He returned to the hall on the shoulders of two dwarves, who, for their size, were very strong. The women folk served more food and the beer flowed into never empty tankards. It was widely known that dwarves did not need any excuse to celebrate; the fact that Havoc was their first customer in four years was enough for them. The prince felt it prudent to be careful not to drink too much of the strong beer. He left the revelry in the hall to the dwarves and sat outside on one of the benches that lined the curved wall of the building and sipped from a pewter tankard.
It was only midday and the winter cloud had covered the sky in a light white glow; he did not feel cold as he leant against the wall and looked at the blade of the sword.
“Thought up a name for the metal yet?” asked Powyss. He was only slightly drunk. He held a mug of frothy ale in one hand, and in the other, he offered Havoc a bowl of steaming hot stew.
“I was thinking of calling it Pyromancium,” he said, taking the stew gratefully and starting to eat.
“Sounds good,” Powyss nodded. “Have you thought about what I said yesterday?”
“About this…” He indicated the sword in his lap. “…Being the Blacksword of Prophecy? I have, and I still don’t believe you.”
“Well, I can prove it.” At this point, Powyss pulled out a large piece of parchment from his trouser pocket and unfolded it. “I wrote down what I could remember of the prophecy from my old school days.”
“I thought you said the prophecy was only five hundred years old?” asked Havoc with a smile.
“You’re not funny, young prince.” Powyss punched him playfully in the arm. “Now listen. ‘Lo, when the ruling tribes split asunder’…” He looked at Havoc expectantly.
“That could mean the war between the Roguns and the Vallkytes, I grant you.” Havoc shrugged.
“I think it does. The next line is, ‘and the wandering prince rages forth’; that is obviously you. There are not that many princes left on the island; Soujonn is dead, and your brother is illegitimate. You have wandered from your people.”
“I was also raging a bit, I suppose.”
“No, rage means something else. Five hundred years ago, there was no such word as Pyromancer; it was always known as Rage.”
That gave Havoc pause to think. He was starting to feel that Powyss might have a point.
“‘The Blacksword shall be fashioned in the lonely pasture’.” He looked around him. “It can’t get much lonelier than the Vale.”
“Oh, come on! There must be thousands of lonely pastures dotted all over the continent,” said Havoc unconvincingly. The words of Gunach came back to him: ‘only a Pyromancer can make the sword I intend to fashion for you’.
Powyss took out a thin piece of charcoal and wrote ‘Valesinum Lornasind’ in very neat handwriting at the top of the page.
“That is the original name for the Vale, given to it by my ancestor. The name Vale comes from the first word. Valesinum Lornasind is from the ancient Noric language of the Mubean Desert. It literally means the Lonely Pasture.”
“All right... Go on.”
“‘In the deep, dark forge it shall be born’.” Powyss pointed to the cliffs where the caves were. “That refers to Gunach’s forge; ‘crafted by a son of Pelnier’.”
Havoc frowned at the last part. “What is the kerf’s name?” he asked, and Powyss shrugged.
Mitty was a short distance from them, hanging out wet clothes on a wooden frame. Powyss asked her what the kerf’s name was in his broken Dwarfish.
“Herken Lornsson,” she called back.
Havoc smiled and Powyss looked disappointed.
“We’ll come back to that one later,” he said. “‘in the right it shall wrought vengeance, and in the left fear’; this part refers to the two swords of the twin dragons, Dex and Sin.”
“But Dex represents justice, not vengeance.”
“In modern times, yes, but in the old days of the Dragor-rix War he represented justice through vengeance, whereas Sin was always the dragon of fear. Listen to the rest; this will interest you: ‘the prince then rages not, his destiny looms’. It is saying you now control of your curse, and you have. It’s also saying you have a destiny, which you yourself told me you do, then it goes on to say, ‘all enemies shall be vanquished, for he has the Sword that Rules’; it’s basically saying that, with a sword that can cut through anything, a weapon of power, you will be invincible. You will defeat your enemies with the king of swords.”
