by P D Ceanneir
Verkin too was wounded, but not from the battle. The wound that Havoc had healed over a year ago had opened. He fobbed off anyone’s concerns, claiming it had been paining him for some time now and it was not a problem.
Velnour returned from chasing the running Vallkytes sometime in the late afternoon. He informed Havoc that the twins Hexor and Foxe, plus their company of mounted scouts and skirmishers were still chasing down the fleeing host. His squadrons of Raider cavalry had left a trail of dead that stretched for miles. By the time he got back, the dead from the prince’s army lay in neat rows together and grey stones, from the ruined fort, lovingly placed over them to form a giant cairn that towered over the Vallkyte dead on the battlefield. The prince was loath to burn the dead; the smoke from the funeral pyre would be seen for miles and he wanted his presence here to remain secret for a while longer. Gunach and his troop buried their people in deep graves facing north, as was their tradition.
They buried Ethyn where he fell on Skytop. His friends piled large stones around his body. Brynd, his closest friend, scratched an inscription on a flat white stone, it said: HERE RESTS ETHYN THE RAIDER. ONE OF THE TWELVE. Died 19th Apraila 3031 YOA. The twelve was a reference to the men Havoc and Powyss rescued from the Mines of Haplann and had become the core officers of the Raiders.
There was little time given for the wounds to heal and tired men to rest. The prince gave the order to march. He wanted to reach Cosshead before any survivors of the battle delivered news of the De Proteous victory and of their movements. They marched east, along the route of Vallkyte dead. A road of corpses left to rot in the warmth of the bright spring day.
Havoc was the last to leave the battlefield of Fess, resting his hand on the cairn of brave and honoured dead, he said goodbye to them all before mounting Dirkem.
As he joined his army, he glanced back at the carnage left behind. He scoffed at his refusal to cremate the fallen, for a black cloud had already formed above Skytop. A shiver ran down his spine as he watched the ravens descend to the feast.
The small hamlet of Ifor sat on the road to Cosshead.
The prince’s host forced marched to the Stonebridge where they met Hexor and Foxe who had taken it upon themselves to guard the bridge with their handful of mounted scouts. There they rested until morning. The sun had not crested the horizon when they moved again taking a shortcut crossing the Great Marsh diagonally southward, and then over the Sten River where the Coss River branched away from it to carry on through twisting valleys and dales. The prince pushed them hard with little respite. Because of this they made good time and were at the road to Ifor on the fifth day. They saw no one on their travels. Foxe, and Hexor’s scouts and skirmishers ranged everywhere in the local area to give advanced warning of any enemy movement.
In amongst a tall forest of lush green elms and rowans sat the hamlet of Ifor. It was situated on a mild slope just east of the woodland road. Whitewashed wooden cottages with grey slate roofs looked out over the narrow Coss River. Locals used Long barges to take produce such as, fleeces, wine, ale, and salt pork loaded from the river jetties. They would take the barges down river to the trade ships in the harbour at Cosshead.
Overlooking the main road and the hamlet was the Round Tower of Ifor, a large red-bricked squat tower with a coned roof of grey slate and white framed windows that were dotted all over its curved walls. This was the seat of Sir Kellan, the Vallkyte Lord Judiciary for Toll-marr, second-in-command of the garrison at Cosshead and current Baron of Ifor.
To the west, across the road opposite the hamlet, was fifty hectares of the Ifor Muir, the baron’s personal guards, the Ifor Lancers, stabled their horses at the small brick built garrison huts there, and their riders slept in the long wooden bunkrooms at the edge of the moor.
The prince’s attack of Ifor was bloodless. Mainly because the baron and his lancers were not at home. Gunach’s company of dwarves, along with Mactan’s men, took the garrison bunkrooms, only to find just thirty men fast asleep. Magnus and a handpicked band from the legion entered the Round Tower via the Traders Gate, dressed as Highland Pelt Traders, and found fifty men on guard. The fifty put up a poor fight as Magnus and Sir Colby held the courtyard gate open to let the rest of the Princes Legion through, but wisely surrendered after being surrounded by two hundred battle-clad legionnaire’s. The queen and Captain Velnour rounded up all of the citizens and held them hostage in their own Townhouse while Jericho and Furran’s company of archers confiscated a dozen barges and raided their supplies.
