The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) (7 page)

BOOK: The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1)
10.02Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

 

The Vallkytes left two days later; there were no tearful goodbyes. King Kasan and the delegation left in the early hours of the morning, leaving only extinguished fires smouldering on the plain.

King Hagan and Cinnibar stayed for the rest of that week, enjoying the hospitality that the Roguns had to offer. Cinnibar was shown around the flagship,
Pollmion,
and she insisted to Hagan in a jovial manner that she simply must have one, because, in her capacity as the Countess of Sonora, one of her many titles, the prestige must be maintained. Hagan, for his part, promised that his shipwright would build her one.

There were tears, however, when it was time for the sky ships to leave, Cinnibar and her Havant entourage were very happy to sail in the flagship. The twins cried throughout the goodbyes and received a warm hug by their father. Although the children had stayed before over the years – Havoc and Magnus had stayed in Sonora for the summer in the past – they knew it could be for a long time. Their father was concerned about the defensive ability of his capital city, it being a free trading port and open to all.

The sky ships churned the water to foam as they lifted into the air, flying away to the north as silently as they had arrived.

The summer months rolled in and warm wind later became winter chill. The king made his battle headquarters in the citadels garrison, where he recruited from all over the Rogun lands. No doubt, the other monarchs were doing the same.

King Kasan had the harder task. He wished to engage the enemy quickly, and he already had a standing army in the Toll-marr region and a large navy. The battle plans of the three kings hinged on the use of these two readymade forces.

The Vallkyte host of about twenty-six thousand strong were made of Vallkyte soldiers, Toll-marr and Hoath tribes. They were under the command of General Plysov, one of Kasan’s most able battle commanders. His mission was to secure the southern edge of the Wildlands using the navy, under Admiral Hurnac, to ferry the troops to the Lindla delta.

A Rogun force under its general, Sir Balaan, was to support the beleaguered Jertiani tribes that lived on the borders of the Wildlands and build up the ruined wooden palisade that stretched the entire length of the border.

All this was taking many months, while every day more and more soldiers were leaving to go to the south, also others to the Pander Pass in the Tattoium Mountains in the east, where a large Rogun fort would be King Vanduke’s second headquarters when he chose to move.

Havoc and Magnus trained and studied; life went on in the citadel. Magnus took up wrestling as a past time. He would fight with Havoc in the past, but, as his body got bigger, he found it easier to beat him and decided to seek other opponents. Word got around, and soon he found challengers of a similar age, and beat every one of them.

Their royal guard commander, Sir Gillem, an old Carras Knight of about fifty eight with a limp, but as tough as old boots, saw the benefits in Magnus, and duly started a betting pool. With Magnus now an unbeaten champion, the money was rolling in for Sir Gillem and he was always careful to give his young protégé a percentage of the winnings.

Havoc would blanch every time his brother would return from these bouts, seeing him covered in cuts and bruises, mostly on the face and arms, but always with a bright smile and bag of gold sovereigns. He would allow Eleana to bathe his wounds, even though girls were not supposed to be in their dormitory, yet this did not stop his sisters and cousins appearing unannounced.

Beautiful Eleana, always offered Havoc coy and meaningful looks when Magnus was not looking, and he would smile back without blushing. He was starting to notice the female form. Eleana was very pretty; he liked what he saw, but he was confused. She was almost like a sister to him. In addition, he would feel that strange heat welling up in him whenever she attended to Magnus as if he was jealous of them. The last time he felt it was before the fight with Soujonn. It was a strange sensation which he put down to his age and changing teenage body.

Havoc would go and watch Magnus fight in the early days, but then he eventually took to enjoying the peace and quiet in his room. He would sit on his bed and stare into the silver Muse Orrinn that made up Tragenn’s pommel and meditate. Nothing would happen, the Orrinn never gave up its secrets, and Havoc never believed that it would. He found that if he concentrated on the orb, sending his conscious thoughts into the silver surface of the sphere, then he was able to fall into a deep trance and meditate for many hours. Afterwards, he would feel very refreshed and the strange heat in his chest would dissipate.

One time, Magnus arrived back early after winning a quick, easy fight and found Havoc wide-eyed and pale faced staring into the Orrinn. He reached out his hand to shake him, but Havoc had grabbed it in a vice-like grip that nearly crushed his brother’s hand.

One day, he decided to go to the library to study some Skrol documents. He reasoned that, if the symbols on Tragenn’s blade were so easy for him to read, then he might be able to read some others.

