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

by P. D. Ceanneir

  They trotted on. The horses became fidgety as their hooves snapped bones that they could not avoid. Havoc was grateful for the mist obscuring their view of the ground, but his imagination was running amok.

  As midday came – or so they thought, because the mist gave the impression of a timeless void – they found a watercourse, which, apart from the mist, was the only moving substance in the marsh; it meandered through dips and hollows and had the look of the same brown sludge that filled the pools. They decided not to fill their canteens. They crossed the brown stream and soon came to a dead end in the shape of a hill.

  “Are these the hills Ness Ri looked from?” asked Powyss.

  Havoc shrugged and looked up at the hills steep slope; the summit was lost to view by the mist, but the mist hugged the ground and the hill’s crest might be above the cloud. “Mirryn will find out for us,” he said.

  They found the Cairn of Hagan on a hilltop to their right; through the Orrinn and the kite, Havoc could see that his guess was right and the hill protruded out of the thick clouds.

  They left the horses to graze at the foot of the hill and hiked up the steep incline towards the top. It took them the better part of an hour; even guided by Mirryn they missed some paths, and the twists and turns around rocky outcrops were many.

  Presently, the cloud thinned and then disappeared altogether as they reached the summit. Clouds and blue sky greeted them, and the view across the mist was spectacular; it looked like an undulating snowfield.

  They found the cairn of the long-dead hero right at the very top. It was large, taller than a man was. Its surface was made of a mixture of different types of rocks that fused together by heat, which gave it a unique glassy surface. Inside could be seen the dark outline of a headless corpse.

  Powyss peered into the cairn with sad eyes. “Well,” he said, ‘you’ve gone and died first, haven’t you? Always thought it would be me to go before you. I should have been there to save you.” He looked on the verge of tears.

  Havoc felt awkward, but rubbed the older man’s back anyway.

  “Got your nephew here and I will look after him, and serve him like the brother I found in you.” He walked off suddenly, so Havoc could not see him cry.

  Havoc felt overcome with emotion at the words.

  “I hope you are still telling the jokes in the feasting halls of the lost heroes, Uncle; I will be sending you a large audience,” he said to the dark form.

  “What did Lord Ness tell you of the inscription he wrote?” asked Powyss, who was on the other side of the cairn.

  “I didn’t know he wrote one,” said Havoc, shaking his head and walking around to the other side.

  “I only know a few words in Skrol, so this makes no sense to me,” said Powyss.

  Havoc saw the inscription carved in the neat, circular symbols of Skrol. As he looked closer, he saw the inscription waver and become a more simplified and coherent text. It was similar to the playing cards he had seen in the Reivers Tavern; he could see the symbols underneath, but their meaning became clear to him like plain writing.

  “It says:

  Here lies the body of Hagan Cromme

  Fist king of the Sonorans

  Who died here at the Battle of Dragorsloth

  On the 3026th Year of Ascension

  A greater hero never was

  He is blessedly in the lap of the old gods.”

  “Those are beautiful words; so he did tell you, then?” asked Powyss.

  “No, he didn’t.” Havoc was still staring at the words and frowning; even when he looked away and back again, the Skrol became clear again.

  “Come on now; it takes scholars older than I to understand a fifth of Skrol, yet here you are, a teenager, reading it to me.”

  “Here,” said Havoc, handing the hilt of Tragenn to Powyss. “Take this and walk away. I think it has something to do with the Orrinn.”

  Powyss shrugged and walked off some distance. Havoc looked at the inscription; it was still clear to him, but slowly wavering back into the symbols again. He focussed on the actual words and it became clear again; it was taking a lot of concentration. Powyss came back and, once the hilt was back in his hand, the Skrol became readable without any effort.

  “I can read Skrol with the Orrinn; without it, I have to concentrate, and I can just make it out, only because I know what it means.”

  Powyss had a go with the Orrinn, but, to him, it was unreadable Skrol.

  ‘This is a very special Orrinn. I don’t think it has anything to do with seeing at a distance or the future. I think it has something to do with seeing with conscious thought,” said Powyss, looking at the silver globe.

