“Not much meat on you, is there?” Soujonn asked Havoc, eyeing him with a look of distaste.
“Only where it counts,” said Havoc.
This got a laugh from Magnus and the girls.
“Oh, and which one can attest to that, then?” asked one of the boys; he had a fluffy goatee that did not suit him. “My money’s on one of the red heads.” He gave a pig-like laugh.
“They are princesses of the Third House of Cromme. They are descended from the oldest of the Eldi and they demand your respect!” This from Havoc with such angry severity that all the boys seemed surprised, even Soujonn was taken aback. Havoc could feel a curious heat build up in his body, probably, he thought, from the anger he felt, and he forced himself to quell it.
They were all silently looking at Havoc, who now seemed strangely composed; he had wracked his brains to try to find a peaceful solution to any mounting conflicted with his bullying cousin, but as he looked into his face, he realised that there was only hate and jealousy there.
“We have not finished our sparing session,” he said, “so we may as well finish on you. You can blame your friend for his insult; now grab a weapon!” He said this last calmly and with a petulant flick of his wrist, and then turned his back on them to face Magnus, who was looking at him wide eyed.
“Are you mad?” he whispered.
Behind him, Soujonn grunted, “Time to teach a Rogun a lesson, boys... Ahh, the swords will be metal, of course?”
Havoc and Magnus were too young to be using real weapons, but Havoc turned around to him and grunted his agreement. The girls’ sharp indrawn breaths were clearly audible.
Not allowed to carry their own weapons into the city, the older boys chose from the sword rack next to the sand run. Most of them were blunt, heavy and poorly balanced, but there was no complaint from them as they limbered up.
Havoc chose a sword and Magnus stuck with tradition and kept his staff; he figured that working together he could fend them off while Havoc attached.
Soujonn took the lead and advanced on Havoc; the other boys rounded on Magnus. Soujonn’s plan was to separate them and deal with them individually.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” he said as he attacked with several ferocious blows of such strength that it forced Havoc back to the rear of the sand run.
The prince studied Soujonn’s style, or lack of, as was the case; although a fearsome fighter and in possession of some skill, he nevertheless would make an adequate knight where the combination of anger and strength was required to beat down one’s opponent. Havoc watched the wrist movement and the feet, judging when the next move would come and defending accordingly.
He was nearing the end of the sand run when he made his move, changing hands from right to left and leaving himself open. Soujonn saw his opportunity and swung his sword in an arc at Havoc’s side. Havoc stepped into the attacking swing and kneed him in the stomach; as Soujonn doubled up, Havoc rammed the pommel of his sword into the nape of his neck.
Eleana cheered and clapped, while the others just looked on in amazement. Soujonn’s powers of recuperation were amazing; he gave Eleana a withering look and attacked Havoc again, screaming in rage, but this time, in his anger and humiliation, he overreached so that Havoc was able to sidestep him and swing his sword into his cousin’s side. The training blades were blunt, or the damage would be more severe for Soujonn; he fell onto his knees and clutched his ribs; one was probably broken and he would have a nasty bruise in the morning if he did not heal himself.
Havoc turned and ran to help Magnus. His brother was fending off the others well, swinging his staff from side to side. One boy in the group had stepped too close at one point, because he had a grazed cheek that looked swollen and red.
Havoc saw Magnus run at one of them who seemed more concerned about the fallen Soujonn; using his staff like a lance, he rammed it into the other boy’s belly so hard that he lifted off his feet and landed outside the sand run.
Havoc, without losing his stride, picked up the downed boys fallen sword in his left hand and attacked the other two, pushing them back. Magnus clubbed the downed boy twice on the head for good measure, assured himself that he knocked him senseless, then turned and hurled his staff with deadly accurate precision. It struck the red-cheeked boy on the forehead, making a dull bonging sound, and the staff wobbled off into the air. After the impact, the boy collapsed to the ground clutching his head.
