The Rawn Chronicles Book Two: The Warlord and The Raiders (The Rawn Chronicles Series 2)

by P D Ceanneir

  Mad-gellan turned to the freezing men in the lake who were trying hard to listen to their commanding officers conversation through the sounds of their chattering teeth. He hooked a thumb in the air and over his shoulder, ‘get out!’ he said. The men did their best to follow his order but their cold limbs slowed them down.

  ‘After you captain,’ said Mad-gellan when all the men were out. Jericho stripped to his waist and so did the Nithi lord, both men waded to the centre of the lake.

  ‘What are you morons staring at!’ shouted Mad-gellan at the twelve shivering soldiers on the lakes bank, ‘you heard the captain, three laps around the Vale. Move it!’

  Marshall Zolar moved his army through the deep snow that covered the Dulan Plain on a bleak night in the middle of Jerrod 3031 YOA. They camped in the southern edge of the Temple Woods and embarked on a programme of training, so intense, that the woods resounded with the racket of clashing swords.

  After a long month, they moved south again. They entered Fort Tressel one cold but sunny afternoon in the month of Feran. Zolar immediately took command. His remaining force was already here in the shape of six thousand Wyani cavalry under the command of Lord Yaquis, Third Mormaer of Wyani. This was Yaquis’s personal army of heavy cavalry; they called themselves Foygions, meaning yellow legs, due to the long yellow riding boots all the riders wore.

  Eager and ready, they waited for the thaw.

  Mad-gellan tried to concentrate on his jaw as he and Jericho stood in the lake, but the cold made his teeth chatter uncontrollably, he put his mind elsewhere. He thought back to the early months in the Vale and the prince’s plan of attack against the tribes. Mad-gellan led one of the first raids into his own Nithi lands. There he destroyed village after village that was loyal to his hated arch-rival Mad-daimen, he was also lucky to have found the remains of his own family in the southern mountains. He had learnt, with despair, that Mad-daimen’s men had killed his wife and eldest son during an attack. His frail mother had escaped with his youngest son Chirn and had hid in the mountains. The villagers in the mountains protected the boy when his grandmother died the previous winter. Mad-gellan found him with a dozen other orphans from different villages destroyed by Mad-daimen’s bondsmen. He took them all back to the Vale and incorporated them into the Raiders.

  Prince Havoc had summoned him to his command tent a few days later. That was the day he showed Mad-gellan the black Nithi daggers.

  ‘These are illegal ceremonial blades my lord, used for trapping evil souls,’ explained the major as he moved them around in his large hands.

  ‘I know that, major, what can you tell me about the markings?’ the prince had asked him.

  Mad-gellan peered closer at the hilts, looking at the faded feather designs; he gasped involuntarily when he recognised them.

  ‘The silver feather represents Mad-daimen’s brother, Raimen; the blue is Raimen’s eldest son Lorth. How did you come by these?’

  ‘They used them to kill the bastard children of my sister and cousin,’ said the prince in a pained faraway voice.

  ‘Ah... I am sorry, that is inconsiderate of me. Of course I heard about...’ the major looked embarrassed to Havoc, ‘it was ill done my lord,’ he finally said, ‘Raimen and his sons are ruthless warriors, even worse than Mad-daimen, but they follow him without question. They are his captains in arms, Bondsmen unto death.’

  ‘When I’m finished with them they will not have any arms, I will kill them slowly, and without remorse, they will suffer for their atrocity,’ said the prince in a harsh whisper, as he looked at the daggers in the Nithi lords hands.

  Mad-gellan nodded and saw the truth the prince spoke in his bright green eyes. He decided to broach the subject of his son.

  ‘My lord, I must ask you for a small favour. My son Chirn wishes to join the Raiders, but I fear he is too young for war, he is twelve. Still, I need him close and safe; he is all I have. Do you have any suggestions?’

  The prince rubbed his chin and regarded his major for a few seconds. Mad-gellan was not worried about the prince’s answer; after all, other sons had joined the Raiders. Powyss had returned from his homelands of Hoath with a hundred volunteers, among them his three sons. Granted they were of fighting age, but the big Nithi lord had been a fighter since he was ten.

