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

by P. D. Ceanneir

  Soujonn finally collapsed to the ground in ashes. His armour did not even scorch.

  Havoc rose and healed the wound in his head. For some reason he felt calm. The heat that had built up in him for the past hour was gone. He was dimly aware of Magnus being held up by Eleana and healing a wound in his shoulder. In a trance, Havoc reached down to pick up Soujonn’s medallion, depicting a horsed knight; he blew off the ashes.

  Everyone was staring at him. He frowned; they looked afraid.

  More of the invaders were running towards them. He gathered his thoughts.

  “Horses, let’s move,” he said, and everyone spurred into action as if a spell had been broken.

  He suddenly felt very weak. Eleana, Tragenn in one hand, was at his side in moments. With Magnus’ help, they got him on Dirkem. Eleana sat behind him and together they guided the horse out of the north gate.

  The small unit of Carras Knights put up a strong resistance, but very soon, their bodies started to pile up; they had fought to the bitter end.

  As a result, they bought time for the Rogun Navy to defend the yard and for a good portion of its fleet to make ready for the Vallkyte admiral’s attack a day later. Plysov’s force witnessed the sea battle unfold from the shore. Admiral Hurnac’s numbers proved victorious, but it was a hollow victory. He lost many off his ships, while the Roguns managed to escape with a larger percentage of their original number.

  Queen Molna, Mia, Verna and Hagan’s twins ended up imprisoned in the palace dungeon, amidst protests from the queen, but the cold face of the Hawk gave back no answer. He would submit his report to King Kasan and request his advice regarding the royal prisoners.

  As the king had predicted, once the palace was in the general’s hands, the rest of the citadel would follow.

  The citizens put up some resistance, but quickly quashed. Part of Market-town and Baronstown still burnt two days after the attack, but when he was made governor, he would rebuild it all again.

  A search for the Rogun De Proteous returned empty handed. Prince Havoc had long gone. A soldier identified Soujonn’s armour as the Vallkyte princes.

  The pile of ash slowly blowing away from inside it was a mystery to everyone.

  The retreating Rogun army put up a strong and professional defensive retreat, turning back wave after wave of attacking Vallkyte and Nithi for two days now. King Vanduke’s scouts informed him that the enemy had moved behind him and were attacking the fort at the Pander Pass.

  The king cursed; his goal was to get to the pass and regroup with reinforcements from the Aln citadel, but the meagre force at the pass was doomed.

  Once there was a break in the attacks, he ordered his men into the Tattoium Mountains. There was a deep ford where a narrow river split from the Great River by a ruined building called the Tirithana Keep.

  Luck was with them, for the ford levels were low for this time of year. They made good time into the mountains, where he rested his exhausted men with short breaks.

  Vanduke wanted to be clear of the entrance to the pass as soon as possible, and he pushed his men hard. In the late evening on the fifth day, they had made it to the Silit Marshes on the outskirts of the Aln Plain; that is when the scouts saw the black pall of smoke in the sky to the west. At the smoke’s distance, they knew it was coming from the citadel.

  It was not long before people and rumour found the remnants of the Rogun army. They informed the king that a large host had taken the citadel. Refugees from the city were scattered in all directions. The Rogun navy had fought a long battle with Vallkyte ships, but no one knew the outcome at that time.

  The king’s scouts, at the army’s rear, reported sightings of Vallkytes massing outside the mouth of the Pander Pass.

  Despair, and the thoughts of his loved ones, was on the king’s mind now. However, he had a duty to his people and he shouted out quick orders.

  “Lord Rett, we will take our force into the Sky Mountains, via the west side of the River Silit.”

  “What of the Jertiani, Sire?” asked Lord Rett, and the king knew of his friend’s intentions. There was a Rogun host there under General Balaan.

