Uncrowned (Cradle Book 7)

by Will Wight

  So he and Dross were equally astonished when her golden eyes flashed with a pale light and she slipped to the side. Black dragon's breath drilled a hole in the ground. A silver wave passed over her; she had somehow managed to avoid Yerin's Striker technique at the same time.

  [That's...ghostwater,] Dross said.

  There was a sound like a splitting melon, Saeya's voice coughed, and Lindon turned to the side to see her dissolve into white light.

  You didn't know?

  [My records are incomplete! Incomplete! How many more times do I have to—]

  The golden disc floating over Sophara shifted position to catch three black arrows, but she was already whipping her tail into Lindon. He blocked with his left hand, Enforced by the Burning Cloak, while gathering more dragon's fire in his right.

  The bones in his forearm cracked.

  He flew back, tumbling, losing his grip on the Burning Cloak. Thanks to Dross and the grace of his Underlord body, Lindon managed to control himself enough to land on his feet.

  His arm hung limp and useless, the pain virtually paralyzing him. It wasn't only broken; her tail had torn skin and muscle, ripping him open from elbow to wrist. The others had engaged Sophara in combat, which was the only thing that had stopped her from finishing him off in midair.

  Backup plan, Lindon said to Dross.

  [Fifteen feet behind you and to your left,] Dross responded.

  If they failed to eliminate Sophara in an ambush, then odds were good they wouldn't be able to prevent her from passing the second round. The next-best thing would be to keep her away from the crowns, but she was much more of a monster than anyone could have expected.

  So if they couldn't prevent her from reaching the third round, they had to at least stop her from eliminating them all.

  Lindon followed Dross' directions, reaching down with his Remnant arm.

  From beneath a bush, he grabbed the crown.

  Chapter 14

  The disc floating around Sophara made her all but immune to Striker techniques, she was physically stronger than any of them but Yerin, and the ghostwater meant that even Eithan couldn't keep up with her. She kept dashing and running, engaging them one at a time, and every exchange ended with one of the Akura faction injured.

  By the time her movement slowed, indicating that her single drop of ghostwater had run out, she was still in better condition to the rest of them. Either they would outlast her madra...or she would destroy them all.

  Guided by Dross, Lindon pushed his Soul Cloak to the limit. Sophara hammered at Yerin's sword, tearing the blade apart with her claws, then dashed to the side to avoid the counter-attack. She was too fast and precise to be caught, and when she saw Lindon standing in her way clutching a crown, she didn't avoid him. She dove right into him, eyes blazing.

  As she did, Lindon placed the crown on her head.

  Heat stabbed through Lindon's ribs as Flowing Flame madra drove through his chest. His spiritual defenses fought against it, but his own madra weakened as breathing became much harder.

  His vision fuzzed. He was an inch from death.

  But the light around Sophara turned white.

  She faltered as she realized what had happened, and then her fury redoubled. Once again, her spirit surged to the skies, and she unleashed a tide of golden flame.

  There was no stopping it. Lindon braced himself behind his white arm, straining the hunger binding to its limits, weakening the attack as much as he could.

  No matter how much he siphoned its power, he was still swallowed by fire.

  He gritted his teeth instead of screaming as fire madra covered him from head to toe. It was like trying to clutch a live coal in his bare fist.

  But as quickly as it had begun, it was over, and he hurriedly vented burning madra from his arm. Smoke rose from his charred robes, and he was sure he was missing some hair, but all told he had emerged unscathed.

  Yerin had ended up far away, but she was still alive. Mercy had hidden in her tree. Pride was on one knee, bracing himself with a hand, but he had weathered the tide of fire. Eithan...

  Eithan was dissolving into white light.

  He faded away before Lindon could catch a glimpse of him, but Lindon was shocked. Eithan was the most suited to survive a massive Striker technique. Had he let himself be burned away? Why?

  The aura of ghostwater had faded from Sophara, but she still did not waste time. Her golden eyes touched on Lindon, but then they moved to the weakest enemy remaining. The one crouched and panting on the ground.

