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

by P. D. Ceanneir

  Havoc jumped as Powyss suddenly yelled and ran towards the lake, stripping off his clothes and jumping in.

  “Come on in; it’s not cold,” he shouted.

  Havoc smiled and ran, stripping off his dirty clothes and feeling joy as the soft sand gave way under his feet. He dived into the shallow lake and screamed in shock.

  Powyss had lied; it was freezing.

  Havoc broke the surface, his teeth chattering. He heard Powyss laugh.

  “You bastard!” said Havoc.

  “Stop whining and be a man; it’s only a little cold,” taunted Powyss.

  After a while, the water was not so bad. It came up to his chest and the bottom was sandy, with some vegetation. Powyss got out to dry off, and even muttered with a few choice curses that it was even colder, and Havoc laughed at the older man’s involuntary shivering. He tried to catch fish as they swam past, but they were too slippery. He swam about, enjoying the exercise.

  He felt a presence close by and turned to the lake edge.

  There, at the water’s edge, stood three children unlike any he had seen before. They were short, stocky, with shaggy long hair, and small staring eyes on a very round face.

  “Hello there,” he said, conscious of the fact that he was swimming naked in their lake.

  The three children turned and fled off to the east.

  “Powyss,” he shouted. “I think I’ve upset the natives.”

  Powyss returned from collecting the horses, both gratefully drank from the lake. He saw the children running away, and shook his head. “So much for surprising them,” he said. “C’mon, let’s go meet the Dwarves of the Vale.”

  The dwarf settlement sat on the far side of the Vale. As he and Powyss trotted along, following the narrow river, he could see round huts of various sizes clumped together through the thin screen of trees.

  If Havoc was expecting a welcome party of a hundred fully armoured, axe-wielding dwarves of legend, he was sorely disappointed. Ten appeared, wearing white tunics and riding grey ponies. However, they did carry spears, a shield and a short sword strapped to their sides.

  Powyss raised his arm in salute as the dwarves got closer for them to see him.

  “Mirdûnk throm, telgartûm, Errcat,” he said, and winked at Havoc. “Most dwarves are short-sighted, so if you don’t want a spear in your head it’s best to let them know who you are.”

  “Errcat... Errcat, it’s Errcat!” shouted one of them.

  They all yelled in joy and, as they drew near, jumped off their mounts and ran to Powyss, who dismounted and indicated to Havoc to do the same.

  The dwarves swamped him. Havoc could see their wide, toothy grins through the bushy brown beards. They all clapped Powyss on his back and shook his hand, bowing.

  “Told you I was famous,” he said to Havoc, grinning.

  The dwarves greeted Havoc warmly, then mounted their ponies and escorted them to the settlement.

  The dwarf village was a more organised settlement than Havoc first thought. The largest structure was the chief’s, or kerf’s, hall surrounded by the smaller houses, penned in by a short dyke of sun-bleached rounded stone. All the buildings were of the same design, circular stone huts of finely cut white stone, with cedar frames for the windows and doorways, oak doors and shutters and a startlingly colourful grey-blue slate for the roof. Out of the centre of the roof rose white chimney smoke.

  The dwarves lived simply. The cots took up one side of the house cordoned off by furs for privacy. The kitchen and dining table took up the rest of the space, with the large stone fireplace in the centre.

  The two newcomers and their escorts arrived to the kerf’s hall. Inside, the layout conformed to much the same design as the smaller huts. However, it also acted as a meeting hall and a local tavern. Tables, chairs and stools took up most of the room around the large central hearth. This, Powyss said, was where all the dwarves met when the sun went down at the end of the working day.

  The kerf was a small, wizened, bald-headed dwarf with a long white beard. He greeted Powyss with a friendly smile and spoke to him in dwarfish, but the words came out like a growling rant and Powyss did his best to translate, often asking the kerf to repeat sentences.

  “My Dwarfish is only moderate, but the kerf is a stubborn bugger and only speaks his own language, but he understands me sure enough,” said Powyss, and the old dwarf smiled back at him. “He says he is pleased to see me, and he has sent for his son, Gunach, the master smith.”

