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

by P. D. Ceanneir

  “Ahh... the famous Jericho, but he has been captured; last I heard, he was taken to the mines of Haplann.” The barman did not miss the look both men gave each other.

  “Have you gentlemen business with the likes of Jericho?” asked Kolas.

  “Only in the interest of our safety, if we go to the Tattoium Mountains, my friend,” said Powyss, rubbing his eyes. “With the Roguns and Jericho out of the way, we have nothing to fear, have we?”

  “What about the black ghost in the mountains, Father?” Havoc asked with a look of worry on his face.

  “Superstitious nonsense, my boy, Powyss gave Havoc a cuff around the ear.

  Havoc yelped. He was now fully convinced that Powyss was enjoying the father-son routine too much.

  They took a table close to the window. As soon as the rain stopped, they would leave.

  “You didn’t need to hit me so hard,” said Havoc.

  “Can’t a guy have some fun?”

  “Hilarious, well, we do know now what we are definitely doing now. The plan hasn’t changed; Haplann is our next port of call.” Havoc thought of Mulvend whenever they spoke of Haplann and the gold mines. All knew that the Vallkytes were using slaves to dig in the caves, excavating for the war effort. It was Mulvend’s property and the Vallkytes had no rights on the countess’ land.

  “We will make good time if we leave now and travel through the night,” Powyss said, draining his ale.

  The rain soon eased and the sky became lighter. Both men were about to get up and go when they saw something outside the window that made them stop.

  Six Vallkytes rode in from the north and halted at the tavern. Each was drenched. All wore chain mail, helmets, and swords strapped to their sides.

  “Damn it!” said Powyss, “bad timing.”

  “Quick, out the back; we’ll get the horses,” said Havoc.

  They walked slowly to the rear door so they would not capture anyone’s attention. Once outside, they rushed to the stables and saddled the horses. The cobbled courtyard was small; rainwater dripped into a barrel from the guttering by the rear doorway. The noise of the rowdy Vallkytes entering the bar reached them in the courtyard.

  Once the saddles were on, they moved the horses out of the stables. Using the Subtle Arts to drown out the sound of the hooves on the cobbles, they left, sneaking around the tavern’s east wall.

  Havoc stopped and looked back for a second, then turned to Powyss. “I don’t think you convinced toothless back at the bar about the father-son hunting story,” he said.

  “Agreed; he may already be spilling his guts to the Vallkytes.”

  “You go on ahead. I’ll meet you at the north end of town.”

  Powyss looked down at the young man as he mounted the mare. “I suppose I don’t have to tell you to be careful,” he said.

  Havoc shook his head.

  “The Blacksword has got to start somewhere, Powyss.” He reached up and touched the pommel of the Tragenn’s look-alike, and the slow transformation into the black-cloaked persona began.

  It started from the Dual Orrinn itself and worked its way downwards. The colours of his clothes changed to black. He pulled up his hood. Powyss could see the prince’s face go strangely paler and his green eyes darker, then his face became obscured by the darkness of the hood.

  “Captain, you are back so soon,” said Kolas. “Can I get you gentlemen beer?”

  “Yes, Kolas, six flagons,” said the tall, dark-haired captain. “And some food; we have come a long way, and have further still to go.”

  Kolas looked pale; the drink and food would have provided him with enough money to pay the monthly taxes, which the Vallkytes collected. He also knew that these soldiers rarely parted from their money for him to pay for said taxes.

  He was also concerned about the two strangers who had just come from the Withers. They had probed him too well for information. He was not a fool and knew people. The clientele he got in here over the years gave him the knowledge to spot the liars and the thieves. Those two were liars; he looked around for them; they were gone, and he had not seen them leave.

  “Something bothering you, Kolas?” asked the captain.

  “Not at all, sirs; we have fresh bread if you wish, and tavern stew.”

  The captain groaned. He had tried the stew a few days ago when he had led the same patrol. It had given him a stomach ache. The old fool probably still selling the same food in the same unclean pot.

