The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) (27 page)

Jynn had weakened herself considerably from summoning the storm, but she did not show it; she felt exhilarated.

The destruction around her was intoxicating; large gaps of blackened, smouldering logs had opened up the otherwise-dense forest and the smoke diminished with every drop of rain. The bitter smell of dampened charcoal was strong.

Commander Leman’s men searched the devastated forest with no result. A wary Leman delivered the verdict to the pale Havant. Jynn was not listening to him. She was looking down into the steep sides of the gorge.

She ordered men into the ravine to find a trail east and west then went back on board the
Raxion
.

Havoc told Powyss his story. He explained his need for revenge and his curiosity about the daggers, his discovery of the false war against the Nithi and the death of Garth and the other Vallkytes. He did not mention Mulvend, the dreams of Verna or his Pyromantic abilities, but the older man’s head snapped up when Havoc explained to him about the Muse Orrinn and Mirryn.

“You are joking, surely?” He gaped at Havoc in astonishment.

“No, I’m not; watch.” He pulled out the broken sword and spoke to the silver globe. He was more concerned than he realised about Mirryn; he hoped that the bird had found some shelter during last night’s storm, and, when she did not show up after an hour, he became worried.

Powyss looked at him with sad eyes.

“So... um... how does the Orrinn work, then?” asked Powyss with genuine interest.

“It’s difficult to explain. I look into the Orrinn, and the Orrinn looks through the eyes of Mirryn. It has also showed me visions of the future.”

“Really, such as knowing when we were going to be in an electrical storm, yes?” asked Powyss sarcastically.

“It kind of missed that one out. It only shows me the important things, which is probably why you were not in it.”

“Touché.” The other man smiled.

There was a high-pitched chirping from the Orrinn and from above them. Both men looked up to see Mirryn gliding in through the trees to land on Dirkem’s saddle, which sat on the ground beside Havoc.

“Wow... that is bloody marvellous,” said Powyss. “Can she find you anywhere?”

“She can find the Orrinn anywhere,” said Havoc, stroking the bird’s breast.

They talked some more about life, battles and love, Havoc mentioned Eleana. As he talked about her, he realised he missed her deeply. However, Powyss had two wives and four sons.

“They live in Hoath,” he said. “My first wife is pushing eighty, and my second is nearly forty. It’s something to remember, my prince, that the life of a Rawn far exceeds that of a normal mortal.”

“I know love is a fleeting thing for our kind.”

Havoc learnt much about Powyss that night. The older man opened his heart to him about many things, mainly about his insecurities concerning his Rawn abilities.

“Nevertheless, it has made me the man I am today. Sometimes the subtle use of the arts wins a fight more than you know; I will teach you this.” He studied Havoc for a while. “Lord Rett taught you swordsmanship, didn’t he?”

“Yes he did; have you met him?”

“Fought him in competition on three occasions; beat him in the last two.”

“You beat the Red Duke?” asked Havoc incredulously.

“I told you I was famous, but they were the hardest fights I ever fought... until I met you.”

Havoc was stunned; Powyss had a serious look on his face.

“Thank you; you weren’t a pushover, either.”

They talked and laughed throughout the evening, until tiredness got the better of them.

Both men slept well until the early hours of the morning, then they rode hard and fast over the plain towards Lake Furran, many miles to the south. The plain was flat and arid. Powyss informed Havoc that they now travelled over part of the Dulan Plain that was the far western edge of the Vallkyte lands. They only stopped once to rest the horses and drink water. The moon shone silver on something at the horizon.

“That’s Lake Furran over there; we have made good time, but it’s still a ways to go before sun up,” said Powyss.

They continued onward towards the silver shimmer, and then that vanished, to become an orange glow as the sun came up. They found some shelter in a rock-strewn scrubland, and kept a watch for the sky ships, though none appeared.

Havoc caught two large hares and they cooked the meat, leaving some raw for Mirryn; the kite would fly off from time to time to scan the sky and show them the distance to the lake, which was not that far.

Through the Orrinn, and Mirryn, he saw many strange landscapes that Havoc’s curiosity wanted to explore. He saw a barren wasteland some distance to the east. It was a blackened, scorched land many miles wide.