  ‘Take me to your son,’ said Havoc.

  Unlike his father, the twelve-year-old boy was short for his age. Long, curly, sandy coloured hair gave him a wild look. He had his father’s grey eyes.

  ‘I hear from your father that you want to join the Raiders?’ said Havoc as the boy hugged himself in his furs. He had been watching the soldiers running in groups and lifting their logs together from left side to right side or running through an assault course built by the dwarves. In the distance men fought, individually with swords, or together with spears practicing complex formations; their discipline was extraordinary.

  ‘Aye, I can fight,’ mumbled Chirn. His father nudged his shoulder with his fist, ‘I can fight, sir,’ said Chirn louder.

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ smiled Havoc, ‘can you tell an armed force what to do when I command them?’ Chirn looked confused. The prince took the Horn of Relin off his shoulder and passed it to the boy.

  ‘This is the Battle Horn of Relin, I was going to use it to control the formations in battle, but I think that honour should be yours, have a go.’

  The boy looked stunned as he took the horn in his small hands. He looked at Havoc, and then his father who smiled and nodded and he pursed his lips to the silver tip and blew. A small pathetic, farting noise came out of the other end. The prince and the Nithi lord both laughed which made Chirn frown.

  ‘Fill your lungs Chirn and blow hard,’ said Havoc.

  The boy did as he instructed, and on the second attempt produced a loud thrumming drone that echoed off the surrounding mountains. Chirn was surprised at the loudness of such a small horn. The soldiers in training all looked in their direction; they had heard the horns distinctive tone for the past two months now as they memorised the sounds and the orders and formations, each tone represented.

  ‘Very good,’ said the prince, ‘you are now ready to command an army, Sergeant Chirn.’

  ‘Sergeant?’ gasped the boy.

  ‘Have this young man attached to Lieutenant Verkin with my bodyguards, Lord Gellan. Teach him to use the horn. Once he is ready, he will be my Standard-bearer.’

  ‘Yes my lord, and thank you,’ said a grateful Mad-gellan.’

  About an hour in the freezing water ignoring the cold as he flicked through his memories, Mad-gellan looked at Jericho’s blue face and hooded eyes, he knew he looked just as bad. The heavy yolk of sleep was taking them; they could not last much longer.

  ‘How many times...have you...p p pissed in the water?’ stuttered Jericho, stunning Mad-gellan. This was the first time the captain had talked in two hours. The question made him laugh.

  ‘At least...twice,’ he said.

  ‘Good... so it’s...not just me who...has turned the water yellow,’ despite themselves they both laughed, ‘shall we call it... a draw?’

  ‘I think we...better...because I need to ...shit.’

  Marshall Zolar ordered six large trebuchets constructed. They were large wooden monstrosities, with huge wheels and a team of eight oxen each to pull them. The first three expertly designed to lob granite boulders, several tons in weight. Affectionately named, Slammer, Crusher, and Splinter, the other three were smaller and used at close range to throw flaming balls of brittle iron, called flame-pots, over the walls of the Pass.

  Zolar did not wait for the thaw. He made his move to march to the Pander Pass as soon as the siege engines were ready. Unfortunately, at this time of year, the Old Drove Road became blocked and when the thaw came it would flood from the melt water from the hills. Therefore, he took a longer route on the south side of Lake Wyani. The ground was higher and firmer here for his heavy horse and catapults to traverse. It would take longer to reach the Pass but at leas
t his snowdrift would not impede his march. Once he reached the ford at the Furran River, he would take the Long Valley into Haplann and raid that province for food, just in time for spring.

  He was walking through a field of black, with a black sky above, but he could see it all clearly, there was no natural light, no sun nor moon, but a light shone nonetheless. The sheen glossed over the inhabitants of the field, iridescent shifts of greens and purple reflecting in their black wings and their beady eyes. The ravens remained silent and watchful; they moved when he walked through them and closed up in his wake.

  Dark forms split from the ravens and coalesced into the hooded figure of the Blacksword. Havoc stopped in front of him.

