The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) (16 page)

Magnus’ jump had a little less flair. He was worried that the height was too much for him, but he unexpectedly managed to overshoot. Luckily enough, he was bang on target with the sentry and grabbed him on the way past. He and the guard both landed with a thump in the courtyard and Magnus quickly snapped the guard’s neck.

Havoc had grabbed his dispatched guard as he fell, so there was no sound. He turned to watch Magnus land and kill his man, and hissed through clenched teeth at the noise his brother made. Magnus looked up at Havoc and gave him an apologetic shrug.

Lord Rett, however, cocked everything, up. His jump went well. It had all of the Red Duke’s hallmarks of grace and flair. He floated over the palisade and decapitated his man quickly and quietly.

The trouble happened when he landed.

One of the Vallkytes’ whores, a striking brown-haired woman, was walking from the barracks to the Red Castle. She would not have seen the Red Duke land in the courtyard, because he was so silent and she had her back to him. Unfortunately, something clanged on the ground with a metallic thud that made Havoc grimace. The girl gave a little yelp and turned around to see Lord Rett looking as guilty as a puppy sitting next to a pile of its own shit. The duke smiled ruefully at her, and gave a cheeky little wink.

She paused, stunned, and looked slowly down at her feet to see what had made the clanging noise. It was the guard’s helmet with his head still in it; his wide eyes looked straight at her.

Then she screamed.

Magnus, who was closer to the girl, ran at her and slapped her into silence. Nevertheless, the garrison roused to the racket.

“Open the gate; I’ll hold them,” he shouted behind him.

Havoc leapt off the palisade and ran to the gate with Lord Rett; together, they got the gate open. Half-dressed enemy soldiers rushed out of the keep, only to find a fully dressed Magnus and his sword pushing them back.

Sir Colby and the legion rushed into the open gate and quickly formed a line beside Magnus with sword and shield. The villagers followed behind; some had swords or spears, most had gardening implements or makeshift clubs, and one man was deftly wielding his wife’s rolling pin, which made both Havoc and Lord Rett laugh, despite the impending battle.

The actual battle took an hour. Most of Captain Leask’s men were caught by surprise and despatched where they stood, or lying in their beds.

Leask and a good portion of his men retreated into the safety of the keep, where a large ground-floor dining hall saw the blood-soaked end to the battle. The captain stood in the centre of his soldiers shouting out orders and trying to keep the enemy from breaking into the defensive circle they had formed around him, and at his commands, it was holding.

Havoc aimed to put a stop to this or the fight would take all night. Therefore, he picked up a fallen sword in his left hand and, with Tragenn in his right; he hacked his way through to the centre of the enemy group. The first Captain Leask knew of Havoc’s infiltration was when he felt two crossed swords at his shoulders. He saw the prince’s fierce face for a second, and then both swords pulled across his neck in opposite directions. The enemy soldiers saw their captain’s head fly through the air and the fight went out of them after that.

The Red Duke’s men slaughtered them to a man.

Lord Rett ordered the dead bodies of the enemy placed in a pile outside in the courtyard. He also ordered the Red Castle’s livestock killed and added to the heap. Then he had everything flammable, chairs, tables, pictures and tapestries, placed onto the corpses.

He then burnt the lot.

The flames from the castle lightened up the whole land for miles. It cast flickering shadows over the snow-covered trees and the watching legion as they stood in the warm glow that welcomed the coming dawn. The legion left not long after that; the smell of burning flesh stayed with them for hours as they marched away. The villagers knew that, because they had helped their lord, the Vallkyte general would view than as outlaws. They took only what they needed and burnt their homesteads, and threw in their lot with the Red Duke.

The whole episode became known as the Red Roasting.

The legion moved down the River Silit. With no enemy at their rear, the Red Duke decided to march them down by the mountain fringes to find any Vallkyte patrols. Havoc agreed; he was happy that someone was making progress in this war; he was finding himself more upset about his father’s drunken lethargy, but he did not, could not, allow his emotions to fester.

They stopped at the small village of Perch two days later to drop off some of Lord Rett’s people and a much-weakened Azzen. They picked up supplies there and quickly moved on. It was on the third day as they made their way west towards the Rattan Plateau that Havoc noticed the ravens.

There was a cloud of them spiralling down over the plateau; there were other scavengers among them.

