The Rawn Chronicles Book Four: The Dragon and the Daemon (The Rawn Chronicles Series 4)

by P D Ceanneir

  Even before the debris of soil, stone and snow fell to the ground. Havoc turned to his men and ordered them to run.

  The small wooden fort held several surprises. Two of Hexor’s men found a smoke hut at the rear of the rectangular fort with a row of smoked hake hanging on a pole above the cold coals. The fish must have come from a travelling market or brought direct from the coast. Another hut revealed long strips of jerk beef, porcelain pots of minced mutton in cider sealed with a wax cap and two bags of grain that had burst open at the bottom, possibly due to rats. The small stone fort-house held little in it’s pantry apart from jars of fruit preserves and in it’s cellar all that remained was two broken wine bottles and half a keg of mead.

  ‘Looks like they took the essentials,’ said Sir Foxe gloomily to one of his men as he stood in the empty cellar.

  They found a cart with a wonky wheel. While one of Hexor’s men fixed it, the others packed what they could of the spoils and prepared to leave. A guard at the open gate shouted for the two Paladin-knights to hurry to the entrance.

  Foxe and Hexor could not believe their eyes. The Raiders and Falesti were sprinting through the burnt-out village in no particular order.

  ‘What in the...?’ said Foxe and briefly thought that they were being chased by one of the dragons, but then he saw a mass of soldiers, too numerous to count, enter the furthest edge of the village. Hexor and his brother had only fifty men apiece and they wasted no time in ordering them onto the battlement’s ledges to give the king’s men covering fire with their Spit Guns.

  The Falesti soldiers crowded the entrance, panicking as they shoved their way through the small gap. A mixture of Furan’s company and Queen Bronwyn’s men-at-arms turned to face the approaching Ulundi to give their comrades enough time to enter the fort. They levelled their spears to slow the advance, but a melee of furious hand-to-hand fighting broke out and the weight of the enemy pushed them backwards to the gate. Those Raiders on the battlements helped as they fired down into the Unduli ranks. It had the effect of making them hesitate long enough for the last of the Raiders to enter the fort and help the Falesti to shut and bar the door.

  They only found one thick wooded slat that secured the gate but someone had discovered spars to wedge against them to hold the entrance shut, yet the press of the enemy was making the wooden doors bulge.

  Linth and Furran were shouting out orders for more men to man the battlements, Little Kith organised a shield wall in case the gate should break.

  Havoc found Hexor. ‘Is there another way out?’ he asked.

  ‘Only one small gate at the rear, easy to defend, boss, but we’re in the middle of nowhere, they can have us surrounded in minutes.’

  Havoc cursed loudly and looked at the thin wooden walls of the flimsy fort as soldiers ran around him. His eyes fell on the well at the centre of the courtyard. He and Hexor ran towards it, the well’s wall was three feet high and ringed the black hole of the shaft in a ten-foot radius. There was a winch secured to a four-legged crossbar. Havoc unlocked the steel latch and watched the bucket fall into blackness, from the sound of the splash it was not deep, and he could faintly hear rushing water.

  ‘Hexor, find a volunteer to go down there and see if this is a way out,’ he said.

  ‘Right boss,’ Hexor grabbed the nearest man and told him to take his armour off, because he was going to get wet.

  Shouts from the battlements warned the king of crossbow bolts and soon the sky filled with the hard black hail that stuck into the muddy ground of the courtyard. Havoc dodged his way towards the battlements and took shelter under a dropped shield as he climbed the stairs.

  Down below, the black-armoured Ulundi crossbow division were having their fun and aiming well. Already twenty of Linth’s Eternals were dead on the ground with many black bolts protruding from their bodies. After a few minutes it stopped, the king and his men dared to peek out from behind their shields.

  Soldiers now crowded the ruined village in their thousands and yet they still packed in from the outskirts of the dishevelled houses. Prince Creed had by now ordered the fort surrounded and the Ulundi moved back from the gate and stood to attention in a thick black line of shield and armour.

  ‘How do we get out of this one?’ whispered Havoc to the Blacksword, ‘any ideas?’

