The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) (20 page)

Havoc punched the man in the throat and he staggered away choking for breath and clutching his arm; he turned and ran. Havoc flicked the guard’s sword upwards with his foot and grabbed it out of the air. He then gripped the hilt with both hands and threw the sword. It took the fleeing bandit off his feet as it went into his back, and he landed on the ground, sending up a wake of leaves as he skidded to a halt.

The girl was frightened as the hooded man made the wicker bars turn to dust; she did not move, even as he pulled the hood down and smiled. She saw that the smile was warm and friendly as he reached out his hand.

“Come now, my dear, I will not harm you. No one is going to harm you again,” said Havoc.

The girl hesitated at first and looked at the dead guard by the fire; she could not see his face because it was looking over his own back. She would always remember him as the man who had killed her mother, and, in a small way, she felt a savage glee and was grateful to this stranger.

Havoc was startled as the girl fell into his arms; she smelt terrible. In her fear, she have urinated and defecated in her own clothes rather than have the men watching her. He quickly searched the guards and found a fortune in gold. He put it into his saddlebag.

He took the girl away, sitting her on his lap as he galloped away on Dirkem. She slept with her head against his chest and, soon, the pungent smell dispersed with the wind.

She slept through most of the morning and only woke once; she woke screaming and thrashing wildly. It took Havoc a few moments to calm and shush her into a deep sleep.

They headed north. The warm air had a hint of a cool breeze and a promise of an early autumn; sunlight dappled through the oaks and maples as they followed a small stream, crossing at shallows where the tight rocks formed rapids, and currents clashed inside whirlpools.

Once across, Havoc followed one of the late Ched’s hidden paths up the side of a mountain to a shallow pool among short trees and shrubs. The pool filled from a mountain spring bubbling out of the cliff face to form a small waterfall.

The midday sun had warmed the water on the surface only, so Havoc once again tried to condense the warm air around him. He was only partly successful in that he managed to make the water bubble with heat in a two-foot arc.

The girl would not speak. Havoc was not sure if it was shock or if she was mute, but she never uttered a word to him.

“Now, sweetheart, I will go over there behind that large rock and make us something to eat. Now I want you to take a bath and give yourself a good scrub; can you do that for me?”

She nodded, but grabbed his hand as he got up to go, and pulled him to the pool.

“No, little one, you have to go in alone; I won’t be far away.” He was forceful and she eventually relented.

Havoc made the meal, a sort of rabbit and vegetable stew, while the girl washed herself and her clothes. Havoc had provided soap in the form of petals from a mountain herb in a small Hessian sack. The idea was to soak it and rub it on skin, so the lather would then eventually appear, but the girl had most of the lather on the surface of the pool, because she had used too much and the tiny waterfall had made more white foam.

Havoc provided her with blankets and she dried herself, wrapped up from the cool wind. Havoc put her clothes on a boulder to dry in the sun. They ate well and the girl wolfed down the lot; after the meal, she gazed off into space, rocking herself back and forward.

Havoc asked her name again and received no answer. He shrugged and spoke about himself, his life and family, the treachery of his uncle and their subsequent exile. He also told her about his year alone in the mountains and is struggle to govern his powers. For her part, she listened intently, but never spoke. Havoc was pleased to have someone to speak to, even if it was only a one-way conversation. She watched him meditate as the sun went down, and she lay in her blankets next to him as he told her the story of Mirryn, who had declined to join them that night. She listened, rapt, to his every word, and fell asleep before the end.

She awoke screaming in the early hours of the morning, and Havoc clutched her to him and rocked her to sleep again.

He woke early, washed himself in the pool just before first light and fixed a frugal breakfast before the girl woke.

“Your clothes are dry; you can take them behind that rock to change.”

She did so, and when she returned she seemed more content; at least her blue eyes did not have the glazed look and her fine, short, blonde hair gave her a boyish pixie look. He sat her on a flat rock and used his bone comb to take out any unkempt tugs in her hair.

“I don’t know your name, so I think I will call you Mulvend, which means mountain spring; would you like that?”

She gave him a slight nod and it pleased him that he was making some progress.