“Or it may mean I become king and rule with the sword,” said Havoc, who was starting to come around to the fact that he may have the actual Blacksword in his hands.
“Could be, but what it is saying is that you will defeat everyone who stands against you.”
Havoc pondered this for a while, running his hands over the black blade. “All right, I believe you, but what about the Pelnier part? That doesn’t make sense.”
Powyss shrugged and was about to say something when a crowd of dwarves staggered out of the hall. One of them was Gunach.
“There you are, my friends.” He was a little worse for drink. “Come back in, drink and be merry.” He saw the parchment in Powyss’ hand. “Are you reading the prince poetry, Errcat?”
“It’s a prophecy about this sword.” Powyss sighed, and handed it to the dwarf.
Gunach’s big-bearded smile slowly faded from his face as he read. “How old is this prophecy?” he asked.
“About five hundred years old,” said Powyss.
“Then what it states here is all true. My peoples left our homelands about five hundred years ago to come to the island. The ancestor of all dwarves was the half-god, Pelnier, who delivered us to freedom thousands of years ago. So you see all of dwarvenkind are the children of Pelnier.”
Powyss smiled and raised his eyebrows at Havoc, who was shocked into silence.
The days that followed went by quickly and peacefully. Havoc came to have a deep affection for the Dwarves of the Vale. He loved the way they looked at him with humour in their eyes and a slight touch of awe. Their respect for him, which was already generous, now became a form of reverence as they passed him bowing and looking at the Blacksword. Clearly, they had all learnt of the prophecy.
He continued to train in the Subtle Arts. He found a way to hide himself in the open. He would use small amounts of the water element to weave himself a mist to cover his approach as he walked through it, towards Powyss, like a shadow in the fog.
Powyss found that this worked for the prince up to a point, but it also obscured Havoc’s view of his opponent.
However, he had improved at sneaking up on the older man and caught him out many times.
Powyss took the training up a level and blindfolded Havoc as they leapt around the training posts.
“Use the wind to bring sounds to you from all around; defend accordingly, but keep a mind on your footing,” said Powyss.
Havoc improved every day. It came to the point when Powyss had nothing more to teach him, so they improved on what they had already learnt.
The prince also watched the dwarves train. He was amazed at how nimble these short people were, how aggressive, powerful, and, most of all, how relentlessly durable they were in a fight. Most fought with axe and spear. They clad themselves with a lightweight and strong metal that did not dent when struck by the strongest dwarf with an axe.
He and Powyss visited the dwarf armoury, which was a huge workroom inside one of the larger caves. It was full of various pieces of war craft wear, from helmets with cheek guards to iridescent plate steel. Full body suits were on display, alongside tall shields embossed with crests and coats of arms.
In the armouries fabrics section, Havoc found a new cloak. It was jet black, waterproof, and thinly quilted. Its wide sleeves stopped just short of the elbow and the length stopped below the knee. It split at the sides so it did not impede when riding a horse. There were three silver clasps to fasten it at the front. It had a wide, deep hood that covered most of his face.
> Underneath, he wore a dark red woollen shirt with the twin dragons of Sin and Dex sewn onto the front, which Mitty had made for him a few weeks ago. On his arms, he wore fingerless black gloves that went up to his elbows and had metal strips running along the forearms similar to the metal strips in his boots, which Gunach had repaired and newly shod.
The kerf presented him with a new scabbard for the Blacksword. It was of the same style as the black ash pole he had made himself and Powyss now possessed, although this one was wider at the top, for the sword to slip into easily, and had the twin dragons, in silver and gold leaf, embossed under dark lacquer.
He also received a new pair of black leather trousers with pockets and a belt with pouches. With the sword and scabbard strapped over the cloak, via an over-shoulder strap and a belt in front, he looked dark and menacing. He was reminded of his visit to the Reivers Tavern, so many months ago now, and the persona of the black-cloaked man he had conjured to fearsome effect and the dreams he was having of the tall thin creature with the menacing aura. This would be his new form, and it would strike fear into the hearts of his enemies.
