by J. W. Webb
Calmly Jen helped the boy slide exhausted from his saddle, then guided him inside, saying nothing. Her son, Dail, had emerged from his bed amid grumbles and, at her word, was seeing to the Prince’s exhausted mare.
“You need rest,” she told the Prince as she guided him to a bench and a rough-hewn table. “Here, drink this. There are herbs inside that will restore your strength. I am not without knowledge in such matters. Drink it all, then you must rest. Sleep as long as you need to.”
Tarin thanked the woman and her husband. Did these people know who he was? Her soft grey eyes hinted they did, and in any case, anyway his raiment surely gave him away. He gulped the concoction down, relishing the fresh taste, and gratefully accepting another.
“I am Prince Tarin,” he informed them as regally as he could manage. The woman had wise eyes and was attractive despite being well into her middle years. Her face was careworn but there was strength there, Tarin thought.
The big man beside her looked like a soldier—hard and tough, not one to cross. Both were clad in plain linen shirts with tunics and trousers, faded and homespun. The husband wore a sword belt.
“I know who you are.” Jen smiled slightly and waited for the Prince to continue.
“I am in need of haste,” Tarin informed Jen and her husband. “Something most regrettable has occurred of which I cannot yet speak, though you will hear of it soon enough. I dare not remain here but must leave at once. And I believe I am being followed.”
“You’re not going anywhere, young Prince,” the husband this time. “With respect, you are in no fit state. I’m Cullan. I served your father under General Belmarius. If there is one that seeks you ill, he will have to get past my sword-arm first. This is my wife, Jen. We are poor, but what we have is yours, Highness.”
Tarin thanked them once again. For the first time in days he let himself relax. These were good people, and he felt safe in their cozy home. It was small but clean despite the beasts stalled in the second room.
Tarin’s mind was racing. Perhaps he had been wrong about that rider he’d seen late last night? It was hard not to give in to paranoia. At least he was safe here. For the moment.
“Very well, and thank you,” Tarin smiled thinly. “I will spend this day and night in your company, though I’ve no coin to pay for my lodging and fare.”
“You honor us, my liege.” Cullan’s smile softened his careworn face, but his wife’s shrewd eyes were troubled.
“Sleep for a good long time,” she urged him. “I will call you for late supper.”
They gave him their bed. Cullan attended his duties outside whilst his wife set to tasks on the range. Now and then she called in and checked on him lying there.
***
The brew Jen had given him allowed Tarin some respite, but sleep still evaded him despite his fatigue. Calmed by the drug, Prince Tarin let his mind wander down dark corridors as he lay prone and sweating. Was he ill, he wondered? No,—just scared. Terrified and ashamed. And so he should be. His mind drifted back to that long terrible ride. Once again, Tarin felt the darkness closing in as he fled Kella City, fading deep into the night. He must have dozed off at that point.…
Traitor... the wind called out his name. Coward, fool…the long grasses sighed up at him. Murderer...
Tarin jolted upright in the bed. He was hearing voices. It was gloomy in the room, the dark drapes keeping out the light. A candle guttered to his left. How long had he slept? Tarin felt giddy. Perhaps the kind-faced woman had poisoned him. Trust no one, his instinct told him.
I’m no murderer!
A voice laughed from the shadow in the corner.
Tarin, Prince of Fools, you have cost them the realm...
Caswallon, you duped me—it wasn’t my fault.
Fool. The laughter continued. It stopped when Jen entered, lit another tallow candle, and drove the darkness from the corner.
“Sleep,” she said and faded from view. Tarin nodded, dozed and almost at once the nightmare tore into him.
Pain and terror. A cold dark room comprising weird shapes, tables and cages. It reeked of decay and putrefaction. And fear. On the nearest table were tools laid out in fastidious order. A man watched him with cat-green eyes and a silent smile.
The smiling watcher chose a tool from the table and turned toward Tarin. Only then did the Prince realize he was lashed and naked, spread akimbo on a frame. Green-eyes flicked the tool at his face. When Tarin saw what it was, he tried to scream, but no sound issued from his mouth. Blackness claimed him at that point.