  Pride.

  [Shame,] Dross said. [I was hoping he could eat more attacks for us.]

  It wasn't the end for someone “killed” in this round, Lindon knew. They would be re-formed in an hour, unharmed. But the competition would get fiercer as the round progressed as fewer crowns appeared.

  If Pride was eliminated now, he wouldn't make it.

  Lindon leaped forward, gathering pure madra into his Remnant hand. It didn't conduct the Empty Palm as well as his flesh hand, but it was good enough. The newly enhanced version of the technique didn't have to hit Sophara's core dead-on. If he could only slow her down, he and Pride could both survive...

  [This is why I should be in charge of your body,] Dross said.

  Lindon landed between Sophara and Pride, driving his Empty Palm at her midsection.

  She didn't even slow down as her claws tore off Lindon’s head.

  ~~~

  Ziel sat against a tree and waited, hood shading his eyes and hammer leaning against him. He had brought it in his soulspace, but keeping any item inside his fractured spirit was agony, so he let it sit by him.

  He knew the Stormcallers were here, and the champion of the Dawnwing Sect would have hunted them down one by one with righteous fury in his heart. It wouldn't matter if he made it to the next round or not, so long as none of them did.

  But Ziel wasn't that man any longer. The memory of the Weeping Dragon taking up the sky, its living lightning decimating his students and friends, had played in his mind so many times that it had scraped him raw. Dreadgods couldn't be blamed for the destruction they caused; he might as well shout at a hurricane for daring to flood his house.

  It was the Dreadgod cultists that had stoked his rage, as they looted and pillaged in their master's wake.

  They had chased down the fleeing Dawnwing sect as rain and thunder poured from the sky. Ziel had stayed behind to hold them off as his junior disciples and students escaped.

  It hadn't worked. As it turned out, one of the Weeping Dragon's lightning strikes had caused a landslide that wiped them all out.

  So Ziel's duel with the Sage of Calling Storms had been for nothing.

  He had lost, of course. Even at the height of his power, he was no Sage. And instead of killing him, the leader of the Stormcaller cult had mutilated him. Cutting apart his spirit and stitching it together...wrong.

  Afterward, he had been allowed to live. Forced to live, almost. He was no threat to the Storm Sage, no threat to the Stormcallers without a sect behind him, and certainly no threat to the Weeping Dragon.

  He had drifted along like a dead leaf on the wind, formerly one of the proud geniuses of the Iceflower continent. He had fought as a champion of the Eight-Man Empire as an Underlord in the last Uncrowned King tournament. Then, as now, he'd made it to the second round.

  This year, he was exactly thirty-five. That was a cruel twist of fate. A few months older, and he wouldn't have been allowed to participate.

  He felt twice his age.

  Ziel let the first two hours of the round pass him by, his emerald horns resting against the bark of the tree behind him. Crowns fell and moved, some turned white, and no doubt many battles were won and lost.

  He watched through half-lidded eyes, staring through the leaves at the sky.

  Northstrider had heard of him through the Beast King and had come for him. One of the youngest Archlords ever, an elite among elites, fortuitously reduced to the level of a mere Underlord.
The Monarch had declared that Ziel would certainly be allowed to enter.