“Something at the Rattan, dead horse or cow maybe,” said Magnus, who looked when Havoc pointed them out.

“This far to the north; I doubt it.”

“We will take a look when we get closer,” said Lord Rett, who had also seen the dark cloud. “The camp is not far away, anyway.”

The Rattan Plateau was a flat, wide expanse of prairie land that had sat on the edge of gigantic glacier that existed millions of years ago. The Aln Plain now represented the floor of that glacier while the Rattan now rose a hundred feet above it. When the legion came closer, they could see four tall, thin wooden poles driven into the plateau earth. From the distance, they could judge that the poles were about twenty feet high and each had something on top.

“Oh no, no, no... By the gods, no,” yelled Magnus, who had realised what he was seeing.

His uncle tried to hold him back, but he ran straight towards the macabre scene, scattering the scavengers to the air. Havoc and the rest jogged after him; they ran faster when Magnus screamed. It was a scream of pure anguish.

The legion could only stare in shock at what they saw when they arrived; some turned away; others vomited.

Lord Rett and Sir Colby held back an inconsolable Magnus.

“The barbarians... They have used the Rawn traitors’ execution,” wailed Lord Rett.

In the ancient days of strife and war, kings would execute Rawn traitors in a painful way. Aware that Rawn masters could heal instantly, they had devised a slow, cruel death. They would impale them through the anus and the spear tip would come out through their mouths, then sliced open at the stomach and their guts pulled out and left hanging from their bodies.

The resulting trauma would eventually kill them.

The men of the legion sensed a change in the air as if an oppressive pressure pressed down on them. Most looked Havoc’s way; he stood stock-still and looking at the four corpses that used to be his sisters and cousins in a calm, detached manner. The men thought that this seemed more chilling than the picture before them.

Havoc was looking at Mia. The spear tip had exited her mouth and her eyes were missing, plucked out by the ravens. Rigor mortis had pulled her arms up to waste height and her hands were claws; some of her fingers were missing. Her bowls hung in loose red and purple tatters.

Tilly and Letti were much the same. However, at the foot of his cousins lay the corpses of two infants. Both with ebony handled daggers embedded into the top of their skulls. Letti received cuts more severely than her sister had, so the butcher could extract the unborn baby easier.

Verna looked beautiful. The spear point had come out at the nape of her neck, and she wore her favourite blue dress she used for court balls. She had a bright purple bruise around her throat that seemed in stark contrast to her pale face. She was looking down at Havoc with a sad and benign, almost benevolent, expression. Her light brown hair blew in the wind, and her green eyes were wide and compassionate.

For some reason, the ravens had not touched her.

“Queen of the Ravens,” he whispered in wonder, but did not know why he said that.

Lord Rett recoiled at the horror of the situation and shouted at the legionnaires to take the bodies down.

“Leave them,” said Havoc.

Even through all the noise of the legion talking and their pounding steel-shod boots on the cold, hard earth, they heard Havoc’s voice very clearly. Everyone looked at him. He was staring into Verna’s eyes.

“What...?” Pure astonishment was evident on Lord Rett’s face.

Sir Colby frowned and Magnus looked at him through a veil of tears.

“My Lord Duke, have I, as your prince, ever gave you an order?” His voice was not unlike the king’s and it gave Lord Rett pause.

Havoc was looking straight at him and he could see in his eyes a man in control, a man, not a boy, a man not easily denied.

There was a sharp tangible static in the air. The snow at Havoc’s feet had melted around him in a six-foot radius. The legionaries stepped back a few paces. Lord Rett realised the prince was trying hard to hold back his Pyromantic energies.

“No, my prince, you have not,” said Lord Rett.

“Then they stay as they are.” He looked at Sir Colby. “Sir Knight, please be so kind as to bring our people here; they will need to see this.”

Magnus stood to protest, but saw the look in Havoc’s eyes. “Why?” he asked.

Havoc was looking at Verna again.

“Because they are first and foremost my family; they are Cromme. The way that they have been abused, punished and murdered must never be forgotten, so let all see and remember.”

Chapter 11

The Pyromancer’s Rage

Queen Molna looked down at the child in the crib. He was a beautiful baby with dark green eyes and light fair hair. There was also a purple birthmark on his left temple. The child crooned up at the queen and dribbled on his hands, but Molna did not smile.

