Wolf Under Siege: The Wolf Who Would be King 5

By Robert Poyton

VOLUME FIVE OF THE WOLF SAGA!

Once again penniless, Llorc journeys south to rejoin his mercenary comrades in the Legion. He finds them on the fortified island of Arilarat, a quiet backwater, as guests of the Order of the Goddess. But war is looming. The Jahari Empire has turned its face west and a vast fleet is being assembled, with Arilar

• Language: English
• Publisher: Innsmouth Gold
• Release date: Nov 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781636845517

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THE WOLF WHO WOULD BE KING

VOLUME FIVE

WOLF UNDER SIEGE

Robert  Poyton

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THIS IS AN INNSMOUTH GOLD BOOK

ISBN: 978-1-63684-551-7    E-book

Copyright@ 2020 R Poyton.

Originally published 2020

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any

electronic or mechanical means including information storage and

retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts

in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design: Innsmouth Gold

Wolf chapter heading graphic courtesy of

https://lupas-deva.deviantart.com/

Published by Cutting Edge on behalf of Innsmouth Gold.

www.innsmouthgold.com

Dedicated to Oliver Reed (1938-1999)

A swashbuckler to the last.

PROLOGUE

The spy carefully trimmed the end of the quill with a small knife, licked the tip and dipped it into the ink pot. Eyes squinting in the flickering candlelight, they began to write in a tight script. Having only a small scrap of parchment  brought a focus and precision to the writing. The spy was very experienced, however, in relaying information in a concise manner. It might be a sketch, an outline of floor plans or fortifications. It might be a simple count of numbers of troops. It may even just be a name or the time and place of what was thought to be a secret meeting. In each case, the spy could be precise and clear in communication.

  Of course, this was far from the only skill that the spy possessed. The ability to blend into the background, an ear for languages, all were of equal import. A measure of acting ability, never to appear too clever, too eager, too… noticeable. It took true mastery to be nondescript and ordinary. Scores rubbed shoulders with the spy each day, both in the taverns and streets of the town and in the confines of the Keep. None would guess that the spy was anything other than they appeared to be, and that was presuming they could even call that face and voice to mind. A sad life, in some ways, that your talents should go so unnoticed. Yet the spy was motivated by more than recognition of skills, by more even than mere gold. For the spy was in service of a cause; a cause forged in the mind of a child and refined through countless hours of training under the finest practitioners of the East.

  The spy laid down the quill, held the parchment up to the light and read the message, double checking the salient points. Satisfied, they tightly rolled the message and placed it in a narrow tube, using the candle flame to seal the end with wax. Chair scraping on the flagstone floor, the spy rose and moved to the small window in the tower room. From beyond came the barely audible hiss of white capped waves on rocks. The sea sounded calm now, smooth and azure under a lightly clouded sky. The earlier storm had blown itself out, just a few ragged clouds scudded above. The breeze smelt of salt and fresh rain. Taking a softly cooing pigeon from the coop, the spy affixed the tube to its leg, lifted the bird and launched it out into the blue. A clap of wings and the bird was gone.

  The spy breathed in the cool air. The storm season was coming to an end; soon summer would be here with its unrelenting heat. There were very few parts of the Keep that were cool during those months, save perhaps the cellars and dungeons… and the spy had no wish to visit those. But, the spy smiled wryly, for this summer would bring far more than sun and baking heat to the shores of Arilarat. For once the storm season was done, the Great Fleet would launch. Hundreds of ships, thousands of troops, all would soon be arriving to lay claim to the island. The Amyr was coming…

CHAPTER 1

Llorc slowly rose and fell on the air currents through which the great eagle glided. Its powerful wings spread wide as it rode the thermals, giving the occasional mighty sweep to maintain its height. The Western Kingdoms spread below like a soft-hued mantle. Far to the north against the curve of the Earth, his homeland, dark and forested, the Black Mountains no more than a distant smudge from this height. To the east of those, the snow and ice-bound territories of the Njordir. Beneath them, the main bulk of the continent, it’s western half composed of the lands of the Dyfnain, the Franci, the Borderlands and numerous smaller principalities. It’s other half lay on the further side of the vast White Caps that split the Western Continent. There sat the countries of Nava, Draguvir, Zirdava, leading across to the wide, open steppes of the Khulak.

