The Rawn Chronicles Book Two: The Warlord and The Raiders (The Rawn Chronicles Series 2)

by P D Ceanneir

  Queen Bronwyn’s answer to all of this was to summon Jolene to her and make her into her personnel Royal Handmaid of the Royal Court, a high rank within the palace; the reserved Jolene accepted the title with dewy-eyed awe for her royal cousin.

  With Jolene under the queen’s watchful gaze, Tolland’s grip on her now diminished.

  The queen then ordered all of the Atyd’s to provide men for her royal army. Tollard complained to Bronwyn that the sending of his Fyrd would weaken the defence of his Eldom. Bronwyn showed concern for her Atyd and promised to help him; she sent two hundred of her own faithful royal guards to Tolland’s aid. He was now a prisoner in his own realm.

  Sequilan fared better than Tolland; he turned his back on his neighbouring Atyd and presented himself to the queen at the palace. He offered his services as the queen’s advisor in Barnum’s absence. Bronwyn already had Lord Soneros as her Consul, but the Ri saw the sense in keeping Sequilan close. With her kingdom now stable the queen planned to collect her husband and start their much belated honeymoon, she travelled to the Pass via Caphun.

  King Vanduke’s reply to his son was greatly received by all; not least by Havoc himself, it was a formal letter with undertones of pride for his son. The rebels got word of Lord Rett’s arrival at the pander Pass a week later. He brought over three thousand men and a contingent of masons to help finish building the defences. The Red Duke took an instant dislike to the Regent Barnum, but had to concede to the man’s usefulness when it came to organisation. The Falesti had poor knowledge of stonemasonry so Barnum used the Vallkyte prisoners to continue the build on the walls. Those who he chose received extra privileges and Lord Rett was surprised at how far the outer walls had progressed in such a short space in time.

  With the Acting Wardens arrival at the Pass, Havoc was now able to implement his next plan of action. Tressel, a Vallkyte garrison fort many miles to the east on the outskirts of the Dulan Plain was his main threat. However, a biting early winter was fast approaching and he knew that the small force there would need most of the cold season to strengthen its numbers. Haplann, with the aid of Morden, lord Rett and Queen Bronwyn was now secure until the spring.

  The prince’s main concern was the south-eastern tribes and their imminent pact with King Kasan. He needed to put pressure on them and discourage their enmity towards the Roguns; the only safe base he could do this from, was the Vale.

  ‘What is the Vale, boss?’ Whyteman asked, with a frown, as the prince relayed his plans to his assembled officers as the first signs of autumnal weather sent cold rain pattering the high arched windows of the castles great hall.

  ‘Someplace safe and secret,’ said Havoc. He turned to Powyss, ‘what do you think major?’

  ‘I see the sense in your plan,’ said Powyss rubbing his chin, ‘though I’m apprehensive that my hereditary secret will be known to the world.’

  ‘Not very secret if it’s full of dwarves.’

  ‘Good point,’ Powyss had to admit that dwarves could gossip, ‘we do need quality weapons and armour, there is no better place for us than the Vale.’

  They planned to march to the Vale in a month’s time.

  Queen Bronwyn arrived at Caphun two weeks later; she waited for the prince on the castle battlements while Havoc finished off a meeting with the towns major and his councillors. When Havoc appeared, she was absentmindedly humming to herself with her back to him. Her hand was skimming over the climbing roses and ivy that grew over the walls, their petals opened and closed at her touch; the ivy twisted and turned in reaction to the queen’s tune, as its lilting tone passed over their quivering leaves like a steady breeze.

  Using the Subtle Arts, Havoc was right behind her when she turned; she yelped in surprise then hugged him as they both laughed.

  ‘I brought you a gift,’ said the queen. She gave him a small curved horn made of cedar and covered in decorative mother of pearl inlay, a gold silk string attached at both ends allowed the user to carry it over his shoulder. The horn glinted in the moonlight and was surprisingly light for its size.

  ‘This is the Horn of Relin. It was the War horn of my father and his father and dates back to the time of the Dragor-rix when it was the war horn of Duke Torphilian,’ explained the queen, ‘it is loud enough to be heard over the noise of the battlefield, and I want you to have it.’

