The Glass Throne (Legends of Ansu Book 4)

by JW Webb

  “What kept you?” Oroonin glances about at the arid terrain surrounding this place. There were no trees here, though none could have survived Borian’s latest blow. He had felt it coming for hours, blasting west from distant Shen, wreaking havoc through the wet fields of Rundali, shredding the stilted homes of the river folk of Tseola, ripping through the forests of Laregosa, and finally arriving here in Ptarni, beneath the Urgo Mountains.

  “I said, what kept you?” Oroonin stood perched like a wary crow on a slab of rock washed by the lake’s blue-grey tongue. He stared up at His brother, His one eye unfazed by that angry golden gaze.

  “I WAS IN A DIFFERENT DIMENSION, MILLENNIA AWAY. I WAS HAVING A GOOD TIME, UNTIL I GOT YOUR SUMMONS, OLDER BROTHER. THIS HAD BETTER BE IMPORTANT LEST I STOMP ON YOU!”

  “You are not in my league, Borian. You never were. You and Telcanna were ever-petulant siblings. You haven’t changed; You’re still blowing bollocks and bullshit about with Your noisiness. I haven’t missed You a jot, and wouldn’t ask for Your attendance without good reason. But We have a situation evolving here in Ansu. A certain issue that prompted me to call this crisis meeting.”

  “WHERE TO?” Borian glares down at His brother.

  “Telcanna’s blue castle. You know the one, it’s just outside Deranii, the seventh world.”

  “I HATE THAT FUCKING PLACE. TELCANNA IS SUCH A SHOW-OFF.” Oroonin raises a brow at that and watches as His violent brother starts stomping about and kicking up more gusts above the water. “SO WHAT HAS HAPPENED, CONNIVER? WHAT’S THE POINT OF THIS CRISIS MEETING? WHY SHOULD I ATTEND AND NOT RETURN TO MY DISTRACTIONS?”

  “Oh, stop that,” Oroonin mumbles a rune-chord and Borian’s spiteful breeze slumps into a limp flutter. “You brother, are on the committee. Things have to be done right in this corner of the universe. It’s not chaos here yet, you know.”

  Borian stamps a foot, causing a small earthquake in some distant corner of the world. His lips part, but Oroonin raises a finger and wags it at His brother.

  “We are holding council in three moons. You will attend, as will my wife, Her latest lover, Croagon—He’s free by the way. Simiolanis, Argowui, and the others. There’s been a development. He’s back.”

  Chapter 4

  The Rebel Queen

  Tarello ducked as the sword swept over his head and stuck in a beam, joining the other blade already embedded there. The queen glared at him, dark eyes flashing and hair wild and free. The innkeep had departed at the first sign of her rage, as had the few locals and any soldiers present, the exceptions being the taciturn Jaan, who now led the surviving remnant of Captain Darosi’s Raleenian volunteers, and Squire Galed, the queen’s closest friend and longtime companion.

  Jaan winced as the queen lashed out with her foot, sending a chair spinning into the fireplace. The new Raleenian captain exchanged glances with Tarello, who shrugged and patiently waited as Ariane vented her fury. Her captains knew this rage had to pass before they could make any suggestions.

  At last, after twenty minutes of spitting, cursing, kicking, and sword-swiping, knife-hurling, and general riotous behaviour, Ariane, Queen of Kelwyn, slumped exhausted into the leather chair the innkeep (Maryl) had fussed to get her, him not being used to royalty in his midst, let alone foul-mouthed, furious royalty.

  Tarello waited for a moment then pulled a chair alongside the fireplace, close (but not too close) to his queen. At his nod, Captain Jaan followed suit and motioned Maryl (who had deemed it now safe to reappear) to get them some ale and tea for herself. Together the two captains waited as their leader sat staring into the fire. It was another twenty minutes before she spoke.

  “They have desecrated my city! Whilst I wasted time in Calprissa, those bastards slipped inside Wynais and took control. My instinct told me something was wrong. I thought I was being shrewd but instead have played right into Caswallon’s hands.”

  “Queen, how could you know?”

  Ariane raised a hand to stop him and Tarello pursed his lips. She was taking this very badly, blaming her judgement for the fall of her capital and home of the Goddess’s shrine. The Silver City had fallen to treachery and deceit, and in Ariane’s opinion it was all her fault. An opinion neither Tarello nor Jaan subscribed to.