But it was to the south that the great eagle now soared, towards the great oval of the Tyrr sea that lay sparkling like a turquoise gem below. On its northern shore lay the mightiest city states of the west; Adelphis with its majestic rock and marble fortress; Tyrr crouched timeless on her seven hills; Thetes, the great bustling port. Across the span of ocean from those lay the uppermost kingdoms of the great Southern Continent. The desert lands, chief amongst them Sahkmet, home to ancient, porticoed temples and the Great Pyramid. The western end of the Tyrr Sea was open only at the narrow Straits of Kuanos, leading into the  Western Ocean.

The wing of the eagle dipped as the beast banked, the eastern end of the Tyrr sea coming into view. Here lay the kingdom of Osmanye, once a great nation in its own right, now conquered and part of the expanding Jahari Empire. Beyond that lay the mysterious nations of the east, lands of mountain and inland seas, hidden temples and ancient lore. And now, directly below, the rider espied what at first appeared as nothing but a small dot in that shining sea. A dot that grew larger as the eagle folded its wings, pulled in its merciless talons and dove down. A dot that grew larger as the wind rushed passed Llorc’s face, stinging his eyes, causing him to lift a hand to shield them, as a persistent tapping began in his side…

Llorc. Llorc. Wake up, lad. The man nudged the huddled form with the toe of his boot once more. Llorc stirred from within his cloak and raised a scowling face, hand dropping to the knife hilt at his waist. He was aware of the growing swell of the hard, wooden deck beneath him, the tang of salt spray in the air and the chill wind blowing through the thrumming rigging as he glanced up at the bearded weather-beaten face above.

Oh, Captain, it’s you.

Aye. Thought you might like to know. We’re approaching the island.

Llorc nodded his thanks and rose, stretching and twisting to ease the kinks in his back. He’d been aboard the Argos for what seemed like an age now. He had been lucky to secure passage, it being one of the last trading vessels to head out of Saama on the spring tides, carrying its wares south across the Tyrr Sea. At almost the exact halfway point on that voyage lay the island of Arilarat, Llorc’s destination. The Argos carried grain and produce for that island and was due to pick up a consignment of honey there before continuing onward to sell the rest of its cargo in Sahkmet. 

The young warrior gathered his long red cloak about him and followed the Captain to the prow. Sure enough, ahead a dark blot lay on the lightening horizon. It grew swiftly as the keen wind filled the sail, powering the vessel onward. By the time the sun peered over the horizon the island loomed to starboard, a large oval shape running north to south.  Steering to the east of the island, the ship kept a respectful distance from the towering cliffs, where white gulls wheeled and cried in the dawn light.

Well, there’s Arilarat, the grizzled old seafarer motioned. Why you want dropping off there, I don’t know. It’s little more than a lump of rock poking up out of the sea. You could ride across it in a day. Run by a religious order too! Has a good, deep harbour, mind.

I’m meeting up with some old friends, Llorc replied, grabbing hold of a ship’s line as the vessel turned sharply landward. The Captain shrugged and moved off, shouting to his crew. The Argos passed into the lee of the cliff, the pilot taking care to steer clear of the jagged rocks at its base. A harbour mouth hove into view and timbers and spars creaked as the steersman leant on the tiller to bring the ship round and guide her into the entrance.       Llorc noted a large ballista positioned at the southern mouth of the harbour and a pair of capstans securing the ends of a huge chain that could presumably be pulled up to block the entrance.  And over all, its pale stone the colour of flame in the rising sunlight, loomed  a large building;  a keep or castle the scale of which Llorc had never seen before.

