They still ate up the miles quickly, though. Now they were on the outskirts of the Oldwoods, as they had been yesterday when a small patrol had produced an opportunity to provide a disguise for Powyss. Unfortunately, he had little choice of clothing size; he had to grab the last soldier in the patrol so as not to attract attention from the rest of the group.
“It was too dark to see when you grabbed him,” Havoc sympathised.
“Just my bad luck, I guess. At least he didn’t shout out.”
“That’s probably because you snapped his neck first.” He looked across at the body, now naked and leaning against a tree. His head lolled at a strange angle. They had had to drag the body for some distance so his fellow patrolmen could not find him.
Powyss was adjusting the belt and chain mail under the infantry overcoat. “It would have fitted you better,” he moaned.
“You know the plan is for you to get into the fort first and release the prisoners. I will take care of the gate and Commander Karnack.”
At the mention of the name, Powyss looked at Havoc with concern. “Be careful with Karnack; he is a strong Rawn and a fair swordsman. He will detect the arts when you use them, so I can only suggest that you don’t, or use them sparingly, as in the Subtle Arts.”
“Don’t worry; I will not be going in as myself.” Havoc smiled.
Powyss felt a little chill at his friend’s comment. The persona of the Blacksword was fine in this situation, but the seriousness in Havoc’s tone made Powyss doubt for the boy’s sanity. He hoped that the madness of the Pyromancer had not begun to affect him.
However, domineering as the prince’s separate persona was, the Blacksword proved to be a very confident warrior. If anyone could kill a powerful Rawn Master, it was he.
They walked their horses to a small glade and left them to graze alone. The plan was to sneak the prisoners out of the fort in the dead of night, then hide in the Oldwoods as a group of outlaws.
“Ready?” Havoc asked.
“No,” said Powyss as he put the steel skillet on his head and tightened the strap. “Let’s do it anyway.”
They walked together down to a wooded slope near to the Chunla Fort. There, they waited for the weekly patrol to march down to the mines. Powyss had studied the troop change during his months in the Oldwoods; he knew the routine.
“Here they come.”
“Good luck,” said Havoc, and both gripped wrists and shook.
Twenty soldiers came marching along the road, close to their position. The dusk had made the edge of the forest gloomy, and, with his use of the Subtle Arts, Powyss stealthily mingled with the marching ranks all the way to the mines.
Through the Orrinn and the keen eyes of Mirryn in the fading light, Havoc could see his friend’s entry through the gates of the mines. Powyss quickly broke off from the main body as they prepared to accept the handover of the twenty departing soldiers. He moved quickly to a storehouse on the west side of the fort. He and Havoc had preordained the area as the best place for Powyss to lie low until nightfall.
Inside the storehouse were stacks of barrels of salted pork and fish. Over by the far wall were neatly stacked bags of grain. This was where Powyss bedded himself down for a few hours of sleep.
Havoc prepared himself as the hours of darkness fell. He meditated, and slept in the trance, feeling refreshed as he came out of it. He did a few stretching exercises, and then touched the Earth Orrinn on the hilt of the pseudo Tragenn; the magical transformation into the Blacksword begun.
Powyss woke from a light sleep a couple of hours later. He knew he had not overslept because he had kept track of the passage of the moon. He walked out of the store and into the cold night; the stars shone brightly in the cloudless sky. Brazier and torchlight lighted the courtyard of the fort, sending shadows dancing into unlit nooks.
He heard a soft chirping to his left, and saw Mirryn perched on a roof guttering. Her head bobbed, as if in excitement at seeing him.
“Tell your master to give me half an hour,” he whispered to her.
She called once more, and then flew off into the night.
He used the shadows to move unseen towards the mine entrance. It was a large opening, fifteen feet wide and fifty feet high. Two men guarded the entrance, standing next to several burning bowls of charcoal, but the effect of the light was dismal against the gaping maw of the cave mouth.
