Uncrowned (Cradle Book 7)

by Will Wight

  Yerin and Lindon examined his stance, his spirit, and the light beginning to stretch from the end of his weapon. It was a bare ghost of a sword, not the full, vivid technique they had witnessed in the dream tablet.

  “Soulfire, madra, aura,” Lindon said. “All woven together so I can’t tell where one begins and the other ends.”

  Yerin leaned closer until her chin almost touched the technique. “Something’s tickling the back of my mind. I had a better sense from the dream tablet, but I think there’s something else about this technique. It’s itching at me, but I can’t track it down.”

  Something else beyond the madra, aura, and soulfire...

  “Do you think it could be a Sage’s power?” Lindon asked quietly.

  “That’s a hair off the target. I wouldn’t contend it’s another power…but I’m not stone certain it isn’t.”

  [Uggggh aaaaaannnnd that’s all you get.]

  Abruptly, the vision snapped off. Lindon and Yerin stumbled back into reality, standing in the middle of the training room.

  Dross panted heavily, heaving exaggerated breaths, and even swept one of his stubby pseudo-arms across his forehead as though to wipe away sweat.

  [I told you it wouldn’t last long. And if there’s something you couldn’t sense in my simulation, it’s because this one—] He stabbed an arm at Lindon. [—didn’t pick up on it. Or the dream tablet didn’t. Or I didn’t. But I’d put my bets on this one.]

  Dross slipped back into Lindon’s spirit, but Lindon was already thinking along lines that he had tested in his own Paths.

  “You’ll need to layer techniques,” he said. “It’s like using a Ruler technique, Striker technique, and Forger technique at the same time. It might take soulfire to hold it all together.”

  Yerin’s sword was out of its sheath, and she swung it to limber up. “You’ve tried this before, have you?”

  Lindon coughed into his Remnant arm. “It was harder than I thought.”

  “I’d rather swallow my sword than try this without the Diamond Veins,” Yerin said, settling into a stance like the one her master had taken. “Likely to shred my channels to pieces. Even if we do get it right, the rocky part will be using this in battle. Haven’t practiced enough to form a binding, so I’ll have to practice until it’s carved into my spirit.”

  “We’ll be with you,” Lindon said.

  Dross groaned.

  Yerin flashed him a smile as aura began gathering around her sword. The weapon started to hum. “Say we do get this right. We ought to think of a name for it.”

  Lindon started making a list.

  ~~~

  When he wasn’t needed for the tournament, Northstrider vanished back to the ball of dark, floating water that served as his Monarch viewing platform. Or so most people believed.

  Eithan found the Monarch sitting on the ground of an alley in Ninecloud City, eating grilled vegetables wrapped in a layer of soft bread. He could not have looked less like he belonged. His massive, muscular frame made him look like he’d squeezed in between the two buildings, and his ragged hair and mismatched clothes belonged in a much dingier alley.

  This alleyway was paved with smooth quartz and it had been cleaned with admirable zeal, even in the places most couldn’t see. Mentally, Eithan saluted the Ninecloud cleaning crew.

  Golden eyes fixed Eithan, and he had to close down his spiritual senses in order to keep breathing. If he sensed the full attention of Northstrider upon him, he would lose control of his madra.

  The Monarch’s eyes returned to the floor, and he took another bite of his vegetable wrap. A floating barge passed overhead, music and laughter and flashing lights drifting over them.

  Eithan gave a beaming smile. “What a lovely evening we’re having, wouldn’t you say?”

  Northstrider chewed.

  “You know, I was reading up on your Path, which is of course quite famous. A fascinating study. There are scholars who have made their entire careers of unraveling your secrets.”

  The Monarch reached into a tear in space, pulling out a clay jug. He washed down the vegetables.

  “As I’m sure you know, I have some students in this tournament. One of them has a very interesting arm.”

  Northstrider produced a second vegetable wrap.

  “Not a unique arm, certainly. In many parts of the world, hunger bindings are not at all rare. But I’m sure it didn’t escape your attention. I thought you might be intrigued to know that the arm isn’t his only aspect that might interest you.”

  Eithan’s view was replaced by a brief flash of blue light, and then he appeared in the center of a crowd. It was a party, from the looks of it, with colored lanterns floating overhead and hundreds of people dressed in their finest. A few of the closest staggered away at his sudden appearance, but by then he was already moving.

  Northstrider had transported him to a completely different section of the city. Someone else would have been lost.

  Eithan began navigating back toward where he had just been. Easy enough. Now, where can I find one of those wraps?

  ~~~

  Lindon sat in the team’s waiting room. His Akura robes had been repaired, his spirit was full of madra, and his soulspace brimmed with soulfire. That gray flame played around his shield, which was now in spiritual form, soaking up the fire for nourishment.

