The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) (32 page)

The
kerf
presented him with a new scabbard for the Blacksword. It was of the same style as the black ash pole he had made himself and Powyss now possessed, although this one was wider at the top, for the sword to slip into easily, and had the twin dragons, in silver and gold leaf, embossed under dark lacquer.

He also received a new pair of black leather trousers with pockets and a belt with pouches. With the sword and scabbard strapped over the cloak, via an over-shoulder strap and a belt in front, he looked dark and menacing. He was reminded of his visit to the Reivers Tavern, so many months ago now, and the persona of the black-cloaked man he had conjured to fearsome effect and the dreams he was having of the tall thin creature with the menacing aura. This would be his new form, and it would strike fear into the hearts of his enemies.

Havoc had practiced every day with the Blacksword’s Earth Orrinn. It was difficult at first, but now he was able to change the sword into Tragenn at will. However, the process was not perfect and anyone who knew Tragenn would see differences that were not there before.

The Orrinns’ power was far more than first thought. Havoc was able to change the appearance of his new clothes, as well as the sword. He could only change his look up to a point. Like the sword, the size and density could not be changed, texture and weight would not alter, but the colour could be easily modified, even give his clothes a threadbare look. His black cloak would change into a dull brown with patches and holes, and his shirt and trousers into a pale grey complete with holes or patches for authenticity. He would still be able to feel his new attire through the camouflage; anybody touching him would notice something was not quite right.

The Orrinns’ range was small, though. When Havoc walked away from the sword and was out of the Orrinns’ ‘sphere of influence’, the disguise would change back to the original black within a few seconds. 

“That’s quite imposing,” said Powyss when he saw Havoc in his new black garb.

“It’s meant to be. Part of my soul is in the Blacksword, don’t ask me how I know, I just do; we are the same. The sword and I are as one, we shall be synonymous. We shall be called the Blacksword.”

“Good idea. Keep this as a secret persona, and separate from the real you, as Prince Havoc, and I think people will quake in trepidation.”

“That is my intention.”

Havoc had adopted his threadbare look when Powyss asked for a moment of his time. They walked for some way across the grassy plain; birds twittered in the distance, the promise of spring in the air.

“How do you propose to raise an army?” asked Powyss.

“Captain Jericho has a force in the mountains; I can start there. The Prince’s Legion with my father is under my command, as well.”

“May I make a small suggestion?”

“Anything,” said Havoc.

“I mentioned to you that there were some people who I did not find on the Dragorsloth; however, I did find them somewhere else.”

“Where was that?”

“They are prisoners of war. Now used as slave labour in the gold mines of Haplann, most of them are what is left of my original unit that guarded the king. When you found me in the Oldwoods, I was using it as a base to snoop around the Haplann area.”

“Then some young fool blew your cover!”

“Yes, but it does not matter anyway, because the whole escapade of trying to free them was suicidal, if I attempted it on my own. With a Pyromancer on my side as the Blacksword, well, then I may have a chance.” He was silent for a second or two. “If you want to have a strong and professional unit to command, you can’t do any better than the Sonoran Royal Guard,” he said, looking at Havoc with great wisdom in his eyes.

“All right. Do we have a small chance of success?”

“More likely ranging from none too damn near impossible,” Powyss smiled.

“Sounds like fair odds. Let’s do it.”

They walked back towards the dwarf settlement.

“When shall we leave?” asked Havoc.

“As soon as possible; the floodwater will close off the passes when spring comes. We can also go to Little Dorit and ask around about Jericho.”

“Powyss, can I ask you something?”

“Of course you can.”

“Did you mean what you said to Hagan that day next to the cairn?”

“Yes,” said Powys; he put his hand on Havoc’s shoulder to stop him from walking and turned him around to look at him. “I believe I have a destiny too, and it has brought you to me. Did you know that I have never had a Rawn apprentice?”

“No, I did not, but for what it’s worth, I’m proud to have you as my trainer, master.” It was the first time Powyss had ever heard Havoc call him that.

