The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) (33 page)

As the body sagged to the floor, the last soldier had seen his chance and lifted his weapon above his head to bring it down on the strangers. The Vallkyte died where he stood, as SinDex arced up through his groin and out of his skull, and blood and organs flopped to the floor as he collapsed like a split sack of grain.

The smell of burning flesh filled the air. The furniture had caught fire and leapt up towards the ceiling beams. The heat had dispersed the mist. The captain screamed as his burnt flesh dripped off his face in fatty globules; they hissed as they hit the floor. He ran at the Blacksword, who sidestepped and sliced the captain’s torso from his waist, killing him and his screams.

The locals crowded the entranceway. People fell underfoot and crushed in the panic to escape the phantom and the fire. One man threw a chair through the large window so he could escape the rising heat, but the in rush of fresh air only fanned the flames, which reached up to the roof beams and ignited the thatch.

As fate would have it, no one died in the fire, but there were injuries from the panicky rush to escape. No one left by the rear; the phantom was in the way, so it left his way out clear.

Kolas risked looking over the rim of the bar. The tavern was now empty apart from himself and his two servants, who had cowered there with him. The fire goaded him into courage to save his livelihood, but it was a lost cause.

“You seem to have got the message through, then,” said Powyss as Havoc got onto Dirkem.

“Let’s put it this way. They will not forget the Blacksword in a hurry,” said Havoc, who had now changed back into his threadbare clothes.

They put their heels to their mounts’ flanks and rode north to Haplann.

Three days later, the whole area of Little Dorit and its surrounding hills were swarming with Vallkyte soldiers. Hundreds deployed from the fort at Tressel, which sat far to the east, with a promise of more coming from Caphun.

The concentration of soldiers in one area helped to spread the rumour of the Blacksword.

Once again, the sound of steel-shod boots boomed on the floorboards of the Little Dorit Tavern. This time, however, there was no echo, because the roof had burnt away. On one-half of the tavern, the walls were black with soot, covering up years of grime; on the other were the bodies of the captain and his fallen patrol.

Standing over the macabre scene was Kolas and Captain Hildek. They both lifted their heads as Jynn Ri approached them.

The people of the village had not buried the bodies, mainly because they believed that the tall-cloaked figure had cursed the tavern, and they were all afraid to enter. The image of this Blacksword apparition was still at the forefront of their minds, as Jynn knew from her thought link with certain individuals. Her curiosity of the situation was not sated, however, which was why she had left Kolas until last.

“A very disturbing scene, is it not, Kolas?” she asked him as she stopped in front of the two men. Her eyes travelled over the bodies, which had attracted flies that swarmed over the charred skin and open wounds.

“Yes, My Lady.” Kolas shivered. He did not relish being back in his black and blood-soaked bar. His eyes wandered involuntarily over the dead, stopping at the captain, both halves of him.

“A ghost did not do this, only a man. However, the locals believe otherwise. What did this phantom say?”

“He... He said he was...” Kolas tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. “He was the Blacksword, My Lady.”

“Are you aware of the prophecy, Kolas?”

“All know of the Blacksword Prophecy, madam.”

“Quite so,” she said as she rubbed her thin chin with finger and thumb as she stared at the barman; he was pale with fear and she knew it was not because of her presence; this Blacksword fellow had superseded her reputation.

“Did anything else happen before the attack, which I should know about?”

Kolas shook his head, and then stopped in mid shake. “Wait; there was something, two strangers, father and son. They probed me on information about Jericho....” He never finished the sentence.

Jynn moved with surprising speed and clamped both hands on his head; the barman yelled in shock, but could not move. Hildek cringed and moved away.

The image of the two men was on the surface of his mind as Jynn performed the thought link through the water element. She could see them clearly. The older, with his bright brown eyes and greying goatee, was instantly recognisable.

“Powyss!” she hissed.

The other was not familiar to her; he was young, swarthy, and his eyes always averted so she could not see their colour or his face in detail.