“That would be the Firelands,” said Powyss after Havoc’s query about the land to the east. “It is the sight of the last battle to be fought against Baron Telmar.”

“Of course, the Battle of the Firelands; there was a coalition host comprising of Rawns, Ris and tribal armies,” said Havoc, remembering his history lessons.

“Yes, I was there, although not at the first battle of the civil war against Telmar; that happened a year before and was called the Battle of the Single Survivor.”

“Never got taught that one; who was the survivor?”

“Never got taught... Good grief, man, the survivor was your father,” said Powyss with stunned surprise.

The look of shock on the prince’s face was a picture. “My father, the king, he did not tell me!”

“That’s because he can’t remember most of it. After Telmar killed the Vallkyte king and his family, he was in a position of senior royal power, but his only rival for the throne was Valient III. Therefore, as the baron moved his force to the Vallkyte border, the king sent your grandfather to intercept him and negotiate for a truce. You see, Valient thought that Vanduke Senior would succeed on his mission, mainly because he and Telmar were very close friends from their days in the academy together. The other reason was your father; he went along too, as adviser in the negotiations. Your father was always very good at that sort of thing.

“Your father had yet to pass the Canndali, so he was almost a Rawn master, but older and wiser than the rest of us who still had to perform the final trial. I, on the other hand, lagged behind the other students of my year, because I could not get the hang of summoning fire. I decided to stay back a couple of years to continue my training. That is when I met the Cromme brothers. Your father was always kind to me, though he had his own friends to talk to in those days. Kasan was a cold fish, but your Uncle Hagan and I were to become best friends. Your uncle kindly helped me through the Canndali.

“Your father had gone with Vanduke Senior to talk to Telmar, and he was the only one to return. He remembers
some
of what happened. The negotiations were short. Baron Telmar’s mood swings of paranoia and madness were apparent to them all; your father remembers you grandfather’s comment to him before the battle. He said he did not recognise Telmar anymore; the man he knew as a childhood friend had been burnt away by the curse.” Powyss stopped, looking at Havoc thoughtfully. “You do know that Telmar was a Pyromancer, don’t you?”

“I had heard that from someone, yes,” said Havoc a little nervously.

“A terrifying and immense power the Pyromancer wields and it led to his madness.” Powyss was quiet for a few seconds.

“So what happened to my father?”

“Well, the baron sent his host to attack your grandfather’s smaller army. The surprise attack came unexpectedly, but the Roguns fought to the last man, who was your father. Vanduke Senior was one of the first killed in the enemy’s charge; was your father bravely rallied the men around the fallen De Proteous and fought like a true hero.

“When Telmar arrived to the slaughter, he had one of his mood swings and was so distraught at the death of his best friend that he let your father go. That is the part your father has difficulty remembering; he does not know the circumstances of his release. He does remember carrying your grandfather’s body back home, where he got a state burial.

“King Valient declared war, and, as you said, sent a coalition force to tackle the baron. All three of the Cromme brothers went and so did I. I found myself attached to Hagan’s unit. Baron Telmar’s general, Count Talien, had retreated after seeing the size of the allied force, but we soon managed to catch up with him. We cut down his men in several furious conflicts over the course of a few months. He made one last effort to destroy us at the area of land that, now called the Firelands. Rawns, Ris and even mortal soldiers fought well that day; the cavalry of the Red Duke turned the tide of battle by pressing in the enemy on their flanks.

“However, Telmar himself came to the battle as well, and everything changed. He was in a rage, a fiery passion, and he unleashed the Pyromancer’s power, burning the land for miles. Many died on both sides as the fire consumed them. It was the first time that I was able to control fire; the Rawns and Ris fared better than ordinary mortals did, as they protected themselves from the tidal wave of flame as it washed over them. I was able to push it away from me by force of will, and it weakened me greatly, even though I was on the outskirts of the battlefield.

