The Shattered Crown (The Legends of Ansu Book 2)

by J. W. Webb

  “We only survived the attack because of that mysterious archer. Who is to say he will return to our aid next time?”

  “Enough, Galed, I’m tired of your bollocks.” Ariane waved him to silence. “Corin an Fol knows this region better than we do. Silon trusted his guidance and so shall we.”

  She appraised Corin with a quizzical eye. He nodded awkwardly in return—a bit shocked by her language, if truth be told.

  “I would guess this place defendable as anywhere hereabouts,” she continued. “If the enemy knows we are here, then so does our friend the archer. I am most grateful to him!” She lifted her voice to the wind.

  That was the end of the matter, and despite Galed’s continuing protestations (most under his breath), they made a rudimentary camp under the shelter of some oaks at the edge of the village.

  They stayed well away from the inn, as the interior was filthy and the common room stank with the urine of wild beasts. Corin left to retrieve Thunderhoof from his tree whilst the other men set about cooking the evening meal.

  “That is a fine horse,” said Roman, glancing up from his task as Corin and Thunderhoof joined them by their hastily assembled fire. “Where did you acquire him?”

  “Raleen, during the Permian Wars,” replied Corin. “A gift from Silon in Port Sarfe for work well done.”

  “I am impressed,” responded the big man, and the horse pricked up his ears. “He is a splendid beast.”

  “He has his moments,” responded Corin as he led Thunderhoof into the overgrown gardens, leaving him to feed on the long grasses.

  The Queen insisted they share their rations with the longswordsman from Fol. Corin gratefully accepted some dried pork from Tamersane.

  As he munched, Corin eyed the darkening trees suspiciously, and the others said little. They were all exhausted from the fight and very hungry. At least it was a dry night. Dry and still. The shadow of the forest loomed nearer as night deepened. Corin watched the fire cast weird shapes along the ruined walls of Waysmeet.

  “The Groil came upon our scent two days past,” the Queen told him. “We escaped their net by leaving our mounts behind as bait. We travelled across country, covering our tracks. To scant avail. They must have followed our scent to this creepy place.” She shuddered, suddenly chilled.

  “How long will it take to reach the Oracle of Elanion?” Queen Ariane asked Corin as the others watched in silence. Galed’s dark eyes flickered about nervously, and when somewhere close an owl screeched, he jumped in alarm.

  Beside him Tamersane laughed and patted Galed on the back. “There, there, old chap—’tis but a hooter.” Galed glared at Tamersane but refused to reply.

  “If we get a good start, we should be there before sundown tomorrow,” Corin replied, unsettled by the Queen’s keen gaze. Those black eyes were shrewd and penetrating. Corin had that urge again and felt his color rise.

  Shite…

  “I thought you said that we should avoid the forest after dark,” muttered Galed, chewing on a dry bit of crackling and eying Corin suspiciously.

  “If we can avoid it, yes!” blurted Corin, wishing that he could do something unpleasant to Galed. “Tomorrow we will have no choice. Tonight we do!”

  “What do you know of yonder wood, Corin?” enquired Tamersane, leaning over to pitch another faggot on the flames. He prodded Galed affectionately in the ribs.

  “Not much,” replied Corin truthfully. “I’ve been through it once before after falling foul on a wager. It’s a strange place, not evil exactly but very peculiar. There is a presence there, a hidden warning of danger.” Corin shrugged. “Thankfully, I didn’t encounter anything myself. I’ve met some who have, though, and there are rumors concerning a green lady said to dwell deep within.”

  Corin stopped, and they watched him in silence. He looked up at the pale moon, feeling suddenly weary; the silver satellite stared down at him uncaring from its lofty perch above the trees. The owl called again, and Corin wondered what the bird hunted.

  “My intentions were for us to skirt the forest’s eastern side and follow the Morwellan road for some miles, then cut across to the Oracle,” Corin explained. “That way would be shorter, but after this attack, the sooner we enter the cover of the forest tomorrow the better. I’m sure Caswallon has other spies. I encountered two merchants who hinted there were brigands about.” He was going to use the word mercenary, but he knew that would draw an acid comment from Galed.

