The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) (28 page)

They headed up the gravel road to the local supply store. Vallkyte soldiers were everywhere.

“If anyone asks, we are father and son doing some trapping in the Withers, all right,” said Powyss.

“All right, I will... Daddy.”

“Oh, you’re so funny.”

They bought food, fresh water and wine skins with the last of Havoc’s gold. It did not bother him; he was a Rawn and he could make some more. Both were looking forward to a hot meal and a beer at the local alehouse when they had rounded the corner and nearly bumped into three Vallkyte soldiers walking out of the tavern entrance.

“Did you get the hard tack, son?” asked Powyss, in a loud voice so the soldiers could hear; they looked their way and Havoc avoided eye contact with them.

“You know I don’t like hard tack, Father,” he said, putting a little whine into his voice.

“Nonsense, boy, there is always room for hard tack,” said Powyss gruffly. He shook his head in exasperation at the soldiers; they, in turn, ignored them.

They entered the bar. It was crowded and noisy. Most of the locals were here, with some other soldiers. Powyss picked an empty table in a dark corner and ordered ale and hot food.

“Concentrate on the art of concealment,” said Powyss. “Wish yourself invisible like I did to you in the Oldwoods; dampen out everyone’s mind to your presence.”

Havoc nodded and concentrated. The din in the small bar and the smell of the unwashed faded, but not completely; it was as if it was coming from another room.

Powyss was very good at this; his eyes glazed over with the effort, and he just vanished, though not from sight. He could still see him, but his mind did not register his presence. He could just see him out of the corner of his eye, flickering into being.

The girl with the food and drinks arrived and looked at the table with a confused look on her face. Havoc had concentrated in becoming the shadow he was sitting next to; it formed the table and the back wall, and he was amazed to see the girl frowning and looking straight at him. She looked around her and Powyss appeared at her side. Havoc had not seen him move.

“That table there, thank you, my dear,” he said as he patted her rump and paid her a tip.

“You’re very good at that. I’m impressed,” said Havoc.

“So you should be.”

Havoc laughed.

“You’re good too. You were merging with your surroundings, but it gets harder out in the open; takes practice. You can use the Rawn Arts to do little things to have a big advantage; the good thing about it is it is hard for others to detect because you are only using a small amount of energy to get a bigger result. I call it the Subtle Arts.”

They ate their food and supped their ale. Havoc noticed that no one in the bar paid them any attention. Locals sang by the fire, one of the serving wenches danced for a Vallkyte soldier who was grinning with lust up at her, and other soldiers were ordering drinks at the bar. Fiddle music changed key and lifted tempo as the dancing girl spun faster.

Powyss gripped his arm. “They’re looking for you; the Vallkytes are asking the locals about a dark-cloaked man.”

“How do you know that in this racket?” asked Havoc.

“Subtle Arts Havoc; I can use small amounts of the third element to bring voices closer to my ears; it’s difficult, but I will teach you this.”

“That’s amazing. You’d make a good spy.”

“Not really; I’m just naturally nosy.”

The tavern door opened and in walked a beautiful woman in a purple robe. Havoc could just see the rosy red lips under the hood. Powyss gasped and tightened his grip on Havocs arm. He hissed, “Conceal now!”

Havoc did so.

The bar, which was once noisy and full of life, suddenly drained of all joy when the Havant priestess walked in. She lowered her hood and Havoc saw the long white hair and the thin pale face with dark almond eyes that pierced into the gloomy tavern.

Silence filled the bar as all eyes looked at her.

“Sergeant Garret, why are your men here?” she asked in a light but firm voice, to the soldier who the girl had danced for.

“We are questioning the locals My Lady,” said the sergeant nervously.

“Do you have to get them, and yourselves, drunk first before you ask those questions?”

Havoc turned to Powyss; his grip on his arm was like iron, and his eyes glazed again. He was using the Subtle Arts for both of them. Fear was oozing out of his every pore.

“No, My Lady, we were just finished,” said the sergeant, and nodded to the door; his men left quietly and quickly.

The Havant looked around the bar; her eyes passed over their dark corner without lingering.

“Go about your business, please,” she said, smiling but there was no emotion behind the smile. She turned and left.

Powyss let out a huge sigh. “Jynn; should have realised it was her who summoned the storm.”

“You know her?” asked Havoc.

“Yes, she is a powerful Ri; very rare for a female to become a Ri. Hagan and I suspected her of being an assassin for Cinnibar; we have to leave now.”

They walked out as quickly and unsuspicious as they could. No Vallkyte soldiers were around to see them leave. They quickly walked to the stables to collect their horses, but stopped when they saw the Havant enter through the stable doors.

“Quick, this way,” said Powyss and they walked to the rear of the building and looked through the crack in the wooden walls. “Conceal yourself, Havoc, just in case.”

Havoc saw that the Havant had pulled something out from the folds of her cloak. It was small, oval in shape, and glowed white in the palm of her hands. It reminded him of his sword’s Orrinn. It started to pulse as if a bright light was inside it.

“The search continues, mistress,” said Jynn to the stone.

“Have you made any advances, my dear?” asked a voice that sounded familiar to Havoc.

“None since the Oldwoods,” answered Jynn. “Locals, wherever we go, have sightings of a black-cloaked ghost with an unusual sword, but they are all superstitious in these parts. I have read the minds of the chief and his councillors, and our suspect did not come this way.”

“Very well, you have made excellent progress all the same; what is your next plan?”

“Tattoium, that is where he was first sighted, that is my next port of call.”

“May the gods go with you precious one.”

“And you, mistress.” Jynn pocketed the orb and left the stable. When she disappeared down a side street, Havoc and Powyss went to collect their horses.

“She was talking to Cinnibar,” said Powyss as he saddled Sarema.