  The king shook his head. “No, Balaan will have to fend for himself. We have a better chance at holding off Kasan in the mountains; besides, the men are exhausted and we will not make it to the Jertiani before the Vallkytes catch us up. Send a scout to warn the general, anyway. He will have to come to us through the Tattoium Mountains. Damn Kasan, he must have been planning this for some time.” The king summoned the messengers and more scouts, and then ordered them to spread the word to any survivors of the citadel of the king’s destination.

  Then the army travelled hard and fast to the north and the sanctuary of the Sky Mountains.

  Hate, anger and confusion was all Havoc could see on the faces of fellow refugees fleeing into the Sky Mountains. Most of all, he could see people were wide eyed in shock as if all of this was just a bad dream.

  Daylight had crept in slowly, and the freezing air did not get any warmer.

  Havoc’s weakness was abating, but he was having difficulty staying awake. Eleana clung on to him so he would not fall. He did not understand what was wrong with him.

  “How did you do that?” asked Magnus. His wound on his shoulder now healed to a red scar still tender to the touch.

  They had stopped to drink from a half-frozen mountain stream that ran across their path.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it. Not even a Ri could do what you did. Why didn’t you tell me you could do that?”

  The remains of the Royal Guard and a few others looked over at the sound of Magnus’s voice. Their attention focussed on Havoc’s reply; they still had that look of fear in their eyes that he had seen after he had burnt Soujonn to ashes.

  Killed Soujonn, Havoc realised he had just killed his first man. There was no regret.

  “I…I don’t know.” He shrugged off Magnus’ questions.

  The others looked away quickly, avoiding eye contact with the prince.

  A young knight called Sir Colby took it upon himself to organise a camp within the woodland and organise pickets. The people were cold, so he sent out parties to collect dry wood and to forage for food.

  One of the pickets approached him about midday; he had seen a small Vallkyte group of horsemen searching down by the foot of the mountains. They did not venture up the same route as the refugees, because the narrow path was easy to defend with just a handful of swordsmen and archers.

  Sir Colby had deliberately put off starting a fire for warmth. It would give away their position. However, now the enemy knew they were here and had decided not to try their luck, he then ordered the fires lit.

  Over three hundred refugees, huddled together in a small valley, stood by the many fires to keep warm. Havoc sat alone and thought about his family. His mind was on his father and the obvious deception of the Vallkytes when Sir Colby approached him with some wild berries.

  “Are you hungry, Your Highness?”

  Havoc nodded and thanked him for the berries.

  “Ah... I have taken the liberty of sending men out to look for better defendable areas than this, My Lord. I think we really should keep moving.”

  He seemed nervous, and it took a moment for Havoc to realise why.

  The prince was the highest-ranking person there. Being De Proteous of the premier house of Cromme, he even outranked the Vallkyte and Sonoran royal families. Therefore, this young knight, only a few years older than himself, was beginning to think he had overstepped his boundaries.

  Havoc smiled. “There is no need to feel anxious, Sir Colby, you can continue with what you are doing. May I make a few suggestions, though?”

  Sir Colby visibly relaxed. “Of course, My Lord,” he said.

  “There are a large number of people living in these mountains; send men who know these lands to acquire weapons and food for our people. I’m sure that local smiths can make some armour, but we may have to take in the king’s name.”
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br />   Sir Colby was looking at him with awe. “That is a sound idea, My Lord.” He nodded.

  “We are at war, Sir Knight.”

  “Yes, My Lord.” Sir Colby stood to carry out Havoc’s orders.

  “May I also suggest keeping our people, or scouting parties, close to the mountains fringes so that any other refugees can find us.”

  Sir Colby nodded his assent and walked back to his fellow knights.

  Once the word about the exiled Roguns spread around the Sky Mountains, the people of that region gave their help willingly. They had always been on good relations with them and they had strong trade and family links with the capital.

  They provided food and shelter for the women and children, their smiths made armour and weapons for the young and old men of Havoc’s party, and the hunters and trappers of the smaller villages offered their skills.