  “This whole area has a strange feeling about it, and the old inn at Waysmeet has also many stories to tell,” added Queen Ariane with a shudder. “I cannot say I feel comfortable here.”

  “Indeed it has, Your Highness,” nodded Corin. “Even now I can feel the watchful eyes of the ghosts that dwelt here long ago. They are said to wander hungrily under the moonlight seeking fresh souls.” Corin could feel no such thing but just wanted to spook the already jittery Galed. The little man glowered at him, and Roman guffawed, slapping him on the back.

  “What’s the matter, Galed?” he asked. “You’ve gone a bit pale, lad!”

  “Piss off,” Galed managed between bites.

  “What do you seek at the Oracle, Your Highness?” Corin asked, ignoring the banter. “Silon spoke to me of the Tekara’s ruin and the fearful events concerning stupid Prince Tarin. But what can you gain by this trip?”

  “Prince Tarin is my distant cousin,” she answered tartly, her eyes disapproving of Corin’s description of the Prince. “I would save him from harm if I can, whether he deserves it or not.

  “But to answer your question, I seek knowledge from the Goddess on how to deal with Caswallon the usurper. I have dreamt of Her—only at the Oracle will She share Her wisdom with such as I.

  “The Forest of Dreams is the very heart of Ansu, Corin. Our Goddess, Elanion, is this green world’s guardian and Her influence greater here than anywhere else on this continent, that I’m aware of. In my recent dreams, the Lady of the Forest bade me into Her realm.” She studied Corin’s face for a few moments then closed her eyes.

  “So, here we are.”

  “What do you know of the Huntsman?” Corin asked her suddenly, after he had sat gazing at the firelight for some while.

  “The Wild Huntsman? Very little,” replied the Queen, looking hard at Corin and wondering what lay behind this question. “Only that he is a harbinger of war who is said to appear in times of great need. Why do you ask? Have you seen him, Corin?”

  Corin nodded. “Three times, Queen. Once watching me from a ridge a few days back, once up in the sky with his hounds, and the last time earlier today—only this time he looked to be an old man leaning on a stick with a raven on his shoulder. Silon thought it significant, but I’m not so sure,” he added.

  “Maybe it is significant,” Ariane replied. “He has two ravens, according to myth. They say both contain the souls of great warriors who died in battle in ancient times. They also say the Huntsman only shows himself to those of royal blood.”

  “I think in my case he must have made a mistake!” snorted Corin before staring hard at Galed, daring him to speak.

  But the Queen continued to look at him for a while, her expression strange. “You have a certain look about you, longswordsman,” she mused. “You remind me of someone…I once knew. It is strange.”

  Corin shrugged, lost for words. He wondered where this was going and turned his gaze awkwardly toward the fire. Corin thought again of his uncanny encounter with the witch at the ford, and his expression grew cold. Who is my real father?

  “What of your horse, Corin?” asked Roman, changing the subject and breaking the troubled silence. “Thunderhoof will impede our journey through the forest.”

  “I was going to stable him at the nearest village in the morning,” replied Corin. “There’s a place some miles south, and the folk thereabouts are trustworthy enough, despite their rough manners.” Corin glanced over to where the horse could just be seen looming out of the night. “But now I fear Thunderhoof will have to
take his chances in the wild. He’ll be fine. He knows his way about and will probably head back west again. Won’t you, Thunder!?” Thunderhoof remained unimpressed.

  “Not necessarily,” cut in Ariane, raising her hand. “I need to get word back to Silon in Port Sarfe. He has business in Permio and was heading down there after seeing you. Silon must be informed of our attack, and I’d rather not trust to pigeon—even if we could source a trained bird out here. Tamersane, here, is a fine horseman,” Ariane said. “Undetected, he could be in Port Sarfe within three weeks.” She placed a slender hand on Corin’s shoulder. “Only with your kind permission, of course.”

  “I will look after yon beastie. Have no fear.” Tamersane showed that winning smile again.

  “I would advise it,” responded Corin with a short laugh, “for he will bite you if you don’t.” From over in the shadows Thunderhoof stamped his foot and snorted in derision. They all agreed this made sense. And so it was decided: Tamersane would depart with Thunderhoof in the morning.

