The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) (12 page)

The prince was the highest-ranking person there. Being De Proteous of the premier house of Cromme, he even outranked the Vallkyte and Sonoran royal families. Therefore, this young knight, only a few years older than himself, was beginning to think he had overstepped his boundaries.

Havoc smiled. “There is no need to feel anxious, Sir Colby, you can continue with what you are doing. May I make a few suggestions, though?”

Sir Colby visibly relaxed. “Of course, My Lord,” he said.

“There are a large number of people living in these mountains; send men who know these lands to acquire weapons and food for our people. I’m sure that local smiths can make some armour, but we may have to
take
in the king’s name.”

Sir Colby was looking at him with awe. “That is a sound idea, My Lord.” He nodded.

“We
are
at war, Sir Knight.”

“Yes, My Lord.” Sir Colby stood to carry out Havoc’s orders.

“May I also suggest keeping our people, or scouting parties, close to the mountains fringes so that any other refugees can find us.”

Sir Colby nodded his assent and walked back to his fellow knights.

Once the word about the exiled Roguns spread around the Sky Mountains, the people of that region gave their help willingly. They had always been on good relations with them and they had strong trade and family links with the capital.

They provided food and shelter for the women and children, their smiths made armour and weapons for the young and old men of Havoc’s party, and the hunters and trappers of the smaller villages offered their skills.

Havoc, for his part, was happy to have a safe haven for the women folk throughout the winter, although he voiced his concerns to Sir Colby and the village leaders that the very presence of Roguns among them put them all in danger of Vallkyte reprisals.

All kept their ears open for any news. As the month slowly moved on, other groups of refugees found Havoc’s scouts and they grew larger by the day. Havoc and Magnus awaited news of their father’s host and the rest of their family.

Prince Magnus found them first. He had taken a hunting party out to the east with an old trapper called Old Toms. The trapper had found tracks leading north, and Magnus, thinking Vallkytes were moving around Havoc’s position, followed the tracks. At midday, his unit caught up with them.

It ended up being a small group of Rogun soldiers in tattered uniforms and dirty faces that beamed as they recognised the young prince.

They had heard word of the De Proteous and the refugees in the west and the king had sent them out to find them. They took Magnus to their camp through high, sloping wooded valleys and large dappled glades. He was overjoyed to see the Red Duke galloping towards him, shouting a greeting at the top of his lungs.

His uncle brought him too his father, who hugged him, eyes brimming with tears. The whole camp cheered as the young prince told the tale of their escape. However, they all fell into silence as he recounted the death of Soujonn. The king insisted on going to see his eldest son.

Chapter 8

The Exiles

Plysov was pleased with his promotion to the citadel’s governorship. He smiled as he placed the document confirming the order on his desk. He had made himself at home in one of the palace’s apartments. The large suite he now lived in became his personal study, and was adjacent to his bedchamber.

Events had moved swiftly in the citadel after the coup. The town and port authorities had realised that the balance of power had now shifted in favour of the more powerful Vallkytes. Throughout the month, he had organised meetings with all the guilds and had succeeded in establishing his authority; however, it would be some time before trust was accepted, if ever.

“I’m honoured, Sire,” he said to the king’s back as Kasan stood on the balcony that looked over the citadel’s wharfs along the south-western coast, having dipped to sea level from the higher land of the palace crag.

“It is I who should be honoured to have such an able general in my army,” said Kasan over his shoulder.

The general nodded in thanks. “You are a far better battlefield general than I, Sire. Congratulations on your victory at the Dragorsloth.”

A smile broke the otherwise-cold face of the king. He was pleased at how the months of planning had panned out. Of course, not all aspects of it had worked. The escape of Vanduke and his army concerned him and their threat was still evident as they sat in the Sky Mountains as exiles.

He looked out to the Aln Plain at his army camped outside the east gate.

“I will leave a large contingent with you; use them to flush out Vanduke,” he said as he walked back into the room.

