Lord ravens gambit, p.1
Lord Raven's Gambit, page 1
part #1 of Raven Chronicles Series
Lord Raven’s Gambit
Author’s Edition
JT Howes
Lord Raven’s Gambit, Author’s Edition
By JT Howes
US and international copyright © 2018, JT Howes
All rights reserved
Cover art by RebecaCovers
Cover design and chapter art by Auria Short
Published by Jandard Media
jandardmedia@outlook.com
www.jandardmedia.com
Foreword
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
About the Author
LADY RAVEN
Chapter 1
Foreword
JT Howes published a version of Lord Raven’s gambit in 2002 through a small independent press. Before the book went to print it was heavily edited without consulting the Author. The well meaning but ultimately misguided changes affected important story arcs and character profiles. They also disrupted important elements of the sequel, most of which was already written.
This Author’s Edition of Lord Raven’s Gambit restores those key elements. The story is now told in the way the author originally intended and flows cleanly into the sequel.
CHAPTER 1
“‘Tis another white flag, milord." The watcher called as Jost Aranur raced up the steps of the castle wall.
“How many armed men do they bring this time?” Anger lent a dark sarcasm to the Reive’s words as he tossed his mantle over one shoulder and glared down to the courtyard below. “A single man." He muttered with instant suspicion. “What is Lord Carrion about?”
The watcher, Balch, spat over the wall as if to hit the man below. "We can make ‘im an arrow cushion, milord, but give the word."
Jost shook his head quickly in denial as he studied the lone figure riding closer. Clad completely in black armor and mounted upon a dark bay warhorse, the man seemed to have no fear in approaching the wall where blood had been shed such a short time before. "No, we will show more honor for the white flag than they, Balch."
Straightening his shoulders, the Reive lifted his chin, trying to relax the tension strung so tightly through him.
“Humph." Balch snorted. "Ain’t no honor in the Butcher, milord. Killed his own mother, I heard. Drank her blood, he did."
Jost ignored him and addressed the rider. "That’s far enough, man. State your business."
The mounted warrior paused, lifting his head to gaze at Jost. Without a word, he lifted his hand and removed the winged helm, cradling it in the crook of one arm while the other pushed back the steel mesh curtaining his head to reveal long, sweat soaked black hair. Sharp, handsome features framed slanted green eyes that seemed to meet Jost’s gaze and pierce his very soul. Lips, full and curved with derision parted as he drew breath to speak.
“I do not shout my business at cowards atop a wall, Master Aranur." The voice was husky and filled with drawling cynicism. A deep note of command threaded the tones leaving no one in doubt that this was indeed a Lord accustomed to commanding men and receiving abject obedience in return.
“And my business is not to play the fool and gain my death by treachery under a white flag." Aranur replied, deliberate in his insult.
Inexplicably, the man on the bay stallion smiled. Droll humor colored weather leathered cheeks but seemed incapable of reaching hooded eyes. "You do not honor a white flag’s truce, Master Aranur?”
“I have seen the honor your Lord Carrion proclaims under a white flag. One of my good men still sleeps from the severity of his wounds." Aranur snarled back his entire posture taut with the fury such a cowardly attack continued to provoke.
All humor fled the rider’s sharp face leaving little of human emotion for those on the wall to interpret. "The one who broke the truce of the flag has been punished for his actions, but I’ll not quibble over trivial matters. I have come for my castle, Master Aranur, and I would prefer not to smash it full of holes before I take up residence."
A gasp rose from the soldiers on the wall as they realized that the man who sat before them so tall astride his warhorse was none other than Lord Carrion himself, Baron Braan de Cheney, Warlord of Jandard and Champion of the Empress Daema.
T’was because of him the Pretender, King Rakaerd of Madat, had lost his battle for the throne and been condemned to execution. Rumors flew about that Lord Carrion, himself was to have been the one holding the axe before Rakaerd’s daring escape from captivity and his exile into the Outer Kingdoms.
The man sitting so arrogantly beneath them was the most feared in the realm.
Before Jost could command his men not to provoke the notorious warrior, four arrows were loosed from the archers to rain down upon the unarmed man with deadly accuracy.
Receiving an imperceptible signal from his rider, the great stallion danced sideways a pace then reared dodging three of the arrows. The fourth lodged itself through a gap in the armor into the Lord’s thigh.
“By Wind, the next man to fire will feel my own steel! We will honor the flag!" Jost roared in fury to his own soldiers. Rage had him stripping the bow from the man nearest him and tossing it to the field below.
With casual elegance, the black clothed Lord drew a small eating dagger from his belt and cut the arrow in his thigh free. Not a hiss was heard from Lord Carrion to acknowledge the pain. Several of the soldiers watching made a warding sign for evil, having heard and told tales of Lord Carrion selling his soul to the Dark God in return for an immunity to pain.
“It seems, Master Aranur..." The grim lord called in a voice soaked in dry sarcasm as he tossed the arrow aside. Disdain mocked the gesture and those scattered about the walls above. "…that we both claim the loyalty of soldiers with impetuous natures."
