King Vanduke did not see his consul’s flaming body fall from the high cliff. He was looking in the opposite direction at the attack from the rear.
“Kasan you traitorous bastard, you’ve deceived us!” he growled to himself through gritted teeth.
He noticed that Nithi warriors augmented the Vallkyte host’s numbers. Many thousands were running into the fight. In the distance, he could just see the enemy surrounding the Sonoran King.
“By the gods...Hagan!” He spurred his mount to go to his brother’s aid, but was stopped by Lord Rett who appeared by his side.
“No, Sire!” he said in a sharp tone, and pointed to the north behind the king.
Vanduke turned and saw a mass of Vallkyte infantry running towards them, trying to block off any retreat.
Over on the Sonoran left, Hagan’s men died in droves all around him. He could see small islands of his men fighting for their lives. The smell of newly spilt blood and horse sweat clawed at his nostrils. The screams of the dying pierced his ears. He shouted out commands, but the control of battle was slipping from his grasp.
An arrow fired from close range hit him in the leg through his armour.
Another from behind pierced his right shoulder; he yelled in pain as he fought off Nithi and Vallkytes with figure of eight sweeps of his sword from his saddle.
An axe man got through his defence and struck his horse in the neck just above the animal’s own laminate plating. The axe lodged deep inside the mare as she reared, and the king fell heavily to the ground. The axe’s owner received a kick in the head from the flailing hooves of the dying horse and he collapsed to the ground. Hagan recovered quickly and continued to fight. He healed the wound in his shoulder around the arrow shaft to give him better mobility with the sword. Soon, a circle of dead surrounded him and he used hardened blasts of air fashioned from the third element to smash away approaching shield men before they encircled him. He was growing weaker by the minute.
Other unhorsed knights came to his aid. Now that he was on the ground, he did not have the advantage of height to see how the battle fared, but it was not going well.
The Roguns had an advantage on the right. Because their horsed archers had thinned the rebel ranks, they now turned their attention on the Vallkyte infantry moving in from the north, and fired volley after volley into the attacking line. It had the effect of stalling the charge for the Roguns to regroup.
Lord Rett had quickly ordered his Carras Knights to charge the Vallkytes coming from the north. The lightly armoured foot soldiers were no match for a charging column of heavy horse, and they soon disappeared under their hooves.
“You must order a breakout, Sire,” said Lord Rett to the king.
Vanduke had seen his brother fall from his horse. He could also see a white-armoured knight riding through the ranks towards Hagan’s position.
“Yes... of course, breakout now.” The strain was evident on his face.
Inside the shrinking mass of the Sonoran host, Hagan’s knights fell one by one to the burly enemy axmen. Sir Perrin, a young knight, was the only one left by his side, and he could barely stand because of his wounds; he turned to the king. “It has… been... a... a pleasure serving with ... you, Sire.”
He ran limping into the mass of enemy and was swallowed up by the multitude.
Hagan breathed hard; surrounded, yet no one came near him. Then the sea of faces opened up and King Kasan walked towards him, his white armour now stained red like the colour of his shoulder guards.
“Ahh... the cunning traitor has appeared,” said Hagan. “What are you gaining from all of this? What did you promise the Nithi?”
“Everything... but I’ll take your head as down payment!” said Kasan, and, with sword in his right hand and battle-axe in the other, he attacked his brother.
The Roguns struggled to breakout; only half their number made it; the Vallkyte and Nithi officers saw their escape and regrouped the soldiers to follow. Vanduke could see in the distance that a circle formed around Kasan and Hagan; tears welled in his eyes.
Hagan was weak from his wounds and from the use of his powers. He also knew from experience that Kasan was a far more skilled fighter than he was. Nevertheless, he went into the attack with a mad rage and caught his brother off guard, denting the beautiful white armour at the chest and slicing a deep gash into his side.
Kasan did not even flinch from the wound, he swung his axe into an upward angle and it slammed into Hagan’s gut, lifting the Sonoran King off his feet and over a pile of bodies. There were cheers from the surrounding men.