There was a knock at the door, and the general answered. A portly, bearded man with a fine-cut sailor’s uniform adorned with badges of rank walked into the room and bowed to the king.

“Your Highness, I came as soon as I could,” he said, puffing through his red cheeks.

“Admiral Hurnac, well met,” said the king. “Is your flagship ready for departure?”

“Yes, the
Kerthion
is ready and at your disposal, Sire.”

“Good, have Queen Molna put on board; make her comfortable for the voyage to Cosshead. I have already made preparations for her trip to the capital.”

“Very good, Sire,” said Hurnac.

The admiral left and the king gathered his cloak; he looked at the black, dented armour in the corner of the room and turned to the general. “Have Soujonn’s gear put in my baggage train; I will bury it on his mother’s tribal land. Have you any witnesses to his death?” The king did not seem fazed at his son’s violent demise, because it was still a mystery. Soujonn’s death would be honoured among the other fallen.

“Only one, who had brain fever from his wounds; he says that the De Proteous burnt him to ashes.” He looked at the king for a reaction.

Kasan stood with his back to the general, but he could see that the king visibly flinched.

“That’s impossible,” said the king, “even for a Ri.”

“He was babbling, Sire, but he appeared to be the only witness. He died last week.”

There was a long silence.

“That is very interesting. Say none of this to anyone.”

“Yes Sire, er... What shall we do with the other royal prisoners?”

“Whatever you wish, but they don’t leave the citadel alive!”

‘Tell me again?”

“Father,” Havoc sighed. “I have told you everything I know.”

There was concern on the king’s face. He looked at his half-eaten grilled chicken leg without actually seeing it. His thoughts seemed to be far away, and he threw the leg at two wild dogs that Havoc’s refugees had adopted.

“Tell me how you felt?”

The dogs snarled at each other and fought over the tasty morsel.

Havoc recounted the fight with Soujonn again, and told his father about his feelings at the time. How angry he was with the invaders and Soujonn wounding Magnus, about Eleana and the death of Sir Gillem. He told him of the shimmering heat that formed in his chest, and explained how he knew where to send it.

“Think; were you able, at that time, to stop it? To make it just disappear?” His father looked at him intently.

“No, I think it was far beyond that; I couldn’t if I tried.”

Havoc had felt a huge weight fall off his shoulders as he had seen Magnus riding back into camp with Lord Rett and his father over an hour ago now. The weeks of decision-making, control and delegation were starting to take its toll on him, not that he did not enjoy it, quite the opposite in fact; he found out that the responsibility came naturally enough. Nevertheless, all the pressure on one so young made him feel like a fake. Magnus, and mostly Sir Colby, shared the authority with him, and it made it easier to have sound, dependable men at his side. He knew there was a lesson to learn here.

Vanduke was elated at seeing not just one, but both, of his sons alive and well. He was proud of Havoc’s leadership and, as he looked around at the makeshift camp, he noticed an effective order to everything. The roomy tents were positioned several feet from each other so fire could not spread if they were attacked; they were also quickly dismantled and made of light wood and leathers for easy carrying. Scouts and hunters were in abundance and pickets routinely changed on the hour; the camp would never stay for more than three days in the one place, constantly moving to new woodland to keep one step in front of their enemies; no wonder, thought the king, his troops could not find them.

“What does it mean, Father? What is wrong with me?”

Vanduke shrugged;
if only Lord Ness was here, he would have a definite answer
, he thought, but the Ri had not been seen since the morning of the battle, and the king feared he may be captured or worse.

“I may have to get some advice, because I could be wrong,” he said

“Wrong? Wrong about what exactly?”

“I think you are showing signs of becoming a Pyromancer.”

Havoc’s face was blank.

“A Pyromancer is a Rawn apprentice who has the use of the fire element or superheat, long before he has been taught it,” explained Vanduke.

