The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) (8 page)

Cinnibar looked out over to the north wharf, from her private apartment balcony in the Havant Temple. From here, she could see the hustle and bustle of port life. It never stopped, day or night; the constant crash and drum of life’s nature held on these five quayside landing stages. To control their very existence was to have power over the island.

King Hagan could not see that; the Countess of Sonora could.

She turned her attention back to her guest. The soft sea breeze ruffled her silk evening gown as she closed the glass doors on the noise outside.

“The king, he never told you where he sent the dwarves?” she asked in a carefree voice.

“No, My Lady, he was very guarded about that,” said her guest. She was short and slim, with red hair and a very freckled face that gave her a young, cute look even though she was the regent and Queen of Sonora.

Cinnibar new better to probe and shrugged off the answer as if it did not matter.

“So your request is, Madam?”

“Protection!” said Queen Vara.

“You are already protected, My Lady.” Cinnibar spread her arms as if to show her that the city was her shell.

“The Provisional King’s Guards are undermanned as well you know, Countess. The king’s castle requires a stronger force… At least until the king returns.” She seemed flustered and anxious. The stress of missing her family was showing.

“I understand,” said the countess in her most sincere tone. “I will have the Havant Guard ready tomorrow morning at your disposal.”

The queen visibly relaxed.

“Thank you; you are most kind, My Lady.”

Cinnibar called for a servant to show the queen out; she watched from her balcony as the coach took her away.

She smiled. Sometimes the plans you make for the future had a way of making themselves,
she thought to herself.

Presently, another coach arrived and a tall, grey-haired man got out. The countess’ smile broadened.
Yes,
she thought,
this was a day for plans
. She ordered her servant to prepare a bath for the high priest.

The grey-haired man stormed into Cinnibar’s rooms a few minutes later. He was agitated, and angrily pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Damn those port authorities; that is another crate of Keveni Rice Brandy that’s gone missing; that’s two in the last month,” said Kellborne

“Yes, dear, I have run you a bath,” said Cinnibar.

“Thank you. Can you not use your influence with the guild and ask for stricter measures when it comes to off loading goods? I’m sure it’s stolen at the quay.”

“Yes, dear.” She ushered him to the bathroom, where she used a soft sponge to wash his fine-toned body and calm his tired muscles.

She departed to allow him to soak on his own.

Kellborne dried himself half an hour later and put on his fur robe, feeling refreshed and a little tired; he walked to the bedroom.

The Countess of Sonora was standing naked by the bed as he entered. Her long blonde hair barely covered her pert breasts. The shadows from the moonlight that shone through the windows enhanced the muscles on her abdomen, and showed off her pale, white skin.

“My dear.” He smiled in anticipation at the joy to come.

She took his hand and they padded barefoot to the antechamber next to the bedroom. Eight torches sitting in niches around the room instantly bloomed into flame as they passed. It always gave Kellborne a chill when she used a power that he did not understand. The room was round, with no furniture. In the centre was a round stone table with what looked like a large bronze eggcup; inside the cup was an Orrinn.

The Orrinn was a mystery; thought to be a gift from a long-dead descendant of an Elder who believed it cursed and bequeathed it to the order. It was by far the largest Orrinn Kellborne had ever seen; it stood four feet high and was just as wide. It was, shaped like an egg, and no one knew what it material it was made from. It seemed alive, because its surface shimmered with white and blue vapour and, because of this, it was always known as the Cloud Orrinn. No one knew what it did; many regarded it as the Havant Orders talisman and a closely guarded secret.

Many times, he and Cinnibar had made love on, or near the Orrinn, and this was his thought now as she led him to the table.

“Plans have come to fruition,” she said.

If Kellborne did not know better, he could have sworn she spoke to the Orrinn.

“What plans, dear?”

“A new order has arisen from the old,” she said with a vacant look in her eyes.

She turned to him and lifted her left hand to her chest, and held it there, palm down, in a claw. He shrugged off his gown and stood there naked in front of her; a small pain in his stomach caused him to stop.

“Power beyond what you can imagine is within my grasp,” she said

He frowned at her. “Power, what power?”

His stomach pain was becoming more tangible, and he clutched his side; it seemed to spread up to his chest.

“A change will descend upon this land.” Cinnibar brought her other hand up to her chest.

Lancing pain, the strength of which he had never known before, shot through his body; he yelled at the top of his voice.

“Cinnibar, what are you doing?” he yelled in a high-pitched screech.

“Plans have been made....” she said, her eyes bright and venomous.

Kellborne clutched his sides; he felt a hot liquid splash onto his feet, and he looked down and saw a pool of blood. A small gash had opened up in his groin.

“...And you are not part of them,” Cinnibar said, spreading her arms wide.

Kellborne disintegrated into thousands of pieces; his flesh splashed over the floor and the walls in a wide ark. Globules hung on the ceiling like red stalactites; steam from the eviscerated bowels spread into the cold air of the antechamber and hung likes a thin mist.

Cinnibar walked carefully between the broken flesh and bone. She stopped and reached down among the wreckage and picked up the high priest’s chain pendant, a six-pointed star with an all-seeing eye in the centre; she wiped the blood from its surface.