Tarin woke sweaty and chilled. It was quite dark now and the candle burned low. He couldn’t stay here, he decided. What if the rider came back? And perhaps Caswallon had sent others. Tarin gazed at the wall as he tried to make sense of the harrowing events of last week. Once again he recalled his wild flight from the city.
At first he’d ridden blindly, driven by speed and panic, stopping only for water and to rest his exhausted steed. His freezing fingers clung to the crystal shards still wrapped in the blood-stained cloth, safely secreted in the hidden pocket inside his velvet tunic. At least he’d had the sense to salvage the crown’s remnants before Caswallon got to them.
I still have the shards. They won’t get them.
The day he fled Kella City had passed like judgment, each hour an accusation. Tarin had dug his heels into the horse’s flank, spurring her on without compassion. His destination, Port Fardoris and the sea, were many leagues distant. Tarin, half crazed with fear, had felt the ghost of his murdered father riding on his back.
That first night the young Prince had hardly slept. He was up before dawn lightened the sky.
By the third morning, as the pitted road threaded the northern wolds of Kelthaine, Tarin’s thoughts had levelled out. He was famished, penniless, and armed only with a knife. But he was alive. Desperately he’d began sketching a plan in his head.
Once he reached the port, Fardoris, Tarin would reveal his identity, invent some dire story explaining his shocking state. He’d board ship, take swift passage south to Kelwyn, arrive at Port Wind or Calprissa. There were always vessels sailing south these days. Once there, he could seek aid from Queen Ariane. Tarin had only to hold his nerve and he would escape.
And so the week had passed, each day a blur of hunger, weariness, and guilt. The nights were worse; shadows stalked his dreams. Tarin had slept little, snatching what meager fare he could along the way and tightening his belt. He’d pushed the mare as hard as he dared.
Then he’d seen the rider clad in black a half mile behind him at a turn in the road. Tarin had felt real terror then. But the horseman didn’t notice him and appeared to be waiting for someone else.
Tarin had left the lane at that point, urging his horse into a steep coppice of woodland to lie low for a time. He’d waited but neither heard nor spotted the other rider. Finally satisfied, he’d rejoined the road and urged his steed west toward evening and another troubled rest.
But that night was the worst. There had been eeriness in the chilly air. There were no trees nearby and Tarin had felt exposed. He’d taken shelter under a hedge but had woken abruptly, hearing hoof beats approaching from down the lane. He’d glanced up from his hide just in time to allow the wandering moon to spill silver on rider and horse. The rider had stopped for a moment, glancing his way.
“Who are you?” Tarin had called out—stupidly, he realized now. The horseman hadn’t replied. Moments later he’d spurred his beast forward and faded off into the murk, leaving Tarin cold and scared.
That following afternoon, the welcome smell of brine had announced the fugitive Prince’s destination grew near. But as the light faded, a peel of thunder summoned dark rainclouds and hail. Glancing up, Tarin had witnessed a host passing high above at speed. The Wild Hunt was abroad. Horns blew and hounds bayed. Tarin had covered his ears as he tried to calm the panicked mare. Both horse and rider had nearly reached breaking point.
But the sky had soon cleared, as the ghostly
host fled east. In minutes the doleful notes of the Huntsman’s horns were swallowed by distance. Tarin had reined in at that moment, on the point of collapse. Then he’d seen the cottage and the woman waiting with folded arms at the door. Jen. She was leaning over him.
“How do you feel, Highness?”
“Call me Tarin. I don’t deserve a title anymore. I have done something terrible, Jen.”
She took a stool beside the bed and fingered a pale lock back behind her ear. “Will it help to tell me?”
“I cannot—there are no words.”
Jen’s mouth tightened. “Never mind, you need to eat to get your strength back. Did you sleep?”
“A little.”
“Well…that’s something. Supper is ready when you are.”
That night Prince Tarin feasted on pheasant and cabbage and decided he’d never eaten better, nor drank finer ale. He’d kept his council all evening; neither hostess nor her man probed him with questions, though their son, Dail was less subtle, despite his parents, swatting his ears. Tarin held evasive, was about to retire, when a loud rap announced a visitor at the door.
