The Shattered Crown (The Legends of Ansu Book 2)

by J. W. Webb

  “What’s wrong, Roman?” she demanded of her champion as he cuffed the nearest beast with his gloved fist. “What’s the matter with the bloody things?”

  “I don’t know, Your Highness,” he answered in a gruff voice. “Something’s clearly troubling them. Ho! Tamersane! Hold that mare still, damn you!”

  “I’m trying, or hadn’t you noticed,” grumbled the younger warrior, cursing as the agitated horse snapped its head back and caught him under the jaw, sweeping him from his feet.

  “This is hopeless,” muttered Galed, watching miserably as their steeds continued to buck and kick. Galed didn’t want to be here, and the horse’s bizarre behavior was only helping convince him that they should never have left Wynais.

  And he wasn’t a bloody squire, he was a scribe—actually chief scribe. The squire title had been placed on him by the (oh, so witty) Tamersane the other night amid much jovialityat Galed’s expense.

  And why was he here? Ariane—love her though he did—was so evasive sometimes. “You can advise us,” she’d told him. And so he had with:

  “We should go back,” “We never should have come here,” and “I knew this was a bad idea, but nobody listens to me.” No one was listening to him now.

  It had been a week since they’d slipped out of the city unannounced. Every day the “squire” had felt a growing apprehension that something was very wrong. Only his loyal devotion to the Queen kept him where he was. That and stupidity, of course.

  But Galed would follow Queen Ariane anywhere, so much did he love her. It would be nice if she informed him why he was here, however. Galed was no warrior, just a weary wordsmith and confidante/counselor to the Queen, as he had been to her father (though fat good that had done him). If only King Nogel had listened to Galed and not gone storming off…

  For her part, Ariane was fond of the little man, although most at her court saw Galed as a bit of a fool. But he had a sharp mind, and Ariane knew it. She turned toward him and Galed reddened. Her beauty never failed to move him. He tried not to notice as a lock of jet hair slipped free of her priest’s hood when a sudden gust rushed down from the tall ridge above them.

  “Highness, I—”

  “Galed, stop your fucking dreaming and lend a hand! What the—” Roman gaped as a chilling howl drifted down from the tall pines above. “That was no sodding wolf,” spat the Champion of Kelwyn. He cursed again as the Queen’s mount reared up and kicked him in the head, pitching him to the floor. Tamersane struggled in vain to control the other animals. They were clearly panicked as more weird howls were carried down by the wind.

  “It’s no good, cuz!” the fair-haired warrior shouted up to where Ariane scowled. “I cannot hold them!”

  “Then let them bloody well go!” growled Roman, who had regained his feet and stood scowling up at the distant ridge. “They are no good to us now anyway.” Roman turned, blinked up at Ariane as her squire stood watching beside her.

  “Wake up, Galed, you little shite! Grab the blankets and other stuff, and let’s get moving! Come on! We’ll cut across country. Hopefully, whatever creatures they are, they will content themselves with pursuing our steeds.”

  The others needed no encouragement, and even Ariane lent a hand with their supplies as Tamersane freed the panicking mounts. Within moments, the four beasts had bolted back down the track and disappeared beyond sight. Almost immediately, the strange howls rose up in fury to give chase, drowning out the terrified neighing of the horses.

  “Poor things,” muttered Galed. “Will they escape, do you think?”

  “Forget them,” growled Roman, launching a heavy pack over his back. “We had best worry about ourselves. Come, Queen, let us leave this track and cut northwards. Hopefully, that way we might be able to outfox whatever it is that haunts this shite-awful countryside.”

  Roman led the way, and Ariane pulled her green priest’s cloak down to protect her arms from the twisted tangle of brier and sharp thorns barring their way. Their destination was still two days away, and without their horses they would be hard pressed. It didn’t matter. They would get there at the appointed time. That’s what mattered, Ariane assured herself as the bitter wind whipped around her cloak.

  “Roman,” she called out to the big man, “how long before we spot the village? You said we were not that far from the forest.”

  “Indeed no, Your Highness,” her champion replied with a backwards glance in her direction. “By keeping to this course, we will half the distance and should still arrive in Waysmeet before tomorrow night—if our luck holds.”

