Havoc remembered the image of the bear in the Orrinn, but had no time to ponder the exact details, because the bear was now swinging its other great paw at him; the blow glanced off his chest and it was enough to send him reeling backwards. He hit a rock, recovered and looked for a way out, but the animal had cut off his exit. He used the wind element again and jumped into the air, somersaulting over the attacking animal and landed gracefully; he rammed Tragenn into the bear’s back. The sword went in deep and pierced the heart; the bear grunted, and blood dribbled from the large yellow teeth, and then it collapsed into a furry brown heap.
He whistled through his teeth as the lancing pain in his chest kicked in; he looked down and saw three deep gouges that leaked blood profusely. However, his Rawn powers were already starting to heal his wound. He rushed to Mulvend, who was lifting her head groggily and looked at the dead bear with Tragenn sticking out of its back. She focussed on Havoc with a tight smile and glazed eyes.
“Looks like I just saved your life again. It is becoming a habit.” He smiled at her.
She looked down at the wound on his chest, which was knitting together and becoming three red scars. Then she fainted. Havoc looked her up and down and found a small gash on the back of her head. He tried to heal it, but was so weak from healing himself that he only managed to stop the flow of blood. She would have a nasty bump and some slight concussion; apart from that, she was fine.
Fate had dealt him an opportunity. He took that chance now to seize it.
The couple in the thatched cottage both answered the door to the young stranger with the sleeping girl in his arms. They had the look of fear in their eyes and were not used to receiving any visitors. Havoc knew his scruffy clothes and four-day growth of black beard made him look a little rough, but he had no time to spruce himself up.
“I’m sorry to impose on you, sir, madam, but we have just been attacked and the girl is hurt,” he said, looking at then imploringly.
“Oh my…” said the woman, her hand clamped to her mouth as she looked at Mulvend; she was comely and probably quite beautiful in her youth.
“Attacked... Attacked by what?” The old man, tall and well-built for his age, looked at Havoc with suspicion, probably because the stranger held a sword in one hand with blood all the way up the blade.
“Large bear, up towards the entrance to the valley,” said Havoc, indicating with his head towards the east.
The man’s eyes went wide with shock and the woman gasped.
“By the gods, a bear... Was it maimed?” asked the husband.
“Yes, with a wire snare, but it will walk no more.”
All three looked down at Tragenn.
“Come in... Is she badly hurt?” asked the man, ushering them into the house, and his woman opened another door to their bedchamber.
“No, she took a knock on the head, but no other injuries. Maybe concussed, and she was very tired from our long journey.”
They laid her on a beautifully handcrafted oak bed and covered her with a threadbare patchwork blanket.
While the woman fussed over Mulvend, Havoc and the old man walked back to the main room. The smell of cooking, mainly freshly cooked bread, assailed his nostrils as he walked into the family room of the house; its main feature was the large inglenook fireplace, which also had a cast iron oven-cooker sitting in its own space cut into the wall by the roaring fire. A black pot sat on a rack above the fire and its contents were simmering away.
The only furniture in the room was two rocking chairs by the hearth and an elegant mahogany table with four chairs around it. The man of the house pulled out a chair for him to sit and poured him some homemade ale.
“I can’t thank you enough for killing that bear. He has been terrorising my flock for weeks now. I’m the one that laid the snare, but the brute got away; my name is Hoban, by the way, and my wife is Neiva.”
“Gillem,” Havoc lied. “If it’s any consolation, the wound from the snare would have killed it anyway; I just put it out of his misery.”
This pleased the man; Havoc looked up to the far side of the room and saw a sword and shield pinned to the wall.
“Are you a soldier?” asked Havoc, tasting the ale, which was delicious and his first drink in months.
“Not anymore; was a member of the Tattoium Militia in my youth, but…” He slapped his bad leg and Havoc noticed that the foot twisted inward more than the other was.
“Fell off a cliff and broke it, and so ended my military days.”
Neiva came back in, towelling her hands dry.
“She has a nasty cut on her head, but the bleeding has stopped. I’ve cleaned it, and the blood off her hair; there is a Welslep herb candle burning next to her and that should make her sleep.” Welslep was a common herb in the mountains; mainly used to make sleeping draughts for the sick.
“Our friend here is called Gillem, and the girl is?” asked Hoban.
Havoc shrugged and shook his head.
“I do not know her name; she does not speak, but I call her Mulvend.”
“Mountain Spring,” interpreted Neiva with a smile.
“Her family was killed by bandits about five days ago in a valley further south. I was not quick enough to stop them, but I did save the girl. Her lack of speech, I think, is due to the shock of what she saw. However, the bandits will not haunt her in life now, only in dreams.” He stared off into the flames of the fire.
The couple was shocked at his words. Neiva placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder and looked at Havoc’s solemn face.
“Would you like something to eat? We have boar stew, freshly cooked bread, and some cheese from the cheese hut next door,” said Neiva.
“I should not disturb your evening any longer.”
“Nonsense, sit and eat with us,” said Hoban.
