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

by P. D. Ceanneir

  It was from this cliff that he hurled himself over, using the wind element to carry him and slow his decent. He landed quietly and ran towards the two soldiers guarding the horses.

  “Captain, what in the name of the gods is going on?” shouted Garth.

  “Governor, he is here, somewhere.” The captain’s eyes were bleeding, his face had scorch marks all over, and the two wounded yelled as the burning coals burrowed into their faces.

  “Split up search all around,” Garth ordered the men, but they did not move, because they heard their horses galloping away.

  The two cavalrymen watching the horses were taken by surprise. Havoc had decapitated the closest, and pierced the breastplate of the other and punctured his heart before he could react.

  He untied the horses and slapped them hard on their hindquarters; they gave frightened whinnies as they fled into the night.

  He ran back up to the path.

  Garth was in a quandary; his instinct told him to get the horses and get away, but their mounts were long gone. The fake camp, however, was an easily defendable site, so he posted pickets and sent one man, his sergeant, down to check on the guards at the foot of the path.

  To his surprise, he came back alive and well, but with a sad look on his face.

  “Both dead, sir, and all the horses gone,” he said to the governor, and went to the wounded men to try to help them.

  “Leave them,” said Garth. “There is nothing you can do for the wounded; they’ll be dead by morning; go see to the pickets.”

  The sergeant hesitated for a moment, and then carried out his orders.

  Three dead; three incapacitated. Garth was down to four cavalrymen, himself and the tracker. He felt like a bumbling fool.

  “Just one man, Governor, that’s what you said, just one man.” The blind captain chuckled.

  “Shut up.”

  “Search the perimeter, but keep in line of sight,” said the sergeant to his men.

  They all looked fearful every time the wounded men moaned behind them. The tracker nodded to the sergeant and walked a route a few feet in front of him.

  He had only gone ten paces when he heard a snap and the sergeant gurgle behind him. He turned and saw him holding his throat with one hand, stained with rich red blood; the other gripped a tree branch with a wooden stake tied to it. It had gone through his mouth and out of the back of his head. He was dead in seconds. Freeh noticed that the branch was set at head height, but the sergeant was taller than most men were; in the end, his height did not save him.

  “Traps! He has laid traps,” shouted the tracker, “watch where you tread.”

  He heard shouts from the other men as they each fell victim to the other traps.

  “Shit,” he said, and gripped his sword tighter; he was about to move slowly back to the governor when Garth walked out from the camp.

  “What is going on, what traps…?” he asked, but stopped when he saw the tracker hold up his hand in warning.

  Freeh was pointing at his feet; he looked down and saw a circle of rope half-hidden in the grass, held down by the twig that he had just stood on. He followed the rope to a young, supple tree beside him, the thin trunk bent down towards the ground. The weight-bearing twig was the only thing keeping the trap from springing.

  “Don’t move,” said the tracker, and he walked slowly towards the governor.

  Something came hurtling out of the trees and embedded itself into the tracker’s chest; he gave a grunt and looked down at a beautiful sword hilt. His eyes glazed over as he died.

  Garth, with his mouth agape, watched the tall hooded stranger walk out of the tree line and extract his sword from the corpse.

  “I think we need to talk like men,” said the governor. “Give me a chance to fight you under fair terms.” His voice was confident, but he did not feel it.

  “No,” whispered Havoc; he waved his hand, and the twig disintegrated into powder and the tree and rope pulled the governor up into the air.

  He flailed about like a lunatic, swinging his axe into the darkness, but it suddenly jarred from his grip. The pommel of the stranger’s sword knocked him into unconsciousness.

  The morning sunshine failed to find its way through the overcast sky, but the dim light did find a pale and groggy governor hunched up against a tree, and groaning from the pain in his head.

  He opened his eyes and became aware of several things all at once.