  ‘This is a most generous gift,’ said Havoc running his hand over the narrow end of the horn, ‘I will use it with care, and honour your father. Torphilian was a distant ancestor of mine.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I wanted you to have it.’

  They walked the battlements and talked of events since their last meeting, the queen listened intently to Havoc’s description of the Battle of the Pass.

  ‘Morden has written a poem about it,’ said Havoc as he concluded the outcome of the fight, ‘He’s calling it The Battle of the Dead Mound, he’s nearly finished it.’

  ‘Maybe I should make him my poet Laureate,’ laughed Bronwyn, ‘ tell me, is the Red Duke as stern and unapproachable as they say?’

  Havoc laughed, ‘mostly, but he is a sucker for a beautiful woman.’

  ‘Then you, my prince, are much like him.’ She kissed him full on the mouth. ‘This will be our last night together Havoc, I must be a dutiful wife for my husband and a queen to my people so I can keep order and stability in my kingdom,’ there were tears in her eyes, ‘I wish I did not love you so much.’

  Havoc understood and led her to his quarters. They made love as if it was the first time, as if the world would end tomorrow, and the night was long.

  The next morning, the prince bade the queen and her entourage a safe journey at the gates of Caphun, he wondered if he would ever see her again as she rode from his sight.

  The rebel army marched to the Vale the next day. Even with such small numbers, it was a long journey, and the logistics involved at such a move became a headache for the prince. Food supplies dwindled and had to be commandeered from homesteads and farms along the way. More soldiers meant more mouths to feed.

  As search parties scoured the area around Lake Furran for more food, the twins and their scouts spotted a sizable force heading their way. To be safe, Havoc organised his men on a slight rise with the lake and stream covering their flanks.

  As the army of tattered veterans came into view, about a thousand strong, Velnour recognised the Tattoium Militia colours flying. A small detachment of four equestrians rode to meet the rebels.

  Havoc saw that the lead rider, and by far the tallest, was Captain Jericho.

  Jericho jumped from his horse and strode towards the prince, Havoc dismounted from Dirkem and was about to walk towards the big warrior, when Jericho unsheathed his sword, got down on bended knee and offered Havoc the hilt, while simultaneously saying the words of fealty in a loud clear voice.

  The prince, taken aback, asked Jericho to stand. ‘Captain it is I who should be kneeling to you, you who has kept the Rogun cause alive for all these years.’

  ‘Not so my lord,’ smiled Jericho, ‘if I had known who you were on that day you saved others and myself in those damned mines I would have tried to reach you before now.’

  ‘Alas captain, at the time, my identity was to be a secret until I could form my own army. Tell me, how did you escape from the Sky Ship? We thought that you surely perished.’

  ‘Hemphill led some others to divert the Sky Ship so we could escape,’ said Jericho sadly, ‘they did not make it,’ Havoc remembered the tall thin warrior from that day in the Haplann Mines; it seemed like eons ago now.

  ‘Then imagine my joy when I heard that the Sky Ships were destroyed,’ continued Jericho, ‘by this Blacksword, who needs and army when there is such a powerful being like him, eh?’

  There were mumbles of agreement behind the prince at that. Havoc tried to change the subject but Jericho spoke first.

  ‘Prince Havoc, I have come to join you, the Tattoium Militia is yours. There is not a fighting force like it on the entire islan
d.’

  ‘I’m honoured captain, but even I, as De Proteous, have no authority over the militia.’

  ‘We are still allied to the Roguns are we not? You have proved to be a better commander of men than I sir, we heard about what transpired at the Pass,’ he said with a smile, ‘nicely done my lord.’

  ‘Mere luck than anything, captain,’ ‘Havoc waved away Jericho’s praises, ‘nevertheless I welcome you to my humble force. I will send a message to General Balaan, and ask his permission to have you officially under my command.’

  ‘You can do that? Is that possible?’

  ‘With my father’s influence anything’s possible captain.’

