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

by P D Ceanneir

  Therefore, the Red Duke found himself trapped in this cruel and vicious circle of pain and torment.

  ‘You are a fighter, my lord, I will give you that; not many have lasted a week at my hands.’ The speaker was a brown haired man of medium height and sloping shoulders. He wore cream coloured riding breaches and black boots with silver spurs that chinked annoyingly as he paced in front of the duke. A white shirt unbuttoned to the waist was drenched in sweat, showing dark patches under his arms and down his back. The heat in the cellar was stifling, mainly due to the brazier of hot coals under the south wall chimney, which belching out so much wavering heat.

  Lord Milam, the Count of Tressel, was a vain and cautious man at the best of times. A notoriously slow learner of the arts and an ungainly limp he got from birth made him paranoid about his own personality. The grey hairs at his temples and wrinkles around his eyes told the story of a Rawn Apprentice who only managed to halt his age far later than anyone else did. Now a Rawn Master, albeit a less powerful one than most, he was more inclined to bully those that he feared as punishment for his own shortcomings.

  The count walked to the iron anvil next to the brazier and brushed his hand over the top where long thin gouges covered the surface. The metal next to one of these gouges changed texture and shape as the count used the Earth Element to take a sliver off the surface. The metal curved into a large coil and he picked it up and placed it down next to three others.

  ‘Now...ah...forgive me, my lord, I have lost count. How many of these have I put into your legs? ...Three? ...Four?’ the Red Duke groaned as he hung from the chains. ‘No matter, it makes no difference to me.’ At this point, he chuckled and turned to his captive.

  ‘Although, it will make vast amount of difference to you,’ he said.

  Lord Rett did his best to ignore the taunting of the count. The iron filings that his torturer had pushed into his thighs were cutting into his muscles so he found it harder to push himself onto his tiptoes and relieve the pain in his wrists.

  ‘I made a wager with my factor the other evening,’ went on Milan, as if he was engaging Lord Rett in small talk. ‘He believes that you will not last the night. I, however, think you will. I have thirty gold sovereigns riding on it so do not let me down.’

  ‘Let me down and I will gladly shove those sovereigns where to sun doesn’t shine,’ croaked the Red Duke as he spoke through the pain and the bruised face, he could only see the count with his right eye, the other was swollen shut, compliments of two of the counts biggest goons and a blackjack.

  ‘Ah! He has found his voice, bravo, my lord. Still as gruff and grouchy as I remember you,’ said Milam as he used tongs to pick each of the four fillings up and place them on a rusty wire rack that sat over the glowing coals.

  ‘I remember the days at the academy when you ordered me and my class to carry logs and run up Market Row in our underwear, a very embarrassing moment in my life.’ The count indicated with a slight flick of his wrist at the duke who was also semi naked, wearing only his tattered linen hose that was ripped up to the thighs.

  ‘So I know how embarrassed you must feel right now,’ said Milam in a soothing voice.

  ‘Not half as embarrassed as I was when the other masters passed you at the Canndali,’ said Lord Rett, ‘what a sorry day for the world that was.’

  Milam clearly flinched and his face went red with anger, he took several deep breaths and then calmed down.

  ‘Still insulting me I see.’

  ‘It used to make my day go better when I made you cry. You were always a pathetic worm.’

  Milan growled and lashed out at the duke, punching him in the stomach. He gripped Lord Rett’s dark stubbly chin as he coughed from the punch that winded him.

  ‘Maybe I will lose my bet out of spite!’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘what’s the loss of thirty sovereigns compared to killing you.’

  Lord Rett managed to get his breath back in time to spit a red-stained globule of saliva into Milam’s face. The count yelled in disgust and franticly wiped the liquid from his cheek. Lord Rett chuckled, but the strain of his pain showed on his face, which he could see reflected in the puddle of his own blood at his feet.

  Milam used the frilly cuff of his sleeve to wipe the last of the spittle away.

  ‘Perhaps Prince Creed should have left you to the dragon, Tyre,’ he said. ‘By now he would have been feasting on the last scraps of flesh on your carcass.’