  One of the other factions was bending the rules in a similar fashion, it seemed, and it wasn't as though Ziel could exert any more power than a real Underlord. Far from it. Ziel could pass most spiritual power detectors as a Truegold.

  The poison that ravaged his body had undone most of the enhancement soulfire had given him, and holding anything—even soulfire—in his soulspace was like trying to hold a mouthful of needles. He might as well not be an Underlord.

  Years of treatment at the hands of the Beast King had countered much of the poison, but he could still only barely be considered an Underlord. If not for his skill and experience, he would never have passed the first round.

  Without Northstrider's personal request, he wouldn’t have participated in the tournament. Not even when the Monarch revealed that the Ninecloud Court had methods of restoring his soul. Their royal madra could do miraculous things to spirits. He only had to make it far enough in the tournament to earn a prize from them...and, not coincidentally, to improve Northstrider's reputation.

  Ziel still hadn't wanted to do it. What if the Court could restore him to his former power? He had no sect left. There was nothing to fight for. Revenge did not return the dead.

  Another golden light descended from the sky over the island. This would be the twenty-fourth, give or take. And it was fairly close.

  Ziel groaned like an old man as he pushed himself up on his hammer. He had the body of an eighteen-year-old, but he didn't feel like it.

  Slowly, he dragged his weapon through the jungle toward the crown. He had come this far, and it wasn't every day that you received a personal request from a Monarch. He had to at least give it a token effort.

  Though he was the only one of the Wastelands team who had made it past the first round. If Northstrider really expected a victory out of them, he should have trained up some better candidates.

  The beasts of the jungle moved through the trees around him, but he ignored them, marching onward. He wasn't afraid of them, and even if they somehow did make it past his hammer and tear out his throat, he didn't care.

  Evidently they could sense total apathy, because they let him pass.

  Ahead of him, the column turned white. He couldn't see much through the thick trees, only the light filtering through the leaves, but he sensed a battle fading away.

  He pushed his way past a leaf bigger than his head to see who was wearing the crown. If there were too many people, he would turn around and leave. There were still at least eight crowns left. He hoped he had waited out the most intense fighting, and maybe he could scoop one up unclaimed.

  The boy wearing the shining white crown wore a pair of blue armbands Forged from vivid yellow-and-blue lightning.

  Stormcaller madra.

  Ziel and the boy stared at each other for a long moment. Ziel saw the shining dragon that flew on unnatural stormclouds of madra. Bolts like the ones wrapped around this man’s arms had slithered through doors, hunting victims. Lightning from the Sage's fingertips had wrapped around him, searing his spirit...

  Ziel shook himself as something stirred in the ashes of his heart. This didn't matter. The fight wasn't worth it. If he won, this one Stormcaller wouldn't really die. Even if his death was permanent, what of it? It would change nothing.

  Ziel turned, his gray cloak fluttering behind him. He could find another crown.

  “Dawnwing!” the Stormcaller exclaimed.

  The man recognized the symbol of Ziel’s sect. He had been there that night.

  He should have kept his mouth shut.

  The next thing Ziel knew, his hammer was covered in blood that slowly dissolved into light.

