The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) (25 page)

A fresh wind cut through the trees, and blew dark brown leaves over a tearful Havoc as he looked down at the shards of Tragenn.

Chapter 19

Powyss

“It’s Tragenn isn’t it?” asked the older man. “I wasn’t sure at first, but it is?”

Havoc was in a daze; his mind whirled. The sword of his ancestors was gone; he did not hear the pain in this man’s voice.

“What?” he asked.

“You are the De Proteous, aren’t you?” The man was looking intently at him. He had sheathed his sword and was now holding out his hand to lift him up from the ground.

He looked at the offered hand for a few seconds, and then took it. “Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Powyss. If you are who I think you are then the rumour of your death appears to be greatly exaggerated.”

“Yes, I’ am Havoc De Proteous Cromme.” He was angry with this man, but also at himself. He still gripped Tragenn’s hilt and its weight felt wrong in his hand.

“I am very sorry, my prince, it was an accident and the fault lies with me.” The old man’s face was one of genuine sorrow and Havoc felt, for the first time since meeting this man, a liking for him. His rising anger receded and he waved away the apology.

“It does not matter; you won the fight fair and square,” he said.

“Even so, your sword…”

“I will find another.” He frowned. “What rumours?”

“What...? Oh, just the usual talk of Vallkyte propaganda. They are aware of your departure from your people a year ago.”

Havoc was surprised at the enemy’s knowledge, even if it was speculation.

“Really? That’s interesting,” he mumbled to himself.

“Tragenn was made by a Rawn master smith. Even if I had it in my power to repair it, I would, but it will not be the same again.” The old man looked down at the glinting steel among the brown leaves.

He walked to his saddlebags and pulled out a thick tan leather cloth. He then picked up the pieces of the broken sword very carefully and, with such reverence that Havoc smiled despite his loss.

“You can hold on to these,” he said, handing the full pouch to Havoc. “They are like broken memories, though, memories all the same.”

Havoc nodded in understanding.

“Come, you look hungry; let’s eat,” said Powyss, indicating the cooked pig. He stoked the fire and carved the pig, placing large chunks of pork on flat stones with edible plant leaves, nuts and fungus in a bowl beside it.

Havoc cut mouth-sized morsels with his hunting knife and was quickly full on the greasy, tender meat. Powyss cooked the mushrooms and nuts in the rendered fat until the smell made Havoc hungry again. They washed all of this down with the last of the wine he had purchased in Sloe.

All through the feast, they talked. Powyss was curious about the prince’s story.

“Where have you been for the last year?”

“Oh... up in the Tattoium Mountains,” he said, “living the life of a hermit, I suppose!” He was aware that the other man knew he was being evasive, but, although he liked him, he was not sure he could trust him.

Powyss was a friendly enough person, though. His smile was infectious and warm. He placed his age at about forty; apart from his laughter lines around the eyes and his slightly greying black hair, he looked young. Being a Rawn made guessing an age impossible, and Havoc had never seen a Rawn master as old as Powyss.

“Why are you here, then?” asked Powyss.

“I’m running from the Vallkyte soldiers.”

“Yes, I know what you mean; they are everywhere. They’re hunting down some mad head hunter.”

Havoc changed the subject quickly. “I’m sure I have seen you before,” he said.

“It’s possible. I’m very famous.” He smiled. “You may have seen me with your Uncle Hagan; I was his champion and closest friend.”

Havoc nearly dropped the stone plate he was holding. He stared at Powyss and suddenly remembered seeing him in the council chambers, dressed in the ornate Sonoran armour.

“Yes at Aln-Tiss, the council of war,” he said through a mouthful of pork. “Before the war in the Wildlands.”

“That’s right.” Powyss nodded. “Bloody sham that was. Kasan had us all fooled that day.” He pointed a greasy finger at Havoc. “I’ll bet you a thousand sovereigns that the war was all fabrication and lies.”

“It was. I have been doing my own investigating, but I will tell you about that later. How did you come to be here; did you not fight at Dragorsloth?”

“I wish I did, and I would be honoured to die beside your uncle. Unfortunately, the king sent me on a mission of importance,” he said ruefully.

Havoc had another flash of memory, one he had forgotten until now: his uncle and the champion talking in the corridor outside the council chambers while he hid behind a statue. As he pictured the scene, their conversation came back to him.

“The folk of Zent; that was your mission; you were to move them to a safe place,” he said excitedly.

Powyss went pale and his jaw dropped. “How could you possibly know that?”

Me and my big mouth
, thought Havoc, and decided to tell the truth for once. “Sorry, I was eavesdropping and hiding behind a statue when you both walked past.”

“Hiding behind... Why did I not detect you?”

“I was using the Rawn Hiding Art.”

“You’re very good... Better than me at that age, in fact.”

“Powyss, who are the folk of Zent? I know that Zent is an island off the coast of Sonora, but I thought it was uninhabited.”

The older man blew air out from his cheeks and sighed. He ran his fingers through his beard and stared at Havoc so intently that it was becoming uncomfortable.