  With a growing force of over three thousand five hundred men, the prince’s rebel army descended upon the Vale. Instead of using the narrow entrance in the south, Powyss took them to another, wider, opening into the Vale where the Fess River ran underground and came out of a cave mouth as a narrow stream that fed into the Vale’s cold lake.

  Winter had come to the Wither Mountains, dense snow flurries preceded their arrival and it was going to be a harsh winter. The temperature seemed to drop more each day and Havoc knew that the surrounding mountain around the Vale would protect them all from the worst of the winter winds.

  There was alarm at first from the dwarves, when their guards at the secret entrance in the north spotted several thousand ragtag soldiers entering. Havoc sent Powyss on ahead to soothe any fears from the locals.

  The Kerf and Gunach greeted the prince warmly as he exited the cave entrance with his men a short distance from the dwarf settlement. Many of the dwarves were battle clad in their lightweight armour, ready to defend their homes, but Powyss stilled their alarm when he arrived. Now they lined the rebel route as an honour guard. Unprepared for the beauty of the Vale, the rebels looked around them open mouthed. Havoc ordered Powyss to march them south to the cold lake and make camp.

  ‘It is good to see you again Kervunder,’ said Gunach to the prince as he dismounted and shook his hand, ‘though we did not expect you back so soon...and with so many friends,’ he said with a slight tone of amusement.

  ‘The fame of your skill has spread, Master Smith, I have brought these eager souls for your custom.’

  Gunach was amazed and held speechless while the Kerf chuckled beside him. The old chief spoke in his own language, which was fast and guttural, after a time Gunach translated.

  ‘My father is wise and, it must be said, a little smug,’ he said giving the small-wizened man a sour look as he smiled stroking his white beard. ‘He knew you would come since we heard about your victory at the Pass. I was a little dubious though, forgive me. It seems I have much work to do. What is it you need?’

  ‘Weapons, shields, armour,’ answered Havoc, ‘everything.’

  The days that followed saw the prince’s army settle into the south of the Vale. They put up tents and built stone ovens to cook bread and meat. A large area of ground was marked off; this was used as the training ground. The prince knew that, individually, his soldiers could fight well, but his main aim was to instil discipline, loyalty, and trust in each other. The group fighting technique of the Falesti was a start.

  The prince ordered raids into the eastern tribes began in earnest. The first to attack was the western Bethlann and Toll-marr regions. At first, the logistics in keeping the army fed could not be supported by the dwarves alone so these raids were a chance to stock up on supplies, but Havoc ordered these foraging outings controlled, they did not take more than they needed or leave the tribes with nothing all winter. The plunder of weapons and armour, gems and glinting trinkets, however, arrived in abundance. The dwarven Master Smiths took these items to melt them down and make the new weapons required by the rebel army.

  As the winter set in and the plundering continued further east, the rebel army continued throughout the harshest weather, moving so fast over the ungrateful terrain that the tribal warriors new not where or when they would be assailed. The fearful villages of the eastern tribes called them the Raiders, the name stuck with the rebels.

  Nevertheless, in the wake of the Raiders came a new fear. The Blacksword had come to the east.

  Chapter 11

  Marshal Zolar

  King Kasan was in a rage.

  Although, those members of the assembly, who could see him clearly, witnessed a calm man sitting upon his throne; nevertheless, he gave full vent to the Rawn Arts as he pondered the news.

  As if an ominous toll of a bell, the sound of the kings beating heart shook the very walls of the parliament building. Dust fell from the rafters, the pews warped and cracked. Those seated on them dared not get up, for if the king is seated, then so should they be. The chandeliers shimmered and tinkled loudly and the arched stain glass windows gave up their hundred years of service as micro-fractures appeared across the surface of the colourful glass.

  On the floor, a dark crack zigzagged along the centre aisle from the throne; it stopped at Senior-captain Calpine’s dirty bare feet.

  ‘HE HAS DONE WHAT?’ shouted Kasan finally leaping to his feet. The stain glass windows also took that moment to leap, but in tiny pieces, and all over the parliaments numerous representatives. Arms around their heads as the glass rained around them, they still did not rise from their seats. Above the noise of destruction was a tinkling laughter from a six-year-old boy sitting on his nannies knee. Prince Creed was the only one enjoying the tense atmosphere.

