The Glass Throne (Legends of Ansu Book 4)

by JW Webb

  The dragon spoke.

  “ARALAIS! THIS IS BUT A COURTESY VISIT FROM CHAOS. WE WILL MEET AGAIN SOON, AND I WILL REND YOUR TWISTED SOUL ASUNDER!”

  Tamersane was dimly aware of a muffled reply from nearby. He guessed it was Zallerak who spoke but couldn’t be sure. The metallic laughter had resumed and the dragon’s breath deepened to blackest night. Tamersane lost view of the winged shadow; he heard the thunder and drum of those wings as the dragon took to air.

  Tamersane heard yells, more shouting, and a brief clash of steel, and he glimpsed more Groil shapes squeezing in through the blackness. He charged one, swinging his blade. Nothing. Glimpsing another, Tamersane sped forward, swiping and yelling, his earlier rage back now that the fear had subsided with the dragon’s departure. He swung again and the Groil shapes faded.

  Then he saw a large one looming in front of him, its dogface occluded by murk. Tamersane yelled and shoulder-charged the creature from behind. He heard a surprised grunt, saw a flash of steel, and then cursed as sudden pain lashed into his upper arm.

  Tamersane’s hapless flying tackle had pushed both himself and his target over from where they just stood, at the northern rim of the Fallowheld. Tamersane’s foot caught a rock. Again he tripped, but this time he kept falling: rolling, tumbling, and crashing down, helter-skelter among rocks and twisted shrub.

  As he tumbled, Tamersane saw the big Groil falling close by, its sword still in its claws. That sword looked familiar. It was at that point that Tamersane realised he had just attacked Corin an Fol and come off the worse for it.

  He fell and Corin fell close by one another. The Fallowheld’s flanks were steep and treacherous, and the two men tumbled for long minutes. Tamersane’s arm oozed blood and his head spun as the slopes and thorns raced up at him. Crunch. His head struck a rock and he lost all consciousness.

  ***

  Tamersane awoke to the sound of a struggling fire and the sharp cold of a starry night. He blinked, cursed at the pain in his arm, and then saw the shape hunched close by. Corin an Fol appeared none the worse for wear. He looked at Tamersane with that mournful lugubrious expression he so often wore.

  “What the fuck happened?” Corin pulled a thorn from his forearm and spat in the fire. “I saw Groil in that fog. I heard growling and shouting and then some fuckoff great winged thing flew over my head. Next up, my new best friend attacks me from behind and pushes me off the bloody hill.”

  “Sorry,” mumbled Tamersane, nursing his bleeding arm and looking despondent. “I was a bit confused.”

  “Did I do that?” Corin noticed the oozing slice gaping across Tamersane’s left bicep. It was black with debris and soil and needed prompt attention.

  “I…think so,” Tamersane smiled weakly. It was safe to say he wasn’t feeling his best.

  “Then I’m the one that’s sorry.” Corin stood and walked over. He leaned down, examining the wound he’d given his friend. “You’ve got shit in that, I’ll have to scrape it out before it festers. Even then, you might still catch a fever. I’m sorry, Tamersane, truly I am.”

  Tamersane chuckled weakly. “Don’t be. I attacked you, remember. I thought you were Groil.”

  “Thanks for the compliment.”

  “Sorry.” Tamersane managed a faint grin as Corin cut a thin strip from his shirt. He poured a few drops of water from his gourd, fortunately still tied to his waist, and began wiping soil and mess from the wound.

  “So what just happened?” Corin asked again as he washed the wound clean and tied a fresh slice of shirt around it. “That’s better, you should be all right.”

  “It was a dragon.” Tamersane laughed at his predicament, sliced by his own friend. “You saw that dark shape?”

  “I saw something, and heard a lot of heavy growling shit. Whatever it was I knew it must be big.”

  “The others?” Tamersane glanced around, realising Corin and he were alone.

  “Fuck knows?” Corin sat beside him and poked the fire with a stick. “I looked. Shouted up. Nothing. And when the fog cleared I climbed back up to the crown. Took me over an hour. But I found Thunder, though the other horses had gone.”

  “Where’s Thunderhoof now?”

  “Behind you eating grass.”

  “Oh…good.”