“Some secrets,” he said, “are too painful to keep to yourself.” He gave Havoc one more long look and nodded, as if he had come to some agreement. “Very well, the folk are actually the Dwarves of Zent.” He waited for Havoc to show some sign of understanding, but got none.

“The dwarves are like the Roguns and the Vallkytes, and not natives to this island; they come from a far off land; do not ask me what it is called; I wouldn’t be able to pronounce it in the dwarves’ tongue, but we call it Fyrandia. Over a thousand years ago, they settled in the Eternal Forest, but were persecuted by the humans who lived there. They are fierce in battle and managed an uneasy life among the people of the trees.

“However, everything changed when the civil war with Baron Telmar and his host spread mass destruction everywhere they went. The dwarves fought beside the people of Sonora, and, after the war, when your Uncle Hagan was granted the citadel’s rule, they asked him for asylum. He gave it to them and allowed them a home on the Island of Zent on the condition that they would forge steel again.”

Havoc frowned. “Forge steel?”

“The Dwarves of Zent are extraordinary metallurgists; what they don’t know about sword making is not worth knowing,” said Powyss, and he unsheathed his sword, handing it to Havoc hilt first. “This is Bor-Teaven, Fire Thrower; only a sword made by the dwarves could shatter a Rawn smith’s creation.”

Bor-Teaven was, indeed, a beautiful sword; the long, thin blade gave off a yellowy sheen, the hilt was a carving of a long, thin firedrake made of ivory, and its pointed tail poked its way through a large ruby pommel. The weight displaced perfectly and, even though it was the same size as Tragenn, it seemed lighter.

“A fine sword,” said Havoc. He pointed out the ruby pommel. “Is this an Orrinn?”

Powyss stiffened and took back the sword. “Yes, it’s a Fire Orrinn, if you must know.” He looked embarrassed.

“Why would a Rawn master need a Fire Orrinn?” asked Havoc, clearly confused.

“I have difficulty in summoning fire, all right! Some Rawns have the knack of it; I don’t,” he snapped. “I can use fire if it’s already there, by myself; the Fire Orrinn just gives me the extra boost I need.”

“All right, I didn’t mean to pry,” said Havoc, holding up his hands. “So the dwarves make swords?”

“They can make any weapon and armour. It was a great sign of power to have the dwarves at your control, but your uncle didn’t exploit them, and they were grateful to him for that.”

“So they made your Sonoran armour too?”

“That’s right, although I would have rather had less of the flamboyant design, which was your uncle’s idea.”

Havoc laughed.

“Uncle Hagan always had a good sense of humour.” Powyss smiled.

“I miss the old fart.”

“Me too.”

Both men were lost in their thoughts for a while.

“Your uncle was always concerned about the dwarves,” went on Powyss. “You see, your uncle always kept his promise no matter if it hurt others, and he promised to keep the dwarves safe from harm. After the council of war at the Rogun citadel, Hagan was uneasy about Zent, because it was easily accessible, even though it was out of bounds to all. You see, after a while, the new home of the dwarves was no longer a secret, and soon everyone wanted access to them through the king. Your Uncle Kasan was one of the worst; he continually bullied Hagan into allowing several dwarf families to stay in Dulan-Tiss, but Hagan never budged an inch. He sent a small navy to patrol the coast of Zent constantly.

“What you overheard that day behind your statue was just the final decision on a conversation we had both been having for months. He wanted them moved to a safe place until the war was over; he did not put it past anybody, least of all Kasan, to pull some kidnapping trick on the dwarves, or his children, for that matter.” He thought for a moment before he continued, “In hindsight, the girls would have been better off at Sonora. To cut a long story short, I knew of a place to take the dwarves that no one knew about, or could even find. Their new sanctuary was called the Vale.”

The captain of the
Raxion
was not a happy man. He ran a tight ship, his discipline was harsh but fair, and he was more used to giving orders than receiving them. The moment the Havant stepped on board, he knew his cold, hard shell was going to crumble. He saw her now, standing on the aft helm deck looking out over the rail. She held her sword staff in the crook of her arm and stroked the snakehead hilt. What struck him most about her were her ice-cold beauty and her nonchalant poise; even the way she gave him orders had a mocking grace about it.

Her hood was down for the first time since coming on board and the wind blew her long white hair around her like writhing snakes.

“Is there something I can do for you, Captain Hildek, or are you, like me, enjoying the view?” she asked, without turning around.

Hildek thought she must have eyes at the back of her head.

“I’m just here to inform you, My Lady that we are coming in to land at Fort Chunla.”

“I know; you will command a troop and accompany me into the fort Hildek,” she said; her omission of his rank grated on him.

“Yes, My Lady.”

The wind beneath the sky ship’s hull churned up the soil into a deep furrow fifty feet long as she came in to land next to the fort. Once she was just above the ground, the helmsman intoned the Skrol for deactivating the Wind Orrinn in its cradle and the ship landed with an undignified thump. The crew busied themselves securing the ship to the ground with thick iron anchors and tightening the slack sails, as Jynn and her party disembarked and entered the fort’s double gates.

Commander Leman was there to greet her, having already been apprised of her visit, he was a tall, thin, battle-scarred warrior who was amazed at the presence of this beautiful Ri.