  “I sensed there was something wrong in Wynais before we left,” she said after a quiet moment. “But my primary concern was Calprissa, and now look what saving that city has cost us. My people inside those walls. . . . Goddess alone knows what that villain Perani has done.”

  “I doubt he’s done anything yet, Ariane.” A quiet voice reached her from the corner of the room, where smoke half occluded the small figure seated with a book between his hands. Like the captains, Galed had deemed it prudent to wait out Ariane’s tempest. But now he spoke up with quiet confidence. Galed had changed since Calprissa; the death and slaughter he’d seen there had hardened him, and though not a fighter, he was no longer content to let others push events.

  “I mean, Perani is no Derino. He’s clever and not one to overreact. He’ll await word from his master before committing any atrocities within Wynais.”

  “And what if he’s received that word already? You all know how much Caswallon loathes me.”

  “Which is precisely why he’ll bid Perani keep the city intact and stand easy with its people. He wants to give you false hope, queen. Lure you into attempting to recapture Wynais.”

  “Galed’s right.” Tarello leaned closer to the fire, his blue gaze intent on the flames. “Caswallon knows you’re a hot-head.”

  “Have a care, captain.” Ariane’s eyes burned into Tarello’s, but her captain held her gaze. After a moment she sighed and bade him continue. “You are right, patience is not my strong point, but I rage inside, Tarello.”

  “We all do, my Queen. But we have to get our heads around this. Attacking Wynais will achieve nothing. Caswallon and Perani are inviting you to do exactly that. Once our force enters the wide fields around Lake Wynais, it will be vulnerable to ambush.”

  “Aye,” Jaan cut in, his dark eyes hungry and violent. “Perani will have kept most his army outside Wynais. I suspect there’s just enough of his scum inside those walls to intimidate and bully. The rest will be lurking in the hills and countryside around, waiting for word of our arrival.”

  “Jaan’s right,” pressed Galed. “Caswallon’s winning so far; he has only to wait until you enter this new trap he’s devised.”

  “All right, gentlemen, I take your point. But what other choice have we?” Ariane nodded thanks as red-faced Maryl mumbled and delivered a piping pot of tea with best china, freshly polished and dusted and placed on a chipped silver tray. He lingered edgy until Tarello waved him off with a gruff, “Leave us, good fellow.”

  “I am not prepared to sit by and let my principal seat of power crumble beneath our enemies’ feet!” Ariane stamped her own feet. “Direct action is our only option, but I concur we need to be artful about how we proceed.”

  “Before we do anything we need to know the facts.” Tarello gripped his ale mug and took a swallow. “What do we actually know? We’ve only heard rumours the city has fallen. But what of the defenders’ fate? Were they hoodwinked by the traitor into aiding his treachery, or simply butchered behind the walls? And what of Belmarius’s Rangers? Are they gone too? We need answers, my Queen. Clarifications and certainties before we take one step toward Wynais.”

  “What do you propose, Tarello?” Despite their situation, Galed managed a smile from his shadowy station in the corner. Captain Tarello was proving a staunch asset. He’d never noticed the man before Calprissa, he was just another soldier in Yail Tolranna’s shadow. But Tarello was proving himself not only competent in battle but a shrewd commander too. Galed felt at ease in his company, it was nice to have peace of mind in one quiet corner of your brain. Besides, the queen liked him.

  Tarello slouched in his chair, the heat of the fire making his eyes water, and he sweated beneath the heavy winter cloak he still wore. �
�We play cat and mouse, counter their cunning, and dare Caswallon at his own game.”

  Galed and Jaan smiled as the queen nodded slowly. “Go on,” she said, wincing as the tea found that exposed nerve in her tooth again.

  Tarello leaned forward, his face flushed with eagerness. “We steer close, engage on our terms, and then run when they give chase. We know the terrain, they don’t. We can swoop in and strike, then withdraw before they have their breeches up.”

  “First we need to learn where they are.” Galed placed the book on a table and rubbed his hands free of dust.

  “Scouts.” Tarello took a long pull at his ale. “I have some keen-eyed lads that would love the chance to sneak up on that scum.”