One of the hostages from the tower was the baron’s son, the twenty year old Dolment, a Vallkyte by birth; he was deeply sympathetic to the Rogun plight.
‘Most of the Vallkyte nobles are afraid of King Kasan, my lord, but none have the nerve to stand against him. Even my father is wary of him. Most people of Ifor had no wish being brought into this war with the Roguns, your people have always been kind to us.’ he told Havoc once the prince had him brought to the baron’s study in the round house which he used as a base of operations. The boy was not much older himself, red-brown hair with a youthful sprinkling of freckles over his nose and cheeks. He was clever and friendly with a carefree attitude that the prince admired.
‘I understand, Master Dolment, there are always casualties in war, mentally and physically, but I have not come to bandy politics with you or your father. Incidentally, where is the baron?’
‘Left for Cosshead with a thousand Lancers yesterday, he should return with supplies the day after tomorrow,’ Dolment looked guiltily at Havoc then sighed, ‘my father and I don’t always see eye to eye with regards to the war, highness, but I don’t wish to see him hurt. Nevertheless, the lancers will follow him, because he is the baron.’
‘I will see no harm comes to him,’ said Havoc sipping wine from a crystal glass, ‘you have my word.’
‘I…I heard about the execution of your sisters and cousins,’ said Dolment bowing his head, ‘it was barbaric. Those responsible are unworthy of being part of the human race.’
Havoc regarded the young man for a few seconds, and then said ‘thank you.’
The road from Ifor ran through the forest for another two miles before coming to a pass in the hills. The name of the valley and pass was Limeshoal although the locals preferred to call the pass, Limeshoal Gap. Beyond the Gap was the Coss peninsula.
Havoc and his scouts had found a high lookout point hidden among the trees on the hills. They had reached this position in late evening, as the night was just about to cover the sky. Crossheads’ street lanterns glowed yellow in the distance. The Coss River ran through the middle of the peninsula. Halfway down, it widened within thin lanes of white sandy beaches on both sides. In fact, the whole of the low-lying land must have been a beach at some point in the past, the grass pastures on the northern bank stretched as far as the chalk cliffs and the hillock and undulating ground were once ancient sand dunes now covered in short grass.
On the western edge of the peninsula was more white chalk hills, the seaward side eroded away by the sea hundreds of years ago. With the help of Mirryn and the Muse Orrinn the next day, Havoc could clearly see the walled town of Cosshead. It was a small seaside town full of tall closely packed three storey town houses. It was not large enough to house a military garrison in itself, so the enemy army camped outside, the white tents spread out in a circle. The standards of two Vallkyte regiments could be seen and three of the yellow and green of the Toll-marr contingents, Lord Elkin’s original unit. Havoc’s heart raced at the prospect of meeting the legendary Elkin; however, he had hoped not to meet him in battle.
A large natural inlet, with islands of rocks curving around its perimeter, provided an excellent deep harbour for the larger draft ships of the Vallkyte navy. Currently he could see about fifty ships, from three-mast baroques to battle galleys, moored. As the day wore on others arrived from the west.
As he continued to watch Mirryn’s sky view with interest, he was studying the ring of tents outside the town wal
ls when the silver clouds of the Muse Orrinn closed, he frowned; usually the Orrinn only closed when he wanted it to, what was it doing?
The surface opened again to reveal a small lake, glassy and tranquil, the surface rippled under the moonlight casting a silver sheen over the water. Its edges fringed with darkness but could just make out the subtle texture of rock walls beyond the lake.
Havoc froze, was the Orrinn showing him the future again?
Verna stood on the waters of the lake but the image she cast was not her own. A silver outline showed a female form, tall and elegant with long green hair moving with the ripples of the water. However, the face was not human and slightly too elongated with a nose that was long and unnaturally thin. Her eyes burnt orange, piercing the darkness. Havoc had no time to focus or ponder the meaning of this alien scene because the picture shifted to a place he knew well.