The rider has come for me. Tarin’s face blanched. He looked about for a place to hide. Jen placed a placating hand on his arm.
“It’s alright—Cullan will deal with this.”
“Two guests in one day,” grunted Cullan, reaching for where his polished sword hung close and ready beside the hearth. “Wait here, Prince. I’ll go see.”
After a minute or two, Cullan returned with someone else close behind him. Tarin gaped at the newcomer. This stranger was very tall, his features half concealed beneath a hooded blue cloak. He appeared grizzled and grey and was forced to stoop beneath the oak beams as he entered the smoky cottage.
“And who might you be?” asked the Prince ungraciously, on his guard again.
“Just an old wayfarer seeking lodging for the night,” answered the stranger in a melodic voice that hinted irony. “However, at least I can pay for my stay.” His piercing blue eyes were uncommonly large. They surveyed Tarin with sardonic amusement, unsettling him further.
“I smelt roast pheasant—my favorite.” the man winked at Jen. “This is a nice little cottage, my dear. Very clean.” Wife and husband exchanged glances whilst Dail looked excited and Tarin glared.
The stranger, once seated in a corner, reached deep into the folds of his cloak and brought forth a golden harp. “I am a fableweaver and bard by profession,” he announced amid whoops of delight from Jen and Dail, their eyes dazzled by the golden harp, a thing of rare, uncanny beauty.
Cullan grinned. “Well, you are most welcome. We’ve little excitement here. Please be seated, sir singer. There is still hot food aplenty left in the kitchen.”
Cullan knelt, placed a frothing mug of ale on the table in front of his new guest. This was consumed with zeal, then followed by another and after that a brace of piping hot pheasants fresh from the spit. Once he’d crunched through those, the stranger winked at them.
“I’ve a yarn or two if you care to listen.”
And of course they did.
And what a songsmith he was! That night Tarin heard of wonders: tales of mythical beasts, vengeful gods, and far-flung steaming oceans where golden-haired warriors sailed metal ships beneath broiling, copper skies. The Prince almost forgot his plight for a time, so entranced was he (and his hosts also—especially Dail) by the melodic voice and the skillfully plucked harp of this uncanny visitor.
Sleep finally beckoned. Prince Tarin retired together with his hosts. The stranger sat for a while longer, warming his hands at the fireside, his gaze distant and remote. He had much to peruse of late, but events were generally going as planned.
The songsmith waited for the fire to fade and splutter before making silent for the cot he had been allotted in the eaves above. Once there, he stared up at the ceiling letting his swift mind filter and focus. The Dog Lord was back and war soon would follow.
A sacrifice was needed to make things go as they should. The Dog Lord was wary, crafty as he himself was—these two were old adversaries after all, opposite sides of the same coin. Light and darkness, good and evil—the worm consumes its own tail. He’d have to play things very close to the wire, lest Dog Face see his gambit.
But then sorcerers were renowned for doing just that.
***
When Prince Tarin woke, it was pitch-black night. Someone snored in a room close by. The Prince felt edgy again. He leaned forward, carefully peeled back the drapes just enough to see outside.
His heart stopped in horror.
The rider was there, scarce twenty yards from the window! A silent figure masked and clad in black, cloaked and booted, gazing up at his room. Tarin, shaking, made for the door, but a cold voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
“Stay still, fool!” It was the songsmith who had spoken—the stranger. His manner was sharp and his oddly bright eyes gleamed like sapphires in the dark. “You cannot evade him; this was always part of their plan.”
“Whose plan...what?” Tarin managed in a taut whisper. “Who is that rider?” When he looked out again, the masked horseman had vanished and the lane was empty.
“That, young Prince, is none other than Rael Hakkenon, Lord of Crenna, Master Assassin, and usurper’s spy,” answered the stranger. “He has been paid to apprehend you, boy, and has followed you from Kella City most assiduously. Surely you didn’t expect to escape, Prince Tarin? Caswallon is an accomplished schemer.”
Tarin felt an icy tingle in his stomach; the Assassin of Crenna was the most feared of all brigands currently troubling the outer fringes of the Four Kingdoms. His father Kelsalion had had a particular loathing for him. He’d placed a price of three hundred gold crowns on the villain’s head, together with his pirate followers, the scourge of the Western Ocean.