“The remaining Rawns and Ris fought on against the Pyromancer; there were hundreds of them and only one of him; it seemed to go on forever, when I recovered I joined in so others could leave and gain strength. Then, when we thought all hope was lost, the baron stopped his attack. Greatly weakened from the fight, the coward ran to the safety of a ruined fort on the other side of the battlefield.

“Kasan was the only one brave and strong enough to confront him, even though it was not a difficult task for him. The baron had exhausted his power and left as a burnt, blackened husk of a man; he was still alive when Kasan found him, so your uncle split his heart in two with his sword. There ended the power of the Pyromancer and the civil war.”

When Powyss finished the story, Havoc was frowning. “He burnt himself?” he asked.

“Yes, we all saw the corpse with the remains of his armour. Kasan and Cinnibar dragged the body back to what was left of our army, still with Kasan’s sword in him.”

“Cinnibar,” said Havoc, wide eyed. “She was there too?”

“Havoc, everyone was there; some of the most powerful in the land were at the final battle, and if you think I’m good with a sword you should see Cinnibar. She fought very bravely in the battle.”

Havoc had a mix of emotions after Powyss’ description of the battle and the awesome power at the hands of the Pyromancer. Could he have the ability to burn an entire army? No wonder people were so afraid of him. He had thought about telling Powyss the real reason he had left his people, which was to keep them safe from his curse, but now he thought better of it after seeing the same fear in his eyes.

Cinnibar’s involvement disturbed him; why, he did not know. The words of Verna all those years ago, when she had mentioned females made very powerful Ris, swam back through his memory. Could Verna have been referring to Cinnibar? She was a very powerful Rawn and showed no signs of becoming a Ri. Then he realised that the Havant Order were now female dominated; could she be creating an opposition to the male orientated Ri Order?

However, the one thing that confused him most of all was that the baron had burnt himself. This, to him, seemed strange, because, being a Pyromancer in charge of the same power; he knew that it was
impossible
for him to burn from the same heat that he could produce from his surges.

Chapter 21

Journey to the Vale

They had decided not to stop at the lake. Powyss was concerned the locals would see them and, if a Ri was hunting them, they should err on the side of caution and stay hidden. He was also pleased to have Mirryn watching the skies; this would give them an early warning if those sky ships appeared.

Therefore, they bypassed the beautiful calm Lake Furran and its trees that grew right at its edge, and headed southeast towards the Furran Ford.

“Once we cross the ford, we will be on the eastern edge of the Dragon Marshes, and then we head on a diagonal course west,” said Powyss.

Winter had come early to the marshlands; a mist had formed that gave the travellers very poor visibility, although it also had the effect of obscuring them from the sky ships. Havoc was pleased that Powyss was with him; he seemed to know of the many routes through the sodden and stinking ground.

The route west was mainly to avoid the worst of the waterlogged boggy marsh, which was to the south. It conveniently brought them close to the battlefield of Dragorsloth. Havoc knew at some point in their journey they would pass the ridge that Kasan had sat upon to see the battle’s outcome; however, in the thick mist, it was impossible to see at any great distance. The mist would waver and glide like ghosts, opening up a view of the terrain they were traversing, then swallowing it up again; as a result, they passed the ridge without knowing it.

A startling cry came from the Orrinn; Havoc looked into it, but only saw mist. After a while, the mist opened and a sky ship loomed in front of the kite, which banked to the left, calling to Havoc in a warning cry.

“I hear her,” said Powyss. “But it is very far away to the east.”

Suddenly, the mist moved apart quickly in the distance and a sunbeam shone down to the ground; it moved over the marsh slowly as if it was a searching eye. The clouds displaced and blew away from the power of the Wind Orrinn on the ship; they would open and close behind it like a ship’s wake. They caught the briefest glimpse of the ship as its aft section came into view. It was floating away from them.

“That’s the
Raxion
, I would recognise it anywhere,” said Powyss.

Even though they knew that the vessel was going in the opposite direction to them, they picked up speed and galloped onto drier ground.

They were on the battlefield before they knew it.

At first, there was not much to see; the marsh had claimed the dead, a sludge brown rib cage sticking out of the ground there, a yellow skull or two here. It was as if an eerie presence was with them on that day. A chill breeze from out of nowhere blew away some of the mist to reveal the battlefield properly.

