The Glass Throne (Legends of Ansu Book 4)

by JW Webb

  “Starkhold thinks we just have to hang on. I disagree. We—or rather you, with my clandestine assistance—need to pull something off that will enrage Haal enough to attack our city head on while we are strong enough to fight back. A winter of this stalemate will break our resolve—despite what Starkhold says.”

  “So what do you propose?” Barin leaned forward, trying hard not to trust this fiery-eyed young captain.

  Ralian grinned. “I will see that you get through the front gates myself.”

  “What about Starkhold?” Shallan now worried that Ralian was putting his life in danger for her and her brothers. She was so weary of people offering their help without her being able to help them back. “You said he was a dangerous man.”

  “That he is, but he also needs his officers in one piece.” Ralian barked a wry laugh. “Let me worry about Lord Starkhold, my lady.” He turned to Barin. “When do you intend to do this thing, to raid the enemy camp?”

  Barin stared at Ralian for a long moment before answering. “Very well—I trust you. You seem like a good lad. Early tomorrow night. That will give us time to plan and prepare. Say, an hour after dusk.”

  “Who is participating?” Ralian motioned the innkeep over. “My friends are a special case, and this big fellow very thirsty. See he has as much ale as he needs tonight.”

  “But the Lord General?” The innkeep’s expression was bleak.

  “Do it!” The proprietor grumbled back to the taproom and minutes later arrived with fresh ale and some more food for all of them.

  Barin grinned. “I like you lad, you’ve got the right attitude.” Shallan still wasn’t sure if she trusted Ralian, but he seemed genuine, and what choice did they have?

  “So,” repeated Ralian. “Who are tomorrow’s heroes?”

  “I will go,” announced Barin. “Zukei will accompany me as will these two dopeheads,” he motioned Taic and Sveyn, who grinned and nodded as if he’d announced they were going on a fishing trip in summertime.

  “Cogga here will stay with the lady and serve as her bodyguard should we not return.” Cogga nodded, though he looked disappointed.

  “I am going too.” Shallan cut through their easy smiles like wire slicing cheese. “This is my affair.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Shallan.” Barin wiped froth from his beard. “You will stay here with Cogga and the captain to protect you. You are the Duchess of Morwella, for fuck’s sake.”

  “And they are my brothers out there, and if they yet live then I shall save them and bring them back!” Zukei raised a brow, Barin scowled like thunder, and Taic and Sveyn kept grinning. Cogga sighed whilst Ralian stared at Shallan with renewed respect.

  “Forgive me, my lady, but Lord Barin is right. You must stay here—the enemy camp is no place for a woman.” Before he could move Zukei’s dagger left her hand and pinned Ralian’s cuff to the table. “What the —” Ralian gaped as a second knife slammed into the tiny gap between his third and index finger.

  “What do you have against women?” Zukei glared at Ralian, who looked stunned by the knives and the speed they’d appeared.

  Barin grunted in his beer. “Enough nonsense, Zukei, the captain is our friend. Put those bloody daggers away and apologise to the captain for startling him.”

  Zukei complied in silence. After she stowed her knives, she steered close to Ralian and whispered in his ear. “Sorry—it’s a sore point.”

  Ralian nodded quickly. “I get that,” he said.

  “Listen up.” Eyes turned her way as Shallan stood and rested her hands on the table. The others excluding Ralian, now lost in thought, watched her in silence. “I am going. Tomorrow. Into the enemy camp. Once there I will find and rescue my three brothers and anyone else those cunts hold captive.” Ralian looked up, clearly shocked by the Morwellan lady’s choice of words.

  “I’ve seen what they do to prisoners.” Shallan held their gaze. “I am Duchess, but I’m also a warrior and a leader. It’s time I started acting like one!”

  “Pardon me lassie, but this is ridiculous!” Barin’s face was reddening by the minute. “It makes no bloody sense at all.”

  “It makes more sense than Barin of Valkador walking into the camp of his arch-enemy,” Shallan countered. “I know your temper, Barin. You might take out a hundred of them, but in the end they will bring you down, like hounds surrounding a bear.”

