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

by P. D. Ceanneir

  The triple-arched bridge that ran to Naval Isle from the mainland, more commonly referred to as the two-way bridge, on its road, it had enough room for three horses abreast to ride along it with ease. It also had a toe path built directly under the top road; this is why locals gave it the name of two-way. Not a particularly original name, thought Havoc as he ran along the toe path section, but one that would save any confusion, for the other bridge across to Carras had no foot bridge to speak of. Access to that island was for the chosen few, and the last time Havoc was there was his birth.

  Havoc reached a doorway at end of the path, and took the stairs two at a time. He did not stop until he reached the sixth floor, the monarch’s suit, where he stopped to take a breath. Two beautiful girls, who had just walked around the corner from his father’s apartments, found him there trying to nurse a stitch. One was tall with black hair and wide, soulful eyes, his older sister, Mia; the other, a petite blonde-haired girl, was her maidservant, Eleana. His sister gave a wild cry of surprise when she saw him. She ran forward to give him a hug and planted warm wet kisses on his cheeks.

  “Happy birthday, dear brother,” she said excitedly. She was always very fond of her younger brother and did not see enough of him when he was away most of the week at the academy.

  “Why are you here? Have you come to see Father? Why are you sweating? Where is Magnus?” This last question said with caution; she got on well enough with her half brother, but he could be too immature for her liking.

  Havoc tried to answer her through gasping breaths, but Eleana came to his rescue.

  “Oh, be at peace, Mia; can you not see he has just run up the stairs!” she said.

  The chiding of a princess by her servant would result in severe reprimand. However, Havoc knew that Mia and Eleana had grown up together and were like sisters.

  Eleana crossed to him and, standing on tiptoes, kissed him on the forehead. “Happy birthday, handsome prince,” she said coyly.

  “That is my brother, you harlot.” Mia laughed. “And, I might add, officially heir to the Rogun throne.”

  Havoc was a little embarrassed from the attentions of these two girls; he hoped that the exertions from the run up the stairs were covering his blushes.

  “Thank you,” he said, catching his breath, “but I can’t stop to chat; I have been summoned by Father.”

  “Yes, I have just seen Mother; they are waiting on you; hurry along now,” said Mia, giving him one last little peck on the cheek, and headed for the stairs.

  Eleana flowed past him fluttering her bright blue eyes, hoping to get some reaction from him, but Havoc merely flashed his famous smile at her, and then it was Eleana’s turn to blush; she turned away from him, giggling, as she followed her ward down the stairs.

  He met his mother outside his parents’ apartments. Plush furniture, busts and ornaments lined the corridor leading to the door. Above the windows hung velvet drapes cleaned of dust daily. His mother delighted in keeping the staff busy with cleaning chores and, as a result, the palace in general, was always in pristine condition. However, it seemed today of all days that the cleaning staff were putting in extra hours. Surely, he thought, this is not for my birthday?

  “Happy birthday, son,” said his mother, embracing him; she kissed him and gave him a warm smile.

  He gave back the same grin. He could understand now, as he grew older, why his father married her. She was now widely regarded as the most beautiful woman in all the land. Queen Molna was tall and slim, with luxurious black hair that flowed down her back in bouncy waves. Her eyes, similar to Havoc’s, were a light jade that shone brighter through her perfect porcelain complexion. However, her kind personality, quick wit and intelligence that Havoc, and his father, prided above all. The king, ever a shrewd politician, was not averse to asking his queen advice in a tricky situation.

  “How are your studies?” she asked.

  “Fine, Mother,” he said.

  “Lord Ness tells me you are improving every day. This makes us both happy.” She stroked his hair and ushered him to the door. “Your father waits.”

  She opened the double oak doors to her apartments. Havoc walked into a large sitting room with soft chairs arranged around a tall marble fireplace. Bookshelves took up three walls with small tables in the corners where long thin vases sat with brightly coloured flowers picked from the royal gardens. Obviously, thought Havoc, his mother’s touch.