They could see the dead scattered around them; horses with armour and blackened flesh were like islands in the marsh, heraldic banners stuck out of the ground where their standard-bearers had fallen, and their colours hung in dirty tatters. Skeletons were in abundance; most had sunk into the boggy ground claimed by the marshland; others had been scattered by the scavengers.

Havoc noticed that the sun had not bleached the bones. They looked blackened with shrunken flaps of skin, or discoloured by bacteria and algae. A strange stench overlapped the smell of rotting vegetation from the marsh.

“The glory of battle,” said Powyss, and the sound of his voice brought Havoc out of his daze. At that moment, the mist closed up on the gruesome scene and, in the distance, a raven cawed.

They trotted on. The horses became fidgety as their hooves snapped bones that they could not avoid. Havoc was grateful for the mist obscuring their view of the ground, but his imagination was running amok.

As midday came – or so they thought, because the mist gave the impression of a timeless void – they found a watercourse, which, apart from the mist, was the only moving substance in the marsh; it meandered through dips and hollows and had the look of the same brown sludge that filled the pools. They decided not to fill their canteens. They crossed the brown stream and soon came to a dead end in the shape of a hill.

“Are these the hills Ness Ri looked from?” asked Powyss.

Havoc shrugged and looked up at the hills steep slope; the summit was lost to view by the mist, but the mist hugged the ground and the hill’s crest might be above the cloud. “Mirryn will find out for us,” he said.

They found the Cairn of Hagan on a hilltop to their right; through the Orrinn and the kite, Havoc could see that his guess was right and the hill protruded out of the thick clouds.

They left the horses to graze at the foot of the hill and hiked up the steep incline towards the top. It took them the better part of an hour; even guided by Mirryn they missed some paths, and the twists and turns around rocky outcrops were many.

Presently, the cloud thinned and then disappeared altogether as they reached the summit. Clouds and blue sky greeted them, and the view across the mist was spectacular; it looked like an undulating snowfield.

They found the cairn of the long-dead hero right at the very top. It was large, taller than a man was. Its surface was made of a mixture of different types of rocks that fused together by heat, which gave it a unique glassy surface. Inside could be seen the dark outline of a headless corpse.

Powyss peered into the cairn with sad eyes. “Well,” he said, ‘you’ve gone and died first, haven’t you? Always thought it would be me to go before you. I should have been there to save you.” He looked on the verge of tears.

Havoc felt awkward, but rubbed the older man’s back anyway.

“Got your nephew here and I will look after him, and serve him like the brother I found in you.” He walked off suddenly, so Havoc could not see him cry.

Havoc felt overcome with emotion at the words.

“I hope you are still telling the jokes in the feasting halls of the lost heroes, Uncle; I will be sending you a large audience,” he said to the dark form.

“What did Lord Ness tell you of the inscription he wrote?” asked Powyss, who was on the other side of the cairn.

“I didn’t know he wrote one,” said Havoc, shaking his head and walking around to the other side.

“I only know a few words in Skrol, so this makes no sense to me,” said Powyss.

Havoc saw the inscription carved in the neat, circular symbols of Skrol. As he looked closer, he saw the inscription waver and become a more simplified and coherent text. It was similar to the playing cards he had seen in the Reivers Tavern; he could see the symbols underneath, but their meaning became clear to him like plain writing.

“It says:

Here lies the body of Hagan Cromme

Fist king of the Sonorans

Who died here at the Battle of Dragorsloth

On the 3026th Year of Ascension

A greater hero never was

He is blessedly in the lap of the old gods.
”

“Those are beautiful words; so he did tell you, then?” asked Powyss.

“No, he didn’t.” Havoc was still staring at the words and frowning; even when he looked away and back again, the Skrol became clear again.

“Come on now; it takes scholars older than I to understand a fifth of Skrol, yet here you are, a teenager, reading it to me.”

“Here,” said Havoc, handing the hilt of Tragenn to Powyss. “Take this and walk away. I think it has something to do with the Orrinn.”