  “I will not allow that to happen. I have made up my mind, gentlemen. I will do this thing. Zukei will be with me, Taic and Sveyn too—and Cogga if he’s willing. But not you, Barin, you I will not sacrifice.”

  Barin looked like he was about to explode any minute. It was Cogga who spoke next. “I don’t approve of Lady Shallan’s attending the raid, but that’s not down to me. Nor is it down to you, Barin. The lady knows her own mind and she’s right about you entering that camp—very bad idea.”

  “I’m done with this farce.” Barin stood, knocked the table over, leaving the others to dive for the precious ale, and left the tavern. At a nod from Cogga, Taic followed him out the door, keeping a healthy distance.

  “Fuck!” Cogga had snagged Barin’s ale tankard and he drained it. “You know he’s pissed when he leaves good ale. Too good to waste,” he grinned at Shallan who was shaking at her own anger as much as Barin’s. “Well,” continued Cogga, “if we’re going to pull this off we had better start planning.”

  “What about Barin?” Ralian was watching the door half expecting Barin to return and smash the table with an axe. Part of him was glad this crew were leaving tomorrow night. Part of him wished he could go too.

  “He’ll come round,” Sveyn said. “But uncle’s right. If he sees Redhand or vice versa, big shit will happen. Best our leader stay out of that camp. Is there any more ale?”

  There was more ale and it was brought speedily. The innkeep had witnessed both Zukei’s nimble fingers and Barin’s fury, and he wasn’t about to protest again. They were served late into the night. At one point, Barin returned along with Taic and sat the far table in silence. Eventually, he joined them. An hour before dawn they had a plan, which could possibly work. Barin was the only one that didn’t like it, but he admitted the reason was because he wasn’t a party to it.

  “Are you all right?” Shallan asked her giant friend quietly, just before seeking her room.

  “Just promise me you’ll return safe, for if you don’t I will walk into that camp alone and kill everyone I can.”

  “I will return Barin, I promise. It’s not my destiny to die yet—despite what I said this afternoon. My instinct… something tells me I’ve yet work to do. Besides… Zukei will be there.”

  “I will keep her from their steel.” Zukei flashed Barin a grin.

  Barin nodded slowly. “I know when I’m defeated. You women go get some sleep, you’ll need it. And Shallan.” She turned her head one last time.

  “Corin will never forgive me if you get hurt in any way. He’s on his way here lest you’ve forgotten.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Shallan smiled. “I shall await him alongside you, my dear old friend.” She bade Barin and Zukei good night, and minutes later was fast asleep in her cot. Just before she closed her eyes, Shallan pictured Corin as she’d last seen him at the gardens in Vioyamis—so long ago it felt.

  You had better hurry, my love.

  Chapter 12

  The Delving

  To say his head hurt was an understatement. Olen was an evil man that had misled his new friend into drinking an entire jug of the fermented yak brew, resulting in his head being on fire and his vision a blur—which wasn’t ideal when trying to hoist oneself up a swaying rope in the freezing rain. At least he’d left Clouter, Biter, and his mail and clobber below. Not his idea—weapons in any form were banned from the Delve.

  Corin was dressed in borrowed hide. It made a change from his customary leathers and mail, which were currently getting scrubbed and oiled by one of the lackeys in the camp under Olen’s instructions. The hide trousers and shirt wer
e light and comfy, but failed utterly to rebuff the chilly wind and soak of drizzle. All in all a miserable morning.

  The knotted rope swung and danced around as Corin heaved up hand over hand. Olen laughed as he looked down seeing Corin struggle. “Nearly there!” He grinned and Corin scowled up at him. It was another full ten minutes before Corin crested the top and rolled on his back, gasping like a stranded whale on a desolate beach.

  “What is the matter?’ Olen loomed over him, whilst Arami stared at them from a distance. The Red clan had mostly stayed below in camp, but Arami and three others had decided to attend the Delve, mostly so they could berate Olen and his companion. Olen had brought two men, leaving the rest of his riders below. The Delve was serious business—most preferred to stay away.

  “My head is thumping,” Corin complained. He wished he was asleep with Thunderhoof down in those cosy stables. That horse got more breaks than his owner these days. “Why can’t you people drink ale or something sensible?”

