Luckily, they had exited the tunnels at the northern edge of the lake. The reeds in the shallow water covered their movements from the ground. The timberline at the foot of the mountains to the north-west was tantalisingly close; reaching them would be a hard slog; the men were cold, wet and exhausted as it was.
After an hour of wading through filth, a loud screech from Havoc’s vicinity made everyone jump. Powyss recognised Mirryn’s call and looked at the sword’s Orrinn, but Havoc was looking up at the damp sky; he knew what she had seen.
“Has she seen the sky ships?” asked Powyss.
“Who’s she?” asked Othell, clearly as confused as everyone else.
Several silent seconds went by, and then Havoc saw the black bulk and flapping sails gliding towards them from the eastern horizon.
“The Jezzrion,” said Powyss.
Havoc looked about him. He snapped off a thick reed and cut off the end.
“Get under water, now!” he said. “Use the reeds to breathe though.”
They all did as he ordered. Through the murky water, Havoc could see the wide hull of the Jezzrion glide right over their position. He risked breaking the surface to watch her glide past, and, when she did not turn around, he moved the men quickly onwards. The rain descended in a fierce torrent to add to their misery. The men constantly looked south-west, but the sky ship was out of sight due to the grey sheets of rain that filled the sky and obscured their vision.
They came to a small fishing village. The wooden huts sat above the waterline on stilts. They sheltered under some of the huts.
After a while, Havoc and Powyss took some of the men to scavenge for food. Luckily, the rain was keeping the locals inside, and Havoc did not want anyone to see them anyway. They all returned to the main group to share their spoils. Havoc’s foragers could only find some bread that was cooling on a window ledge. Powyss had stolen a bag of beef jerky from a smoke hut and one dead chicken.
“Tell me, how we are going to cook the chicken?” asked Little Kith.
“I thought we could use hot air from your gob,” said Powyss sarcastically, we’ll cook it when we get to the woods.”
Velnour and a slave called Felcon were their saviours that day. They had found four old boats on a manmade river cut into the sea of reeds. The boats, when they saw them, were old, but at least they still floated. They were long and narrow, and could hold six or eight men at a time. Each boat covered by a waterproof canvas to hide them in the reeds and keep them dry.
“The gods are smiling upon us,” said a willowy slave called Brynd. “We will need boats to get across the Great River, which this lake flows into at its western corner.”
They moved the boats deeper into the reeds, just in case their owners came looking for them. Havoc would have liked to wait until dark before pressing on in the boats, but the urgency to get to the mountains was overpowering.
“What’s that?” asked Whyteman, pointing to the southeast.
Havoc could see brief flashes of fire falling from the sky.
“Fireballs fired from catapults on the Jezzrion,” informed Powyss. “They must have found someone.”
Havoc turned to Velnour, who had an amused glint in his uncovered eye. “Could it be Jericho?” Havoc asked.
“Possibly,” said Velnour. “Fireballs are really going to piss him off.”
They all laughed, but Havoc felt worried for the captain. However, the reassurance as to the whereabouts of the sky ship was evident on everyone’s faces. It was busy elsewhere, so they took the opportunity to head west.
At first, they paddled hard, using the few oars in the boats, wooden planks or even their hands. Nevertheless, fatigue caught up with them, so they took it in turns to paddle. The Hessian sheets draped over them to keep off the worst of the rain. The boats tried to keep together, but some lagged behind, until Powyss ordered them all to keep up with the slowest boat.
The reed field that had hidden them well all day was now thinning. Soon, they were out on the open water and in full view of any sky ships that should fly over. The dimming sky told Havoc that nightfall was less than an hour away.
Behind him, Othell and Whyteman were having an argument.
“What’s the shouting for?” he asked them, none too harshly.
“This bloody fool wants us to make for the Eternal Forest,” said Othell.
“My people will give us shelter; I will guide you,” said a wide-eyed Whyteman.
“They are a bunch of ruthless cut throats,” said Othell. “We will not be welcome; no one ever is.”
