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

by P D Ceanneir

  The other soldiers watched in shock as Robard’s legs crumpled inwards and curled up to his body. The muffled sound of his shattering bones was thankfully drowned out by the gale of screeching wind coming from the dark cloud. Robard literary folded up on himself inside an invisible cocoon. Blood burst from every orifice and pore as it squeezed out of him like a sponge.

  Suddenly, the wind stopped. The ball of flesh that was Sub-sergeant Robard fell to the ground with a wet smack and the cloud of dust dissipated to reveal the Blacksword gripping the Sword that Rules in his right hand.

  The Demigod was very, very angry, indeed.

  Sir Hexor moved closer. The ground was frosting and hardening as the night wore on, fortunately his armoured boots barely made a sound as he moved through the marshgrass. Somewhere to his left, his brother would be in position with his own unit of Falesti soldiers, trying to keep the line together as they encircled the enemy pickets. Hexor crept forward, a sound, slight movement just ahead. Hexor judged the position of his target and then picked up speed before lunging out of the reeds and grabbing the picket by clamping a hand over his face and pulling him backwards. His dirk slipped over the soldier’s throat in one flick and the man barely had time to struggle. Hexor kept his hand over the mouth until his legs stopped twitching.

  He turned towards his small troop and signalled with a jab of his arm for his men to move into position. The Falesti, blended into the night due to their dark-brown armour, shifted through the undergrowth in a long thin line. Six of them now unslung their bows from their shoulder and notched white-fletched arrows. They all waited on the Paladin’s signal. Hexor looked to his left and was pleased to see Foxe and his group of Falesti and Ternquin soldiers move into position.

  Now all they needed was the signal.

  Furran was in position inside the siege camp and he found himself wondering why he had volunteered to wear the coarse woollen cloak of the Derma Ken Priesthood after accosting a whole congregation of them on the road here several days ago. It seemed like a good idea at the time and Prince Havoc had agreed when the prince and his officers assembled to smooth through the wrinkles of his plan.

  ‘So we take out the pickets,’ he had said to the small gathering just hours before nightfall in an abandoned farm steading several miles from Caphun. ‘Apart from Foxe and Hexor, who will jointly command the men, the rest of us will wear the priest cloaks to get close enough to the inner guards patrolling the camp and take them out…’ he stopped because Kith was nodding his head in wonder.

  ‘Wow! You’re a genius, Furran,’ he said in his deep voice.

  Furran bowed, ‘thank you. Your genuine appreciation is accepted.’

  ‘I was being sarcastic.’

  ‘So was I.’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ cut in Powyss, ‘with lack of any sane plan I think we should go with Furran’s.’

  Everyone raised his or her hands reluctantly.

  ‘If I die in this plan of yours, ‘said Linth to Furran, ‘I’m coming for your head!’

  ‘Trust me, my friend, it’ll work.’ He looked over at the prince for some inspiration, but Havoc was staring at the ground with his arms folded. It had been a long ten-month journey returning to their homeland only to find the war had begun again. Most of them, Havoc included, expected to return to some sort of heroes welcome, not find their people in turmoil, but the loss of communication with Bleudwed over the past year had worried him more than he cared to admit. All of his friends, and even Tia, noticed the difference in the prince; they all suspected that he and the countess were very close.

  Little Kith raised his hand, ‘I volunteer Furran to hit the command tent.’

  ‘Eh?’ gasped Furran.

  ‘Well it is your plan, and I think taking out the command structure of the siege army is imperative to complete victory.’

  ‘Now just…’ Furran protested.

  ‘That’s actually a good idea, Kith,’ agreed Whyteman, ‘take some oil vials and burn the tents. The Derma has many flammable concoctions in their medical chests.’

  Kith actually grinned; it was obvious he did not know about the contents of the liberated chests, but covered the revelation with a knowing nod of enthusiasm.

  ‘Hey wait a minute…’ Furran interjected, but was interrupted by Hexor.

  ‘Yeah, good idea,’ he said, ‘they carry leather satchels as well. Just fill them up with the vials. The enemy will be none the wiser. The night guards won’t ask what’s in the satchels.’