Havoc accepted their gracious hospitality and had the tastiest stew and bread he had had in months and the cheese was simply remarkable. He complimented Neiva, who smiled and blushed.
“So where are you from?” asked Hoban.
Lying to these two was difficult, but he knew that it was for the best for them and Mulvend.
“Haplann, I’m just passing through on business.”
“You are a handy man to have around, especially for the girl.” The old man poured Havoc more ale.
“Lucky in some ways, but not in others, I was just in the right place at the right time. I’ve been away from home for a while.”
“Haplann is loyal to the count and to Jericho; I heard that the Vallkytes now occupy it all,” said Hoban.
“Jericho?” asked Havoc, startled at General Balaan’s second in command’s name.
“Yes, he has been making life hell for the Vallkytes. Sneak shock attacks on enemy columns as they move from base to base, raids in the night, even assassination attempts on Vallkyte officers.” Hoban shook his head and sighed. “The daft bugger’s luck is going to run out some day.”
“Do you know him?” asked Neiva to Havoc.
“Only by reputation,” the prince shrugged.
“Hoban used to train the militia a few years ago since his injury. You met him then, didn’t you, dear?”
“Yes,” said Hoban. “He’s impulsive, arrogant and a hothead... Always knew he would go far. We don’t get much news coming to the Dell, though I heard he was recruiting the Haplann people who are now landless. Is that why you are here?”
Havoc shook his head. It struck him suddenly why the count and his family were moving into the mountains. They may have been trying to reach Captain Jericho.
“No, sir, I have other business to attend to.”
The couple looked at one another quickly, but did not ask what that business was. Havoc decided to tempt fate, and pulled the Nithi daggers from his boots. The couple jumped and he apologised to them both; it seemed they were still on edge.
“Sir, can you tell me anything about these daggers?” He passed them to Hoban, who frowned as he took them in both hands. He looked them up an
d down and then handed them back shaking his head.
“Don’t recognise the markings, but I would hazard a guess at Nithi, because the hilts are black.”
“They are Nithi that much I know, but what is the reason for the black hilts?”
“I could be wrong, but I think they may be ceremonial daggers. Used in sacrificial ceremonies; this is an ancient custom of the Nithi and seldom practiced these days.”
Havoc thanked him and put the daggers back.
“There is a wise man in Sloe who could tell you more; his name is Selig,” said Neiva.
“Thank you, madam, that I will do,” said Havoc, as he had already intended going to Sloe anyway, but not with Mulvend.
“May I ask how you acquired them?” asked Hoban.
“Where I got them is not important, but I will return them some day.”
The couple looked at the sad boy in front of them. Havoc could read pity in their eyes; they must have thought that he was on some strange vendetta, and they were not far wrong.
Neiva started to tidy up the plates. Hoban poured himself more ale and saw that his guest had only had a few sips, so he gave himself more, and ate some of the cheese. Havoc decided to take a chance; he reached into his pocket, brought out a leather moneybag and put it in the middle of the table.
“The girl cannot come with me.”
Hoban and Neiva stopped what they were doing and stood stock still looking at the bag of money.
“You have both been very kind, and I’m sorry to impose on you further, but where I am going I will only find violence, and it is not a place for a young girl. There are three hundred gold sovereigns in there, plenty to look after her and to live on for the rest of your lives, but I beg you please keep her safe; she is very important.” The strain of the situation was evident on his face.
“But surely she has other family..,” said Hoban.
“Trust me, sir, there are none.” Havoc knew that the Haplann family was small and any close relations were either dead or on their side. “I know that I ask much of you both; I notice you have no children here with you.” He knew from Ched’s memories that the couple was childless.
“The gods have not blessed us with a brood of our own,” said Neiva with a sad look. She took her husband’s hand in hers and he smiled back. “We wanted children badly to take over the running of the Little Dell, but it was not to be.”
“She may not be yours, but she does need your love, guidance and protection.” He pointed at the money. “I have made it worth your while.”
“We do not want the money; killing the bear put us in your debt, young man,” said Hoban, staring straight at Havoc.
“The money belongs to the bandits I killed; at least their blood money shall go towards some good, for you and Mulvend,” said Havoc, and he watched them both nod together.
Neiva whispered in her husband’s ear and he shrugged.
“Can you give us a moment to discuss this?” he asked to Havoc.
Havoc agreed and went into the bedchamber to see Mulvend. The bed creaked as he sat next to the sleeping girl; she never moved when he brushed the hair from her forehead.
The Welslep candle gave off a bittersweet smell that permeated the room, and a light blue cloud hung over the flickering flame.
“I am sorry, little one, but I can’t take you with me; it must be this way. Hoban and Neiva will be your adoptive parents now.”
She did not move as he spoke. Neiva knocked lightly on the door to indicate it was all right to come back in. He kissed Mulvend on the forehead and left her small sleeping form.
The owners of Little Dell were smiling and holding hands in the centre of the room.
“We will look after the child as our own,” said Hoban, “but can you tell us who she is, and is she in danger?”
“In time, I think she may tell you who she is, and she is in no danger if you keep her safe and never let her leave here.”
