The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) (17 page)

Vanduke and his champion moved just in time. The Pyromantic energy, in the form of superheat, shot from Havoc’s hands and entered the boulder, which seemed to absorb it all. It was an anti-climax when they thought back to the drama of it all; the boulder sat motionless, as it had done for millions of years.

Then the surface started to blister and bubbles of hot toxins burst into the air.

Everyone stepped back from the heat. Havoc was too weak to move. The boulder became molten in an instant. Its surface turned into a hot orange and black liquid that flopped to the ground in steaming, minute rivers, melting the snow all around.

Lord Ness walked up to the lava ball – for that is what it resembled – and braved the heat. He waved his hand over it, and, with the help of the king and Lord Rett, the boulder cooled quickly. The result was a glassy surface with red and black whorls underneath that looked like a maze of complex miniature valleys and gorges. Pieces of silica and other shiny minerals glimmered in the winter sunlight.

They turned to Havoc and the king walked towards him, clearly concerned.

“Stay back; I don’t want to hurt anyone.” Havoc walked away.

“Son...” The king was about to follow him, but Lord Ness held him back.

“Let him go, Sire,” cautioned the king’s consul.

The king watched his son go, and then turned to his champion. “Well, you were right, Rett, my friend, the boy can fight.” The king sighed.

Havoc found solace in Eleana’s arms that night. She wiped the sweat from his brow and stroked his hair. Both lay naked. They held each other tight and seldom talked. Eleana’s crying finally sent him to sleep.

His dreams were dark and terrible. It took him to places he did not want to go.

Lightning slashed across heavy grey clouds and outlined the four girls impaled on the spears. At the foot of the princesses stood the Nithi and Vallkyte soldiers looking up at what they had done. Somewhere in the crowd stood a very tall man wearing a black hooded cloak, no matter how much the prince focused on the figure he faded away only to reappear elsewhere amongst the crowd.

When he found him again, at the fringes of the onlookers, he stood head and shoulder above everyone else. His arm rose, a long white finger pointed at Havoc’s chest. The prince felt a chill wind flow around him, and then the sinister being disappeared.

There was a baby crying, the sound drew the princes attention to one of the Nithi holding an ebony handled dagger. He had a hairless face and a shaven head on top of which was a silver feather tattoo. Havoc, standing amongst them, looked up. Tilly and Letti were already dead and he could hear the last breaths coming from Mia.

Verna was cursing the soldiers in a loud, clear voice.

“Vengeance shall be brought down among you

From the Sword that Rules

The daggers of the Nithi shall find their way home

To the blood of their owners.”

All there were looking at her in fear.

“Repentance shall be denied you

Suffering shall be thy final end

Ye shall be blind to the hidden passage

Until the Rages destiny looms

With death in his wake.”

Then she died. The baby had stopped crying too.

He turned to see a raven sitting on a post, an eyeball in its mouth; the iris was green. The raven cawed and swallowed Mia’s eye…

…Havoc woke, yet knew he was still dreaming.

He was sitting naked on the same boulder that he had turned to molten rock; it was still warm.

“Havoc,” called a young female voice

He turned to the voice, and saw a girl in a blue dress holding a doll.

It was Verna.

“I’m still asleep?” he asked.

She did not seem concerned about his nakedness.

“You’re body is, but your sub-conscious mind is awake,” she said as she adjusted Prissie’s dress.

“I’m so sorry I could not help you,” said Havoc.

“Do not blame yourself, or others, brother, only those who killed us.” Her dress looked brand new and it gave off a soft glow that seemed to come from within Verna herself.

“Did they hurt you? Do things to all of you?”

“Yes, but do not dwell on those thoughts.”

Havoc grimaced as he tried to hold in his anger. “Are you at peace now?” he asked.

She smiled. It was beautiful and reminded him of better days.

“There is no more pain. Peace will come when you fulfil your destiny.”

“What destiny?” Havoc asked her.

“You have already planned on leaving; do so, and seek out your future. For when it is in your grasp your enemies will tremble at the power you will control.” She turned around and walked into the trees. “All my love goes with you, brother.”

“Verna... Verna…” He woke up suddenly, for real this time.

He
was
sitting naked on the boulder. Verna was gone.

He thought that he had finally gone mad. He walked back to Eleana’s tent, thinking he would see himself sleeping beside her, but she was alone.

He took one last look at her beautiful naked body and pulled the blanket over her. He dressed, and was about to leave when he saw her long black riding cloak that had been a present from Mia, a long time ago; he took it and put it on, over his clothes.

He pulled on his tailor-made boots with the steel toe covers shinning in the moonlight, and its thin steel greaves sewn into the front and sides of the boots. He took out one of the strips from the side of each boot and inserted the now-clean ebony daggers into them; they fitted perfectly.