  ‘Now look…!’

  ‘We shall have to give stumpy legs here a head start,’ said Kith as he pointed at a now red–faced Furran, ‘he’s not as fast as he once was, bless.’

  ‘Oh, come on! Whose plan is this anyway?’ said Furran.

  Powyss clapped his hands together, ‘right! That’s it settled then.’ He looked at Havoc for confirmation and the prince shrugged. ‘Fine,’ Havoc said, ‘just buy me some time to get inside.’ He turned and walked away from the group. Tia followed him with a worried frown.

  Powyss turned to the others and gave them the thumbs up and a reassuring smile that he did not actually feel, ‘good meeting, everybody!’ he said with sight sarcasm and also left along with the others leaving Furran and Whyteman standing alone.

  Furran shrugged, ‘tell me that did not happen?’

  Whyteman chuckled, ‘don’t worry. I will be right there with you. Come on; let’s have a look at those medical chests.’

  The brown leather satchels, though robust and designed with many pockets, became very heavy when filled with the oil vials and various other medical containers. The vials were made of thin glass and stoppered with wax and gauze wadding. Most of the vial’s contents were alcohol based, which would ignite easily.

  Furran hefted his satchel onto his shoulder as he crept through the cold night, heading deeper into the enemy camp. The glass inside rattled slightly and he hissed between clenched teeth as the sound issued clearly in the crisp night air.

  It was very early morning. Most of the siege army slept, some in tents. Obviously richer landed lords, knights or men-at-arms with their own hired companies had the money and the prestige to sleep under canopy. The less fortunate slept on the ground draped in thick woollen blankets under the roof of stars.

  While the other Paladin-knights skilfully dispatched the pickets that walked the inner perimeter, Furran and Whyteman moved deeper into the tent field, occasionally unstopping vials and pouring the contents on the ground or onto the canvas walls of the tents. Far ahead, beyond the camp’s eastern perimeter, a skeleton crew of soldiers and engineering units worked under torchlight to staff the larger trebuchets behind their protective ramparts. The large wooden behemoths were too cumbersome to move through the narrow streets of Caphun and up the slope towards the castle. The only other option was to dismantle them and move them in pieces. No one had given that order until recently. Now they worked throughout the night.

  Furran and Whyteman moved through the smaller tents, still repetitiously soaking their canvas walls in oil or alcohol-based liniments and then moving on towards the larger command tents where the higher-ranking officers and nobles slept.

  The minutes went by slowly. Furran lost sight of the tall archer several times, but spotted him with his unstrung bow, which he used as a staff, crossing a dirt track and a narrow burn twenty feet from him. The Eternal moved so quietly that Furran had to stop, hold his breath and listen for his footfalls.

  The larger marquees were off to his left near to a copse of alder and elm that acted as a windbreak to the westward gales that rushed over the Dragersloth at this time of year. Furran nimbly crept closer to the three bigger tents and dowsed two in the clear oil from one of the vials before moving around to the front of the largest, decoratively striped in blue horizontal lines with several standards hanging limp form the prop poles that protruded through the tent’s three-peaked roof.

  Even though the guard patrols were fewer here, Furran was surprised to see two very bore
d Vallkyte infantrymen guarding the entrance to the tent. He ducked back around the corner and silently cursed. He caught movement by another tent about twenty-odd feet away. Whyteman had dropped his now empty satchel and was restringing his bow. He had a set of arrows in a quiver on his back but had to take off the Derma cloak revealing his green Raider underneath in order to reach them. He caught Furran’s eyes and jerked his head towards the tent guards. Furran shrugged, Whyteman frowned and used their Raider hand signals.

  Take Them Out, they said.

  Furran signalled back, This Whole Plan Stupid. Don’t Let Me Think Again. He could see Whyteman trying not to laugh. Where Is The Boss? Furran signalled.

  Somewhere Behind Us With The Others. Get Moving! Insisted the archer.

  Furran moved out from the side of the tent and was several feet away when the two guards, who were half-asleep, almost jumped out of their mail.