  They fed well on sweetmeats, bread; the wine and beer flowed freely as more, and more dwarves appeared to greet Powyss and shake hands with Havoc. The females served and smiled at the young prince with their round faces and rosy cheeks.

  Then everyone stopped and stood as a dwarf, taller than the rest, appeared. He was handsome, with his dark hair in a bun and his beard plaited into two ponytails. He was wearing chain mail of the finest quality Havoc had ever seen and a thick leather apron that had old burn marks all over it; he clumped towards them in his steel-shod boots.

  Havoc and Powyss had stood with the rest; the handsome dwarf saw Powyss.

  “Errcat, my friend, how are you?” he asked, smiling.

  “I’m well, Gunach. This is my apprentice, Havoc.”

  Gunach stopped smiling as he looked at Havoc, and just stared.

  “You have come, as she said you would,” said the master smith, wide eyed.

  All eyes in the hall turned to Havoc in wonder. He felt the respect that they all had for the smith.

  “Who says, Gunach?” asked Powyss, frowning.

  “The beautiful girl in the blue dress, the Queen of the Ravens,” he said.

  Chapter 22

  The Birth of the Blacksword

  “It was a strange dream,” said Gunach. “She was very faint and I had to strain my ears to hear her. The ravens around her cawed loudly. She told me a man called Havoc will come to seek my aid; I was to prepare the way for your arrival.” The smith sat beside Powyss and sipped beer with them.

  Havoc was surprised at how strong the beer was. The other dwarves talked among themselves and ate the platters of meat and berries brought to the tables. Apparently, it was the responsibility of the women folk to gather the food for all of the community’s evening meal.

  “Was that all?” asked Powyss; some dwarves were listening as they ate.

  “Pretty much,” said the master smith.

  “I don’t understand; Verna is only in my mind, my sub-conscious mind that is, when I dream. I’m the one who calls her the Queen of the Ravens, so how could you dream of her too?” asked Havoc.

  “It would help if I knew who she was, and what she wants me to do?”

  Havoc looked at Powyss, who looked at him imploringly.

  “Tell him,” said Havoc.

  “Gunach, my friend, I have done a terrible thing,” said Powyss; his face was full of genuine sorrow. “Bor-Teaven has shattered Tragenn’s blade.”

  The hall went silent as, right on cue, Havoc pulled out the hilt of Tragenn from his pack and laid it with a thump on the table.

  There was a gasp from Gunach. He looked at the hilt, then Havoc, then the hilt again.

  “You are the De Proteous?” he asked.

  There were murmurs all around the hall. Havoc nodded.

  “This was a finely crafted sword,” said Gunach, “made by an accomplished sword smith of great renown.” He turned to Powyss. “Errcat, how could you do such a thing?”

  “It was an accident, Gunach,” said Powyss quietly, as if the excuse was not enough to exonerate him.

  Later, when the noise in the hall got too much, the three walked down to the hot pools on the other side of the settlement. Powyss explained that, because of volcanic activity at the far end of the Withers, hot water would seep through the rocks. This provided pure, clean mineral water for the metal smiths.

  Havoc and Powyss told Gunach their stories. Especially how they had met and how they had made it to the Vale, and their purpose for coming
.

  “You have always asked to pay me the debt of bringing your people here. I was to ask for anything,” Powyss said, “but I have always refused; the joy of being here is enough. My friend, I must ask you to help me right the wrong that I have wrought on the prince. Make him a sword worthy of his pure heart, and that I can feel guilty no more. If you will not make it for me, then do it for the De Proteous.”

  The master smith did not smile; he turned to Havoc. “Does he always talk such bollocks?” he asked.

  Havoc laughed and nodded. “Every second of the damn day that I’ve known him,” he said.

  “Of course I will make the sword for the prince, Errcat. I will make it for both of you. So tomorrow we must be up bright and early to see you fight.” Then he walked off back to the hall to finish his beer.