He strapped Tragenn’s scabbard harness to his back and stowed provisions into his pack.

Dirkem, already saddled from hours before, nickered as he approached.

It was as if he was looking at someone else leaving, and leaving was the best thing to do, destiny or otherwise. How long would it be before this Pyromancer’s curse finally killed someone he loved?

He mounted Dirkem and took one last look around the camp, his home.

They trotted out slowly and silently, avoiding the sentries, who were watching for intruders going into the camp, not out. He rode hard and fast towards the Tattoium Mountains.

In the early morning, Eleana woke, suddenly feeling Havoc’s empty side of the bed. She looked around the tent bleary eyed. She put her clothes on and could not overcome her feelings of dread.

She exited the tent and saw that Magnus was standing by the glass boulder, its surface glistening in the morning light; he had just returned from his night patrol.

Something was in his hand.

“Magnus?” asked Eleana.

“He’s gone,” he said; he looked up at her and he had tears in his eyes.

“Who?” However, she knew the answer.

Magnus showed her his hand. In it was the prince’s ponytail cut from Havoc’s hair. He dropped it onto the boulder. From that day forward, the molten stone would become known as the Pyromancer’s Rage.

Chapter 12

The Blight of Solitude

It had taken Havoc just three days to reach his destination. Dirkem’s muscles flexed and tightened as his hooves bit into the ground. The stallion was enjoying the exercise and his pace never slackened. Havoc felt a strange mix of feelings; mostly, it was exhilaration from the ride and a joy of being free from the past.

The pace slowed when they encountered Rogun patrols; he was easily able to avoid these and the routes that they took. He would stop for short breaks to rest Dirkem and drink from mountain streams. He only had a couple of short naps in those three days, but they were enough to keep his mind active.

On reaching the Tattoium Mountains, he backtracked and covered up his trail, then made a start to his new destination, the Banferry.

Because he did not wish discovery by his own people, or others, he had decided to take an unusual route. The Banferry was the only way over the Great River and into the Sky Mountains from the northeast. However, Vallkytes in their thousands guarded the route. Various manned posts checked and controlled the flow of passengers through it, especially from the west.

The Banferry was the last place his people would think to look for him. However, the trick was to get over without detection. He had decided to rely on the Rawn Arts and make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He supplied the ferrymen gold for the crossing for himself and Dirkem. They stood together on the flat wooden ferry as they crossed the wide, calm river. He chose the last crossing at night and covered himself in Eleana’s cloak. He had already fashioned a sheath for Tragenn earlier that year; the old black leather one was past its prime. This one was made of ash wood and lacquered with charcoal dust and bark resin, giving it a deep dark red, almost black, colour; it had small buckles top and bottom so he could strap the sword to his back. He wrapped Tragenn’s hilt in black gauze to cover the Orrinn and used it as a staff. Once on the other side, the guards thought he was a holy man and allowed him passage. Havoc laughed at how simple it was.

He purchased provisions at the Banferry village and headed into the mountains again; now he was on the other side of the Great River, which flowed lazily through the high hills on its journey to the Chunla Delta far to the north. He would journey south for a time and cross back over the river at a shallow ford to enter the Tattoium Ridge proper.

To the east, he could see the start of the vast Eternal Forest that seemed to stretch for miles in all directions. He had toyed with the idea of going into the forest, but its native people and their queen were hostile to strangers in their territory, and he desired the solitude, anyway. The mountains were sparsely populated and that suited him fine.

“You will not find him if he does not wish to be found,” said Old Toms.

The search party had been scouring the land for days with no sign of the prince.

“Where would he go?” asked the king to himself; he had been fretting all day and blamed himself for his son’s departure.

His spirits rose when they found fresh tracks, and then lost them again when they realised Havoc had sent then around in circles; even Old Toms was confused, gave wry chuckles, and shook his head from time to time, as his eyes scanned the tracks.

Lord Rett nudged Magnus, who was sitting on his horse looking gloomy beside the beautiful Eleana.

“He’s a clever one, your brother. He will be able to look after himself,” he said.

“I hope so,” said Magnus, and he reached over and took Eleana’s hand; she smiled at him.

“He is a damn fool to leave now, when he has reached a critical time in his training,” said Lord Ness as he paced the hilltop that they all ascended for a better view.

“Let us just hope that the training he has up until now is enough for him to control it,” said Lord Rett.

They left the hill after some time; Lord Ness was the last to go. He looked out over the snow-capped mountains into the distance. “May the gods go with you, young prince,” he said, with a deep, foreboding sigh.

