Tilly and Letti were much the same. However, at the foot of his cousins lay the corpses of two infants. Both with ebony handled daggers embedded into the top of their skulls. Letti received cuts more severely than her sister had, so the butcher could extract the unborn baby easier.
Verna looked beautiful. The spear point had come out at the nape of her neck, and she wore her favourite blue dress she used for court balls. She had a bright purple bruise around her throat that seemed in stark contrast to her pale face. She was looking down at Havoc with a sad and benign, almost benevolent, expression. Her light brown hair blew in the wind, and her green eyes were wide and compassionate.
For some reason, the ravens had not touched her.
“Queen of the Ravens,” he whispered in wonder, but did not know why he said that.
Lord Rett recoiled at the horror of the situation and shouted at the legionnaires to take the bodies down.
“Leave them,” said Havoc.
Even through all the noise of the legion talking and their pounding steel-shod boots on the cold, hard earth, they heard Havoc’s voice very clearly. Everyone looked at him. He was staring into Verna’s eyes.
“What...?” Pure astonishment was evident on Lord Rett’s face.
Sir Colby frowned and Magnus looked at him through a veil of tears.
“My Lord Duke, have I, as your prince, ever gave you an order?” His voice was not unlike the king’s and it gave Lord Rett pause.
Havoc was looking straight at him and he could see in his eyes a man in control, a man, not a boy, a man not easily denied.
There was a sharp tangible static in the air. The snow at Havoc’s feet had melted around him in a six-foot radius. The legionaries stepped back a few paces. Lord Rett realised the prince was trying hard to hold back his Pyromantic energies.
“No, my prince, you have not,” said Lord Rett.
“Then they stay as they are.” He looked at Sir Colby. “Sir Knight, please be so kind as to bring our people here; they will need to see this.”
Magnus stood to protest, but saw the look in Havoc’s eyes. “Why?” he asked.
Havoc was looking at Verna again.
“Because they are first and foremost my family; they are Cromme. The way that they have been abused, punished and murdered must never be forgotten, so let all see and remember.”
Chapter 11
The Pyromancer’s Rage
Queen Molna looked down at the child in the crib. He was a beautiful baby with dark green eyes and light fair hair. There was also a purple birthmark on his left temple. The child crooned up at the queen and dribbled on his hands, but Molna did not smile.
The Vallkyte people of their capital citadel, Dulan-Tiss, had welcomed the Queen of the Roguns with open arms and warm smiles. Her arrival, followed with a parade down the main street to the king’s castle, drew the local populace in their thousands. Thousands lined the road and threw scented petals under her horse’s hoofs. The queen did not smile. She knew it was just for show.
King Kasan arrived a week later, welcomed her to her new home, and made her comfortable. She was courteous, but distant.
The wedding was illegal, all knew it, but the king went through with it anyway, and Molna obediently did as ordered for fear of angering Kasan. She only spoke when spoken to, and her replies were short and cold.
The king summoned her to his bedchamber that night and every night for the rest of that month. She never gave in to the enjoyment of it. As far as she was concerned, it was loveless and base. If the king noticed, he did not show it. He used her anyway, and got what he wanted.
The result of their coupling lay in the crib before her.
The king named his heir, Creed.
She left the baby in the care of a wet nurse and walked into the gardens, followed, as always, by her many guards. This was her favourite place in the castle grounds. The rest of the Dulan-Tiss she did not care for with its block buildings and staccato design. The castle itself, although luxurious inside, was just an angular block with four massive turret towers at each corner, yet it was homely. She watered the boarders and shrubs of the garden, and then picked the heads off the dead roses.
King Kasan watched her from his bedchamber balcony as the messenger he had sent walked up to the queen as she administered to her garden. He smiled as he watched her take the note. News from General Plysov a month ago gave him the opportunity to continue the Rogun cull. He had sent back a quick reply and ordered the princesses’ execution.
Queen Molna read the note outlining the trial and the subsequently cruel sentence of execution imposed on her daughters and King Hagan’s twins. Kasan watched the note fell from her hands. She wailed a cry of deepest despair and collapsed to the ground.
The king turned back and closed the glass doors to her screams. He looked forward to summoning her to his bedchamber tonight.
“Let all who come here to witness this today, remember, let it burn into your minds,” shouted Havoc at the sea of pale faces as the exiles stared at the four impaled princesses. “Do not let your stomachs quell at the sight you see, for they are no longer there. Their souls have ascended to the undying lands of their forefathers and joined the brave in the Halls of the Heroes; they can feel no more pain.”
People bemoaned and others nodded at Havoc’s words; others prayed for the departed souls.
“But mark my words, as I stand here before you as my father’s heir. The atrocities that we shall rain down upon the Vallkytes in retaliation, shall be a sweet mercy compared to all that we have suffered, and it shall not come close to what you see before you.”
There were cheers at that.
He held up the ebony handled daggers that belonged to the Nithi.
“I shall give back the daggers, but only in their throats, and I shall wash my hands in their blood.”
More cheers and shouts.
“I make a promise here today that I will avenge these callous murders; I will punish our enemies till they beg for mercy, but they will receive none.”