  “I’m not sure. I think you are closer to the answer with that statement, though,” said Havoc.

  They left the Cairn of Hagan and walked back down the hill. Before they left the summit to walk back into the clouds again, Powyss pointed to the south at a high range of mountains in the distance.

  “That’s the Withers over there, so we need to go over to the south-east to those hills over there.” The new destination he pointed to was a small crown of hills slightly closer to them than the Withers.

  “Why that way?” asked Havoc.

  “Because south is far too dangerous and the terrain is far worse than what we have come through. It is easier, anyway, to the southeast, and the best way to get into the Withers unseen. However, we need provisions and there is a small village in those hills called Little Dorit; if we head off early, we will make it by nightfall.”

  “All right... tell me Powyss, this Year of Ascension, is it something to do with the old Assassi calendar?”

  “Yes, it’s an old Eldi term for the amount of years since they set foot on the island; their rise to power as it were. Quite a lot of the civilised world still uses the system to this day”

  “We don’t own this island,” remarked Havoc to himself, “the island owns us.”

  Powyss smiled at him. “I think you will make a good king one day, Havoc. You have a wise head on your shoulders”

  “I would need a kingdom first.”

  “How do you propose to get it back?”

  “Raise an army and destroy my enemies; it’s as simple as that. I am De Proteous. I have that within my power, at least.”

  They camped at the foot of the hill, ate a cold meal of bread, and salted pork, washed down with the last of the water. They talked about many things, mainly about Hagan.

  “Did you know,” said Powyss, staring into the distance, “that in the fables of the Rawn Sagas, powerful Rawns were able to heal back on their severed limbs, even their heads?”

  “What a load of bollocks; decapitation is the only sure fire way to kill a Rawn master; that and piercing the heart, or extreme loss of blood.”

  “No, it’s true; I’m deadly serious.” Powyss did look serious enough to give Havoc pause.

  “You are having me on. Do you think Uncle Hagan could have healed his own head back on, then?”

  Both men sat in silence. Then Powyss turned to Havoc.

  “Na... The bloody fool would put it on back to front, anyway,” said Powyss. “At least he would be able to kiss his own arse.”

  Havoc laughed. “Well, at least he would see who was sneaking up on him,” said Havoc, getting in on the joke.

  “Pissing would be difficult, but he never used the privy, anyway,” said Powyss, grinning.

  Both men laughed until it hurt. Havoc could see, in his mind’s eye, Hagan sitting in the feasting Halls of Heroes, and laughing at the macabre insults they banded about amongst each other.

  The next day, they made good time across the drier area of the marsh. The mist thinned a little so the terrain ahead became easier to follow, and, as night fell, the small hills and Little Dorit came into view. The prince glimpsed the orange lantern lights from the town some distance away, even beyond the dense cloud.

  Havoc felt a sense of relief as they left the Dragon Marshes for good. He felt it had a life of it
s own. The feeling that it was a separate void, its own entity, was strong and disturbing. Little Dorit, on the other hand, was quaint. It nestled in the foot of a crescent of small hills that surrounded the flat ground the village sat on. The locals, Powyss told him, called this formation a Dorit; hence, the towns clustered houses taking the same name.

  Powyss found a stable for the horses and fresh hay to feed them. He paid the owner well, a short, fat man with a friendly face and a thin moustache. He did not seem bothered to see them. Powyss explained to the prince that the village was the recipient of many travellers.

  “I don’t want to bring attention to ourselves, so we will just dress plainly,” said Powyss, who gave some of his old clothes to Havoc. “Keep your daggers handy, though; it can get a little rough here.”

  They headed up the gravel road to the local supply store. Vallkyte soldiers were everywhere.

  “If anyone asks, we are father and son doing some trapping in the Withers, all right,” said Powyss.

  “All right, I will... Daddy.”

  “Oh, you’re so funny.”

  They bought food, fresh water and wine skins with the last of Havoc’s gold. It did not bother him; he was a Rawn and he could make some more. Both were looking forward to a hot meal and a beer at the local alehouse when they had rounded the corner and nearly bumped into three Vallkyte soldiers walking out of the tavern entrance.