The Vallkyte people of their capital citadel, Dulan-Tiss, had welcomed the Queen of the Roguns with open arms and warm smiles. Her arrival, followed with a parade down the main street to the king’s castle, drew the local populace in their thousands. Thousands lined the road and threw scented petals under her horse’s hoofs. The queen did not smile. She knew it was just for show.

King Kasan arrived a week later, welcomed her to her new home, and made her comfortable. She was courteous, but distant.

The wedding was illegal, all knew it, but the king went through with it anyway, and Molna obediently did as ordered for fear of angering Kasan. She only spoke when spoken to, and her replies were short and cold.

The king summoned her to his bedchamber that night and every night for the rest of that month. She never gave in to the enjoyment of it. As far as she was concerned, it was loveless and base. If the king noticed, he did not show it. He used her anyway, and got what he wanted.

The result of their coupling lay in the crib before her.

The king named his heir, Creed.

She left the baby in the care of a wet nurse and walked into the gardens, followed, as always, by her many guards. This was her favourite place in the castle grounds. The rest of the Dulan-Tiss she did not care for with its block buildings and staccato design. The castle itself, although luxurious inside, was just an angular block with four massive turret towers at each corner, yet it was homely. She watered the boarders and shrubs of the garden, and then picked the heads off the dead roses.

King Kasan watched her from his bedchamber balcony as the messenger he had sent walked up to the queen as she administered to her garden. He smiled as he watched her take the note. News from General Plysov a month ago gave him the opportunity to continue the Rogun cull. He had sent back a quick reply and ordered the princesses’ execution.

Queen Molna read the note outlining the trial and the subsequently cruel sentence of execution imposed on her daughters and King Hagan’s twins. Kasan watched the note fell from her hands. She wailed a cry of deepest despair and collapsed to the ground.

The king turned back and closed the glass doors to her screams. He looked forward to summoning her to his bedchamber tonight.

“Let all who come here to witness this today, remember, let it burn into your minds,” shouted Havoc at the sea of pale faces as the exiles stared at the four impaled princesses. “Do not let your stomachs quell at the sight you see, for they are no longer there. Their souls have ascended to the undying lands of their forefathers and joined the brave in the Halls of the Heroes; they can feel no more pain.”

People bemoaned and others nodded at Havoc’s words; others prayed for the departed souls.

“But mark my words, as I stand here before you as my father’s heir. The atrocities that we shall rain down upon the Vallkytes in retaliation, shall be a sweet mercy compared to all that we have suffered, and it shall not come close to what you see before you.”

There were cheers at that.

He held up the ebony handled daggers that belonged to the Nithi.

“I shall give back the daggers, but only in their throats, and I shall wash my hands in their blood.”

More cheers and shouts.

“I make a promise here today that I will avenge these callous murders; I will punish our enemies till they beg for mercy, but they will receive none.”

The end of the prince’s speech drew a thunderous reception of applause from the crowd.

“Burn the bodies, Sir Colby, give their ashes to the plateau,” said the prince, and the knight nodded and issued orders to the men responsible for constructing the pyres.

His father had missed the speech; he arrived bleary eyed and half drunk, after Lord Ness woke him and told the news. He now stood silently looking down at the bodies of the girls. Vara was at his side howling into the snow flurry that had covered most of their horrendous wounds. The king’s tears streamed down his face to his beard as he leant over and kissed each one on the forehead. He then took Vara’s hand to escort her away.

Vara saw Havoc standing alone and silent in the distance; she stormed up to him and slapped him hard across the face; the sound of it echoed over the plateau.

The prince did nothing; he merely stared at her.

“How dare you! How dare you parade them like that to your own people,” she said, and broke down again, falling into his open arms.

“My dear aunt, I had to. I had to give their deaths to the memory of the people who will fight for their justice. In time, when this is all over and vengeance has been satisfied, on that day, you will forgive me,” he said, and she untangled herself from his arms and went back to camp.

Between the king, Lords Ness and Rett, they started the fire on the pyre as soon as the exiles finished walking past the bodies to pay their last respects. As the fire grew stronger, sending black clouds into the afternoon air, the entire Rogun army stood at the edge of the plateau watching for any of the enemy, though there was none. The tired ranks of the Prince’s Legion stood with them.

