by J. W. Webb
Against the rules, of course, but rules change, especially when you are the one changing them. Cast the runes and see how they fall. Time will tell—but then He is outside time and has the edge.
This is why I need my army of dead souls. There is no Good there is no Evil. There is only I.
Oroonin laughs at His dilemma. He witnesses the shattering of the crown, knows the time is nigh for action. He summons his hounds and bids his ravens go hunt.
Time stops.
Oroonin rides out from that far high place. His guise is the One-Eyed Huntsman again, and the restless dead follow in his wake. He closes on his quarry, a lone ship beset by winter seas. At her prow stand a Northman and a scar-faced brooder. The Wild Hunt swoops low. Oroonin laughs. Let the new dance commence.
End of Part Two
Here Concludes Book Three
of The Legends of Ansu.
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COMING - The Lost Prince
SAMPLE - Chapter 1: Rascals
Silon hated Permio. It wasn’t just the noise and smell of the place, or the constant threat of danger. This desert country had a different feel to it than anywhere within the Four Kingdoms. It was always so hot here. Not to mention the stink and noise. Gone were the cool breezes that blessed his beloved vineyards in Raleen. The merchant was less than a hundred miles from his home, but he found it impossible to relax.
He was in Cappel Cormac—the stinking, festering home of every villain and cutpurse imaginable. And in this city Silon was a wanted man.
News had reached the coffee rooms of Permio’s second largest city concerning the events in Crenna last month. Silon knew he had little time here and must return home quickly. Nor did he wish to linger as every minute spent here was beyond dangerous.
The merchant waited restlessly for the contact he’d arranged to meet in this seedy place. A coffee house—dark, dirty and cluttered with unsavoury characters.
That man’s choice not his. Silon would have preferred somewhere quieter—perhaps nearer the wealthy quarter of the city. But he had bowed to the other man’s knowledge. Besides, this place was close to the quay and ships sailed frequently across to Raleen. It wouldn’t prove difficult slipping aboard one should the sultan’s soldiers spot him. They would be very keen to apprehend him, those soldiers. The sultan in his wisdom had placed a price on Silon’s head of two thousand crannels.
A tidy sum. All because he was suspected of smuggling contraband across the bay. It was just as well they didn’t know his real business.
The room was harsh with voices and swirling smoke stung Silon’s eyes, both tobacco and subtler substances. The smell of coffee beans and body sweat clung to his nostrils. Silon looked down with practiced distain as a beggar held out a wooden bowl. The merchant signalled and the man was carried outside and pitched into the filthy street below. Cappel Cormac was a pitiless place. Any act of kindness would be noticed here.
Silon pulled the hood of his brown burnoose down over his forehead shrouding his features. Quietly he studied the occupants at the tables around him.
Over to his right, a couple of swarthy merchants were speaking in furtive whispers, glancing up occasionally from their piping bowls of coffee. Behind them leaned a tanned handsome warrior from Sedinadola by his look. He was flirting shamelessly with the dark eyed beauty in the corner.
The tavern was busy with folk coming and going. Silon noticed the odd northerner sweating in the dusty heat and looking uncomfortably conspicuous. At the back of the smoky room was seated a huge black warrior who appeared to be grinning at nothing in particular. He had a ferocious look and his teeth gleamed like perfect pearls. Silon locked eyes with the man briefly before dropping his gaze. It did not pay to stare too long in a place like this.
A soft sound. Silon glanced up carefully when the seat was taken beside him. He nodded slowly at the newcomer. His contact’s face was deeply tanned beneath the scarlet shemagh. It was a hard face, lined with thin scars and dominated by a hooked nose. The eyes were coaly black and crow-sharp as they apprised the merchant of Raleen.
“I trust that you are fit, my old friend?” the newcomer asked in a dry voice hinting the arid winds of the desert.
“Indeed I am, Barakani,” replied Silon. “You look as vigorous as ever,” he added. “I trust that your seven sons are all well.”
“Yes,” the desert chief grinned at Silon. “Their strength waxes alongside their impatience. Those boys have little time for our subtleties, my friend. They would prefer to act straight away, as indeed would I were the time right.”
“That time draws close Barakani,” Silon leaned forward to whisper in the other’s ear. “However there is another issue that I hope you can assist me with.”
Barakani raised a shrewd brow. “If I can.”
“Something has occurred which I did not anticipate.” Silon leaned closer. “Something of great import. I heard voices in the marketplace claiming a young nobleman from the north had recently passed through the city, seeking a guide into the deep desert. A strange request that don’t you think?”
“Very strange,” replied Barakani with a secret smile. “You wish to know his identity—this youth?” The merchant nodded slowly and Barakani continued in hushed tones.
“He is your missing prince. I am certain of it. I had one of my men follow him through the city seeing he came to no harm. The boy was dressed shabby and looked travel worn, but I would recognise Kelsalion’s wayward son anywhere.”
Silon smiled. “I sometimes forget how familiar you are with the northlands my old friend. Is it true you served in the Tigers for a time?”
“I wanted to learn how you northerners fight should you ever invade our lands again,” grinned Barakani.