Havoc had practiced every day with the Blacksword’s Earth Orrinn. It was difficult at first, but now he was able to change the sword into Tragenn at will. However, the process was not perfect and anyone who knew Tragenn would see differences that were not there before.
The Orrinns’ power was far more than first thought. Havoc was able to change the appearance of his new clothes, as well as the sword. He could only change his look up to a point. Like the sword, the size and density could not be changed, texture and weight would not alter, but the colour could be easily modified, even give his clothes a threadbare look. His black cloak would change into a dull brown with patches and holes, and his shirt and trousers into a pale grey complete with holes or patches for authenticity. He would still be able to feel his new attire through the camouflage; anybody touching him would notice something was not quite right.
The Orrinns’ range was small, though. When Havoc walked away from the sword and was out of the Orrinns’ ‘sphere of influence’, the disguise would change back to the original black within a few seconds.
“That’s quite imposing,” said Powyss when he saw Havoc in his new black garb.
“It’s meant to be. Part of my soul is in the Blacksword, don’t ask me how I know, I just do; we are the same. The sword and I are as one, we shall be synonymous. We shall be called the Blacksword.”
“Good idea. Keep this as a secret persona, and separate from the real you, as Prince Havoc, and I think people will quake in trepidation.”
“That is my intention.”
Havoc had adopted his threadbare look when Powyss asked for a moment of his time. They walked for some way across the grassy plain; birds twittered in the distance, the promise of spring in the air.
“How do you propose to raise an army?” asked Powyss.
“Captain Jericho has a force in the mountains; I can start there. The Prince’s Legion with my father is under my command, as well.”
“May I make a small suggestion?”
“Anything,” said Havoc.
“I mentioned to you that there were some people who I did not find on the Dragorsloth; however, I did find them somewhere else.”
“Where was that?”
“They are prisoners of war. Now used as slave labour in the gold mines of Haplann, most of them are what is left of my original unit that guarded the king. When you found me in the Oldwoods, I was using it as a base to snoop around the Haplann area.”
“Then some young fool blew your cover!”
“Yes, but it does not matter anyway, because the whole escapade of trying to free them was suicidal, if I attempted it on my own. With a Pyromancer on my side as the Blacksword, well, then I may have a chance.” He was silent for a second or two. “If you want to have a strong and professional unit to command, you can’t do any better than the Sonoran Royal Guard,” he said, looking at Havoc with great wisdom in his eyes.
“All right. Do we have a small chance of success?”
“More likely ranging from none too damn near impossible,” Powyss smiled.
“Sounds like fair odds. Let’s do it.”
They walked back towards the dwarf settlement.
“When shall we leave?” asked Havoc.
“As soon as possible; the floodwater will close off the passes when spring comes. We can also go to Little Dorit and ask around about Jericho.”
“Powyss, can I ask you something?”
“Of course you can.”
“Did you mean what you said to Hagan that day next to the cairn?”
“Yes,” said Powys; he put his hand on Havoc’s shoulder to stop him from walking and turned him around to look at him. “I believe I have a destiny too, and it has brought you to me. Did you know that I have never had a Rawn apprentice?”
“No, I did not, but for what it’s worth, I’m proud to have you as my trainer, master.” It was the first time Powyss had ever heard Havoc call him that.
“I’m proud of you too,” he said, “and, my prince, I will swear fealty to you.” There was an embarrassing moment when Powyss knelt and clasped Havoc’s right hand. “My prince, I swear loyalty and fealty to you, and your father’s kingdom.” He stood again, a bit flustered. “There, I’ve said it; that’s been on my conscious for some time now. Call me old fashioned, but I like to do things by the traditional route. Anyway, I did not want the bloody dwarves to see me; they would only laugh.”
Havoc chuckled and, together, they walked back to the settlement.