  The mention of the large copper coloured dragon made the Red Duke frown as memories of his last battle returned to him. Even though he had killed the dragon’s rider, it seemed as though the dragon answered to Prince Creed’s commands. The remainder of the duke’s army fled the Battle of Lots Muir, pursued by the creature and unceremoniously ripped from the ground by those huge claws. Only a handful returned to the Pander Pass and had to aid in defending the gates from the dragon’s Wyrmfire. Luckily, the archers were numerous enough to see off the beast before it landed inside the Pass walls to continue its systematic destruction.

  Even with all that had happened on that battlefield, he could not get the image of the child, Verna out of his mind. The Old Gods had delivered a portent of doom. They were watching. He felt both elated and disturbed at this revelation.

  The sound of squeaky, rusty tongs brought Lord Rett back to the present as Lord Milam picked up one of the coils of iron fillings from the brazier, now glowing bright orange, much like the flame of the dragon Tyre.

  ‘Hold him, Diego,’ he said to one of the burly, thick-necked thugs that guarded the door to the Manor House cellar, a house that had once belonged to the Mayor of Caphun. The big man wrapped his thick hairy arms around the duke’s waist so he would not struggle, while Milan inserted the hot metal into his left thigh and pushed it into the muscle. The Red Duke screamed as the hot pain bolted up his leg and into his brain. Milam used the arts to heal the wound so it left a weeping scab; it joined two others on the same leg.

  Diego let him go. The duke’s toes barely touched the ground, and as he tried to relieve the tearing of his wrists and take a gulp of air, the sharp iron in his legs sawed against the mass of muscle in his thighs every time he moved.

  As he slumped in the manacles, he did all he could to ignore the pain and vent his anger, so he screamed some more.

  The Blacksword stepped through the flames of the campfire and grinned at the confusion around him. Soldiers in the red and gold of Vallkyte Infantry livery were running in from all directions, armed with spear and shield. Some recognised the creature before them and so were reluctant to advance into battle order. Their officers roared at them to move into position. One young officer goaded his small company by pushing men forwards. The Blacksword barely slowed his own advance, raised a clawed hand with long white spidery fingers and summoned the Wind Element. The officer lifted into the air, his face a mask of fear and surprise. He suddenly shot forward as a strong gale slammed into his back, straight towards the Blacksword who swung the Sword that Rules at shoulder level. The black blade cut through the officer’s midriff as he sailed past him to fall into the campfire in two halves.

  Someone shot an arrow; it burst into dust three feet from the Blacksword’s chest. Two more archers loosed the missiles at him and they succumbed to the same effect. The shield men advanced. The Blacksword waved a hand at the flames of the nearest brazier. A stream of flame coiled around his hand and he swung it like a whip, lassoing the soldiers in a halo of orange heat. They screamed and backed off as the ribbon engulfed them.

  The Blacksword then moved quickly as he hewed down three Vallkytes with neat jabs, gripped the shield edge of a fourth with his left hand and threw him twenty feet into the air to collide with another group of foot soldiers moving in from the east. He linked the Fire Element to the flames around him, split and coiled it into several streams, then Blended a blast of wind energy to the mix and directed it outwards so it moved of it’s own with speed as it brushed over the tents, igniting the alcoholic liniment
and oil that drenched their base. Soon the tents erupted into blazing infernos and it only took a slight control of the Arts for the Blacksword to redirect and fan the conflagration onwards to the next tent and beyond.

  The Demigod stalked through the mayhem. Soldiers ran in all directions, some drenched in flame and screaming. He struck down any that moved to attack him with deathly sweeps of his sword or brush aside groups by summoning the third element to send them spinning through the air to land inside a burning tent or crashing into more soldiers.

  All the while, deep inside the comfortable darkness of the Blacksword’s consciousness, Prince Havoc watched the battle unfold.

