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

by P. D. Ceanneir

  She had commandeered the sky ships and some of the commander’s men. She sent the ships out to search the lands around the pass while she and her men rode to Sloe. A nervous Selig explained everything in detail; he knew that was the way she liked it; if he had left anything out, it was all due to his aging, forgetful mind.

  It took her and her men another day to find the late governor. She took no tracker, preferring to do it herself. Again, she was impressed at her quarry’s false trails. Unfortunately, his trail just vanished; no matter how long she searched, she could not find it again.

  The smug smile broadened on her face. She loved a challenge.

  When last night’s patrol did not return that morning to the Chunla Fort, the commander ordered a search party to look for them.

  However, a single rider-less horse trotted in through the gates as they were about to leave. In a large sack strapped to the saddle, they found nine severed heads.

  They found Tarnym the next day wandering through the trees at the edge of the forest. He was gibbering and ranting about a black-hooded figure, an evil ghost of immense power, who sucked the lives out of his colleagues.

  Tarnym’s condition began to deteriorate as the fever took hold. He died in the morning with the same face of wide-eyed fear he had had when they found him.

  Mirryn showed him the panic he had caused. She flew over the fort, revealing everything through the Orrinn. The increased activity as the fort’s soldiers prepared to search the Oldwoods.

  She also noticed the Sky Ships in the distance. At first, he was not sure what they were, but as the kite drew closer, he could see they were the Sonoran ships he remembered from his youth and future images the Orrinn revealed to him. They looked like they were searching the lands around the pass, their huge hulls swooping in circles over a designated area, then moving onwards to look elsewhere.

  Surely, he thought, they cannot be looking for me. However, the more he thought about it, the more his instinct told him this was the truth.

  “Looks like I have broken open a hornet’s nest, Dirkem,” he whispered into the silver Orrinn, and told Mirryn to watch the ships and to be cautious.

  The bird chirruped in reply.

  He decided to frustrate the efforts of the fort’s search parties, and moved deeper into the tangled growth of the Oldwoods. Most of the way was through thick woodland, with uneven ground and closely packed trees. He took Dirkem’s reins and moved fast on foot.

  The Vallkyte soldiers sent hounds ahead of them. However, Havoc had already prepared for that. He took routes through rivers and marshlands; killed a deer and cut its belly to allow the bowels to hang out, and then he dragged it obliquely to his path several times to stall or misdirect the hounds.

  He eventually came to a dead end. A narrow gorge about thirty feet wide and a few miles long stood in his path. He looked down and he could see the Chunla River flowing lazily forty feet below. He needed to get across, but the slopes on each side were too steep for Dirkem; even a man would find it difficult. He found an area where the opposite side was closer by a few feet. He linked a Pyromantic Surge to the wind element, enshrouded the stallion in a dense mass of hardened air and lifted him over to the other side. This was not without concern for the horse and for his ability to control the strength of the surge, yet with a few false starts and several attempts at calming the stallion, he managed to get the horse safely across without any great drain on his own energy.

  His journey over was far easier. He took a run towards the edge, used strong currents, and controlled gusts of the third element to take him the rest of the way. He cleared the gorge edge by four yards.

  He would check the Orrinn now and again as the day wore on. Mirryn could only see so much through the dense foliage of the forest. Even though autumn held sway here, there were still some red and brown leaves stubbornly clinging to branches and the storm the previous day did little to shift them. The soldiers were moving in a different direction know. They did not like to move too far into the forest, and they looked like they had lost the trail.

  He considered back-tracking and moving around them to try to kill some as night fell, then, after a while, he noticed that they started to turn back to regroup and settle down for the night.

  He wandered on, slower this time. The day was warm and sunny, and he stowed his slightly damp cloak in his pack. He looked for a good place to camp and meditate when he stopped suddenly and sniffed the air. He could smell cooked meat.