The end of the prince’s speech drew a thunderous reception of applause from the crowd.
“Burn the bodies, Sir Colby, give their ashes to the plateau,” said the prince, and the knight nodded and issued orders to the men responsible for constructing the pyres.
His father had missed the speech; he arrived bleary eyed and half drunk, after Lord Ness woke him and told the news. He now stood silently looking down at the bodies of the girls. Vara was at his side howling into the snow flurry that had covered most of their horrendous wounds. The king’s tears streamed down his face to his beard as he leant over and kissed each one on the forehead. He then took Vara’s hand to escort her away.
Vara saw Havoc standing alone and silent in the distance; she stormed up to him and slapped him hard across the face; the sound of it echoed over the plateau.
The prince did nothing; he merely stared at her.
“How dare you! How dare you parade them like that to your own people,” she said, and broke down again, falling into his open arms.
“My dear aunt, I had to. I had to give their deaths to the memory of the people who will fight for their justice. In time, when this is all over and vengeance has been satisfied, on that day, you will forgive me,” he said, and she untangled herself from his arms and went back to camp.
Between the king, Lords Ness and Rett, they started the fire on the pyre as soon as the exiles finished walking past the bodies to pay their last respects. As the fire grew stronger, sending black clouds into the afternoon air, the entire Rogun army stood at the edge of the plateau watching for any of the enemy, though there was none. The tired ranks of the Prince’s Legion stood with them.
When the pyre burnt out the next morning, the three Rawn masters summoned a strong wind and spread the ashes over the plateau.
It became known as the Finder’s Camp after the day the king and his defeated army had found Havoc and his refugees, but the mood in the Finder’s Camp was now not a ha
ppy one. Although the camp’s life continued as normal, everyone knew a change had come across them. The words of De Proteous’ speech still rung in their heads, and, without the king’s orders, many had gone on roving patrols to hunt down any of the enemy.
Magnus was one of the commanders. He had left a tearful Eleana alone. The king found that the pain eased with ale, and plenty of it. Havoc remained in camp; he never spoke to anyone, and, when Ness Ri expressed his concerns to him, he was assured by an emotionless prince that he was not to worry. The meditation and mind techniques continued more than ever, and that he was not in the mood for chatting. His master left him alone after that.
The camp did not move for a week; the daily patrols had not returned, but that occurred on occasion, they were out scouting out new camps on Lord Rett’s orders. Havoc was about to take another patrol north or just ride alone mainly to become more active again and take his mind off things, after all, life goes on. Therefore, he had saddled Dirkem and gathered a handful of men. That was when he saw his saw his father for the first time in days. He did not understand it, but he felt ashamed of him and the feeling sat in the pit of his stomach. His father seemed sober; he had taken his sword and was limbering up for a spar with Lord Rett.
“Spar, Father?” asked Havoc as he approached.
The king looked at his son, as if seeing him for the first time, then smiled and nodded. “Of course, Havoc, but be gentle with me.” He chuckled.
They started with a few simple moves. Havoc got the impression his father was deliberately slowing his defence; however, he knew by reputation that he was good.
“Are you ashamed of me, Father?”
The question shocked the king.
“I could never be ashamed of you.”
They were picking up the tempo of sword clash and darting around each other. The king’s movements became faster. Out of the corner of his eye, Lord Rett watched them.
“A Pyromancer for a son... I would have been better off as a leper.”
“No one thinks that, least of all me.”
“We have lost so much as a people and all that we love as a family... Do you wish it was me impaled on those spears?” He was being too harsh with his father and he knew it.
“That is enough of that talk, son! I cannot help what has happened, and not to blame, either.
If I could give my life to change the past for the better, I would. You know that!” His voice was cracking as he talked and Havoc thought him weak; the familiar heat expanded in his stomach.
It had festered there for days now since seeing the ravens. He knew he could not stop it.
Havoc attacked with several quick flourishes, and his father expertly defended. They skirted around the boulder that they had both sat on when his father had told him he was a Pyromancer.
“Then why are you not doing something to avenge them? Instead of wallowing in self-pity at the bottom of a mug of ale!” shouted Havoc, and pushed his father back some more; the swords were moving faster; both seemed to blur into one.
“Stop now, you have gone too far, son, stop.” His father was pleading.
“Stop, Havoc,” shouted Lord Rett.
Ness Ri ran towards them. “Enough, young prince, do not let your anger go too far,” he said.
Havoc ignored them all and fought harder to get under his father’s defence; the king looked worried at his son’s angry face and at Tragenn landing closer to him with every lunge.
“What do you wish me to do, son? Start a suicidal attack on our city or face an army four times our size? I know you are smarter than this.”
Havoc feinted left, then right, and caught his father’s sword and flicked his wrist; the weapon fell from his father’s hand. He pointed Tragenn at the king. Lord Rett unsheathed Selnour.
“No my prince, I will use Selnour if I have to.”
The king put up his hand to stop his champion. “Go ahead, son.” He was breathing heavily. “If this makes you feel better, go ahead, but do not blame me for things that are not within my power.”