  ~~~

  It felt like no time at all when Lindon reappeared on the beach. The first thing he saw was a panting, bleeding Pride crouched on the sand next to him.

  Golden light streamed into the sky behind him.

  Lindon's head jerked up, scanning the treeline. He knew an hour had passed, but the thrill of battle and the shock of death still flowed through him. “Where's Sophara?” he asked.

  “Passed,” Pride said, struggling to his feet. He was broken, battered, and almost two feet shorter than Lindon, but he still held his head high. “It worked.”

  He held a crown, and Lindon looked to it. “What happened to the other crown?” Sophara had been carrying two.

  “My sister took one, and Yerin Arelius the other,” Pride said. “She actually refused to take it. Mercy had to force it onto her head just like you did to Sophara.”

  “What about that one?” Lindon asked.

  Pride held it out. “This is for you.” He glanced to one side. “I suggest you take it quickly. It hasn't been long since I won it.”

  Lindon stood still, watching him.

  [It's an imposter!] Dross said.

  “Gratitude, but why would you...”

  Pride made an irritated noise and shoved the crown onto Lindon's head. Instantly, Lindon was bathed in a pillar of white light.

  “I owe you nothing,” he said, turning his back to Lindon and limping toward the trees. “Defend it on your own.”

  [That was nice,] Dross said. [I still don't like him.]

  ~~~

  Naru Saeya flew low, dodging branches, as she circled a tower of gold light in the distance. She couldn't know what had happened since she was killed, so she had to assume that she was the last remaining member of her team.

  Her victory wasn't important. It was the team that mattered.

  As she kept her spiritual sense extended, hunting for danger, she felt something behind her and slowed down. After making sure there was no one else close to her, she flew backward.

  Eithan had emerged at the edge of the jungle, just where they had arrived at the beginning. He brushed his robes off, giving an annoyed huff when he found a spot of mud around his knee.

  “You didn't last any longer than I did,” she said, and in truth it soothed her pride. She had thought that if anyone survived, it would be Eithan.

  He gave her a beaming grin. “I thought you could use the company. No telling how many crowns are left, but we should be able to grab a pair.”

  “On one condition,” Saeya said. “You take the first.”

  He paused. “I have to admit, I was expecting a different condition.”

  She folded her wings and began walking, perception extended. “I'm not a fool. I know you didn’t have to take that hit.”

  Eithan glanced up at the sky, perhaps looking to the invisible constructs that allowed the participants to watch them. “What? How dare you. Perish the thought.”

  “I don’t want my name to spread, but the name of the Blackflame Empire. I need you to make that happen.”

  It hadn’t been an easy journey for her, but Saeya had eventually admitted the truth: she wasn’t cut out for this. The more she trained against Yerin, the more she saw the girl’s unlimited potential. Potential Saeya didn’t have.

  Besides, her true passion wasn’t advancement. She just wanted her home to prosper.

  Eithan stretched one arm, then the other, the thread-of-gold on his ornamented robes flashing in the sun. “Bargain struck,” he said. “Let’s go give them a reason to remember us.”

  ~~~

  The second round worked as intended, dividing the number of participants in half, but it also split the Akura faction.

  Only one of the Frozen Blade competitors made it out, and none of the Akura backup team. Akura Grace told them how the team of dragons found them before they made it to Lindon, and she had been eliminated. When she returned, she hadn't been able to claim a crown in time.

  He was greatly relieved when he saw that Eithan and Yerin had both passed, though neither Pride nor Naru Saeya had managed to secure a crown before time ran out. He had mixed feelings. True, the fighters most likely to win had passed, but Pride and Saeya had given up their personal chances for the team. That only increased the weight on him.

 
; When they returned to their rooms, Mercy and Lindon were gathered together and visited by the Ninecloud Soul.

  “Congratulations on passing the second round!” The warm voice said from within the rainbow light. “In the morning, you will be led to the Archlord prize vaults, from which you will select one sacred instrument of your choosing. In future rounds, you will be permitted to use weaponry up to Archlord in your matches...although allow me to caution you that an Underlord weapon suited for you will produce far better results than an unsuitable Archlord weapon.”

  “Understood!” Mercy said brightly.

  Lindon's imagination was already running away from him.

  The Archlord vaults of the Ninecloud Court? What would they be like? Why did he have to wait all that time until morning?

  “One week after you claim your prizes, you will fight in the third round. These will be one-on-one matches to the death, although of course the protection of the honored Northstrider is still in effect. However, unlike later rounds, you are not competing as an individual, but as a team. Only when the last member of your opposing team loses will you be considered victorious.”

  Mercy stepped closer to the rainbow, hands clasped behind her back. “Question! Can the same person fight each time?”

  “Full rules will be provided to you tomorrow, but yes, of course. As long as you win. Someone who loses this fight is eliminated from this round...but not from the competition. Either your whole team will survive, or none of you will.”

  [Ah, so last round was intended to reduce half the remaining individuals, and this is designed to get rid of half of the remaining teams. It's like some kind of human-eliminating system.]

  “Who is our opponent?” Lindon asked.

  The light flashed, acknowledging him, and the image of a human bound in chains appeared in its center. Lindon had noticed the man around the tournament, but hadn't spent any time investigating him. He looked older than thirty-five, haggard and worn and no more than skin and bones, but maybe captivity could do that to someone.

  “You face the one remaining member of the black dragon team. He was registered in the tournament as the Black Dragon Prisoner.”