by P D Ceanneir
THE RAWN
CHRONICLES
BOOK FOUR
THE DRAGON
AND THE DAEMON
P.D.CEANNEIR
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental
This edition 2015
1
Copyright © P.D.Ceanneir 2015
Set in Baskerville Old Face 12 pnt
All right reserved. No part of this publication may be
Reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,
In any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recorded or otherwise, without the
prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not
by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or
otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent
in any form of binding or cover other than that which it
is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
In Memory of
David Coupe
RQMS(T) of the 4th and the 1st Royal Tank Regiment
Born 21/10/52 Died 24/12/2009
RIP Faither.
Also by P.D.Ceanneir in the Rawn Chronicles Series
Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword
Book Two: The Warlord and the Raiders
Book Three: The Ancarryn and the Quest
Novella
The Voyage of the Cybeleion: A Rawn Chronicles Interlude.
CONTENTS
List of Principal Characters
Prologue
The Battle of the Ash Fields
Epicentre
The Sky Ship’s Graveyard
Captain Carbaum
Ternquin of Assassi
The Gateway of Life
Icebound
The Ice Path
The Storm Child
The Ice Palace
The Army of the Dead
The Nicbetha
The Road to Mortkraxnoss
The Hall of Whispers
The Keeper of Souls
Shadowfall
The Four Messengers
The Skirmish at Laden Howe and the Battle of Lots Muir
A Feast for Ravens
Raise the Siege
The Rescue of Caphun
The Light and the Dark
The Battle of Aquen
The Mourning of the King
Castle Cromme
The Master of Menace
The Turning Tide
The Second Battle of Dragorsloth
Attrition
Wyrmfire
The Battle of Blood
The Living and the Dead
The Siege at Sonora
The King Walks Alone
Earth Song
The Dragon and the Daemon
Epilogue
I
Happy Ever After
II
The Land of the Divine Children
III
The Pride of Havoc
Acknowledgements
Appendix One
THE TIMELINE OF YEARS
Appendix Two
Royal Family Charts
List of Principal Characters
Havoc De Proteous Cromme-Crown Prince of the Roguns
Magnus Cromme-Carras Knight, Master of the Rouge and Havoc’s half-brother
Ness Ri-Consul to King Vanduke and member of the Ri Order
Vanduke-King of the Roguns, first of that name
Tia-Havant Priestess
Serena-Havant Priestess
Fowyn Ri- Member of the Ri Order
Carbaum-Master of Ternquin of Assassi
Polmyn-Sernac of Ternquin of Assassi
Mad-borath-Overlord of the Nithi
Powyss of the Hoath-Commander of the Raiders and Paladin-knight
Whyteman-Major/Boughman of the Eternal Archers and Paladin-knight
Little Kith- Raider Captain and Paladin-knight
Hexor-- Raider Captain and Paladin-knight
Foxe- twin brother of Hexor- Raider Captain and Paladin-knight
Furran- - Raider Captain and Paladin-knight
Velnour—Major of the Raider Heavy Horse and Paladin-knight
Linth- - Captain of the Eternal Archers and Paladin-knight
Felcon- - Captain of the Raider Dark Company and Paladin-knight
Mactan- Banner-Captain of the Raider Dark Company and Paladin-knight
Jericho-Major of the Raiders/Tattoium Militia Division and Paladin-knight
Mad-gellan- Nithi Lord of the Kelang and Paladin-knight
Langstroum De Barrette- Baron of Mutresi
Andric-Baron of Ternac
The Nicbetha- The Daughter of Life
Mannhiem- Archward of Ternquin of Assassi
Ciriana-the Prophet and last Dragon of the Dragor-rix
Lord Nethroin- of the House of Ethicon-Vallkyte Klingspur
Creed-The Vallkyte De Proteous, son of King Kasan
Lord Rett-the Red Duke, uncle of Magnus
Elkin- Lord of Laden Howe
Soneros Ri-Consul to Queen Nieve and Chief Historian of the Tower of Sooth, Member of the Ri Order
Barnum-Atyd of Balael-consort to Queen Bronwyn of the Falesti.
Bronwyn- Queen of the Falesti
Bleudwed/Mulvend- the Countess of Haplann
Cinnibar-Queen of Sonora, Havoc’s great-great aunt
Kasan Cromme-King of the Vallkytes and Havoc’s uncle
Molna-Queen of the Vallkytes and Roguns, Havoc’s mother
Shanks-Prisoner in cell 42, formerly known as Baron Telmar
Morden-Atyd of Triel, elder brother of Whyteman
Lord Sernac-Master to Cinnibar and a mysterious and powerful Ri
Danyil- Captain of the Cybeleion
Gunach-Dwarven Master Smith
Maleene-Leader of the Wyvern Filial
Sir Colby-Carras Knight
Dolment-Master of Ifor
Saltyn Ri-Member of the Ri Order
Prologue
H
e was close.