Ancient Skrol was made up of eighty-four characters; all consisted of elaborate shapes and lines within circles; one symbol had dozens of meanings and, if several were together in a row, they could constitute a short phrase or an epic story. This was why Skrol was so difficult to understand. It took many years for scholars and Ris to get to grips with its subtle nuances.

The Skrol documents in the library were old, very old. Most were fragmented and encased in glass. Havoc was not surprised to find out that he could not read any of it. Therefore, he reasoned that he heard what the symbols meant on Tragenn from someone in the past. Nevertheless, it did not explain to him why the symbols were so clear, as if it was his own handwriting.

 

 

Reports came from all of the allied contingents that actively took part in the attempt to confront Mad-daimen and his Nithi horde in a conflict, now called, the War of the Wildlands. General Plysov had achieved a brilliant tactical landing near the Duluth Row with the help of the Admiral Hurnac, who had bombarded the enemy with arrows and fireballs fired from catapults and ballistae on his ships; the assault had been enough to keep the enemy back while the general consolidated and strengthened his position.

Sir Balaan’s Rogun Regiment of Engineers had taken hewn stone blocks from quarries in the Alniani region and built a wall behind the existing wooden one, blocking off Mad-daimen’s exit to the west. Cut off from the north by the dreaded ash banks of Dracolinth-sol, the Nithi Overlords only option was northeast into the Dragorsloth, or Dragon Marshes.

Vallkyte intelligence gatherers would arrive at Aln-Tiss on a weekly basis, confirming reports that the rebel army was far smaller than first thought. Plysov was pushing them to the marshes, but the going was slow. His supplies were not a concern; the Vallkyte navy saw to that. Mad-daimen and his host were tenacious fighters and knew the land well. Now, nearly eighteen months since the start of the campaign, thought Vanduke as he read the reports. The rebels
had
to break for the marshes.

The Rogun King took the initiative and moved his battle headquarters to the Pander Pass. All the infantry marched there some months ago and that just left the horsed knights and Men-at-arms, who would make good time covering the long distance. He left a skeleton force to guard the easily defended citadel.

Ness Ri left with them, going in his capacity as the king’s consul, but also to record events for the Ri archives.

The twins again sobbed their way through the goodbyes, obviously remembering their father’s departure. Vanduke hugged them all, lingering longer with the queen as she whispered in his ear. He turned to Havoc and clasped him in a warrior’s handshake for the first time.

“I hear from your teachers that you are going to be a powerful Rawn and an excellent swordsman; look after everything while I’m away.”

“I will, Father. May the gods go with you,” said Havoc.

The king turned to Magnus, looked him up and down, frowning. “I hear from certain… sources that you have taken up wrestling, and that bets are on for you to beat Sir Woodel’s son, Hectur, next month. Am I right?”

“Yes, sir.” Magnus was blushing and dragging his left foot in a circle on the ground.

“You know I despise betting!”

Magnus mumbled incoherently and hid his eyes behind his fringe, aware that everyone was watching him.

“I’ve got a hundred gold sovereigns on you, so you better bloody win, boy.” Vanduke was smiling down at him.

“Yes, sir,” said Magnus with bright enthusiasm, and everyone laughed.

The king and Lord Rett mounted their battle steeds and prepared to ride off. Lord Rett, not one for goodbyes, gave a quick wave and turned to the princes, giving to them both a nod of farewell, aware that he lingered slightly longer than the departing cavalry. His sorrowful face showed his emotions and his eyes never left Magnus’s. The Red Duke had many mistresses, but no child of his own; many believed, in certain circles, that Magnus would inherit his title in the event of his death.

“Both of you may find something of interest in the academy stables,” he said, and turned his mount and rode off after the departing column.

 

 

They all watched the Rogun host until the cloud of dust was just visible on the horizon. The city seemed smaller and quieter now to Havoc.

The ‘something of interest’ in the stables was two beautiful black stallions. A present from Lord Rett explained Sir Gillem as he handed them the reins. Black horses were common on the Aln plain, and these two trained as warhorses since they were colts.

Both princes were delighted and took them out of the north gate, and rode around the plain for many hours. Sir Gillem’s royal guard tried in vain to keep them in their sights.

The boys were already accomplished riders; most Roguns rode at a very young age. Their new mounts were fast and graceful, and handled instruction well.

They returned to the stable after severe chastisement from a very angry Sir Gillem.

