ground with a surprised grunt.

  Die, bastard!

  Shallan smiled and calmly placed another arrow on her bowstring; feeling a wild euphoria welling inside her. It was an alien emotion but she welcomed it with happy heart.

  I am the huntress leading the hunt.

  Something feral and savage and yet magical was happening to Shallan. She was changing. Gone was the duke’s dutiful daughter replaced by a wildcat. ‘We are kin’, the Horned Man had told her. ‘Sister’, the faerie women had called her.

  I am Faen. I am the huntress. Let the hunt commence!

  Shallan fired fast and hard, taking down three more pirates. The bow felt so naturel in her grasp. She no longer strained to pull. It was easy—so easy. Shallan of Morwella was fighting back.

  ***

  Barin sped through the panic-filled streets of Calprissa. He left the curving lanes that surrounded the dominant citadel behind him and hurried into a wide level street. A main artery, the broad avenue led arrow-straight toward the distant walls guarding the landward side of the city.

  Everywhere people gaped in awe at the blond giant and his horrible axe. Barin ignored them and they parted like waves to let him through. As he jogged down the thoroughfare, Barin glowered thunderously.

  “What are you gawping at?” The entire city’s populace was out on the streets. Panicking, jabbering and nattering, eyes nervous and mouths full of the horror encroaching their gates. Another day Barin would have felt sorry for them. But not this morning. The rage was in him, taking hold. The berserkergang—the wild fury of the north. Barin’s eyes blazed fury and he was filled with but one desire.

  To kill.

  They watched him pass, too confused and scared to comment. Men muttered whilst their women wept beside them. Little children scampered beneath their feet, blissfully unaware of the horror lurking outside.

  Few of the townsfolk had ever envisioned this dire happening. Even the city guard were white-faced and agitated. Barin scowled as he listened to their jittery words.

  The soldiers mustering outside the barracks he passed were unshaven and scruffy. They looked an incompetent lot. Instead of reassuring the people they were mixing with them in mutual disarray.

  Tossers.

  To Barin, Calprissa appeared a city already fallen. That thought darkened his mood further. He trotted on, ignoring hounds that yapped and snarled around his feet. The east walls loomed closer.

  Calprissa was bigger than Barin remembered. He’d ran a mile already. Barin passed stables and shops, the traders stopping and watching him thunder by with slack jaws.

  He smelt the tanneries and alehouses and heard the beasts stomping in the markets. To his right loomed a temple of Elanion, high and stately with carved archways and wide sweeping doorways. It was full of zealous worshipers, furiously devout in the face of the coming attack.

  Barin jogged on by. On the pavements he heard wealthy nobles addressing lesser folk in panicky tones. Barin saw priests praying with arms raised to the sky. He shook his head in disgust and thundered on.

  Pray and weep, you fools.

  At last the street opened into a broad square. Here more troops were filing out willy-nilly in disorganised clumps. Ahead Barin spotted stairs leading up to the lofty battlements of the east wall.

  He stormed across and took them three at a time. Minutes later Barin emerged, huge and horrible amongst the shivering guards, milling pale-faced and unsure of what to do next.

  Enough.

  Barin hulked towards them, his brows bunched like storm clouds. He shoved a gaping spearman out the way as if he were a sack of straw. Barin reached the parapet. There he stood in silence glaring out at the army marching toward them a mile or so distant.

  Barin tried in vain to estimate their strength as the dark mass of Caswallon’s host approached in shadowy jagged lines. He rubbed his beard and farted.

  There were thousands of them out there. They would be outnumbered at least twenty to one. And that not including the Assassin and his men. The odds were dodgy but then Barin never worried much about odds.

  He scanned the walls with a professional eye. They were built strong and high enough. If the defenders kept their nerve they could hold out indefinitely. That was the tricky bit. Not an encouraging prospect, judging by the shambles in this city. Someone needs to make them focus.

  “Lord Barin?”

  Barin turned, hearing his name mentioned. It was a tall guard who addressed him. The man had spoken to Barin briefly during the night. Barin remembered how the fellow had seemed less flustered than most of his peers. He raised a questioning brow as the soldier approached.

  “We appear greatly outnumbered, my lord.” Barin assumed he was an officer, judging by his garments which were more ornate than the other men’s. The officer was young though, and his knuckles showed white on the hilt of his sword.

  “I care little for numbers,” Barin growled, turning back to the wall and looking out over again. “Let the fuckers come. Sharp blades and stout h
earts is what we need today, my lad. Don’t let those bastards intimidate you.”

