by P D Ceanneir
‘There is something that needs your attention,’ said Powyss.
Havoc was confused and intrigued. A cobbled path led to closed stalls, left and right. Dirkem and Sarema occupied the two at the very end on the right. The black stallion nuzzled his nose on Havoc’s hand. Powyss took out a small silver-white orb, about half the width of his palm, from Dirkem’s saddlebag that was hanging on a hook by the stalls entrance.
‘The Lobe Stone has been going nuts since we got here. I left it in the bags so no one could hear it. It has been making humming noises and vibrating.’
‘Could be Aunt Cinnibar getting in touch with the late Jynn,’ Havoc took the orb from Powyss. It was silent and cold in his hand.
‘Good, keep it out of sight, we don’t want the forest folk thinking you’re some sort of spy.’ Havoc nodded in agreement and replaced the stone inside the saddlebag. After ensuring that the horses had enough food, they both walked back to the feast on the lawn.
‘This Atyd Morden seems genuine enough,’ said Powyss as they rounded the corner of the courtyard, he may be a good ally for you or at least a supporter. I would suggest we be on our very best behaviour while we are his guests.’
‘Agreed,’ Havoc sighed.
The Atyd Morden was at the entrance to his hall with Whyteman and Velnour. When he saw, Havoc and Powyss he walked up to them with long strides.
‘I have taken the liberty of housing your men in the garrison block outside the hall grounds. There they will find fresh clothing and a bath. Both of you and my brother, are guests of honour in my tree-manse, my steward will show you to your quarters,’ said Morden with a smile. The last discussion he had had with Havoc seemed forgotten, for now at least.
‘You are most kind Morden, how could I ever repay you?’ Havoc said in a mildly grateful tone.
‘It is not necessary; the life of my brother is payment enough, there is a banquet provided for you and your men tonight. Afterwards we shall talk, Havoc, in my study.’
Chapter 3
Truce of Madness
To their surprise, Triel Hall and Manse seemed larger on the inside. A huge sandstone spiral staircase rose in the centre of an open plan room. To the right of the stairs was a sitting room, complete with soft fabric covered chairs of bright autumnal colours and an iron peat burner under a stone lintel.
To the left was a banqueting table made from the base of a dead Sequoia, planed flat and varnished. A set of double doors to the rear led to the kitchens and cellar, Whyteman explained to Havoc and Powyss that the wine in the cellar were kept at an ambient temperature, as it nestled under the trees roots.
The staircase was the only way to the upper floors and rooms. The six wide trees acted as support columns to the hall and its walkways. They walked on the wide uneven branches that spread around the hall in a diamond shape. At the far end of this formation, and on ground level, was a small apple orchard, the fruit was used to make the local cider.
Six rooms at the far end overlooked the orchard, the first one they came to was of a modest size, and as they stepped inside, they saw an older man and woman talking in hushed tones over a sleeping Verkin.
‘We have given him a sleeping draught,’ the male physician explained to the prince, ‘he will need to rest now. He is very weak.’ Havoc did not want to disturb their work; he gave one last look at the pale Verkin and hoped he improved.
Their rooms were down the hall; Havoc’s was large with a glass window overlooking the town through the tree branches, his stomach flipped when he looked down from the room’s small balcony. It was a fifty-foot drop at least.
A double bed, made from the hollow of the trees wide branches, took up most of the south wall. A small writing desk sat on the other side of the room. The bathroom was through an open arch with hanging drapes of ivy. A huge beer barrel, cut into the shape of a bath, was already full of hot water and strong smelling herbs and rose petals floated on the milky surface.
He took off his clothes and stashed them away into his saddlebags, once out of range of SinDex’s Earth Orrinn they would revert to the black garb of the Blacksword. Brown trousers and a white linen shirt lay on the bed for him, ready for him to wear later. He took his sword and gratefully immersed himself into the bath and meditated while looking into the Muse Orrinn, he stayed in a trance until the water went cold. The slow release of Pyromantic energy heated it back up again to a welcoming temperature. The mixture of the soothing herbs and the sound of wind through the branches calmed his mind and helped to disperse all of his volatile energies, the strain of the past few days seeped from his bones and muscles; he felt the trance lift his fatigue and refresh his mind.