“I will call you Dirkem; that means Night Ghost,” said Havoc as he brushed the animal down later that day and laid more hey in his stall. The horse ignored him and continued to eat more oats from a nosebag. “We will be great friends,” he said.

The sun was setting behind the Sky Mountains. A cold wind came from the east, the first chill of winter. Havoc looked out over the palace walls and thought of his father.

Chapter 5

Deception

 

 

The Pander Pass should not exist. It was not a natural route through the Tattoium Mountains, but manmade over three thousand years ago. The Vallkytes had hewn out a tunnel almost a mile long through the Tattoium Ridge to give them better access to the east as they separated from the Rogun tribe all of those years ago.

On the eastside was a fort. Its garrison was large and the stonewalls encompassed a small township complete with smithy, market and homes for the local populace, which were mostly soldiers and their families.

King Vanduke had set up his battle headquarters in a room of the small town hall, which was just large enough to fit his captains in as he chaired the meetings.

He received daily reports as the war dragged on and the influx of soldiers remained constant. The first of the Sonorans appeared a month after his arrival to the pass, and he sent their commander a message to take his force and train with the Rogun army; this was in order to judge the level of their professionalism and to give them something to do before they marched south. The Rogun force was now some twenty thousand strong, and camped outside the fort, amidst a sea of tents that stretched for miles. Another smaller army garrisoned at Fort Curran some fifteen miles to the southeast.

Provisions for the host, arrived daily from the rich ports of Sonora on a wagon train many miles long, stretching like a large undulating snake over the many miles to the pass.

King Hagan himself arrived one day with one of these supply trains, and warmly welcomed by his brother. Hagan’s jovial banter brightened up the grim life at the pass.

Vanduke received two messengers from home seven days after Hagan’s arrival.

One was from Sir Yorvic, his governor and commander of the citadels reduced guards. It was only a trivial administration document informing the king that all was well and running smoothly at the citadel, countersigned by the regent, Queen Molna. She, in turn, was not happy about ruling the city, so she left that to the resourceful Sir Yorvic. However, the queen had a mollifying affect on the Burgh Lords and Traders Guild, and it pleased the governor to have them kept off his back. Reading the document gave the king a strong sense of homesickness.

The governor’s messenger had not left. “Is there anything else?” asked the king.

“Yes, Your Majesty, I was to bring you this.” He produced from behind his back a heavy leather bag, tied at the top by a thong. He dropped it on the king’s desk, where it made a heavy jingling noise. “It’s a thousand gold sovereigns from Sir Woodel,” he said

The king was dumfounded. The messenger obviously needed to explain. “You won the bet, Sire.”

“The bet?” The king looked surprised.

“Young Prince Magnus, Sire.” The messenger smiled, remembering the fight. “He beat Hectur in the third round, threw him out of the circle; you should have seen him, Sire.”

The king smiled as understanding flooded his features. With all that was happening in the last month, he had totally forgotten about the wrestling match that he had wagered.

“Magnus.” He roared with laughter, getting to his feet and clapping a smiling Lord Rett on the back. “Told you the boy would win, old friend, a chip off the old block.” He playfully punched a confused King Hagan in the arm. “He is just as good as you were at that age, Hagan, if not better.”

He ordered the messenger to tell them all the fight in detail, and gave him five gold sovereigns for his trouble.

The second messenger came later that day. He was a Vallkyte from King Kasan’s host. He informed the Rogun king that Kasan was, at that very moment, approaching on his march through the Long Valley from the east and would soon be crossing the Furran Ford by the ruined Cromme Castle into the marshes. He had received reports from Plysov that the rebels were now camped in the dry land just north of the Dragorsloth, and Rogun and Sonoran assistance was required.

“Kasan has done his job, gentlemen,” the king said to his assembled officers the next morning. “Now it is our turn; we leave at once, and we will pick up the main force at Fort Curran. Let us go to battle.”

This last comment met with shouts of approval.

 

 

The four horsemen galloped through the Vallkyte lines towards the king’s marquee. Soft sunlight was trying its best to burst into life through to watery clouds, a feat that it was failing at in this early evening.

The tallest of the horsemen was General Plysov, gaunt and tardy in his black armour. He had piercing brown eyes and a large nose, which gave rise to his nickname of the Hawk; well known among all in the king’s camp, and granted instant access through the picket lines without any need of a password.

Two others that rode with him wore the same black armour, and in the same condition; these were his aides.