  There was no response.

  ‘Blacksword, will you help?’

  I cannot, there is a doom cast upon this day, and despair will fall over all. The future is a devious mistress, but it is not set, change can occur. However, the changing can be your undoing, said the Blacksword in a sorrowfully tone.

  ‘That is not very helpful,’ said the king.

  ‘They have prisoners!’ informed Linth further along the battlements.

  The row of Ulundi opened up as they pushed five Falesti in front of the walls and forced them to their knees. They had their hands tied behind their backs and their heads were bare of their helmets.

  The Falesti in the fort groaned, they knew that their countrymen would not live out the day. Sure enough, and without a word or order given, the soldiers holding the prisoners extracted their swords and brought them down onto their exposed heads with a sickening crack.

  The Falesti in the fort shouted curses down towards the executioners. Havoc bowed his head and sighed, he sensed someone stand next to him, he looked up to see it was Hexor.

  ‘Boss, the “Volunteer” says that the well is not deep, the water level is waist high, and that there is a tunnel leading out to a cavern to the west. I think it runs towards Lake Furran,’ he said.

  ‘That’s good news,’ said the king, ‘get more ropes and start sending the men down, Falesti and Queen Bronwyn first.’ He noticed Hexor was not listening, he was looking down towards the enemy and his jaw hung slack in shock, there were gasps on the battlement.

  Havoc looked down. Another prisoner appeared out from the line of Unduli, pushed forward for all in the fort to see.

  The tall imposing figure of Prince Creed stepped out from behind the prisoner. He held his sword in one hand and Queen Bronwyn in the other.

  Captain Carbaum had followed the Cybeleion for a good three months after it’s departure from Ternquin. Unfortunately, the storms brought on by Shadowfall meant that they lost sight of one another on several occasions. He was surprised at the town’s councillors agreeing to the motion of uprooting his people from their homes and promising them a place on Tattoium-Tarridun, should they enter the conflict and aid the Rogun De Proteous. Leaving his home was heart wrenching. A home he had known all of his life, was now a burning ruin. Oh, they could rebuild, but the ancient Ternquin Tree, the centre of their township, was now a dead and blackened stump. The purpose of their lives, the need to guard the way to the Guardians to await the coming of the Keeper, was now gone.

  The Keeper had come. Times had changed.

  He was surprised at the hate that radiated out from his people in bitter waves of hot anger, the need for revenge upon the aggressors that butchered their people, who burnt homes and killed women and children. It was something to nurture, something to savour.

  At some point during the three months of constantly erratic weather the Ternquin fleet kept close to the Cybeleion as they possibly could, Prince Havoc mentioned his own concern about his homeland. He had only managed sporadic conversations through the strange glowing orb he used to talk with his contact back home. The growing threat of the Brethac Ziggurat was something he knew would rear its ugly head again, regardless of him being on the continent or on the quest. Havoc’s desire to return home as quickly as possible was paramount, and Carbaum had to agree with the prince. The Cybeleion could outstrip the smaller Ternquin Sky Ships in speed and reach Tattoium-Tarridun months in advance. The prince could be of more use in his homeland.

  They formulated a plan; Carbaum’s people had plenty of money, several chests of gold worth a sizeable fortune in any realm. Once the fleet reached the southern shores of the Hinterland they bought a dozen sea-worthy
barques and sent them, full of the women and children, southward to the islands of the South Sea Horn where they would meet up with the admiral of the Hoath Navy. Meanwhile, Carbaum and the fleet of Sky Ships would continue on a course to Dulan-Tiss, a course plotted expertly by Navigator Orlam who volunteered to guide them to their new home.

  Now, the small fleet approached the wide expanse of the continent and took the winds eastward. Carbaum looked over the vastness of the sea from his position on the bow. He never took his eyes from the landmass in the distance, even when the lightning flared in the brooding skies behind him.

  The catapults were loaded. Black pitch covered the missiles waiting for the touch of flame. All that was required was an order from Carbaum, the new Sernac, and the Ternquin Assassi would join the war against the Brethac Ziggurat.