“All right,” said Hoban.
“And you,” said Neiva, “will you be in danger?”
“Yes, this is why I must leave her with you. She needs your love and compassion. Please make her understand why I am doing this; she will be difficult when she wakes up, but have patience with her.” He smiled at them. “She really is a good girl. Thank you both for your help and kindness, and I shall remember you both with fondness.”
He gathered his cloak around him and picked up Tragenn, cleaned of blood by Neiva. He walked out of the door and whistled into the night; Dirkem trotted out of the dark from the barn, disturbing the flock.
“Safe journey, Gillem,” said Hoban, “If that is your real name, my friend. A sword that fine must belong to a noble house; am I wrong?”
Havoc stared at the old man and smiled at his intelligent observation.
“Mulvend knows my real name. Some day she may even tell you both. Goodbye and keep safe; may the gods look after you all.”
He heeled the flanks of Dirkem and rode away to the entrance of the valley; he stopped and turned around to look at the Little Dell for the last time. He could see the old couple standing in the light of the doorway waving back.
He took the route through the camp where the bear attacked them. He could not see the animal in the darkness, but the smell would alert scavengers to its presence soon enough.
He headed east to the town called Sloe. He had some business there to attend to and a desire to avenge a friend.
Part Three
The Vale
“What Exudes
When metal is shaped under the master smith’s hammer?
...Blood and Sweat.”
The Kerf of Zent
Chapter 16
The Reivers Tavern
Selig ran his thin, bony fingers over the black hilt of the dagger. He looked at the faded eagle feather markings for a few seconds bringing it close to his eyes, and frowned, which made his ancient wrinkled face look even more creased.
“Where did you say you got these from again, young man?” He looked at the stranger standing across from him on the other side of the counter. He was tall, slim, with a short black beard, but that was all he could see from his face. The top half concealed within his black cloak’s hood. The sword strapped to his back looked just as impressive as the man himself did.
“I didn’t,” was the stranger’s only answer.
Selig put the dagger down and sighed; he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“These daggers are old and rare. They are also banned by most of the tribes on the island, and they are Nithi.”
The stranger nodded. “Banned, why?” asked the stranger.
“They are used for sacrificial ceremonies. The Nithi believed that they can trap or kill evil spirits inside the bodies of their enemies.”
“What can you tell me about the markings?”
Selig was afraid that the stranger was going to ask that question, but the man had been courteous, if a little evasive, and he did lay down four gold sovereigns on the table.
“Tribal symbols are always put onto Nithi weapons; these show the feathers of the Kelang Sept.” He looked straight at the hooded man, but was annoyed at not seeing his face.
“What is the Kelang Sept?” asked the stranger in a dry whisper that unnerved the old man.
“The Nithi have three noble houses that can legally have one member of its family rule the entire tribe. They are the Multan, Kelang, and Yemini Septs. The oldest are the Multan, but they have been deposed some years ago in an intertribal conflict. Yemini are the youngest and smallest ruling house, with very little power to wield. The current rulers of the Nithi are from the Kelang Sept.”
The stranger visibly straightened on hearing this answer. “Mad-daimen,” he said, nodding to himself.
The wise man paused for a while, looking at the tall figure. He had the bearing of a warrior and a sinister aura about him. When he had walked into his apothecary, this late morning, he sensed trouble and he had felt a twinge of fear when he showed him the daggers.<
br />
“Yes, Mad-daimen is the ruler of the Nithi, but neither of these weapons belongs to him,” said Selig.
“How do you mean?” The warrior’s full attention was on the wise man’s answer.
“Mad-daimen’s feather symbol is coloured golden and is tattooed that colour on his shaved scalp, as is the Nithi custom. However, these two are coloured silver and blue to represent the lower-ranking member of the leading family; the silver is second only to Mad-daimen, and could be a brother or firstborn son; the blue is of a lower status.”
The old man breathed out a sigh as the stranger took the daggers back.
“Where will I find the governor of the town?” he asked.
Selig was surprised at the question and took a moment to think. “Governor Garth is usually in the Reivers Tavern at lunch time; that is your best bet.”
“Thank you for your time.” He threw down two more gold bits and left the shop.
Selig thought for a while as he gathered the money; a situation like this should not be kept to himself. The weekly reports to his mistress were often tedious, but greatly received. The information she collected from her spies all over the land was like a jigsaw puzzle that only she could piece together, and this one puzzle she would definitely want to hear.
He went to a bookshelf at the back of his store and moved several volumes on serology that looked as if they had been gathering dust for centuries. Behind the books was a hidden compartment that he opened. He pulled out a purple velvet bag, and, after locking up the shop, moved to his sitting room at the rear of the house.
He opened the bag and shook out its contents; a small, silver, oblong globe, about the size of a chicken egg, fell into his palm. He covered it up with his other hand and intoned the Skrol for opening.
It was some time before a voice answered him from the stone.
“Yes, Selig, you are early this week. I hope this premature communication is of some importance,” said the voice of Cinnibar.
The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) Page 18