by P D Ceanneir
‘Dwarves were not meant to fly!’ he groaned.
Havoc greeted Ciriana by rubbing her snout, the dragon’s throat rumbled in approval.
‘Lord Nethroin has indeed fled north,’ she said ‘to Sonora. I must also say how sad I was to hear of your father, your majesty.’
‘Thank you, Ciriana. It is good to see you again.’
‘The Gredligg Orrinn?’ she enquired.
‘Safe with Lord Ness,’ said Havoc. The dragon nodded in reply, but then looked away for a while in silence.
‘Ciriana, is something wrong?’
She grunted, ‘something Tyre said to me. He said that the three new dragons are the offspring of the Sept of Red, sleeping dormant in their eggs all of these years. However, none of them are the one I seek.’
‘There is another?’ asked Havoc, surprised.
Ciriana nodded. ‘Yes, taken many years ago during the first outbreak in the Dragor-rix War. To where? I do not know, but I will find it. Is there anything you wish me to do for now, your majesty?’
Havoc shook his head, ‘not really, in order for my plan to work it will require no dragons. This is between Creed and me; I think he will know that too. You could patrol the Dulan Plain to keep Kasan occupied and watch out for the other two of your kind.’
‘Your wish is my command, sire.’ With that, she flapped her great wings, rose high into the sky, and headed back north.
While Whyteman and Velnour organised the defences of the ruins, the king took the rest of the Paladins and two thousand men, comprising of a thousand Raiders and a thousand Falesti, north into the Wyani lands. Queen Bronwyn insisted on joining them and resolutely rode her horse in front of the marching column of men as they set off.
‘Have I ever told you about the stubbornness of the Falesti women, boss,’ said Linth to the king with a sigh and a shake of his head.
‘You may have mentioned it to me on various occasions, Sir Linth’ said Havoc as he watched the queen ride off.
If he was honest with himself, splitting the trio of women appealed to Havoc. Many times in their short stay at Castle Cromme, he would find them talking together and giggling at some secret shared joke, they would only stop talking when he appeared and this made him feel very uncomfortable. The women were a distraction to the men as well. Bronwyn with her dark soulful beauty and elegant charm had a friendly and somewhat commanding nature with her own people, and the Falesti natives that were regular soldiers with the Raiders. Tia, still scantily clad in her Wyvern attire with her lovely doe-like eyes, was popular with the men and was always seen with one of the Paladins, who unconsciously protected her like their little sister. However, Bleudwed captured the hearts of all the men, of medium height with tailor-made half armour snugly fitting her slim body and pert breasts. Her curly blonde hair framed the pixie features that enhanced her high cheekbones, giving her almond-shaped eyes an alluring beauty. Those eyes, those sapphire eyes, always burnt with an inner passion whenever she looked at the king.
It was an awkward moment for Havoc, who was never comfortable with goodbyes. Tia did not give a damn about royal protocol and kissed him lightly on the lips, then hugged him in front of all the men, who lustily cheered their approval. Bleudwed was more tactful, she bowed to him and wished him well, hoping he would return safe. However, the soldiers standing behind the king all chanted together, “KISS. KISS. KISS HIM!”
The Countess blushed but smiling towards the men, she pressed her body up against Havoc who clumsily placed his left arm on the small of her back. The men stopped chanting and fell into a rapt silence.
The kiss was slow; both of them were lost in another world and, when they broke contact, the men cheered.
‘Please return safe,’ she whispered into his ear, ‘I love you.’ She pushed herself away from him and walked off without seeing his reaction and so he could not see her tears.
Chapter Twenty Six
The Master of Menace
K
ing Havoc had thought that Prince Creed would sit out the winter in Fort Tressel. Once the snow on the prairie had melted he guessed Creed would then make a move to the west to continue the campaign. Contrary to what the king thought, that was not the case.
After the conversation with his father on the Lobe Stone, Prince Creed ended his sojourn in Tressel and spent the next two weeks gathering his host together. He marched out of the fort with an army of fourteen thousand men comprising of Vallkytes, Wyani and several loyal Gazzen-Sel Regiments. He left about seven thousand in the fort.