Havoc’s odds were now better and his opponent, the one with the goatee, who tried to defend himself from Havoc’s two swords. However, they were moving too quickly for him and the young prince trapped goatee’s sword between both of his own and flicked it away; he spun on his heel and kicked him in the side of the head with such force that goatee twisted full circle before falling to the ground.
Soujonn, his face a mask of pain, ran at them. He headed for Magnus, because he was unarmed and easier to deal with, but a loud voice stopped him.
“That is enough!”
At the entrance to the training ground stood Lord Rett in half armour with his sword, Selnour, meaning Death Shroud, strapped to his back. He also wore an angry frown.
He marched straight towards them and unsheathed Selnour.
“Ohh... we are in the shit now!” mumbled Magnus.
To everyone’s surprise, the Red Duke totally ignored Soujonn and his friends, stomped past them and came to a halt in front of Havoc, still frozen in a defensive pose against Soujonn’s attack, and he relaxed the stance as he saw the duke’s dark-eyed frown.
“Well, young prince, do you want to take on a real warrior instead?” he asked, Selnour hanging by his side.
Magnus and the girls tried not to laugh. Lord Rett, with that withering statement, not only accepted Havoc as a worthy opponent, but also insulted the four Vallkyte boys into an embarrassing silence.
“No master, not until I have learnt all that you can teach me,” said Havoc, with a serious look on his face.
“Then ground your weapons,” said the champion, and Havoc rammed both of his swords into the sand.
Rett turned towards Soujonn. “Are you still here?”
Soujonn’s face went red, he was about to say something and then thought better of it; everyone in the land had heard of the Red Duke’s prowess with a blade.
“Pick up your filth and get off my training ground; don’t come back until you have learnt how to fight!”
The Vallkytes teenagers either carried each other or limped out of the grounds.
Lord Rett looked at the girls, whose smiles slowly faded. He indicated the entrance with a thumb over his shoulder and simply said ‘out!’ in a loud, no-nonsense voice; the girls knew they had outstayed their welcome, and left rather quickly.
“You left yourself open too many times,” Lord Rett said to Havoc. He rounded on Magnus. “And you should never leave yourself unarmed at any point in a fight.”
“You were watching?” asked Magnus incredulously.
“Of course, I saw them come in. Now get my training ground tided up.”
The princes looked at each other and shrugged as the duke stomped off.
Then their training master stopped halfway to the entrance and turned; the smile he wore lightened his handsome, dark features. “Ohh... And lads, that was very nicely done.”
Havoc and Magnus beamed at him, and then set to work tidying the sand lane.
The Vallkytes left two days later; there were no tearful goodbyes. King Kasan and the delegation left in the early hours of the morning, leaving only extinguished fires smouldering on the plain.
King Hagan and Cinnibar stayed for the rest of that week, enjoying the hospitality that the Roguns had to offer. Cinnibar was shown around the flagship, Pollmion, and she insisted to Hagan in a jovial manner that she simply must have one, because, in her capacity as the Countess of Sonora, one of her many titles, the prestige must be maintained. Hagan, for his part, promised that his shipwright would build her one.
There were tears,
however, when it was time for the sky ships to leave, Cinnibar and her Havant entourage were very happy to sail in the flagship. The twins cried throughout the goodbyes and received a warm hug by their father. Although the children had stayed before over the years – Havoc and Magnus had stayed in Sonora for the summer in the past – they knew it could be for a long time. Their father was concerned about the defensive ability of his capital city, it being a free trading port and open to all.
The sky ships churned the water to foam as they lifted into the air, flying away to the north as silently as they had arrived.
The summer months rolled in and warm wind later became winter chill. The king made his battle headquarters in the citadels garrison, where he recruited from all over the Rogun lands. No doubt, the other monarchs were doing the same.
King Kasan had the harder task. He wished to engage the enemy quickly, and he already had a standing army in the Toll-marr region and a large navy. The battle plans of the three kings hinged on the use of these two readymade forces.