  ‘Who…?’ hissed the one closest to Furran.

  ‘Peace, my son,’ whispered Furran, ‘I am merely doing my rounds. Has no one brought you food?’

  Both men visibly relaxed. ‘Sergeant Moxen will relieve us in ten minutes or so,’ said the other one conversationally, ‘they keep the fires going for some hot food for the pickets when they change over.’

  ‘Ah, then you would not like the candied fruit I brought then?’ he said. As he rummaged inside his satchel, he used his other hand to signal the word “Right” to Whyteman, indicating for him to take out the guard on his right. He could just about hear the bows cord tightening.

  The guard closest to him grinned, ‘well, it would be a shame to waste it, eh?’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Furran moved quickly and plunged the dagger he took from the bag into the soldier’s throat and pushing it hard upwards toward the back of the brain. Meanwhile, the guard on his right almost cried out, but Whyteman’s arrow punched through his helmet and mail. His head rocked backwards from the force and Furran had to grab him before he fell onto the tent opening. Whyteman rushed to help him move the bodies around the side of the tent, careful not to trip over the awning ropes. They both sat in silence for a few seconds, but all they could hear from the tent was snoring from several loud mouths.

  Whyteman hand signalled, Make This Quick. The Others Will Be Returning to Form Up Point. He was adjusting some of his arrows wrapped in the alcoholic gauze to move them to the front of his quiver for easy access. Furran handed him his set of flint strikers to light them, but Whyteman shook his head and pointed off into the darkness at the lit brazier posts that dotted the camp. Each post was a wooden pole about the height of the average person with an iron basket at the top. Furran understood, nodded, said Cover Me Then, with hand signals and quietly went into the tent.

  Inside, it stank of bad body odour and constant flatulence, but it was very warm. He could make out six low cots, one empty. No one moved as he crept in. He placed the leather satchel down on the floor a few feet from the door. He then ran a long length of white cloth, commonly used as a bandage, which was soaked in oil, out of the door. He was opening the flat to exit when someone moved in the bed next to him.

  ‘What?’ said the man, who was just a dark form in the tent’s corner, Furran saw him move to his side and grab his sword. There was no time to waste with a dagger before the man called out. Furran threw open his cloak, extracted his Spit Gun and shot a bolt in one fluid motion. The arrow embedded in the man’s head and he slumped into silence, however the noise of the gun woke the man next to him and Furran quickly exited the tent and sprinted north. He could hear voices calling from the tent behind him; he turned as he ran and noticed the flap move to one side and a tall man step out with an astounded look on his face. He shouted as he pointed towards Furran and then noticed the wad of cloth at his feet.

  Up ahead he saw Whyteman with his Great War Bow drawn, he noted that he stood behind the nearest brazier. Furran was alarmed to see the arrow was pointing directly at him.

  Whyteman shouted, ‘DOWN!’ and Furran hit the cold hard ground. The archer loosed the arrow. It soared through the flame of the brazier lighting the oil soaked cloth so it burned brightly as it zipped through the air. It struck the Vallkyte officer at the tent opening in the chest and he flew backwards with the force of the impact. Whyteman lit another arrow and was about to fire it at the wad of cloth on the ground when the tent exploded into a huge burst of flames that split the canvas apart and sent a rumbling roar over the entire camp.

  Furran got to his feet with the help of the archer.

  ‘How in the name of…?’

  ‘He must have fallen on your satchel after I struck him,’ explained Whyteman, ‘it was a good plan, Furran, but I improvised a little. Now let’s move into the woods!’

  Tia wrinkled her nose at the smell from the latrines just below their position. Commander Powyss had picked a low escarpment of brush to hide behind. It gave them a clear view of the campsite and the movements of the Derma cloaked Paladins. She had to agree that the latrines smelled so bad that even the pickets gave them a wide berth, which was to their advantage.

  She desperately searched through the darkness. She had lost sight of the prince a few minutes ago, but occasionally caught a glimpse of one of the Paladins as they passed by one of the lit brazier posts. She could just make out the satchels they carried.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ whispered Powyss.