Aranur didn’t respond. Staring down at the man on the steed with a new respect in his hazel eyes, a period of silence passed between the two leaders to be broken when Jost disappeared from the wall leaving his men to murmur in confusion. Moments later the tall man strode from the gate approaching his adversary, a clean linen cloth in his hand.
Aranur bandaged the wound without a sound, scarce taking his eyes from the man gazing steadily down at him. When finished he turned to go. The Warlord moved with the speed of a poisonous snake striking its prey, catching a shoulder of his opponent in the iron grasp of a leather covered fist. The touch was to restrain, not to attack. Jost relaxed with relief that his life would be spared a moment longer.
Seeing the reaction, Braan de Cheney released his adversary from the grip of the gauntlet compelling the other warrior to stay with the fierce glare of his emerald-green eyes. “Aranur, show sense." The words were hissed. "I will take this castle, will you, nil you." There was no triumph in the statement, no careless boast. The seated warrior knew his skill and knew the men whom he had led into battle over and over again. The castle would be his, it mattered only the timing and the condition in which it was delivered to him. All of this Jost comprehended staring up at the mounted warrior.
“I will not give my men up to slaughter, my Lord Carrion." Aranur replied with a mocking salute. Hazel eyes held flat determination that if he were to die it would be with honor in battle and not at the end of the Butcher of Jandard’s rope. "Rather would they die free."
Respect flickered in the cold features of the Baron. "I need no dead servants, Aranur. Not even you. T’was never my intention to have the matter come to war." Straightening the Lord glanced around at the fortified castle as if gauging the numbers within and how long they would hold out against the forces he would bring against them. "The fault was mine for sending a fool to do the work of an honorable warrior."
There was silence again as each studied the sincerity in the other. Aranur broke the gaze with a twist of his head toward the pile of dead he had been unable to bury after the last attack from Lord Carrion’s men. "Do you tell me it was not your intention to attack helpless villagers?”
“Would I harm those who provide the staples of the castle I would call home?" The sneered words were full of mockery but Jost was uncertain whether he was the victim of such censure or the Baron directed the tone to himself. "T’was a painless shifting of lords I had planned, Master Aranur. The mistake was mine in believing that FitzHelm would not dare to defy my orders. He was instructed to give you this." The Warlord reached into a pouch tied to the saddle of his horse and withdrew a scroll, rolled and closed with the black and red seal of Baron de Cheney.
The scroll was handed over stained with blood. The wound on the Warlord’s thigh, Aranur realized…when Lord Carrion had cut the quarrel free blood had remained on his gloves. There would be some, Jost thought in an abstract portion of his mind as he broke the seal, interested in knowing that Braan de Cheney did indeed bleed red substance. Ignoring the discoloration, Aranur read the script inside.
Surprised, he lifted his head to stare at the warrior. "You meant this for us?” The parchment was waved in a circle to include the walled city where Jost’s own men stood, waiting to see wh
“Every word."
Aranur could hear the candor in the other man’s voice. Truth reeled in his mind with dizzy relief as for the first time he began to believe he might survive this confrontation with the Butcher of Jandard. "I will need more time to consider this." The words came as if from a great distance. He wasn’t even sure why he said them. Both he and Lord de Cheney knew he would accept the surrender rather than see his men and those under his protection die.
The Baron smiled with faint humor. "And I must needs have a wound properly dressed. You have one day, Master Aranur. I have no desire to punch holes in my castle, but I will not hesitate to do so." Clicking to his horse, the Warlord turned from the walls taking the white flag with him.
Aranur bowed making no reply. He watched calmly as the younger man left the inner courtyard and returned to his encampment.
So that is Baron Braan de Cheney, he mused. Lord Raven to his friends and Lord Carrion to his enemies, Butcher of Jandard to the very people he professed to protect. There were stories of how the man had sold his soul to the Dark God in return for power over all his enemies. Even darker tales of infants and children sacrificed on the eve of battle to appease his evil patron. Men swore that one look into those eerie emerald-green eyes would take ten years from their life to keep the Butcher eternally young.
Young the Baron was, Jost considered fingering the parchment thoughtfully. There had been surprise when approaching the mounted warrior to discover he held less years than Jost himself. The Warlord could not be far beyond his second decade--there was scarce any evidence that the boy shaved and yet he commanded the army of an entire Kingdom!
Returning to the castle which for the moment was his, Jost began to wonder what he should believe and what should be tossed aside as fanciful gossip.
“He will not accept peace, my Lord." Derwan FitzHelm snarled over the table as Braan gritted his teeth under the not so gentle ministrations of his personal bodyguard toward the wounded thigh. "I tried to--”
“I am very much aware of what you attempted, Fitzhelm! To start a bloody war." The Warlord glared at his second in command, then hissed as a sudden movement jarred his thigh. "Thank Fire Aranur claims more sense than you. He will listen to my proposition."
FitzHelm bridled at the insult, his back stiffening in outrage at the blatant contempt in the Baron’s tone. "You sent me here to take possession of your castle, my Lord." The title was sneered but Braan didn’t care.
With a bark of laughter, the young man stood and tested the bandage. "You couldn’t even accomplish that. ‘Tis a good thing I leave you charge of my army rarely, FitzHelm. My reputation would be in shreds." Braan placed too much weight on the wound and paled as pain streaked through his body.