  Olen yanked Corin to his feet. “Best not to lark around here, any sign of weakness will be set upon. Are you ready for the Delving, Corin an Fol?”

  “The Delving?” Corin steadied his stance and took three long breaths. Mind over matter, he told himself. He glanced down from the ledge. Far below, the camp was stirring. Corin could easily make out the horseshoe fence and the corrals and gates and many tents scattered about. Again he wished he were down there.

  “It’s what we call our sacred meetings at the Delve. There are normally four a year, but this is a special occasion. No more joking, my friend, this is a war council we attend, and you are a stranger, which means you could be friend or foe depending on their perception. Go carefully.”

  Corin nodded and yawned and then long-faced followed Olen towards the caverns yawning in the distance. Arami and the other men had already vanished inside.

  “I seem to be constantly dipping into caves these days,” he addressed Olen’s back but was rewarded no response. Corin thought of the road under the mountains from Feroda’s Forest and before that, the long journey beneath the Crystal Mountains in distant Permio. That seemed a while back now.

  The ledge was a huge flat shelf of rock defying nature as it thrust out like fungus on a dying tree from the mountain wall. To Corin’s left, the closest slopes of The High Wall were lost in fog, though he could just discern the sharp points of legions of pines marching off into shadow. Above and to the right the peaks comprising The Long Fend reared and faded into distance like a row of frozen giants with pointy hats staring hostile in the gloom. Ahead, the cavern threatened to swallow them whole.

  They entered within. At first Corin was impressed by the light. There were lanterns, sconces, and torches everywhere, and also wide pits where fires roared welcome warmth and banished the damp from within.

  The next thing that impressed him was the cavern size. The roof above was smooth and domed and the vista before him wide and spacious—a natural amphitheatre carved and scooped clean by nature’s mighty spoon. The acoustics were amazing. Corin could hear voices, and looking around realised it was Arami and his men whispering a good 20 paces away.

  “So how do the wise and the old get up here? Surely not by that rope?” Corin asked Olen as they ventured deeper inside the cavern. Corin had noticed people in robes emerging and taking seats in a series of benches set into the rock below—the spoon’s basin. The benches were set facing another ledge looming out of the back of the cavern. On closer inspection, it seemed suspended in air, hovering slightly—though Corin guessed the latter an illusion aided by his muddy vision this morning. Hover or not it was an eerie sight.

  “No indeed.” Olen walked with purpose and bid Corin stick close to his tail. “There are entrances leading down from the slopes of The Long Fend, but only the Council or seers can use them. Even I know not of their whereabouts. Warriors, servants, and any visitors must all access the Delve from the rope below.

  “See those benches?” Corin nodded. “We are making for the front row. Just take a seat there and keep you lips together. I will do the talking.”

  “No problem.” Corin wasn’t in the mood for discussions at the moment. He followed Olen of the Tcunkai to the front row of benches and took his seat, glancing around as more robed figures emerged from deep corners lost to view. Corin saw men and women settle the benches. Most were older, some in their middle years and some verging ancient.

  Then he saw the fighting men, the clans, with their tattoos, scars, and earrings marking their own particular clan. Last night Corin had asked Olen how many clans there were and the Tcunkai warrior had told him there were six. All wore colours: yellow, red, purple, brown, green, and blue; their names he struggled to recall.

  The yellow Tcunkai were thinkers. The red Anchai were called Blood People. The purple Oromai were far rangers—these dwelt at the eastern end of The Long Fend. The brown Fadaya were dreamers, known for their seers, most of those wise men having come from this clan. The green Cortai were the horse breeders. And finally, the blue Pargai were the deep ones. These alone of the Rorshai peoples dwelt in the mountains in caves ranging east along the gnarly feet of The Long Fend.

  The robed elders had coloured cords around their necks and waists displaying which clan they were from. Corin noticed many browns and blues, a few reds—these glaring evilly at him, and a couple of greens. But no yellows were evident save the two men sitting alongside Olen.