The Vallkyte host of about twenty-six thousand strong were made of Vallkyte soldiers, Toll-marr and Hoath tribes. They were under the command of General Plysov, one of Kasan’s most able battle commanders. His mission was to secure the southern edge of the Wildlands using the navy, under Admiral Hurnac, to ferry the troops to the Lindla delta.
A Rogun force under its general, Sir Balaan, was to support the beleaguered Jertiani tribes that lived on the borders of the Wildlands and build up the ruined wooden palisade that stretched the entire length of the border.
All this was taking many months, while every day more and more soldiers were leaving to go to the south, also others to the Pander Pass in the Tattoium Mountains in the east, where a large Rogun fort would be King Vanduke’s second headquarters when he chose to move.
Havoc and Magnus trained and studied; life went on in the citadel. Magnus took up wrestling as a past time. He would fight with Havoc in the past, but, as his body got bigger, he found it easier to beat him and decided to seek other opponents. Word got around, and soon he found challengers of a similar age, and beat every one of them.
Their royal guard commander, Sir Gillem, an old Carras Knight of about fifty eight with a limp, but as tough as old boots, saw the benefits in Magnus, and duly started a betting pool. With Magnus now an unbeaten champion, the money was rolling in for Sir Gillem and he was always careful to give his young protégé a percentage of the winnings.
Havoc would blanch every time his brother would return from these bouts, seeing him covered in cuts and bruises, mostly on the face and arms, but always with a bright smile and bag of gold sovereigns. He would allow Eleana to bathe his wounds, even though girls were not supposed to be in their dormitory, yet this did not stop his sisters and cousins appearing unannounced.
Beautiful Eleana, always offered Havoc coy and meaningful looks when Magnus was not looking, and he would smile back without blushing. He was starting to notice the female form. Eleana was very pretty; he liked what he saw, but he was confused. She was almost like a sister to him. In addition, he would feel that strange heat welling up in him whenever she attended to Magnus as if he was jealous of them. The last time he felt it was before the fight with Soujonn. It was a strange sensation which he put down to his age and changing teenage body.
Havoc would go and watch Magnus fight in the early days, but then he eventually took to enjoying the peace and quiet in his room. He would sit on his bed and stare into the silver Muse Orrinn that made up Tragenn’s pommel and meditate. Nothing would happen, the Orrinn never gave up its secrets, and Havoc never believed that it would. He found that if he concentrated on the orb, sending his conscious thoughts into the silver surface of the sphere, then he was able to fall into a deep trance and meditate for many hours. Afterwards, he would feel very refreshed and the strange heat in his chest would dissipate.
One time, Magnus arrived back early after winning a quick, easy fight and found Havoc wide-eyed and pale faced staring into the Orrinn. He reached out his hand to shake him, but Havoc had grabbed it in a vice-like grip that nearly crushed his brother’s hand.
One day, he decided to go to the library to study some Skrol documents. He reasoned that, if the symbols on Tragenn’s blade were so easy for him to read, then he might be able to read some others.
Ancient Skrol was made up of eighty-four characters; all consisted of elaborate shapes and lines within circles; one symbol had dozens of meanings and, if several were together in a row, they could constitute a short phrase or an epic story. This was why Skrol was so difficult to understand. It took many years for scholars and Ris to get to grips with its subtle nuances.
The Skrol documents in the library were old, very old. Most were fragmented and encased in glass. Havoc was not surprised to find out that he could not read any of it. Therefore, he reasoned that he heard what the symbols meant on Tragenn from someone in the past. Nevertheless, it did not explain to him why the symbols were so clear, as if it was his own handwriting.
Reports came from all of the allied contingents that actively took part in the attempt to confront Mad-daimen and his Nithi horde in a conflict, now called, the War of the Wildlands. General Plysov had achieved a brilliant tactical landing near the Duluth Row with the help of the Admiral Hurnac, who had bombarded the enemy with arrows and fireballs fired from catapults and ballistae on his ships; the assault had been enough to keep the enemy back while the general consolidated and strengthened his position.