Hagan coughed blood and realised some ribs were broken. Kasan attacked again, cutting through the Sonoran steel plate with his Rawn sword; blood leaked over Hagan’s grey armour; he swayed on his legs and fought for breath as weakness overwhelmed him. He used the Rawn Arts as best he could, but his brother severed the flows that sprang up around him cutting off the elemental energies of flame, earth and wind as quickly as Hagan could summon. Kasan was always stronger than he was in the Arts.
“Make it quick,” Hagan said as he fell to his knees in defeat; another gout of blood splashed to the ground from his mouth. “Bastard!”
“Of course, brother,” said Kasan, his green eyes burning with malice.
Vanduke, from his view of the battlefield on his mount, had seen the final stroke of Kasan’s sword as he decapitated Hagan. His scream of rage reverberated all across the rows of combatants.
“Please, Sire, we must go,” pleaded Lord Rett; the enemy had regrouped and were coming on strong.
The king turned and followed his fleeing host.
The Battle of Dragorsloth was over, and, instead of an allied victory that everyone expected, it had turned into defeat and a rout, but not from King Kasan’s perspective.
Chapter 7
Paradise Lost
As the night grew cold, the fine drizzle of rain turned to heavy sleet and then snow. Large flakes clung to the guard’s cloak and obscured his vision of the Aln Plain. He stamped his feet to ward off the chill, but he knew that, before his shift ended, the cold would bite into his very bones.
Movement down by the east gate caught his attention, and he gripped his spear and walked out from the gate tower roof and down the stairs to the crenulated battlements to get a better look.
Black shapes, many of them, were coming up from the old road. He grabbed the nearest flame brazier and threw it down in front of the approaching figures. The burning coals sparked for an instant and he could make out horsemen in dark armour from the light they gave off.
Before he could call out to them, a whole cacophony of voices shouted back in panic, most said:
“Open the gate, man, hurry!”
“We are being pursued!”
“Hurry up!”
“We are under attack!”
The guard tried not to panic and called for identification.
“Vallkyte, Toll-marr army, under General Plysov,” was the reply.
The guard rang the alarm bell and called down to the gate guard to run and get the governor.
Sir Yorvic, a wily old veteran of several campaigns, knew General Plysov by reputation only, but from the look of him, he understood why they called Plysov the Hawk. He had rushed out of his bedroom with only a pair of britches and a woollen shirt on. He carried his sword still sheathed.
“Good gods, man... What’s happened?” he asked to the general through the sliding eye slot in the east gate.
“Nithi ambush,” gasped the general. “Large force of them; been hounding us for days. I have wounded, governor; need sanctuary behind these walls. The Nithi will be here soon.”
The mention of wounded swung it for the governor and he ordered the gates opened.
Soujonn watched as Plysov and his small detachment trotted in through the gates; he turned around and galloped back to call in the rest of the force.
Plysov, dismounted, and talked to the governor to keep him distracted. His officers were pointing men in d
ifferent directions so they could take up their positions; some raced up the stairs of the gatehouse, where the locking mechanism for the gate was housed.
“Where are the wounded?” Sir Yorvic frowned at the soldiers moving all around him and on the citadel walls. “What is...?”
“We need to help you defend the city, Governor.”
He was inwardly cursing Soujonn; where was the boy? “My men are good at their job.”
Soujonn appeared at the entrance to the gates with the main body of his army.
“How many men did you say you had?” asked the governor.
“More than enough,” said Plysov as he unsheathed his sword.
Sir Yorvic gasped as three feet of cold steel rammed into his stomach.
Plysov twisted the hilt in and out as the governor died. He pulled out his sword with a sickening wrench. He turned to his men to give the signal. “Now!” he shouted.
Havoc woke suddenly. Pitch black, still night. What woke him up?
He got out of bed and put on his clothes; he picked up the sounds of screaming coming from the garrison. He stopped dressing and listen again, more screams, louder, closer this time. A flare of anxiety blossomed in his gut and he felt the strange heat once again. He ignored it and pulled on his woollen shirt, trousers and leather jerkin. He strapped Tragenn to his back.