  “Not really. We have one horse and no companions. No food and enough water for a day at most, though this country should award streams.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Corin poked the fire again. “We fare north, find a cut through the mountains and make for Car Carranis.”

  “Isn’t that rather vague? I mean, Car Carranis is hundreds of leagues distant. What are we going to live on, field mushrooms?”

  “No, I had a bad experience with those a while back.”

  “What then, earthworms? I’ve heard they’re nutritious.”

  Corin shook his head. “Belmarius’s army is somewhere ahead. I suggest we catch them up. A force that large won’t be moving over swiftly. You agree?” But Tamersane had fallen asleep. Corin gazed down at his friend’s wound. It was deep, with fresh blood already soaking the shirt tourniquet he’d tied. It was a miracle he hadn’t sliced the arm off.

  Corin cursed himself, although it hadn’t been his fault. He’d seen shadows in the fog too. One moment he’d been glaring at Prince Tarin and Zallerak, then that mist had come—and with it rage and fear. He wasn’t sure about Tamersane’s dragon notion, but something had attacked them, doubtless some fetch of Caswallon.

  And now here they were. And Tamersane’s arm wound was going to need proper attention before long. If only Bleyne were here. Corin had almost expected the archer to appear during the night. But nothing. He and Tamersane were alone in winter wilderness. Corin hoped the others were alive, but no point dwelling on that. Besides, he was parting with them in due course. It just hadn’t happened the way he’d planned it. He yawned and stretched. Meanwhile night faded, stars dimmed, and a slow pale sun peeped out from a shoulder in the mountains.

  Corin wandered over to check on Thunder. The big horse was standing motionless in the morning. Just another day dawning for him. When Corin got back, Tamersane was sitting up and nursing his arm.

  “How is it?”

  “Painful, but I’ll be fine.”

  “Good. You can ride Thunder and I’ll walk alongside. We won’t cover much distance in this terrain, so you might as well get your strength back.” Minutes later Corin had saddled Thunderhoof and Tamersane was seated pale-faced on his back. Without further ado Corin commenced leading horse and rider through a tight clump of trees toward the knees of the closest mountain.

  The woods closed in as they threaded along what looked to be a deer path. Corin scowled at the trees, expecting weird things to peek out at him. It wasn’t just paranoia: it seemed to happen whenever he ventured through a forest.

  “I’d love to know where we are,” Corin muttered, then stopped and checked on horse and rider. Tamersane looked grey but managed a smile. “What’s your geography like?” Corin asked the Kelwynian.

  “I’m good west of the mountains, ask me anything.”

  “We are not west of the mountains.”

  “You have me there,” Tamersane grinned. “I would say that we appear to be in some big old forest. It reminds me of Beechborn Woods, but that’s miles away and I don’t see many beeches here, mostly oaks and ash.”

  Corin nodded and led them on again. Every now and then Tamersane would try to say something witty, but Corin knew his friend was struggling with the pain in his arm. Tamersane didn’t have long before that wound would overcome him. Corin closed such bleak thoughts from his mind and walked on.

  He stopped when a figure emerged from the trees. A tall man he appeared, thin and gaunt, old and stooped, clad in gown and hood. The stranger held up his hand palm outwards as Corin glared at him. One fine day, Corin said to himself, he would walk through a wood without any otherworldly interruption. But not today apparently.

  “Who is that?” Tam
ersane croaked behind Corin.

  “I am called Feroda.” The old man’s voice was akin to the autumn rustle of leaf on dry soil. “And you are in my forest.”

  “Just passing through.” Corin’s eyes narrowed as his right hand found Clouter’s hilt.

  “You won’t need that.” The stranger pushed back his hood revealing a face that looked both ancient and handsome. There was a bluish tinge to his skin and Corin remembered the treacherous Nix in that other forest months ago. He stood his ground whilst behind him Thunder snorted and Tamersane slouched in saddle. Warily horse and men watched as the stranger wandered close, stopping a few yards in front of them.

  “I mean you no harm. Though you trespass, I can see it is not by design, but rather dark happenstance.”

  “Dark what?” Corin reluctantly let his fingers fall from Clouter’s hilt. “Who are you, old man? Are you a faen or something?”

