The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) (42 page)

“How bad does it look?” he asked Powyss, gripping his arm.

“Well, you’ve died from worse,” he joked with a slight tremor in his voice.

Othell laughed, and then groaned in pain. Powyss looked at Little Kith, who sadly shook his head.

“Powyss... thank you for freeing us... and... And thank Havoc too. I didn’t mean to be so hard on him,” said Othell, his voice getting weaker.

“You can tell him that yourself,” said Powyss, but Othell’s body sagged and the last breath he had in his lungs escaped him.

Powyss groaned as his friend died in his arms.

Chapter 29

The Cairn of Othell

The Blacksword of prophecy, SinDex, the retainer of part of Prince Havoc’s soul, still sat uselessly embedded into the deck. He needed time to pry it loose. He pulled back his hood to reveal his face, which looked pale to the Havant with dark menacing eyes. Jynn lowered her sword and smiled sweetly.

“Ah... the companion of Powyss; I thought so. Are you his son?” she asked.

“I am Havoc De Proteous Cromme.” The sound of his own name, while still in the persona of the Blacksword, felt strange to him. It was as if two identities were at odds with sharing the same mind.

Jynn’s face betrayed her astonishment. She stared for a long time into the eyes of the boy in front of her. Havoc-Blacksword took the time to loosen the sword from the deck.

“This is fortuitous. My mistress will be surprised at my discovery.”

“Why, is Aunt Cinnibar looking for me?”

The Havant hesitated for a second. Havoc could feel the sword give. Its back and forward momentum became faster.

“Your aunt and the Earth Daemon fear you, they fear the Blacksword,” she revealed to him.

The hull lurched forward again and SinDex toppled to the floor, sliding down the deck a few feet.

“Who is the Earth Daemon?” Havoc frowned.

“Redemption, revolution and unimaginable power,” said Jynn, “but you will not be around to witness it.” She raised her sword.

Havoc unleashed the third element and the sword lifted into the air and hurtled towards his outstretched hand. Jynn caught it in her back; the black point protruded from her chest. She staggered and coughed blood; her wide eyes bulged in their pale sockets. Then she laughed down at Havoc.

“Do you think this will stop me? I will heal and your pain is just beginning,” she said in a girly voice.

“No,” said the harsh whisper of the Blacksword. “Your pain has just begun!”

A spasm rippled through the Havant’s body as the sword’s Fire Orrinn recognised the touch of a stranger. She shrieked in agony as her body felt the burning pain that issued from the Orrinn. It started in her nervous system, and then it filtered out to her organs, eyes, toes, fingernails, even her sex. Every atom of her fibre burnt, as if in the deepest depths of a volcano; the feeling of molten lava filled her pores and clogged her mind with pain.

She caught a glimpse of a dark figure rear up beside her, the hooded persona of Death.

The pain stopped as the Blacksword pulled SinDex out of her back. She collapsed to her knees, holding her chest.

“Give my regards to the dammed, bitch,” whispered the Blacksword and swung his sword and decapitated her.

Before he took her head from her neck, Jynn caught a glimpse of a young girl in a blue dress. She smiled benignly at her as she hugged a doll. She stood by the smashed bow with a raven on her shoulder, and then her eyes suddenly turned into burning orange globes that issued black smoke. Suddenly, the view flipped upside down as Jynn’s head tumbled over the edge of the ship and into the falls.

The Blacksword rummaged inside the robes of the headless Havant; he found the Lobe Stone. Strangely, his Rawn powers could not tell him what mineral it was made from, so he put it into his pocket for later scrutiny.

The wrecked ship jerked forward again. He decided that getting off the wreck would be a good choice. He turned and ran to the aft castle as fast as he could, the ship tipped and his legs pumped faster to sprint up the sloping hull while, at the same time avoiding any debris that flew past him. The roots finally gave way, and the anchor with its chain, whipped back through the trees, narrowly missing the cloaked figure as he reached the destroyed rear of the ship.

The ship tipped slowly over the edge. The Blacksword reached the edge and jumped from the shattered stern just as the point of gravity met equilibrium. By the time he landed on the churned earth, the falls below swallowed the wreckage.

He stood there for some time, regaining his strength, glad to be alive, when something rolled to his feet. He looked down and saw the egg-shaped quartz Wind Orrinn from one of the sky ships. He picked it up; it was large and heavy in his hands. It must have broken loose from its cradle during the crash down the mountainside. Once free from the Skrol that decorated the tower, it automatically deactivated.

A wide gash stretched back as far as he could see up the mountain. Rolling detritus from the destroyed sky ships still slid down the slope along with lumps of snow. He was amazed at the destruction he had caused.

He used his sword’s Earth Orrinn and changed back into his threadbare clothes. It was as if a mental weight lifted from him when the Blacksword persona faded away. He was dimly aware of a mental struggle raging inside him; it drained him mentally as well as physically, and he wondered, not for the first time, if the Pyromantic madness had finally found him.

The call of Mirryn issued from the silver Muse Orrinn. He looked inside and saw a grassy plain appear through its misty surface. There, cavorting among the tall green stems on the other side of the sinkhole landscape, were Dirkem and Sarema.