The last month of winter was cold and desolate in the mountains. Havoc found shelter in caves or thick tree cover and hunted small game with snare or sword. He decided to make himself a bow. He cut down a young tree, and took out the supple rosewood heart and heated it over a fire so he could shape it better. He killed a mountain goat with long horns and used layers of horn and hardwood on the bow, sealing them in place with tree resin. He would then cut the tendons from various animals to use as bow cords, and down to trial and error in discovering the right type or cord he needed to use for long distance kills. In the end, he had an effective homemade bow; Old Toms’ teachings did not go to waste.

He made plenty of arrows from birch and raven feathers, and used bone or flint for the arrowheads, later he would use the Rawn Arts to draw metals for alloys to make steel heads. The furs and fleeces from his kills provided a makeshift quiver and warmth for him and Dirkem. The bow and arrow was not his preferred weapon, but he was still very good with it and his aim improved with each kill.

He continued moving on, not staying in one place for too long. He would meditate at night, always looking into the Orrinn on his sword hilt, and extinguish the energies from his Pyromantic powers. He was determined to govern these ‘surges’, a term he thought best described the release of the vast power that accompanied his volatile emotions.

He would also continue the techniques that Lord Ness had taught him. One day, he tried again to make a face in stone; this time, he thought small and took a piece of slate and concentrated on Eleana’s face. He linked the volatile emotions to his knowledge of the earth element and, once he made the connection, he unleashed a small surge into the slate; he could feel the molecules begin to change and reform. When he opened his eyes, Eleana smiled back at him, not in slate; however, he had unintentionally changed the material into gold, and he was surprised it had worked. He took her face up to the cave he was sleeping in that night and sealed it into the wall. He laughed at the thought of another traveller using this cave for rest and seeing a golden face as he entered. He stared at Eleana as he lay in his furs that night, and eventually fell asleep; it was the best sleep he had had in a long time.

Soon, a slow change came to the air in the mountains and a spring thaw flooded the rivers, which made fording the many mountain streams difficult for Dirkem.

Carpets of snowdrops saturated the land where they trotted along. Wild flowers in a multitude of colours were everywhere, and it hurt his eyes as much as the brilliant white snow did in winter. He washed in the shallow lake, splashing Dirkem as the stallion wallowed in up to his belly. The horse flicked backwater with his nose.

Havoc continued to train in the arts. He had not completed his training in the wind element yet, but he prided himself in understanding how it worked. He would summon the third element to bring him stones and branches to his hand; once he had mastered this at about four feet away, he tried again at a greater distance, but it was harder to control. He nearly managed to cut his fingers off with Tragenn on one attempt as the sword flew past him and imbedded into a boulder.

He would keep fit by leaving Dirkem to graze on the new spring shoots while he jogged up hillsides and jumped over rocky crevices and gorges using the wind element. He would go through the fast and fluid movements of sword styles every morning; his torso glistened with sweat as he did so.

One day, he tried to link a Pyromantic surge to the wind element, something he had not attempted before and was a bit unsure of how to proceed, but he concentrated on his teachings and tried to move some pine trees in the distance. He only wanted to make them sway and lose the last of their winter snow, but, when he unleashed the surge, a huge current of wind ripped the trees right out of the ground and sent them and a small avalanche down the hillside. He was so shocked that he just stared down the mountain until everything settled and realised just how powerful a Pyromancer could be.

People were rare in these highlands. He did see farmers and their sons moving cattle and goats to their spring pastures, but mostly it was free of humans.

One incident of those days became a famous story told to visitors by the mountain people who live in the villages at the foot of the hills. A twelve-year-old boy called Marat climbed high to bring down goats from a rocky cliff top; he had nearly finished his task when he fell and managed to cling on to some loose outcrops of granite. A long fall awaited him and certain death, when a black-gloved hand reached down from above and pulled him up. The stranger placed him on his feet and the boy looked at his rescuer. He saw a black-cloaked man with a beautiful sword strapped to his back. The boy could not see his face because of the darkness inside the hood.

“Go now and be safe,” said the man, and the boy ran down the mountain as fast as the goats in his charge, and spread the story of the black ghost of the mountains.

Other people had said they had seen this black-cloaked man, but Havoc had left the area soon after the boy’s rescue.

It was a wet summer and the winter furs soon rotted. However, the prince continued to hunt and replace them. He was aware that his seventeenth birthday had been and gone, and he thought often of his family and friends, who he missed. He felt a pang of regret that he would miss the birth of Magnus’ and Eleana’s baby, and he prayed to the gods for a safe birth and a healthy child.

The child was, indeed, healthy, and the gods saw fit to give the doting parents a son. Grandfather Vanduke never put him down, but drew the line at changing the baby. Vara saw to that and many other chores. She was fast becoming the camp’s medical expert, already a gifted healer with her knowledge of herb and root mixing that she gained from her mother; she also cared for the camp’s young, who affectionately called her Mama Vara.