  “Faen?” The old man made a strange sound that could have been a chuckle. “No, I’m not of the faery folk, though they dwell hereabouts. You would know me as an Aralais. One of the Golden race that lived here long ago.”

  “You don’t look like an Aralais.” Corin’s eyes narrowed again as he glimpsed a flash of annoyance in the old man’s eyes. Big blue eyes, he noticed now. And the hair showing strands of gold amongst the grey.

  All we need—another bloody Zallerak.

  “You are familiar with my people.” It wasn’t a question. The figure before them had folded his arms and his gaze had become cold. “How so?”

  “He’s younger than you, goes by an odd name—Zallerak.”

  The old man shrugged. “I know of no such individual.”

  “His real name is Arollas,” Tamersane managed from his saddle. “Arollas the Golden.” On hearing that name the old man blanched and his eyes took on a hostile glare.

  “You must leave! You, trespassers, are not welcome here. Go swiftly before I summon the others!”

  Despite their predicament Corin was intrigued. “I said we knew this Zallerak, I didn’t say he was a friend of ours. Truth be told he’s one of the most arrogant twats I’ve ever come across.’

  “He is my enemy.” Feroda pointed at Corin. “Therefore you, mortal, are my enemy also.”

  Corin shrugged. “I don’t give a toss really, we’re not planning on staying for tea. But do tell me why you hate this Zallerak, I mean, Arollas.”

  “He betrayed our people, gave our treasures and lands away to you mortal weaklings. We had defeated the old foe, and though exhausted were triumphant. But Arollas chose to throw our victory away. Go now, for my anger burns within me!”

  “Wait.” Corin took a step forward and the old man backed off a pace. This Corin took as an encouraging sign. It appeared they’d happened on some grumpy retired warlock that had a grudge against Zallerak. Entirely understandable—but why take it out on them? Obviously the old boy didn’t get out much.

  “Listen to me. I don’t like this Arollas any more than you do, and he’s up to some mischief. He used us in the desert to help him re-forge the shattered crown. He said he was doing it for us, but I know he plays a different game.”

  “The Tekara is whole again?” The old man’s face softened a touch. “You were there, in the vaults with Croagon?”

  “I was. I witnessed the whole bloody thing. Croagon re-forged the crown, and Zallerak, with the Smith’s help, blasted Morak back into the void.”

  The old man smiled at that last statement. “Arollas has worked on you, that I see now. Morak and his kin—they are not wholly to blame, despite their loathsome qualities. Arollas doubtless exposed them as villains and himself as valiant saviour.”

  “Something like that.” Corin nodded and scratched an ear. “Well… it’s been nice chatting and we’d love to stay. But my comrade here is wounded and we need to go find help. You don’t appear over hospitable.”

  Feroda glanced up at Tamersane who was now looking quite ill. “I give him three days.” Feroda saw the glint in Corin’s eye and backed off again. “There is destiny about you,” Feroda said to Corin. “Darkness stalks you, I can see that. Though I believe you to be innocent of its design.

  “I will do nothing for your friend. Why should I? Whether he lives or dies depends on chance. But I will aid you in leaving my country, for I want not your stain to linger here. And I don’t care for strangers wandering lost in my forest.”

  “Which way?” Corin’s eyes were steel. He had little liking for this creature before them.

  “Continue on this path. It leads north, now that I have tweaked it. The way is very long, but I will shorten it as only I can. By nightfall you will reach a wall of rock, pierced by a tunnel. Enter within and depart this hidden land.”

  “I don’t like tunnels.” Corin glanced back at Tamersane who appeared to have nodded off. But what choice did they have? His friend needed help and that wasn’t on offer here. Feroda said nothing, so Corin pressed further. “What’s beyond the tunnel?”

  “Rorshai, a land frequented by clans of horsemen.”

  “Are they friendly, or is that a stupid question?”

  Feroda snorted. “No one is friendly east of the mountains. You are in the wilds now, boy. Arallos cannot help you here. Oh, and beware of Darkvale, I can smell her musky scent upon you.”

  Corin blinked as a sudden shaft of sunlight stabbed his eyes momentarily blinding him. “What?” Corin shielded his eyes and blinked again. Feroda the Aralais had vanished. All about the wood lay quiet and pensive.