“I’m proud of you too,” he said, “and, my prince, I will swear fealty to you.” There was an embarrassing moment when Powyss knelt and clasped Havoc’s right hand. “My prince, I swear loyalty and fealty to you, and your father’s kingdom.” He stood again, a bit flustered. “There, I’ve said it; that’s been on my conscious for some time now. Call me old fashioned, but I like to do things by the traditional route. Anyway, I did not want the bloody dwarves to see me; they would only laugh.”

Havoc chuckled and, together, they walked back to the settlement.

They left the Vale early in the morning. The women folk had been busy gathering provisions for their journey. Powyss complained that most of the food would spoil, but, as usual, no one listened to him.

Havoc gave the red-faced Mitty a peck on the cheek and a hug, thanking her for her kindness.

“Good grief, man, put her down; she’s old enough to be your mother!” said Powyss.

“Surely not; she looks the same age as me.”

“Dwarves age slower than humans. The
kerf
is four hundred and seventy-three.”

They mounted their horses. Each had new saddles, a gift from Gunach. Powyss looked handsome in his new clothing and fur-lined jerkin. The dwarves came out to line the route of departure and wave goodbye; the ten-honour guard on their ponies waited at the far end.

Powyss trotted on while Havoc turned to Gunach and his father; he had to make himself heard over the cheering crowd.

“Gunach,” he said, “would you wish for more customers than just me, and to show your skills to the world?”

“We all live for such a day,” shouted back the master smith.

“I shall remember that.”

“Oh... before I forget, my prince, we have found a name for you,” said Gunach.

“I dread to ask what it is.” Havoc smiled.

“Kervunder,” he said.

The
kerf
nodded and smiled.

“Sounds good; will I like its translation?”

“Yes, it means Fire King.”

“Truly?” Havoc frowned.

“Yes, trust me. Do you not like it?”

“It’s brilliant.” Havoc shook their hands, climbed on Dirkem and waved goodbye.

The crowd started chanting ‘Errcat and Kervunder’ as they rode through the lines of dwarves. Their honour guard escorted them to the entrance to the Vale.

“What was that they were shouting?” asked Powyss as they waved goodbye to the honour guard and their ponies.

“Kervunder; it’s my dwarf name.”

“Lord of burning bottom,” said a laughing Powyss.

“It means Fire King,” said a frowning Havoc. “I hope your Dwarfish
is
poor.”

“Fire King? Yes, of course it means that.” He was trying not to laugh, but was making a poor job of it.

They walked their horses through the narrow crack in the cliff. Havoc turned back to the view of the Vale; he had a tear in his eye as it disappeared from sight.

Chapter 24

The Blacksword Cometh

An early spring downpour pelted the village of Little Dorit. Its only street was now a muddy quagmire with large brown puddles. Even in this late evening, the daylight dimmed through the dark clouds that hung menacingly overhead.

Warm and dry in the tavern, Havoc and Powyss stood at the bar talking to a thin, ruddy faced barman called Kolas; his toothless grin and mottled gums made Havoc cringe.

“Not much hunting in the Withers these days,” said Powyss in what Havoc thought was a very convincing local dialect. “Think me and my boy will try our luck in the Tattoium.” He took a sip of ale, which was mainly frothy head.

“Don’t want to go there, sirs,” said Kolas. “Been bad stories up in those mountains; a dark-hooded creature lives up there. Had Vallkytes and a Havant priestess go up there and exorcise those hills.” He looked at them with wide eyes. “They didn’t come back.”

“Na... Rubbish; that’s just Rogun rebels trying to scare you,” said Powyss.

“No, it’s true; heard it from other hunters; most are afraid to go up there. Anyway, the Roguns are all dead or captured.”

The noise in the bar was just at a bearable level, but both men moved closer to the barman to hear him better.

“They tried to ambush a trader’s caravan up near the Pander Pass, but it was a ruse to bring them out into the open. More Vallkytes were in hiding, you see; they never stood a chance.”

“When did this happen?” asked Havoc in an offhand way.

“Middle of winter,” said the barman, and went to serve another guest.

The locals were mostly crowded around the open fire for warmth. Wet, muddy footprints marred the wooden surface and mingled with the sawdust and other stains on the floor. A little tin bell above the door gave a tiny chime as another customer walked in, bringing with him a gust of freezing rain.

