by P D Ceanneir
Not by use of Pyromantic Superheat I hope, continued the prince, that way leads to madness and we have much to do. Personally, I do not want to end up like Baron Telmar, do you?
The Blacksword sighed and ignored the prince. He used the shadows to conceal himself from the other two guards chatting by the foredeck. The small lanterns strung along the deck every seven feet, were a hindrance that illuminated his progress through the shadows so he used the Rawn Arts to turn the wick to a vapour that doused the flame. The guards noticed the extinguished lamps and both of them ambled towards the lantern with the intention of relighting it. The Blacksword moved so quickly from the shadows that his arms were a blur and the guards were dead at his feet with heads cocked at odd angles.
‘What do you suggest, oh wise one?’ asked the Blacksword as he answered Havoc’s question. The prince felt himself laugh at the Blacksword’s sarcasm.
Use the Fire Element.
‘You can’t produce Fire!’ his other self frowned and Havoc sensed a small twinge of doubt from him. He had known for some time now that the Blacksword needed him more than he realised. The fact that his alter ego received his knowledge of the Arts from him was also interesting.
You have supreme confidence in your abilities so show me what you can do.
The Blacksword shrugged, he concentrated on the palm of his long fingered hand, shrinking the warm air to condense it into a flame. A ball of heat shimmered above his palm but nothing happened.
You are concentrating too hard. Fire is linked to emotions; find one that works, but not the volatile ones.
‘Shut up!’ the Blacksword gritted his teeth still no flame appeared.
So much for the great Blacksword, Havoc sneered. The Blacksword saw the prince’s inability at controlling the fire element as a weakness and it made him angry to learn that his talents were also lacking.
‘Shut up, fool! I can ...’ The Blacksword stopped talking abruptly and listened. They both heard the sound at the same time. It came from a three-foot square-hinged boxed lid over the cargo hold. Crying and moaning of many female voices issued from it. The Blacksword used the earth element to disintegrate the padlock and with a flick of his hand, the heavy lid swung open.
Dirty faces of young women and children looked up at him. Some cowered in the darkness; with the Blacksword’s eyes, the prince could see that they wore tribal clothes of the Jertiani. The stench of stale sweat and night soil rose up from the hold.
Slaves or prisoners for transport! Are there no ends to the Vallkytes barbarism? Havoc said aghast, I dread to think what will happen to them.
The Blacksword stared down at the women seeing fear and despair in their eyes, all they could see was a dark shape against the blackness of the night. Most were moaning in anguish.
‘Enough of this, I will use superheat and burn everything,’ hissed the Blacksword
No. You cannot do that! What about those people? They are innocents, remembers the Rawn Code, we have a duty to protect such as these.
‘Casualties of war,’ growled the Blacksword. He closed the lid, inside the women wailed, and shouted for help, but the cover muffled their screams.
You cold hearted bastard! If you kill them then you are no better than the scum who murdered my sisters and cousins, this comment made the Blacksword hesitate. Go ahead if it is what you want to do. It is what we must do to save others that makes us men, you are not a man; you are a monster! The Blacksword could feel Havoc’s emotion in his head; however, the prince was not angry, he was ashamed of him, it was an emotion alien to him.
You think I am weak. Now I know the weakness in you. I‘d rather be known as a brave man who embraced his fears, than one who shunned the help of others because of fear.
‘I...’ the Blacksword never finished his reply because a flame suddenly burst from his palm, burning a bright red-orange in colour. He quickly closed his hand to extinguish the flame just in case someone spotted it from the neighbouring ships.
He was silent for a while, deep in thought, ‘I did not do that...Havoc?’
There was no reply from the prince.
‘Havoc?’ still silence. ‘Havoc...I am...damn it...I am not going to apologise!’
What we do, we do together...agreed? Havoc finally said.
‘Agreed...’ for a moment he was still, then… ‘It was shame wasn’t it? Shame and pity for the women, that is what triggered the fire element, I felt it from you?’
Yes, I think so. Now let us free these people.