“What can I do?” Tarin pleaded. “Who are you, songsmith, and how do you know all this? Can you help me escape?”
“Questions, questions, and questions. You speak too much, boy. Time to shut up and listen.” Tarin gulped a complaint but was ignored.
“I am called Zallerak in these parts, and you, boy, have much to learn.” The stranger pinned Tarin with that sapphire gaze, measuring the boy’s courage as a fox gauges chickens. “You must hold your nerve, young Prince,” Zallerak told him. “You cannot undo your folly, and… there is a high wergild to be paid.”
“But the Assassin!” hissed Tarin. “He will surely kill me!”
“That’s no more than you deserve,” snapped Zallerak with sudden brutal bluntness. “However, there is just a slight possibility you may yet find redemption, if you follow my guidance, Prince, and do just as I tell you.” Zallerak smiled his songsmith smile.
“It concerns the remnants of the Tekara that I know you still possess. Yes, that suspicious bulge beneath your shirt, and no, I don’t need to see it—seen it before a while back. Now, listen in…”
Zallerak leaned closer as he imparted his strategy. Tarin’s eyes widened in horror when he heard the strange bard’s plan. Under his tunic, he clutched hard at the crystal shards of his dead father’s crown, so hard that his fingers bled openly again.
***
When Jen woke next morning she discovered her guests gone. On her kitchen table were two gold coins. Throughout that day she felt baffled and confused. Something bad had happened, something that would affect them all. A growing feeling of wrongness tightened like a noose around her neck.
That evening a rider stopped by, pausing only briefly to tell them the news. He was bound for Fardoris and the ocean. He returned later that night, his horse lathered and his news worse than before.
It wasn’t long before everyone knew the High King had fallen and that the Tekara, the sacred crown, was no more. That same night the messenger informed them of Prince Tarin’s abduction by the cunning snares of the Assassin of Crenna.
Even now, he told them, Rael Hakkenon flees west to his island lair, the royal captive bound and broke
n on the deck of his black ship. Rael had made no secret of his prize. He was doing what he did best—goading Kelthaine, the land he hated so much (no one knew why). Hakkenon and his pirates would be celebrating in Crenna for days after landing their catch.
Jen’s gaze followed the setting sun as it sank like an open wound behind the brooding hills of Fol. She felt sad, deflated, and wept silently as strong Cullan hugged her close. Jen wept for Prince Tarin and for Kelthaine, her fallen, lovely land.
“Whatever will become of us now?” she asked her husband, but he didn’t respond, just hugged her tighter. The following day there was more bad news.
And the noose tightened again.
Chapter 5: Silon
The richly garbed merchant bid Corin pull up a chair and sit opposite him at table.
“Please spare your champion a moment,” the merchant said to Holly and her father. “We two are old acquaintances, and I’ve a matter of some import to discuss.”
Holly curled her lip whilst Burmon glanced at the merchant, then at Corin, and then back to the foreigner again. He shrugged.
“Be my guest.”
Burmon bid his daughter lend a hand clearing the mess the brawlers had made. Holly, wanting to stay close and eavesdrop, rolled her eyes and went dutifully off to assist her father. During all this, Corin stood gawping. He was torn. He’d wanted to explore the inside of Holly’s shift before he got too drunk. Gold, though. That spoke volumes.
“Well, are you going to take a seat or just stand there looking vacant?” Silon’s crisp words severed the smoky atmosphere. The Raleenian, though small, had a commanding tongue few men ignored.
Corin shrugged, feigning indifference. He was baffled by the merchant’s bizarre arrival in Finnehalle. Must be a big job. He shrugged again (Corin always did that when he was confused), reclaimed his cloak, folded it neatly, and pulled up a chair, glancing sideways at Silon. Eventually he found his tongue.
“Don’t tell me, merchant,” Corin said. “You owe me money and have journeyed all this way north to settle the debt. Gold is always welcome in my pocket.” Corin recalled the last time he had seen Silon and the argument that had followed.