  Havoc, for his part, was happy to have a safe haven for the women folk throughout the winter, although he voiced his concerns to Sir Colby and the village leaders that the very presence of Roguns among them put them all in danger of Vallkyte reprisals.

  All kept their ears open for any news. As the month slowly moved on, other groups of refugees found Havoc’s scouts and they grew larger by the day. Havoc and Magnus awaited news of their father’s host and the rest of their family.

  Prince Magnus found them first. He had taken a hunting party out to the east with an old trapper called Old Toms. The trapper had found tracks leading north, and Magnus, thinking Vallkytes were moving around Havoc’s position, followed the tracks. At midday, his unit caught up with them.

  It ended up being a small group of Rogun soldiers in tattered uniforms and dirty faces that beamed as they recognised the young prince.

  They had heard word of the De Proteous and the refugees in the west and the king had sent them out to find them. They took Magnus to their camp through high, sloping wooded valleys and large dappled glades. He was overjoyed to see the Red Duke galloping towards him, shouting a greeting at the top of his lungs.

  His uncle brought him too his father, who hugged him, eyes brimming with tears. The whole camp cheered as the young prince told the tale of their escape. However, they all fell into silence as he recounted the death of Soujonn. The king insisted on going to see his eldest son.

  Chapter 8

  The Exiles

  Plysov was pleased with his promotion to the citadel’s governorship. He smiled as he placed the document confirming the order on his desk. He had made himself at home in one of the palace’s apartments. The large suite he now lived in became his personal study, and was adjacent to his bedchamber.

  Events had moved swiftly in the citadel after the coup. The town and port authorities had realised that the balance of power had now shifted in favour of the more powerful Vallkytes. Throughout the month, he had organised meetings with all the guilds and had succeeded in establishing his authority; however, it would be some time before trust was accepted, if ever.

  “I’m honoured, Sire,” he said to the king’s back as Kasan stood on the balcony that looked over the citadel’s wharfs along the south-western coast, having dipped to sea level from the higher land of the palace crag.

  “It is I who should be honoured to have such an able general in my army,” said Kasan over his shoulder.

  The general nodded in thanks. “You are a far better battlefield general than I, Sire. Congratulations on your victory at the Dragorsloth.”

  A smile broke the otherwise-cold face of the king. He was pleased at how the months of planning had panned out. Of course, not all aspects of it had worked. The escape of Vanduke and his army concerned him and their threat was still evident as they sat in the Sky Mountains as exiles.

  He looked out to the Aln Plain at his army camped outside the east gate.

  “I will leave a large contingent with you; use them to flush out Vanduke,” he said as he walked back into the room.

  There was a knock at the door, and the general answered. A portly, bearded man with a fine-cut sailor’s uniform adorned with badges of rank walked into the room and bowed to the king.

  “Your Highness, I came as soon as I could,” he said, puffing through his red cheeks.

  “Admiral Hurnac, well met,” said the king. “Is your flagship ready for departure?”

  “Yes, the Kerthion is ready and at your disposal, Sire.”

  “Good, have Queen Molna put on board; make her comfortable for the voyage to Cosshead. I have already made preparations for her trip to the capital.”

  “Very good, Sire,” said Hurnac.

  The admiral left and the king gathered his cloak; he looked at the black, dented armour in the corner of the room and turned to the general. “Have Soujonn’s gear put in my baggage train; I will bury it on his mother’s tribal land. Have you any witnesses to his death?” The king did not seem fazed at his son’s violent demise, because it was still a mystery. Soujonn’s death would be honoured among the other fallen.

  “Only one, who had brain fever from his wounds; he says that the De Proteous burnt him to ashes.” He looked at the king for a reaction.

  Kasan stood with his back to the general, but he could see that the king visibly flinched.

  “That’s impossible,” said the king, “even for a Ri.”

  “He was babbling, Sire, but he appeared to be the only witness. He died last week.”

  There was a long silence.

  “That is very interesting. Say none of this to anyone.”

