by J. W. Webb
“No, indeed,” responded the merchant with his customary half smile, “although I’ve interesting work for you if you’ll take it. And gold aplenty will follow on contract’s completion, I assure you.”
“Forget it, Silon, the Permian Wars are over.” Corin had met the wealthy merchant whilst fighting as a mercenary in the Permio Desert a thousand leagues south. Silon had spotted Corin’s skill with that big ugly blade during a bloody skirmish near Syrannos. He’d offered the dour northerner a contract that had served them both well for over five years.
But that was finished. Corin had parted company with his employer scarcely three weeks ago over a misunderstanding relating to the merchant’s dangerously suggestive daughter.
It wasn’t Corin’s fault Nalissa had been attracted to him, had thrown herself into his arms. Corin had tried to explain things to the merchant, but Silon hadn’t seen the funny side. The merchant showed scant humor that morning, and Corin, found standing bollock naked in the girl’s closet, had felt a tad defensive. Nalissa had giggled then fled at her father’s withered stare.
Harsh words had been exchanged. The following morning Corin had stormed from the merchant’s villa in a cloud of wrath, vowing never to return. He couldn’t begin to comprehend why Silon would have travelled all this way north to enlist his services again. It made no sense no matter how big the job.
Corin saw Holly watching him with interest from across the room whilst pretending to assist in the cleanup. He had a bone on below and cursed the merchant’s untimely intervention.
This had better be bloody good.
“Still thinking with your groin, I see?” Silon had seen how the girl watched Corin too. “Perhaps you will have the manners to hear me out for a few minutes, then you can go see to your needs with yonder wench. You’re the hero of the hour, after all.”
Corin no longer felt like the hero of the hour. Rather, he felt crestfallen, like he’d peaked too early. He mouthed “three minutes” to Holly and then turned and glared at the merchant.
“Out with it, then. Night’s passing.”
Silon winced at the bitter taste of his ale. The merchant preferred wine, but there was a desperate shortage of good grape this far north, so he had to make do with Burmon’s heavy brew. He leaned forward, jet orbs pinning Corin’s steely stare. “When were you last in Kell’s City?”
“Kella? Ten days ago, just passing through,” replied Corin, puzzled by the question. “What of it?” Corin scratched his arse and yawned. Silon persisted.
“How did you find the mood in the city?” Silon thoughtfully rubbed the small diamond stud sparkling his left lobe.
“Tense, unfriendly, but I’ve never liked Kella City,” Corin answered. “It’s a shitehole like Kelthara in the east. Like all Kelthaine’s cities. Where is this leading to, Silon? I’ve scant leisure for idle chit chat, so get to the bloody point.”
“Charming as ever.” Silon shook his head in resignation. He had not looked forward to this meeting but knew it necessary. “You would find Kelthaine’s greatest city even less endearing now, my hasty friend. Perani of the Swords has placed it under curfew.”
“Why would he want to do that?” Corin was almost interested. Perani, the former Champion of Kelthaine, was not a man to flap in a crisis.
“Because the High King has been murdered, Corin an Fol,” responded the merchant, smiling slightly at the stunned faces of the occupants of the room (having until now feigned deafness.) The last stragglers had recently returned from finishing punishing the Morwellans. These now joined their friends in eavesdropping unashamedly.
“Yes, my friends,” the merchant raised his voice so all could here without straining.
“Kelsalion the Third is slain. Murdered, it is said, by Permian assassins. Although I suspect that to be untrue.
“All Kelthaine is in turmoil. The white cities of Kelwyn are quaking with the news, as are the lush markets of Raleen, my own realm. In Morwella, rumors speak of invasion. They say the Duke of Vangaris is surrounded by foes.
“All Four Kingdoms stand at the brink of war.” Silon paused, gauging the reaction in the room. He sipped his ale and grimaced before continuing.
“A dark time has come to this region of Ansu. The benign rule of the Tekara is over, its protection gone. Enemies muster at our borders, and the Wild Huntsman rides the night skies again. Seeing that old crow gatherer up there in the clouds never bodes well.”
“What has become of the crown?” Corin was interested now. The Tekara, Crown of Kings, was beyond legendary. It had held the Four Kingdoms together for a thousand years. Surely no harm could have come to it. “Who has the Tekara?” Corin demanded.