Three guards, playing Karsh in their bunkroom across from the main door to the cargo hold, never saw the Blacksword until it was too late. The door burst open to admit a mass of dark shadow and their oak table silently disintegrated before their eyes. Each man suddenly shot backwards from their stools as large, sharp pieces of splintered table pinned them to the bulkhead walls. Havoc was amazed at the Blacksword’s ability to use the Rawn Arts so expertly. All the way through the elemental attack, he retained the eerie veil of shadow, which would require much concentration.
The door to the hold fell to pieces at the Blacksword’s touch.
‘Have no fear,’ he said to the prisoners, ‘I’m here to free you all.’
They were all looking at him in shock. Most knew who he was and remained huddled together and still. He suddenly felt impatient and so he grabbed the nearest young girl who yelped in fear and performed the Thought Link without hurting her.
They were all Jertiani females and children from the same tribe, about a dozen of them in all. As far as the girl knew from the images in her head, the Nithi had captured them and sold them on as slaves to the Vallkyte nobles. This was the only group arriving by sea; the older females had been butchered. The Blacksword gave her reassurances that they were free to go.
The girl stepped away from him, there was fear in her eyes, but it was not as palpable as before, she urged the others to leave. They disembarked the ship and huddled together on the quayside.
‘Head north via the river course towards the Limeshoal Gap,’ said the Blacksword, ‘you will find an army there under the command of Prince Havoc of the Roguns.’
They all hurried away with their children in tow. Several even said thank you to the strange tall-cloaked figure in black.
Does that make you feel good now? Havoc chuckled as the Blacksword went back aboard the ship.
‘Shut up...and don’t ever call me a monster again!’ He snapped back.
Chapter 17
The Battle of Cosshead
General Elkin was in his late sixties and did not sleep well these days. Though he was still fit, he considered himself slim, but for a slight paunch. His age showed in his wrinkled face and his baldhead with its short greying hair at the temples that betrayed the years.
He was a veteran of many conflicts and a hero of the first civil war, known as the War of the Pyromancer, against Baron Telmar nearly fifty years ago. Even though everyone regarded him as one of the greatest battle commanders who ever lived, he was weary from war. His sons fought for the Vallkytes in a conflict that he did not agree with. He hoped his eldest would survive to take his hereditary title of Lord of Storridge when Elkin died, but since the death of his wife six years ago he had lost contact with his sons. King Kasan had brokered a deal with him to retain his commission, his lordship, lands and honour, in return he would watch over Elkin’s sons. The wily general was not stupid. Kasan was using his sons as a form of emotional blackmail for the old man to do as he was told. He knew the king of old when he was himself a young prince with a startlingly brilliant tactical mind and he also knew that he was capable of getting his own way. It was due to Elkin and Kasan’s involvement in the War of the Pyromancer that Baron Telmar’s host was defeated at the Battle of the Firelands. If he was truthful with himself, he knew that his sons went off to find the same glory as their father.
Those glory days had now gone for Elkin, never to return. War was for the young.
Elkin’s relationship with the Vallkyte kin
g was lukewarm to say the least. He had known Kasan for a long time and the king was not trustworthy in his eyes. His hold over his sons was strong. The old general had learnt long ago that his boys now belonged to the king. They were part of his inner echelon, advocates of a sacred order that was so secret, even the general did not know its true name.
Elkin stood outside his pavilion that sat within the garrison grounds. He refused to stay in the town and camped with the rest of the soldiers outside the town walls.
He looked down at the mug of herbal tea, an old recipe for insomnia that his wife always brewed for him. It tasted terrible, but it worked, although, the bitter mush at the bottom of his cup never appealed to him and he was about to throw it away when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He looked over by the docks and saw a plume of flame rising high over one of the war galleons. Then a large Fireball arched through the air and hit another one next to it. He was not a Rawn but knew the use of the Arts when he saw it.
‘What in the name of...?’
He hastily roused the garrison.
Havoc allowed the Blacksword his fun.