“That’s not true, my people are honourable,” retorted Whyteman.
The people of the Eternal Forest, thought to be the oldest inhabitants of the island, had a reputation of being territorial xenophobes. The argument stopped when everyone felt the boat move faster as it found a strong current.
“The river mouth,” said a swarthy prisoner, called Mactan, joyfully.
For several minutes, each boat struck some mild rapids, and then the current swept them into the Great River, where it continued to push them along for miles. Havoc knew they could not go too far down river. Soon, they would come to the falls near Tirithana. If, by some miracle they survived hundreds of tonnes of foaming water, the torrents would sweep them into the underground river full of whirlpools.
Therefore, as the current weakened and the boats slowed, Havoc found a small, narrow, rocky cove where the mountain’s tree line met the river’s edge. He helped the men to pull the boats out of the water or hide them under foliage.
The tired men collapsed on the soft grass under tall maple and alder trees; there, they slept. Powyss found a dead hollow tree nearby. He risked a fire and cooked the chicken while Havoc foraged for berries, mushrooms and tubers. They both felt tired themselves and understood the escapees’ fatigue from their malnourished state. They both took it in turns to stand guard while the other slept; the food would be a welcome breakfast in the morning.
Havoc spent his time on watch staring into the silver Orrinn. He was concerned for Dirkem and Sarema. He knew he had taxed Mirryn too much these last few days, but he ordered her to complete one last task.
In the morning, the men woke to the meagre chicken stew Powyss had cooked, though greatly received, even if it did not go around enough.
Othell was the first to notice that they five men short.
“Whyteman and four of his countrymen have run for it,” he said to Furran. “They’re probably halfway back to the Eternal Forest by now, the cowards.”
“I never saw them go. Did you?” Havoc asked Powyss, who shook his head.
He was disappointed in Whyteman. He did not strike him as a coward. The hope of joining up with Jericho had gone and the offer of sanctuary in the Eternal Forest sounded appealing.
However, just as the early morning sunlight made dappled shadows through the trees, the five returned. All had big, stupid grins on their dirty faces, and they carried a large, newly killed doe.
Othell’s face was a picture as his jaw dropped. The others patted the backs of Whyteman and his friends.
They skinned the doe and cooked slivers of venison in Powyss’ makeshift fire. The men ate well. Havoc was not surprised to see that a full stomach could promote friendship, as Othell shook hands with Whyteman.
Chapter 27
The Jezzrion
In the quiet and peaceful glade, at the furthest point south of the Oldwoods, Dirkem and Sarema spent a restful night. They snuggled together under the trees, to shelter from the rains of the next day. The two horses bore the solitude well. They had little anxiety at the separation from their masters. They both waited patiently.
The morning sun arrived, promising a glorious sunny day, and an end to their wait.
Overhead, the high, piercing cry of Mirryn reached down through the opening in the canopy. Dirkem’s muscles on his flanks flexed, and he cantered around Sarema three times before the mare reared and trotted with him, nudging his thick neck.
; Both horses raced out of the Oldwoods, following the cry of the red kite. They headed west to their masters.
Havoc felt blind without Mirryn. The thin growth of trees this close to the foot of the Tattoium Mountains proved good coverage from the ground, but gaps in the canopy would expose them to the sky ships. Havoc needed to know where they were; their second problem was the Vallkyte patrols, which now saturated the land north of the Falryhana.
Being on the western shore of the Great River and in the trees kept them safe from their pursuers, but that all changed when they reached the falls.
The great horseshoe-shaped waterfall peaked under its cloud of mist. Eons ago, the soft earth had opened up under the onslaught of the falls, and now the Great River flowed underground for some distance, before spilling out from a massive cavern mouth to the north.
Locals called the entry and exit points of the river Perils Gates and the land that the river flowed under, Perils Bridge. It was a scrubland of thin, small trees and shrubs. With dangerous sinkholes that reached to the underground river below. It was the fugitives’ only way over the Great River and to their final destination.