  An hour later and wrapped cozy in her blanket, Queen Ariane’s mind was working overtime. They had been lucky today—damn lucky. If it hadn’t been for Corin and the mystery archer, they would be corpses greying on the ground.

  She hadn’t showed it, but Caswallon’s ability to reach them up here had shaken her badly. How had he known she was here? Spies? His own sorcerous questing? Either way, it was highly disturbing.

  Ariane had thought that once they were north of Kella’s vicinity they would have free rein. But somehow Caswallon had outmaneuvered them. How? A frightening question. And what else did the Usurper have up his sleeve?

  Ariane hated Caswallon. She had known the High Councilor for years, had seen first-hand how he played on Kelsalion’s frailty and bought followers in the council with gold.

  And Caswallon loathed her. Worse, he lusted after her. Her father alone had stood up to him, and Caswallon didn’t like that.

  Sorcerer and Queen, they were cat and mouse. The clever mouse had got away this time, but the cat was patient and had help too: Groil, creatures fashioned from low sorcery, resembling crude hollow forms of their masters, the Urgolais. So the rumors had to be true. Caswallon had sold his soul to the Dog People, the evil ones that Kell had helped scourge from these lands.

  And now they were back. How many and just how powerful they were she could only guess at. But they were able to aid Caswallon, and that was blackest news.

  But not everything was against them. Ariane cast an eye in Corin’s direction, where he sat hunched by the fire. First impressions, she liked him. He played the bad-arse mercenary ‘I don’t give a shite’ role well. But Ariane could see more to him than that.

  This Corin was bitter, certainly. He had small respect for authority, which made her smile, she, who had always been surrounded by courteous men like Yail Tolranna and his brother Tamersane. Even Roman had some courtly skills when he chose to employ them. Corin an Fol was not a subtle man. But he was interesting.

  And what a fighter! Ariane had never seen a longswordsman in action before. Quite a spectacle. Though he lacked all grace, Corin possessed a demon’s skill with that massive blade.

  She studied his features as he brooded into the fire. This one, she decided, would scrub up well. His face was comely in a rough, rangy sort of way, and the scar only added to his raffish charma charm this Corin didn’t realize he had. Ariane yawned. She needed to sleep, so she closed her eyes and eventually drifted off.

  Meanwhile, night deepened and shadows hung low.

  Darkness shrouded the inn. The silver moon slipped behind a wall of heavy cloud, and a bitter chill entered the weed-covered gardens of Waysmeet. They had set watch, Corin taking the second two hours after Tamersane.

  As the others slept, he stared out into the blackness, his thoughts troubled. The inn beckoned from the gloom, and Corin’s gaze was drawn toward the nearest window. He felt a shiver creep along his spine.

  She’s back.…

  There was a face in that window, watching him. A sad and beautiful face. It was the face of a woman, her hair a copper spiral and her eyes green and gold.

  I don’t know what Vervandi sees in you….

  Tongue-tied and shivering, Corin stared back at her, but then something moved in the bushes. He turned sharply to see what it was. Some prowling beast perhaps? Silence. Nothing.

  Corin returned his stricken gaze to the window. There was no one there. From the old inn at Waysmeet there came no sound. Corin shook his head with a silent curse. Ghosts, Groil and witches. And now she had returned to haunt him after all this time. That beautiful mystery woman who had stalked his dreams since the time of the raid.

  Vervandi…

  Whatever was happening to him? Corin slung Clouter across his knees and commenced working his oil cloth along its steely length. Once done, he honed edges industriously with his whetstone. It wouldn’t do to dwell on such uncanny things, least of all here in Waysmeet amongst the tumbled ruins. They passed slowly, those two hours.

  Eventually Roman relieved him. Corin curled up in his cloak, stealing a glance at the sleeping Queen before slipping gratefully into dreamless oblivion.

  ***

  Shadows drift across deserted streets. Pale eyes watch from empty rooms as night deepens further. The Silent Ones stir from their rest to wander as they always do on moonlit nights, their pale shapes shimmering beneath the racing cloud. Time passes so very slowly here, where dimensions cross and worlds collide. A slim figure rises effortlessly to his feet in one smooth fluid motion.