  The officer made to reply but Barin turned away. Instead he watched the enemy approach Calprissa’s walls like noisome swarming insects. All were clad in black. Most armed with long spears and crooked serrated swords. Barin saw many Groil among the ranks. There were other more shadowy things too, however, most of the force comprised of men.

  Men twisted by evil and fear. Broken men and wicked men. Losers every one, thought Barin.

  These had once been the elite Tigers, who together with the Bears and Wolves had made up Kelthaine’s prized and envied soldiery. The Bears and Wolves had always been far-ranging. The Tigers’ task had been to guard the High King’s city. They had always considered themselves superior to the other regiments. But the Tigers were no more.

  Those remaining, like their leader Perani, had succumbed to evil. They were Caswallon’s puppets, their minds horribly warped by his thaumaturgy, and by what they had done in his name. Perani remained in Kella. But his second was a man scarcely less feared.

  The Tigers had long since abandoned their famous tabards. They were garbed in black chain mail, and sported long sable cloaks trailing behind them like storm clouds. Every soldier’s face was hidden beneath a hideous death mask. It made it hard to tell them apart from the Groil, except they were taller and broader and didn’t stoop to all fours. A few rode horses though most of this host went on foot. That comforted Barin. Perhaps horses hadn’t sold out to Caswallon. They at least had more sense.

  Barin saw that some of the enemy toiled beneath the weight of heavy crude ladders. These strode forth until they stood at the van of the horde. The ladders were raised skyward ready for purchase on the walls. Slowly, accompanied by drumbeats they approached.

  “Archers!” Barin yelled. “Where are our bloody archers? Who commands here?” Barin turned to the young officer but he had gone. Another man stood in his place.

  “I do,” the soldier replied. This was a ruddy-faced guardsman who, despite the chill of the morning, was sweating profusely beneath his burnished steel coat.

  “I am Savrino, second captain of Calprissa. I command the east wall.”

  “You won’t command rat shit unless we get some archers up here fast.” Barin barely kept a lid on his fury.

  “I don’t want those ladders getting close to our walls, matey. So bugger off and come back soonest with archers!”

  The captain mouthed a word, thought better of it, and turned briskly on his heels.

  “And, captain!” Savrino stopped mid stride. “Stop bloody shaking!”

  “Aye, sir,” replied Savrino, squaring his jaw, not stopping to ask himself why he was taking orders from this giant hairy savage from the north. He cast a furtive glance at the great battle-axe gripped in the outlander’s paw and wondered at the strength it would take to wield such a mighty weapon.

  “Archers needed over here! Hurry now!” Barin rolled his eyes hearing that. Savrino wielded authority like a milkmaid.

  Elanion help us.

  Moments later the second captain reappeared with a dozen bowmen in tow.

  “It’s left us vulnerable above the gates,” Savrino complained.

  “Well send some more up there, you daft twat. Just space them out,” Barin yelled across to him.

  “What?”

  “Don’t let them breach our walls, Savrino. You alone are responsible for the defence of this sector. Hold out, man, until I return. I am needed elsewhere.”

  Barin was about to descend from the wall when a harsh shout from below stopped him in his tracks. Looking out from his high perch, Barin saw that a solitary rider had emerged from the ranks of the enemy horde.

  And who might you be?

  The horseman heeled his horse up to the city walls, stopping just out of bowshot. This rider was clad from head to foot in polished black steel-plate armour. An ebony-horned helm of baroque design hid his face from the brightness of the morning. A sweeping sable cloak trailed behind the rider as he steered his great black stallion to face the Calprissans. The helm slanted back as the rider scanned the defenders on the walls above.

  “Citizens of Calprissa!” The voice hailing them was deep and commanding, though it sounded hollow and metallic beneath the heavy helm. Despite that the leader’s voice carried easily up to the walls.

  “We need not be enemies! I bid you swear allegiance to my master the lord of Kelthaine. Open your gates and you will be spared. That much I promise!”

  Moments passed. Men coughed on the battlements and shuffled their feet. The enemy flanked out in silent ranks like a midnight sea awaiting their leader’s command to surge forward. The ladder carriers had stopped behind him with their poles still raised and ready.

  All was hush. A sudden wind whipped ice chill from the east, lifting the black rider’s cloak up behind him like a sail. He wheeled his horse about before turning to face them once more. When he spoke again his voice was less tolerant.

  “Well? What answer do you give? I have little—” The rider stopped short when a mocking laugh cut across his words.

  “Do you have a name, shit for brains?”