The flames went out suddenly. The guards were so shocked at the sudden darkness that they remained speechless for a few seconds; seconds were valuable to Powyss as he slit their throats with Bor-Teaven’s blade.
The fire resumed as the bodies fell. Powyss had only used a small amount of Rawn energy to dim the flames. He dragged the bodies into the cave mouth, being careful not to attract the attention of the guards who patrolled the walls. Inside the cave, the mine split into four separate levels. They all branched off from the main entrance, and Powyss found the bulk of the slaves chained to the wall further along the tunnel. He was about to speak to them when three more guards appeared from the torch-lighted gloom.
“Who goes there; is that you, Gerick?” asked a voice.
Powyss had to act fast. He had no idea how many more guards were inside the tunnel; he pulled a dagger and thrust it into the throat of the first guard who spoke to him. A second soldier saw the dagger pierce through the nape of the man’s neck, but had no time to react to the speed of the attacker, as Powyss reached around and snapped his neck.
The third man’s view was blocked by the first two; otherwise, his reactions would have been quicker, and, as a result, Powyss placed a gauntleted hand over the soldier’s mouth and smashed his head against the rock wall. The sickening crack told him that the back of the man’s skull had caved in.
There was an escalating murmur from the prisoners at Powyss’ actions. They all looked at him sleepily, but with hope in their eyes. Most wore tattered and worn uniforms of their respective regiments. Each man was thin and dirty, with gaunt eyes that looked out of bearded faces and long, unkempt, greasy hair. To Powyss, they all looked the same; he harshly told them all to keep quiet.
“My name is Powyss, Captain of the Sonoran Royal Guards. Are there any more Vallkytes in the caves?” he asked them.
“No more, sir; those two were the last, but they change every two hours,” said one man in a dry, reedy voice.
Powyss nodded as he searched the fallen guards; he found a set of keys and threw them towards the nearest slave.
Sounds of chains and manacles jingled as men moved around to their companions, passing the captain’s name in short whispers up and down the line. Eventually, Powyss heard his name called from further along the tunnel. He pulled a torch from its niche and ran to the sound of the voice, his heart beating faster.
“Powyss, Powyss is that you?” asked a tall, brown-haired prisoner.
“Othell! Thank the gods you are still alive, my friend,” said Powyss, grasping the man’s shoulders. He looked around and recognised others from the Royal Guards.
“Captain how did you manage to...?” asked Othell, but Powyss cut him off with a finger to his lips.
He pulled out Bor-Teaven and cut through the chain that held Othell and the others to the wall.
“Three guards up there, with two more at the entrance. Othell, Furran, Verkin and Little Kith, go get the weapons.”
The four men did as ordered. Furran, a small, stocky man born near the lake of the same name, mentioned to him about a small armoury in the next tunnel.
“I expect it’s well sealed?” asked Powyss.
“Iron door with two bolt locks,” informed Furran.
“I can’t use the arts to open it in case Karnack detects me.”
“Surely not from this distance he won’t, sir?”
“Can’t take that chance; the keys are up at the front of the line. Go get them and open the door; take some help with you.”
They both ran back to the entrance while Othell and the others helped to release the prisoners.
Once released from their bonds, some of the men were assembled in a line at the mine entrance, while others collected weapons from Furran.
Othell, who smiled and shook his hand, joined Powyss.
“It’s good to see you, Captain; we all thought you were dead.”
Another man joined them; he was so tall and wide that he blocked out the torch light.
“Still growing, I see, Little Kith,” said Powyss to the man-mountain.
“Still sarcastic as ever, sir,” boomed the loud-voiced giant. He stood at seven feet tall, but his muscle mass had reduced somewhat since Powyss had last saw him, due to his captivity.
“How many more are with you?” asked Othell, scratching a louse in his beard.
“Just two others; one is my apprentice.” Powyss shrugged.
Both men stared at him in shock.
“You have an apprentice?” asked Othell sarcastically.