  Bleyne the archer smiles watching the shadows dance. Bleyne has no fear of such things. He too is a creature of the forest. He has reclaimed all his arrows, so it is time he returns to his mistress. The archer glances at the shaggy figure hunched low over the fire and smiles that knowing smile. Let them enter the forest tomorrow. If they survive the test, his mistress will await them in the Sacred Grove.

  Chapter 13: The Forest of Dreams

  The taproom stank of beer and sweat. Stale tobacco stung his eyes as he watched the cockroach skitter into range. Just a few more inches and he would have it. One… two… Cale struck, seizing the insect between thumb and forefinger and ramming it into his mouth. He crunched loudly. It didn’t actually taste that bad. After four days grubbing at earthworms and beetles, it was almost diverting, and he was so very hungry.

  Things had not gone well for the boy since his flight from the smithy four days ago. He was half starved, soaking wet, and trying to shake off what promised to be the foulest of head colds.

  He missed the twins. It wasn’t that he’d liked either of them. Who would? But at least they’d got him fed. Cale scanned the filthy floor for more grubs. He should never have left Kelthara. Cale was a city boy. He belonged in the grime and grot of the back streets, not these bleak windy hinterlands. Still, he was alive, and out of the rain for the time being.

  Cale cast a wary eye at the soldiers who sat dicing at a table near the fire. They were a rough lot, mercenaries, he suspected, Morwellans by their speech. They drank sparingly, casting the odd glance toward the door as if awaiting someone. No one paid heed to the boy. The grubby proprietor had let him shelter from the rain for a copper coin. One of the three he still retained.

  Cale’s return to Kelthaine had not been without event. That first night, he’d found a homestead, located the kitchens, and was almost away when the yeoman returned with his dogs. Cale escaped empty handed. Worse still, he dropped most the coin he’d lifted from the smithy in his panic to get away.

  It was a close call. He’d scaled the wall of the garth inches ahead of the dogs. The nearest one bit a fist-size hole in his pants, exposing a pink buttock. Since then he’d dared two more garths, to scant avail. Folk were wary in this region, it being border country.

  He’d crossed the river at the ford, following the old road east until he reached this cluster of hovels with its tawdry tavern. Last night had been unpleasant, for weird howls had echoed from the hills be
yond, and it had turned bitterly cold. Cale didn’t have much of a plan. He’d head for home, try and take up with some of the crew he’d known in his pickpocketing days. It would be all right. Cale was a survivor.

  The door swung open with a groan. A stranger entered, tall, lean, his hard features scanning the gloom and finally resting on the soldiers at the table. He glanced briefly at Cale then stooped into the taproom, shaking the rain from his shoulders.

  The boy shuddered. This fellow reminded him of the man called Corin an Fol, but he was leaner in build, with eyes the grey of granite. They were just as cold too—those eyes. Snake eyes, thought Cale.

  This was one scary bad-arse. The men greeted this newcomer, hailing him as their captain. Stone-eyes took seat beside them, downed a flagon in one, wiped his mouth, and belched loudly into the fire. The proprietor was hovering at the bar, looking greasy and nervous. The captain stared hard at him, until hint taken, he vanished behind doors. They ignored Cale. Asides from the boy, the inn was empty.

  “We can talk here,” the nearest man said as Cale’s ears pricked. “What news, Captain Hagan?”

  The captain didn’t answer at first. He watched the flames crackle and dance as his men shuffled in discomfort. Cale could tell they feared their leader, which wasn’t surprising. They looked tough, but he looked tougher

  “They are at Waysmeet near the forest.” His voice cut through the gloom with a surgeon’s precision. The words were crisp, abrupt, and slightly sardonic. “I am informed they mean to enter said wood in search of the Oracle.”

  “Are they mad?” gasped another soldier. This one sported a horned helmet that looked welded to his head despite the close proximity of the fire. Slung across his back hung an iron crossbow and a score of quarry bolts. He had very few teeth, the boy noted. Cale forgot his hunger as he listened intently.

  “Mad or not, Borgil, we cannot let them slip our net,” the captain answered. “The Lord of Crenna was most adamant, as only he can be. The Queen is not to be hurt. The others we can slay.” He glanced at Borgil (horned head), who nodded back.