Later that day, Mirryn arrived; she was so easily recognisable with the pale patches under her wings and her brown-red colouring that Havoc pointed her out to Mulvend long before she landed. When she did, she had a dead finch in her talons, and Mulvend watched the kite’s pale head bobbing up and down as she plucked her prey.

After a while, she noticed that Havoc was gone, and she started to fret and panic, but he appeared out from the rocks with a bundle in one arm and flat stone in the other.

“This now belongs to you,” he said to her as he un-wrapped the wax cover from the bundle and showed her the trinket box.

She stared at it without recognition and ran her fingers over the Haplann coat of arms on the lid; she nodded slightly and opened it. She took out the hairpin and twirled it in her fingers; she put it back with the other gems and closed the lid, and Havoc noticed there were tears in her eyes.

“You are now the Countess of Haplann. Your family are a distant relation to the first Cromme King, Hagan the First, which means we are related. Therefore, you are never alone. I’m going to bury this box under this stone that I have marked for you.” He showed her the flat stone, and on it he had crudely scratched her new name. “We can’t carry this about with us, so we will have to stash it somewhere where you can find it.”

He took her to a spot next to the waterfall, where he had already dug a hole. He lined the hole with more flat stones so it looked like a tiny cist and tightly wrapped the bundle up again in the wax gauze; he placed the bundle in the hole and covered it up with stones, then he put the flat stone with her name on it face down.

“Mark this spot well; in time, I think you will come back here; your future and your past are in this box.”

She looked at him with her soulful light blue eyes and meekly nodded.

They headed north from the mountain spring and its pool, Mulvend clutching onto Havoc’s back tightly as they rode Dirkem. She turned her head to see the spring disappear from her sight.

She felt as if part of her past was gone forever.

Chapter 15

The Little Dell

They travelled onwards for three more days. At some point on the journey, Mulvend realised that Havoc had changed course and now headed east. She never asked him where they were going, because she would still not speak, and she never let Havoc out of her sight. She followed him everywhere, but was obedient in response to his orders, and she would make no sound when he hunted.

On the fourth day, they stopped by the head of a small valley that Havoc knew from Ched’s memories was called the Little Dell. He and Mulvend watched from the tree line. They could see a quaint little white thatched house, its slightly smaller hut and a barn with a hayloft; these were the only buildings in the valley. Two occupants of the house were tending to the sheep and goats in the nearby fenced field. They were middle aged, the man with short grey hair and a limp and the woman was slim and wearing a shawl over her head.

Havoc knew from the stolen boy’s memories that the couple living in the Dell had the respect of other farmers in villages around the nearby community of Sloe. He had business in that town with its governor and it was not a place for Mulvend, but the girl would not leave his side for a minute.

He had decided to tell her that he wanted others to look after her, because where he was going there would only be violence; he would try to broach the subject later, but had no idea what to say.

Fate, however, has a way of working things out.

Havoc had made a small fire with dry tinder so no smoke would be observed from the Little Dell. He had cooked a vegetable stew, and Mulvend screwed her face up when she smelt it. He asked her to stir the pot while he went to cool off, and she did so diligently.

It was a hot day, probably one of the last that year, and he stripped off his shirt and placed it and Tragenn down by a rock so he could dip his head into the small river that ran into the valley. He had only just wet his hair when his Rawn talents alerted him to a presence close by.

Mulvend stirred the thick stew and wrinkled her nose at the smell; she was about to taste some when a dark shadow loomed over her, and she looked up and scrambled back screaming.

Havoc acted quickly; he turned around; water from his hair sprayed in an arc around him; he used the wind element and summoned his sword to his hand, and started to run. Mulvend was screaming and trying to get away from a large creature that towered over her. It issued a loud roar that deafened Havoc and he knew he would not reach Mulvend in time, so he used the third element to blast a strong gust into the fire and throw her out of harm’s way.

The nine-foot tall shaggy brown bear roared as the pot, kindling and flame hit it full in the face. Mulvend lifted off her feet with the force of the gust and cracked her head on the tree behind her. The bear wiped the hot black ash from its face and Havoc noticed that its left paw hung limp. There was a piece of wire wrapped around it and it had bit into the flesh; the wound stank from infection.