He could feel it.
The irresistible pull towards the cave mouth was like a tug on his heart. Yet he hesitated. He knew that the insubstantial world around him was not real, it was a dream, and this confused him.
He never had dreams.
Not once.
The soft voice was sweet and gentle. It was clearly female, calling him on. He hated doing what the voice told him to do; he was an independent creature, a force of unrelenting power. Yet the urge to listen and obey was overpowering.
He resisted.
‘Come, Shadow of Death. Come, Breaker of Life. Step onwards, Reaper of Souls, for this is your domain,’ said the voice.
‘Who are you?’ he said.
‘The Watcher on the Shores,’ said the voice, ‘The Storm Child. I have been waiting many years for you to come. The Great Plan of the My’thos is unveiling itself faster with your presence. Your Bani affects all. My part in it is almost over.’
The cave mouth, always so distant, disappeared. Crystalline structures of ice grew out of the thick mist, looming imposingly as they forming into an arched
roof. The air around him chilled, but the cold had never bothered him.
‘Where has the cave gone?’
‘The entrance to the Hall of Whispers is not a place to step into in dreams,’ said the voice, with a note of humour in it. ‘Nevertheless, a time will come when you must step through, but it is not yet. Now I see you with mine own mind and show you the way.’
The ice structures around him had a beautiful symmetry to them. They formed walls and a high vaulted ceiling. The snow on the ground, crushed under his booted feet, covered a thick flat block of ice that was the floor. However, the structure was not the thing that drew his attention, something was wrong. Something he felt more than anything.
The dead were all around him, he could feel their shrunken eyes watching him from hidden corners and shadowy crevices.
‘Show me the way to where?’
‘The way to my chamber, oh Life Taker,’ as she spoke a route through the huge hexagonal spikes of ice unveiled in front of him as the mist was whipped away by an unseen hand. Energy, the likes he had never felt before, saturated this place. Though he never felt fear, a shiver ran down his back nonetheless.
Wakefulness was returning to the other he shared the body with; soon he would retreat into the darkness of his mind. He picked up speed, walking with long strides down the new corridor and into a large room with mirrors. His time here was short, the dream would disappear, he felt it fading, yet he sensed that his presence here was important.
Very important.
‘Why must I come to your chamber?’ he asked the air around him.
A chuckle, like a light cold wind through hollow reeds, floated down to him and echoed around the room he now stood in. He frowned, uncomfortable at the taunting laughter.
‘Because I ask it, because you will not find what you seek without my help. But most of all...’ the pause was long and it grated on his patience.
‘...most of all, I want you to kill me, Blacksword.’
Part One
The Quest
And the
Hall of Whispers
“All roads lead to Mortkraxnoss”
said the Daemon to the air.
“All paths bring you to my care,
love leads to despair
and rapture can find you anywhere,”
said the Daemon in his lair.
“All roads lead to Mortkraxnoss.
it is Death that will
take you there.”
The Road to Mortkraxnoss
An excerpt from the Book of Fates
By Opeac the Historian
“Sorrow is damned! I have nothing to live for anyway and human hope is worth the price I pay!”
From the Play of Impossible Fables
Seraph of Tenk
Circa 2010 YOA
Chapter One
The Battle of the Ash Fields
The Twelfth Day of Marach, 3036 Years of Ascension.
T
hese are the tales of the My’thos. The old gods. The ones who were here before all others. Though they are long passed into legend, their influence on the world is still strong. They watch, they manipulate and they are the hands of fate upon the lives of the unwary.
Of the tales, there are many.
Of the players, they are watched.
Of the acts, they are played out and scrutinised.
Therefore, we begin. Somewhere amongst the myriad of stories, there is a beginning of sorts...
…Magnus grunted as the spear bounced off his shield.
His piebald mare did a skittish dance to the right but he steadied her with a pull of the reins and a squeeze of his thighs.
‘Hold the line!’ he shouted at the wide lines of Raiders who were formed up to his front, their Foygion spears levelled as the attacking Kelang Horseboys wheeled around and threw more of their short javelins directly into the armoured formation. The spears did little damage as they bounced off the Raider shields, but the infantry host still marched backwards as they made a tactical withdrawal from the fight.
‘Archers!’ shouted Magnus and the wide rim of archers at the rear of his host notched arrows to their great Warbows and drew back with powerful arms and shoulders.
‘Loose!’
The shafts of white-fletched arrows filled the late afternoon air, shadowing the ground with their mass. The large light cavalry unit of Horseboys saw the danger and quickly turned away from the arrow-fall with well-trained ease. Magnus smiled as he watched the enemy tactics. The Horseboys would ride off for some distance and then wheel back towards the Raiders, this time probing for a weaker link in the protective circle.
