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

by P. D. Ceanneir

  Havoc had reached the outskirts of Sloe in the middle of the night, after he left the Little Dell. He slept under some pines on the side of the mountains that overlooked the town and had wandered through the main street before sun up just to get a feel for the place. Sloe was more of a large village than an actual town. There was no defensive wall or wooden palisade for protection. What it did have was an ancient water-filled ditch that encircled the whole town, with two wooden bridges south, and north that stretched over the wide water ditch. Tall stone houses built inside the circle followed the flow of the ditches curve perfectly. The town seemed designed to be easily defended from its enemies; all they needed to do was order men into shield walls at the two bridges.

  However, as he walked into the town, the rest of the buildings were made of wood and most looked old as they nestled among leafy willows and buttresses of pine fencing. Sloe had a dull quaintness that appealed to him. Havoc had found Selig easily enough; his apothecary shop had a white sign of a mort and pestle outside with his name under it.

  As he left the shop, the sign creaked in the wind. Taking Dirkem’s reins, he walked down the only street towards the Reivers Tavern. The tavern was one of the largest buildings there. It was mainly in two sections; the first was for staying guests, while the second and smallest section was the alehouse itself. With large windows and an ornate sign above the door, it seemed inviting. Havoc tied the stallion up on one of the hitching posts that sat at one end of the tavern. He then climbed the steps to the long, narrow porch and entered the bar.

  A cloying heat that brought with it a stench of sweat and cooked stew welcomed him. The bar was on his right and took up a quarter of the room; it had a homely feel with all sorts of bric-a-brac, pottery and pewter mugs hanging above it. The barman, a tall man with a bushy moustache, was counting money, while the blonde barmaid held three full mugs of ale. Havoc recognised her from Ched’s memories as his buxom lover. On his left was the roaring fireplace complete with a dangling black iron caldron, its sluggish grey contents bubbling away. A thin old man smoking a bone pipe was dreamily stirring the contents. Table and chairs sat like little islands on the oak floor; most had candle wicks were covered in wax and lit to brighten the gloom, though it still remained dark and the only light came in through the dirty front windows.

  Customers in this early afternoon were few. Three standing at the bar and two sitting at the rear exit to the outhouse chatted and slobbered the ale down their tunics. Three others at one of the tables close to the fire were playing cards. It was one of the card playing three who caught Havoc’s attention, a burly red-bearded man wearing a leather jerkin and leggings, and with a large double-headed axe at his feet.

  The boy, Ched’s, memories flashed in Havoc’s mind; this was Governor Garth.

  Havoc felt like a startled rabbit as everyone in the bar stopped what he or she was doing and stared at him in a cold silence.

  He knew what he was going to do; he had run many scenarios through his head as the morning wore on, but it all come(s) down to making an impression, and instilling fear and confusion in his enemies.

  He stood in the silence and let the door close on its own; it made an eerie creaking noise as it shut. He said nothing; he could imagine in the minds of those watching what they could see: a tall, thin, black-cloaked man with a handsome sword strapped to his back and a face obscured by his hood.

  The blonde barmaid made a move first; she continued to carry the three drinks to the card table, and nearly bumped into it; her attention was on the newcomer. She put down the mugs, spilling some of the contents, but the three staring men did not notice this. She wiped her hands on her dirty white apron, still looking at Havoc.

  “By the gods, Henny, can you not serve the gentleman instead of gawping at him!” This was from Garth, who was giving Havoc a sardonic grin.

  “Yes Governor.” She gave Garth a half curtsy and turned to Havoc. “What kin I git yew, sir?” Her accent was a mix of Haplann and mountain dialects.

  Havoc did not answer; the silence in the bar was deafening. A charge of tension filled the air; everyone felt this, and the girl looked very nervously at him. Havoc took his saddlebags off his shoulder now filled with new provisions and some money, and it made a loud clunking sound as he dropped it on to the table next to Garth’s. The girl jumped and put her hand to her throat. Havoc gave a half smile as he noticed several others give involuntary flinches too. He was beginning to enjoy himself.