A bright grin spread across his face, all fatigue left him, and he sheathed SinDex as he ran to the Peril Bridge.

Furran stared grim and resolute at the distant woods. A small flap of skin hung down from his cheek, exposing the bone, and blood streamed down the side of his face, but he ignored the pain.

Verkin stood hunched on the riverbed’s embankment. He had strapped his arm to his side; any movement caused the surface scab to open. His normally pale face was flushed with adrenalin.

Velnour scowled through his one remaining eye; he adjusted the strap on his shield, gripping the leather handle in his left hand. A short, lethal-looking sabre hung at his side.

The twins, Foxe and Hexor stood together with sword and dented shields, the swarthy Mactan at their side with the broad shouldered Felcon beside him.

Whyteman and his archers stood with bows and arrows notched their quivers nearly empty; they had a number of arrows imbedded in the ground in front of them like a feather-topped fence.

Little Kith hefted his axe in his hands from left to right. His Golas was loaded and sitting at his feet.

Powyss stood in the centre of his men, who stretched out in front of the embankment. Twenty-five bedraggled but determined warriors, some he knew, although most he did not, but he looked at them all with pride. Most of them wounded, with minor cuts and scrapes. All wore chain mail, now rusted and battle worn. They held up their shields, and gripped their spears and swords tightly. If he had the choice of his death, he would choose this moment, with these men.

The enemy had regrouped and moved out into a tight formation of shield interlinked with archers. Their original attack had reduced the Vallkytes’ numbers by half, but the enemy still outnumbered the fugitives almost two to one.

The few horses that remained had left to ride around their flanks and attack the rear. Powyss had ordered Whyteman to keep them back if they showed up. The steep embankment would prove to be an adequate deterrent to the attacking horse. His only concern was the archers; they were more in number and had better defence within their own shield men. The enemy moved closer, their officer shouting out orders to keep in line.

“Whyteman, bag me that officer and I will give you a hundred gold pieces when I sell his sword,” said Powyss.

“No problem, Captain, but the sword is worth three hundred at least.” Whyteman smiled.

“Well, considering you underestimated the enemy’s numbers, I thought I could con you out of the share.”

That got a laugh from everyone, including Whyteman.

The Vallkytes were close now. Powyss could see the mixed look of hate and fear on their faces. The knowledge of a Rawn among this ragged group was a great deterrent. Everyone knew that a Rawn master was worth ten men in a battle.

A thought struck Powyss and he looked at the prone body of Othell lying in the riverbed. He would be the first to throw insults across at the enemy, so, in honour of his friend, he carried on the tradition.

“Come and meet death, you goat-humping bastards,” he shouted.

The rest of the men took up the insults; some were so funny that Powyss, Velnour and Furran started to laugh so much that they could not join in. Most of the crude expletives came from Little Kith, who kept a straight face throughout his abusive monologue.

When the enemy moved into range, their archers opened fire with a hail of steel-tipped death. Whyteman and his archers ducked behind their own shield men. The sound of arrow hitting shield made a dull bonging sound all along the line; three arrows found their targets, and their victims screamed as they fell down the embankment.

Another shower rained down. Brynd’s shield was hit so many times that one managed to burrow through and pin his arm to the back of his shield. Four more men collapsed under the hail. Little Kith was hit in the head, but fortunately the arrow struck the edge of his wooden shield first and scraped a nasty gash in his scalp.

“Thick head.” Velnour laughed after seeing it happen.

Little Kith roared as blood trickled over his left eye; he stood up and cut the ends of the arrows off his shield with one sweep of his sword, he then picked up the Golas. It was almost point blank range; the Golas’s thick, iron-tipped arrow struck one of the archers, passed through his body and two other soldiers behind him.

“Whyteman, do you have an answer for those archers?” asked Powyss.

Whyteman and his men ran out from the riverbeds embankment and fired with the arrows that they had placed into the ground. The officer went down first, with two arrows in his neck, both fired by Whyteman and Linth respectively. The fast-flowing arrows hit six more, and Powyss was amazed at the speed these Eternal Forest folk could notch and loosen their arrows; there were only seven archers and dozens of arrows in the air. The Vallkyte shield men took a pounding. The Eternals aimed for any gap they could see and, nine times out of ten, they would find their target.

The Vallkytes broke under the strain. One of their sergeants shouted for the group to attack, and a screaming horde of red and gold uniformed warriors raced each other to finish the battle.

The fugitives jumped into the riverbed and picked up spears; the embankment sat at just the right height to defend from and would hinder the attacking Vallkytes as they climbed.

“Hold the line!” shouted Powyss. “Stick together.”

Whyteman and Linth continued to fire at the advancing men to try to reduce their numbers.

Powyss psyched himself for the clash; their odds were not good. He had had a good life, and there would be honour in death. He was suddenly aware of racing horses from behind and thought at first that it was the Vallkyte cavalry, but it only sounded like one horse. He turned and saw a sweat-lashed Dirkem, carrying the prince, he halted on the other side of the river; foam sprayed from his bit.

Havoc threw something in the air. “
Get down
!” he shouted. “
Get
down
!”

The round object flew towards the advancing Vallkytes. Havoc used the wind element to send it further. He jumped off Dirkem in an instant and slapped his rear to send him in the direction he had come.