It was the Ring of Carras, bathed in the full moon. His heart leapt, this was the first sight of his home in years. He focused on the tall stones. A flash of light blazed for an instant then disappeared to reveal a figure, a giant, taller than Little Kith. It walked out of the circle covered in a purple cloak. Through the wide hood, he could only see darkness.
A Havant, travelling the Drift, was it another Ri?
Huge wide hands appeared covered in light green scales. They were long and thin with nails like sharp black talons. They reached up to pull back the hood and...
...the Orrinn closed, Havoc breathed out. The full moon had just been and gone several days ago, so when was this going to happen, or had it happened? One thing was for sure, revelations in the Orrinn tended to come true.
Dolment’s information proved correct. His father did return on the second day, the twenty-sixth of Apraila. Havoc had already organised an ambush in the two-mile stretch of woodland that the baron’s cavalry would have to traverse when he entered the Limeshoal Gap. The Ifor Lancers cut a handsome sight in their livery of black, gold, and rich steel armour. Sir Kellan, in his plumed helmet of silver and gold feathers, rode at the head of his thousand Lancers. Once he alone was through the stand of trees with his force trailing behind him, the Raiders attacked.
The dwarves had already cut tall bolls to cover the road north and south, holding them upright by using wooden props. Once the dwarves dislodged the props, the trees fell across the Lancers path, blocking any exit for them. Then the Eternals fired from the trees on the slopes they grew from.
Sir Kellan was knocked from his horse at the start of the ambush by Havoc who clubbed him unconscious with his sword pommel; that way he kept his promise to Dolment not to harm his father. The Lancers did not stand a chance, half died before the rest surrendered.
Havoc relayed his next strategy to Powyss that night as the army prepared for battle.
‘Velnour knows the plan already, he and his cavalry will dress as the Ifor Lancers and only come through the Gap when I call with the horn.’
‘Elkin may not fall for it,’ said Powyss, ‘I’ve met him before, he’s cunning.’
‘So that makes me, what?’
‘Oh...you’re cunning too, but in a slippery eel sort of way,’ smiled the older man.
‘Thanks, I think. Anyway, take the men down the Coss River via the barges; have then on the east bank by the town beach before daybreak.’
‘All right, that’s good. Get into position before Elkin can react, but it will be tricky, the barges will be seen by those on the harbour docks.’
‘Do not worry there will be a diversion,’ said Havoc in a quiet voice as he stared into the distance.
‘What kind of diversion?’
‘I and the Blacksword have come up with a plan.’
When Havoc walked into the stables to get his black cloak out of Dirkem’s saddlebag he found Verkin standing in the centre of the barn with his back to him.
‘Hello lieutenant?’ Havoc had a feeling something was wrong.
‘Something terrible is coming,’ it was Verkin who spoke but his voice sounded different somehow.
‘Verkin, are you all right?’ Havoc gripped the other man’s shoulder and spun him round, Verkin jumped in fright, his eyes were wide and glassy, his face pale. He focused on the prince as he came out of the fugue state he was obviously in, Havoc felt concern for his friend.
‘I’m sorry sir, must have been dreaming,’ he rubbed his forehead, ‘been having lots of bad dreams lately.’
‘Do you usually dream standing up?’ Havoc said, smiling to reassure him. Verkin looked around the stable in confusion.
‘Was I?’
A small patch of bright red blood from his old wound seeped into his green cloth shirt.
The prince pointed to it. ‘Go and see Queen Bronwyn, one of her handmaidens has strong healing lotions, that is an order.’
Verkin nodded and walked out of the stable. Havoc frowned as he watched his friend leave, but he had other problems to deal with. He took off his helmet, strapping it to Dirkem’s saddle and put on the cloak of the Blacksword. He walked over to a full water trough as he buckled the three silver clasps at the front of the cloak and then strapped on SinDex’s leather scabbard onto his back. The cloak fitted his body tightly and flared from the waist to just over the top of his high armoured boots. He refrained from raising the hood as he studied his reflection in the trough. The man that looked back was older and wiser than the boy he once knew.