“It is broken,” the merchant’s face was bleak. “Shattered into a dozen crystal shards.”
“But who has done this?” gasped Burmon, standing pale faced at the bar. “Permian cutthroats or savages of Leeth—or else those wicked bastards over in Crenna?”
“None of the above, master innkeep,” responded Silon, dabbing his forehead fastidiously with an immaculate kerchief, “although I’ve no doubt all our enemies are overjoyed by the news.”
“Who, then?” Corin’s eyes were hard and probing. He’d forgotten about Holly and his groin.
“Caswallon, the High King’s most trusted councilor, together with the aid of Kelsalion’s surviving son, Prince Tarin.”
“Tarin? What part has that spoilt twat played in this?” Corin had seen the young Prince on two occasions whilst passing through Kella City. Corin was no staunch monarchist, and like most commoners, considered the boy Prince a pompous weakling and a drain on society.
“Is he a traitor?” Corin spat the words out.
“Just a fool, I suspect,” answered Silon. “Prince Tarin allowed crafty Caswallon to persuade him don his father’s crown, after news of the old King’s death, or so I heard. I got word via pigeon the following morning. I informed the others and set sail at once—fortunately Captain Barin obliged by having his trader ready in Port Sarfe harbor.” Silon took a furtive sip at his ale.
“Tarin was distraught, having lost his father, and easily swayed by the councilor’s smooth words. Of course he obeyed Caswallon and took the crown, thus breaking the sacred law of Kell and imperiling us all.”
“What’s become of crown and Prince?” Holly asked. She’d taken seat at table near Corin, though he hadn’t noticed.
Silon shook his head slowly. “I’m not certain,” he replied, fiddling his diamond again. “Rumor is Tarin fled for the coast with the shards gathered in a cloth. They say he never reached Fardoris and was abducted by no other than Rael Hakkenon of Crenna himself.”
Corin spat after hearing that name. “Crenna!” he leapt to his feet, feeling the old hatred return. “It’s always fucking Crenna! What part have those bastards played in this?”
“Rael the Cruel has long served Caswallon in secret, Corin, as have some others you know, Hagan of Morwella among them. He is in the pay of Rael just as the Assassin is funded by Caswallon. The whole thing stinks.” Silon took a pull at his ale. He was getting used to it, the strong content having lulled his prior misgivings.
Corin was at a loss for words. He’d never been good with words apart from expletives. Now even these evaded him. Behind Corin, the patrons leaned forward with elbows on tables, eagerly awaiting more news. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire in the corner of the room and the creaking of the sign outside as the night wind cuffed it to and fro. Silon continued in a quieter voice as hushed faces watched from the shadows.
“There is more,” he added. “Caswallon rules Kelthaine and Perani murders all who speak against him. The old champion has sold out. He too is in the usurper’s pay. Kella City is in meltdown. Together usurper and general are ruthlessly quashing any opposition. Caswallon has studied sorcery for years awaiting this chance.” Silon stared morosely into his tankard.
“And that still is not all,” he added wearily. “There is cause to believe a darker menace aids
Caswallon from beyond the grave. An ancient evil long banished from these hallowed shores. That evil fuses him with lethal power. Caswallon has become its mortal conduit and foremost servant.”
“What evil is this?” Burmon cut in, his face paler than usual.
“I speak of the Urgolais,” replied Silon in a whisper. Corin, Holly, and several others looked blank, but Burmon and two of the oldest men listening paled visibly hearing that word. “The Dog People.”
“And who might they be?” Corin, despite being intrigued, was getting restless again. He caught Holly’s eye and grinned. Silon ignored the question.
“I fear also that Caswallon harbors lustful designs toward the young Queen of Kelwyn.” The merchant was almost at a whisper. “Queen Ariane knows and loathes Caswallon. She’s brave but vulnerable, having recently lost her father, King Nogel. He was a statesman; she’s just learning the craft. Caswallon wants to break her.” Silon let his words soak in to his audience. He took a slow sip then turned toward Corin again.
“I need your longsword to help defeat this usurper,” he said.