He ran out of his academy room and banged his fist on the next door to his.
“Magnus, wake up.”
The door opened and Eleana stood there wide-eyed, and to Havoc’s relief, fully dressed. Magnus pulled on his shirt and frowned at the look Havoc gave back.
“What?” he asked.
Havoc said nothing, annoyed, and with that familiar warm feeling brewing in his chest again. He turned and ran to the academy entrance.
Outside, the world was white with snow; it was also in chaos.
Soujonn led his group up the half-mile road, and then headed north towards the academy. His task was to secure the north gate.
Plysov had split his men into four units. The first and smallest would kill the guards on the walls and keep the gate open; the second was ordered to attack the garrison, and then move onto the south gate at the entrance to Market-town. The general took the largest group. They would go through the palace and on to Carras Isle to dispatch the reduced army of knights there. He would also attack the naval yard, even though the Vallkyte Navy, under Admiral Hurnac, was on his way.
The fourth group, under Soujonn, barely managed to evade the garrison guards who came rushing out at the invaders. He ran onward noting that the Roguns were putting up a good fight, but they were grossly outnumbered. Vallkytes and Nithi threw lit torches onto the garrison buildings and annexes, the flames casting awkward shadows over the blood-stained snow.
“Kill everyone!” he shouted to his men.
Eventually, he would split his men up, half to take the academy and his half to take the north gate.
Havoc could see intruders inside the citadel. Who were they?
The garrison was on fire, men were fighting in the streets and black-suited soldiers were heading in his direction. Students, who were trying to see what was going on, were jostling him and he had to move away from the throng. The palace grounds swarmed with soldiers. He thought of his sisters, his mother and the twins; anger boiled in him, making the heat in his chest burn hotter. He pulled out Tragenn to the cold air and headed for the palace, but a strong hand grabbed him. It was Sir Gillem.
“Go to the stables and get the horses.” He ordered as five other knights from the royal guard joined him.
Havoc was about to protest when the approaching black-clad soldiers charged at the students; most were hacked down, some ran, and others fought bare handed or used the Rawn Arts. Yet the mass of enemy crashed through them like a blade through wheat stalks.
Sir Gillem and the other knights charged into the attackers, Havoc joined in, swinging Tragenn left and right. One soldier lunged for him and he took the man’s arm off at the elbow; a fellow student picked up the fallen sword and then he too was lost inside the press of bodies.
Sir Gillem and his men were at a disadvantage. They had no time to put on armour, and they were grossly outnumbered. However, they were quicker and deadlier than their attackers were. Havoc had managed to maim two others in the legs, but more were coming at him; he stood ready. Then he heard Magnus shout ‘move!’’, and Havoc did so.
A bench from the academy lawn, about six feet long, came hurtling through the air with a screaming Magnus holding it horizontal to the ground. He rushed at the invaders and took down seven in one go.
He got back up as Havoc grabbed his arm.
“Horses. let’s go!” said Magnus.
Havoc could see the sense in going; they were about to be overrun. Hundreds of Roguns were running for the north gate, but his sisters, how could he leave them?
He rounded the corner of the academy and onto the path that led to the stables. He could see enemy soldiers there. Magnus yelled and ran faster, slamming into the enemy attackers along with a handful of armed students behind him. Havoc slashed at one soldier’s chest and smashed his pommel into another’s nose, which flattened into a spray of blood.
Two of Sir Gillem’s knight joined in and Havoc saw Magnus pick up a sword and run towards the stables. The princes’ two black stallions were already out of the stables and saddled. Was this Eleana’s doing, he wondered? He heard a scream to his left and saw Eleana slapped to the ground by a burly youth. She crawled away in panic just as Magnus lunged at the youth and received a punch in the mouth by an iron gauntlet for his troubles.
Havoc could see the youth clearly now, it was Soujonn.
He saw Magnus crouching, Soujonn brought his sword sweeping down and Magnus fall.