His next decision was to prove fateful for the outcome of the war. He ordered that the two remaining dragons were to stay and patrol the Vallkyte lands. He obviously thought that his half-brother would outmanoeuvre him and head straight for the Vallkyte capital. This decision aided Mad-gellan, whose march into the eastern tribal lands went unhindered until he reached Gazzen-Sel two weeks after Prince Creed’s departure. By then the two brothers had found each other.
Creed’s host marched throughout the daylight hours, eating up the miles as they journeyed down the north shore of Lake Wyani. His plan was to skirt the north shore of Lake Furran and head north to raid Haplann again. If he had taken this route, then the whole outcome of the war would have changed, and he would have missed his half-brother marching east to meet him.
The sighting of the red kite changed all that.
Powyss, Magnus, and Tia spent the next two days using the Rawn Arts to weaken the thick wood and stonework of Cromme Hold. This proved harder than first thought; the outer surface of the dam was simple enough to manipulate as the three experienced Rawn Masters summoned the first element to weaken the material, but the masonry deep in the centre of the construction was proving tricky to reach through the many layers of varying materials. Therefore, they persevered, each taking three hourly shifts that sapped their strength.
A short rotund engineer called Kern, the leader of the group of skilled workers that Bleudwed had brought with her from Haplann, watched their efforts with interest until Powyss approached him on the evening of the second day.
‘I hope you can think of a better way to bring this thing down than we can?’ he asked him.
‘As a matter of fact I think I have, Sir,’ he said in a broad accent as he stroked his bushy brown beard. He took the commander to one of the engineer’s carts that were back at the ruined castle. Under the cart’s covering of tarpaulin was straw.
‘Burning it down will not work,’ laughed Powyss when he saw the contents, ‘you would be better off feeding it to the horses.’
‘The straw is used to cushion the item,’ said Kern as he pushed aside the top level of dry grass. Underneath were ten brown porcelain bottles, each was about two foot long and half a foot in width. The cap on the narrow neck had a wax seal with a short length of frayed hemp rope sticking out of the top.
Kern picked it up carefully and gently handed it to Powyss, who clumsily held it as if he was an inexperienced father with a new-born baby.
‘Careful,’ said the engineer, ‘the contents of the charge are explosive. Potassium nitrate, charcoal, sulphur and a few other reactive chemicals thrown in.’
‘Gunpowder?’ said Powyss. ‘I’ve seen it before; it’s used in the Cybeleion’s cannons and very safe, as long as you keep flame away from it.’
‘Yes but not this formula. My father invented it, the powder is in a thick liquid form and is vacuum sealed for a stronger explosion,’ said the engineer, taking the bottle back off the commander. ‘If my team excavate holes along the base of the dam and place these in them, then Cromme Holt will be no more.’
‘So all my efforts, and that of Tia and the Marshall, have been in vain?’
‘Not so sir. You have weakened the structure enough for the full effect of the Krump Pots to do the rest.’
Powyss smirked, ‘Krump Pots? Your father wasn’t called Krump was he?’
‘No that would just be silly, sir. He called them Krump, because that’s the noise it makes when
it goes off.’
Powyss tried not to laugh and failed. ‘Your father may have been a genius, Kern, but he had no imagination for names.’
Kern laughed also. ‘Too true, sir, my real name is Kerin.’
Powyss frowned, ‘is that not a girl’s name?’
Kern nodded. ‘My father wanted a daughter. I have six older brothers, which he thought was enough and prayed to the gods for the next one to be a girl. He even went as far as to buy dresses just in case. You have no idea how much I wished for my brothers’ hand-me-downs.’
Ten miles from the pass that led to Lake Furran, the Vallkyte De Proteous’s host rested for a day while Creed and a few of his officers hunted deer in the woodlands along the Wither Mountains. It was in the early evening that Creed saw the kite; it was her loud call that drew his attention. A flash of memory came back to him of that day in the Criab Arena, the day his master Lord Udren died by the Blacksword’s hand. He had seen the same bird then, he was sure of it.