When the pyre burnt out the next morning, the three Rawn masters summoned a strong wind and spread the ashes over the plateau.

It became known as the Finder’s Camp after the day the king and his defeated army had found Havoc and his refugees, but the mood in the Finder’s Camp was now not a happy one. Although the camp’s life continued as normal, everyone knew a change had come across them. The words of De Proteous’ speech still rung in their heads, and, without the king’s orders, many had gone on roving patrols to hunt down any of the enemy.

Magnus was one of the commanders. He had left a tearful Eleana alone. The king found that the pain eased with ale, and plenty of it. Havoc remained in camp; he never spoke to anyone, and, when Ness Ri expressed his concerns to him, he was assured by an emotionless prince that he was not to worry. The meditation and mind techniques continued more than ever, and that he was not in the mood for chatting. His master left him alone after that.

The camp did not move for a week; the daily patrols had not returned, but that occurred on occasion, they were out scouting out new camps on Lord Rett’s orders. Havoc was about to take another patrol north or just ride alone mainly to become more active again and take his mind off things, after all, life goes on. Therefore, he had saddled Dirkem and gathered a handful of men. That was when he saw his saw his father for the first time in days. He did not understand it, but he felt ashamed of him and the feeling sat in the pit of his stomach. His father seemed sober; he had taken his sword and was limbering up for a spar with Lord Rett.

“Spar, Father?” asked Havoc as he approached.

The king looked at his son, as if seeing him for the first time, then smiled and nodded. “Of course, Havoc, but be gentle with me.” He chuckled.

They started with a few simple moves. Havoc got the impression his father was deliberately slowing his defence; however, he knew by reputation that he was good.

“Are you ashamed of me, Father?”

The question shocked the king.

“I could never be ashamed of you.”

They were picking up the tempo of sword clash and darting around each other. The king’s movements became faster. Out of the corner of his eye, Lord Rett watched them.

“A Pyromancer for a son... I would have been better off as a leper.”

“No one thinks that, least of all me.”

“We have lost so much as a people and all that we love as a family... Do you wish it was me impaled on those spears?” He was being too harsh with his father and he knew it.

“That is enough of that talk, son! I cannot help what has happened, and not to blame, either.

If I could give my life to change the past for the better, I would. You know that!” His voice was cracking as he talked and Havoc thought him weak; the familiar heat expanded in his stomach.

It had festered there for days now since seeing the ravens. He knew he could not stop it.

Havoc attacked with several quick flourishes, and his father expertly defended. They skirted around the boulder that they had both sat on when his father had told him he was a Pyromancer.

“Then why are you not doing something to avenge them? Instead of wallowing in self-pity at the bottom of a mug of ale!” shouted Havoc, and pushed his father back some more; the swords were moving faster; both seemed to blur into one.

“Stop now, you have gone too far, son, stop.” His father was pleading.

“Stop, Havoc,” shouted Lord Rett.

Ness Ri ran towards them. “Enough, young prince, do not let your anger go too far,” he said.

Havoc ignored them all and fought harder to get under his father’s defence; the king looked worried at his son’s angry face and at Tragenn landing closer to him with every lunge.

“What do you wish me to do, son? Start a suicidal attack on our city or face an army four times our size? I know you are smarter than this.”

Havoc feinted left, then right, and caught his father’s sword and flicked his wrist; the weapon fell from his father’s hand. He pointed Tragenn at the king. Lord Rett unsheathed Selnour.

“No my prince, I will use Selnour if I have to.”

The king put up his hand to stop his champion. “Go ahead, son.” He was breathing heavily. “If this makes you feel better, go ahead, but do not blame me for things that are not within my power.”

Havoc tried to stop it, but it was too far-gone for that now. The heat built up from his anger. However, instead of a shimmering ball of superheat in front of him, the Pyromantic energy went to his hands, which had the look of molten iron blocks. Havoc looked at them. He could still see the whorls of his fingerprints underneath the orange glow.

“Control it, My Lord, send it somewhere else,” cried Ness Ri.

His father was standing in front of the huge boulder. Lord Rett was at his side, ready to push him out of the way; their faces betrayed their fear.

He could control it no longer and, with an enormous effort, he shouted, “
Move
away!
”