  “Bread and cheese for me only,” he said.

  Some of his men were looking at the rear door, which was on the same wall as the bar. He had to look around one of the soldiers to see what their attention was on, a thin, white mist was floating out from the door and along the floor. The local drunks noticed it too and everyone stopped talking at the same time.

  Mist, thought the captain, it was raining just a minute ago. He looked out of the large tavern window; the day was brightening, the rain had stopped, and there was no mist.

  It seemed to have a life of its own as it drifted over the tables and started to climb the walls. Some men moved away from it, as if it was poisoned marsh gas.

  The captain took two steps to the doorway, and then stopped.

  All heard a footfall on the courtyard outside, another and another, and then it was on the wooden floor of the short hall at the other side of the door. The shod metal on the soles echoed with every footstep, as the hall amplified the sound. The mist clung to the floor and swirled around their feet; tendrils wafted up the walls, giving the white, smoke-like vapour a life of its own.

  The captain’s men grouped themselves behind him, all thoughts of the sweet beer forgotten.

  The slow, thunderous steps boomed from the hallway; a dark shadow, tall, and wide clung, to the walls as it preceded the owner of the footfalls. There was a gasp from the men at the fireplace, because they could see what it was from their position in the room, but the soldiers could not.

  As if in slow motion, a dark-hooded figure came into view. As it emerged into the room, the captain’s heart leapt in his chest, and fear paralysed him. The figure stopped four feet from the doorway. He stood side on from the soldiers, his head slightly bowed and fists clenched.

  There was utter silence as all eyes were on the figure. Tall, dark and menacing, the hood obscured his features, and, for some reason, this disturbed the locals in the room. Most muttered and fretted, but stopped as the tendrils of mist formed into ghostly revenants for an instant, then collapsed into the main body of vapour at floor level.

  “Who are you?” asked the captain in a quavering voice. He was more nervous than he looked. He even jumped at the sound of his own voice in the eerie silence. There was a strange ominous pressure in the air, pressing down on everyone and increasing their fear.

  The figure turned to face them; the head moved up, but all they could see was a dark hole and a pale white chin. The captain knew that the superstitious among his men were right when they said they were chasing a phantom. He had never seen a ghost before, but the thing in front of him was the closest he was going to get.

  “I am what you seek,” said a dry whisper from the hood. “I am the shadow in the mountains. I have come to continue the head harvest. I am the Blacksword.”

  The whole room of locals quailed at the voice, and trembled at the last line.

  The captain frowned; he was having difficulty understanding why he was feeling afraid. A threatening atmosphere permeated the air of the bar. The others moved into line next to him.

  “Blacksword... Head harvest, whose head harvest?”

  “Yours,” he hissed, and the stranger pulled the sword from its scabbard. It was long and black, and looked very sharp.

  All the soldiers drew their weapons; two men on the captains left attacked. The Blacksword parried their clumsy lunges and moved inside their sword reach, slicing one open at the gut and the other halfway through his ribcage in a horizontal swipe. Blood gushed, but was lost in the mist.

  People close
to the fire yelled in fear. Kolas ducked behind the bar, clamping his hands over his ears to drown out the screams of the dying.

  The captain attacked the dark figure when he saw the first two men fall, but as he reached up his sword arm to strike, the figure waved his hand and a wall of wind struck his chest, picking him up off his feet and hurtling him into the fire.

  Hot ash and burning wood spayed around the room on impact. The locals, at that point, panicked and tried to get out of the room. The three soldiers left fighting the Blacksword hampered their escape. They also avoided the screaming captain, his upper torso engulfed in flame.

  The Blacksword moved quickly; his three opponents were so tightly packed together that their attack easily stymied their movements. The closest stumbled off balance, and his sword arm severed. Gouts of blood and screams filled the air. However, his screams cut short when his head left his neck, and it toppled over the bar to land in barman’s lap.