The fourth was a huge man of about six feet tall in furs, with a shaved head a black bushy beard and a golden feather tattooed on his scalp. He had a large double-headed axe strapped to his back.

The largest tent in this city of canvas was the king’s pavilion. White and circular, it doubled as his home from home and his battle headquarters. The two guards at the front opened the flap for the visitors. The newcomers had placed their weapons on a small cart by the tent, an act that made the tall man grumble.

Only the general and the tall man entered; the aides tended the horses.

“Plysov, welcome,” said King Kasan, getting up from his desk and giving the general a warrior’s handshake. There were others in the tent with them; Udren, the king’s champion, and three of his closest captains were sitting around the table pouring over maps as the visitors entered. Plysov noticed another figure sitting in a dark corner of the tent that was the king’s private bedchamber. The poor torchlight gave away some aspect of the stranger, tall and thin in a hooded dark purple cloak of the Havant Order; he could see this person was a female. She held a white staff with a serpent’s head at the top.

Although a tough man who had seen much in battle, he could not help but give an involuntary shudder as he recognised the figure.

The king introduced the group that was already familiar to Plysov, and then ignored the dark, hooded female. The tall, bearded man gave no such indication that the woman was there; Kasan was warmly welcoming him as he entered.

“Mad-daimen, how goes your rest in the marshes?” asked the king.

The big man chuckled. “As well as can be expected when you are up to your knees in shit,” he said, and smiled as they all laughed. His voice sounded well educated for a man who looked wild and burly. He looked towards a table full of fresh food. “Although good food is scarce,” he said

“Help yourselves, my friends,” said the king, waving towards the table.

Mad-daimen stuffed his face with cold meats, cheese, and bread, washed down with wine. Plysov merely sipped his wine.

Once the two men had had their fill, the king continued with his plans. “General Plysov, are your men in position?”

“Yes, sir, the infantry have been sent in advance as we planned; they should be at the Aln Hills by now.”

“Good, then you have my permission to continue with the invasion.” The king indicated the map on the desk; most were of the Citadel of Aln-Tiss. “Take the palace grounds and the city is in your grasp; my spies tell me it is poorly guarded, so you know what to do.”

“It shall be done, Sire,” said Plysov; the king could see he was eager to leave.

“Mad-daimen, our plan continues as normal; the Rogun and Sonoran armies are about three days’ march from here, and you will stall them with negotiations to buy the general more time, and, as before, you will shun any and all contact with heralds.”

“Understood, Sire.” The big man nodded.

“Rest assured, gentlemen, we will all have our just rewards, the Brethac Ziggurat will rise again,” said the king.

 

 

 

After the meeting, the king watched Plysov and Mad-daimen ride off to carry out his orders; everything now hinged on timing and the element of surprise. He returned to the tent to find the Havant sitting on his chair.

“Tell me about Mad-daimen?” she asked her voice rich and sweet as she traced the outline of the cobra head on her staff with a long, well-manicured fingernail.

“His father and mother were Nithi and from the noble House of Kelang. However, a cousin of his father’s, Mad-juthi of the Multan, took power by force and banished them from their homelands. I gave them asylum. Their son, Mad-daimen, is my most trusted spy in the Wildlands, which incidentally, will now be his to take back when all goes well.” The king poured himself some wine.

She stood up and pulled down her hood. Long white hair framed her pale oval face, and she had red lips that seemed to match the ruby-hazel colour of her eyes.

“I must congratulate you on the deception; how you managed to hide this from the Ri Order is beyond me.”

“The Ri Order cannot see beyond what is in front of them. You know them as well as I do, Jynn Ri,” said the king scornfully.

“Yes, and a new order shall destroy the old,” said Jynn, looking at the king with admiration.

“Will you return tonight?”

“Yes, my mistress needs a full report.”

“Very well, give Aunt Cinnibar my love.”

 

 

Far to the north, a golden sunset had discoloured the white buildings of the Citadel of Sonora into a dappled burnt orange; the golden domes of the Citizens and Authorities Guilds looked like a crisp green-bronze as the sun hid behind the Isle of Zent just off the city’s north coast.

BOOK: The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1)
10.02Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Alice in Bed by Judith Hooper
Pursuit of a Parcel by Patricia Wentworth
Mourning Sun by Shari Richardson
A Play of Dux Moraud by Frazer, Margaret
The Trouble with Tuck by Theodore Taylor
New Boy by Nick Earls