  He dropped Dirkem’s reins, allowing him to graze and follow at his leisure, and unsheathed Tragenn. He followed the smell to an open glade covered in dense fallen leaves. He sensed a presence and saw a tan-coloured mare with a bright white mane, an ornate dark green saddle, and saddlebags beside her.

  The smouldering fire was closer to him and he could see a well-cooked pig on a spit. He could not sense any other presence, but the mouth-watering smell of the pig was breaking his concentration and he suddenly felt hungry.

  He sheathed his sword and took out his small, bone-handled hunting knife he got from Old Toms for his birthday years ago. He was about to cut a slice of pork when he heard a light footfall on the leaves behind him and something sharp prodded him in the back.

  “Well, well, well, little thief. Don’t you know that it is impolite to come into someone’s camp without permission?” asked a man’s voice.

  “I knocked, but no one answered,” said Havoc, realising there was a time for sarcasm and it was not when you had a sword pointing at your back.

  He received a jab for his insolence.

  “Bit cocky for a down at heel, robber, are you not? Turn around; let me see you,” said the man.

  Havoc stuck the knife into the pig and moved around slowly. He was just halfway when he sidestepped and drew his sword. His opponent was startled at his speed, but parried his lunge expertly.

  Havoc could see he was an older man with greying hair and goatee. He had bushy black eyebrows and bright brown eyes that gave him an almost cynical appearance; he wore light green breeches and a well-worn brown tabard. He seemed familiar, but was not sure how he could be.

  Havoc attacked with fast, wide arcing slices and he moved quickly, dancing around his opponent. However, the older man defended with a deliberately slow, but precise style that reminded him of his father. Keeping his sword within an imaginary arc close to his body and studying Havoc’s feet and eyes, it seemed to him as if he knew his next move.

  “Did you steal the sword, too, little thief?” asked the man, with a look of disgust on his face.

  “Actually, it was a gift,” said Havoc, and was surprised to see the man hesitate and frown.

  Havoc stepped up the attack, but the man saw it coming and defended well. He easily nullified anything Havoc threw at him and returned his own counterstrokes without warning. Therefore, the prince slowed down and used the same defensive style as the old man; this made his opponent smile.

  “You find something amusing?” he asked.

  “Only the outcome of this fight, which will result in your eventual death,” said the man.

  “What a keen sense of humour you have; I would find that funny too,” said Havoc, and the man actually laughed despite himself.

  Then the man attacked with sudden speed.

  The shock for Havoc was that his opponent was fast and it took all of his concentration to defend himself. He was facing a skilled swordsman. The blows forced him back and he found no free room to move away from the others forceful momentum, so he adopted the same old trick he had tried with Soujonn all those years ago and quickly swapped hands. Unlike Soujonn, he was up against a better class of warrior and the man just managed to block his blade just in time. However, Havoc was able to get himself under his defence and elbow him in the chest; he followed this up with a kick in the back.

  The old man moved out of reach quickly as he regained his balance and fought off Havocs lunge.

  “I’m impressed,” he said.

  “So you should
be.” It was Havoc’s turn to smile.

  His opponent used a new style. He reached out his sword arm and fended off Havoc’s attack with his sword point, keeping him at a distance; this frustrated the prince, as he was unable to get under the man’s defence, which was his primary style of fighting, and the other man knew it.

  Havoc took the opportunity to show off and use Tragenn in a variety of grips, upside down, behind his back and a swinging figure of eight. His aim was to leave himself open and to bring his tiring opponent closer.

  After a few minutes, he got his chance. He was open for the briefest second and the man lunged quickly. Havoc leant to the side, almost horizontal to the ground, letting the man’s sword glide over his chest. He then flicked Tragenn underarm and knick the man’s shoulder. Havoc backed off as the man touched the wound and saw that his fingers covered in blood.

  Then he felt it, the use of the Rawn Arts as the man healed himself.

  Now he understood how this fellow could creep up on him undetected, but he also sensed that he was not very powerful, but was he Vallkyte of Rogun?

  “Congratulations, first blood to you.” The man smiled.