“Noooo!” Havoc screamed; white-hot rage intensified in his chest and swung at his cousin, who defended and lunged back.
They both twisted and turned around and around, swords clashing. Havoc swapped hands, but Soujonn was wise to that old trick and jabbed an elbow into Havoc’s head; the prince reeled backwards and Soujonn came on, sword tip aiming for the heart. Havoc twisted and pulled Tragenn around to the horizontal position behind his back; the blade’s tip raked into the padded jupon of Soujonn’s sword arm and he cursed.
Havoc jumped high and kneed his cousin in the head, and knocked his sword from his grasp. Stumbling on his feet, Soujonn summoned the wind element, and Havoc felt a hard punch of air smack his chest like an invisible fist. He flew backwards and landed hard against the stable walls. The force knocked the air out of him and his vision dimmed. He had lost Tragenn.
A bruise was welling up on the side of Soujonn’s face from the impact of Havoc’s knee. He looked around for his sword and saw Havoc’s in the snow; he gripped its hilt and laughed.
“Killed by your own sword, cousin; how demeaning... my revenge is complete.” He raised Tragenn high.
Skinny white arms snaked around Soujonn’s throat and he struggled for balance. Eleana bit into his right ear.
Havoc tried to get up, but his head throbbed; he was dimly aware of something wet and warm trickling down his back; he wanted to hurt Soujonn and his anger reached new levels as the hot feeling in his chest spread through his entire body. The snow around him evaporated into steam in a twelve-foot radius.
Eleana received an elbow in the ribs. She grunted deeply as her breath was knocked out of her; Soujonn slapped her hard and she hit the ground. He pulled at her dress and exposed her left breast.
“I will see the rest later tonight, bitch!” he growled.
Havoc felt hate and the anger well up in him at the thought of his home ravaged and defiled by these invaders. He feared for the safety of his siblings, and infuriated at the humiliation of Eleana.
Was Magnus dead? What of his mother?
Moreover, what could have happened to his father if these Vallkytes were here?
All this formed into bubbling heat at the edge of Havoc’s vision.
&nb
sp; Soujonn turned to finish off his cousin, but a much-wounded Sir Gillem attacked him from behind. The old soldier’s limp was bad now from exhaustion, his left arm hung dead at his side and his face covered in blood from a nasty scalp wound.
“Run, Havoc!” It was the first and last time he used the prince’s name.
The knight managed to fend off several blows from Soujonn, but the younger man was faster. Tragenn sliced a deep gash into the knight from chest to groin. Sir Gillem died as blood and organs spilt from the wound.
Havoc’s anger at the old knight’s death boiled into a shimmering heat, a condensed mass of rage.
“Good sword, cousin.” He hefted Tragenn two-handed above Havoc’s head.
Soujonn hesitated in delivering the killing blow. There was something wrong. His cousin’s face blurred, there was what looked like a ball of heat in between both cousins.
Havoc’s only instinct now was to hurt Soujonn, and wipe the sardonic grin from his face, so he pushed.
The ball of heat hit his cousin in the chest and disappeared.
More royal guards raced up to the stables; the Vallkyte attack had stalled for now, but more would come soon. Roguns were fleeing through the north gate. Soldiers and gate guards were giving them time to escape.
Three of the knights who had originally fought with Sir Gillem saw something enter Soujonn and the boy stumbled, he dropped Tragenn, and Havoc could see the swords fall with such clarity as it reflected the snow and fire through the blood that stained it; he could hear the ping as the point imbedded into the flagstones of the path.
Soujonn screamed.
Everyone flinched at the high-pitched wail, and then it turned into a dry screech as his throat blistered from the white-hot flame that escaped from his mouth. Jets of fire were shooting from every orifice in his body, his eyes bubbled and popped, ears melted to his cheeks and his hair evaporated. His flesh blackened and shrivelled onto his bones. The smell of burning flesh was in the air for only an instant, and then even that burnt away from the heat issuing from his body.
The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) Page 9