She knew that Captain Powyss had several wives and sons. This may be one of his offspring. Kolas assumed that they were going to link up with Jericho in the Tattoium. The conversation that she witnessed through the contact with the barman told Jynn a different story.

She took her hands away, breaking the link; the man crumpled to the floor.

“Thank you, Kolas, you have been most informative.”

She left with Hildek.

“Once the search is complete, recall the men and have them march to the north,” she said to him.

“May I ask where they are going, My Lady?”

“The Mines of Haplann,” she said.

Later, when she was alone, she contacted Cinnibar on the Lobe stone. The reply was instantaneous.

“Yes, my dear Jynn.”

“Our fears have been realised, mistress; the Blacksword has come.”

There was a long silence from Cinnibar. Jynn could imagine her controlling her breathing as she digested the news.

“Tell me everything you know,” she finally said, and Jynn explained to her of the attack in the Little Dorit Tavern.

“I believe he is a Rawn with extraordinary skill, and not just with a sword,” said Jynn. “The sword he carries is of a remarkable strength; the locals now believe that the Blacksword is the phantom from the mountains that I have been searching for.”

“They call
him
the Blacksword?” asked Cinnibar, confused.

“Yes, mistress, it seems that the man and the sword are synonymous.”

“This is disturbing news, Jynn.”

“There is more. Captain Powyss has been here, with, I believe, his son. There was talk of Jericho with the barman.”

“Captain Jericho is a prisoner in Haplann.”

“Yes, Powyss may wish to revert that. I have made a search for the Blacksword, but do not expect to find him, and then I will go to Haplann.”

“Do you suspect Powyss?”

“He is an excellent swordsman, but not a powerful Rawn.”

“His son then?” asked Cinnibar.

“I do not have sufficient information on his family to answer that question. That is,
if
it is his son.”

“Find out what you can; there is much concern on this situation, as you know.”

“Yes, mistress.”

“My original order still stands. Bring this Blacksword to me, dead or alive, and also the sword.”

“It shall be done, mistress.”

Chapter 25

The Mines of Haplann

“What do you see?” asked Powyss as he put on the red and gold jacket of a Vallkyte infantryman.

“About a hundred prisoners,” said Havoc as he stared into the silver Orrinn. “And at least double that in soldiers.”

“Fair odds, then,” Powyss smiled.

Mirryn had given him a good view of the mines from the air. He could see that the Vallkytes had built a walled fortress around the mine entrance, patrolled day and night. Only one building, the garrison headquarters and bunkrooms, was made of stone. The rest was of a wood panel and slate roof construction.

The kite had shown him more. She flew to the Pander Pass on his orders. There, he could see that the enemy had been busy over the years. Two thick walls were in the process of construction; the larger, inner one was nearly finished, complete with the tall Iron Gate.

Above the entrance to the Pass itself, were rooms carved into the rock. Mirryn could clearly see candle light through the windows. In the fort’s north section, where the prisoners of war lived, was a massive stone and iron barred jailhouse, penned in by a chain link fence twenty feet high.

Both men rejected the option of rescuing the Panders prisoners and concluded it as a suicidal venture. They had a better chance at the mines.

“This is not my style,” complained Powyss.

The uniform was a little small for him. It had once belonged to a soldier on patrol with ten others, which Havoc and Powyss had stumbled upon yesterday.

The Vallkytes had been on the move now in their hundreds after the incident in Little Dorit, so avoiding them became a necessity, even when it took them out of their route to Haplann.

They still ate up the miles quickly, though. Now they were on the outskirts of the Oldwoods, as they had been yesterday when a small patrol had produced an opportunity to provide a disguise for Powyss. Unfortunately, he had little choice of clothing size; he had to grab the last soldier in the patrol so as not to attract attention from the rest of the group.

“It was too dark to see when you grabbed him,” Havoc sympathised.

“Just my bad luck, I guess. At least he didn’t shout out.”

“That’s probably because you snapped his neck first.” He looked across at the body, now naked and leaning against a tree. His head lolled at a strange angle. They had had to drag the body for some distance so his fellow patrolmen could not find him.