‘I trust you on this mission. Like we discussed, I will allow you full dominance,’ he said, ‘only you have the confidence and stealth to accomplish this.’
The Blacksword remained silent in his mind, but the prince sensed his presence and anticipation. Since the episode with the tree bridge the prince now realised that the voice of his alter ego was not a figment of his imagination but a physical entity sharing his mind. It had shown him knowledge of earth energies far greater than his own. Whatever the scholars of the past thought of the Pyromancer’s curse or the “Rage” as they called it, they were wrong about the manifestation of madness, possibly. Havoc could see that now. How it happened, he did not know, his only thoughts were that the Muse Orrinn, on the Sword that Rules pommel, must be the main catalyst to influence this split personality, or may well be the curse was to blame. Whatever was happening to him, he felt it was too late to revert to his old self.
As he looked at his reflection he felt the shift in his other self. He felt the flow from the darkness of his mind and manifestation of his body into the Blacksword. He did not have to concentrate on the swords Orrinns now, it just happened.
His image changed in the water. This at first was both disconcerting and exciting at the same time. His cheeks became sullen. His skin so pale that it was almost bone white and his nose shrunk, nostrils flared. His dark hair receded and disappeared to become a smooth white baldpate and he grew several inches in height. The influence of the Earth Orrinn on the sword compensated by adjusting his armour size to this new stature, the green armour even changed into a matt black in colour. The change was painless, yet tiring, as if his energy drained away to complete the process. He looked at his hands and they were white, fingers stretched, nails blackened, they seemed thin and skeletal. He suddenly felt his own consciousness recede as the entity of the Blacksword took over. Darkness welcomed him and he fell into a surprisingly comfortable and safe airless void. The last glimpse of the Blacksword’s new face reminded him of the last dream he had of him.
It was the eyes. The bright green of his own now dimmed to make way for the inky blackness of his alter egos, which also leached out to fill the whites of the eyeballs totally, and this had the effect of blocking out all emotion from that ghastly countenance. The image was enhanced by the now protruding and constantly frowning brow that made the face malevolent and the black eyes more sunken.
Then it hit him. What he was looking at was his own fleshless skull.
The naval yard of Cosshead Harbour was primarily a trade port and still used as such regardless of the war vessels that choked the bay. Birl
inn’s and other small warships nestled among bigger trade frigates moored up by the quayside and loading wharfs. Larger three mast barques and war galleons tended to anchor to the south side of the docks near the entrance; they bobbed in the bays swell, lined up together in neat rows held there by thick grease slick hemp ropes.
The darkness in this early morning was not absolute. Light from the town, warehouses, wharfs and the occasional safety lanterns lined up on the quayside; cast a subtle glow over the vessels. Little oil lanterns on ship masts threw shadows into the rope webbed corners.
Into this peaceful scene, a dark figure climbed up the side of one of the cargo ships from the cold water. The sound of lapping water accompanied his assent of the ship’s hull. Quietly the Blacksword snapped the neck of the deck guard and stowed the body away into the dark corners of the stern.
Havoc played things the Blacksword’s way, if the Blacksword could force his will and speak to him at anytime, then so could he, the prince was amazed at how easy it was.
So you plan to burn the fleet to distract the garrison, which should divert attention away from the river and allow the Raiders to get into position? Said Havoc, his voice sounded tinny in the Blacksword’s head.
‘Correct,’ whispered the Blacksword. He was looking around and Havoc was amazed at how clear his alter egos vision in the dark really was. So many variations of sub-light made his sight far better than any humans. He also had a knack of moving extremely quietly and shrouding himself within the shadows that splayed along the deck of the ship. In fact, the shadows moved with him, a use of the Subtle Arts that would impress even Powyss. The other thing about this mysterious being was his keen senses; the Blacksword’s ability to detect nearby life forms was far more acute than Havoc’s; and the prince wondered, not for the first time, how this entity came into being. Not even the Blacksword could answer this question.
