The Glass Throne (Legends of Ansu Book 4)

by JW Webb

  “I didn’t see any.” Zukei still stared at Shallan. “Nothing alive there. It’s a dead city.” Shallan didn’t respond.

  “Well let’s get on with it.” Barin waved Zukei forward whilst smiling valiantly at Shallan. “Lead on, Fierce Eyes!” Zukei flashed him a grin; she liked this new name granted her by the Valkador sailors.

  Vangaris reached out to them through the gloom as the party of six stole silent and moody toward the hidden gates. When these came into view Shallan held her breath and stopped for a moment. Barin glanced her way with eyebrow raised.

  “I just need a minute,” she told him. To their right the slow churn and thud of dark water hinted at shadows beyond. Ships, their shapes shifting in and out of vision. They were close by the harbour and still nothing stirred.

  With a toss of her head, Shallan passed beneath the creaky gateway, the two iron gates hanging wide ajar. The others followed, Zukei scanning their rear like wolf stalking shepherd.

  And so they entered Vangaris, six silent figures, faces grim and mouths dry. Barin loomed tall beside Shallan, his kind blue gaze watching her as much as the silent dark surrounding them.

  A clatter of metal on stone saw them reaching for their blades before stopping when a rangy hound lurched into view, growled at them and then skulked back into the night. They walked on and slowly the horror of this dead city began to unfold.

  There were bodies lying everywhere: maimed, broken, limbless, some partially burned and charred. They was no order to the carnage Shallan witnessed during that slow silent climb toward castle and keep, above and beyond—her former home, and the seat held by the Dukes of Morwella since the ancient times of Jerrel of Galanais, their patron.

  Shallan was grateful for the murk and heavy atmosphere of winter night, for were she to witness such horror under a bright sun she knew she would crack. As it was she said nothing as her stride briskly carried her up toward her former home.

  But she saw more than enough to set a fire of rage within her belly. A woman half naked, her legs thrust wide apart and her mouth open with teeth bared in silent scream.

  The body of a man clutching a knife, his head nowhere in sight. A family—their bodies scattered and torn like rag dolls in a gale. It were though a rabid murderous beast had fallen upon Vangaris, slaying all within its path. The rage growing within her, Shallan picked up her pace until even Barin puffed at her side. Behind her friend, the grim shapes of Taic and Sveyn shuffled and muttered, whilst Cogga scowled and glared to their rear. Behind him the feral-eyed Zukei loped like a hungry she-panther ready to pounce at any moment.

  Shallan reached the barbican that allowed passage to the castle inside. The portcullis was wedged up by trunks of ash and the drawbridge covered with the bodies of slain guards. As she crossed, Shallan glanced down at the smoky waters of the moat and wasn’t surprised to see the dark shapes of bodies floating face down in the filthy water.

  She pressed on, her strong legs pumping as her stride crossed the green sward leading to the keep. Again the gates were open, and the hollow dark of that grim building’s interior hinted at what lay within.

  Shallan stepped forward but Zukei blocked her path. “I’ll go first,” the dark woman told her. “There might be surprises within.” Shallan nodded and followed Zukei inside the keep of Vangaris castle, the four men closing the gap behind. Now Barin took the rear, his bulk blocking the half-light of the dead city beyond.

  They passed a hall to the left where more corpses sprawled like drunken sleepers at a feast. Zukei claimed the stairwell and sprinted up into the black; the young woman had her strange sword—the Karyia fashioned in mystic Shen—in her left hand, thrust up and out like a needle in front, whilst the Ptarnian throwing axe was balanced between the bony fingers of her right hand.

  Up they wound, passing Shallan’s room. Briefly she glanced inside, saw the glass broken and curtains wet and flapping in the night breeze. For an instant Shallan saw the duke, her father, standing there and staring hard at her, his dead eyes cold and distant. She walked on, closing that side of her mind, there being no room for weakness today.

  But it was when they reached the library that Shallan’s iron will nearly shattered. This had been her solace as a child. Alone and ignored, girl Shallan had spent hours in this room, reading parchments and daydreaming. Even now she could picture her mother seated in a corner, smiling with those kind sad eyes as her silent daughter stared at the words beneath the crackle of torchlight. There had been so many scrolls, and even some books (rare indeed) piled high on shelves flanking the walls.