  “What luck?” moaned Galed as he struggled to keep up with the lanky Tamersane. “We’ve had no luck since we left Kelwyn.” Tamersane ignored him. They struggled on stubbornly through the rest of that day, making reasonable progress despite there being no regular path. The land about was wild and remote, and there were few homesteads in this region.

  It was the realm of eagle and bear, and snowfall was not uncommon this time of year. It was growing colder by the hour, and Ariane watched her breath steam as she listened for any sounds of pursuit.

  All seemed quiet. Whatever those creatures were, they had gone for the time being, but Ariane would not drop her guard. Her sharp instincts hinted something was amiss. This land had an unhealthy feel to it, and as evening drew on her restlessness grew. They spoke little—even Tamersane was edgy. Galed looked more worried by the mile. He kept his wittering to himself and fingered a small wood axe, his only weapon.

  Darkness closed around them as they ventured on, unwilling to rest until they had to. Behind them the silent stalkers closed the gap. The hunt was on again.

  Chapter 11: The Road To Waysmeet

  Corin glanced up moodily as he rode. The waxing moon had ridden out from behind dark cloud, spilling its dreamy light on the land. Faerie light, they called it—not a term to inspire confidence in a place like this. This northwestern corner of Kelthaine was known for its chill winds and damp climate. Bleak country—no wonder it had sparse occupants.

  Ahead, the wild country rose up in craggy tors. Once or twice Corin caught a glint of torchlight in the distance, showing that someone dwelt near. Mostly the land seemed deserted. No great surprise, considering terrain and climate. Those that did dwell in this region were usually outcasts and oddballs, or else fugitives from the cities scratching a meek living from the land.

  Corin continued riding for several hours into the night, knowing the area well and being in no mood for stopping until he had put as many miles between him and the River Fol as was possible. And Thunderhoof had no problem with that.

  It was getting cold. A chill wind had risen in the east, and Corin was reminded of the lateness of the year. He finally dismounted when exhaustion overcame him, stopping for the night in a small wooded hollow set well back from the road.

  Clouds swallowed the moon again. It was very dark. Corin tried to keep his mind active. He saw to his horse and then ignited a small pile of faggots he’d gathered in the dark.

  After a light meal of dried beef (courtesy of Burmon) and biscuits (Kyssa), Corin warmed his hands by the blaze, but food and fire did little to improve his mood. Corin had spent too many nights alone in the wilderness, without home or companion. Usually it didn’t bother him, but this part of Kelthaine always dampened his spirits.

  It was a desolate, melancholy place, the sort of joint a troll or ogre might frequent if such things existed. Corin told himself they didn’t, but after the last few days…

  Corin watched the flickering flames, trying in vain to find sleep. His mind wandered down dark paths, and despite his determination not to, Corin began thinking about the witch at the ford and what she had said.

  His parents had rarely spoken to him of his birth on the night of the great storm in Finnehalle, thirty years before. Corin had never given much heed too it. Yet now he recalled how often folk had commented on how different he was from his brothers, in both looks and manner.

  Corin shook his head. He had alw
ays felt slightly removed from the rest of his folk. His father had laughed whenever he broached it with him, which wasn’t often. The fisherman had told him not to worry, putting it down to an independent spirit and a restless nature.

  Corin brooded as the fire crackled lazy. Time drifted. Then the freshening night wind extinguished Corin’s struggling flames, scattering ash over his blanket and scolding his face.

  Pox on it.

  Corin rolled over and sighed, dreaming of the soft bed in Silon’s far-off villa. Then his thoughts drifted upon the merchant’s sultry daughter and her naughty little fingers, and that didn’t help him at all. It was nearly dawn before Corin managed a shallow sleep. And when he did, the dream stole upon him...

  ***

  He lies in a bed, his young body bruised and battered. Outside, gulls assail the morning. A woman kneels beside him, her face beautiful in the lamplight. “My father is dead! My brothers!” Corin’s throat is sore from rasping.