  Tia regarded the older man with a tilt of her head, ‘can you mind read without touching now?’

  Powyss smiled, ‘I have been married twice, child, I know a woman’s moods.’

  Despite her apparent mood, she smiled. ‘I worry for him. He has been so distant since…’

  ‘Since Mortkraxnoss?’ he finished for her.

  She nodded, ‘he will not say what happened to him there. The months since then have been…strained between us. I think the situation in Caphun has made matters worse.’

  ‘You mean, Bleudwed?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Is that what you were both arguing about after the meeting?’

  She nodded again.

  After Furran’s plan to set fire to the siege camp in the middle of the night, Powyss had decided to confront the prince and his strange attitude, which had been brewing since the Cybeleion arrived in the Wildlands a few weeks ago. He had followed Havoc and Tia into a stand of elm by a riverbank and heard them arguing about the countess. Tia pointed out that his concern for Bleudwed was more than just his noble duty to help a friend and Havoc snapped back, informing her that it was none of her business. By the time the commander had walked into the conversation it was too late to turn away, so he coughed to announce his presence.

  Both Havoc and Tia turned around, said, ‘Yes!’ abruptly, obviously annoyed at being disturbed.

  ‘So we take on a camp of two thousand soldiers with about thirty men, is that the plan?’ Powyss said in a very angry tone.

  Tia folded her arms and stepped away from the prince to look out of the trees at nothing in particular. Havoc scowled at them both.

  ‘Yes. The Paladins and Falesti will do what they have to do and move back into the safety of the woods. I will…He’ll…handle the rest,’ informed the prince.

  ‘Oh, “He’ll” handle the rest…’ said Powyss, incredulously, knowing whom the He was that Havoc referred too.

  ‘Just make sure everyone is out of his way before the fight begins,’ Havoc said as he walked past him, ‘you have your orders, commander.’

  Powyss watched as Havoc walked away. He turned towards Tia and was about to say something when he noticed her wiping a tear from her eye, so he decide to leave her alone.

  Now, on the escarpment of brush as they looked down at the siege camp, Tia wiped away another tear. ‘I love him,’ she said.

  Powyss sighed.

  ‘I know he does not reciprocate, I know I am lowborn with no noble title,’ she sniffed, ‘I can’t help what I feel for him. The problem is…he feels the same for another.’

  The other was obviously th
e Countess of Haplann. Powyss had had his suspicions about that for a long time and if he was honest, it was a good match. He placed a hand on her arm. ‘It will all work out eventually,’ he felt stupid for saying something rather lame, ‘besides, you still have me to fall back on.’ He grinned.

  She instantly stopped crying and stared at him. He thought she was going to punch him in the face for making light of her love life with the prince, and then she laughed, quietly so as not to draw attention even though the lines of night pickets were taken care of by the Paladins.

  ‘You old romantic fool!’ she chuckled, ‘that is my first ever offer of courtship behind a privy.’

  ‘I’ve always been a charmer, that’s for sure.’

  Loud screams from the centre of the camp disturbed their conversation.

  ‘It’s started,’ said Powyss.

  Chapter Twenty

  Raise the Siege

  T

  hey were called Hirundi after the man who invented them. Although, commonly called Leech Manacles because of the amount of bloodletting they produced. The cuffs of the manacles had three sizes so they fitted tightly around the wrist of even the largest man. Inside the cuffs was a jagged row of serrated blades that sliced the flesh of the wrist with the slightest movement thereby extracting blood and so keeping the prisoner in a constant state of weakness. Primarily designed to shackle Rawn Masters, so that blood loss weakened the wearer, with weakness one could not use the arts and even healing the wounds around the blades of the manacles was a struggle.

  The present captive of the Leech Manacles hung from them in abject misery as the chains stretched up to the wooden crossbeam and there secured by large bolts. He groaned as he pushed himself up from the floor on his tiptoes to relieve the pressure in his wrists and the constriction of his lungs. However, the new pain in his thighs meant that he could not hold the position for long and he slumped back down again drawing more blood from the blades that ran in rivulets down the backs of his arms.