They left the Vale early in the morning. The women folk had been busy gathering provisions for their journey. Powyss complained that most of the food would spoil, but, as usual, no one listened to him.
Havoc gave the red-faced Mitty a peck on the cheek and a hug, thanking her for her kindness.
“Good grief, man, put her down; she’s old enough to be your mother!” said Powyss.
“Surely not; she looks the same age as me.”
“Dwarves age slower than humans. The kerf is four hundred and seventy-three.”
They mounted their horses. Each had new saddles, a gift from Gunach. Powyss looked handsome in his new clothing and fur-lined jerkin. The dwarves came out to line the route of departure and wave goodbye; the ten-honour guard on their ponies waited at the far end.
Powyss trotted on while Havoc turned to Gunach and his father; he had to make himself heard over the cheering crowd.
“Gunach,” he said, “would you wish for more customers than just me, and to show your skills to the world?”
“We all live for such a day,” shouted back the master smith.
“I shall remember that.”
“Oh... before I forget, my prince, we have found a name for you,” said Gunach.
“I dread to ask what it is.” Havoc smiled.
“Kervunder,” he said.
The kerf nodded and smiled.
“Sounds good; will I like its translation?”
“Yes, it means Fire King.”
“Truly?” Havoc frowned.
“Yes, trust me. Do you not like it?”
“It’s brilliant.” Havoc shook their hands, climbed on Dirkem and waved goodbye.
The crowd started chanting ‘Errcat and Kervunder’ as they rode through the lines of dwarves. Their honour guard escorted them to the entrance to the Vale.
“What was that they were shouting?” asked Powyss as they waved goodbye to the honour guard and their ponies.
“Kervunder; it’s my dwarf name.”
“Lord of burning bottom,” said a laughing Powyss.
“It means Fire King,” said a frowning Havoc. “I hope your Dwarfish is poor.”
“Fire King? Yes, of course it means that.” He was trying not to laugh, but was making a poor job of it.
They walked their horses through the narrow crack in the cliff. Havoc turned back to the view of the Vale; he had a tear in his eye
as it disappeared from sight.
Chapter 24
The Blacksword Cometh
An early spring downpour pelted the village of Little Dorit. Its only street was now a muddy quagmire with large brown puddles. Even in this late evening, the daylight dimmed through the dark clouds that hung menacingly overhead.
Warm and dry in the tavern, Havoc and Powyss stood at the bar talking to a thin, ruddy faced barman called Kolas; his toothless grin and mottled gums made Havoc cringe.
“Not much hunting in the Withers these days,” said Powyss in what Havoc thought was a very convincing local dialect. “Think me and my boy will try our luck in the Tattoium.” He took a sip of ale, which was mainly frothy head.
“Don’t want to go there, sirs,” said Kolas. “Been bad stories up in those mountains; a dark-hooded creature lives up there. Had Vallkytes and a Havant priestess go up there and exorcise those hills.” He looked at them with wide eyes. “They didn’t come back.”
“Na... Rubbish; that’s just Rogun rebels trying to scare you,” said Powyss.
“No, it’s true; heard it from other hunters; most are afraid to go up there. Anyway, the Roguns are all dead or captured.”
The noise in the bar was just at a bearable level, but both men moved closer to the barman to hear him better.
“They tried to ambush a trader’s caravan up near the Pander Pass, but it was a ruse to bring them out into the open. More Vallkytes were in hiding, you see; they never stood a chance.”
“When did this happen?” asked Havoc in an offhand way.
“Middle of winter,” said the barman, and went to serve another guest.
The locals were mostly crowded around the open fire for warmth. Wet, muddy footprints marred the wooden surface and mingled with the sawdust and other stains on the floor. A little tin bell above the door gave a tiny chime as another customer walked in, bringing with him a gust of freezing rain.
“I did not think there were any more Roguns left in the hills,” said Havoc to Kolas when he finished serving drinks. “Who was commanding them?”
The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) Page 27