‘Sir!’ called a young mounted officer as he cantered to a stop beside Magnus. Like most of his small entourage of aides, Magnus sent them to the flanks of the Raiders to relay messages; this one covered in a fine dusting of black volcanic ash that the two volcanoes of Dracolinth-sol churned out daily. This told him that they were closer to the Ash Fields than he realised.
‘The Legion are up ahead about six miles, they are marching to join us,’ said the officer between breaths.
Magnus, with one eye on the officer and another on the Kelang attack to his front, said, ‘take a breath, lad.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ The youngster looked as tired as Magnus felt. For the better part of a week now, the Raiders had retreated north to draw out Mad-borath’s host from his fortress of Tyrandur. It was obvious that the Raiders flash attacks on civilian villages presented more of a problem for the Nithi Overlord than he could stand. Pushing the Raiders further south had finally tilted Borath’s hand. Reports of a large Kelang host marching north had reached Magnus only two days ago.
‘Grand news, lad, although best go back and tell them to get here double-time, eh?’
The officer snapped a salute, ‘sir.’
Magnus held up a hand to stay the soldier, ‘any word of Mad-gellan?’
The officer shook his head, ‘none since the last reports of his host moving into the woodlands at the foot of the Duluth Row, sir.’
Magnus nodded. He did not expect much by the way of reports from Gellan’s Multan host. This was why he had sent Dolment with the Ifor Lancers to glean as much information as he could from Sir Mactan and his Dark Company. If anyone was still in contact with Mad-gellan, it was Mactan.
The plan to trap Mad-borath hinged on Mad-gellan’s host getting here before the main body of the Kelang surrounded the Raiders.
To the front of the Raider line, the Horseboys made another attack run. They came charging onwards at full gallop, each man reaching into their large canvas quivers on each side of their saddle and extracting a short wooded javelin.
‘Archers ready!’ shouted Magnus. He then closed his eyes and used the Rawn Arts to summon a small localised gale that picked up the dust and black grit about a dozen feet to the Raider front line. Moving such a formation required much concentration, but since becoming a Rawn Master, Magnus felt more in control of the energy flow that his apprentice days. He made a pushing movement with his hands and the whirling gale of dust shot forwards towards the approaching Horseboys.
‘Loose!’ he yelled and the arrows flew over the heads of the Raiders and were lost inside the cloud storm. Human screams and loud whinnying of horses issued from the dust. When the air cleared, dozens of men and horses littered the battlefield and the rest of the Horseboys were in retreat.
The Raiders cheered their commander in approval. The cheer died down quickly, however, when the torch fires in the distant horizon signalled the arrival of the Kelang host.
‘You may go now, lad,’ said Magnus to the young officer, ‘Tell them to hurry, now.’
Chirn coughed up more phlegm and spat it out onto a fern as he ran past it. The rest of his Multan Warband stretched out along the woodland slope as they jogged through the rows of birch and alder. For days now, he had been trying to shake the chest infection he had contracted about a month ago. For most of the year, the army of Mad-gellan had been hiding out in the
mountain heights of the Duluth Row waiting for Mad-borath to make his move. The high altitude and the cold air had taken its toll of the older soldiers, though the younger, healthier men like Chirn, suffered a few days of fever before being struck down by violent coughing fits. Every day he was getting better, though. The long arduous jog from the heights had meant that the last of the infection was clearing from his lungs.
Suddenly, up ahead, someone stood up from a bush and watched them approach. Instinctively, Chirn and several of his men unsheathed swords and slowed to a walk as they drew nearer to the figure. In the dim afternoon light, he recognised the outline of a soldier in Raider armour and relaxed.
‘Who goes?’ he whispered.
The figure walked forward. He was a tall Raider with the recognisable blackguard on his right shoulder depicting a silver dirk, the symbol of the Dark Company, a group of highly trained infantry commanded by the Paladin-knights, Mactan and Felcon.
‘Lieutenant Joliffe, my Lord Chirn,’ said the soldier.
Chirn, somewhat taken aback by the rank of nobility the Raider gave him, was technically not a lord. He let it go for now, recognising the soldier they both shook hands.
‘Your father is already here,’ said Joliffe, ‘he is with the captains about three hundred yards east,’ he pointed in the general direction, ‘my men will take you there.’
‘Your men?’ said one of Chirn’s officers standing beside him.
Joliffe whistled like a Moss Warbler and the floor of the woodland erupted as dozens Raiders, bedecked in ferns and dry leaves, stood up. Chirn’s men gasped as they looked around woodland, they had run past them without noticing.
‘Some clarty bugger spat on me!’ said a distant voice behind them. There was a ripple of laughter as Chirn’s men grinned at him.