  “Dangerous work,” said Jaan, “but as you say, your boys know the terrain around that city.”

  “Perani is no fool.” Ariane’s tongue wedged the gap in her cracked tooth. “He’ll have all his camps guarded and secure. He’ll also have his own scouts out searching for us.”

  “Which will make it interesting,” grinned Tarello. Ariane’s face softened as she watched the captain gaze defiantly into the fire. There was wildness inside Tarello that reminded her of Corin an Fol. Her mind drifted for a brief moment until she slapped a palm on table.

  No time for that nonsense.

  With her other hand, Ariane placed her teacup on the adjacent table and then arched her fingers in front of her mouth. The men waited as their queen gave thought to their suggestions.

  At last Ariane nodded and clapped her hands, announcing a decision made. “We are three days from Wynais and Calprissa is far behind us. How soon before these volunteer scouts can be activated, Captain Tarello?”

  “I’ll get to it right away,” responded Tarello. “I’ll have a dozen riding west ere first light.”

  “Good. We’ll await their word before we make our next move. Once we know where the enemy camps are we can commence our guerrilla campaign. From then on we will rely on speed and reliable info. We’ll enlist all we can from villages about and send those who cannot fight east to help the war effort in Calprissa. I will leave a guard in that city, for it will serve as our headquarters during this war. For war this is, gentlemen—full on.” Ariane stood and dusted down her leather shirt and trousers. She looked happier now her mind was set on a plan.

  “I’m to my bed, we’ve much to do on the morrow. I suggest you turn in early too.” Ariane bid the three men goodnight and then made to vacate the taproom. As an afterthought she turned and smiled at them.

  “Thank you my friends, for your wisdom and support. I am lucky to have you. And you, master Maryl.” Ariane flashed a grin at the innkeep who beamed in return. His queen had paid him a compliment. Maryl was the first to enlist in the morning - as a cook, though, not a scout.

  Tarello and Jaan watched as the queen departed the room. “She’s the best,” Tarello said and Jaan smiled at the evident adoration his fellow captain had for his queen. As for Jaan, he was a Raleenian but now saw himself as a Kelwynian too. Queen Ariane had a way of getting to men’s hearts.

  Galed, who alone of the three knew the queen well, was comforted too. It was only two days since they’d received word of Wynais’s fall. Two horrible days, what with Ariane leading her battered force helter-skelter toward Wynais, and everyone bar her knowing they were rushing to their deaths.

  But she’d worn out her rage and had listened to her captains at last. Despite the terrible odds, Galed was warmed by an unusual glow of optimism. “I’m getting soft in the head,” he muttered, making sure the other two couldn’t hear.

  ***

  Valentin stood atop the hill gazing down on the smoking corpses of Groil. Over thirty lay dead—another good day for the Rangers. A week had passed since the messenger had brought word of Wynais’s fall.

  Valentin hadn’t wasted time; he’d sent word west to Calprissa, though he knew not whether that city still stood. And he’d ordered his Rangers lie low and scout the terrain, trying to glean just how many enemies were out there. Was it another raiding force that had got lucky creeping into Wynais? Or was this a full-on invasion? Valentin suspected the latter to be true.

  The chief Ranger held a dim view of Kelwynians. These southerners were not known for warriors as were the stout fighters of Kelthaine, where his regiment the Bears hailed from, not that he’d been up there for years.

  Kelwynians were soft and their young queen naïve and rash. Oh, she was brave, sure. But no match for Caswallon and Perani. Valentin had not been happy when Belmarius ordered his Rangers escort the young queen back to Wynais. He would have preferred to ride alongside his commander as he always had in the past. But Valentin was a loyal soldier and a stout fighter, a veteran of the Permian troubles.

  So they were caught betwixt Perani, Groil, and Caswallon’s rumoured hunger for the queen’s young person. Small wonder Wynais had fallen: Caswallon was a master at placing spies in the right place and then letting them work on would-be turncoats. Kelwynians, in Valentin’s opinion, were easy cloth to warp and stretch.

  That was part of the reason why he’d kept his boys out of the city. And thank the gods he had! Valentin had argued with their captain Tolranna about how best to defend the city. That prick didn’t have a clue, so Valentin had left him to it.