  The only other person smiling was Queen Molna, but only at the news of her first son’s victory, she rubbed the bump under her dress, she was with child again.

  Calpine retold the story in a less calm state. Reciting the defeat at the Pass and the loss of Caphun. The king was not interested in his long walk to Fort Tressel that Capline and the other survivors had to endure. Few reached the fort, the cold nights had taken many on the journey and the Plain Wolves did the rest.

  Calpine believed it was his duty to report to the king personally. He wished he had not.

  The king’s rage did not disperse that day. After he had ordered the citadel on high alert, ready for any advancing rebel army. He hung the survivors of Caphun from the city walls. The word Coward, carved into their bare chests before they were unceremoniously shoved over the parapet and left to dangle on the end of a rope. Calpine fared better; cast into the dark and dank castle dungeon. When the days wore on and the bitter cold winds blew in from the sea, there was no sight nor sound of Prince Havoc and his rebel army anywhere in the Vallkyte lands. Then, as the winter months deepened into short days and long dark nights, the king found out about the raids on the south-eastern tribes, which eventually resulted in the collapse of his pact with them.

  The king’s anger was such that Calpine was publicly beheaded, luckless to the end.

  The king’s mood did not abate throughout that winter. He knew of the peril that Plysov faced, safe within the walls of Aln-Tiss, he was however, cut off from the supplies transported from Dulan-Tiss and Sonora. The navy from Cosshead would still be able to deliver their percentage of goods to the citadel, but reports of the Rogun Navy harassing the supply ships were coming in thick and fast. The upshot of this was that the king’s anger had been simmering for a while now, long before his armies defeat at the Pander Pass.

  He ordered one of his greatest marshals, Zolar of the Dutrisi, to form an army and take back the Pander Pass. Zolar, a veteran of many battles and a stern commander, amassed seven thousand infantry by the middle of winter and marched them west to Fort Tressel.

  ‘Ignore the cold, focus on the log,’ said Mad-gellan as he watched the twelve half-naked men shivering uncontrollably. The freezing cold water of the shallow Fess Lake lapped against their chests, as they stood in its clear water. Lumps of ice floated inside the hole they had made on the surface. Four men each were holding up thick logs above their heads and the effort was showing as pain on their faces.

  ‘Five more minutes and then two laps around the Vale,’ said Jericho with his arm
s folded. He gave the men a steely blue-eyed look when they all groaned, ‘three laps then.’

  There was an audible chuckle from Mad-gellan, who had just arrived from the training ground. Everyone knew that these two disliked each other intensely. Both men knew each other by reputation. Jericho, like the rest of his unit, grew-up with a mutual hate of the Nithi. He understood that this Nithi lord had always been loyal to the Rogun crown; yet, it still did not change his opinion of the men from the Wildlands. For his part, Mad-gellan hated the captain’s narrow-mindedness and air of smug arrogance.

  ‘Why don’t you leave them in there for another fifteen minutes while you’re at it captain?’ sighed Mad-gellan.

  ‘That would be half an hour in all major, it would take a stronger man to withstand the cold water for that amount of time,’ sneered Jericho. The discipline of the soldiers had improved in the few months since their arrival at the Vale. He understood the prince’s need for order, keeping the men in strong units and teaching them to fight as a team, protecting themselves as well as those beside them in a shield formation. The army exercised constantly, as a team or as individuals, their bodies became hard and durable, their stamina improved and so too did their fighting skills.

  They became killers.

  The ferocity of the raids into the lands of the eastern tribes proved their awesome strength. They would appear without warning, slip past the tribes’ defences with ease, and deliver shock and fear to the natives.

  If they were not raiding then they were training in the Vale. There was no respite.

  ‘Do you think the better man is a Nithi?’ Mad-gellan sneered at the mountain man’s comment.

  Captain Jericho looked at the Nithi Lord, both men smiled in understanding.

  ‘No, the better man is from the mountains,’ said Jericho.