“Well, that is good, isn’t it?” Havoc smiled, but his father’s expression was sad.

“No, it’s not good; the power is dangerous. Pyromancers are very rare and with good reason. They find it difficult to control the build-up of energy and therefore unleash it to devastating effect. Because of this, people fear them.”

Havoc understood now why folk within the camp were always avoiding him, and the looks of fear in their eyes. “Most people in my camp know then. There were a few witnesses who saw me kill Soujonn.” Havoc shifted uncomfortably on the boulder they were both sharing.

“Ahh... yes, Pyromancers are usually shunned in society. There was only one I know of in the royal family.”

“Who?” Havoc asked, looking straight at his father with interest.

Vanduke hesitated, but thought that the boy would find out anyway. “Baron Telmar,” he said.

Havoc jumped to his feet and paced up and down in front of his father. “The baron went mad! Will that happen to me?” He was agitated.

“Not if I can help it. True, the awesome power that the baron had burnt away his sanity. That is because he had poor instruction on how to control it, it was a dreadful mistake, and I will be damned if it is going to happen to you. Now keep calm and come and sit down.”

Havoc was clenching and unclenching his fists. “Will I burn my family?”

“You won’t... Keep calm...”

“Is that why everyone is afraid of me?” He was rubbing his hands together and walking more rapidly, Vanduke shushing him like a child.

“Well, the Pyromantic power is immense, if unstable... Now don’t fret, son.”

“I know who I’m going to burn... Uncle Kasan and all the Vallkytes…” Havoc said through gritted teeth.

“That’s enough of that talk... Be calm.”

“...Burn their damn city down around their ears!”

“
Havoc
…
Calm down
!” The king stood as he bellowed.

Havoc stopped pacing and stared back in shock. His father had never shouted at him before, but it did have the desired effect of breaking his concentration.

The camp folk had halted in their work and looked over at the king and the prince. Some had judged the conversation correctly and looked worried. Lord Rett and a confused Magnus walked towards them, but the king waved them away.

“Son…” Vanduke put his hands on Havoc’s shoulders. “Look at me! You must curb your strongest emotion that is how the energy increases. Anger, fear, hate, jealousy, paranoia… these are what fester and feed the burning fire of the Pyromancer.”

“What must I do?”

“I will give you a programme of mind techniques and meditation that will help you to control the flow of energies. However, it will be difficult and you will need to do this every day.”

Havoc sighed and nodded.

Every day, he did, for the weeks that followed his conversation with the king were some of the longest and coldest of his life. He missed his mother, he missed Mia’s warm smile and Verna’s sharp mind, Hagan’s wit, and he missed Ness Ri, who was a caring teacher.

The king and Lord Rett were tirelessly bringing in new blood to the vastly depleted ranks of the Roguns and the constant training of new recruits became a priority. The veterans were not exempt from training, either. The Red Duke wanted a more flexible and tighter host with unwavering discipline and loyalty.

Havoc’s refugees now incorporated into the main Rogun host, but the king had allowed him his status and responsibility for them, so he gathered his most trusted men and formed a small unit of soldiers that trained with the main body and were entirely under his control. They eventually became known as the Prince’s Legion.

Queen Molna had put on a brave face as soldiers removed her from the cell she shared with her daughters and the twins. She told them to behave and to be brave, although inside she was screaming.

King Kasan’s cold face met her at the naval yard before her departure. She hated him, and wanted to claw that emotionless face off, but she never gave vent to her feelings, and showed instead a cool air of indifference.

Now, as the
Kerthion
ploughed through the grey waters towards the bay of Hoath and the Vallkyte naval yard at Cosshead, she allowed herself to shed a tear as she stood on the bow. The guards who watched her constantly shifted uneasily, but gave her space. They knew now that, even in her grief, she would not seek to take her own life. She had brokered a deal with Kasan. She would do anything he asked of her, if only her daughters and Hagan’s girls remained safe. King Kasan had agreed.