The Pander Pass sat only a few miles to their north and they spotted Vallkyte patrols from its fort marching south towards the lake, obviously to augment the search that the sky ships were continuing to carry out. The patrols had deliberately avoided Peril Bridge. Those sinkholes were too dangerous and the thick undergrowth that covered the area meant you were on one before you knew it.
“The way is clear, but tricky,” said Powyss to the men, who now sat around him in a circle. “It means we will be walking close to the pass, but that is poorly manned now, because of the search parties being sent to the lake.” He had to shout; the sound of the falls roared loudly even from this distance.
“Why don’t we cross at night?” asked Furran.
“Because, idiot,” said Othell, “it’s dangerous enough in the daylight because of those sinkholes.”
“Also, the patrols will be back by then,” explained Powyss.
“Fort Chunla to the north-east will have to be avoided too,” said Verkin, who was feeling better after his morning meal. However, he was still pale from blood loss and his bandage was stained red again. Havoc and Powyss had not offered to heal him. The act of healing someone else other than themselves required a large amount of energy, and they did not want to leave themselves weakened. Havoc could have used a Pyromantic surge, but he did not want to draw attention to himself. Whyteman came to the rescue, however. He put a wet herbal compress under the bandage, which slowed the bleeding.
“We will have to take that chance,” said Othell. He turned around to look at Havoc, who had elected not to join the main group. He was some distance away, looking into the pommel of his sword, then up through the trees.
“What is he doing?” he asked Powyss. However, before the captain could answer, Othell shouted to Havoc, “Would the apprentice wish to join the group and give us some of your bright ideas?”
No one laughed; some people sighed and groaned. It struck Othell that most of the men liked and respected the boy.
“Lay off him, Othell,” said Little Kith.
Havoc stomped towards them, sheathing his sword. “Your plan is good,” he said, “but doomed to failure because of those sky ships. They will see you when you break cover.”
On their approach to their current position, they had seen the Raxion join with the Jezzrion. Both ships had started systematic sweeps of the west end of the lake and its river mouth. It would not be long before they moved up river.
“What do you suggest?” asked Velnour.
“I need to see where they are, a high vantage point, and then I will be able to tell you the best moment to cross the bridge.”
“It’s now or never,” said Othell.
“Give me five minutes.” He rushed off to a tall tree further up the mountain slope. He used the wind element to lift him to its highest branches and climbed the rest of the way. From his chosen height, he could see over the falls and all along the Great River.
He could also see both sky ships. They were much closer than he had expected. Somehow, they knew that the fugitives had gone up river; they seemed to be concentrating their search to the south of the falls.
Havoc’s heart sank. Crossing the bridge now was too risky. The sky ships would have to be distracted somehow. Fragments of a plan formed into his mind. He heard Powyss call from below; he climbed down.
Powyss saw the look of worry on the boy’s face. He flinched when Havoc punched the tree.
“Damn it, they are to close! This is my fault; it’s me they’re after. I’ve put everyone in jeopardy!”
“Rubbish, it’s because of you we’ve got this far. Why have you not used Mirryn to see?”
“She is elsewhere,” said Havoc. He then yelled in pain; his arms clutched his stomach.
“What is it?” Powyss was concerned.
“I have not meditated for a few days. Volatile energies are building up in me,” he said through gritted teeth.
Powyss nodded. The boy had been through a lot. “How long do you need?”
“Just a few minutes will be enough. Send everyone down to the foot of the mountain. If I can’t contain the surge, they had better not be around.”
“All right; that’s where we need to be for the crossing anyway.”
“I can still keep a lookout for those ships, and I’ll send a signal for you all to go. Best of luck, Powyss.” Havoc gripped his friends shoulder and Powyss nodded.
Powyss ran to the men, ordering them to move down to the tree line and to wait for Havoc’s signal to cross. As he relayed this to the men, he realised that the prince had not told him what the signal was. He looked back up the mountain slope.