Powyss did not recognize the ten men at the banquet table. They had washed, shaved and wore clean new clothes; all except Little Kith, who had to make do with newly washed old clothes, because the women of the manse washrooms could not find any in his size.
‘At least you still look human… well almost human at any rate,’ said Velnour who had been given a new eye patch, light green with a leaf design sewn into its edge.
‘Very funny, Cyclops,’ said Kith.
Swan, goose, suckling pig and sweetmeats along with fruits, washed down with the tangy strong cider, was greatly received by all of the fugitives even though they were still full from the meal they had earlier on in the day.
The Atyd Morden sat at the head of the table in a green velvet tabard and soft boots. He also wore a gold medallion depicting his family’s coat of arms as well as the circlet on his head. He was deep in conversation with his brother and Linth. Powyss could see him frowning and gesticulating in annoyance, but he stopped the conversation abruptly with a raised hand as he looked towards the new arrival coming down the stairs.
Prince Havoc walked down the last few steps, his long black hair was tied back and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to the elbows. Powyss noticed he, like the rest of them, had left his sword in his room. The men at the table all looked around at the same time as Havoc entered the feasting hall, Felcon, a short brown haired soldier from Haplann, started banging the table with his skinning knife, the rest followed suit and chanted Havoc’s name to show their respect.
‘Thank you gentlemen, I’m sorry for the lateness of my arrival Atyd, I must have dozed off in the bath that your servants drew for me,’ he said.
‘No matter, my cooks have just begun serving. Take a seat next to me,’ said Morden indicating the vacant chair.
As Brynd filled the newcomer’s mug, Havoc helped himself to a selection of meats. He had not realized how hungry he was. As they ate and talked, Powyss toasted the health of the Atyd and his people, Velnour toasted to Verkin’s quick recovery and they all solemnly said his name before drinking the cider.
Three beautiful women appeared at the end of the feast to sing to the group. They stood at the end of the table and sung several love ballads of the forest Nymphs’. Everyone joined in with songs they recognised, usually one of the old battle songs of the Rawn Sagas. The voices of the trio were captivating and soulful. Havoc noticed the power of the melody had on the plant life around him. It seemed to swell the bark of trees and give it a deep lustre of rich browns. Trailing lobelia, which grew in pots hung from the ceiling of branches, twisted and turned with the rhythm of the music.
‘This is the power of the Falesti female on nature,’ said Morden to Havoc, ‘our women can use their voices to influence the plants through their will and melody.’
‘Is it only the women folk who have this power?’ Havoc asked.
‘Men have the gift also, but women are far better at it. This is why we revere them more. It’s also why they can be very temperamental with us and extremely demanding.’ The Atyd’s face looked pained as he spoke. Havoc wondered if his encounter with the opposite sex left him cynical.
‘I see there is no...Ah...what is the title for a female Atyd?’ he asked.
‘Arya,’ answered Morden, ‘and no, I’m not ready to settle down.’
Afte
r the meal and the entertainment Havoc went with Morden’s steward to the Atyd’s small study that sat above the sitting room while the others went off to bed, most being very tired from the consumption of rich food and strong alcohol.
The study was a small library with bookshelves on three walls and a small desk at the fourth. Old leather-bound books shared the shelves with scrolls or heaps of yellowed parchment. He recognised some of the leather bound volumes on the shelves, Selnaks treaties on Toll-marr and Hoath, The Hobart, the famous ship that brought the Eldi to the island via the Ri River. He thumbed through a copy of History of the Rawn Arts and then Fandom’s Tragedies, a book of odes about love and lost hope. There were even several well thumbed copies of the Dragor-rix.