  Demigod, the word stuck fear into Havoc. A creature with the power of a god was formidable indeed. The revelation of this fact from the My’thos God, Hagan, shocked him more than he cared to admit. The facts of the Twin Aspect and the knowledge that they were brothers were not so much revealing as something more obvious to him. It was true that what harmed one twin did not harm the other, yet the rage that the Blacksword was feeling now transferred to Havoc and the prince found himself fanning the flames of the Rawn Arts to aid his brother.

  He could not deny that for months now the knowledge he had gathered on Mortkraxnoss bothered him, not just the part he had to play in the Earth Shepherd’s Great Plan, but the sheer scale of their manipulation throughout time. He hoped that those he loved lived through the destruction that was to follow. He would do anything he could to lessen the damage.

  However, creating less damage was not on the Blacksword’s mind. He formed a Fireball in one hand, linked to a strong Pyromantic Surge. It blazed white with red flames. It shot from his hand with the speed of a cannonball, rippling through the night, blinding all with its brilliance and leaving a loud whistle in its wake. It slammed into one of the siege engine redoubts on the edge of the castle’s moat sending up tons of earth, wooden beams and turf into the air in a horrendous explosion of energy. Two of the larger Trebuchets spun around as the ground lifted them upwards along with their engineer crews, and landed upside down with a loud splintering crash.

  The energy inside the Fireball was not yet finished. It exited the destruction of the redoubt and struck the town’s battlements, ricocheting to the left to strike the west facing archery tower. The tower imploded and collapsed into the deep waters of the mote.

  The Blacksword continued forward through the burning embers of the flame wreathed tents, seven foot tall and menacing. His cloak tightfitting to his skinny frame held there by the sword belt and shoulder harness. Only his hood moved as he scanned the landscape in front of the town gates. The ragged edges of the cloak’s skirt flapped in an ethereal breeze. Dust and dark matter followed him like an obedient shadow ready to conceal him in its embrace.

  Soldiers backed away or fled his advance. The great double gates of Caphun loomed before him on the other side of the moat.

  So that was your plan, was it? Just walk up to the gate and hope they let you in? said Havoc.

  ‘Correct, though I have a slight adjustment to your astute analysis,’ hissed the Blacksword who walked with purposeful steps with his sinister loping stride towards the tall gates of Caphun’s walls.

  Oh, and what was that?

  ‘I’m going to kill them all!’

  The red mist of the Blacksword’s vision descended. Havoc knew it was a necessity for his twin to stoke the fires of anger and build the volatile energies of the Pyromancer, especially for what was to come. It was possible that part of Caphun’s excellent defence was due to the use of an Earth Orrinn strengthening the gates and walls, although obviously not used to its full potential, this was why the siege engines breached the wall and later repaired. The Blacksword could use the Sword that Rules to command any Orrinns to deactivate.

  When he was fifty paces from the gate, enemy officers regrouped their soldiers and shouted out orders for their men to form ranks in a last ditch effort to defend the town. Their shadows flickered along the frosted ground from the flames of the inferno behind the Blacksword as they stretched their formation over the paved road to the moat bridge.

  Fear showed in their expressions as the tall figure neared. The Blacksword marched up to them without altering his pace. He held SinDex blade down, the Muse Orrinn pommel on the long two–handed hilt shone silvery white light in every direction, letting everyone know where he was and more, importantly, who he was.

  He was in amongst the soldiers before they had time to form and bring shields up, knocking away their futile defence with lightning speed. Two, three, four upward curves and angled slashes through flesh and chainmail and six lay dead at his feet within five seconds.

  More soldiers rushed in from the night all around. Steel-shod boots pounded the ground as the Brethac Siege army surrounded him. The Blacksword still stood with a wide-open stance and a hunch to his shoulders, sword held above him in his last upward killing strike. He slowly stood straight as the enemy levelled their spears. The metal tips glinted in the Orrinn light. The Blacksword gripped his sword with two hands and ordered the Earth Orrinn on its pommel to separate the weapon. With a flourish, he split the two, Sin in the left hand and Dex in his right. He held them parallel to the ground and the movement was so quick those men in the front ranks jumped back.

