The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) (21 page)

Hoban and Neiva stopped what they were doing and stood stock still looking at the bag of money.

“You have both been very kind, and I’m sorry to impose on you further, but where I am going I will only find violence, and it is not a place for a young girl. There are three hundred gold sovereigns in there, plenty to look after her and to live on for the rest of your lives, but I beg you please keep her safe; she is very important.” The strain of the situation was evident on his face.

“But surely she has other family..,” said Hoban.

“Trust me, sir, there are none.” Havoc knew that the Haplann family was small and any close relations were either dead or on their side. “I know that I ask much of you both; I notice you have no children here with you.” He knew from Ched’s memories that the couple was childless.

“The gods have not blessed us with a brood of our own,” said Neiva with a sad look. She took her husband’s hand in hers and he smiled back. “We wanted children badly to take over the running of the Little Dell, but it was not to be.”

“She may not be yours, but she does need your love, guidance and protection.” He pointed at the money. “I have made it worth your while.”

“We do not want the money; killing the bear put us in your debt, young man,” said Hoban, staring straight at Havoc.

“The money belongs to the bandits I killed; at least their blood money shall go towards some good, for you and Mulvend,” said Havoc, and he watched them both nod together.

Neiva whispered in her husband’s ear and he shrugged.

“Can you give us a moment to discuss this?” he asked to Havoc.

Havoc agreed and went into the bedchamber to see Mulvend. The bed creaked as he sat next to the sleeping girl; she never moved when he brushed the hair from her forehead.

The Welslep candle gave off a bittersweet smell that permeated the room, and a light blue cloud hung over the flickering flame.

“I am sorry, little one, but I can’t take you with me; it must be this way. Hoban and Neiva will be your adoptive parents now.”

She did not move as he spoke. Neiva knocked lightly on the door to indicate it was all right to come back in. He kissed Mulvend on the forehead and left her small sleeping form.

The owners of Little Dell were smiling and holding hands in the centre of the room.

“We will look after the child as our own,” said Hoban, “but can you tell us who she is, and is she in danger?”

“In time, I think she may tell you who she is, and she is in no danger if you keep her safe and never let her leave here.”

“All right,” said Hoban.

“And you,” said Neiva, “will you be in danger?”

“Yes, this is why I must leave her with you. She needs your love and compassion. Please make her understand why I am doing this; she will be difficult when she wakes up, but have patience with her.” He smiled at them. “She really is a good girl. Thank you both for your help and kindness, and I shall remember you both with fondness.”

He gathered his cloak around him and picked up Tragenn, cleaned of blood by Neiva. He walked out of the door and whistled into the night; Dirkem trotted out of the dark from the barn, disturbing the flock.

“Safe journey, Gillem,” said Hoban, “If that is your real name, my friend. A sword that fine must belong to a noble house; am I wrong?”

Havoc stared at the old man and smiled at his intelligent observation.

“Mulvend knows my real name. Some day she may even tell you both. Goodbye and keep safe; may the gods look after you all.”

He heeled the flanks of Dirkem and rode away to the entrance of the valley; he stopped and turned around to look at the Little Dell for the last time. He could see the old couple standing in the light of the doorway waving back.

He took the route through the camp where the bear attacked them. He could not see the animal in the darkness, but the smell would alert scavengers to its presence soon enough.

He headed east to the town called Sloe. He had some business there to attend to and a desire to avenge a friend.

Part Three

The Vale

“What Exudes

When metal is shaped under the master smith’s hammer?

...Blood and Sweat.”

The Kerf of Zent

Chapter 16

The Reivers Tavern

Selig ran his thin, bony fingers over the black hilt of the dagger. He looked at the faded eagle feather markings for a few seconds bringing it close to his eyes, and frowned, which made his ancient wrinkled face look even more creased.

“Where did you say you got these from again, young man?” He looked at the stranger standing across from him on the other side of the counter. He was tall, slim, with a short black beard, but that was all he could see from his face. The top half concealed within his black cloak’s hood. The sword strapped to his back looked just as impressive as the man himself did.

“I didn’t,” was the stranger’s only answer.

Selig put the dagger down and sighed; he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“These daggers are old and rare. They are also banned by most of the tribes on the island, and they are Nithi.”

The stranger nodded. “Banned, why?” asked the stranger.

“They are used for sacrificial ceremonies. The Nithi believed that they can trap or kill evil spirits inside the bodies of their enemies.”