Sir Balaan’s Rogun Regiment of Engineers had taken hewn stone blocks from quarries in the Alniani region and built a wall behind the existing wooden one, blocking off Mad-daimen’s exit to the west. Cut off from the north by the dreaded ash banks of Dracolinth-sol, the Nithi Overlords only option was northeast into the Dragorsloth, or Dragon Marshes.
Vallkyte intelligence gatherers would arrive at Aln-Tiss on a weekly basis, confirming reports that the rebel army was far smaller than first thought. Plysov was pushing them to the marshes, but the going was slow. His supplies were not a concern; the Vallkyte navy saw to that. Mad-daimen and his host were tenacious fighters and knew the land well. Now, nearly eighteen months since the start of the campaign, thought Vanduke as he read the reports. The rebels had to break for the marshes.
The Rogun King took the initiative and moved his battle headquarters to the Pander Pass. All the infantry marched there some months ago and that just left the horsed knights and Men-at-arms, who would make good time covering the long distance. He left a skeleton force to guard the easily defended citadel.
Ness Ri left with them, going in his capacity as the king’s consul, but also to record events for the Ri archives.
The twins again sobbed their way through the goodbyes, obviously remembering their father’s departure. Vanduke hugged them all, lingering longer with the queen as she whispered in his ear. He turned to Havoc and clasped him in a warrior’s handshake for the first time.
“I hear from your teachers that you are going to be a powerful Rawn and an excellent swordsman; look after everything while I’m away.”
“I will, Father. May the gods go with you,” said Havoc.
The king turned to Magnus, looked him up and down, frowning. “I hear from certain… sources that you have taken up wrestling, and that bets are on for you to beat Sir Woodel’s son, Hectur, next month. Am I right?”
“Yes, sir.” Magnus was blushing and dragging his left foot in a circle on the ground.
“You know I despise betting!”
Magnus mumbled incoherently and hid his eyes behind his fringe, aware that everyone was watching him.
“I’ve got a hundred gold sovereigns on you, so you better bloody win, boy.” Vanduke was smiling down at him.
“Yes, sir,” said Magnus with bright enthusiasm, and everyone laughed.
The king and Lord Rett mounted their battle steeds and prepared to ride off. Lord Rett, not one for goodbyes, gave a quick wave and turned to the princes, giving to them bot
h a nod of farewell, aware that he lingered slightly longer than the departing cavalry. His sorrowful face showed his emotions and his eyes never left Magnus’s. The Red Duke had many mistresses, but no child of his own; many believed, in certain circles, that Magnus would inherit his title in the event of his death.
“Both of you may find something of interest in the academy stables,” he said, and turned his mount and rode off after the departing column.
They all watched the Rogun host until the cloud of dust was just visible on the horizon. The city seemed smaller and quieter now to Havoc.
The ‘something of interest’ in the stables was two beautiful black stallions. A present from Lord Rett explained Sir Gillem as he handed them the reins. Black horses were common on the Aln plain, and these two trained as warhorses since they were colts.
Both princes were delighted and took them out of the north gate, and rode around the plain for many hours. Sir Gillem’s royal guard tried in vain to keep them in their sights.
The boys were already accomplished riders; most Roguns rode at a very young age. Their new mounts were fast and graceful, and handled instruction well.
They returned to the stable after severe chastisement from a very angry Sir Gillem.
“I will call you Dirkem; that means Night Ghost,” said Havoc as he brushed the animal down later that day and laid more hey in his stall. The horse ignored him and continued to eat more oats from a nosebag. “We will be great friends,” he said.
The sun was setting behind the Sky Mountains. A cold wind came from the east, the first chill of winter. Havoc looked out over the palace walls and thought of his father.
Chapter 5
Deception
The Pander Pass should not exist. It was not a natural route through the Tattoium Mountains, but manmade over three thousand years ago. The Vallkytes had hewn out a tunnel almost a mile long through the Tattoium Ridge to give them better access to the east as they separated from the Rogun tribe all of those years ago.
The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) Page 6