  ‘Are we at peace now? Or is this another dispute?’ said the prince with a sigh. The Blacksword merely shrugged; with his thin pale hands he pulled back his hood to reveal Havoc’s face, it was different somehow, Hairless, paler skin, thinner, void of emotion due to his eyes being completely black. The light still shone from them though. A glimmer of humanity, thought the prince, who could see himself reflected in them.

  The Blacksword looked to his left and so did Havoc. Verna, small and benign, walked towards him.

  ‘You must wake now brother, for the enemy is moving!’ she said. She reached out to him and as she did so her eyes changed to burning globes, bright and intelligent in her eye sockets, he jerked back...

  ...and woke.

  He was on the small hill top where he had come to meditate, miles from the Vale and alone.

  He was still in the garb of the Blacksword. As he changed back into his normal attire, he noticed a severed head by his side. It belonged to a Vallkyte officer.

  Most of the tribes in this region had Vallkyte representatives, or Judiciary Lords, placed there by King Kasan, possibly hoping to facilitate the tribal and Vallkyte pact effectively, but when the dreaded Raiders appeared and plundered the land, the Blacksword was to follow. The fear of death that he spread was cloying. Sometimes he came as a portent to the dreaded Raiders. Witnesses often saw the Blacksword from a distance, watching, this alone spread fear as the rumours of his whereabouts spread further east to tribes that the Raiders had not yet pillaged. Other times, he would strike at the Vallkyte outposts and slay their commanders without warning long before the Raiders came. Havoc had come to realise that the Blacksword’s ability to use the Art was far greater than his. He could summon and control the mists from the ground and guide it towards villages and outposts. No door or window halted its entrance and once it touched a living body then the Thought Link connection through the vapours energies was instantaneous. Asleep, his victims would toss and turn in torment of dark nightmares. Awake, they felt the icy hand of fear on their backs and feel tainted and worthless.

  Fear is our greatest ally and our worst enemy. The Blacksword took that to new heights.

  Havoc stood and kicked the head down the hill. He found Dirkem wandering around looking for spring shoot under the melting snow. He decided to ride back to the Vale; if the dream was a premonition he had to act fast.

  Becoming the Blacksword from time to time kept his alter egos concerns at bay. There seemed to be an unspoken truce between them, for now. Besides, spreading fear as the Blacksword served both of their purposes. That fear spread fast along the eastern tribes. The Raiders constantly returned with reports of Vallkyte outposts deserted or surrendering after rumours of the Blacksword were abroad.

  He took off the cloak and stuffed it into his backpack. He now wore the armour that Gunach had made for every Raider. Dark green with a slight iridescence to it that shifted and dappled in the light, amongst trees and low foliage it blended to camouflage the wearer. The full body armour was surprisingly light and very hard; it could protect the wearer from arrows fired at long distance, as Whyteman proved in trials.

  Each Raider also wore slightly pointed, domed helmets with cheek, chin and nasal guards, also a shoulder guard on the right shoulder, which depicted the soldiers rank. Havoc’s was of the black dragon, Dex. He had also termed himself Field Commander, a high rank for commanding such a small army, but being De Proteous it was his right and the highest he could go; only his father as Field Commander in Chief was higher.

  Gunach had also developed shields made of the same lightweight metal and colour. They attached onto the left shoulder guard by an ingenious hinge that allowed the soldier to move it easily around the left side of their body and unclip it if need be; made into two sections so the smaller part at the bottom, fashioned into a sharp point, retracted into the larger size and slung onto their backs for ease of movement. Each Raider also had finely crafted short swords and sturdy metal spears about fourteen to sixteen feet long that was very light, hollow but made out of the same strong and light metal as the amour. Built into two sections one inside the other so could also retract and extend to different lengths by use of a clever catch and lock mechanism so it could be used as a war-staff instead of a long spear. It had a wide steel blade at one end complete with a sharp hook for pulling down mounted soldiers similar to a Billhook. At the opposite end, it was thicker for balance and weight ratios and had the added benefit as a club.

  Gunach had also developed small crossbows unlike any Havoc had ever seen before. They were heavy, but small, and did not have a bow spring at the front. A magazine clip of four short wolfram tipped arrow-bolts were slotted into the grip and a ratchet on the top tightened four wire springs within the muzzle. The thing was deadly at close range and accurate at thirty feet. The Raiders called them Spit Guns due to the noise they made when firing and they fired one bolt at a time due to an elaborate trigger mechanism inside the stock. Each gun was small enough to carry in leather holsters, which each soldier wore on their right hip.