  Fear is our greatest ally and our worst foe, he thought, and was beginning to realise the truth of it.

  He turned his chair around so he could straddle it; this was to give him better access to Tragenn should he need to use it. It did not go unnoticed by Garth and everyone else in the tavern, the tension in that room increase twofold.

  “Stew and white ale,” he said to the girl in the same dry whisper he had used with Selig.

  The girl virtually ran to the bar to get the order.

  “Pretty girl, but bloody stupid,” Garth said, chuckling, in what he thought was a friendly voice, but Havoc found it infuriating that this piece of filth was talking to him. “Have you come far, stranger?”

  Havoc felt a Pyromantic surge building, though now he was far better at controlling them than he had been a year ago. He linked it to the air around him, which caused a static pressure to build up in the room.

  He turned his head slightly towards the governor; he could see the man’s smile was false and that he used the same expression on many people who he felt were inferior to him. He was holding his cards in both hands. Havoc could see that he and the two old cronies he was playing against were in the middle of a game of Karsh, which used eighty-four cards with Skrol symbols and pictures on them. It was a betting game for intelligent people who could use the sub-conscious symbols of the ancient language, if they could not; it turned into a game of chance.

  Havoc looked at the cards on the table and the clarity of the symbols was instantaneous in his mind; he could understand the moves that had been made and the next cards played to win, but did not know how he knew. It was like looking at the Skrol on Tragenn’s blade and it was suddenly clear to him. Tragenn’s Orrinn? – It had to be something to do with that. He would think on it later.

  “Karsh-Out in three moves, to the dealer,” he whispered harshly.

  Garth’s smile faded as he looked at the cards on the table; the pressure in the air was tangible and started pushing against everyone’s eyeballs; everyone fidgeted uncomfortably not understanding why they were so on edge.

  The girl, Henny, brought the stew and the white ale to Havoc’s table; the bowl of grey mush did not look appetising and paled in comparison to Neiva’s cooking, but he ate some anyway. The white ale, on the other hand was very good. It was mainly normal black stout with a white bulb plant called Lerianes polthioum dropped in the liquid. The bulb made the ale stronger and gave it a sweet flavour; it also coloured the ale into a cloudy pale white, hence the name.

  The girl stayed by his table awaiting payment. Havoc ignored her; she seemed agitated for a bit, and then she walked away. Garth gave a loud curse as his opponent, the dealer, won the game and took all of the winnings.

  “So you play, do you? What did you say your name was?” asked Garth, forcing a smile on his face.

  “I didn’t.” Havoc pushed the half-empty bowl away from him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Garth nod to one of the men at the bar, and he walked outside, giving Havoc a wide berth.

  Gone to get help, he thought. Time to up the ante.

  The girl was having a short, mumbling argument with the barman for not getting payment for the stew and white ale. Havoc called her over.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “Three... Three bits, sir,” she stammered.

  “This should cover it, then.” He threw something on the table that clattered as it bounced on the scarred surface and came to rest next to the pewter candlewick.

  The girl yelped and covered her mou
th with her hands; tears welled in her eyes, and Garth leant closer to Havoc’s table to get a better look at the object.

  It was Ched’s earring.

  Havoc saw recognition in the governor’s eyes as he looked at the golden horse; the girl ran back behind the bar sobbing. At that point, two Vallkyte soldiers walked into the bar and, on Garth’s command, stood behind Havoc.

  “Who are you?” asked Garth.

  All the smiles and friendly banter was now gone as the true face of the stern governor gave his full attention to Havoc.

  “Who I am is not important, but who I represent is,” said Havoc in a dry whisper that quietened the room; he was really beginning to enjoy himself in this persona; it was as if he was seeing the room through someone else’s eyes. He positively brimmed with confidence.

  “Who do you represent, then?”