The ship passed into the relatively narrow opening, under the gaze of  watchers on the Great Keep to port.       Once through the harbour mouth, a long, narrow stretch of water was revealed. Ahead and to starboard, the line of a much smaller stone dock was visible. Steps wound from it  up a cliff face to what appeared to be another fortification overlooking the harbour. To port lay the main dock, where numerous vessels bobbed in the gentle tide. Most were large trading ships, though small fishing smacks bumped and jostled in the spaces between them. The dock extended for quite a length before ending at a narrow channel branching off the main waterway. Craning his neck, Llorc could just make out the sails of smaller vessels at a smaller dock and beyond that, the harbour narrowed, ending at the foot of a steep hill that overlooked town and harbour.

He turned back at shouts from his right. The Argos was passing two war galleys that lay at anchor just inside the harbour mouth. The shouts came from officers, crews running into position and up rigging at the orders. Although at rest, Llorc sensed that they were ready to move at a moment’s notice.

A soft bump cut short his viewing, as the ship docked. Lines were thrown and caught, the thud of the gangplank on the dock signifying arrival. Gathering his gear, Llorc thanked the captain and strode down onto firm land, pitching a little as he went. The Argos crew were already beginning to unload the barrels and sacks of cargo, several dock workers moving over to help. A pair of uniformed local militia men stood close by, idly chatting. Llorc interrupted them to ask for directions. The elder one turned, indignant, an insult half-formed on his lips. The insult faded as he look up at the youth before him. Taller by at least a head than any other man on the dock, straight black hair falling over broad shoulders, framing a high-cheek-boned, clean shaven face. The youth’s clothing was of decent quality, though travel worn, and a long scabbard hung from his hip. But it was the eyes that gave the man pause. Cold and grey they were. Set in a youthful face, yet those eyes spoke of experience and grim determination. The guard spluttered out the directions, Llorc nodded his thanks and strode off into the narrow town streets. Though he gave no indication, his keen gaze had not failed to see the cowled figure that lurked in a nearby shaded doorway.   

  Llorc was heading for the Dolphin tavern, the current headquarters, he had been reliably informed, of the Legion.  A number of cobbled streets opened onto the dock and Llorc strode into the one indicated. Although moving into the shade of warehouses, the morning air was already hot, the streets winding and crowded. The town was a warren of sloped ways and shallow steps. Beyond the warehouses, the streets were lined with traders under awnings, taverns, food vendors, narrow sandstone houses and shadowed archways. Veiled grandmothers sat watching from small balconies, street urchins dodged here and there, laughing at the curses of shop-owners.

Occasionally the street would open onto a small square, a statue of some local dignitary at its centre, or perhaps a large tree, people sat beneath the welcome shade of its twisted branches. Most of the people were obviously locals - short, dark-skinned  people with bright eyes and ready smiles. Each looked as though they had spent a life on the waves or working the land, plainly dressed in dark colours. The women went veiled and all took as much advantage of the shade as they could - no one was rushing in the burning heat. Others were dotted here and there - the local guard in light, leather armour, or the occasional tall figure of a soldier. Mercenaries from the look of them.

By the time he reached the tavern Llorc was sweltering and short of temper. Its cool interior bought some relief, more so the smiling faces and the mug of ale thrust into his hand as he entered. Many faces here were known to him from his time serving the Legion in Sahkmet and he accepted and returned their hearty greetings. Following directions, he took the stairs on the far side of the large room, up to the first floor landing and door. He tapped, the door opening a hand’s width to reveal the broad, sweating face of Husani, the Legion scribe.

Is that the wine? About time, we’ve been - ah, Llorc! Now there’s a surprise! 

The scowl changed to a smile as the rotund man ushered the young warrior in. At the far side of the room an equally frowning Syldir glanced up from the sprawl of paper that covered the desk before him. Behind him hung the Black Hound banner, limp and lifeless in the still air.