“Well, I am in your debt once again,” responded Silon with a sigh of relief. “The fool boy was mad coming here alone, I doubt whether he would have made it out the docks without your help.”
“Maybe not,” replied Barakani. “But the boy didn’t seem that helpless. Strangely everyone saw him and yet no one intervened—something unheard of in Cappel Cormac. And why would he come here? There are far safer places to flee to even in Permio. It’s very odd.”
“Odder than you think.”
“Ah…” Barakani took a slow sip from his piping coffee. He glanced about the crowded room before continuing with a sour expression. “The sultan’s soldiers are crawling all over this city; his supreme ugliness suspects everyone, not just northern merchants, my friend. I saw no advantage in the prince being taken to Sedinadola for questioning. So I bid one of my men escort him into the desert, as was his wish.”
“Where was Tarin’s destination?” asked Silon.
“He wouldn’t reveal it. Said only that he desired seeing the Crystal Mountains in the far south. A transparent lie or else a most peculiar desire—I couldn’t tell which. ”
“And risk the Ty-Tander’s fiery breath!” Silon raised an eyebrow. “How bizarre. Stories concerning that beast have often been heard in the courtrooms at Kella City. Tarin will be well aware of the risk he’s taking. And that prince is not known for his boldness.”
“My own thoughts exactly,” responded Barakani. “But just who has put him up to this, Silon? And why?”
“I don’t know and it worries me, my friend,” responded the merchant. Silon took a sip of his drink and sighed. “Another shadowy player in the game I suspect. At least we can assume he’s not an ally of Caswallon.”
“But what would the boy’s mystery helper hope to achieve by such a venture?”
Silon winced as his coffee found a sensitive tooth. “Could it be what I think?” Barakani pressed him.
“It might be.” the merchant smiled slightly and changed the subject, Barakani’s hawk gaze was curious but patient. All in good time. These two needed each other—diplomacy was about give and take after all. And there were some subjects to dangerous even for whispers. Especially here.
>
“I am awaiting some friends from the north,” Silon took another wary sip at his coffee. “The same lot that escaped Crenna a while ago on Captain Barin’s ship. They can’t be far from Raleen now. That’s if they managed to evade the Assassin’s pursuit.”
Barakani grinned like an old wolf. “Rael Hakkenon won’t be in a happy state of mind. He’s not used to being thwarted so easily.” The Assassin of Crenna was well known and feared in Permio too. There were rumours that Rael had accepted contracts from the sultan himself during the latter’s early reign.
Silon nodded. “True enough. My spies sent me word from that island via pigeon to my villa the other week. A dangerous business for which I take some responsibility. Queen Ariane was involved and the mercenary Corin who I told you about. He in particular will be able to help us in this business as he knows Permio.”
“The business being…?”
“Silon smiled slowly. Barakani always like playing these games. The wily desert chief was well aware of Silon’s gambit. “We have to find the lost prince before our enemies do. That will involve individuals with specific skills. Corin being one. I need your assurance of their safe passage through the dunes.”
Barakani laughed quietly, “You ask much, merchant. The sultan’s spies are even more commonplace than his soldiers. And there are northern mercenaries in Permio already. I passed them several days ago. A rough lot I assume in the pay of Caswallon. Word must have got out to him of Tarin’s intended destination. Though quite how I cannot guess.”
“Gribble most likely.”
“And who might he be?”
“A winged goblin—Caswallon’s new spymaster. My people in Kella sent word about it.”
“Interesting.” Barakani let that one go. “Well, the mercenary captain I saw looked familiar. Tall. Lean. Hard grey eyes.”
“That will be Hagan.”
“The renegade Morwellan?”
“The same. You know him too?”
“I heard his reputation during the war,” replied Barakani. “A cold proud bastard they say.”
“Aye, that’ll be him.” Silon frowned. Hagan hadn’t wasted any time coming south, there were reports of his whereabouts in Kashorn village less than two months ago. Doubtless he’d been looking for Queen Ariane but fortunately had had no luck finding her. It was just as well Hagan hadn’t come across Corin an Fol. Silon needed Corin focussing on the task ahead. Hagan and Silon’s former employee for not the best of friends.
Silon studied the shrewd eyes of the man seated opposite him. Barakani was relaxed and at ease in the coffee room, despite a price on his head in this city that made Silon’s two thousand crannels a paltry sum. Barakani wasn’t called the Wolf of the Desert for nothing. He had earned his reputation as had his sons—all seven.
“I know I ask a lot, old friend,” Silon whispered. “But no one knows the desert as well as you and your boys. I see a real chance here. We can thwart the sultan’s plans placing you nearer to the throne of Permio—your rightful place.”
“I will do what I can. When will your people arrive?”
“I don’t know no and that worries me. Time is short and I expected them to arrive in Port Sarfe over a week ago. I’ve heard nothing since they escaped from Crenna.”
“Perhaps they were delayed.”
Silon nodded and took a long controlled sip from his now cooled coffee before continuing.
“One final question.”
“Go on.”
“Did Tarin carry a sack upon his person? A small bag perchance?”
Barakani shrugged shaking his head. “Of that I know nothing. But it would seem unlikely—even those unwilling to gut the boy would have taken his belongings. This is Cappel Cormac.”