  The next soldier moved to strike. He looked older and wiser than the others did. His attack was measured, but the stranger turned his sword so the point aimed at the floor; he twisted around full circle, knocking the soldier’s sword to one side, and lifted SinDex up and through the Vallkyte’s chin; it popped through the top of his head with a spray of fine red mist.

  As the body sagged to the floor, the last soldier had seen his chance and lifted his weapon above his head to bring it down on the strangers. The Vallkyte died where he stood, as SinDex arced up through his groin and out of his skull, and blood and organs flopped to the floor as he collapsed like a split sack of grain.

  The smell of burning flesh filled the air. The furniture had caught fire and leapt up towards the ceiling beams. The heat had dispersed the mist. The captain screamed as his burnt flesh dripped off his face in fatty globules; they hissed as they hit the floor. He ran at the Blacksword, who sidestepped and sliced the captain’s torso from his waist, killing him and his screams.

  The locals crowded the entranceway. People fell underfoot and crushed in the panic to escape the phantom and the fire. One man threw a chair through the large window so he could escape the rising heat, but the in rush of fresh air only fanned the flames, which reached up to the roof beams and ignited the thatch.

  As fate would have it, no one died in the fire, but there were injuries from the panicky rush to escape. No one left by the rear; the phantom was in the way, so it left his way out clear.

  Kolas risked looking over the rim of the bar. The tavern was now empty apart from himself and his two servants, who had cowered there with him. The fire goaded him into courage to save his livelihood, but it was a lost cause.

  “You seem to have got the message through, then,” said Powyss as Havoc got onto Dirkem.

  “Let’s put it this way. They will not forget the Blacksword in a hurry,” said Havoc, who had now changed back into his threadbare clothes.

  They put their heels to their mounts’ flanks and rode north to Haplann.

  Three days later, the whole area of Little Dorit and its surrounding hills were swarming with Vallkyte soldiers. Hundreds deployed from the fort at Tressel, which sat far to the east, with a promise of more coming from Caphun.

  The concentration of soldiers in one area helped to spread the rumour of the Blacksword.

  Once again, the sound of steel-shod boots boomed on the floorboards of the Little Dorit Tavern. This time, however, there was no echo, because the roof had burnt away. On one-half of the tavern, the walls were black with soot, covering up years of grime; on the other were the bodies of the captain and his fallen patrol.

  Standing over the macabre scene was Kolas and Captain Hildek. They both lifted their heads as Jynn Ri approached them.

  The people of the village had not buried the bodies, mainly because they believed that the tall-cloaked figure had cursed the tavern, and they were all afraid to enter. The image of this Blacksword apparition was still at the forefront of their minds, as Jynn knew from her thought link with certain individuals. Her curiosity of the situation was not sated, however, which was why she had left Kolas until last.

  “A very disturbing scene, is it not, Kolas?” she asked him as she stopped in front of the two men. Her eyes travelled over the bodies, which had attracted flies that swarmed over the charred skin and open wounds.

  “Yes, My Lady.” Kolas shivered. He did not relish being back in his black and blood-soaked bar. His eyes wandered involuntarily over the dead, stopping at the captain, both halves of him.

  “A ghost did not do this, only a man. However, the locals believe otherwise. What did this phantom say?”

  “He... He said he was...” Kolas tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. “He was the Blacksword, My Lady.”

  “Are you aware of the prophecy, Kolas?”

  “All know of the Blacksword Prophecy, madam.”

  “Quite so,” she said as she rubbed her thin chin with finger and thumb as she stared at the barman; he was pale with fear and she knew it was not because of her presence; this Blacksword fellow had superseded her reputation.

  “Did anything else happen before the attack, which I should know about?”

  Kolas shook his head, and then stopped in mid shake. “Wait; there was something, two strangers, father and son. They probed me on information about Jericho....” He never finished the sentence.

  Jynn moved with surprising speed and clamped both hands on his head; the barman yelled in shock, but could not move. Hildek cringed and moved away.