  “They are at peace now,” the woman replies, her voice soft and husky. Her breath hints of rain on summer meadows. She leans forward, rich copper hair framing a perfect oval face. Eyes of green and gold smile down at him.

  “What of my mother? My sisters?”

  “They were taken.” The woman’s eyes turn sad. “The brigand’s ship struck a rock. They too are lost, I’m afraid. But at least they were spared from slavery.”

  The boy Corin weeps, and the strange woman consoles him until, exhausted, he is claimed by sleep again.…

  The scene shifts.… He is older, and this is the future—somehow Corin knows this. In his hand an alien sword glistens with uncanny white light.

  Callanak… A name comes to him then fades from memory.

  At Corin’s back an army waits in apprehension as ahead a horde approaches to confront them. Corin’s force is dwarfed by the dark horde. It surrounds his army, encompasses it.

  A hooded figure with doglike features emerges from the dark mass calling out his name with mocking laughter. This leader brandishes a tall spear. Dream Corin recognizes the spear. Fear radiates from that ebony shaft. Other names enter his mind…

  Morak, The Dog Lord, Golganak…. Then they too fade into blackness. Behind their leader, the Groil legions sway trancelike, and drumbeats echo in the valley beyond. A booming fills the sky. He glances up. There are giant figures in the clouds watching, the Gods awaiting the outcome. The scene shifts again …

  Corin hears a woman call his name in fear. He turns to help, but his arms are held fast in iron manacles. He tries to speak, but no sound passes from his lips. Corin sees the woman’s face and knows that he loves her.

  Shallan… another name. She pleads to him, calling out his name, but he is held fast. She screams. Dark figures seize her and drag her away from battlements. Corin struggles to break free of his bonds. Helpless he watches in paralyzed horror as his army is crushed close by and the city burns behind him, its people consumed by dark flame.

  From somewhere behind, a canine voice whispers…

  At last the way is clear for our return.…

  The scene shifts a final time. Behind him, there is laughter. Corin turns, sees the blonde girl-child smiling down on him from the tree branch above.

  “Your father,” she giggles. “Remember your father....”

  ***

  Corin woke with a start. What in the gibbering nine worlds had all that been about? The evil tree faerie again, he suspected, or else the witch at the ford. But why pick on him? Corin rubbed some life into his veins then stared blearily at Thunderhoof, who watched him nonplussed from beneath the shelter of a tree. Sometimes he envied that horse.

  After a lean breakfast, Corin saddled up, wearily launched his stiff bones onto Thunderhoof’s back, and set out once again eastward along the road. There was no need to rush. He’d made good progress yesterday and expected to arrive at Waysmeet sometime before evening.

  Hopefully the Queen and her companions would be waiting for him and they could get on with this business, and he, Corin, would be closer to getting rich—or at least better connected.

  It wasn’t what you knew but who you knew in this life. A discreet dalliance with said Queen could do wonders for his prospects. One has to focus on the positive, however elusive it may prove. At present it was almost invisible.

  The day wore on hour by dreary hour. Above, the sky cleared and the full moon watched them as it followed their path through a line of firs. On they wended, horse and rider over hill and under wood.

  Hours later Corin spied movement on the road ahead. He waited under cover of trees until the two mounted strangers approached. They both looked like merchants and were dressed in the gaudy fashions of Morwella.

  Corin rested his hand on Biter’s pommel and calmly emerged from his hide. The two men eyed him warily, looking about to see if he was accompanied. Corin held out both hands to show he meant them no harm, but the men glared at him with suspicion.

  “I’m no highwayman, just a simple traveler!” he called across to them. “What news from the east?”

  “A good deal and none of it pleasant.” The nearest scowled, still eyeing Corin with distrust. “Vangaris is crawling with spies and there are mercenaries scouting the lands hereabouts. Whom they seek we do not know.”

  “Who are these mercenaries?” Corin enquired, but they didn’t reply, passing him by with an unfriendly glance at his sax and longsword. Corin spat at the ground as he watched them pass. But then Corin didn’t like Morwellans.