“Yes, that’s what I feared.”
“Leave these matters with me, Silon” Barakani’s crafty eyes were scanning the tavern, “We have said enough,” he added in a whisper. “We are being observed, my friend.”
“Who?” answered Silon without looking round.
“A large fellow, black skinned—most likely a warrior from the distant south. They occasionally visit to trade. This one looks a confidant bastard. He is sitting in the far corner behind you. He’s clever—I only just caught his eye. A spy for certain.”
“Yes, I noticed him earlier,” responded Silon. “Think you he’s in the sultan’s pay?” he asked in a whisper.
“I do not know,” responded the desert chief. “But this is Cappel Cormac. Few strangers here are who they appear to be. You and I included, my friend.”
They spoke for a while in hushed whispers before finishing their coffee in a leisurely manner. Silon stood up, made a show of fastidiously dusting his faded brown burnoose and then quietly left the tavern. He waited out of sight for some moments until he saw Barakani emerge. Silon nodded briefly in his direction and then faded subtle into the crowd.
Silon was worried. He’d better be getting back to his villa fast. If by some miracle Prince Tarin still had the remnants of the Tekara on his person they were in with a chance—be it a only fool’s chance. But the idiot prince must be protected at all cost. And before they could protect him they needed to find him. And why would he make for the Crystal Mountains if he didn’t have the remnants of the Tekara? Unless it was the only destination the prince had heard of. Those mountains were legendary after all. Who knew what mental state Tarin would be in after being holed up in Kranek Castle?
Silon would have to act fast. He needed Corin. Corin knew northern Permio better than he did. But where were they? The voyage south shouldn’t have taken them this long. And just who has put Tarin up to this? Doubtless the same individual that freed the boy from the Assassin? And evidently some while before Queen Ariane’s party arrived unwitting in Kranek harbour. It irked Silon that someone acted outside his circle of knowledge. A freelancer playing a subtle game. But just whose side was he on? And who was he?
The questions kept coming. Silon hurried down towards the dockyard, jostling his way through the bustling crowd. Angry faces glared at him as he shoved passed, and skinny dogs snarled and yapped. Down at the quayside he spotted a Morwellan trader—one of the few that recently escaped the sack of Vangaris harbour. She was making ready to leave port. Silon suspected that the vessel would stop off at Port Sarfe, before heading north for Calprissa now Vangaris had fallen to the barbarian fleet.
Silon stepped up his pace turning into a narrow alley.
Too late he realised his mistake.
Footsteps approaching fast from behind. The sound of steel slicing air. Silon ducked low as a robed figure with a purple sash swung a tulwar at him from behind.
He rammed his right shoulder back into his assailant’s chest forcing the big man off balance. Then Silon twisted and rammed his knee up hard into his assailant’s groin. The man buckled and Silon kicked him in the face sending him sprawling. Silon turned to run.
Again too late.
Two other men had arrived in the alley. These blocked his way ahead. Silon recognised them at once. They were the sultan’s elite soldiery. They approached at speed barring his way. The first one swung his blade as he leapt at Silon. Again the whoosh of steel through air.
But Silon was ready. He grabbed the nearest soldier’s outthrust arm with his right hand. Then pulling him forward, Silon rammed his left palm hard up into the man’s nose, snapping the bone. The soldier sunk to the floor the curved blade clattering beside him.
Clutching his secret dagger, Silon knelt swiftly despatching the sultan’s soldier with a slice along his throat.
The remaining soldier hung back seeing his accomplice so easily bested. Then he grinned suddenly, seeing the first assailant regain his feet amid curses, and tulwar raised, approach Silon from behind. Now Silon was trapped in the dirty alley his back against the wall. They closed on him slowly each wishing to savour the moment. Their broad tulwars were held ready and hatred burned in their eyes.
Silon braced himself for the deathblow. He shut his eyes.
Moments passed—nothing.
Silon heard a loud grunt of pain followed by a meaty thud and the sound of a body hitting the dusty ground. A brief clang of steel followed then another groan and thud. Then a heavy voice laughed and Silon opened his eyes.
Standing before him, outlandishly dressed and grinning broadly, was the huge black warrior from the tavern. Slung across his back was the most extravagant array of weapons Silon had ever seen. In his sinewy left fist the huge stranger clutched a gold-capped cudgel. That gold was currently stained with the blood of the two soldiers he’d just brained. The stranger grinned as he reached down hoisting Silon to his feet. The merchant gasped for the man’s grip was like iron.
“I am in your debt,” he coughed. “May I ask your name?”
“I am Ulani, King of Yamondo,” answered the stranger. His voice was rich, deep and musical. “I have been seeking a merchant from Port Sarfe by the name of Silon.”
“Well I’m happy to report you have found him,” responded Silon. Awhile later at the quayside, and after the merchant had booked his passage, the stranger told his tale. It was then that Silon realised their troubles had only just began.
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Table of Contents
Part One - Oracle
Chapter 1: The Smithy
Chapter 2: The Dreaming
Chapter 3: The Last Ship
Chapter 4: Outcast
Chapter 5: Silon