  With a leather belt of pouches for carrying their own supply of food and bolts for the Spit Guns, each Raider was ready to march and fight for days, and the prince needed them ready at a moment’s notice.

  In the early morning, Havoc entered the Vale. Welcomed by commotion from his army as they struck camp, Powyss had already readied the men for marching.

  ‘The twins have reported that the Vallkytes under Zolar are on the move,’ he said to the prince, ‘he’s heading for the Pass.’

  ‘I know,’ nodded the prince, ‘how did you know I was close by?’

  Powyss looked up, so did Havoc and saw Mirryn flying overhead in tight circles, keening with excitement.

  ‘You are kind of hard to miss,’ informed his friend.

  The prince sighed. Verna had been right in his dream; the days in the Vale were over. Now, it was time to fight.

  Chapter 12

  Ghosts in the Night

  Shanks was contemplating destiny and fortune to a degree of self-complacency. Unfortunately, his memory was not what it was. Flash’s of feelings and faces would flit by in his mind’s eye, but unfocused, as if through a gauze of used cheesecloth. He understood who he had been, but that was a past life, he was someone different now. It was the compassionate grace of Queen Molna that made him see the man he truly was.

  The queen was alarmed at first when he revealed his true name, but became curious. Unfortunately, Shank’s memory fluctuated in its clarity; he knew the answers, but could not grasp their meaning. Molna was patient.

  His only concern in life now was the two he called the Lovers of Destiny, they were coming to see him, soon. He never told the queen about them, but secretly he feared their hunger and their callous need for power.

  However, he knew a dark secret. One that would shake the foundation of the world, not even his madness could burn it from his mind.

  He would only reveal it to one person, and that person was the Blacksword.

  In the meantime, he waited.

  Marshall Zolar awoke from a strange dream.

  As the fragments of the dream disappeared, he understood its meaning. He was not alone in his command tent. Using his Rawn abilities he tried to sense anyone standing in the dark corners of his tent and finding no
one. A nightmare, that was all, he cursed himself for a fool, children are afraid of nightmares not someone like a marshal of a great host.

  The host in question had marched for two weeks now through thick snow. It was slow going with the lumbering siege engines, but this was the usual aspect of war. Most of the time, campaigning required patience and Zolar was a patient man. As a man he was approaching fifty, as a Rawn Master he looked no older than twenty-five. Too young to have taken part in the last civil war he nonetheless worked his way to his high rank through diligence and utter loyalty to Kasan. A gifted tactician and consummate battle commander, Zolar had outsmarted and browbeaten his opponents to get to where he was now. This aspect in his character showed through his bearing. He was stern and strict, his dark blue eyes saw through the slightest bluff and lie from his sub-officers, and those that did never lasted long under his command.

  He lit a new candle that sat in a wick beside his cot with just a flick of his hand; the Rawn element of fire ignited the wick to dash away the darkness. Then he suddenly felt something sharp touch his throat. He stiffened and heard a dry whisper that issued from a dark hooded figure sitting right in front of him.

  ‘Do not fear your dreams marshal, they help you understand,’ it said. The marshal had involuntarily put his hand on the blade for a split second as it pressed against his jugular. Even without his knowledge of the earth element he could tell that the metal in the blade was unknown to him. Just like the strange alien presence that held the weapon, it made him uncomfortable, and a little scared which was not like him at all.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said trying to look into the dark hood but could see nothing beyond the shadows.

  ‘You know who I’ am.’

  Zolar did, but it did not make him feel any better.

  ‘You are the Blacksword,’ he said in a level tone. The voice behind the hood remained silent. ‘What do you want?’ asked the marshal. Secretly he was wondering how this creature got through his camp pickets and into his tent without the perimeter guards seeing him. He had heard of the many stories surrounding the Blacksword that he was some sort of phantom or a being with terrible powers. He had not believed any of the stories until now. Yet the reports coming in from Toll-marr were hard to discredit.