  Since then the Rangers had scoured hill, slope, and forest, picking off Groil and the occasional ex-Tiger caught with his pants down. This last batch of Groil had been roaming at will through deserted fields looking for victims to kill and eat. But all local inhabitants had wisely fled after news of Wynais. Valentin’s lads had caught up with the Groil and butchered them at will, the third party in as many days. Doubtless tomorrow would bring more.

  A warning curse to his left.

  Valentin turned and watched as a rider appeared through the woods, a half mile below where he and his chief scouts stood. As one they dropped to lie belly-flat on the wet cold turf. Valentin watched the rider thread his horse along the banks of a nearby stream. As he approached the foot of the hill from where the Rangers watched, the rider urged his horse pick up its pace and made east toward Lake Wynais, hidden behind a fold of hills three miles distant.

  Valentin heard a soft sound. Arac had nocked arrow shaft to bow and waited on his word. Arac was the finest archer in the regiment. He could take the rider easily from here, despite the gusty breeze and drizzle.

  Arac glanced at Valentin who shook his head. “Let’s see where this one is heading,” Valentin told the archer. “He doesn’t look like one of Perani’s boys.”

  “He looks like a proper tosser.” Arac hawked and spat phlegm on the damp ground.

  “That he does.” Valentin grinned and watched the rider amble along the stream without a glance up in their direction. “If he’s a scout he’s a crap one. More like some country yokel on a jolly.”

  “Want me to follow him?” Arac grinned, revealing his three remaining teeth.

  “Yep, but be gentle. He might be a tosser but he might know something. Take Arne and Lusty Darrell.” Arac nodded and winked at two other men lying close by. They nodded too and vanished behind the hill slope to Valentin’s right.

  ***

  Doyle rode with his head down, watching for Groil tracks. He’d seen a few earlier and they’d scared the shit out of him. Four nights had passed since his crazy decision to volunteer for scouting duties. He’d been flushed with pride back at the camp when the queen herself had bestowed her royal blessing on him, and Captain Tarello had promised him promotion to corporal on his return.

  But now, here alone in the wild, with the weird howls and screeches during those awful nights, Doyle felt very alone. Particularly since his mates, the other scouts, had vanished in fog the day before. He hadn’t bargained on being alone.

  He was seventeen years old, from the streets of Calprissa, and had rashly enlisted with Ariane’s freedom force when she’d stormed out the city a week ago. Now he heartily regretted that earlier decision. Too late.

  Doyle kept
his head down as Tarello had advised. That ploy worked until both rider and horse crashed into the net. Doyle yelled out as a rough hand knocked him from the horse and other hands rolled him tighter in the ropes, until he was gasping and gaping and hanging by his wrists from deftly tied knots.

  A big ugly brute leaned over him, balding, a round scar (caused by a bottle in Doyle’s opinion) circled his right eye and he displayed three brown teeth. “He looks harmless,” someone said from behind where Doyle hung hooked and trussed like market day pork.

  “Are you a Groil?” Doyle’s tongue felt dry and he had a warm wet sensation seeping his thigh.

  “Fucking Groil?” The big man spat at Doyle. “He thinks I’m a fucking Groil!” Doyle heard soft laughter and wondered why what he said was the source of amusement. He hoped they wouldn’t cook him; he’d heard such horrible things about Caswallon’s doggy soldiers. But whether they were Groil or not didn’t seem to matter as they all shared the same nasty habits.

  A tall rough-looking character with a longbow slung across his back appeared and slapped the big man hard across his back. “He has a point, Lusty. You’re ugly enough to be a Groil.”

  “Fuck off!” More chuckles followed.

  “What do you mean to do with me?” Doyle wished he could reach his sword but the weapon had been taken deftly as the brigands had lashed his body.

  “I suspect we’ll probably eat you,” said the big man—Lusty. At that point Doyle passed out.

  When he came to, Doyle heard the crackle of flame, which caused him great concern. He blinked an eye open. Night had fallen. He was in some sort of camp and three figures were cooking something in a pot over a rudimentary fire. At least they’d untied him from the rope net they’d caught him with. And the pot did not look large enough for him.

  “He’s awake,” someone said. Doyle groaned as recognised Lusty shuffling toward him out of the dark. “Just getting the vegetables ready,” Lusty grinned down at him. “How would you like an onion up your arse?”