Havoc tried to stop it, but it was too far-gone for that now. The heat built up from his anger. However, instead of a shimmering ball of superheat in front of him, the Pyromantic energy went to his hands, which had the look of molten iron blocks. Havoc looked at them. He could still see the whorls of his fingerprints underneath the orange glow.
“Control it, My Lord, send it somewhere else,” cried Ness Ri.
His father was standing in front of the huge boulder. Lord Rett was at his side, ready to push him out of the way; their faces betrayed their fear.
He could control it no longer and, with an enormous effort, he shouted, “Move away!”
Vanduke and his champion moved just in time. The Pyromantic energy, in the form of superheat, shot from Havoc’s hands and entered the boulder, which seemed to absorb it all. It was an anti-climax when they thought back to the drama of it all; the boulder sat motionless, as it had done for millions of years.
Then the surface started to blister and bubbles of hot toxins burst into the air.
Everyone stepped back from the heat. Havoc was too weak to move. The boulder became molten in an instant. Its surface turned into a hot orange and black liquid that flopped to the ground in steaming, minute rivers, melting the snow all around.
Lord Ness walked up to the lava ball – for that is what it resembled – and braved the heat. He waved his hand over it, and, with the help of the king and Lord Rett, the boulder cooled quickly. The result was a glassy surface with red and black whorls underneath that looked like a maze of complex miniature valleys and gorges. Pieces of silica and other shiny minerals glimmered in the winter sunlight.
They turned to Havoc and the king walked towards him, clearly concerned.
“Stay back; I don’t want to hurt anyone.” Havoc walked away.
“Son...” The king was about to follow him, but Lord Ness held him back.
“Let him go, Sire,” cautioned the king’s consul.
The king watched his son go, and then turned to his champion. “Well, you were right, Rett, my friend, the boy can fight.” The king sighed.
Havoc found solace in Eleana’s arms that night. She wiped the sweat from his brow and stroked his hair. Both lay naked. They held each other tight and seldom talked. Eleana’s crying finally sent him to sleep.
His dreams were dark and terrible. It took him to places he did not want to go.
Lightning slashed across heavy grey clouds and outlined the four girls impaled on the spears. At the foot of the princesses stood the Nithi and Vallkyte soldiers looking up at what they had done. Somewhere in the crowd stood a very tall man wearing a black hooded cloak, no matter how much the prince focused on the figure he faded away only to reappear elsewhere amongst the crowd.
When he found him again, at the fringes of the onlookers, he stood head and shoulder above everyone else. His arm rose, a long white finger pointed at Havoc’s chest. The prince felt a chill wind flow around him, and then the sinister being disappeared.
There was a baby crying, the sound drew the princes attention to one of the Nithi holding an ebony handled dagger. He had a hairless face and a shaven head on top of which was a silver feather tattoo. Havoc, standing amongst them, looked up. Tilly and Letti were already dead and he could hear the last breaths coming from Mia.
Verna was cursing the soldiers in a loud, clear voice.
“Vengeance shall be brought down among you
From the Sword that Rules
The daggers of the Nithi shall find their way home
To the blood of their owners.”
All there were looking at her in fear.
“Repentance shall be denied you
Suffering shall be thy final end
Ye shall be blind to the hidden passage
Until the Rages destiny looms
With death in his wake.”
Then she died. The baby had stopped crying too.
He turned to see a raven sitting on a pos
t, an eyeball in its mouth; the iris was green. The raven cawed and swallowed Mia’s eye…
…Havoc woke, yet knew he was still dreaming.
He was sitting naked on the same boulder that he had turned to molten rock; it was still warm.
“Havoc,” called a young female voice
He turned to the voice, and saw a girl in a blue dress holding a doll.
It was Verna.
“I’m still asleep?” he asked.
She did not seem concerned about his nakedness.
“You’re body is, but your sub-conscious mind is awake,” she said as she adjusted Prissie’s dress.
“I’m so sorry I could not help you,” said Havoc.
“Do not blame yourself, or others, brother, only those who killed us.” Her dress looked brand new and it gave off a soft glow that seemed to come from within Verna herself.
“Did they hurt you? Do things to all of you?”
“Yes, but do not dwell on those thoughts.”
Havoc grimaced as he tried to hold in his anger. “Are you at peace now?” he asked.
She smiled. It was beautiful and reminded him of better days.
“There is no more pain. Peace will come when you fulfil your destiny.”
“What destiny?” Havoc asked her.
“You have already planned on leaving; do so, and seek out your future. For when it is in your grasp your enemies will tremble at the power you will control.” She turned around and walked into the trees. “All my love goes with you, brother.”
“Verna... Verna…” He woke up suddenly, for real this time.
He was sitting naked on the boulder. Verna was gone.
He thought that he had finally gone mad. He walked back to Eleana’s tent, thinking he would see himself sleeping beside her, but she was alone.
He took one last look at her beautiful naked body and pulled the blanket over her. He dressed, and was about to leave when he saw her long black riding cloak that had been a present from Mia, a long time ago; he took it and put it on, over his clothes.
The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) Page 14