  He found himself tied to the tree. The stranger sat opposite him on a log, stoking the newly lighted fire with what appeared to be a black-handled dagger; the menacing presence around him was cloying. He also noticed that the stranger had his axe across his lap. He was about to say something through his dry throat when the stranger spoke first.

  “I think now that you realise your mistake; you did not bring enough men. Nevertheless, they are proving to be a quiet audience,” he said, and indicated with his head to Garth’s left.

  The governor’s eyes went wide with shock as he saw all eleven soldiers staring back at him. The eyes were dead and their jaws hung slack; in the case of the sergeant, his dangling jaw was broken, along with most of his teeth. The stake his head impaled obscured the hole at the back of his head. The others joined the gruesome collection staked in a row, yet not all of the decapitated heads were sitting at the same height. The captain’s singed eyes looked back at the governor with an evil glee.

  “What do you want from me?” His voice croaked and he could hear the tremor of fear in it.

  “Information,” said the hooded man.

  “What information?”

  “When was the alliance between King Kasan and Mad-daimen formed?”

  “I don’t know…”

  The dagger flew from the stranger’s hand with alarming speed; it hit Garth’s left shoulder, and he screamed in pain as the white-hot heat of the blade cauterised the flesh around it.

  “You were privy to information as a member of the king’s bodyguard, and obviously in favour with the king, hence your rise to governorship, so answer the question.”

  “As far as I knew, the alliance with the Nithi was many months before the War of the Wildlands,” said Garth through clenched teeth. “But it was a closely guarded secret; we were not told until Dragorsloth.”

  “And yet you still sided with them to destroy the allied armies.”

  “The king’s plan was foolproof. In one fell swoop, we could destroy the Sonorans and the Roguns and become the most dominant power on the island.”

  “What about General Plysov’s war with the Nithi?” Havoc asked.

  “A well planned and professionally executed sham.”

  “He could not attempt it on his own without the Ri Order knowing of it; who else was in on the plan?”

  “I don’t know…”

  The second dagger struck his right shoulder, and his scream was even louder.

  “Mercy, please, I don’t know,” he begged.

  “Mercy, did you show mercy to the count and his family?”

  “My orders from the king, deserters and enemies of the state all had to be eliminated no matter their rank,” groaned Garth as tears of pain streamed down his face.

  “And here you are, under the eyes of the head harvest,” said the stranger.

  “You are mad; if you are a Rawn, all you needed to do was read my mind,” gasped the governor.

  “I did.”

  “Then why? Why the charade? Why all of this torture?” Garth stared wide-eyed.

  “The Queen,” said the stranger as he hefted the governor’s axe, “of the Ravens must have her pleasure.”

  He threw the weapon and it imbedded into the tree trunk. It cut halfway through the governor’s neck, killing him slowly, but allowing the head to remain on the body.

  Havoc left the bodies to the scavengers; he walked back to Dirkem deep in thought. What he had learnt from Garth only confirmed his suspicions, but the news of the War of the Wildlands being a fabrication seemed impossible to conceive, yet t
he truth was there in Garth’s mind.

  He rode out of the mountains. His actions meant that he was now an outlaw and hunted down by the Vallkyte authorities, so the area will be crawling with soldiers as soon as the bodies were discovered. He headed for the safety of the Oldwoods to the east, crossing the ford in the Great River on the second day, and entering the woodland three days later.

  The Oldwoods were large and, as their name suggested, were the oldest forests on the island; they also harboured outlaws and cut throats. Havoc made camp and meditated as he watched Mirryn’s flight in the Orrinn. She was flying over Fort Chunla, the closest Vallkyte stronghold to the forest. It was a small fort with perhaps three hundred cavalry stationed there to watch the Oldwoods. As the days wore on, he would spy on the small fort from the trees or in the Orrinn. He would memorise the guard change, the patrol routes to and from the woods and the fort’s defences.

  Because the head harvest was not over, it had only just begun.

  Chapter 18

  The Shards of Tragenn

  Cinnibar was concerned.