  Fear is your worst enemy and your greatest foe hissed Havoc and the Blacksword grinned.

  Then the killing continued.

  Powyss watched the battle from a slight rise as he and Tia left the shrub-strewn escarpment. They headed for the woods next to the Drove Road. It was not good cover, but in the night, it would have to do. The Paladins had arrived by then along with twenty of the Falesti Infantry from the Cybeleion and a detachment of Ternquin soldiers, each shrugged off their Derma Ken robes and quickly put on their armour and picking up their shields. They had finished their first task, which was to sneak into the enemy camp, kill the sleeping men and picket guards on the periphery.

  Almost three weeks ago, the Cybeleion had arrived home via the island of the South Sea Horn. Powyss had seen the anger evident on the prince’s face when he learnt about the onset of the war and the summoning of the three dragons from various people they met along the way. In fact, Havoc had changed much since he emerged from the Isle of the Dead. What he had seen and heard there he kept to himself.

  Hexor finished pulling on his gauntlet and pulled his sword out of its scabbard several inches to make sure it had not stuck with the cold; he looked with wide eyes at the battle below when the sounds of dying, screaming men reached them.

  ‘I’m glad the Blacksword is on our side,’ he said.

  Tia, standing beside Powyss, sighed.

  ‘Look!’ she said, ‘I’ve told you lot before, Prince Havoc is the Blacksword.’

  The blank looks from the assembled Paladins made her feel even more frustrated. Even with the influence of the Muse Orrinn, she had still managed to figure the Blacksword’s identity, though the facts of it still seemed clouded at the edges of her understanding. However, these men had known and fought with the De Proteous for years and just took the man’s mystery at face value. In short, they were used to the unexplainable when it came to Prince Havoc.

  ‘The Prince is the Prince,’ said Little Kith with a shrug, ‘and the Blacksword is the Blacksword, what is there to explain?’

  This explanation made more sense to the men than describing the effects of the Identity Block. To Powyss, who already knew the truth, a light of understanding flashed in his head.

  Havoc and the Blacksword were two separate people, just because they shared the same body was irrelevant and Powyss realised that the Identity Block was trying to tell everyone this in a very roundabout way.

  He was pondering this revelation when Foxe said, ‘where are Furran and Whyteman?’

  Little Kith looked around, ‘they may have got caught up in the battle below, ‘he said and hefted his axe onto his shoulder. ‘I think we should go and help.’ He looked beseechingly at Powyss, who was watching
the flames spread around the camp.

  Linth tapped Powyss on the shoulder. ‘Now?’ he asked.

  Powyss shook his head, ‘Not yet, wait until he is inside the city, but you can move your archers into their positions. The rest of you wait for my signal.’

  The soldiers frantically tried to keep the Blacksword away from them with their spears, but the wooden shafts may as well be thin air to a sword that can cut through anything. Havoc marvelled at the Blacksword’s skill, with one glance he was able to know an opponent’s next move and he would defend and counterattack accordingly; even when obvious older veterans improvised by adjusted their footing or sword grip as they lunged. He had already calculated their manoeuvre and blocked their lunges, but quicker, much quicker. He thought on his feet. His mind was as sharp as the blades he slew and sliced with and the enemy fell before his fury and piled high in his wake.

  Men died in twos, then fours, then dozens. The Blacksword’s speed was incredible; soldiers received, on average, three mortal wounds each. When Sin cut one man, Dex delivered the second to another then swung around to slash open the back of the first through his armour. Sin then deflected a sword and tilted the base a shield of another so its owner was open for Dex to decapitate him. Occasionally the swords would kill two men at once, punching through their chests. Putrid smells filled the blood-saturated air, dying men clutched desperately at their spilled guts as they unravelling like writhing purple snakes from the wide red slashes in their stomachs. The ground became squelchy underfoot as red rivulets flowed and tainted the moat water.

  Soon, the carnage abated. When the piles of dead hampered the soldiers attacking, they then backed off to reform with obvious relief on their faces.