  Standing with his back to the fireplace stood a tall, blond, curly haired man wearing a silver and red royal tunic with the black dragon emblem of Cromme. While Havoc got his looks from his mother, he got his height from his father, but he could not help thinking how he and Magnus were so alike in looks and personality.

  “My boy, happy birthday,” boomed the king, and opened his arms for a hug.

  Havoc decided to adhere to formality on this occasion now that he was nearly a man, and bowed to the king and said, “Greetings, Sire.”

  “Oh, none of that tosh now; I have not seen you for a while.”

  “Vanduke, language in front of the boy,” chided the queen.

  Havoc laughed and ran to hug his father, who nearly squeezed the life out of him with his massive arms.

  “I swear you are getting taller,” he said, holding him at arm’s length.

  “And thinner; I hope you are eating well,” said his mother.

  “Yes to you both. I’ am well.” Havoc sighed; he had to go through these little rituals every time he saw his parents.

  “Ah, I remember when you were born,” said his father

  “Can you, dear? It was thirteen years ago. You can’t even remember thirteen days ago,” remarked the queen.

  This provoked a smile from Havoc and an innocent pout from the king.

  “I see your mother’s dry wit has not improved over the years,” he said to his son, while giving a sly wink to his wife. “What she lacks in mirth, she more than makes up for in the bedroom.”

  “Vanduke!” she cried, suppressing a laugh while blushing.

  “Anyway, I remember when you when born,” he continued.

  Havoc and Molna groaned; it was the same every year.

  His father’s voice rose like an orator. “You were born in the stone circle on Carras.” His eyes looked away as he remembered that day. “Your mother was in labour for five hours.”

  “Damn cold it was too,” his mother put in.

  “I lifted you from the stone Dias,” the king went on, undeterred, and raising his hands in what he thought was a dramatic style. “I showed you to the stars and the watching crowd.”

  “Oh, how could I forget the crowd; embarrassing; thank you for mentioning it,” said the queen sarcastically.

  “Like all of the kings of the Roguns who were born there before me…” The king’s arms were high in the air now, holding an imaginary baby. “…I intoned the traditional words…”

  “…Lo, here I hold high aloft the heir to my throne,” said the queen and Havoc at the same time in the same deadpan voice.

  “Oh you know that story then?” asked the king with a look of surprise.

  “It’s the same story you told me last year,” said Havoc.

  “And the eleven years before that,” said the queen.

  Acting surprised, the king said, “Oh bollocks! Never mind, here is your present.” He reached up to the top of the mantelpiece and pulled out a long, black, leather scabbard and in it a sword.

  “Tragenn!” cried Havoc, “but that is great-grandfather Valients’ sword!”

  “And it is yours. It was passed to me on my thirteenth birthday and you will do the same to your oldest son, for you are now officially De Proteous,” said the king, handing him the sword, “Heir to the Rogun Throne.”

  Tragenn or Dragon fire was a beautiful sword made by King Valient’s chief blacksmith and Rawn Master, Lord Borran. The hilt shaped into two black dragons entwined together, the twin dragons known as Dex and Sin, were brother and sister that existed during a time, ove
r two thousand five hundred years ago, called the Dragor-rix. Both spinal ridges of the entwined black dragons shaped in such a way that wielder’s hand moulded into the grip. Their tails were holding a strange silver orb about the size of Havoc’s clenched young fist. As he pulled the sword free of the scabbard, he could see the fine detail cut in the resin that made up the dragons scales; coming from both their open, fanged mouths was the blade, shining yellow and red, giving the sword its name. He was amazed at the blade’s condition. Given its age there were no obvious pits he could see, and it was still just as sharp, its balance perfect in his grip.

  There were symbols on the blade in ancient Skrol, thin, squiggly lines inside a thick circle. At first, he did not understand it, for he had only learnt a few words of this ancient subconscious language. Then, just as he focused on the symbols that wavered before his eyes, his father spoke.