“I wondered when you would come to the crux of all this, Silon.” Corin barked a laugh. “Well, you’re out of luck. My fighting days are over.” Holly sniggered, and Corin cast a pained look in her direction. “Well, almost,” he owned.
“What care I, or anyone here for that matter, about Kelthaine or her allies? I hail from Fol, master merchant, bleak, windy little Fol, which is, and always has been, happily independent from Kelthaine’s haughty rulers. Good job, too. Let the Four Kingdoms deal with their problems. It’s of little interest to us… rustics.” Corin turned to face the other occupants of the inn. One or two nodded in agreement, but Burmon’s face showed concern.
“Fol would be nothing without Kelthaine’s protective influence, Corin,” said the landlord. “Those three Morwellans are probably renegades from Vangaris, doubtless now we’ll see more of such folk.”
“Doubtless,” concurred Silon, taking to his feet. “And be wary of spies. Caswallon’s arm is long. Trust no stranger, and keep your lips together. These days the wind itself has ears.” Silon drained his flagon and drew his kerchief across his mouth.
“My friends, many thanks for your attention,” he turned for the door. “I must be leaving you, the hour is late and I am weary.” Silon waved a “thank you” to Burmon, who nodded. The merchant then placed a tanned hand on Corin’s arm. “I would see you tomorrow. There is still much to discuss.”
“I’m not interested,” replied Corin. “Go back to Raleen, and take your troubles with you. I want no part in them. And you can keep your bloody gold, too. Ain’t no price high enough to mess with sorcerers and politicians. That’s a greasy pole. I’d rather keep my head, so to speak.”
“We will see,” responded the merchant, draping his heavy fur cloak over his shoulders. “I shall expect your company for supper tomorrow on board The Starlight Wanderer.”
“The Starlight what?”
“Captain Barin’s ship from Valkador, an island in the distant north. You, Corin, will not have heard of it. Barin’s worthy vessel bore me to your misty shores this very afternoon,” Silon explained. “You will find her moored beyond the western side of the harbor—out in the deep water. A fine sight she is, too. Until then, I bid you goodnight, my friend.”
“A moment, Silon.” Corin stopped the merchant in his tracks.
“What is it?”
“I’ve cause to wonder what you’re getting out of this. Merchants aren’t known for their altruism, especially rich ones from Raleen. I mean, why get involved with foreign politics? Isn’t there enough shite happening down there in Raleen?”
“Suffice it to say, Corin an Fol, there are powers at play here greater than anyone present can guess at!” snapped Silon. “A time is coming soon when all men must choose sides, you included, my reluctant friend. Good night to you!” The inn door creaked open, and the merchant’s brisk footsteps faded out into the murk.
Corin watched him leave, then shrugged. He waded across to the nearest barrel and helped himself to more ale. His earlier lust had departed but not his thirst. He needed more beer to think. Ale helped everything.
Actually, it didn’t. Corin was becoming morose, and even looking at Holly’s ankles couldn’t raise his yard. The whole thing stank. Corin’s heroic homecoming was obliterated by the kerfuffle following the merchant’s brisk departure. Silon stealing the limelight again. Loved being the center of attention, that one.
And everyone had an opinion on the dreadful business, and Corin’s altercation with the Morwellans was presently forgotten. Corin felt deflated both above and below waist. True, Silon’s news was all a bit of a worry. That said—it wasn’t his worry.
Bugger Silon and bugger the Four Kingdoms.
Corin moodily reclaimed his seat in the corner and immersed himself in ale, becoming more befuddled by the minute. Holly joined him. Her bright company cheered him for a while, but Corin found it hard to relax, even when she deftly fumbled inside his trousers to see if he had anything going on in there, which he didn’t. Holly sighed at that point and wandered off to help her father again.
Corin brooded. An odd homecoming. Polin dead, the freak child up that tree, a strangely familiar greybeard lurking in the woods, and now bloody Silon of Raleen, his former boss, turning up in Finnehalle like a bad penny.
It was enough to give honest men indigestion. Corin felt profoundly sad, like someone else had control of his organ. Perhaps they did? The ale wasn’t helping. The more he slurped the more addled he became.
Must be a shite barrel.