Secretly, he was elated at discovering the emotion he required to summon the fire element, and further, that the Blacksword was incapable of producing the emotion himself. Now he relied on the prince’s help. Together they burnt the ships, Havoc summoned by opening up the emotional feeling of shame and pity, the Blacksword manipulated. After a few minutes they decided together to use a small Pyromantic Surge and linked it to the sphere of flame that formed over the Blacksword’s pale hands. The theory was the same as linking to the other three elements. The Blacksword concentrated and the result was a bright bluish flame with a white haze around it. The Blacksword discovered he could send it by will alone and directed it to one of the large galleons on the other side of the harbour. The flaming missile shot towards the vessel at tremendous speed and slammed into its bow causing it to explode with a loud wrenching sound. Its forward mast was hurtled into the air and the ballistic fragments of splintered timbers hurtled through the neighbouring ships masts with disastrous results.
Flames spread and rose high into the night sky as all the masts and stowed canvas caught fire. Havoc and the Blacksword could hear panicking screams of the crew over the sound of heat-tortured beams crackling in the inferno. The Blacksword threw more Surge Fireballs-as he referred to them- at the war ships and cargo vessels sitting in the harbour mouth. Huge vortices’ of flame twisted to one ship then the other; passing fire to the untouched like a ravishing plague. Sheets of burning sail’s rose in the thermals to land on the warehouse buildings of the town that fringed the harbour wharfs. These fingers of flame climbed up into the air on invisible hands of heat, threatening to palm themselves on the roofs of the warehouses, the contents of which were all flammable. The raging inferno spread over the rooftops of the town like a hungry beast.
Four squadrons of the Toll-mar Regiment ran to the eastside quay with General Elkin. He had ordered the rest of his regiment to evacuate the town and grasped unwilling volunteers to put out the fires, but he knew it was a lost cause. The remaining two Vallkyte regiments guarded the camp.
Elkin was not prepared for what he saw when he got there. Every boat was aflame, some had been set adrift, cut from moorings by brave sailors, to contain the spreading fire and cause a firebreak within the harbour. They floated out of the harbour mouth on the outgoing tide, but an easterly wind was blowing the flames towards the town. The temperature was tremendous; sweat evaporated from their skin as he dared to brave the heat and step closer.
His men were suddenly agog as they stared at the centre cargo ship; the flames there formed into a tunnel effect that opened like a curtain to reveal a tall black clad figure. The Blacksword’s cloak smoked from the heat and this gave him a more menacing look, but the flames did not go near him. They closed up behind him as he walked down the, so far untouched, gangplank and stood in front of Elkin and his small detachment of soldiers.
The general backed his men away with a wave of his hand, each of them were holding their shields, swords or spears tightly. Elkin’s hand lay on the hilt of his sword, but made no attempt to unsheathe it, he looked at the silhouette in front of him.
The Blacksword stepped closer. Light from the flame revealed the face under the hood for a few seconds. Elkin gasped as he saw the white face and the black soulless eyes staring back at him.
‘Good gods!’ he cried, ‘it’s the face of Death!’ Every one of them backed away at the sound of the general’s voice.
The Blacksword turned at that moment and walked away slowly. Once he was out of sight, everyone, including the general, had not realised they had held their breath. They let it go with relief.
It took most of the night to move the prince’s host down river.
The confiscated barges from Ifor ferried the Raiders and Legion first. Queen Bronwyn and her Falesti, along with the Vale dwarves, arrived as the Vallkyte naval fleet diminished into flame.
‘How in the name of the Earth Mother did that happen?’ she said to Powyss.
The major shrugged, ‘Someone’s attempt at sabotage is our gain, your highness.’
‘Quite so. Did you send your people into the harbour?’ she meant the Raiders.
‘It was the Blacksword,’ said a strained voice from behind them. Everyone looked around at Verkin who stared at the devastation of the burning ships. Light from the flames reflected off his pale face. His eyes were dark and deep in their sockets, and he said, ‘I saw it in a dream a few days ago.’
Earlier Bronwyn had rubbed a healing balm into the seeping wound on Verkin’s shoulder; he had been strangely quiet and withdrawn as she bandaged it up. Everyone looked at him in some confusion.
‘The Blacksword is here?’ said Furran at Powyss’s side, but Powyss remained quiet and thoughtful.