Powyss shrugged and walked off some distance. Havoc looked at the inscription; it was still clear to him, but slowly wavering back into the symbols again. He focussed on the actual words and it became clear again; it was taking a lot of concentration. Powyss came back and, once the hilt was back in his hand, the Skrol became readable without any effort.

“I can read Skrol with the Orrinn; without it, I have to concentrate, and I can just make it out, only because I know what it means.”

Powyss had a go with the Orrinn, but, to him, it was unreadable Skrol.

‘This is a very special Orrinn. I don’t think it has anything to do with seeing at a distance or the future. I think it has something to do with seeing with conscious thought,” said Powyss, looking at the silver globe.

“I’m not sure. I think you are closer to the answer with that statement, though,” said Havoc.

They left the Cairn of Hagan and walked back down the hill. Before they left the summit to walk back into the clouds again, Powyss pointed to the south at a high range of mountains in the distance.

“That’s the Withers over there, so we need to go over to the south-east to those hills over there.” The new destination he pointed to was a small crown of hills slightly closer to them than the Withers.

“Why that way?” asked Havoc.

“Because south is far too dangerous and the terrain is far worse than what we have come through. It is easier, anyway, to the southeast, and the best way to get into the Withers unseen. However, we need provisions and there is a small village in those hills called Little Dorit; if we head off early, we will make it by nightfall.”

“All right... tell me Powyss, this Year of Ascension, is it something to do with the old Assassi calendar?”

“Yes, it’s an old Eldi term for the amount of years since they set foot on the island; their rise to power as it were. Quite a lot of the civilised world still uses the system to this day”

“We don’t own this island,” remarked Havoc to himself, “the island owns us.”

Powyss smiled at him. “I think you will make a good king one day, Havoc. You have a wise head on your shoulders”

“I would need a kingdom first.”

“How do you propose to get it back?”

“Raise an army and destroy my enemies; it’s as simple as that. I am De Proteous. I have that within my power, at least.”

They camped at the foot of the hill, ate a cold meal of bread, and salted pork, washed down with the last of the water. They talked about many things, mainly about Hagan.

“Did you know,” said Powyss, staring into the distance, “that in the fables of the Rawn Sagas, powerful Rawns were able to heal back on their severed limbs, even their heads?”

“What a load of bollocks; decapitation is the only sure fire way to kill a Rawn master; that and piercing the heart, or extreme loss of blood.”

“No, it’s true; I’m deadly serious.” Powyss did look serious enough to give Havoc pause.

“You are having me on. Do you think Uncle Hagan could have healed his own head back on, then?”

Both men sat in silence. Then Powyss turned to Havoc.

“Na... The bloody fool would put it on back to front, anyway,” said Powyss. “At least he would be able to kiss his own arse.”

Havoc laughed. “Well, at least he would see who was sneaking up on him,” said Havoc, getting in on the joke.

“Pissing would be difficult, but he never used the privy, anyway,” said Powyss, grinning.

Both men laughed until it hurt. Havoc could see, in his mind’s eye, Hagan sitting in the feasting Halls of Heroes, and laughing at the macabre insults they banded about amongst each other.

The next day, they made good time across the drier area of the marsh. The mist thinned a little so the terrain ahead became easier to follow, and, as night fell, the small hills and Little Dorit came into view. The prince glimpsed the orange lantern lights from the town some distance away, even beyond the dense cloud.

Havoc felt a sense of relief as they left the Dragon Marshes for good. He felt it had a life of its own. The feeling that it was a separate void, its own entity, was strong and disturbing. Little Dorit, on the other hand, was quaint. It nestled in the foot of a crescent of small hills that surrounded the flat ground the village sat on. The locals, Powyss told him, called this formation a Dorit; hence, the towns clustered houses taking the same name.

Powyss found a stable for the horses and fresh hay to feed them. He paid the owner well, a short, fat man with a friendly face and a thin moustache. He did not seem bothered to see them. Powyss explained to the prince that the village was the recipient of many travellers.

“I don’t want to bring attention to ourselves, so we will just dress plainly,” said Powyss, who gave some of his old clothes to Havoc. “Keep your daggers handy, though; it can get a little rough here.”