  Corin said not a word, this sort of thing being the norm for him these days. He turned, saw Tamersane was asleep, nudged Thunder’s bridle, and the big horse clumped behind him.

  Feroda had spoken truly. Just before sunset, the path led through a deep grove culminating in a craggy wall of limestone. On closer inspection, a crack allowed a way in. Corin muttered to Thunderhoof and the horse stood silent as his master ventured inside the crack and took stock of the darkness within.

  Sconce light revealed smooth walls and a passage that ran arrow straight into dingy distance. Corin was reminded of the labyrinth under the Crystal Mountains. This place had a similar feel to it. Not an encouraging thought. And who had lit those torches lining the walls? Best not dwell on that.

  Corin emerged back into the waning light. Thunder cropped grass as Tamersane watched miserably from his back. “I dreamt we had a visitation in the woods and some creepy old fella put a spell on me.”

  “No dream.” Corin reached across and inspected Tamersane’s arm. It was puckered and black. This boy did not look well. Corin cursed Feroda, convinced the ancient shit could have healed Tamersane easily, had he a mind to. No point fretting about it now. They needed to move on, get through this suspicious-looking tunnel, and hope not to get skewered by Rorshai on the other side. It was not a big ask really.

  “How are you feeling?” Corin looped Thunder’s reins around his wrist.

  “Terrific.” Tamersane winked at him.

  “Well, just sit tight, we’ll get through this tunnel and go find help. Maybe a pretty lass that will work on your arm,” Corin smiled back at his friend. Some chance. But at least his glib words had caused Tamersane cheer. His friend was smiling now.

  “Lead on, lead on,” the Kelwynian said.

  And so Corin led his horse and its rider into the smooth passage ahead. He closed his mind to the weight and darkness and focused on moving forward. Tamersane muttered something about how considerate folk were in these parts by lighting their way. Corin didn’t respond. Every nerve in his body warned him that at any moment something ghastly would leap out at them. Or else that that creep Feroda had contrived their death in this eerie passage.

  But nothing happened. After two hours’ walking, Corin stopped and checked on his friend. Tamersane slumped asleep in his saddle. Corin shrugged and turned to survey the darkness behind them. He frowned, glimpsing shapes moving in the distance.

  What’s this?

  Corin rubbed his eyes but the sh
apes remained, merging into silhouettes of figures as they closed the distance from behind. Tall and manlike, in a weird, twisted kind of way. The nearest and tallest appeared to have horns sprouting from his head. Corin heard whispers and strange urgent sounds.

  He didn’t hesitate, but swung his lean shanks across Thunder’s back to sit astride behind his friend. Thunder took the hint and seconds later the big horse’s hoofs clattered on the smooth stone as he gathered pace through the tunnel.

  Corin, glancing back, saw the shadows fade into the murk. He could still hear them calling out with alien voices. Were they calling him or speaking amongst each other? It didn’t matter, twenty minutes later the tunnel opened into a wide-open plain watched on by a large silver moon. Stars studded the firmament above, whilst to either side shadowy slopes revealed great heights of what must surely be The High Wall.

  All of this was wasted on Corin. Instead he focused on the scar-faced horsemen urging their steeds towards where he and his horse and his sleeping co-passenger waited. Tamersane stirred and opened an eye.

  “What’s happening?” he asked Corin.

  “Nothing good,” the Longswordsman replied.

  ***

  The traveller watches from the lakeside. He sees the disturbance in the water, feels the angry cold fall upon Him. Reels at the sudden blast of gale lashing Him from every direction. But He is an island, constant and calm as the tumult rages about him. Hail strikes the slatey surface of the lake, ridging its water into ranks of wave. Like a liquid army they fall upon the traveller. Oroonin smiles: this brother always likes to make His presence known.

  The lake’s water churns, and its midst becomes a spiral and cones up as the wind fashions it into weird shapes and patterns. It takes on the form of a man, huge and strong, marching toward the traveller from the centre of the lake.

  Oroonin watches nonplussed as Borian of the Winds strides towards Him, his wayward brother back from His tours of the cosmos. Bored with His game, Borian allows the water to return to the lake. He looms wild and golden-eyed above His elder brother. He is near naked save only a tricoloured kilt, His long hair spiked in four corners. The wind god had returned to Ansu at last.