The double doors to the antechamber opened and two hooded, purple-robed females walked in. They stopped just inside the door. If they thought anything strange about Cinnibar kneeling naked among several square metres of Kellborne, they did not show it. Cinnibar turned to them; they were, as she ordered, ready for battle, wearing chain mail underneath their robes, with their swords strapped to their backs.

“Ahh... Tia, Serena, there seems to be four men among the order,” she said in an offhand way.

“Yes, mistress,” said Tia.

The faces of the two concealed in the shadows of their hoods, which covered the top half of their features, but their mouths were lush, ample and young.

“They have received all of the fruits we females can give them. As the new high priestess, in what is fast becoming a single sex order, it seems they have exceeded their mandate.”

The two standing at the doors said nothing.

“Dispatch them.” She ordered, turning away; the sound of drawn swords and departing footsteps confirmed their exit. She waved a hand, and a strong wind slammed the double doors shut.

She stood in front of the Orrinn, her arms outstretched.

Her white body started to quiver and the Skrol symbols that covered the Orrinn’s cup started to glow red as she chanted.

She fell to her knees and grasped the sides of the Orrinn.

The link was instantaneous. A sudden rush to a screaming multitude of voices that were not of her language and in the middle of this nucleus of chaos was what she sought, a dark masculine force that reached out to her. His whole body grasped back by thousands of hands that seemed insubstantial to her, as if her conscious thoughts were showing an interpretation of the actual act of captivity.

“Earth Daemon, the future we spoke of is now in progress,” she said. Her body trembled with the effort of keeping the link active. “I have done as you commanded and eliminated those who stand in our way. My master, Lord Sernac, has seen the future you described, and controls several Ris. Soon, the Order of the Brethac Ziggurat will have dominion over all. What is thy bidding?”

The alien entity was trying hard to reach towards her. The effort was so enormous that the energy extinguished could force mountains to erupt into existence. Her nails gripped the Orrinn and scratched the surface; the entity spoke in such a rush it made her ears bleed.

Destroy the Blacksword!
Screamed a deep, guttural voice in her mind.

She flinched.

“The prophesy?” asked Cinnibar, barely hanging on.

No answer.

Another mind was there in an instant, ancient and wise. As usual, it was concerned with the link she had with the entity, and was trying to sever it.

“When will we be together, my master?” The pain of keeping the link intensified; she felt her energy levels ebbing.

Sooooon,
the answer screamed
into her mind, and she saw the pseudo hands gripping and pulling the entity down into their depths. The Ancient One forced her away.

With the link broken, she collapsed to the floor, her energy spent.

In the distance, she could hear the sounds of men’s voices screaming for mercy as they were cut down by here priestesses.

She paid them no heed.

Chapter 6

The Battle of Dragorsloth

Ness Ri woke from the dream. His body was drenched in sweat and the sheets piled together in a heap; he must have been thrashing about for some time.

He had difficulty holding onto the dream as it was starting to fragment and disappear. He got a strong sense of concern from another mind, which was far older than his own was. It was calling to him from a long distance, calling for help.

He got up and washed his face in a wooden bowl by his bed. Deciding that sleep was now beyond him, he put his clothes on. Besides, he did not relish the thought of another nightmare. He had had many such dreams throughout his time as a Ri Lord, but not one as intense; the feeling of something invading his mind was something he did not relish. However, the dream disturbed him and he did not know why. He would meditate and think on it later.

In the middle of his tent, propped up against the central post, was his sword-staff, made of deep dark mahogany. At its tip was a wolf’s head, carved from obsidian, which made up the sword’s pommel. It stood about five feet high, and was perfectly straight and slender. The sword, called Belthoin, meaning Battle Mage, was like all Rawn swords, it had no hand guard so it could blend with the staff when sheathed. He reached for it and pulled out the blade. Its gleam was a cold blue in the moonlight from the open tent flap.

The sword-staff was the trademark of a Ri; they carried them wherever they went and they were allowed anywhere. As a rule, members of the Ri Order were forbidden to use force, unless in self-defence; theirs was a peaceful organisation. As a result, they were never touched, purely because of the fact that a Ri was far quicker and more powerful than your average Rawn Master.

He left his tent. All was quiet in the early morning hours. The sky seemed clear, but dark clouds threatened from the east. The dust rings around the moon glittered silvery light that showed the many rows of tents in the Rogun camp. Most were for the officers; the main army slept out in the cold starlight wrapped up in their blankets or cloaks.

They had spent five long days marching from the pass and Fort Curran, but Ness Ri thought they had made very good time. The host was now camped at the narrow entrance to the Dragorsloth. Far in the distance sat the rebel camp with their fires burning brightly. Off to the east, hidden from view, was the Vallkyte host camped behind the ridgeline. Their part tomorrow was to lend support to the Sonoran left flank and provide reserves when needed.

The Ri looked to the west at the Tattoium Ridge. In the distance, a small hillside would provide a very good view of the battlefield.

He knew that battle on this day was a certainty. Negotiations opened as soon as the allied forces arrived yesterday afternoon, but totally ignored by Mad-daimen.