He found a book thought to be lost to history, Elkin’s Battle Tactics, and Strategies vol 1. Elkin was a famous warrior who fought in the first civil war against Baron Telmar, commonly known as the War of the Pyromancer. It was required reading at the academy and Lord Rett swore by it, even though he always said he had the only copy still in existence, yet here was another in Havoc’s hands.
He was leafing through the book when Morden entered.
‘Ah, I see you have found Elkin, a very good read for the budding battle commander. He’s still alive you know, retired in Tol-marr somewhere I think,’ he said as he took a seat behind his desk.
‘Really? I would love to meet him,’ said Havoc as he sat in the soft chair opposite him.
‘I’ve got volume two, somewhere if you would like to read it. I collect a lot of books on battle history.’
‘That is very kind of you.’ He had not the heart to tell him that he had already read it.
Morden regarded Havoc for a while, and then interlinked his fingers together under his chin.
‘My brother believes you are a noble and that you wish to raise an army against King Kasan.’
The questions tone was tactful, but it threw Havoc slightly. However it was the truth, and he could not hide it from his friends.
‘Are you offering to help me Atyd?’ he knew he was evading the question with another.
‘My hands are tied on that score my friend, my queen and her laws forbid it. Nevertheless, if I was to help, then it would be wise of me to know who you really are.’
Havoc looked into the eyes of the Atyd; he saw honest sincerity there, similar to his brothers.
‘Knowing who I’ am, may put you in danger, and you have been over kind as it is.’
‘A little late for that I think after my men saw off those Vallkytes’,’ the daylight was fading fast, the room creaked as the wind moved the trees. Flames flickered in the candelabra on the Atyd’s desk.
‘Contrary to what you might think of me Havoc, I and the rest of the Falesti commiserate for the Roguns and their situation,’ continued Morden, ‘but I, for one, don’t know how to help.’ He spread his hands in front of him and shrugged.
‘Give me a thousand men. I can raise more in Haplann and in the Sky Mountains,’ said Havoc looking into the Atyd’s eyes.
Morden was taken aback slightly, his eyes widened. ‘You have the power to raise men in other counties?’ he said.
‘Not as such, but I have that right.’
‘Then you are not just any noble,’ he nodded.
‘No, I’m not.’
Morden sat back in his chair and rubbed his smooth chin. The strange warrior before him was not giving much away and this annoyed him.
‘The only thing I can suggest is for you to talk to the queen herself, she is a hardy old bitch but susceptible to the wares of a charming man,’ he smiled.
‘Then I will go to her as soon as I can,’ acknowledged Havoc.
‘Good, because I was due to leave for Ten Mountain the day after tomorrow; You can travel with me. We shall see her together.’
‘You would support me even when you don’t know who I am?’
‘I’ am an Atyd, I have plenty of influence. Other Atyd’s will be there too, it’s the Festival of Hynndborg, marking the spring equinox, but it will be difficult introducing you to the queen as just Havoc.’
Havoc grinned at the Atyd and again liked the strange dandy who now seemed eager to help.
‘Why would you do this for me?’
‘Because of what Whyteman, Captain Powyss, and your colleagues have said about you, you are a Rawn and I respect that. You are also good with a blade. I was going to ask you to teach me,’ he said coyly.
‘It would be an honour,’ said Havoc with a smile.
The Atyd Morden jumped up, grasped Havoc’s hand, and shook it.
‘Good, it’s settled then,’ he smiled, ‘rest, get your strength back and then we set off.’
Havoc left the study with the strong feeling of having made a new friend.
He went to see Powyss in his room and told him of the conversation with the Atyd.
‘You should have told him who you really are. I think you can trust him,’ said Powyss.
The prince shrugged, ‘I guess I’ve been alone for far too long to trust anyone.’
‘You trusted me,’ offered his friend, ‘contrary to what you believe, majesty, you can’t do this on your own.’
Havoc had much to think about when he left his friend to sleep. He got a pleasant surprise when he entered his room. Mirryn was perched on his swords pommel, pecking at the remains of a vole.