  The reports her spies had sent to her lately had given her much to think about these past few days, the last one from Selig especially disconcerting. Since her last communication with the entity known as the Earth Daemon in the Cloud Orrinn, she spent her time deciphering the Blacksword Prophecy. What she had discovered was not to her liking.

  There was a light knock on the door to her reception room.

  “Enter.”

  A tall, purple-robed priestess with long white hair entered.

  “You asked to see me, mistress?” she asked. In her hand was her white sword-staff.

  Only Cinnibar’s personnel Havant Guards were now allowed to carry weapons, but everyone made an exception when this Ri appeared. Being a female with Rawn powers was rare enough, but one who became a Ri was unheard of for many generations; even Cinnibar struggled with the arts at times, although her gift with the water element was exceptional, even to a Ri.

  “Jynn, I am pleased to see you.”

  They embraced and kissed affectionately; it had been some time since they had last seen each other.

  “I must congratulate you on becoming the citadel’s new monarch,” said Jynn.

  The Ri was referring to the city council’s vote to have her inauguration as the new Queen of Sonora. Queen Vara had not returned from her self-imposed exile with the Roguns. She had weakened her powerbase and now, with no living heirs to carry on the late king’s monarchy, there was no need for her to return. Due to the statutes of the city, the law stated that if she did not return within a year, then the city elders would jointly class her as having abdicated from the throne.

  Cinnibar, being from the House of Cromme, was the next obvious choice.

  “Not yet, my dear, but I believe it is all down to paperwork,” she said with a sigh.

  “What do you wish from me, Highness?” Jynn left her sword-cane by the door and tucked her hands into the sleeves of her robe.

  “I have received some disturbing news from my spies.” She picked up a scroll from her desk, which was covered in paperwork. “First of all, I had a spy with the Nithi who was present at the execution of the Rogun and Sonoran princesses a year ago. At first, I thought his mind was addled when he stated that one of the girls, my distant niece, Verna, who was thought to be dead, suddenly came to life and prophesied their doom.”

  Jynn shrugged as if this information did not concern her.

  “She mentioned the Sword that Rules,” said Cinnibar.

  “Ahh…” Now she seemed interested. “Do you think she referred to the Prophecy of the Blacksword?”

  “Possibly, I did not dwell on it until Selig informed me of a stranger asking him about two Nithi ceremonial daggers a few days ago.”

  They had walked out onto the balcony. The cold breeze ruffled their hair. Heavy grey clouds scudded overhead; a storm was coming, and glints of lightning framed the seas horizon.

  “How are they relevant?”

  “They belong to the brother and nephew of Mad-daimen, who were present at the execution. Part of the dead girl’s prophecy says that the daggers were going to find their way back to their owners. It seems this mysterious stranger is doing just that. The stranger, however, had an altercation with Sloe’s Vallkyte governor, Garth. A troop of cavalry and this Garth left a few days ago to hunt him down, they have not returned, foul play is assumed.”

  “How is that so?” Jynn asked.

  “The horses returned without their riders,” said the countess.

  “I see.” Jynn nodded.

  They stood in silence for a while. Below them, the ports continued their business as normal. Cinnibar tapped the varnished rail of the balcony with a long manicured nail as she watched to labours work on the docking wharfs.

  “Scholars have made various attempts in the past at deciphering the Blacksword Prophecy,” she said, “ the best they could come up with is a powerful weapon that gives its owner godlike powers.” She sighed, “I have not been able to contact the Earth Daemon since the last attempt that almost killed me. However, I felt his fear of this Blacksword, and it seems that some aspects of the prophecy are becoming true.”

  “What aspects are those, mistress?”

  She shook her head. Her frown gave her beautiful face an ugly scowl. “I cannot say until I have all the answers, but this stranger may well be at the heart of it. He seems to be the obvious link. I do hope he is not as troublesome as Telmar was. I want you to find him, and bring him to me.” She handed Jynn the scroll.

  “And if he declines your gracious invitation?” asked Jynn.