Powyss was adjusting the belt and chain mail under the infantry overcoat. “It would have fitted you better,” he moaned.

“You know the plan is for you to get into the fort first and release the prisoners. I will take care of the gate and Commander Karnack.”

At the mention of the name, Powyss looked at Havoc with concern. “Be careful with Karnack; he is a strong Rawn and a fair swordsman. He will detect the arts when you use them, so I can only suggest that you don’t, or use them sparingly, as in the Subtle Arts.”

“Don’t worry; I will not be going in as myself.” Havoc smiled.

Powyss felt a little chill at his friend’s comment. The persona of the Blacksword was fine in this situation, but the seriousness in Havoc’s tone made Powyss doubt for the boy’s sanity. He hoped that the madness of the Pyromancer had not begun to affect him.

However, domineering as the prince’s separate persona was, the Blacksword proved to be a very confident warrior. If anyone could kill a powerful Rawn Master, it was he.

They walked their horses to a small glade and left them to graze alone. The plan was to sneak the prisoners out of the fort in the dead of night, then hide in the Oldwoods as a group of outlaws.

“Ready?” Havoc asked.

“No,” said Powyss as he put the steel skillet on his head and tightened the strap. “Let’s do it anyway.”

They walked together down to a wooded slope near to the Chunla Fort. There, they waited for the weekly patrol to march down to the mines. Powyss had studied the troop change during his months in the Oldwoods; he knew the routine.

“Here they come.”

“Good luck,” said Havoc, and both gripped wrists and shook.

Twenty soldiers came marching along the road, close to their position. The dusk had made the edge of the forest gloomy, and, with his use of the Subtle Arts, Powyss stealthily mingled with the marching ranks all the way to the mines.

Through the Orrinn and the keen eyes of Mirryn in the fading light, Havoc could see his friend’s entry through the gates of the mines. Powyss quickly broke off from the main body as they prepared to accept the handover of the twenty departing soldiers. He moved quickly to a storehouse on the west side of the fort. He and Havoc had preordained the area as the best place for Powyss to lie low until nightfall.

Inside the storehouse were stacks of barrels of salted pork and fish. Over by the far wall were neatly stacked bags of grain. This was where Powyss bedded himself down for a few hours of sleep.

Havoc prepared himself as the hours of darkness fell. He meditated, and slept in the trance, feeling refreshed as he came out of it. He did a few stretching exercises, and then touched the Earth Orrinn on the hilt of the pseudo Tragenn; the magical transformation into the Blacksword begun.

Powyss woke from a light sleep a couple of hours later. He knew he had not overslept because he had kept track of the passage of the moon. He walked out of the store and into the cold night; the stars shone brightly in the cloudless sky. Brazier and torchlight lighted the courtyard of the fort, sending shadows dancing into unlit nooks.

He heard a soft chirping to his left, and saw Mirryn perched on a roof guttering. Her head bobbed, as if in excitement at seeing him.

“Tell your master to give me half an hour,” he whispered to her.

She called once more, and then flew off into the night.

He used the shadows to move unseen towards the mine entrance. It was a large opening, fifteen feet wide and fifty feet high. Two men guarded the entrance, standing next to several burning bowls of charcoal, but the effect of the light was dismal against the gaping maw of the cave mouth.

The flames went out suddenly. The guards were so shocked at the sudden darkness that they remained speechless for a few seconds; seconds were valuable to Powyss as he slit their throats with Bor-Teaven’s blade.

The fire resumed as the bodies fell. Powyss had only used a small amount of Rawn energy to dim the flames. He dragged the bodies into the cave mouth, being careful not to attract the attention of the guards who patrolled the walls. Inside the cave, the mine split into four separate levels. They all branched off from the main entrance, and Powyss found the bulk of the slaves chained to the wall further along the tunnel. He was about to speak to them when three more guards appeared from the torch-lighted gloom.

“Who goes there; is that you, Gerick?” asked a voice.