Try as he might, Corin could find no cheer as the hours wore on. The rest of that night faded into fog and shadows. Corin was dimly aware of a draft’s announcing people leaving for the cold street outside.
A thoughtful cough returned him to his senses, almost. He glanced up, bleary-eyed, saw Burmon leaning over him. “I take it you’ve found a place for the night,” the innkeep grinned knowingly.
“Er... not exactly. I was hoping that—” Corin fumbled inside his jerkin for some coins. He thrust two silver pieces into the landlord’s corpulent palm. “That should be enough for several nights lodging and slupper.” Corin’s tongue wasn’t working properly. Burmon grinned, nodded thanks, and yelled up to his daughter.
“Holly, get a room made up for our paying guest.” He winked at Corin. “A nice bedroom overlooking the courtyard should suffice. Care for a nightcap before you retire? I’ve just the thing—Wynais brandy. Stiffens the yard, so to speak.”
“Er, no … think I’ve had enough.” The room was spinning. Corin tried hard to look sober, much to his friend’s amusement. Holly laughed too as she carried fresh sheets upstairs. Corin had no notion what they found so funny.
“You always were trouble, boy,” Burmon laughed. “Come, follow me, I’ll show you to your room.”
Corin reclaimed Clouter, still leaning where he’d left it against the table. He stooped beneath the low entrance leading to a narrow hallway beyond. Once he’d navigated that passage, Corin staggered up some stairs and wearily followed the innkeeper to his rented room.
The moment Corin’s spinning head hit the pillow, deep slumber claimed him. Outside, the night wore on. Somewhere an owl hooted twice, and shadows lengthened in the courtyard. The roving moon was chased by cloud dragons. Its silver sheen revealed a hooded figure crouched low under the eaves at the far end of the courtyard.
The Dog Lord had come to pay Corin visit in bed.
Chapter 6: Allies
From the shadows, he’d witnessed Prince Tarin’s terrified departure. He had smiled back then, relishing the horror on Tarin’s face as the boy clattered passed. He had waited for a moment before following. There had been no need to rush things. This was his game—his price and prize, and he had so relished the following chase. Hunting. It was what he did best bar one thing only: killing. He’d mounted up only after the Prince cleared the gates, this black-clad rider, and urged
his beast quietly follow the dull echo of hoof beats out into the night. That had been days passed. Now the hunt was over and the best part still to come.
Rael Hakkenon, Master Assassin and Lord of Crenna, smiled, revealing perfect teeth. Everything had gone to plan—well almost. The Tekara’s shards were missing, so Caswallon wouldn’t be pleased. No matter. That was the sorcerer’s problem, not his. Rael had been paid. He had his gold stowed under the hold. Gold, the only thing that mattered, bar pride. Gold, the only deity he revered.
Rael laughed at the crumpled, bloody body shivering miserably on the heaving, tossing deck. Poor Prince Tarin—his to hurt and his to punish. Crimes of the father revisited on the son.
Rael had killed the High King too quickly, as needs must. With the boy, Rael would take his time. He’d let Tarin rot and stew in the dungeons over winter, so he could dwell on his fate. Of course, Rael would venture down upon occasion, whisper sweet nuances in the boys terrified ears, relating to certain excruciations pending. Such a fool! Rael had laughed when the Prince chose the coast road for his escape route. That had made things so ridiculously easy for him, and Rael didn’t like to work too hard. He’d sent word via bird to Cruel Cavan, his second:
Ready my serpent outside Fardoris. I have the prize.
And so he had watched on as early that morning the boy Prince had ridden out white faced from the cottage, like a lamb attending slaughter. Rael had followed with indolent ease, letting the boy slip out of sight for a time. Early that afternoon he’d reached the rise revealing Fardoris harbor and spied The Black Serpent, his shark, lean and clean, waiting close by in the shallows.
Rael had watched from the hill as Tarin rode weary into town, urging his horse through tangled streets down toward the waiting docks. He’d followed on then, urging his mount canter down from the hill.
The game was over. Time to close the gap. Rael’s noose had pulled Tarin from his saddle yards from the quay as seamen and dockers gaped stupid. Let them watch! Let all know who had the Prince of fools!