  In his mind, he and Dross went over the plan.

  [I give you a twenty percent chance,] Dross said. [Two out of ten. That’s a lot better than nothing!]

  For the past week, since the end of the third round, Lindon had done virtually nothing but run mental battles against Sophara. He and Dross had combed the Ninecloud tablet library for all records of her matches, and Dross had even made her faster and smarter to compensate as much as possible for the training she’d be doing on her own.

  Over hundreds of fights, they had identified the keys: he had to focus on surviving the first few exchanges, then put enough pressure on her to make her use her drop of ghostwater. That would be the hardest part.

  If he survived until it ran out, he could finish her.

  If he couldn’t, then the Monarchs would get closer to allowing the Dreadgods into Sacred Valley. And a gold dragon who personally hated him would become the most celebrated Underlord in the world.

  And he, himself, would miss the fastest path to Overlord. His journey would slow to a crawl.

  Mercy dashed into the room in full Akura uniform. She didn’t slow down, throwing herself against him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

  Lindon’s thoughts staggered to a halt, though he didn’t physically move. Her slight weight crashing into him might as well have been a breath of air.

  “You’re going to win!” She looked up from his chest and took a step back, but even so, she didn’t release him. She grabbed the collar of his outer robe. “You can do this! Don’t worry! Do I look worried? No, I don’t, because I’m not, and you shouldn’t be either!”

  She was practically screaming at him, and Lindon felt flash-blinded.

  “Forgiveness, but what is happening?” he asked.

  She took a deep breath. “Yerin couldn’t be here. They called her away.”

  “Who did?” Lindon asked. She couldn’t be preparing for her match—her fight was against Mercy.

  “The Ninecloud Soul. So I’m going to say what Yerin would say!” She slapped him hard enough that it echoed throughout the room, though he barely felt it. Yerin would have broken his jaw. “You have a sword! Stab the enemy!”

  [That does sound like Yerin,] Dross observed.

  The circle on the door had begun to glow dimly, and Lindon’s nerves returned. He gently extracted himself from Mercy, stepping up to the stone slab as the script-circle glowed brighter and brighter.

  “Thank you, Mercy.” Lindon drew just enough Blackflame to set a torch of anger to his spirit. “I’ll see you in the next round.”

  The door began to slide up, showing the dark floor and letting in a flood of screams a
nd cries. He cycled his madra as memories spun in his mind.

  Suriel showing him the death of Sacred Valley.

  The Bleeding Phoenix covering the sky from horizon to horizon.

  Ekeri’s gold-scaled chest burned through by dragon’s breath.

  The gold dragon Herald, clutching a piece of the Temple of Rising Earth in its talons.

  Sophara tearing off Lindon’s head with one swipe of her claws.

  Naian Blackflame in chains, then collapsing bleeding to the floor.

  On the other side of the door, she was waiting for him.

  No…she was standing in his way.

  The door slid slowly open, revealing the floor and letting in…silence and darkness. No screaming crowd. The shadow aura was thick, shrouding much of the arena, forming a barrier to keep him and his opponent isolated. The ground was slick, black, and irregular, like the stone had melted and then been frozen into place. His footing would be uncertain.

  When the door lifted fully, the shadow aura didn’t stop him from seeing all the way across the arena, where his opponent saw him at the same time.

  Not Sophara.

  Yerin.

  Her hand was frozen on the hilt of her sword, her dark eyes quivering in shock. Lindon stood rooted in place as Dross babbled in his head, insisting that there must be a mistake.

  Northstrider stood between the two of them, black-scaled arms folded.

  Rainbow light shimmered overhead, and the Ninecloud Soul cried, “Now, the first two fighters in the fourth round of the Uncrowned King tournament face their true opponents! Sacred artists, welcome Wei Shi Lindon Arelius, chosen of Akura Malice and representative of the prime Akura team…and Yerin Arelius, chosen of Akura Malice and representative of the Blackflame Empire!”

  He could hear the Soul perfectly, but nothing from the crowd. Or perhaps Lindon had gone partially deaf.

  Northstrider flicked his fingers, and suddenly the air carried both competitors forward. Yerin was visibly furious, and she focused her anger on the Monarch. Her six sword-arms burst out of her back, but he did not acknowledge her.

  “This is not a punishment,” Northstrider said quietly. “Nor is it a plot. The measure of a sacred artist is how they respond to unexpected challenges, so I arranged this round to provide such challenges.”

  Yerin glared at him. “You ready to swear that to the heavens?”

  “The heavens do not constrain me,” Northstrider said, unaffected. “You should worry only about the opponent in front of you.”

  Every breath rasped in Lindon’s lungs. He couldn’t take his eyes from Yerin’s face.

  “I surrender.”

  “No,” Yerin and the Monarch said at the same time.