Powyss had to act fast. He had no idea how many more guards were inside the tunnel; he pulled a dagger and thrust it into the throat of the first guard who spoke to him. A second soldier saw the dagger pierce through the nape of the man’s neck, but had no time to react to the speed of the attacker, as Powyss reached around and snapped his neck.

The third man’s view was blocked by the first two; otherwise, his reactions would have been quicker, and, as a result, Powyss placed a gauntleted hand over the soldier’s mouth and smashed his head against the rock wall. The sickening crack told him that the back of the man’s skull had caved in.

There was an escalating murmur from the prisoners at Powyss’ actions. They all looked at him sleepily, but with hope in their eyes. Most wore tattered and worn uniforms of their respective regiments. Each man was thin and dirty, with gaunt eyes that looked out of bearded faces and long, unkempt, greasy hair. To Powyss, they all looked the same; he harshly told them all to keep quiet.

“My name is Powyss, Captain of the Sonoran Royal Guards. Are there any more Vallkytes in the caves?” he asked them.

“No more, sir; those two were the last, but they change every two hours,” said one man in a dry, reedy voice.

Powyss nodded as he searched the fallen guards; he found a set of keys and threw them towards the nearest slave.

Sounds of chains and manacles jingled as men moved around to their companions, passing the captain’s name in short whispers up and down the line. Eventually, Powyss heard his name called from further along the tunnel. He pulled a torch from its niche and ran to the sound of the voice, his heart beating faster.

“Powyss, Powyss is that you?” asked a tall, brown-haired prisoner.

“Othell! Thank the gods you are still alive, my friend,” said Powyss, grasping the man’s shoulders. He looked around and recognised others from the Royal Guards.

“Captain how did you manage to...?” asked Othell, but Powyss cut him off with a finger to his lips.

He pulled out Bor-Teaven and cut through the chain that held Othell and the others to the wall.

“Three guards up there, with two more at the entrance. Othell, Furran, Verkin and Little Kith, go get the weapons.”

The four men did as ordered. Furran, a small, stocky man born near the lake of the same name, mentioned to him about a small armoury in the next tunnel.

“I expect it’s well sealed?” asked Powyss.

“Iron door with two bolt locks,” informed Furran.

“I can’t use the arts to open it in case Karnack detects me.”

“Surely not from this distance he won’t, sir?”

“Can’t take that chance; the keys are up at the front of the line. Go get them and open the door; take some help with you.”

They both ran back to the entrance while Othell and the others helped to release the prisoners.

Once released from their bonds, some of the men were assembled in a line at the mine entrance, while others collected weapons from Furran.

Othell, who smiled and shook his hand, joined Powyss.

“It’s good to see you, Captain; we all thought you were dead.”

Another man joined them; he was so tall and wide that he blocked out the torch light.

“Still growing, I see, Little Kith,” said Powyss to the man-mountain.

“Still sarcastic as ever, sir,” boomed the loud-voiced giant. He stood at seven feet tall, but his muscle mass had reduced somewhat since Powyss had last saw him, due to his captivity.

“How many more are with you?” asked Othell, scratching a louse in his beard.

“Just two others; one is my apprentice.” Powyss shrugged.

Both men stared at him in shock.

“
You
have an apprentice?” asked Othell sarcastically.

After the allotted half an hour, the Blacksword arrived at the fort. He quietly scaled the brick walls, using any natural indentation in the stonework. If there were none, he would use small amounts of the earth element to make hand and foot holds until he reached the top.

Once on the wide wall, he blended with the shadows, staying clear of the torches. Six guards walked the walls, but each one fell to SinDex’s silent blade.

One guard remained at the entrance to the commander’s quarters. The two-tiered, round, wooden building sat snug against the wall. The Blacksword was able to climb onto its roof from the wall. He positioned himself above the second-level entrance. The guard below was half-asleep and leaning against his spear. A black figure landed in front of him; the guard had only enough time to widen his eyes in surprise before the black blade ran him through.