  “Fight?” Havoc asked Powyss.

  “Yes, the master smith and his apprentices will know what type of sword to make you, from the way you move in a sword fight,” said Powyss, rubbing his hands together, “which is good because I’m going to start your training tomorrow.”

  “Why do they call you Errcat?”

  “When I met them, I was Captain of the Sonoran King’s Guard, but they have no word for ‘captain’. The closest is Errcat, which means ‘great bodyguard’ or something. Now, let’s go and get drunk.”

  And they did.

  The beer took its revenge on Havoc’s thirst in the morning. His heartbeat pounded in his head and the morning sun hurt his eyes and made him groan.

  He vaguely remembered a dream where a tall man in a black cloak towered over him. The imposing figure pointed at his chest with a long pale finger, but his soft whispering voice, so full of rage and malice, was difficult to understand. The prince recalled of the vison-dream he had when Verna prophesised the Nithi’s doom, he recognised the same tall figure stalking amongst the crowd who had gathered at the execution. Was this strange being haunting him?

  As he woke and rubbed his eyes, a comely dwarf girl took one look at him in the spare bed of her father’s hut, and laughed. She gave him some Sorren grass to chew on. After five minutes, his headache disappeared.

  Powyss was already up. He was doing stretches and sword moves with imaginary opponents.

  “At last you’re up, sleepy head; are you ready for round two?” he asked.

  They sparred in a short grass circle next to a display rack of decorative armour and weapons. Havoc selected his sword from the nearby weapons rack; as an afterthought, he took another of similar size and balance.

  So, with one in the right and the other in his left hand, he fended off the older man’s attacks. It was not like the last time they had fought; at that time, it had been serious. This time, they concentrated on outwitting the other without bringing harm.

  At some point in the spar, he was aware of Gunach arriving with three other dwarves, his apprentices. They watched and took note. Gunach would turn to his students and talk to them, pointing out Havoc’s style and various moves. After an hour of sparring, the dwarves disappeared and the two men took a break. Other dwarves arrived to watch them.

  “I feel like I’m on show,” said Havoc, taking a drink of ice-cold water.

  “The dwarves are perfectionists; to be able to make a warrior’s sword, they have to know how to fight, and they are some of the fiercest fighters I know. Gunach is one of eight master smiths in the community; he is also the best,” said Powyss.

  They sparred some more for the benefit of the crowed, then Powyss taught him more of the Subtle Arts. He started to show him how to conceal himself out in the open grassland.

  “People’s sight can be deceptive; they need to rely on the other senses, so use undetectable amounts of the wind element to blow the sounds you make away from you.”

  Havoc did as his teacher said and tried to creep up on him from behind, but Powyss either heard or detected him when he got halfway, which Powyss thought was a good start. He had a go at hiding himself next to objects, such as trees or rocks; this was something he was good at, and Powyss complimented him on his expertise in this, but, when it came to hiding in the open, he was a failure.

  “Be like the air. Think yourself into floating particles. Push your opponent’s sight away from you.”

  This was harder than he thought.

  Gunach arrived in the afternoon and summoned Havoc to follow him alone. He took him away from the village and closer to trees and cliffs on the edge of the Vale. There, he could see several caves in neat rows along the cliff face, and the master smith took him to the largest one. Inside, they walked some way until he saw a large, black, iron kiln made in two halves riveted together. A set of canvas bellows as tall as Havoc was systematically blowing air in.

  “We have already extracted iron from the ore in the largest of our smelting kilns,” informed Gunach. “We heat it inside a vacuum and we take out all of the impurities by chemical reduction. This contraption is what I call the Converter. We use it to powder the metal and add a hardening agent, which is usually carbon. Although, this time, I am using wolfram to make the blade harder. I can’t go into details about the entire process, because we all have secrets to keep.” He was staring at Havoc as he said this. “I will make two swords for you, and you will be able to use your Rawn powers to merge them together; I do this because your two-handed style is very impressive. You will also help me make the blade.”