  “Then bring me his head.”

  As she left the Havant temple, Jynn took a quick glance at her mission parameters on the scroll that her mistress had given to her. She smiled at Cinnibar’s neat handwriting outlining Jynn’s authority to use any resource at her disposal, including the sky ships, Raxion and Jezzrion, which were both at the Pander Fort delivering supplies.

  However, she needed to get there quick while the trail was still fresh, and this fact forced her to use a mode of transportation that she, and most Ris, despised. She made her way to Sonora’s Royal Plaza, which sat next to the palace grounds. In the centre of the plaza stood a ring of ten standing stones that sat on a strong concentration of interconnecting Dragon Lanes.

  She stood on the centre dais stone and took some time to compose herself.

  Only a Ri could travel through the transportation network known as the Drift. Because of their ability to use all four elements of the Rawn Arts together, they were able to harmonize with the Earth’s energy matrix and travel via the Dragon Lanes, moving through the lanes as particles of raw energy reforming at their chosen destination just as the old gods had done before them. Although, they were not limited by distance, they could only materialise at another active stone circle.

  Nevertheless, it was very difficult to accomplish, dangerous, and often painful. Driftwalking was not a Ri’s desired way of getting around.

  She concentrated on moulding every fibre of her being to the Dragon Lanes that ebbed and flowed under her feet. When she was sure the contact was good, she then used the concentrated effect of the tall standing stones that helped to amplify her powers a hundred fold.

  With a loud crackle, and the stinging smell of ozone, she was gone.

  A Vallkyte foot soldier called Tarnym was running. He was running in fear of his life. An unknown assailant had killed his captain, sergeant and several others he went out on evening patrol. Some of the men fled, and Tarnym fled with them, but he got lost in the darkness of the Oldwoods and the rain lashed down, soaking him to the skin. His spear hampered him as he climbed up steep slopes of muddy embankments that caked his hands and feet.

  Lightning seared across the sky and Tarnym looked around quickly to see if he was close to his colleagues or the antagonist followed him. The flash of light made crude parodies of tree limbs and cast long shadows around him. The thunder
was so loud it rattled his teeth.

  He was not looking carefully to the terrain that he ran over. In his panic, he slipped down a steep slope into a shallow gully that flooded with a foot of rainwater. He thrashed wildly and looked around. Bright light from flickering torches was close by. His hoarse breathing became inane mumblings when he realised that he had dropped his spear. He stumbled and splashed through the water to the light and saw four of his patrol standing armed and back-to-back in a tight circle. Their frightened eyes were looking around them. Two of them had torches, but they were dimming as the rain beat down.

  One of them saw Tarnym and called him over to stand with them, but he never finished the sentence; the spear that Tarnym had dropped pierced the soldier’s chest, and blood sprayed onto the man next to him.

  Tarnym looked up at the slope he had just fallen from and saw the black-hooded warrior. He glided down from the slope as if he was walking on air, the rain parted like heavy drapes as he descended. He landed softly and ignored Tarnym, who was crawling away from him. He walked with sure, confidant steps towards the other three.

  Tarnym got up and stumbled in the opposite direction. He found a hollow in a tree and made himself as small as possible. He covered his ears to drown out the screams of his dying friends.

  Jynn was impressed.

  To trap twelve professional soldiers in one place and kill them in a variety of different ways was an awesome feat.

  Scavengers had done most of the damage to the bodies by the time she and her search party had found them, but the heads were still on the stakes and Garth’s eyes were missing. She noticed a puncture wound in each of his shoulders; the exit wound told her a long-bladed, triangle-wedged dagger inflicted it.

  Her arrival at the Pander Fort earlier that day had caused a stir. The loud crack that resounded around the fort as she appeared in the stone circle outside the walls made everyone jump. The fort commander declined to look at the Countess of Sonora’s signed orders she handed him, having already known of her reputation. Even if he had not, her confident manner and stern stare was enough to convince him of her intentions.