“Shanks?” asked Molna.
“We call him that on the account of his height, ma’am.”
“Did the previous warden not tell you?”
“He died before I took the job.”
Over the months, Shanks did not respond to her very much; he mumbled or hummed, but never acknowledged her existence. She was not daunted by this and did most of the talking, so time passed. She told him of her life in the citadel, of the simple pleasures she got from helping the needy. She unburdened her pain and misery upon him about her life as Queen of the Vallkytes, and the fact that she may never see her husband and son again. She told him all of this as if confiding in a friend, safe in the knowledge that he would never repeat it.
However, when the stories of the Blacksword reached her, she deemed this as worthy news to tell Shanks. She told him day after day about the cloaked figure of death.
Then a day came unlike any other that changed both of their lives.
She visited Shanks on her own, as usual, and told him the new story about the Blacksword destroying the Sonoran sky ships.
“The Vallkyte soldier who first saw the provoked attack witnessed a white fireball strike one of the ships,” she said to him excitedly.
Shanks stopped humming and looked from the Skrol-decorated wall at Molna with bright, concerned eyes. ‘Py...ro..m..anc..er,” he said in a dry voice.
It was the first word he had ever spoken to her.
“Pyromancer, who is...? You mean the Blacksword is a Pyromancer?” she asked, but he had turned back to the wall and continued humming.
The days wore on and Shanks came out of his shell more and more. She realised he had no memory of his past life, only fragments, but the fragments were being pieced together as the cells in his mind slowly unlocked.
One day she arrived to find out that he had made an effort to wash himself and tied his hair into a ponytail; the glazed look had gone from his eyes. It was a month after he had first spoke.
“You are looking better, Shanks,” she said to him as she broke bread for his soup.
“My name is not Shanks,” he croaked.
“True, but you don’t remember your name, do you?” She watched him carefully.
“A girl with a doll, in a dream last night, told me who I am.”
Molna shivered in the damp cell. His face was very sad, but his eyes burnt brightly.
“I was a noble, because she told me I rose to be a king once.”
“How could that be?” Molna frowned.
“I was bad, though, I deserve my pain.” He bowed his head and cried.
“Shush now. Who did she say you were?” she asked, reaching for his shoulder.
“She said my name is Telmar... Yes, that’s it, I’m Baron Telmar.”
The story continues in...
The Rawn Chronicles Book Two
The Warlord and the Raiders
P.D.Ceanneir is the penname, in Gaelic, of Peter David Kinnear.
He is the author of the highly successful Rawn Chronicles Series and is currently writing its prequel, Dragor-rix.
This unabridged edition of his debut novel also includes his original design for the front cover.
He lives with his wife in a small village in Scotland.
The Rawn Chronicles Book One: The Orrinn and the Blacksword: Unabridged (The Rawn Chronicles Series 1) Page 35