“I thought I recognised the voice, but why are the Havants after me?”

“Not a clue, but the good news is they are looking in the wrong place, so we have to leave now.”

“What was that thing she was talking into?” asked Havoc as he kept watch, while Powyss collected their other belongings.

“Not seen one before, but I think it is a Lobe Stone; it’s used for communicating at long distance with other Lobe Stones.”

“It looks like Tragenn’s Orrinn.”

“It’s not an Orrinn. I think they are manmade, but no one is sure. It’s possible that it may be linked to an Orrinn, though.” Powyss had everything in the saddlebags now. “That’s everything; let’s go.”

They left on newly fed horses, leaving Little Dorit with its bright lights and simple country life. They crossed the river near a large beaver dam at Lake Tuen and followed a road to the south until they entered the Wither Mountains at daybreak.

The route that Powyss took them on was long and winding and Havoc had the impression that they backtracked many times. They would stop every hour and hide their tracks. They would climb rocky cliffs, leading the horses on foot, and gallop through ice-cold rivers to cool down the horses from the sun, which shone bright in the blue sky at this height.

Powyss changed course on the second day and brought them to a high cliff face that loomed above them. They had followed the cliff for a day now and Havoc was beginning to think there was no end to it.

“See anything unusual?” asked Powyss as he reined in his horse and turned to look at the cliff.

“Well, apart from the hair growing out of your ears, no.”

Powyss rolled his eyes to the sky. “I mean on the cliff face.”

Havoc looked and could see nothing unusual in what he saw; he shrugged and shook his head. Powyss got off his horse and walked up to a tall shrub that was climbing up the side of the cliff. He turned, waved with a smile, and disappeared.

Havoc was stunned. He walked up to the cliff and saw that it was not one rock wall, but two. There was a gap hiding behind the shrub. Powyss appeared again, smiling. “It’s wide enough for the horses; let’s go.”

They were now moving through a narrow tunnel, with a clear view of the sky; water trickled down over the rocky walls and the ground was sodden with mud. A sweet smell came to him, like dew on cut grass. The corridor opened wider and they climbed up for a while towards a V-shaped opening.

His first view of the Vale stunned his senses; Powyss grinned at his reaction.

The narrow grassland, about half a mile wide, stretched for several miles ahead of them, with brilliant green grass swaying in the wind. There was a large blue lake right in front of them; it had white sand all around it, with short trees that swayed in the weak wind. Patches of colour were dotted here and there, as the wild flowers still bloomed this late in the year, like a rainbow sprouting from the ground. Small woodland, just discernible in the far in the distance at the other side of the pasture, gave the whole vista, with its surrounding high mountain peaks and spruce, a feeling of being untouched and hidden for millennia.

Havoc jumped as Powyss suddenly yelled and ran towards the lake, stripping off his clothes and jumping in.

“Come on in; it’s not cold,” he shouted.

Havoc smiled and ran, stripping off his dirty clothes and feeling joy as the soft sand gave way under his feet. He dived into the shallow lake and screamed in shock.

Powyss had lied; it was freezing.

Havoc broke the surface, his teeth chattering. He heard Powyss laugh.

“You bastard!” said Havoc.

“Stop whining and be a man; it’s only a little cold,” taunted Powyss.

After a while, the water was not so bad. It came up to his chest and the bottom was sandy, with some vegetation. Powyss got out to dry off, and even muttered with a few choice curses that it was even colder, and Havoc laughed at the older man’s involuntary shivering. He tried to catch fish as they swam past, but they were too slippery. He swam about, enjoying the exercise.

He felt a presence close by and turned to the lake edge.

There, at the water’s edge, stood three children unlike any he had seen before. They were short, stocky, with shaggy long hair, and small staring eyes on a very round face.

“Hello there,” he said, conscious of the fact that he was swimming naked in their lake.

The three children turned and fled off to the east.

“Powyss,” he shouted. “I think I’ve upset the natives.”

Powyss returned from collecting the horses, both gratefully drank from the lake. He saw the children running away, and shook his head. “So much for surprising them,” he said. “C’mon, let’s go meet the Dwarves of the Vale.”

The dwarf settlement sat on the far side of the Vale. As he and Powyss trotted along, following the narrow river, he could see round huts of various sizes clumped together through the thin screen of trees.

If Havoc was expecting a welcome party of a hundred fully armoured, axe-wielding dwarves of legend, he was sorely disappointed. Ten appeared, wearing white tunics and riding grey ponies. However, they did carry spears, a shield and a short sword strapped to their sides.

Powyss raised his arm in salute as the dwarves got closer for them to see him.

“
Mirdûnk
throm
,
telgartûm
,
Errcat
,” he said, and winked at Havoc. “Most dwarves are short-sighted, so if you don’t want a spear in your head it’s best to let them know who you are.”

“Errcat... Errcat, it’s Errcat!” shouted one of them.

They all yelled in joy and, as they drew near, jumped off their mounts and ran to Powyss, who dismounted and indicated to Havoc to do the same.

The dwarves swamped him. Havoc could see their wide, toothy grins through the bushy brown beards. They all clapped Powyss on his back and shook his hand, bowing.

“Told you I was famous,” he said to Havoc, grinning.

The dwarves greeted Havoc warmly, then mounted their ponies and escorted them to the settlement.

The dwarf village was a more organised settlement than Havoc first thought. The largest structure was the chief’s, or
kerf’s
, hall surrounded by the smaller houses, penned in by a short dyke of sun-bleached rounded stone. All the buildings were of the same design, circular stone huts of finely cut white stone, with cedar frames for the windows and doorways, oak doors and shutters and a startlingly colourful grey-blue slate for the roof. Out of the centre of the roof rose white chimney smoke.