“Aranur is a crafty, treacherous--"
“He possesses more honor in the muck he scrapes from his boots than you could muster in your entire being." Braan snarled back growing tired of the mewling whine. "Had you given him my terms he would have accepted them! The man would have been a fool not to and by all reports Jost Aranur holds more craft than folly! Even now he is preparing to surrender. Had you done as you were told, I would not be spending my nights in a bloody cold tent but in my castle."
FitzHelm reeled back as if slapped. "Aranur was Rakaerd’s man."
“So are you, though you have been clever enough to kill all who knew so." Braan interrupted with a growl of derision matched only by the contempt his features disdained hiding from the treacherous knight. "Perhaps this is why you sought to provoke Aranur. Does he know you are a spy and traitor? Has he proof? I would gladly pay him for it. Mayhap even give him back his castle simply for the pleasure of relieving your body the burden of a head."
The steel of FitzHelm’s sword sang several inches from its sheath before the man encountered the grim merriment in Lord Carrion’s eyes. In that breath of his life, FitzHelm seemed to realize with a fear that paled his face that Braan was awaiting--nay, encouraging!--the opportunity to kill him. Anticipating the moment when, provoked beyond reason, the knight attacked and placed himself at the mercy of the most deadly swordsman Jandard had known.
The weapon sank home, unused.
“Coward, too." Braan derided, deliberately turning his back on his second to return to his cushioned chair at the head of the table.
“Permission to leave, my Lord." FitzHelm demanded. The tone was barely civil as the older man struggled to control his temper.
Green orbs studied the stocky man out from half lidded eyes that were both amused and contemptuous. "No. Stay. You might learn something. If not bravery, then decency, perhaps."
“If you are so determined to kill me why have you not done so?” The man shouted in frustration banging a fist on the sturdy oak framed table, causing papers and goblets to scatter.
Braan’s personal bodyguard moved to a space just beyond the irate FitzHelm and fingered his battle axe. For the giant man, the gesture was subtlety itself and not lost upon the incensed knight, either respect would be shown to the Warlord of Jandard or a grave measured.
Well-curved lips that were the envy and desire of many women thinned into a bare parody of a smile. "Daema tells me I must have proof." Braan shrugged hair as black as a starless night from his shoulders as if to say the matter would require only time ere it was resolved. "Rest assured, FitzHelm, you have met your death and I will watch as she kisses you."
Scorning permission for dismissal, FitzHelm whipped about, nearly running into the huge guard before storming out of the tent. Mocking laughter followed him and sent a chill through the soldiers standing watch who had heard every word.
“You will provoke him to kill with stealth, Braan." The tall sentinel spoke from his position near the entrance of the tent. He hefted the well worn haft of his large axe to one hand and set the weapon on the table taking up much of the center of the tent.
Braan raised brooding eyes the color of sunshine through an emerald. "I only hope he will try, Selgaard. I grow weary of his incompetence and cannot abide his treachery.” The words were bitter with the resignation that he could do nothing against his liege’s command in regards to the cur.
The broad Sidan gave his young charge a fond smile that had been known to stir fear in strong men and lust in stronger women. "I can kill him and none will ever find the remains. No boast lightened his tones, Selgaard knew his talents full well.
Laughing, Braan contemplated the ease of that solution. FitzHelm was a walking corpse the moment he pushed Selgaard too far and was a fool not to know it. Shaking his head, the Baron dismissed the notion, not bothering to conceal his regret before his most trusted friend. "No. Daema would know. She always knows when I have allowed such a thing."
“‘Tis because your guilt shows like a beacon on your face for her to see." Selgaard pointed out in blithe disregard of the other’s rank and skills. But then, few would challenge the Sidan on any matter. The warrior stood seven feet and more--Braan was fond of telling him he was nearly as wide. There was no fat on the man, simply a barrel chest of muscle and arms that put Braan’s own thighs to shame. He was a prime example of a Sidan warrior, yet Braan had known others of that country even larger.
“Eat, Selgaard. I’ll not have you perishing from starvation. Cook has prepared a side of beef for you alone." Dismissing the concern, Braan left his papers and maps, gesturing to the far table where meat and fruits sat waiting. Neither man would break bread or raise fork in FitzHelm’s presence. Even that show of trust was too great.
Crossing the room toward the food with a grace that was a characteristic of both his race and skill as a fighter, Selgaard considered the fare. Choosing a prime piece of turkey, he tossed the leg to Braan. "You’re in need of nourishment as much as I, Braan de Cheney. If you’re ever to grow as large as me, you must eat as I do."
“May all the Gods help me should I ever reach your measurements, Selgaard." Braan chuckled but began to tear at the meat. For a long moment the two men were silent, preferring to eat in the company of peace after the treacherousness of FitzHelm.
The leg stripped of all but the threads of meat, Braan tossed the bone to his favorite wolfhound and drained a goblet of red mulled wine. "Tell me what you learned." He finally ordered, reluctantly returning to matters that could not be avoided and increased danger each moment longer they were put off.