Havoc remembered the image of the bear in the Orrinn, but had no time to ponder the exact details, because the bear was now swinging its other great paw at him; the blow glanced off his chest and it was enough to send him reeling backwards. He hit a rock, recovered and looked for a way out, but the animal had cut off his exit. He used the wind element again and jumped into the air, somersaulting over the attacking animal and landed gracefully; he rammed Tragenn into the bear’s back. The sword went in deep and pierced the heart; the bear grunted, and blood dribbled from the large yellow teeth, and then it collapsed into a furry brown heap.

He whistled through his teeth as the lancing pain in his chest kicked in; he looked down and saw three deep gouges that leaked blood profusely. However, his Rawn powers were already starting to heal his wound. He rushed to Mulvend, who was lifting her head groggily and looked at the dead bear with Tragenn sticking out of its back. She focussed on Havoc with a tight smile and glazed eyes.

“Looks like I just saved your life again. It is becoming a habit.” He smiled at her.

She looked down at the wound on his chest, which was knitting together and becoming three red scars. Then she fainted. Havoc looked her up and down and found a small gash on the back of her head. He tried to heal it, but was so weak from healing himself that he only managed to stop the flow of blood. She would have a nasty bump and some slight concussion; apart from that, she was fine.

Fate had dealt him an opportunity. He took that chance now to seize it.

The couple in the thatched cottage both answered the door to the young stranger with the sleeping girl in his arms. They had the look of fear in their eyes and were not used to receiving any visitors. Havoc knew his scruffy clothes and four-day growth of black beard made him look a little rough, but he had no time to spruce himself up.

“I’m sorry to impose on you, sir, madam, but we have just been attacked and the girl is hurt,” he said, looking at then imploringly.

“Oh my…” said the woman, her hand clamped to her mouth as she looked at Mulvend; she was comely and probably quite beautiful in her youth.

“Attacked... Attacked by what?” The old man, tall and well-built for his age, looked at Havoc with suspicion, probably because the stranger held a sword in one hand with blood all the way up the blade.

“Large bear, up towards the entrance to the valley,” said Havoc, indicating with his head towards the east.

The man’s eyes went wide with shock and the woman gasped.

“By the gods, a bear... Was it maimed?” asked the husband.

“Yes, with a wire snare, but it will walk no more.”

All three looked down at Tragenn.

“Come in... Is she badly hurt?” asked the man, ushering them into the house, and his woman opened another door to their bedchamber.

“No, she took a knock on the head, but no other injuries. Maybe concussed, and she was very tired from our long journey.”

They laid her on a beautifully handcrafted oak bed and covered her with a threadbare patchwork blanket.

While the woman fussed over Mulvend, Havoc and the old man walked back to the main room. The smell of cooking, mainly freshly cooked bread, assailed his nostrils as he walked into the family room of the house; its main feature was the large inglenook fireplace, which also had a cast iron oven-cooker sitting in its own space cut into the wall by the roaring fire. A black pot sat on a rack above the fire and its contents were simmering away.

The only furniture in the room was two rocking chairs by the hearth and an elegant mahogany table with four chairs around it. The man of the house pulled out a chair for him to sit and poured him some homemade ale.

“I can’t thank you enough for killing that bear. He has been terrorising my flock for weeks now. I’m the one that laid the snare, but the brute got away; my name is Hoban, by the way, and my wife is Neiva.”

“Gillem,” Havoc lied. “If it’s any consolation, the wound from the snare would have killed it anyway; I just put it out of his misery.”

This pleased the man; Havoc looked up to the far side of the room and saw a sword and shield pinned to the wall.

“Are you a soldier?” asked Havoc, tasting the ale, which was delicious and his first drink in months.

“Not anymore; was a member of the Tattoium Militia in my youth, but…” He slapped his bad leg and Havoc noticed that the foot twisted inward more than the other was.

“Fell off a cliff and broke it, and so ended my military days.”

Neiva came back in, towelling her hands dry.

