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.
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 gi
ve 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.
The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) Page 7