  Havoc gave him a flourishing salute with Tragenn and bowed.

  “Had enough yet?” asked the man.

  “No, not yet, I was beginning to enjoy the exercise, now that I have had time to warm up,” said Havoc as he flexed his shoulders.

  The old warrior smiled. “That’s fine, but then, of course, you can rest when you are dead.”

  “That’s strange; that is what I was going to put on your epitaph.”

  They continued for another hour, both of them breathing heavily and constantly jibing each other with glib remarks. Sunbeams from the afternoon sun caught dust and thin dry debris from the forest floor kicked up by the fighting pair. Both men tried to move the other into the sunlight to blind them, but they were too smart for that trick. At one point, the old man changed styles and sliced a gash in Havoc’s woollen shirt, because of the younger man’s speed, he did not draw blood.

  The old man was beginning to tire, and Havoc saw a chance to get closer in and wound him, but it was a clever ruse from his opponent and he knocked Tragenn to one side. Havoc barely defended against his counterstroke and both men now had a grip on each other’s sword hands. The old man head butted Havoc and he lost his balance, but turned it into a fall, pulling the other man down and kicking him over his head and onto his back.

  Havoc saw stars from the head butt and it gave the old warrior time to attack again. Havoc scurried back and defended well; the other man flicked his sword upside down and brought it downward in a powerful over-arm arc.

  Havoc brought Tragenn to head height as he tried to shield himself from the blow. The clash of steel sent numbing shockwaves up his arm, and jarred his teeth.

  However, the worst casualty from this attack was Tragenn; the two swords collided with a mighty clang and the sword of his great grandfather, Valient the Third, shattered into a dozen pieces from the violence of the strike. The prince was so shocked that he totally forgot about the old man and looked at the bladeless hilt of his sword.

  “Oh no... I am sorry. I am so sorry. I did not mean for that to happen,” said the man.

  A fresh wind cut through the trees, and blew dark brown leaves over a tearful Havoc as he looked down at the shards of Tragenn.

  Chapter 19

  Powyss

  “It’s Tragenn isn’t it?” asked the older man. “I wasn’t sure at first, but it is?”

  Havoc was in a daze; his mind whirled. The sword of his ancestors was gone; he did not hear the pain in this man’s voice.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You are the De Proteous, aren’t you?” The man was looking intently at him. He had sheathed his sword and was now holding out his hand to lift him up from the ground.

  He looked at the offered hand for a few seconds, and then took it. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name is Powyss. If you are who I think you are then the rumour of your death appears to be greatly exaggerated.”

  “Yes, I’ am Havoc De Proteous Cromme.” He was angry with this man, but also at himself. He still gripped Tragenn’s hilt and its weight felt wrong in his hand.

  “I am very sorry, my prince, it was an accident and the fault lies with me.” The old man’s face was one of genuine sorrow and Havoc felt, for the first time since meeting this man, a liking for him. His rising anger receded and he waved away the apology.

  “It does not matter; you won the fight fair and square,” he said.

  “Even so, your sword…”

  “I will find another.” He frowned. “What rumours?”

  “What...? Oh, just the usual talk of Vallkyte propaganda. They are aware of your departure from your people a year ago.”

  Havoc was surprised at the enemy’s knowledge, even if it was speculation.

  “Really? That’s interesting,” he mumbled to himself.

  “Tragenn was made by a Rawn master smith. Even if I had it in my power to repair it, I would, but it will not be the same again.” The old man looked down at the glinting steel among the brown leaves.

  He walked to his saddlebags and pulled out a thick tan leather cloth. He then picked up the pieces of the broken sword very carefully and, with such reverence that Havoc smiled despite his loss.

  “You can hold on to these,” he said, handing the full pouch to Havoc. “They are like broken memories, though, memories all the same.”

  Havoc nodded in understanding.

  “Come, you look hungry; let’s eat,” said Powyss, indicating the cooked pig. He stoked the fire and carved the pig, placing large chunks of pork on flat stones with edible plant leaves, nuts and fungus in a bowl beside it.