  And vent their anger.

  ‘Welcome home, brother,’ said Creed in a clear voice not muffled at all by his helmet. ‘I hope the journey back was pleasant, I have the welcome party here for you.’ The prince waved an arm at the men behind him and this got a laugh from his soldiers. ‘I wish you to come and meet them. Bring your men, unarmed of course,’ said Creed. He waited for an answer and only received cold silence from the row of green armoured warriors on the fort’s battlements.

  The prince sighed. ‘You are surrounded, Havoc. Escape is impossible. How many more must die from your stubbornness?’

  ‘Ignore the bastard, Havoc,’ shouted Bronwyn, ‘fight on!’ Blood had plastered strands of her brown hair onto her left temple, which seeped down that side, and her right arm was hanging limp and twisted, but there was still a fire in her eyes as she looked up at the battlements.

  Creed smacked her on the side of the head and the men at the fort burst out in protest at the mistreatment.

  ‘What should I do, your majesty, shall I kill her now or let my men have their way with her?’ Creed asked with a hint of amusement in his voice.

  ‘She is a noble and it is your duty as her captor to treat her as such!’ shouted Havoc.

  ‘Ah, he has a voice; I was beginning to think you were ignoring me.’

  ‘Let Queen Bronwyn and my men go and I will surrender myself to you,’ said Havoc.

  Creed paced up and down as he pondered the king’s terms. The vision of his long dead master, Udren, still flashed in his mind.

  ‘You are in no position to give orders!’ he growled. ‘Your men will lay down their arms and surrender to me. The Queen shall be my concubine when the Brethac Ziggurat has secured a new order and you, brother, shall give me your head.’

  Queen Bronwyn knew that the best hope for the war was Havoc. She was also very much aware that he would surrender in order that she would live. She could not put him in that position. She did not want to be a hero, she did not want to die, but the inexorable trickle of destiny laughed in her face. The odds were stacked against her; she would not be the plaything to this boy prince or his men, she would rather die. It was in this state of mind that she chose her fate.

  The weave of the Bani determined everything.

  She roared as she stood and rammed her left shoulder into Prince Creeds back, knocking him off balance, then she turned and ran towards the gate of the fort. The king’s men on the battlements cheered her on, and for a second she felt elated and free.

  Then pain in her back stopped her after ten paces, she gasped, finding it hard to breath. She looked down and saw the Vallkyte De Proteous’s sword burst through her chest with a spray of blood. Her legs wobbled, she took a step forward, her body jerked as the sword was extracted from the wound with a powerful pull. She was dimly aware that the snow underfoot was red with droplets of her blood, she giggled but the sound was more like a soft groan.

  She heard Havoc and many others screaming her name above her.

  Her vision dimmed as she fell to her knees, she was dead before her beautiful face hit the snow.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  The Turning Tide

  T

  he Blacksword was right, there was a doom placed upon this day.

  Havoc turned away from the sight of Queen Bronwyn’s body face down in the crimson snow. His lower lip quivered and he tried to force the lump in his throat back down his gullet. He placed his back against the birch trunks that made up the walls of the fort and slid down it. Coming to a stop and resting his arms on his knees.

  ‘Bronwyn.’ He said her name as a dry whimper, knowing he would never see her smile again. He thought of Lorimar and fought back another sob.

  Hexor was beside him on his knees, hands covering his face. The pale sad looks on the faces of the soldiers around him told the king that they shared in his pain. He turned to Hexor and gently placed a hand on his arm. The Paladin’s wet face looked back.

  ‘Hexor, the well, go…go see to it,’ said the king gently and his friend nodded. He rose and left the king’s side.

  Havoc called to Furran and Velnour, ‘Furran leave your men on the battlements. Velnour, help Hexor and Foxe get everyman down that well,’ he said.

  ‘What will it be brother?’ Creed called from down below. ‘Surrender or die. Your choice.’

  Havoc stood still, his men watched him silently. ‘I need time, Creed. I need to gather our wounded and send them out first. Then we will disarm.’