“What can you tell me about the markings?”

Selig was afraid that the stranger was going to ask that question, but the man had been courteous, if a little evasive, and he did lay down four gold sovereigns on the table.

“Tribal symbols are always put onto Nithi weapons; these show the feathers of the Kelang Sept.” He looked straight at the hooded man, but was annoyed at not seeing his face.

“What is the Kelang Sept?” asked the stranger in a dry whisper that unnerved the old man.

“The Nithi have three noble houses that can legally have one member of its family rule the entire tribe. They are the Multan, Kelang, and Yemini Septs. The oldest are the Multan, but they have been deposed some years ago in an intertribal conflict. Yemini are the youngest and smallest ruling house, with very little power to wield. The current rulers of the Nithi are from the Kelang Sept.”

The stranger visibly straightened on hearing this answer. “Mad-daimen,” he said, nodding to himself.

The wise man paused for a while, looking at the tall figure. He had the bearing of a warrior and a sinister aura about him. When he had walked into his apothecary, this late morning, he sensed trouble and he had felt a twinge of fear when he showed him the daggers.

“Yes, Mad-daimen is the ruler of the Nithi, but neither of these weapons belongs to him,” said Selig.

“How do you mean?” The warrior’s full attention was on the wise man’s answer.

“Mad-daimen’s feather symbol is coloured golden and is tattooed that colour on his shaved scalp, as is the Nithi custom. However, these two are coloured silver and blue to represent the lower-ranking member of the leading family; the silver is second only to Mad-daimen, and could be a brother or firstborn son; the blue is of a lower status.”

The old man breathed out a sigh as the stranger took the daggers back.

“Where will I find the governor of the town?” he asked.

Selig was surprised at the question and took a moment to think. “Governor Garth is usually in the Reivers Tavern at lunch time; that is your best bet.”

“Thank you for your time.” He threw down two more gold bits and left the shop.

Selig thought for a while as he gathered the money; a situation like this should not be kept to himself. The weekly reports to his mistress were often tedious, but greatly received. The information she collected from her spies all over the land was like a jigsaw puzzle that only she could piece together, and this one puzzle she would definitely want to hear.

He went to a bookshelf at the back of his store and moved several volumes on serology that looked as if they had been gathering dust for centuries. Behind the books was a hidden compartment that he opened. He pulled out a purple velvet bag, and, after locking up the shop, moved to his sitting room at the rear of the house.

He opened the bag and shook out its contents; a small, silver, oblong globe, about the size of a chicken egg, fell into his palm. He covered it up with his other hand and intoned the Skrol for opening.

It was some time before a voice answered him from the stone.

“Yes, Selig, you are early this week. I hope this premature communication is of some importance,” said the voice of Cinnibar.

Havoc had reached the outskirts of Sloe in the middle of the night, after he left the Little Dell. He slept under some pines on the side of the mountains that overlooked the town and had wandered through the main street before sun up just to get a feel for the place. Sloe was more of a large village than an actual town. There was no defensive wall or wooden palisade for protection. What it did have was an ancient water-filled ditch that encircled the whole town, with two wooden bridges south, and north that stretched over the wide water ditch. Tall stone houses built inside the circle followed the flow of the ditches curve perfectly. The town seemed designed to be easily defended from its enemies; all they needed to do was order men into shield walls at the two bridges.

However, as he walked into the town, the rest of the buildings were made of wood and most looked old as they nestled among leafy willows and buttresses of pine fencing. Sloe had a dull quaintness that appealed to him. Havoc had found Selig easily enough; his apothecary shop had a white sign of a mort and pestle outside with his name under it.

As he left the shop, the sign creaked in the wind. Taking Dirkem’s reins, he walked down the only street towards the Reivers Tavern. The tavern was one of the largest buildings there. It was mainly in two sections; the first was for staying guests, while the second and smallest section was the alehouse itself. With large windows and an ornate sign above the door, it seemed inviting. Havoc tied the stallion up on one of the hitching posts that sat at one end of the tavern. He then climbed the steps to the long, narrow porch and entered the bar.

A cloying heat that brought with it a stench of sweat and cooked stew welcomed him. The bar was on his right and took up a quarter of the room; it had a homely feel with all sorts of bric-a-brac, pottery and pewter mugs hanging above it. The barman, a tall man with a bushy moustache, was counting money, while the blonde barmaid held three full mugs of ale. Havoc recognised her from Ched’s memories as his buxom lover. On his left was the roaring fireplace complete with a dangling black iron caldron, its sluggish grey contents bubbling away. A thin old man smoking a bone pipe was dreamily stirring the contents. Table and chairs sat like little islands on the oak floor; most had candle wicks were covered in wax and lit to brighten the gloom, though it still remained dark and the only light came in through the dirty front windows.