  “The silver orb on the hilt is a My’thos Orrinn. Do not ask me what it does,” said the king, holding up his hands to wave away the boy’s questions. “You will have to ask Lord Ness about it, because I have never been able to figure it out.”

  “This is most generous. Thank you. I only hope that I can wield it as well as you,” said Havoc, sheathing the sword.

  “I’ am sure you will.”

  Havoc may have been mistaken, but he was sure a glint of a tear had appeared in is father’s eye, but the king had turned away quickly.

  “Alright now,” said his mother, hugging him and ushering him to the door. “Take good care of Tragenn; off you go to your studies. I shall see you at the weekend.” With that, she gave him a light kiss and closed the door as he departed.

  Chapter 2

  The Rawn Arts

  His run back was not as fast as his previous flight to see his parents. He was more content on a slow jog while he took snatch glimpses at Tragenn.

  He admired the quality and gave her a few experimental lunges; in his excitement, he realised he was going too slowly, so he picked up speed; he could not wait to tell Magnus. Then he stopped; he thought that he had better break it to him gently. The sheer fact that Magnus was illegitimate and had no real rights to the Cromme dynasty grated on his younger brother. Of course, it was no fault off Magnus’, but it was still a touchy subject to some members of the family.

  Magnus’ mother, Lilly, sister to Lord Rett, was once King Vanduke’s mistress before the marriage to Havoc’s mother. On seeing Molna, a daughter to a baron of one of the Aliniani tribes, Vanduke renounced all his old ways, spurned Lilly and asked for Molna’s hand in marriage, though he was not the only pursuer; his brothers, Kasan and Hagan, were also besotted with her.

  Lilly, always stubborn and hot headed, was furious and sought revenge and, almost three years after Vanduke and Molna were married, she found him drunk in Lord Rett’s house in Baronstown, celebrating the Red Duke’s birthday with fellow Carras Knights. There, she seduced him. The result, nine months later, was Magnus.

  Vanduke was distraught and vowed never to drink again, and his wife, ever kind and loving, forgave him. Lilly, however, banished and alone, had a terrible time at the birth of Magnus and died shortly after from many complications. Molna took pity on the boy and, when he was only three months old, she took care of him as one of her own.

  Havoc was, by then, over a year old when Magnus came to live with his family, and he always saw him as his true brother, even though there were some physical differences, but they always shared in a healthy imagination and a sense of adventure.

  Havoc ran through the palace and on into the library cloister; he skirted around the two-thousand-year-old ewe tree that grew in the centre, its branches now so long they needed propping up with iron poles, and then out into the sunshine.

  He took the flagged path to the north towards the academy grounds, passing the parliament and council chambers on the right, and jogged to the large lawn cropped short and surrounded by elms and pines.

  There in the centre stood a replica of the circle of Carras, only a third of the size, it was, however, impressive, ten standing stones five feet high, with a raised dais table in the centre.

  Not far from the circle, he saw Magnus sitting at his desk. In front was Lord Ness, standing next to a blackboard. Magnus had the presence of mind to save some food for Havoc, and, as he sat at his desk, he tucked into some cold meats, bread and cheese.

  “What’s that?” asked Magnus, indicating the sword that Havoc put by his feet.

  “I will show you later,” said Havoc, but he got the impression from Magnus’ expression that he already knew.

  “I took the liberty of having the next lesson outside on this fine day,” said Ness quickly, as if to take the younger boy’s mind off the sword, although it was not unusual to have lessons outside in good weather; the lawn was normally used for students while on their breaks, but, apart from them, it was deserted.

  “It’s to keep us out of the way. Have you noticed how quiet it is? The palace guards are running about like mad, and the servants are in a panic,” said Magnus to Havoc out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Very astute, little one, the citadel is being prepared for the arrival of two very important delegations.”

  “Who would that be, master?” asked Havoc.

  “The kings of the Vallkytes and the Sonora!” informed Lord Ness.