  The Vallkyte prince said nothing for a while as he looked up at his half-brother with his hands on his slim hips, then he gave a sharp nod.

  ‘You have thirty minutes, and then we’re coming in,’ he said.

  While men searched for rope to scale the walls of the well, those on the battlements that were native Falesti sung a lament for their dead queen. Havoc had heard it before during his time in the Eternal Forest and sung along with what he could remember of it. The harmonic tone of the male voices drifted across the sorry scene of the executed men and the body of Bronwyn, droning and lilting, yet at the same time defiant in the face of adversity and fear, rising to the swell of chests as it reached a melodic end. The words of the song rose with pride in their voices.

  Down below the enemy jeered at the singing, all except Prince Creed who found the song uncomfortable and loud as he rubbed his head and stroked the Lobe Stone on his helmet.

  Someone discovered two coils of rope, which was just long enough, probably used to replace the rope on the well winch. Some of Foxe’s men found three siege ladders, which helped immensely in getting the remaining twelve hundred down the hole in short order. By this time, the Raiders knew the need for urgency and they quickly descended the ropes and ladders. After twenty minutes, it was just the king and Sir Furran’s men left.

  ‘Go Furran, quickly, get your men out of here!’ said Havoc.

  ‘They’re on their way, but I’m not leaving without you, boss.’ Furran’s face was grave, there was no humour in his eyes and the sarcasm was absent from his voice.

  ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

  By the time half of Furran’s squad of two hundred men were down the well, the thirty minutes were up, and Prince Creed shouted from the other side of the gate. Havoc stood next to Furran by the well and produced a large Fireball in each hand. He sent them to the gate walls and the flames splashed over the surface of the wood and spreading to the corners.

  ‘That should hold them for a while,’ he said.

  Havoc climbed down one of the ropes with Furran. They were eventually engulfed by blackness as they neared the bottom of the shaft, but a dim light of torches could just be seen somewhere to the king’s left. Velnour was there to greet them as they dropped into the cold waist-high water.

  ‘Foxe and his troop have found a route out. He thinks there is a straight path through to the lake,’ informed Velnour as he handed Furran a flaming torch, ‘we just need to follow the river.’

  The well’s bell-bottom had two tunnels opposite each other with the water running through it and heading west. The tunnel was narrow and, thankfully, the distance through it short, as it opened into a large cavern where all the soldiers
could run through ten abreast. At this point the water level fell to just ankle deep, the sounds of clanking armour and heavy breathing mixed with sloshing water echoed around the walls as they sprinted along the route.

  ‘I should have helped her, Furran,’ said Havoc as he jogged beside his friend. ‘I should have done something.’

  ‘There was nothing you could have done, boss. Queen Bronwyn knew the risks,’ said Furran.

  ‘I should have insisted that she go back to the Eternal Forest from the start. She would be alive and with her family. Oh gods Furran, her family!’ Havoc stopped and fell to his knees, the tears came then and he tried to choke back an anguished sob. Up ahead the torch light of the soldiers faded as they ran on. Furran felt awkward as he crouched down and listened to the king’s despair.

  ‘I loved her,’ said Havoc.

  ‘We all loved her, sire.’

  ‘Lorimar is my son.’

  Furran’s eyes grew wide in surprise; he looked into the king’s eyes and saw the truth of it. He was lost for words.

  ‘I...Ah...’ he began to say but Havoc stopped him with a raised hand.

  ‘I have neglected my duties to my sons as a father for too long,’ he said. ‘If I live through this war, all of that will change.’

  ‘Sons?’ cried Furran and his voice echoed along the walls of the cavern. Havoc opened his mouth to answer, but Furran stopped him by gripping his shoulders sharply.

  ‘Don’t utter another word; it’s none of my business anyway. A hundred feet below ground and up to my balls in freezing water and you tell me this now! You certainly know how to pick your moments, boss,’ said Furran and smiled when Havoc chuckled. ‘Bronwyn would have found this moment amusing as well,’ continued Furran. ‘She would also tell you to get up off your arse and do your duty!’