“I did not think there were any more Roguns left in the hills,” said Havoc to Kolas when he finished serving drinks. “Who was commanding them?”

“Ahh... the famous Jericho, but he has been captured; last I heard, he was taken to the mines of Haplann.” The barman did not miss the look both men gave each other.

“Have you gentlemen business with the likes of Jericho?” asked Kolas.

“Only in the interest of our safety, if we go to the Tattoium Mountains, my friend,” said Powyss, rubbing his eyes. “With the Roguns and Jericho out of the way, we have nothing to fear, have we?”

“What about the black ghost in the mountains, Father?” Havoc asked with a look of worry on his face.

“Superstitious nonsense, my boy, Powyss gave Havoc a cuff around the ear.

Havoc yelped. He was now fully convinced that Powyss was enjoying the father-son routine too much.

They took a table close to the window. As soon as the rain stopped, they would leave.

“You didn’t need to hit me so hard,” said Havoc.

“Can’t a guy have some fun?”

“Hilarious, well, we do know now what we are definitely doing now. The plan hasn’t changed; Haplann is our next port of call.” Havoc thought of Mulvend whenever they spoke of Haplann and the gold mines. All knew that the Vallkytes were using slaves to dig in the caves, excavating for the war effort. It was Mulvend’s property and the Vallkytes had no rights on the countess’ land.

“We will make good time if we leave now and travel through the night,” Powyss said, draining his ale.

The rain soon eased and the sky became lighter. Both men were about to get up and go when they saw something outside the window that made them stop.

Six Vallkytes rode in from the north and halted at the tavern. Each was drenched. All wore chain mail, helmets, and swords strapped to their sides.

“Damn it!” said Powyss, “bad timing.”

“Quick, out the back; we’ll get the horses,” said Havoc.

They walked slowly to the rear door so they would not capture anyone’s attention. Once outside, they rushed to the stables and saddled the horses. The cobbled courtyard was small; rainwater dripped into a barrel from the guttering by the rear doorway. The noise of the rowdy Vallkytes entering the bar reached them in the courtyard.

Once the saddles were on, they moved the horses out of the stables. Using the Subtle Arts to drown out the sound of the hooves on the cobbles, they left, sneaking around the tavern’s east wall.

Havoc stopped and looked back for a second, then turned to Powyss. “I don’t think you convinced toothless back at the bar about the father-son hunting story,” he said.

“Agreed; he may already be spilling his guts to the Vallkytes.”

“You go on ahead. I’ll meet you at the north end of town.”

Powyss looked down at the young man as he mounted the mare. “I suppose I don’t have to tell you to be careful,” he said.

Havoc shook his head.

“The Blacksword has got to start somewhere, Powyss.” He reached up and touched the pommel of the Tragenn’s look-alike, and the slow transformation into the black-cloaked persona began.

It started from the Dual Orrinn itself and worked its way downwards. The colours of his clothes changed to black. He pulled up his hood. Powyss could see the prince’s face go strangely paler and his green eyes darker, then his face became obscured by the darkness of the hood.

“Captain, you are back so soon,” said Kolas. “Can I get you gentlemen beer?”

“Yes, Kolas, six flagons,” said the tall, dark-haired captain. “And some food; we have come a long way, and have further still to go.”

Kolas looked pale; the drink and food would have provided him with enough money to pay the monthly taxes, which the Vallkytes collected. He also knew that these soldiers rarely parted from their money for him to pay for said taxes.

He was also concerned about the two strangers who had just come from the Withers. They had probed him too well for information. He was not a fool and knew people. The clientele he got in here over the years gave him the knowledge to spot the liars and the thieves. Those two were liars; he looked around for them; they were gone, and he had not seen them leave.

“Something bothering you, Kolas?” asked the captain.

“Not at all, sirs; we have fresh bread if you wish, and tavern stew.”

The captain groaned. He had tried the stew a few days ago when he had led the same patrol. It had given him a stomach ache. The old fool probably still selling the same food in the same unclean pot.