After the allotted half an hour, the Blacksword arrived at the fort. He quietly scaled the brick walls, using any natural indentation in the stonework. If there were none, he would use small amounts of the earth element to make hand and foot holds until he reached the top.
Once on the wide wall, he blended with the shadows, staying clear of the torches. Six guards walked the walls, but each one fell to SinDex’s silent blade.
One guard remained at the entrance to the commander’s quarters. The two-tiered, round, wooden building sat snug against the wall. The Blacksword was able to climb onto its roof from the wall. He positioned himself above the second-level entrance. The guard below was half-asleep and leaning against his spear. A black figure landed in front of him; the guard had only enough time to widen his eyes in surprise before the black blade ran him through.
The Blacksword gently laid the dead guard on the ground to lessen any noise made by his fall, then opened the door to the commander’s quarters.
“Three of you! That’s insane; we’re outnumbered as it is,” said Furran as he handed out spears and swords to the prisoners. “Look around you, Captain; the men are all weak from the lack of food; they don’t have a fight in them.”
“Stay if you want, Furran,” said Little Kith, who was frowning at Powyss’ silence.
“That’s not what I meant, you big oaf. It’s just…”
“Shut up, both of you,” said Othell, who turned to Powyss. “What was your plan?”
“Sneak out the gate and hide in the Oldwoods,” said the captain, stroking his beard and staring off into the distance.
“Of course, we will have to get past the wall guards,” said the swarthy Verkin, shaking his mane of dark hair.
“Trust me,” said Powyss. “They’re dead already.”
The bottom section to the commander’s quarters was full of tables and chairs for the officers’ mess; the upper area was the bedchamber. The Blacksword quietly opened the double doors and stepped into a large bedroom. A fireplace with dying embers on his left; chairs with soft coverings arranged in a semi-circle several feet from the hearth. Through a thin curtained archway, he saw a large four-poster bed. Sitting up in the bed was a young, naked girl looking straight at him in fear.
The Blacksword felt a slight twinge of apprehension. This feeling heightened when he felt the sharp point of a sword against his back.
“Do you think I’ am a fool, assassin?” asked a man’s rich, deep voice behind him. “Who are you?”
The girl could not see the face under the darkness of the hood, so she gave no reaction when he winked at her.
“I am the Blacksword,” was the harsh whisper, and the girl gave an involuntary scream as the cloaked figure spun quickly and knocked Commander Karnack’s sword to one side.
Karnack, a big, square-jawed warrior with close-cropped brown hair, quickly recovered and fought back with stinging heavy blows. The Blacksword took the punishment, then saw the opening in the commander’s defence and swung the tip of SinDex over Karnack’s thigh, cutting him deeply and maiming him.
The commander backed off; he took the pause in the fight to heal his wound and threw a bright orange fireball at his assailant. The fire struck the black-blade and nonchalantly deflected to the other man’s right. It struck the bed’s canopy, setting it alight. The girl screamed and ran from the flames, careful to avoid the swinging swords. The last image that the Blacksword had of the girl was of her naked buttocks and flailing arms as she ran out of the door.
So much for the element of surprise, he thought. He hoped that Powyss had freed the prisoners.
The fire spread as the men fought. The Blacksword deliberately put himself between the fire and the exit. The commander fought well. By the growing light of the fire, he could see the Rawn had many healed scars on his half-naked body.
Flames spread from the bed to the roof and its rafters; the walls burnt next as the hungry fire consumed any flammable material it came across. Smoke, black and thick, snaked around the combatants, and the part of the Blacksword’s mind that still belonged to Havoc remembered a day, many years ago, when he had fought an imaginary fire-plagued fight with Magnus in the palace library.
However, this was real; there was only going to be one survivor in this battle.
Karnack’s sword swung close to his opponent, but missed by an inch; the Blacksword took the opportunity to step into the commander’s defence and brought SinDex up in a diagonal arc, which sliced the man’s torso from gut to chest.