Llorc! Tis good to see you!. The tall, thin Legatus stood smiling, extending a hand in greeting. He had not changed since Llorc last saw him. His bone-white skin still unmarked by the southern suns, his long, straight hair had been that fair already it was hard to tell if the sun had bleached it further. Syldir wore a long plain garment of local design, and was unarmed, though his broadsword leaned close by against the wall. Llorc patted Husani on the shoulder and strode in to grasp Syldir’s forearm.

Take a seat. There should be some wine on the way, if you’ll take a mug? Local stuff, I’m afraid. I think they make it from the tar they use on their ships. Still, it does the job. 

Llorc sat heavily, dropping his sack of gear on the floor and wiping a sleeve across his brow.

By Morrg, it’s hot here. I’d forgotten just how damn warm it gets in these southern lands.

Last time we spoke you were expounding the virtues of the north, Syldir returned to his chair and arched a thin eyebrow. Yet here you are, back again?

  Well, you know. I returned home but got restless. Spent some time in the Borderlands, then travelled east for a while, body-guarding a trader. That got dull and I was running low on coin so I decided to turn south once more. Janok told me the Legion was recruiting again. He also said this place was quiet and full of pretty girls.

Janok? How is the old ogre? Yes, we are recruiting again. There’s always a war somewhere. And as for this place, he waved a hand around the stifling room, Quiet? It is at the moment. Full of pretty girls? Hardly. Most of the locals are weather beaten old farmers or fishermen. They must lock their beauties away, for I’ve yet to see any.

As if to prove his words, the door was nudged open and an elderly woman shuffled in. She was bent over a tray which held an earthenware jug and bowls of food. Llorc immediately sprang to his feet.

Here, let me help you with those, Mother. He took the tray from the woman, who nodded and gave him a black-toothed smile of thanks before withdrawing.

You see? laughed Syldir. And she’s one of the better looking ones. He produced three beakers from a drawer, took the carafe and poured them each a measure of thick, dark liquid. They clinked mugs and drank. Llorc grimaced at the taste and shrugged. So, no pretty girls, then. But quiet? Seems busy down at the harbour.

You’ve not heard, then? Husani swept aside the tide of papers and placed the food bowls on the desk. The whole region is on war footing. Some say the Jahari have set their gaze westward. Then there’s the growing prospect of civil war in the Empire.

In Tyrr? I just sailed from the port of Saama there. Aye, things did seem tense but I spoke to few people on my travels. Who are these Jahari? I think Janok mentioned something about them.

Syldir chewed and swallowed a piece of indeterminate meat before replying. To answer your second question first, the Jahari are currently the major force in the east. Over the past twenty or so years they have been busy conquering all their neighbours. They now have a huge army and navy. Some say their ruler, the Pahdishah, will next venture across the Tyrr Sea. To the west and north I would think. I can’t see him invading Sahkmet, especially not while Tyrr is weakened by dispute.

You mentioned civil war? Llorc inspected and pushed away the nearest bowl.

It was Husani who continued. Yes. Two brothers, twins, vie for the throne of the Empire. Both have equal claim, it seems, and both have equal support. Neither seems inclined to diplomacy, so battle lines are being drawn. To the south, Lucenius has gathered a large fleet. To the north his brother, Flavonius prepares a large land force.

And while the two squabble, these Jahari sweep in and clear the board? Llorc forced himself to take another swig of the local brew. The second mouthful was not so bad.

Exactly. Syldir stood and strode to the small window. Question is, where do we stand? Barbatius set sail for Tyrr two days ago. You probably crossed paths at sea. He referred to the bulky, fierce Legion commander. He is sounding things out in Tyrr to determine which, if either side, we might pitch our services to. And perhaps, also to knock some sense into them. If anyone can, he can. Otherwise they may well be fighting each other in the burning ruins of their cities. Madness.

Madness, indeed, Llorc replied, then reflected on the fact that certain clans, as well as outsiders, had backed the Reiver’s attempt to wrest control of the Clannacht homelands. Pride and ambition knew no national boundaries, it seemed. So, what do you do here?