  The sharp-faced Arami was already in deep excited discussion with two of the red elders. Both of these were looking at Corin with narrowed eyes. Corin pretended not to notice. More people emerged over the next few minutes, until the benches were filled and a great hush settled on the cavern.

  Corin watched as a man walked out form the distant wall formng the cavern’s rear. He was garbed in a long white gown, striped diagonally with the six colours of the clans. He took seat on a wide chair raised high to overlook the rows of benches. Corin could hardly make out his face, but he looked old and skinny.

  There were six other chairs alongside, and now other figures appeared from the back to take their various seats. Corin saw one of them wore the yellow of the Tcunkai, and the others were decked out in their various hues.

  “The Seers,” Olen whispered in his ear. “They head the Delving.”

  “The stripy one in white looks important.”

  “The Mage—oldest and wisest of the Seers. His word is law, and he alone overrules any clan’s single wish.” It was the Mage that spoke first. And it was Olen whom he addressed.

  “Olen of the Tcunkai, your news has reached us and we are alarmed.” Corin was impressed how the Mage’s voice reached them where they sat. He might look frail, but the old boy had a fine set of lungs.

  “You warn of an army,” the Mage was saying, “of portents, of She we do not name. And now this stranger you have brought upon us. What of him? What is his story? Stand Tcunkai—speak your words!”

  Olen obeyed. He dipped his head in respect to the Seers watching in silence from their chairs. “Wise ones and warriors, my father the Tcunkai Kaan requested this meeting after hearing my tale. My intent was to return and accompany him here, but these Anchai gathered were in a rush to gainsay my words, and so I journeyed with them instead of returning to Morning Hills.”

  “What news has so upset the Anchai?” The Mage turned to face the Seer garbed in red to his left. The man took to his feet and bowed at the Mage. This one was portly and deeply tanned. His face was oval and his eyes slightly slanted. He looked a tad oily in Corin’s opinion.

  “This Olen is an excitable youth,” the red Seer pointed across to where Olen stood in silence. “And an alarmist. He twice crossed Anchai lands without asking permission—an act of unprovoked aggression. Young Arami here has told us of this stranger, a mercenary and a warmonger apparently. But the one foretold? That I doubt. And Olen’s talk of an invading force approaching from the plains is ridiculous.”

  “You think I made it up?” Olen’s face tightene
d.

  “Silence!” The Mage stood and pointed at Olen. You, boy, address a Seer! You will show respect to Subotan lest we strip and beat you. Remember where you are, Olen of the Yellow Clan!”

  Olen wasn’t swayed. “Then you must beat me. But first know my words are true and that there is indeed an army bound hither from distant Ptarni.”

  “Liar!” Subotan jabbed a finger toward where Olen stood. “He is bewitched and needs urgent flogging! I suggest we punish this one now before he can utter more deception.”

  “You may continue, Olen. But choose your words carefully.” The Mage bid the red Seer return to his seat. “Subotan, we will award him chance to spin his tale, whether fact or fiction, and decide his fate thereafter.” Subotan nodded, though he didn’t look happy.

  Olen continued. “I rode east for many days across the steppes. I saw nothing until I arrived at a broad river and saw a city in the clouds. A distant realm hemmed by dark mountains.”

  All faces were on Olen as he spoke. Most were hostile, convinced he was telling some crazy yarn. But some were curious and one or two looked worried. The yellow Seer, a shaven-headed heavy-set man with large blue eyes, was watching Olen with evident pride. He alone was on this boy’s side, Corin thought.

  “I walked the bank until I saw some buildings on the near shore. I investigated and saw signs of wheel tracks and recent movement. The tracks led out into the open steppes. Curious and alarmed, I followed for days until I came upon their camp.”

  “What did you see?” The Mage folded his arms and gazed coldly down on Olen. “I suspect, an army of ghosts and shadows brought on by your foolish curiosity.”

  “They were real enough. Wainriders clad in weird armour and carrying long spears and other outlandish weaponry. They were breaking camp down in a ravine. I watched them depart amid bustle. Most wore strange helmets with chains hiding their faces, but one or two were bare-headed. These were narrow-eyed and dark of skin. I have never seen their like before.”