  “Did you get the hard tack, son?” asked Powyss, in a loud voice so the soldiers could hear; they looked their way and Havoc avoided eye contact with them.

  “You know I don’t like hard tack, Father,” he said, putting a little whine into his voice.

  “Nonsense, boy, there is always room for hard tack,” said Powyss gruffly. He shook his head in exasperation at the soldiers; they, in turn, ignored them.

  They entered the bar. It was crowded and noisy. Most of the locals were here, with some other soldiers. Powyss picked an empty table in a dark corner and ordered ale and hot food.

  “Concentrate on the art of concealment,” said Powyss. “Wish yourself invisible like I did to you in the Oldwoods; dampen out everyone’s mind to your presence.”

  Havoc nodded and concentrated. The din in the small bar and the smell of the unwashed faded, but not completely; it was as if it was coming from another room.

  Powyss was very good at this; his eyes glazed over with the effort, and he just vanished, though not from sight. He could still see him, but his mind did not register his presence. He could just see him out of the corner of his eye, flickering into being.

  The girl with the food and drinks arrived and looked at the table with a confused look on her face. Havoc had concentrated in becoming the shadow he was sitting next to; it formed the table and the back wall, and he was amazed to see the girl frowning and looking straight at him. She looked around her and Powyss appeared at her side. Havoc had not seen him move.

  “That table there, thank you, my dear,” he said as he patted her rump and paid her a tip.

  “You’re very good at that. I’m impressed,” said Havoc.

  “So you should be.”

  Havoc laughed.

  “You’re good too. You were merging with your surroundings, but it gets harder out in the open; takes practice. You can use the Rawn Arts to do little things to have a big advantage; the good thing about it is it is hard for others to detect because you are only using a small amount of energy to get a bigger result. I call it the Subtle Arts.”

  They ate their food and supped their ale. Havoc noticed that no one in the bar paid them any attention. Locals sang by the fire, one of the serving wenches danced for a Vallkyte soldier who was grinning with lust up at her, and other soldiers were ordering drinks at the bar. Fiddle music changed key and lifted tempo as the dancing girl spun faster.

  Powyss gripped his arm. “They’re looking for you; the Vallkytes are asking the locals about a dark-cloaked man.”

  “How do you know that in this racket?” asked Havoc.

  “Subtle Arts Havoc; I can use small amounts of the third element to bring voices closer to my ears; it’s difficult, but I will teach you this.”

  “That’s amazing. You’d make a good spy.”

  “Not really; I’m just naturally nosy.”

  The tavern door opened and in walked a beautiful woman in a purple robe. Havoc could just see the rosy red lips under the hood. Powyss gasped and tightened his grip on Havocs arm. He hissed, “Conceal now!”

  Havoc did so.

  The bar, which was once noisy and full of life, suddenly drained of all joy when the Havant priestess walked in. She lowered her hood and Havoc saw the long white hair and the thin pale face with dark almond eyes that pierced into the gloomy tavern.

  Silence filled the bar as all eyes looked at her.

  “Sergeant Garret, why are your men here?” she asked in a light but firm voice, to the soldier who the girl had danced for.

  “We are questioning the locals My Lady,” said the sergeant nervously.

  “Do you have to get them, and yourselves, drunk first before you ask those questions?”

  Havoc turned to Powyss; his grip on his arm was like iron, and his eyes glazed again. He was using the Subtle Arts for both of them. Fear was oozing out of his every pore.

  “No, My Lady, we were just finished,” said the sergeant, and nodded to the door; his men left quietly and quickly.

  The Havant looked around the bar; her eyes passed over their dark corner without lingering.

  “Go about your business, please,” she said, smiling but there was no emotion behind the smile. She turned and left.

  Powyss let out a huge sigh. “Jynn; should have realised it was her who summoned the storm.”

  “You know her?” asked Havoc.

  “Yes, she is a powerful Ri; very rare for a female to become a Ri. Hagan and I suspected her of being an assassin for Cinnibar; we have to leave now.”