Syldir gave a sardonic grunt. In the current atmosphere, no one wants a large band of unknown warriors hanging around on the mainland. Trust is in short supply. So here, we are tucked away on this backwater. The Grand Master is an old friend of Barbatius, they served together.

Grand Master? Llorc knit his brows. Husani answered.

He is the head of the Order. They man the fortifications here.

Llorc’s face remained confused.

The Order of the Goddess, Syldir explained. An order of knights of Tyrr. Anyway, while Barbatius negotiates on the mainland, we have leave to rest here. When he sends word, we are to set sail back to whichever port he directs us to.

And these Jahari? What if they attack?

Husani waved a hand dismissively. I can’t see it myself. If they invade, it might unite the brothers. The outer nations would likely resist, too. I can’t imagine Adelphis wishing to see the Tyrr Sea become a Jahari lake. Nor any of the other city states, come to that. Individually they are not much but together they could muster a strong force.

I’m not so sure, Syldir’s pale brow furrowed in concern. Barbatius told me that the Grand Master gave him messages to pass on to various lords on the mainland, entreating their aid should the Jahari attack. This may be a small island but its location is pivotal. If the Jahari were to capture it, they would have a strong base and a deep harbour from which to operate. I meet with the Grand Master later today. My feeling is he may wish to retain our services for any defence of this place.

Sounds like there might be a fight either way then, here or there? Llorc was smiling now as he downed his third drink.

Syldir gave a bark of laughter. You always were one for a fight, young man. And as much as I welcome gold into the Legion coffers, I fear you may be correct.

CHAPTER 2

Admiral Pirabir paused to check himself in the large mirror before stepping out of the palace. A short, rather rotund figure dressed in embroidered jacket and large turban looked back at him. The jovial expression would have looked more in place on a merchant or an avuncular tavern owner rather than the High Commander of the Royal Fleet. The finery likewise looked out of place on his stocky frame and he tugged at the chafing high collar of the jacket, earning a tut of disapproval from his aide, Salim. Yet the jocular exterior concealed a keen intellect and a mind with a masterful grasp of strategy and tactics.

The Admiral was also held in reverence by his crews, being seen as one of their own. For Pirabir was of common stock, Jahar being a place where advancement was gained by merit and ability rather than station or influence. Also, had not his forefathers been sea-goers for generations? His father a captain in the fleet, his grand-sires and uncles all serving in some capacity or another. Perhaps that was where the Admiral got his famed feel for the ocean from, his uncanny ability to predict and pre-empt changing conditions which had earned him victory after victory over the Pahdisha’s enemies. His rise had been swift, bringing him into the close orbit of the Royal circle. There he found other battles to fight; battles of intrigue, rumour and jostling for favour. These skills he had mastered too, remaining, apart from one other, the only person who was both a power in the Court and a man at ease with his subordinates.

Dalghari Kral his crews called him, King of the Waves. It was those crews he was about to inspect, for the fleet had been gathered here at the port of Seruf, following Amyr Sahaludir’s request for a review. Pirabir had not been happy about this. Resentful about having to dress in his official finery, where he normally affected the garb of a common sailor but, more importantly, uneasy about the delay such a review would cause. Anything that put back the launch of this great armada meant less time to achieve its goals before the storm season began in the autumn. For the fleet was set to sail across the Tyrr Sea, an ocean that the Admiral knew could be deceptively calm and inviting. Storms scattered fleets, they sank even the largest of ships, they disrupted plans and timetables.

Still, the Amyr wished to see his new plaything, to bask in the glory of the moment. Pirabir sighed, sweat already trickling from under the elaborate turban. Salim coughed and raised an eyebrow and the Admiral turned at last to the door. Yes, yes, I know. We must arrive before the Amyr, we cannot keep a Royal Prince waiting.

Aide fussing at his side, Pirabir left the palace, descending the broad white steps to the terrace below. A canopy had been erected to keep the area in shade and servants were on hand with fans, dates and decanters of cool water. The other dignitaries were already present and Pirabir nodded to a couple of his staff, the handful of generals