  “I am the envoy to the Queen of the Ravens.”

  Garth frowned and the guards behind Havoc moved restlessly; they were beginning to feel the tension in the air. It literary sucked out all joy and harmony out of the air as it pressed itself in around them. In the ancient mythology of Havoc’s people, Magda, the Carrion Queen of the battlefield dead, commonly referred to as the Queen of the Ravens, mainly because she sent her scavengers to strip the flesh from the dead warriors. Havoc had only mentioned it impulsively as he remembered the last dream he had with Verna and her army of ravens.

  “Killing the Count of Haplann and his family was a mistake that you will suffer for,” went on Havoc. “The ravens need a head harvest, and you have become one of the chosen, along with the thugs you sent, of course.” He sipped his ale, allowing the words to settle in everyone’s minds.

  Garth chuckled, but it was without humour. “Are you trying to threaten me?” he asked.

  “No, because in the queen’s eyes, you are already dead,” said Havoc, and he linked his Pyromancer’s power to the wind element, but held it in check for now.

  Garth looked furious and stood holding his axe; he towered over Havoc. The two guards behind him unsheathed their swords.

  “Who do you think you are coming in here and threatening a Vallkyte governor?” he growled.

  The governor had seen swordsmen move fast in his lifetime, yet never seen anyone move as fast as this sinister stranger in the black cloak. He rose from his seat with a fluid speed and pulled out his sword from his sheath in a blink of an eye. The air cracked around him sparked with static charge the likes of which he had never seen before. The two Vallkyte soldiers were about to attack him when the stranger waved his hand and a massive blast of wind sent them, and the entire front wall of the tavern, twenty feet outward into the street. The cracking of wood and shattering of glass was deafening.

  Garth had only lifted his axe about halfway when Tragenn’s point became unfocused due to it appearing in front of his eyes, and he hesitated. The two men at the rear exit pulled out stilettos and started walking towards Havoc. The look of fear was apparent in their eyes.

  Havoc used Tragenn’s point and hooked Garth’s axe just where the axe head met the handle. He flicked it from its owner’s grasp, and it cartwheeled through the air narrowly missed one of the advancing men as it imbedded in the wall behind him.

  The two looked at the axe, then at each other, then dropped their weapons and backed off.

  “The ravens and death go hand in hand, Garth. Come out to this day’s darkness and I will send you to meet the queen,” said the tall stranger.

  The look on the governor’s face was pure dread and Havoc smiled.

  With a flourish, he sheathed Tragenn, picked up his saddlebags and walked slowly out of the tavern. There was no need to open the door.

  The Vallkyte guards were groaning on the wooden debris; their arms and legs were at strange angles. Havoc untied and mounted Dirkem. He cantered out of the town of Sloe with the occupants of the tavern watching him ride away with a feeling of relief.

  Garth, however, was full of fury and ordered his guards to prepare the hunt.

  Chapter 17

  The Head Harvest

  Havoc had played Garth perfectly. The governor was one of those men who did not like to be humiliated and, as Havoc predicted, now led a posse to hunt him down. As darkness descended, a group of horsemen – Havoc counted twelve – rode out of Sloe and followed his trail due south, hugging the mountain’s forested slopes. Each man was well armed and carried a torch that flickered horizontal flames as they rode in their tight formation.

  Vallkyte cavalry, thought Havoc as he watched from his high vantage point on a rocky ledge screened by vegetation. He had ridden hard south when he left the town and stopped by a stand of trees up a narrow mountain path to eat and meditate. Then he retraced his route and deliberately made tracks for his enemies to find. He hid Dirkem by a shallow pool for him to drink and graze, and then he covered his tracks and followed the pursuing cavalry on foot and over narrow goat paths, always keeping them in sight on his left and below him. They would stop to follow dead trails the he had made on his way south; these delays helped Havoc catch up to them, even though he was always close enough to smell the horse sweat.