He called an end to the hunt and returned to his men, ordering them to strike camp. Under cover of night he split his forces, taking half into the cover of the woods and along the foothills. He sent the other half through the pass and instructed them to head in a northerly direction at first light.
The villages on the north shore of Lake Furran were deserted. Some were blackened ruins, the fires of which had long gone out, others had the dead hanging from trees and makeshift gallows, young women stripped naked and killed once raped by the enemy. No flies swarmed around the bloated corpses, the winter chill saw to that, but spring was coming and soon they would feast if the ravens let them. There was no other life around apart from the cloud of winged scavengers; there was very little farm stock left in the area. Sir Furran lamented the loss of life from the surrounding villages that he knew as a child.
Hexor and Foxe returned from scouting ahead.
‘The land to the north is also deserted, boss,’ said Hexor, ‘although there is an old wooden fort, also empty, with some provisions. Looks like they left in a hurry.’
The king nodded. ‘Take some of your men, and gather what you can. I will go on ahead and camp several miles north.’
They camped at a stream near to woodland. The Falesti soldiers took the horses and corralled them near some bramble shrubs so they could graze. The stream meandered lazily through snow covered shrub land that opened onto sloping fields, which stretched for miles beyond the woodland. Havoc sat on Dirkem as he looked into the Muse Orrinn. Mirryn showed him a landscape similar to the one around him. She made several passes over the same terrain as if searching for something then headed north east. After several minutes, Havoc could see the silver mists in the Orrinn opening up onto the north shore of Lake Furran.
There on the shore was a long column of soldiers heading north. Who were they? Where were they going? Before he could make any identification of the army’s flags, Mirryn turned and headed south east searching along the pass and the woodland close to Havoc’s position.
The progress through the cover of the trees was slow. It took most of the night to cover the ten miles they needed to make and Creed wanted to be in position before then. Instead, he rested the men and waited for the stragglers to catch up.
A high-pitched call above him drew his attention and he watched through the gaps in the high canopy. The Lobe Stone on his helmet allowed him to hear and see far better than any man ever could. The bird was following them; obviously, the ruse to send part of his men north did not fool it.
‘So you can count, clever bird,’ he hissed. Without a word, he grabbed a black crossbow from one of his men and armed it with a small bolt. He stepped out of the trees and aimed.
Havoc could see that Mirryn had doubled back for a reason. His heart beat faster, had Creed marched from Tressel early? He continued to watch. Mirryn hovered over the woods to his right, searching.
Suddenly sharp pain burst into his head and he yelled. He fell from his saddle landing heavily on his side, the Paladins rushed to help him, surrounding the king with drawn swords.
‘Sire, are you hurt?’ said Linth as he helped the king up.
Havoc pushed him away and looked again into the Orrinn. Mirryn was screeching. He could see she was on the ground. Something was obscuring her vision. It was long and black with feathers, it took him a moment to realise it was an arrow.
‘No, oh no!’ he groaned.
Beyond the kite’s now fuzzy vision someone was approaching, he was tall and slim with black armour that hugged his muscular body perfectly. On his head was the white glowing orb of a Lobe Stone. In his hand, he held a crossbow. The faceless mask of the helmet loomed in closer as he stooped to pick up the kite.
‘Hello brother,’ he said, ‘welcome to the last day of your life.’ A quick sharp motion of his hands snapped Mirryn’s neck and the link between them severed with absolute finality.
A high-pitched bloodcurdling scream issued from the woods to the right and east of the Raider position. The Ulundi’s wails were so disturbing that the Raiders’ horses reared and bolted around their hitching posts. Creed’s men were charging from the wooded slopes of the hills and along the inch deep snow of the stony level ground.
Caught out in the open, Havoc’s Raiders had rushed towards the king, leaving the Falesti standing by the camp. They moved with speed and skill borne of years of warfare. The Raiders instinctively formed into a shield wall without any orders from their officers.