  Now there was nothing but damp ash and ruin. It became obvious as Shallan’s eyes adjusted that the works had been piled into a heap and then set ablaze. As she stared at that ashen lump, Shallan felt the silent rage tearing her apart. She needed to kill and hurt and maim. She needed revenge.

  A noise to her left. Zukei pounced and something sobbed in reply. “Steady girl,” Barin waved Zukei back as he gazed down on the wretched shape huddled at the edge of the ash heap. “Can you speak?” Barin loomed over the shape. It moved, grew legs and arms and now resembled what must have once been a man, though the burns and scars on his body and face left little flesh untouched.

  Shallan, looking down, recognised Gerrenus, her father’s chief librarian and scribe. At that point her knees gave way and she sank in a heap to sit alongside the ruin of a man she had once loved.

  “Gerrenus.” The ruined face turned her way, the scars and torn tissue cracking as the former librarian tried to speak.

  “Vile ghost…leave me, let me die without these dreams! Now you appear before me as the girl I once knew, Shallan, my lord’s blessed child—though I know her to be dead.”

  Shallan brushed her lean fingers against Gerrenus’s face and he shuddered as one kissed by a spider in a well. “Gerrenus, I live yet. I am no spirit, but flesh and blood! And I would know who did this vile thing to you, to our library, and to my people.”

  Gerrenus coughed and they waited, the men terse and tense and Zukei wide-eyed and pensive watching the door.

  “They came in their ships, tore into the city like starving men falling on fresh cooked meat.” Gerrenus coughed again. “I…”

  “Take your time, old fella.” Barin’s eyes were kind, though Gerrenus gasped when he saw the yellow-haired giant looming over him.

  “Barbarian, you’ve returned.” Barin’s expression hardened.

  “This is Barin of Valkador.” Shallan’s fingers stroked the wisp of hair still clinging to her old friend’s scalp. “He is my friend and a sworn foe to the perpetrators of this villainy. Gerrenus, my dear, you need not fear any more, but please continue your bitter tale.”

  At Barin’s nod, Taic kneeled and pressed his flask into the old man’s shaking hands.

  “It ain’t water.” Taic grinned his gap-tooth smile. “I’m Barin’s nephew,” he added, seeing the terror written on the old man’s face. “All mates here,” Taic grinned.

  Gerrenus nodded slowly and allowed the younger warrior hold the flask to his lips. He took a swallow, coughed again, and then took another. A ghost of a smile left his lips, “That’s good,” he said, and even Zukei was filled with admiration for the brave spirit pervading the battered wreck of this tortured man. “Very good.”

  “Finish it,” Taic told him. “I need to give me liver a rest. It’s yours, old man.” Taic thrust the flask harder into Gerrenus’s crusted palms then stood and went to watch the door near Zukei. “Too quiet here for my liking.” Taic grinned at the woman, but Zukei ignored him.

  “We were warned but didn’t listen,” Gerrenus croaked. “The duke got away, they say, his sons still at large in the woods outside Car Carranis…they do say. So the dead tell me.”

  Gerrenus coughed then took a long pull at the flask. He sighed. “Mercifully many escaped the initial horror and fled into the wilderness, though even then it was rumoured to be crawling with wolfheads and barbarian filth. Hopefully a few made it to the castle in the sou
th.”

  “We are bound for Car Carranis,” Shallan said. “We will gather and aid any folk we find. I will avenge this abomination, Gerrenus. This I pledge to you.”

  “Dear child, you are but a headstrong girl banging your head against the tumult.”

  “I’m not without skills, and my friends here are the greatest of warriors. I’m no wallflower, Gerrenus.” Shallan smiled and stroked the wreck of his face.

  “You never were, child.” Gerrenus coughed again. A rough nasty sound announcing he didn’t have long. “Just misunderstood, which… considering your father…”

  “My father is The Horned Man. He is faen.” Shallan’s eyes narrowed as the battered scribe nodded slowly.