Karnack stumbled back one more time. His opponent did not allow him to heal. With a wave of his hand, a strong gust of wind slammed into the commander’s chest, sending him out through a fire-weakened wall and plunging towards the ground.
The Blacksword followed, landing lightly on his feet just after Karnack struck the cobbled ground.
The screaming girl had raised the alarm; dozens of half-clothed soldiers were running from their quarters to the fire. Most stopped when they saw a black-cloaked man silhouetted by the flames.
The commander stood up; his face betrayed his pain. He was holding in his guts and pinching his skin at his chest, trying to nit the flesh together.
“Kill him…” he said, but never finished the sentence.
The Blacksword took his head clean off with one sweep of his sword.
There was a commotion up at the entrance, Powyss and the others ran up to see what it was.
Flames from the commander’s quarters reached high into the sky. Soldiers were running from the brick building, their attention was not on the fire, but on something in the courtyard. From the angle of the entrance and the milling bodies of Vallkytes, he could not see what it was, but he could guess
Mirryn chirped in the Orrinn. The Blacksword took a quick glance at it, and cursed his ill luck at what he saw. Two sky ships silhouetted against the dawn sky. They were close. Escape by the fort gates was too risky now. The prisoners would be too exposed out in the open.
Vallkytes circled the Blacksword, shields and spears at the ready.
The long black blade lifted for all to see.
“Have you come to join the head harvest?” whispered the intruder.
The soldiers stared in astonishment as the sword split into two.
“What in the name of Arcun is going on?” asked Othell.
The prisoners could see a fight had broken out within the small circle of Vallkytes, but they were losing. Bodies, headless or dismembered, flew into the air by some unseen force. At least a dozen men reeled after a strong gust of wind stuck them violently and sent into the burning building.
Powyss unsheathed Bor-Teaven and ran into the attack. There was only a second of hesitation from Othell and the other freed prisoners; they all ran forward behind the captain.
The Blacksword, with Sin and Dex in left and right hands respectively, sliced through a line of enemy soldiers and was close to the stables when the prisoners struck. The effect of the attack dispersed the Vallkytes, but more were running out of their quarters, this time in half armour. The Blacksword took the opport
unity to run into the stables and change back into Havoc.
Powyss was looking around for Havoc as he struck down two men. He heard him whistle behind him and looked around.
“Jynn and the sky ships will be here any second,” he shouted to him. “Get back to the mines.”
Powyss took a millisecond to assess the news, and then shouted to Othell and the others to retreat to the entrance. He heard Othell shout out the same orders and to pick up the fallen weapons of their comrades. Powyss looked about him as he ran. He counted about twenty dead prisoners.
“What about Karnack?” he asked Havoc as he caught up with him.
“Dead,” he said, looking about him as he took in the situation. His face was pale and concerned. He looked worried and Powyss knew something bothered him. The boy was patting his chest and arms in confusion.
“What’s wrong?” Powyss asked.
The prince shook his head, “It does not matter. You’ll think I was going mad.”
“No. Tell me.”
He hesitated for a moment, “when I take on the persona of the Blacksword, its…it’s like I’m someone else watching from being his eyes. I feel confident, focused and invincible. It’s the strangest feeling.”
Powyss nodded slowly and rubbed his chin. He glanced at the entrance where the freed slaves now mingled around at the entrance; most, he saw, were armed. The steel glinted in the firelight beyond.
“Do you always have to burn things down?” Powyss asked the prince, trying to lighten the mood and change the subject, but a figure appeared beside them before the prince could answer.
“Who’s this?” cut in Othell as he, Furran and Little Kith arrived with the survivors and wounded, one of which was Verkin, who had a nasty gash on his left arm.
“My apprentice, Havoc,” said Powyss.
He, in turn, introduced Havoc to his old friends. If the younger man was surprised at the size of Kith, he did not show it.
“Is there a back way out of the mines?” asked Havoc.
The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) Page 29