“Bread and cheese for me only,” he said.

Some of his men were looking at the rear door, which was on the same wall as the bar. He had to look around one of the soldiers to see what their attention was on, a thin, white mist was floating out from the door and along the floor. The local drunks noticed it too and everyone stopped talking at the same time.

Mist
, thought the captain,
it was raining just a minute ago
. He looked out of the large tavern window; the day was brightening, the rain had stopped, and there was no mist.

It seemed to have a life of its own as it drifted over the tables and started to climb the walls. Some men moved away from it, as if it was poisoned marsh gas.

The captain took two steps to the doorway, and then stopped.

All heard a footfall on the courtyard outside, another and another, and then it was on the wooden floor of the short hall at the other side of the door. The shod metal on the soles echoed with every footstep, as the hall amplified the sound. The mist clung to the floor and swirled around their feet; tendrils wafted up the walls, giving the white, smoke-like vapour a life of its own.

The captain’s men grouped themselves behind him, all thoughts of the sweet beer forgotten.

The slow, thunderous steps boomed from the hallway; a dark shadow, tall, and wide clung, to the walls as it preceded the owner of the footfalls. There was a gasp from the men at the fireplace, because they could see what it was from their position in the room, but the soldiers could not.

As if in slow motion, a dark-hooded figure came into view. As it emerged into the room, the captain’s heart leapt in his chest, and fear paralysed him. The figure stopped four feet from the doorway. He stood side on from the soldiers, his head slightly bowed and fists clenched.

There was utter silence as all eyes were on the figure. Tall, dark and menacing, the hood obscured his features, and, for some reason, this disturbed the locals in the room. Most muttered and fretted, but stopped as the tendrils of mist formed into ghostly revenants for an instant, then collapsed into the main body of vapour at floor level.

“Who are you?” asked the captain in a quavering voice. He was more nervous than he looked. He even jumped at the sound of his own voice in the eerie silence. There was a strange ominous pressure in the air, pressing down on everyone and increasing their fear.

The figure turned to face them; the head moved up, but all they could see was a dark hole and a pale white chin. The captain knew that the superstitious among his men were right when they said they were chasing a phantom. He had never seen a ghost before, but the thing in front of him was the closest he was going to get.

“I am what you seek,” said a dry whisper from the hood. “I am the shadow in the mountains. I have come to continue the head harvest. I am the Blacksword.”

The whole room of locals quailed at the voice, and trembled at the last line.

The captain frowned; he was having difficulty understanding why he was feeling afraid. A threatening atmosphere permeated the air of the bar. The others moved into line next to him.

“Blacksword... Head harvest, whose head harvest?”

“Yours,” he hissed, and the stranger pulled the sword from its scabbard. It was long and black, and looked very sharp.

All the soldiers drew their weapons; two men on the captains left attacked. The Blacksword parried their clumsy lunges and moved inside their sword reach, slicing one open at the gut and the other halfway through his ribcage in a horizontal swipe. Blood gushed, but was lost in the mist.

People close to the fire yelled in fear. Kolas ducked behind the bar, clamping his hands over his ears to drown out the screams of the dying.

The captain attacked the dark figure when he saw the first two men fall, but as he reached up his sword arm to strike, the figure waved his hand and a wall of wind struck his chest, picking him up off his feet and hurtling him into the fire.

Hot ash and burning wood spayed around the room on impact. The locals, at that point, panicked and tried to get out of the room. The three soldiers left fighting the Blacksword hampered their escape. They also avoided the screaming captain, his upper torso engulfed in flame.

The Blacksword moved quickly; his three opponents were so tightly packed together that their attack easily stymied their movements. The closest stumbled off balance, and his sword arm severed. Gouts of blood and screams filled the air. However, his screams cut short when his head left his neck, and it toppled over the bar to land in barman’s lap.

The next soldier moved to strike. He looked older and wiser than the others did. His attack was measured, but the stranger turned his sword so the point aimed at the floor; he twisted around full circle, knocking the soldier’s sword to one side, and lifted SinDex up and through the Vallkyte’s chin; it popped through the top of his head with a spray of fine red mist.