  Havoc cut mouth-sized morsels with his hunting knife and was quickly full on the greasy, tender meat. Powyss cooked the mushrooms and nuts in the rendered fat until the smell made Havoc hungry again. They washed all of this down with the last of the wine he had purchased in Sloe.

  All through the feast, they talked. Powyss was curious about the prince’s story.

  “Where have you been for the last year?”

  “Oh... up in the Tattoium Mountains,” he said, “living the life of a hermit, I suppose!” He was aware that the other man knew he was being evasive, but, although he liked him, he was not sure he could trust him.

  Powyss was a friendly enough person, though. His smile was infectious and warm. He placed his age at about forty; apart from his laughter lines around the eyes and his slightly greying black hair, he looked young. Being a Rawn made guessing an age impossible, and Havoc had never seen a Rawn master as old as Powyss.

  “Why are you here, then?” asked Powyss.

  “I’m running from the Vallkyte soldiers.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean; they are everywhere. They’re hunting down some mad head hunter.”

  Havoc changed the subject quickly. “I’m sure I have seen you before,” he said.

  “It’s possible. I’m very famous.” He smiled. “You may have seen me with your Uncle Hagan; I was his champion and closest friend.”

  Havoc nearly dropped the stone plate he was holding. He stared at Powyss and suddenly remembered seeing him in the council chambers, dressed in the ornate Sonoran armour.

  “Yes at Aln-Tiss, the council of war,” he said through a mouthful of pork. “Before the war in the Wildlands.”

  “That’s right.” Powyss nodded. “Bloody sham that was. Kasan had us all fooled that day.” He pointed a greasy finger at Havoc. “I’ll bet you a thousand sovereigns that the war was all fabrication and lies.”

  “It was. I have been doing my own investigating, but I will tell you about that later. How did you come to be here; did you not fight at Dragorsloth?”

  “I wish I did, and I would be honoured to die beside your uncle. Unfortunately, the king sent me on a mission of importance,” he said ruefully.

  Havoc had another flash of memory, one
he had forgotten until now: his uncle and the champion talking in the corridor outside the council chambers while he hid behind a statue. As he pictured the scene, their conversation came back to him.

  “The folk of Zent; that was your mission; you were to move them to a safe place,” he said excitedly.

  Powyss went pale and his jaw dropped. “How could you possibly know that?”

  Me and my big mouth, thought Havoc, and decided to tell the truth for once. “Sorry, I was eavesdropping and hiding behind a statue when you both walked past.”

  “Hiding behind... Why did I not detect you?”

  “I was using the Rawn Hiding Art.”

  “You’re very good... Better than me at that age, in fact.”

  “Powyss, who are the folk of Zent? I know that Zent is an island off the coast of Sonora, but I thought it was uninhabited.”

  The older man blew air out from his cheeks and sighed. He ran his fingers through his beard and stared at Havoc so intently that it was becoming uncomfortable.

  “Some secrets,” he said, “are too painful to keep to yourself.” He gave Havoc one more long look and nodded, as if he had come to some agreement. “Very well, the folk are actually the Dwarves of Zent.” He waited for Havoc to show some sign of understanding, but got none.

  “The dwarves are like the Roguns and the Vallkytes, and not natives to this island; they come from a far off land; do not ask me what it is called; I wouldn’t be able to pronounce it in the dwarves’ tongue, but we call it Fyrandia. Over a thousand years ago, they settled in the Eternal Forest, but were persecuted by the humans who lived there. They are fierce in battle and managed an uneasy life among the people of the trees.

  “However, everything changed when the civil war with Baron Telmar and his host spread mass destruction everywhere they went. The dwarves fought beside the people of Sonora, and, after the war, when your Uncle Hagan was granted the citadel’s rule, they asked him for asylum. He gave it to them and allowed them a home on the Island of Zent on the condition that they would forge steel again.”