“She has a nasty cut on her head, but the bleeding has stopped. I’ve cleaned it, and the blood off her hair; there is a Welslep herb candle burning next to her and that should make her sleep.” Welslep was a common herb in the mountains; mainly used to make sleeping draughts for the sick.

“Our friend here is called Gillem, and the girl is?” asked Hoban.

Havoc shrugged and shook his head.

“I do not know her name; she does not speak, but I call her Mulvend.”

“Mountain Spring,” interpreted Neiva with a smile.

“Her family was killed by bandits about five days ago in a valley further south. I was not quick enough to stop them, but I did save the girl. Her lack of speech, I think, is due to the shock of what she saw. However, the bandits will not haunt her in life now, only in dreams.” He stared off into the flames of the fire.

The couple was shocked at his words. Neiva placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder and looked at Havoc’s solemn face.

“Would you like something to eat? We have boar stew, freshly cooked bread, and some cheese from the cheese hut next door,” said Neiva.

“I should not disturb your evening any longer.”

“Nonsense, sit and eat with us,” said Hoban.

Havoc accepted their gracious hospitality and had the tastiest stew and bread he had had in months and the cheese was simply remarkable. He complimented Neiva, who smiled and blushed.

“So where are you from?” asked Hoban.

Lying to these two was difficult, but he knew that it was for the best for them and Mulvend.

“Haplann, I’m just passing through on business.”

“You are a handy man to have around, especially for the girl.” The old man poured Havoc more ale.

“Lucky in some ways, but not in others, I was just in the right place at the right time. I’ve been away from home for a while.”

“Haplann is loyal to the count and to Jericho; I heard that the Vallkytes now occupy it all,” said Hoban.

“Jericho?” asked Havoc, startled at General Balaan’s second in command’s name.

“Yes, he has been making life hell for the Vallkytes. Sneak shock attacks on enemy columns as they move from base to base, raids in the night, even assassination attempts on Vallkyte officers.” Hoban shook his head and sighed. “The daft bugger’s luck is going to run out some day.”

“Do you know him?” asked Neiva to Havoc.

“Only by reputation,” the prince shrugged.

“Hoban used to train the militia a few years ago since his injury. You met him then, didn’t you, dear?”

“Yes,” said Hoban. “He’s impulsive, arrogant and a hothead... Always knew he would go far. We don’t get much news coming to the Dell, though I heard he was recruiting the Haplann people who are now landless. Is that why you are here?”

Havoc shook his head. It struck him suddenly why the count and his family were moving into the mountains. They may have been trying to reach Captain Jericho.

“No, sir, I have other business to attend to.”

The couple looked at one another quickly, but did not ask what that business was. Havoc decided to tempt fate, and pulled the Nithi daggers from his boots. The couple jumped and he apologised to them both; it seemed they were still on edge.

“Sir, can you tell me anything about these daggers?” He passed them to Hoban, who frowned as he took them in both hands. He looked them up and down and then handed them back shaking his head.

“Don’t recognise the markings, but I would hazard a guess at Nithi, because the hilts are black.”

“They are Nithi that much I know, but what is the reason for the black hilts?”

“I could be wrong, but I think they may be ceremonial daggers. Used in sacrificial ceremonies; this is an ancient custom of the Nithi and seldom practiced these days.”

Havoc thanked him and put the daggers back.

“There is a wise man in Sloe who could tell you more; his name is Selig,” said Neiva.

“Thank you, madam, that I will do,” said Havoc, as he had already intended going to Sloe anyway, but not with Mulvend.

“May I ask how you acquired them?” asked Hoban.

“Where I got them is not important, but I will return them some day.”

The couple looked at the sad boy in front of them. Havoc could read pity in their eyes; they must have thought that he was on some strange vendetta, and they were not far wrong.

Neiva started to tidy up the plates. Hoban poured himself more ale and saw that his guest had only had a few sips, so he gave himself more, and ate some of the cheese. Havoc decided to take a chance; he reached into his pocket, brought out a leather moneybag and put it in the middle of the table.

“The girl cannot come with me.”