Horses were no good on the old undulating dunes of short grass; Velnour had retained most of the mounts anyway and he remained at the Limeshoal Gap with his men dressed in lancer armour to await the prince’s signal. The flatter ground over the main road, however, was level enough for cavalry and Chirn, young as he was, longed to ride into battle. Nevertheless, he understood the reason to fight on foot on this terrain; the other side of the road was enemy territory.
Everyone stayed low as the prince’s coalition army moved into position. The forward rank of the Princes Legion lay behind the sand dunes of the wide beach on the east bank of the Coss River; it provided great cover for such a large force. However, if anyone cared to look their way from the tented garrison only a few hundred yards to their north they would see Magnus’s soldiers as the sun rose.
Chirn watched the burning town with youthful wide eyed awe. He was resting on the ground with the De Proteous’s standard wrapped in waxed linen and the ash pole held firmly in his hands. He almost jumped out of his skin when Prince Havoc suddenly appeared out of nowhere and leaped down from the top of the grassed hillock Chirn crouched behind.
‘Hello Chirn, do you have by backpack?’ he said as if his sudden appearance contradicted the look of sheer fright on the boys face.
Chirn stared at him for a moment and then shook his head and nodded as he handed over the backpack. Havoc stuffed his black cloak into the bag and tied up the cord tightly. Chirn could not see what it was in the dawning gloom.
‘Look after this for me will you?’ At first Chirn had been annoyed at being the prince’s batman as well as Standard Bearer, he wanted to fight alongside his father, but he was growing to like the prince. Life was never dull in the Raiders and the De Proteous treated him as an equal peer.
‘Now,’ said Havoc with obvious glee, ‘let’s go to battle.’
By the time Havoc had sent a message to Magnus giving him and the Legion the honour of the initial attack, the warehouses of the wharfs and most of the south side of the town buildings were blazing brightly in the new dawn that helped to show the way to the garrison.
Magnus and the legions veteran m
en-at-arms crossed the undulating field and the main road with swiftness, and more importantly, little noise. They had to negotiate a short drywall dyke before they attacked the enemy camp. By the time they were over this, the two Vallkyte units of the 6th and 9th Kings Own Regiment of Foot saw them and charged towards their position with spears and shields at the ready. A furious hand-to-hand battle took place in the tight enclosure by the wall. The Legion linked together and hacked over the rims of their shields at the exposed faces of the Vallkytes. Magnus knew he was out-numbered, but the strength and surprise of the Legions attack won through in the end, the Vallkytes disengaged and backed off several dozen yards to reform.
However, Elkin heard the shouts of battle and ordered his soldiers tending the flames, or on the wharfs, to move back into the camp. The local citizenry were in a panic at this point and flooded towards the Northgate in a bid to flee the burning town. Some even blocked the west portcullis while the general’s soldiers shoved violently through them to get back to the tented garrison.
Far to the south, the Horn of Relin blared twice and that was Magnus’s cue to retreat as planned. Obviously, he assumed correctly, that the prince had noticed enemy reinforcements moving into position. So the Legion fell back to the dyke in a defensive formation, and then sprinted hard across the humped grassland, while still keeping their numbers bunched together just to make it look as if they were fleeing from the sight of Elkin’s augmented regiments’. The Legion was so effective at this that they made it look like a panicked route and the Vallkytes took the bait. The charging Vallkyte infantry screamed in victory as they ran after the fleeing Legion. Elkin, who had managed to get through the west portcullis and find a horse; saw the danger of his men being lured away, he turned to his nearest aide, ‘lieutenant, send men after those idiots and call them back!’ he shouted as he pointed in the general location of the Vallkyte foot regiments and the aide hurriedly sent horsed scouts to recall them. Unfortunately for the old general it was too late. As soon as the Legion came into range of the ancient rippling grass dunes with their high undulating links next the river’s edge, Whyteman’s Eternals crested the low hillocks in full view and sent several devastating volleys into the charging Vallkyte ranks. Soldiers jerked back from the assault as the arrows slammed into them. Those that retreated took the shafts in their backs. The carnage left a lane of dead as the surviving enemy infantry fled back to the garrison.