  Barin grinned down at the rider whose flinty eyes narrowed beneath his helm. He scanned the lofty walls and soon saw whom it was that had spoken. Barin’s bulk always gave him away. The leader smiled beneath the helm, recognising Barin of Valkador from Caswallon’s description.

  “I hight Lord Derino, barbarian scum,” the black rider answered, staring directly up at Barin. “I am Lord Perani’s second. I lead this army that confronts you.”

  “And a sorry-looking lot they are.” Barin spat a dollop of phlegm down from the walls. “I wouldn’t wipe my arse with any of them. Or you.”

  “Do you speak for this city now, barbarian? Must they rely on northern strawheads to lead them? I’ll have your fat arse on a plate, Barin of Valkador, before this day is out.” Derino let his gaze sweep the men on the walls.

  “So, citizens, what is your answer?”

  “Here is our answer, Derino.” Barin had finally lost it being addressed as ‘barbarian’—a sore point with him. He turned, heaved his trousers and smallclothes down around his knees. Then Barin shoved his rump on a crenulation and let rip a colossal fart.

  Beside him the soldiers cheered and clapped. Grinning happily, Barin stood and reclaimed his breeches. Below Derino paced back and forth on his stallion, clearly not impressed by the display.

  “Go back to your sorcerer, hornhead.” Barin felt the rage buffet him like a winter storm. “Hide, lest I come seek you out and spilt you open like the rotten fruit you are. The tide is turning, Derino! Your army of slaves will break on these walls before nightfall!”

  “You are a fool, Barin of Valkador!” Metallic laughter echoed from Derino’s helm. “I know who you are, Northman. I heard how that witch butchered your grandfather so she could shag your father. I served in Leeth once.”

  “You know nothing,” replied Barin, icy calm now. “But I will educate you before I split you down the middle. I tire of this conversation, so BUGGER OFF!”

  “I’ll see you soon, barbarian!”

  “Up yours!”

  The sound of laughter was cut short. Derino had already wheeled his steed away from the walls. Within minutes he was swallowed by the baying masses of his army. A great roar now issued from the horde. As one they surged forward. Ashen spears clattered on shields as the snarling faces and death masks glowered up at the defenders on the walls.

  “Hold steady,” Barin said calmly to the soldiers within earshot. “Remember these bastards are overconfident due to their superior number. And don’t worry about those hoodies crouching on all fours—they’re called Groil and are crap at fighting. The worst thing about them is their stench. Be brave, boys, with stout hearts we can hold this city for as long as we need to.” Barin saw more bowmen had arrived and were lining up along the walls. Savrino had been busy.

  “Archers, get ready!” Barin thundered as t
he enemy rushed forward with a scream of hatred. First in line were the ladder bearers, their wooden makeshift burdens thrust forward to rest against the high walls. They thudded into place and were immediately set upon by scores of masked warriors. Scaling up fast and screaming in hatred, long knives thrust in their mask clasps, and larger weapons slung across their armoured backs.

  Savrino appeared by Barin’s side. He looked calmer, more in control. With him was the young officer armed with sword and spear.

  “You did well,” Barin grunted approval. “Hold fast till I return. Wait until those ladders are full of men then shoot the bastards.”

  Satisfied he had done all he could for the moment, Barin left them with a few more brave words. They didn’t look happy he was leaving but Barin needed to be elsewhere.

  He winked at the young officer, shouldered Wyrmfang and commenced making his way back across to the other side of the city. A time-consuming trek. It was hard being in two places at once, but he needed to know how his lads fared with the Assassin’s yobbos.

  Again Barin broke into a jog. He hated all this rushing about but needs must. Harsh shouts announced the pirates were already attacking the west wall. Tolruan was right; they were caught neatly between the hammer and the anvil. Barin knew it would take a miracle to win this fight. He wished Corin were here with Clouter to make things ugly. Barin smiled as he approached the west walls. Lucky Corin, down there in all that sun and sand.

  Hurry back, Longswordsman, you’re missing the fun.

  Chapter 41

  At the Oasis

  Corin an Fol didn’t feel particularly lucky at the moment. Not with half of Permio on his tail. He was ready to be rid of this desert. But without all this stress and frantic rush. Zallerak’s fire display had been exhilarating to watch but it was over. Corin was weary, as were his comrades. Thirsty, tired and worn out.

  Tamersane looked sulky in his saddle, Ulani held cheerful but still suffered. Bleyne remained Bleyne, although he did appear a touch more cheerful after his near death experience. Sometimes he even smiled. Prince Tarin looked exhausted and Zallerak waspish and petulant. Corin and Thunderhoof remained objective. They just wanted out of there.