  They walked out as quickly and unsuspicious as they could. No Vallkyte soldiers were around to see them leave. They quickly walked to the stables to collect their horses, but stopped when they saw the Havant enter through the stable doors.

  “Quick, this way,” said Powyss and they walked to the rear of the building and looked through the crack in the wooden walls. “Conceal yourself, Havoc, just in case.”

  Havoc saw that the Havant had pulled something out from the folds of her cloak. It was small, oval in shape, and glowed white in the palm of her hands. It reminded him of his sword’s Orrinn. It started to pulse as if a bright light was inside it.

  “The search continues, mistress,” said Jynn to the stone.

  “Have you made any advances, my dear?” asked a voice that sounded familiar to Havoc.

  “None since the Oldwoods,” answered Jynn. “Locals, wherever we go, have sightings of a black-cloaked ghost with an unusual sword, but they are all superstitious in these parts. I have read the minds of the chief and his councillors, and our suspect did not come this way.”

  “Very well, you have made excellent progress all the same; what is your next plan?”

  “Tattoium, that is where he was first sighted, that is my next port of call.”

  “May the gods go with you precious one.”

  “And you, mistress.” Jynn pocketed the orb and left the stable. When she disappeared down a side street, Havoc and Powyss went to collect their horses.

  “She was talking to Cinnibar,” said Powyss as he saddled Sarema.

  “I thought I recognised the voice, but why are the Havants after me?”

  “Not a clue, but the good news is they are looking in the wrong place, so we have to leave now.”

  “What was that thing she was talking into?” asked Havoc as he kept watch, while Powyss collected their other belongings.

  “Not seen one before, but I think it is a Lobe Stone; it’s used for communicating at long distance with other Lobe Stones.”

  “It looks like Tragenn’s Orrinn.”

  “It’s not
an Orrinn. I think they are manmade, but no one is sure. It’s possible that it may be linked to an Orrinn, though.” Powyss had everything in the saddlebags now. “That’s everything; let’s go.”

  They left on newly fed horses, leaving Little Dorit with its bright lights and simple country life. They crossed the river near a large beaver dam at Lake Tuen and followed a road to the south until they entered the Wither Mountains at daybreak.

  The route that Powyss took them on was long and winding and Havoc had the impression that they backtracked many times. They would stop every hour and hide their tracks. They would climb rocky cliffs, leading the horses on foot, and gallop through ice-cold rivers to cool down the horses from the sun, which shone bright in the blue sky at this height.

  Powyss changed course on the second day and brought them to a high cliff face that loomed above them. They had followed the cliff for a day now and Havoc was beginning to think there was no end to it.

  “See anything unusual?” asked Powyss as he reined in his horse and turned to look at the cliff.

  “Well, apart from the hair growing out of your ears, no.”

  Powyss rolled his eyes to the sky. “I mean on the cliff face.”

  Havoc looked and could see nothing unusual in what he saw; he shrugged and shook his head. Powyss got off his horse and walked up to a tall shrub that was climbing up the side of the cliff. He turned, waved with a smile, and disappeared.

  Havoc was stunned. He walked up to the cliff and saw that it was not one rock wall, but two. There was a gap hiding behind the shrub. Powyss appeared again, smiling. “It’s wide enough for the horses; let’s go.”

  They were now moving through a narrow tunnel, with a clear view of the sky; water trickled down over the rocky walls and the ground was sodden with mud. A sweet smell came to him, like dew on cut grass. The corridor opened wider and they climbed up for a while towards a V-shaped opening.

  His first view of the Vale stunned his senses; Powyss grinned at his reaction.

  The narrow grassland, about half a mile wide, stretched for several miles ahead of them, with brilliant green grass swaying in the wind. There was a large blue lake right in front of them; it had white sand all around it, with short trees that swayed in the weak wind. Patches of colour were dotted here and there, as the wild flowers still bloomed this late in the year, like a rainbow sprouting from the ground. Small woodland, just discernible in the far in the distance at the other side of the pasture, gave the whole vista, with its surrounding high mountain peaks and spruce, a feeling of being untouched and hidden for millennia.