Customers in this early afternoon were few. Three standing at the bar and two sitting at the rear exit to the outhouse chatted and slobbered the ale down their tunics. Three others at one of the tables close to the fire were playing cards. It was one of the card playing three who caught Havoc’s attention, a burly red-bearded man wearing a leather jerkin and leggings, and with a large double-headed axe at his feet.

The boy, Ched’s, memories flashed in Havoc’s mind; this was Governor Garth.

Havoc felt like a startled rabbit as everyone in the bar stopped what he or she was doing and stared at him in a cold silence.

He knew what he was going to do; he had run many scenarios through his head as the morning wore on, but it all come(s) down to making an impression, and instilling fear and confusion in his enemies.

He stood in the silence and let the door close on its own; it made an eerie creaking noise as it shut. He said nothing; he could imagine in the minds of those watching what they could see: a tall, thin, black-cloaked man with a handsome sword strapped to his back and a face obscured by his hood.

The blonde barmaid made a move first; she continued to carry the three drinks to the card table, and nearly bumped into it; her attention was on the newcomer. She put down the mugs, spilling some of the contents, but the three staring men did not notice this. She wiped her hands on her dirty white apron, still looking at Havoc.

“By the gods, Henny, can you not serve the gentleman instead of gawping at him!” This was from Garth, who was giving Havoc a sardonic grin.

“Yes Governor.” She gave Garth a half curtsy and turned to Havoc. “What kin I git yew, sir?” Her accent was a mix of Haplann and mountain dialects.

Havoc did not answer; the silence in the bar was deafening. A charge of tension filled the air; everyone felt this, and the girl looked very nervously at him. Havoc took his saddlebags off his shoulder now filled with new provisions and some money, and it made a loud clunking sound as he dropped it on to the table next to Garth’s. The girl jumped and put her hand to her throat. Havoc gave a half smile as he noticed several others give involuntary flinches too. He was beginning to enjoy himself.

Fear is our greatest ally and our worst foe
, he thought, and was beginning to realise the truth of it.

He turned his chair around so he could straddle it; this was to give him better access to Tragenn should he need to use it. It did not go unnoticed by Garth and everyone else in the tavern, the tension in that room increase twofold.

“Stew and white ale,” he said to the girl in the same dry whisper he had used with Selig.

The girl virtually ran to the bar to get the order.

“Pretty girl, but bloody stupid,” Garth said, chuckling, in what he thought was a friendly voice, but Havoc found it infuriating that this piece of filth was talking to him. “Have you come far, stranger?”

Havoc felt a Pyromantic surge building, though now he was far better at controlling them than he had been a year ago. He linked it to the air around him, which caused a static pressure to build up in the room.

He turned his head slightly towards the governor; he could see the man’s smile was false and that he used the same expression on many people who he felt were inferior to him. He was holding his cards in both hands. Havoc could see that he and the two old cronies he was playing against were in the middle of a game of Karsh, which used eighty-four cards with Skrol symbols and pictures on them. It was a betting game for intelligent people who could use the sub-conscious symbols of the ancient language, if they could not; it turned into a game of chance.

Havoc looked at the cards on the table and the clarity of the symbols was instantaneous in his mind; he could understand the moves that had been made and the next cards played to win, but did not know how he knew. It was like looking at the Skrol on Tragenn’s blade and it was suddenly clear to him. Tragenn’s Orrinn? – It had to be something to do with that. He would think on it later.

“Karsh-Out in three moves, to the dealer,” he whispered harshly.

Garth’s smile faded as he looked at the cards on the table; the pressure in the air was tangible and started pushing against everyone’s eyeballs; everyone fidgeted uncomfortably not understanding why they were so on edge.

The girl, Henny, brought the stew and the white ale to Havoc’s table; the bowl of grey mush did not look appetising and paled in comparison to Neiva’s cooking, but he ate some anyway. The white ale, on the other hand was very good. It was mainly normal black stout with a white bulb plant called
Lerianes polthioum
dropped in the liquid. The bulb made the ale stronger and gave it a sweet flavour; it also coloured the ale into a cloudy pale white, hence the name.