‘Hello my girl, have you missed me?’ he said to her as he rubbed her chest. The kite playfully pecked at his finger.
He allowed her to roost at the end of his bed while he lay naked on the sheets. Despite his tumbling thoughts, he fell asleep quickly.
He slept well for a few hours, and for once, his dreams were not full of the usual dark foreboding, not at first. He dreamt of Eleana holding a child in her arms, of Magnus, his face beaming with pride as he looked down at the infant. Bright sunlight bathed them both and he noticed that Eleana was sitting on the glass boulder he had made from one of his Surges. The trio suddenly began to fade and disappear altogether. He then found himself alone in the darkness, surrounded by the trees of the Eternal Forest. He wore the same clothes he had on at the banquet earlier. He carried SinDex in his right hand disguised as Tragenn. The trees around him were tall dark sentinels’ of silence. No breeze moved their high branches.
He caught movement to his left, a flittering of shadows among the shrubs. A small form shifted through the moonbeams that reached down through the treetop. It moved away from him at a fast pace, transparent and half formed. He followed it at a run and found himself in an open grassy glade where the full moon bleached the grass into stark monochrome.
‘Hello Havoc,’ said the girl in the centre of the glade. Havoc was not surprised to see her, but he still felt on his guard.
‘Hello Verna,’ he said. His sister wore the same blue dress she wore at her execution. The ragged doll she called Prissy hung from her hand, even though she was nearly fifteen when she died Havoc always saw her with that doll.
‘There is a conflict within you,’ she said, ‘we are concerned.’
‘Who are “we”? And what conflict?’The prince was in no mood for riddles. There was something oppressive about the forest. Malevolence tinged the air.
Verna’s bright green eyes stared intently at her brother, but there seemed to be an inner glow behind them, dull amber. She sighed and hugged her doll.
‘You must decide between yourselves which is the dominant. Or you will lose the other forever,’ Havoc frowned at the cryptic answer. ‘The Great Plan is in jeopardy if neither of you can find a balance.’
Havoc shrugged in confusion, and then Verna indicated behind her with a slight movement of her head. A tall dark shadow oozed out of the darkness. Verna vanished into smoke and Havoc found himself looking into the dark cowl of the Blacksword. His alter ego looked taller and thinner, more sinister in the darkness. His hands were pale and his fingers long with black nails.
He carried SinDex in its true form, the Sword that Rules itself.
‘One sword, two men,’ said the Blacksword in a low whisper, full of malice.
‘No, one man with two swords,’ said Havoc and wondered why the dream made him say that.
The Blacksword attacked and Havoc defended, the dream shifted into fast and slow perspectives, he felt the pain of each sword strike on his body and the simultaneous wounds he dealt to his opponent.
Each sword stroke found the same movement of defence and counter-attack, but the blades would still rip flesh. Both men would heal themselves and in return become very weak. The Blacksword’s cloak hung about him in tatters, darker patches showed the bloodstains on the black material. Covered in gashes of sword cuts, Havoc’s body also leaked blood onto the forest floor.
They both broke from the fight and took great gulps of air.
‘You are me. I’ am you, why are we fighting?’ said Havoc.
‘Madness cannot exist in my mind. You lack the confidence to be me. You are weak!’ said the Blacksword.
A long humming noise disturbed their conversation. The Blacksword patted his cloak then reached into one of the pockets and withdrew the Lobe Stone. It pulsed with silver light and vibrated in his hand.
The Blacksword gave a dry chuckle.
‘Do you wish to answer her or...
...Shall I’ said Havoc as he woke from the dream. He quickly looked around him, his room in the trees was empty, and there was no presence close by apart from Mirryn still sleeping on the swords pommel. The humming, however, continued. He rummaged around in the saddlebags until he found the stone.
Its pulsing light threw the room into shadows then darkness, shadows then darkness, instinctively he knew the Skrol for answering the caller, and if it was truly Cinnibar, then he could not talk to her.