  “Yes Sire, er... What shall we do with the other royal prisoners?”

  “Whatever you wish, but they don’t leave the citadel alive!”

  ‘Tell me again?”

  “Father,” Havoc sighed. “I have told you everything I know.”

  There was concern on the king’s face. He looked at his half-eaten grilled chicken leg without actually seeing it. His thoughts seemed to be far away, and he threw the leg at two wild dogs that Havoc’s refugees had adopted.

  “Tell me how you felt?”

  The dogs snarled at each other and fought over the tasty morsel.

  Havoc recounted the fight with Soujonn again, and told his father about his feelings at the time. How angry he was with the invaders and Soujonn wounding Magnus, about Eleana and the death of Sir Gillem. He told him of the shimmering heat that formed in his chest, and explained how he knew where to send it.

  “Think; were you able, at that time, to stop it? To make it just disappear?” His father looked at him intently.

  “No, I think it was far beyond that; I couldn’t if I tried.”

  Havoc had felt a huge weight fall off his shoulders as he had seen Magnus riding back into camp with Lord Rett and his father over an hour ago now. The weeks of decision-making, control and delegation were starting to take its toll on him, not that he did not enjoy it, quite the opposite in fact; he found out that the responsibility came naturally enough. Nevertheless, all the pressure on one so young made him feel like a fake. Magnus, and mostly Sir Colby, shared the authority with him, and it made it easier to have sound, dependable men at his side. He knew there was a lesson to learn here.

  Vanduke was elated at seeing not just one, but both, of his sons alive and well. He was proud of Havoc’s leadership and, as he looked around at the makeshift camp, he noticed an effective order to everything. The roomy tents were positioned several feet from each other so fire could not spread if they were attacked; they were also quickly dismantled and made of light wood and leathers for easy carrying. Scouts and hunters were in abundance and pickets routinely changed on the hour; the camp would never stay for more than three days in the one place, constantly moving to new woodland to keep one step in front of their enemies; no wonder, thought the king, his troops could not find them.

  “What does it mean, Father? What is wrong with me?”

  Vanduke shrugged; if only Lord Ness was here, he would have a definite answer, he thought, but the Ri had not been seen since the morning of the battle, and the
king feared he may be captured or worse.

  “I may have to get some advice, because I could be wrong,” he said

  “Wrong? Wrong about what exactly?”

  “I think you are showing signs of becoming a Pyromancer.”

  Havoc’s face was blank.

  “A Pyromancer is a Rawn apprentice who has the use of the fire element or superheat, long before he has been taught it,” explained Vanduke.

  “Well, that is good, isn’t it?” Havoc smiled, but his father’s expression was sad.

  “No, it’s not good; the power is dangerous. Pyromancers are very rare and with good reason. They find it difficult to control the build-up of energy and therefore unleash it to devastating effect. Because of this, people fear them.”

  Havoc understood now why folk within the camp were always avoiding him, and the looks of fear in their eyes. “Most people in my camp know then. There were a few witnesses who saw me kill Soujonn.” Havoc shifted uncomfortably on the boulder they were both sharing.

  “Ahh... yes, Pyromancers are usually shunned in society. There was only one I know of in the royal family.”

  “Who?” Havoc asked, looking straight at his father with interest.

  Vanduke hesitated, but thought that the boy would find out anyway. “Baron Telmar,” he said.

  Havoc jumped to his feet and paced up and down in front of his father. “The baron went mad! Will that happen to me?” He was agitated.

  “Not if I can help it. True, the awesome power that the baron had burnt away his sanity. That is because he had poor instruction on how to control it, it was a dreadful mistake, and I will be damned if it is going to happen to you. Now keep calm and come and sit down.”

  Havoc was clenching and unclenching his fists. “Will I burn my family?”

  “You won’t... Keep calm...”

  “Is that why everyone is afraid of me?” He was rubbing his hands together and walking more rapidly, Vanduke shushing him like a child.