  “Our uncles are coming here, but why?” asked the ever-inquisitive Magnus.

  Lord Ness paused for a while in contemplation, but then conceded to tell the princes the truth, partly because they would soon find out anyway, and partly because the outcome of their uncle’s visit may have a bearing on their future.

  “Mad-daimen,” he said.

  “Ahh,” said the boys together, as the light of understanding dawned on them.

  Mad-daimen was a tribal chieftain of the Nithi in the Wildlands to the south of the continent. Their home was in the foothills close to the dreaded ash fields that spread around the twin volcanoes, Dracolinth-Sol. The tribe was said to be a hundred thousand strong or more and were terrorising the Rogun lands of Jertiani to the west, and the Vallkyte lands of Hoath and Toll-marr to the east. Added to that, Mad-daimen was now proclaiming himself Overlord of the Wildlands and was planning to usurp the Cromme monarchs.

  “So, it’s a council of war then. That is where you have been for the last three months. Have you been Father’s consul in the Wildlands?” asked Havoc.

  Ness nodded, always surprised at Havoc’s quick mind.

  “Among other things, but enough of that for now.” He clapped his hands together. “To your lessons,” he said, and that seemed the end of that discussion.

  Ness wrote four words on the board: ‘earth’, ‘water’, ‘wind’ and ‘fire’.

  “Now,” he said, “we are here to learn about the third element, wind, but can anyone tell me why it is ranked third on the list?”

  Magnus thrust up his hand. “It’s in the order of the most difficult to control.”

  “Good. Havoc, tell me why?”

  “Humans are already made up of the first two elements, so they are much easier for us to control without expending vast amounts of energy, but it gets harder for us to control wind…”

  “Try telling that to Father when he has had too much cabbage,” whispered Magnus.

  “…Or fire,” continued Havoc, trying not to laugh, “Because we are not made up of those elements.”

  “Well done,” said Lord Ness; he lifted his left hand and pointed to the trees; a couple of the tallest elms started to sway as if in a strong gale. However, the trees next to them did not move. “Using the third element outside uses less energy, because there is already wind there, even if it is a slight breeze.” He dropped his arm and the elms slowly stopped moving, for the day was sunny and free of the slightest gust. “However, using this element indoors is a lot harder, so what must we always do to ensure that our energy levels are not depleted?”

  “Eat healthily and plenty of exercise,” intoned the boys together.
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br />   The training for a Rawn student or apprentice was very rigorous and required plenty of discipline. Usually, the novice underwent a difficult aptitude test before entry into the academy, but not everyone passed. However, under the Ri Order guidelines, anyone could apply to the academy, but commonly the privileged nobility became students, a fact that annoyed Lord Ness because of his poor upbringing; he had struggled to become a Rawn Master and succeeded on his own merits.

  Entry to the academy was at the age of twelve for most students; this, however, did not apply to royalty. Havoc and Magnus started their training at the tender age of seven and, under the excellent tuition of Lord Ness, they had undergone, and mastered, the first two elements. They were able to manipulate base metals and compounds into other elements closer or distant from their original state. They could control water, mainly in their own bodies, by healing very quickly, reading other people’s minds through touch and not being susceptible to disease and, in time, aging. It had taken them a long time to master these properties; the training was hard and they, being young, found the discipline difficult, but it was important to stay focussed.

  It was usual for students of the Rawn Arts, who were the offspring of qualified Rawn Masters, to master the elements quickly. Lord Ness thought this was the case with the princes until they tried the third element. His instruction of said element was indoors to make it more difficult and to enhance discipline. After two years, they were just getting the hang of summoning the wind element, but not controlling it to any great degree.

  “Discipline and focus,” he would shout to the boys in their feeble attempt to lift heavy weights in the academy gym.

  “You can use the wind element to lift yourself into the air over long distances and to summon to your hand a fallen weapon, but from the look of you, we will not be trying that any time soon; I do not relish the thought of presenting two headless corpses to your father.”