The Ri sighed. He had seen enough battle to make his guts churn, and he would pray to the gods for a quick victory. War was for the young.

The Southron Pass was a seldom-used, seldom-known route through the Tattoium Mountains and over the Great River. General Plysov could see why. It had sheer drops into dark ravines of a thousand feet or more as the pass edged around the mountains. He had already lost three of his men, due to their lack of vigilance, of course. It was also unnervingly close to the Dracolinth-sol, the twin volcanoes that sat in the middle of the wastelands; its reeking fumes took the very air from his lungs.

Once through the pass, the going was easier, which gave the general much relief. They had lost a day’s journey as it was. His large host took the mountain route through the narrow Wing Valley and rested in the Perwood on the second day. They were dangerously close to the north Jertiani people, who allied themselves with the Roguns, so he sent out scouts to find a safer route that could hide them before they took the open ground of high grasses that was the Aln Plain. Once on the plain, there would be no place to hide, but he planned to stay away from the main roads and trade routes, hoping that the vastness of the plain would hide them.

King Vanduke was beginning to regret sending another herald out to the rebel force. As before, the messenger returned without any reply from Mad-daimen, but also without his head. He was, at this moment, looking at the headless corpse tied to his horse, sitting against a y-shaped birch yolk that was keeping the body upright.

Word of this had spread like wildfire throughout the ranks, and shouts of abuse were thrown out to the rebel force, who were too far away to hear, but were getting closer by the minute as the allies marched into position.

The Sonorans took the left flank and the Roguns the right; the two armies stretched for two miles across the marshland. The infantry and spearmen marched in their square columns wore their half armour and skillet helmets. Lord Rett, an able cavalry commander, had split the Carras Knights into three separate forces; one stayed in the middle with the Rogun King while the others protected the flanks. The duke himself took the right while King Hagan commanded the knights on his left.

Mad-daimen’s host had already moved into position. Even though the Rogun and Sonoran Kings believed that these rebels had fought for their lives for almost two years, they seemed prepared, burly and well nourished, with thick hide armour known as Ferrington Woade, long swords, axes and many archers.

The allies halted at about a hundred yards from the rebel host.

All was still. The clouds that had been threatening to open all morning did so and a light hail descended on the stationary ranks. An annoying pinging sound accompanied the downpour as the hail hit the soldiers’ helmets and armour. Both sides stared at each other across the distance. The stench from the bog to the south blew away as a cold wind fought its way through the ranks of both sides.

On his vantage point on the hillside, Lord Ness had watched both hosts move into position; he was standing on the edge of a deep abyss that looked black and uninviting.

He watched the Vallkytes form up on their ridge and thought that Kasan had picked a good tactical position. He could swoop down from that height and smash into the enemy flank. From his position on the ground, Mad-daimen could not see who occupied the ridge.

Over to the south would be General Plysov, thought the Ri, sitting in wait for the routing of the rebels. He looked that way now and saw no sign of him, but that was to be expected; his orders were to hide and guard the south of the Dragorsloth.

After being alone on the high hill for about four hours, he saw a rider approach from the Vallkyte lines. As the rider reached the foot of the hillside, he could see it was Saltyn Ri, King Kasan’s consul, wearing a grey hooded cloak and carrying his sword staff, which was made of pine and walnut and had a fox’s head on the pommel.

They greeted each other warmly with an embrace and, together, they stood on the hill and watched the events unfold.

Soujonn wiped the rainwater from his brow; he looked out across the dark dismal Aln Plain for any sign of movement. General Plysov’s force was due any time now; without him, the capture of the Rogun citadel was impossible.

He stooped to drink from a stream that came down from the Aln Hills. For three days now, some six thousand Vallkytes and Nithi had hidden here from any prying eyes, but they had not seen a soul in all that time.

He was itching to leave; all the soldiers in this host felt the same; time was of the essence, and time was pressing. Going to the citadel exited him in more ways than he could explain; vengeance was foremost on his mind; his cousin would suffer for the humiliation of two years previous. Havoc would find him a different man, no longer a novice knight; he was nearly ready for his final trials, and his fat body had shrunk to a slimmer frame.

The servant, Eleana, was also on his mind; how he relished the chance to take her for his own, with force, if necessary.

The dull sound of hoof beats suddenly interrupted his thoughts. In the dark gloom, a column of several riders rode around the side of the hill, swinging west towards Soujonn’s direction. They halted at the opening to the valley; the front two murmured to each other. In the dark crevice where Soujonn hid, he could see they wore armour.

One of them put his hands to his mouth and shouted, “
Reaping!
”

Soujonn let out his breath.
The password
,
at last, they are here.
He thought.

He walked out from his hiding place and approached the riders.

“Harvest,” he called back to complete the transaction of verbal codes, and the riders turned towards him.

One disengaged from the rest and trotted over to Soujonn.

“How far?” asked General Plysov.

“The men are about a mile into the valley, sir,”

“Good, tell them we are here and bring them out. I will meet you on the north side, now go.”

Soujonn ran, his heart pounding, but it was not beating with exertion.