Furran helped the king to his feet. Havoc’s head was pounding as he took in the danger that surged towards them. Gazzen-Sel regiments were in the front of the approaching mass and were almost upon them. His Falesti archers, about two hundred of them, stood their ground on the far side of the stream; they took aim and loosed their arrows. The front rank of the charging force fell under the next rank’s feet and the Falesti group had no chance to arm and fire again as they were engulfed and cut down where they stood.
The screaming horde ran on, seemingly unstoppable, with blood lust in their eyes.
Three hundred and twenty four ships darkened the water of the Sky Mountain coast as the sun edged closer to the horizon. The cream of the Rogun Navy sailed north on the Banding Sea, avoiding the treacherous rock spires of Darnels Needles, and swinging to the east as they caught the cold winter winds from the south west.
One hundred and thirty War Galleys, called Battle-prows sailed in front of the flotilla; these large seventy-foot long, three mast sailing barques carried small catapults and the largest twelve bore cannon as their main armament. Admiral Uriah sailed on his flagship the Silver Bolden at the head of the fleet, he constantly checked his bearing on the table compass in it’s mahogany stand next to the helm. He looked behind him at the churning mass of foaming sea and the multitude of wide-hulled cargo ships that transported legions of soldiers from the Sky Mountains, Sloe, Alniani, and the Jertiani townships, along with supplies. Sailing in the shadows of the tall cargo ships were the smaller Birlinns, refurbished for sea warfare, and affectionately called Water-Knarrs. The Knarrs may be small, but they were nimble in close combat and were mainly used for close quarter battle or beach landings.
Uriah nodded to himself. Another six days on this heading would keep them out of reach of the Sonoran Navy and hopefully cross the trading lanes unhindered. Then they would have to tack hard to catch the northeast winds that would bring them to the Dutrisi coast.
The invasion had begun.
The Raiders were falling back, their line was steady and solid, but the openness of the terrain would spell disaster for them if the enemy surrounded them quickly. Somewhere to the king’s right he heard Bronwyn shout to her people to follow the Raiders lead. Little Kith was still on his tan mare co-ordinating the fall back and shouting out orders when two bolts fired from crossbows hit his horse’s neck. He pushed himself from the saddle as the mare fell on her side and thrashed about in pain. Kith rolled and managed to hold onto his shield as Linth covered him by firing arrows at the mass of the en
emy, and it was by sheer luck that no enemy bolts hit him as they whizzed through the air in various directions.
The two hundred fallen Falesti had served a purpose; their deaths were not in vain. They had slowed the enemy advance just enough for the Raiders to form up and move back. Linth then reordered the Eternals into a thin line to the rear and their accurate arrow shot slowed the Gazzen-Sel men to a crawl, forcing them to duck behind wooden shields that were poor protection against the bodkin tips of the Eternal arrows. Havoc walked backwards with Furran at his side, the stocky warrior was shielding both himself and the king from bolts that zoomed past them.
‘I think we are in the shit now!’ he mumbled, and then stepped out of the way as Dirkem panicked and reared. Havoc let go of the stallion’s reins and he watched him gallop off towards the Raiders left flank and safety.
Anger writhed in the king. He felt the old sensation of churning volatile energies in his chest. His plan to raid into the Wyani lands and force Creed out of Tressel was in ruins. He racked his brain to figure a way out of this mess, but the bobbing heads of the enemy behind the front line of shields seemed to stretch all the way back to the trees and still they continued to stream out of the treeline to pack the field to his front. For every one hundred of the Eternals killed, hundreds more would take their place.
He gritted his teeth and frowned at the enemy. He stopped walking backwards.
‘Get behind me,’ he said to Furran.
Havoc did not waste time summoning the Wind or Fire Elements when he could link a Pyromantic Surge to any of the other two quicker. He breathed out sharply as he pushed the palms of his hands towards the ground. The enemy were just a few yards from him and coming fast, Havoc let the energy in him slam into the earth and ripples of soil erupted in a wide arc from his outstretched arms. The ground erupted into the air and shot forwards at incredible speed, a wave of earth, dirt and plant life rose higher than the average man and thrust the first three rows of the Gazzen-Sel Regiments onto their colleagues behind them.