Havoc was gone.
Havoc hated lying to Powyss. If his friend knew of his plan to distract the sky ships, he would only convince him not to go ahead with it. He would say it was too dangerous and foolhardy, never mind impossible to accomplish.
Havoc had seen no other way. He had to give them a chance.
He ran up the tree slope, taking the steep gradient at a sprint; the mountains towered above him, white and desolate against the blue sky. A cliff side just below the snowline stretched along his path. It was high and steep. The climb up would be time consuming.
As he came to the end of the slope’s timberline, he saw a fallen tree that had stopped in mid decent; it now lay diagonally against another. He took the opportunity it presented to give him some lift. He ran up the trunk and, at the same time, touched the Earth Orrinn on the sword hilt. He fashioned a strong rush of air to lift him through the other trees’ foliage and onto the cliff side beyond.
Anyone watching would have seen a young man in worn clothing running up a tree trunk and jump higher than any normal human as he went through the tree’s branches. However, on the exiting, they would see a different person in newer, sleeker black attire.
In the persona of the Blacksword, his confidence to succeed escalated, and he leapt high enough to land on the cliff’s ledge; he continued to run, jumping higher and higher to climb the mountain, sometimes catching natural foot and toeholds or leaping narrow gorges. He was running towards the Jezzrion; she was searching the west banks of the river and hugging the mountainsides.
The details on the sky ship became clearer at this height. The outrigger sails flapping as wind from the ship’s Wind Orrinn caught them; the ship turned left and right in a preordained search pattern. The Orrinn castle hid behind the maze of ropes and pulleys attached to the large horizontal sail. The crew swarmed the deck and the two-tiered aft castle.
The Blacksword stopped on an icy granite outcrop; a cold breeze blew by him, and his cloak tails ruffled in the wind. He could see the Raxion some distance away on the eastern side of the river, almost directly in line with the Jezzrion. He waited a few minutes until the closer sky ship floated nearer to his position. Once the Jezzrion was in range, he drew its attention
to him.
He did this by using a natural super-hot Pyromantic surge. One that his counterpart, Prince Havoc, had not used in two years; he had fleeting images of the argument with his father and the melting of the large boulder, images of a past life and a different mind. The Blacksword shook the emotional memory from his head to free it of such mundane feelings; he needed a calm mind and a cold heart for what he was about to do next.
The intended surge was small, it made his hands glow in a surrounding nimbus of white flames; he was aware that the gloves he wore were not burnt from his hands. A small ball of white-hot superheated energy formed in between his hands. He judged the distance to the Jezzrion and threw the fireball. Instead of using the third element to send it, as a Ri or a Rawn would do, he used his will to direct the ball, knowing that the powers of a Pyromancer worked differently from the Rawn Arts.
Like a burning bright comet in the night sky, the ball of fire sliced through the air at astonishing speed. The air behind its burning tail caused a vacuum to form. A rumbling drone followed in its wake as the air closed the vacuum with a mighty crack.
No one on board the Jezzrion could miss the fireball that fast approached them; even if they could not see it, they would be able to hear the high-pitched whistling as the orb scorched the air around it.
A young crewmember on top of the forecastle saw it first. “Incoming!” he shouted.
Plainer, the Jezzrion’s captain, thin and bowed, with a hooked nose and long, straggly hair, rushed to the port side. The sound of the fireball was ringing in his ears as it burnt the air in front of it. He took one glance at it and turned to the helmsman in panic. “Starboard, steer to starboard, man!” he screamed.
It was not the Blacksword’s intention to destroy the ship, but to attract the crew’s attention to his whereabouts. The missile would not go unnoticed by the crew of the Raxion, either. He needed to draw them away from the fugitives’ position.
However, the ball of shimmering flame struck the lower port side of the aft castle. It ploughed through the bottom bunkrooms and disintegrated the starboard storerooms when it exited the ship.
The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) Page 31