  After a while, Havoc stopped at a pre-chosen spot and lit a fire. He knew from the route he had created that the Vallkytes would double back and find him. This was exactly what he wanted.

  Garth was furious; the trail made no sense.

  When they thought they were on the right track, they came to a dead end. Freeh, their local tracker, told him that their quarry was an expert at covering his tracks. Garth did not want to hear problems; he wanted solutions, and said as much to the wide-eyed tracker.

  The hunting party had ridden on for another twenty minutes when everyone realised that they had doubled back on a different route.

  “He is playing with us, sir,” said Garth’s captain, a stocky veteran of many battles, including Dragorsloth.

  “Of course he is, you fool; he didn’t come to antagonise me for the good of his health, did he. No, he wants me to meet him on his own terms,” said Garth as he patted his axe. “I will gladly oblige him, if he ever shows himself.”

  “He is a Rawn?” asked the captain.

  “Yes, it seems so; that is why you and your men are with me, but rest assured, Captain, he looked young, and may well be an apprentice.” The governor was scanning the route as they trotted along.

  Freeh and two others were up ahead with their torches held in front to follow the trail.

  “Where there is an apprentice, there is always a master, sir,” said the captain.

  “Not always, Captain; there have been reports over the last year of a black cloaked traveller in these mountains. I think our stranger is the same person; apprentice or not, he is only one man.”

  There was a yell from the tracker up front and the governor and his captain cantered forward. Freeh was pointing up towards a mountain path; some way up, they could see a small fire burning.

  The tip of the arrow followed the advancing soldiers walking up the path towards the fire. Havoc took the strain of the bow in his fingers and arm until he had a clear shot. His target was the last man, who seemed to lag behind and continually turned to check behind him. Garth had seen fit to send four men up the steep path while he stayed with the others at the foot of the mountain.

  Once the four men turned the path around a cliff face and were out of sight of the governor’s men, Havoc loosed the arrow. The last man flinched backwards as the arrow went through his throat and he collapsed without a sound.

  Havoc ran quickly and quietly to the body, and moved it into the shrubs away from the path. He put the soldier’s torch out with water from his canteen. This only took a few seconds, but it was a couple of minutes before the other three noticed that one of their numbers was gone.

  “Captain, Aorta is missing,” cried the soldier, who was now the last man in the line.

  “Missing, what do you mean missing...? And keep your voice down, man,” hissed the captain.

  “He wa
s just there a moment ago,” said the soldier.

  The captain moved down the path with his men, and found the extinguished torch and a patch of blood.

  “You two stay close together and keep your eyes open.”

  The captain and his men continued up the path to the fire, but were now more wary. As they approached, they saw that the camp was empty, just the fire blazing inside a small half circle of trees. They each felt that someone watched them from afar.

  “He’s playing with us, I tell you, lads. Where are you? You bastard!” the captain asked the quiet of the night.

  “I’m here,” hissed a hoarse whisper out of the darkness.

  A strong gust of wind howled out of the otherwise-still night and hit the fire, putting it and their torches out, and sending up tiny hot ash into their faces.

  The captain yelled as he felt his eyes burning. The pain was like a hundred bee stings; he brushed them from his face, but that just had the affect of putting more into his eyes; he took out his water canteen and drenched his face.

  He heard two audible thuds behind him and his men started yelling louder as they fell to the ground.

  Garth saw the fire go out and heard the screaming; he cursed his captain. “You two watch the horses; the rest of you, with me.”

  He led the five men up the narrow steep path to the sounds of pain. When he got to the camp, he could see that one man was missing, two were rolling on the ground with black, feathered arrows in their guts, and his captain was blind.

  Havoc raced back down the mountain, using a different route from the path. He was pleased with himself; his plan was working, and he was using the terrain to fight with him. He knew that the soldiers would eventually leave their horses to confront him; this was why he chose the second steep path that was the quickest way down this side of the mountain slope, which could not be used from below, because it ended in a fifty-foot drop.