  The image of the two men was on the surface of his mind as Jynn performed the thought link through the water element. She could see them clearly. The older, with his bright brown eyes and greying goatee, was instantly recognisable.

  “Powyss!” she hissed.

  The other was not familiar to her; he was young, swarthy, and his eyes always averted so she could not see their colour or his face in detail.

  She knew that Captain Powyss had several wives and sons. This may be one of his offspring. Kolas assumed that they were going to link up with Jericho in the Tattoium. The conversation that she witnessed through the contact with the barman told Jynn a different story.

  She took her hands away, breaking the link; the man crumpled to the floor.

  “Thank you, Kolas, you have been most informative.”

  She left with Hildek.

  “Once the search is complete, recall the men and have them march to the north,” she said to him.

  “May I ask where they are going, My Lady?”

  “The Mines of Haplann,” she said.

  Later, when she was alone, she contacted Cinnibar on the Lobe stone. The reply was instantaneous.

  “Yes, my dear Jynn.”

  “Our fears have been realised, mistress; the Blacksword has come.”

  There was a long silence from Cinnibar. Jynn could imagine her controlling her breathing as she digested the news.

  “Tell me everything you know,” she finally said, and Jynn explained to her of the attack in the Little Dorit Tavern.

  “I believe he is a Rawn with extraordinary skill, and not just with a sword,” said Jynn. “The sword he carries is of a remarkable strength; the locals now believe that the Blacksword is the phantom from the mountains that I have been searching for.”

  “They call him the Blacksword?” asked Cinnibar, confused.

  “Yes, mistress, it seems that the man and the sword are synonymous.”

  “This is disturbing news, Jynn.”

  “There is more. Captain Powyss has been here, with, I believe, his son. There was talk of Jericho with the barman.”

  “Captain Jericho is a prisoner in Haplann.”

  “Yes, Powyss may wish to revert that. I have made a search for the Blacksword, but do not expect to find him, and then I will go to Haplann.”

  “Do you suspect Powyss?”

  “He is an excellent swordsman, but not a powerful Rawn.”

  “His son then?” asked Cinnibar.

  “I do not have suffic
ient information on his family to answer that question. That is, if it is his son.”

  “Find out what you can; there is much concern on this situation, as you know.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “My original order still stands. Bring this Blacksword to me, dead or alive, and also the sword.”

  “It shall be done, mistress.”

  Chapter 25

  The Mines of Haplann

  “What do you see?” asked Powyss as he put on the red and gold jacket of a Vallkyte infantryman.

  “About a hundred prisoners,” said Havoc as he stared into the silver Orrinn. “And at least double that in soldiers.”

  “Fair odds, then,” Powyss smiled.

  Mirryn had given him a good view of the mines from the air. He could see that the Vallkytes had built a walled fortress around the mine entrance, patrolled day and night. Only one building, the garrison headquarters and bunkrooms, was made of stone. The rest was of a wood panel and slate roof construction.

  The kite had shown him more. She flew to the Pander Pass on his orders. There, he could see that the enemy had been busy over the years. Two thick walls were in the process of construction; the larger, inner one was nearly finished, complete with the tall Iron Gate.

  Above the entrance to the Pass itself, were rooms carved into the rock. Mirryn could clearly see candle light through the windows. In the fort’s north section, where the prisoners of war lived, was a massive stone and iron barred jailhouse, penned in by a chain link fence twenty feet high.

  Both men rejected the option of rescuing the Panders prisoners and concluded it as a suicidal venture. They had a better chance at the mines.

  “This is not my style,” complained Powyss.

  The uniform was a little small for him. It had once belonged to a soldier on patrol with ten others, which Havoc and Powyss had stumbled upon yesterday.

  The Vallkytes had been on the move now in their hundreds after the incident in Little Dorit, so avoiding them became a necessity, even when it took them out of their route to Haplann.