  “I have always known, it was your sweet mother told me before the sickness took her. She swore me to silence. But, yes, I knew you to be the daughter of Cornelius Zawn, a leader among the faen people. A powerful being sometimes known as The Horned Man. He dwelt for a time in the woods close by.”

  “We better go,” Zukei hissed from the door. “There are men coming this way bearing torches.”

  “How many?” Barin bulked through the door and scanned the castle below.

  “A dozen, it’s hard to tell. But they are making for the keep.”

  “Corgan.”

  Who?” They all turned to where Gerrenus now lay choking. “He said he would come back once he had spoken to his master.”

  “His master?”

  “Daan Redhand.”

  Barin leaped across the room to glare down at the ruined old man. “Redhand is here?” Gerrenus choked and coughed again but he still gripped the flask in his trembling hands. Slowly he raised the pewter container to his lips. He drained the contents and smiled, “Good—so good! Now the ghosts can carry me away.”

  “Gerrenus?” Shallan gripped the old man’s arm and shuddered as a chunk of skin crumbled like ash paper under her touch. Gerrenus didn’t notice. He was already dead.

  “Twelve, you reckon?” Cogga motioned Taic and Sveyn to silence whilst Zukei slid behind the door. They listened. Within seconds the sound of heavy shod feet and laughing filled the darkness of the passage below.

  There were actually fourteen. Not that that mattered; the first thirteen died inside a minute, Zukei’s Karyia puncturing holes in throats, as Sveyn and Taic’s axes clove heads from shoulders, whilst Cogga’s hurled knives did for the three that tried to leg it back downstairs. Barin didn’t bother to unhook his axe; he knew his crew needed to vent some steam. Number fourteen was unlucky however. The leader Corgan: Shallan wanted him alive.

  Chapter 6

  The Tcunkai

  Tamersane winced as winter sunlight speared his eyes, but after a grunt he managed to raise his good hand to shield the glare. He blinked and gulped and quickly regretted his decision. They were surrounded by a knot of very serious looking foreigners on shaggy horses.

  Smallish in build and dark-skinned, they sat their steeds as though born in the saddle. Rorshai Riders. Not the best news really. Across the mountains in Kelwyn this lot were feared, mainly as horse thieves, but rumoured also as cutthroats and evil-tempered raiders. They’d never been near Wynais as far as he knew, but there were stories of trouble in the villages closest to the mountains. But it wasn’t those rumours that concerned Tamersane. It was the expression on these riders’ faces.

  They wore scars like badges, chevrons on cheek and forehead, deep furrows dyed yellow, red, and blue. Their eyes were pale blue, which was strange considering the darkness of their skin. They wore large golden hoops in their ears, their sleek black hair tied back in long pigtails or braids swinging below. And their sinewy forearms were adorned with spirals of silver, bronze, and gold. All in all they looked an unpleasant lot.

  Most were garbed in dark leather, though some wore chain mail and the odd one sported a helmet. All wore woollen cloaks dyed honey yellow, and each rider had an array of weaponry, comprising curved sword, a nasty looking whip with lead weights attached to the end, several babe-hilted throwing knives strapped on their broad leather belts, whilst across their backs were slung the infamous Rorshai horse bows. These boys were legendary archers. Tamersane closed his eyes as the pain shot up his arm again. He felt Thunder shuffle and heard Corin grunt back at him.

  “I’ll handle this,” the Longswordsman said.

  “Yes, please do,” Tamersane muttered in reply as he tried to keep his ailing body on Thunder’s sweaty saddle.

  Corin watched as a rider urged his beast free of the group. Hawk-faced and whip-lean, this horseman’s keen blue gaze probed Corin and Tamersane as he guided his horse in slow circles around them. Corin folded his arms and waited for this inspection to reach some kind of conclusion. At the moment it didn’t look promising.

  “You are Corin an Fol.” A statement not a question—it came as a surprise on this already eventful day.

  “Of course I am,” Corin replied and the other man smiled at his answer. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You may know us as the Rorshai.” The rider leaned forward from his saddle and pinned Corin with his questioning eyes. “This is our country and you and your friend, Longsword, are trespassing.”