  “I will?” Havoc’s eyes widened.

  “Yes, you must help me to put your soul into it; that’s what the girl told me.”

  “She did? I though you told me she did not say very much else last night?” Havoc was surprised.

  “Forgive me for not being honest; she said many things, but I could not say anything in front of Powyss... She told me you are a Pyromancer.”

  Havoc went pale; he stared open mouthed at Gunach.

  “Only a Pyromancer can help make the sword I intend to fashion for you.” The Master Smith smiled. “You have not told Powyss, no?”

  “No, I don’t know how to; I have it under control. People will still fear me, anyway,” he said sadly.

  “Yes, your sister said that too; she said I was not to fear you. So I won’t.”

  “Thank you.”

  The dwarf walked over to a long wooden bench, strewn with various tools and moulds. He picked up a leather bag and returned to Havoc’s side.

  “I will need you to add this to the blades,” he said, and opened the bag for Havoc to see its contents. Inside was black powder that sparkled as the light caught it.

  “What is it?”

  “Its black diamond powder; very rare. You will need to attach the powder to the other elements of the blades at a molecular level.”

  “That’s difficult, even for a Ri,” said Havoc in an unconvincing tone.

  “Yes, but not for a Pyromancer; your sister said to me that you use your Pyromancer power through the other Rawn Arts; is that correct?”

  Havoc nodded.

  “I know what Barron Telmar was capable of. If you were to fuse the contents of this bag to the atoms in the blades, you will have a sword that is indestructible, a sword that will not shatter, and a sword that will slice the very air into pieces.” He was looking at Havoc with pride in his eyes.

  “Are you not afraid of a sword that powerful in the hands of a Pyromancer?”

  “With great power comes great responsibility; you must learn to use it, young prince. That is another thing your sister said to me.”

  “Is there anything she did not say to you?”

  The dwarf thought for a moment. “When I don’t say it, you will know.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait, Gunach.”

  The master smith turned back to him.

  “There were three Skrol symbols on Tragenn’s blade; is it possible to add them to the new weapon and use the same hilt?”

  “Of course I can; I know the symbols, and it will be an honour, though I will make two hilts with the dragons on them.”

  “Thank
you. Can I ask you one more thing?”

  “Yes, anything.”

  “Errcat, what does it really mean?” asked Havoc, who smiled at Gunach’s wide-eyed expression.

  “Ahh... you are very astute for one so young. Do you promise not to tell him?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Understand me when I say that everyone here has the deepest love for him.”

  Havoc nodded.

  “Powyss’ grasp of Dwarfish is poor at best; when he interprets my father’s words, he does not realise that the kerf is using the children’s vocabulary.” He sighed. “Errcat means ‘Little Beard’; when a dwarf says this to another dwarf, it is an insult; when we say it to Powyss, it becomes a term of affection; please don’t tell him.”

  “Do you have a name for me?” Havoc smiled.

  The dwarf ran his stumpy fingers through the plaits of his beard in thought. “I will get back to you on that one.”

  Havoc had a restless night that night; his concerns had been many. The sword, for one, was going to be a taxing challenge to his abilities, and Powyss would certainly realise how different Havoc really was to a normal Rawn. He would have to tell him the truth. He also had concerns about Verna; it seemed she was not content to haunt his dreams alone, but others from beyond the grave. He had a feeling of powers at work higher than his own.

  He was so used to sleeping on the damp, cold earth that the soft cot was uncomfortable to him. He took a blanket and slept out in the chill night beside the hut.

  As the winter days wore on, Powyss’ enthusiasm and keenness to show Havoc all his tricks stepped up a notch. He took ten round posts of various heights and drove them into the ground in a circle to be used in a spar. They would leap from post to post and their swords would clash. Powyss showed Havoc how to use the wind element to keep him from falling after losing his balance between leaps, and landing. He would even show him how to use the earth element and sway the posts into a more stable platform as he ran over them. The children entertained Mirryn with winged insects they caught in mid-air, and fed them to her as she sat on one of the posts.