  By afternoon a dark line smudged the horizon. Corin felt a familiar chill in his bones, recognizing the southern fringe of the Forest of Dreams. He pressed on, heavy hearted, eyes scanning the way ahead. He reached a fork in the road and reined in, allowing Thunderhoof brief respite under the shadow of some lofty pines.

  Corin remembered this place from his earlier visit. It was here that the road veered south toward Kella and Kelthara, Kelthaine’s largest cities. A smaller track branched off from under the shadow of the trees. This was the original route that passed through Waysmeet. It was badly pitted and very overgrown in places.

  In the corner stood a gibbet, its chains creaking despondently in the wind. The cage that hung from it was rusty and ancient; the bones of its last unfortunate occupant long since turned to dust.

  Corin glanced up at the gibbet with a sour expression. This place made him shudder. Nothing stirred except the wind in the pines and the dismal creaking of the cage. A flutter of wings above him caused him to start. Glancing up, Corin saw that a raven had settled on the iron cage above. Greedily it watched him as it preened its midnight feathers.

  Corin swore under his breath. Those black eyes probed into his soul. They reminded him of the hag at the river.

  “Go away, bird.” Corin hurled a stick in the direction of the raven. Unruffled, the uncanny creature glared at him from the safety of its perch. Corin cursed under his breath and hastily spurred Thunderhoof away from both gibbet and crow.

  Taking the old way, Corin was soon forced to dismount so that he could pass through thickets of blackthorn and hazel. Thunderhoof clumped faithfully behind him. This way was scarce more than a worn out path corroded with potholes and puddles. Horse and rider stumbled on gloomily for some hours and the landscape changed little. In the distance, the dark line of trees drew nearer. Corin felt the tension growing with every step. He cast a professional eye back along the road behind him, but there was no one to be seen.

  His progress was becoming slower all the time. Once or twice he had to stop to assault the undergrowth with his sax. Corin grumbled to various deities as thorns and brambles tore at his exposed forearms.

  It was some time before he realized that the wind had ceased altogether. No birdsong broke the heavy silence, and no scurrying creature crossed his path. The ominous shadow of the great forest reared scarcely a mile to his left. Corin was close; he loosened Biter in its scabbard.

  “What’s that?” Corin heard a rush of wings swoop over his head. He turned
, glimpsed the raven and something else half hidden behind bark and leaf. An old man, hunched and huddled, crouching on a stick with his features hidden.

  The raven settled silent on his left shoulder, and both man and bird faded from view. Corin trudged on, sweating.

  Minutes later Corin glimpsed the first ivy-strewn stones of a building buried beneath a mass of undergrowth, and beyond that what looked like the remains of an old wall trailed off toward the trees.

  Waysmeet, at last.

  Corin guided Thunder under a clutch of blackthorn. Both horse and rider stopped suddenly. Somewhere close by a weird howl shattered the silence and lasted three long seconds before tapering off and fading into distance.

  Corin felt Thunderhoof tug against his reins in sudden alarm. “Steady boy. I know what you mean! That didn’t sound like a wolf.” There it came again, closer this time. A doglike howl—weird and unsettling.

  Something hunted.

  “Wait here, I won’t be long.” Corin looped Thunderhoof’s reins to a small tree before sliding Clouter free of its scabbard. Whatever was out there sounded big. Big weird beasties called for big swords. None came bigger than Clouter. Corin gripped the longsword with both hands and sloped forward through the thicket.

  There were more chilling howls, and they were nearer, a coordinated series of snapping, barky, growly, whines that set Corin’s teeth on edge. Whatever was out there didn’t sound friendly. It didn’t sound natural either.

  Slowly and warily, Corin approached the ruins of the village. His eyes narrowed when he spotted the broken gates of Waysmeet through the gloom. He waited for several moments, listening, testing the air.

  Corin thought he heard a soft voice whisper over to his left but couldn’t be sure. He tried not to think about the many rumors he’d heard concerning this place.

  Prizing himself carefully between the broken gates, Corin ventured into the grass-covered streets of the ruined town. Nothing stirred. Warily, Corin approached the old inn. Its shadowy tumbled mass showed beneath tall trees, luring him on from its place at the edge of the crossroads.