  Corin’s arms remained folded. “Well, if it’s any consolation, we never planned this visit. We just sort of ended up here. And…it’s been a trying sort of day, thus far. My friend has a dodgy arm that needs attention and I already grow bored with this conversation. So... Please advise: are you going to skewer us with arrows or let us pass? At the moment I don’t really give a toss which.”

  Some of the riders scowled when they heard this, and a broad-set older man urged his beast forward to glare down at this impertinent foreigner with the huge sword slung across his back.

  “I ought to cut your throat to teach you manners, stranger. You are addressing the eldest son of the Kaan!”

  Corin shrugged. “I hope you’re quick with that knife.” A dagger now showed in the older rider’s fist. “You’ll need to be. But I meant no offence—just been a long day, and I’m a tad irritable, if you get my meaning.”

  The older horseman glanced askance at his leader beside him who was now smiling. He frowned but stowed the dagger back in his belt. “Are you sure this is the right idiot, Kaanson?” The leader nodded and slid like quicksilver from his horse, waving the older man’s protestations off as his boots settled even on the rocky ground.

  “Excuse Rogan,” the leader said as he approached Corin with outthrust hand. “He’s old and crotchety. I am Olen Kaanson. We,” he spread his arms wide, bidding his horsemen relax, “are the Tcunkai. The Yellow Clan.” A soft thud announced Tamersane impacting the turf as he slumped free from Thunderhoof’s saddle.

  “Tamersane!” Corin leaped across to where his friend lay unconscious. “Can you help him?” This last to Olen who stood behind Corin as the taller man knelt and checked Tamersane’s pulse.

  “I stabbed him with Clouter,” Corin mumbled. “I thought he was a Groil. Now I fear he’s done for.”

  “He doesn’t look dead.” Rogan squinted from his saddle.

  “Not dead, just buggered. Are any of your boys physicians?” Corin smacked Tamersane’s face and his friend’s eyes blinked and opened.

  “I don’t feel too good,” the Kelwynian told him.

  “We’re going to get you sorted. This is Olen, he’s our new best friend.”

  “Hello.” Tamersane blinked at the short, hard-looking man with the weird blue eyes standing next to Corin and gazing down at him like a man prizing a cow at market. “I like the scars,” Tamersane told him, then passed out again.

  Olen turned and awarded Rogan a look. “Teret?”

  “She has the skill.”

  “Who?” Corin was looking at Rogan now. He had that sinking feeling.

  “My sister,” Olen told him as Rogan dismounted and crossed to where Tamersane lay.

  “He’ll not last,” Rogan said as he examined Tamersane’s swollen hand. “You did this thinking he was a Groil?�
�

  “Yes. You know of the Groil?”

  “Only from children’s stories.” Olen was staring hard at Corin. “Our old folk told stories of ghouls that ate human flesh. Groil they called them. So they actually exist?”

  “They do.”

  “What happened?” Olen’s shrewd gaze pinned Corin.

  “Shit happened.” Corin looked mournful. “Where is this sister of yours?”

  “Back home in our camp, two days ride north of here.”

  “Two days? He’ll not last that.” Corin’s heart sank; he would never forgive himself if Tamersane died. “Is there no one here that can help?”

  “I can clean the wound properly. Looks like you botched it before.” Rogan shouted to another rider who yelled someone else bring boiling water and clean cloth.

  Corin looked pained. “I did what I could, didn’t have a lot of resources.”

  Tamersane yelped back into consciousness as Rogan carefully scrubbed the ooze and filth from his arm. “Here lad.” Rogan had retrieved a gourd from his saddle and held its nozzle to Tamersane’s mouth. “Drink this, it isn’t water.”

  Tamersane took a gulp and then coughed and spat it out. “That’s fucking disgusting!”

  Rogan winked at him. “It is an acquired taste I’ll grant you, but be a big lad and drink up. Twill give you strength.” Tamersane did as he was told amid gurgles, scarcely managing to keep the disgusting fermented creamy stuff down, whilst Corin loomed over his friend looking pensive.

  “What is that…stuff?”

  “Fermented yak milk, most efficacious.” Rogan capped the gourd and looped its cord around his belt. “Your boy should survive a few hours now. It’s hard to die with that taste in your mouth. That’s if the Anchai don’t fill him with arrows.”