  Now Yerin had turned her anger to him. “This is a sour turn, but it won’t beat us. You bring everything you have…and so will I.”

  The bonds of air released her, and she drew her master’s sword.

  The audience cheered.

  We were so close, Lindon thought. They had almost made it. One final round before the eight Uncrowned were chosen. He and Yerin could have both won.

  Now he either had to give up his prizes or he had to take them from Yerin. It was as though he’d lost already.

  “Begin,” Northstrider said, and vanished.

  Chapter 19

  Yerin closed the distance fast.

  It was only thanks to Dross' enhancement of his reactions that Lindon managed to pull the shield from his soulspace and block the swing of Yerin's blade.

  It felt like getting hit by a cloudship at full speed. The blow launched him backward over the warped obsidian surface of the stage, pain stabbing through his left arm as he fought to right himself in the air.

  The Soul Cloak rippled into existence, surrounding him with a smooth blue-white corona. His newly enhanced Bloodforged Iron body drew madra to heal his left arm, which—he only now realized—had broken.

  The strength and control the Soul Cloak gave him allowed him to land, skidding on the surface, shield raised.

  Yerin was already bringing her white sword down on him. Her eyes were fixed and determined, her hair blowing behind her, her black robes rippling with the force of her spirit.

  The Sage's blade crashed down on his shield, blasting air away from him in a ring. The Soul Cloak trembled; thanks to its strength, his arm didn't break again, but the Enforcer technique was reaching its limit. Even the shield's material was strained, its outer layer beginning to stress and deform.

  Lindon's legs buckled, and he fell to his knees.

  He'd known she was strong. Her Steelborn Iron body had started to show its real potential once she'd advanced to Underlord, and he'd seen how she had handled her opponents up to this point.

  But he'd never felt how strong she was.

  [What are you doing?] Dross asked. [Fight back!]

  Lindon had been sure he could. In the top eight, he could fight. Once they had both obtained their goals.

  Now, fighting back meant pitting his ambition against hers. He would be cutting down her chance of living up to her master.

  And, though they were protected by a Monarch, though he had prepared himself for it, though there would be no lasting damage...he still didn't want to hurt Yerin.

  Six sword-arms emerged from Yerin's back, and suddenly the air had claws. The Endless Sword technique tore at him, and though he pushed back with the power of his soulfire, Yerin was far better at controlling sword-aura. Slices appeared on his skin, cutting through his sacred artist's robes.

  His Iron body repaired the cuts almost as they were made, but blood still streamed from him in ribbons, and he was losing madra.

  Yerin lifted her blade, and it ignited silver in a complex dance of both madra and aura. The Flowing Sword, her weapon Enforcement technique.

  She set her jaw and her dark eyes met his. There was a strange depth to them, as though she were pleading with him.

  “You're holding more than this,” she said. “Pull it all out! Let me see it!”

  Lindon didn't know how to respond, but she wasn't waiting on him. The shining sword came in high, and he blocked with his flying sword, but the force knocked him back. The second strike came low, while he was still trying to recover his stance, and the Soul Cloak let him slip aside before he lost a leg.

  An aura blade from the Endless Sword kicked his shield to one side, and the point of her sword came straight for his throat.

  He poured soulfire into the Soul Cloak.

  Immediately, the nimbus around him raged like whitewater. He moved without thought, slipping her stab, ducking the follow-up attack from her sword-arms, anticipating and blocking her counter-strokes with his shield and Wavedancer.

  Wind whipped around them as they traded dozens of blows in a breath, Yerin looking for an opening, Lindon closing off every angle. He ran, and she followed, and they clashed again, sending peals of thunder throughout the arena.

  It couldn't last.

  He was running low on soulfire, letting it flow into the Soul Cloak. His pure madra was being drained by the Cloak and by his Iron body, which had to constantly heal him. Her every blow cost him another chunk of power just to endure, and if he blocked or dodged any attack less than perfectly, he would be chopped in half.

  The Flowing Sword technique on her sword grew stronger and stronger with every exchange, shining more brightly silver as it wrapped more strands of madra and sword-aura around itself. Soon it would slice straight through his shield.

  And Yerin's spirit was growing more and more chaotic.

  She was angry.

  “Fight me!” she shouted.

  It was all Lindon could to do hold on. He jabbed his shield at her in a half-hearted swipe, but she brushed it aside with a look of disgust.

  Before he could fully recover, she kicked him in the chest.

  He managed to get his shield between them, but the impact still sent him flying backward. Once again, he had to scramble to land on his feet, shield forward. He was out of
breath, straining to keep his madra under control.

  [...I'm not some sort of human behavior expert, but I think she wants you to fight her,] Dross said.

  Lindon couldn't muster up the energy for a response. He resented Northstrider, who had put him in this situation. Why did he have to fight Yerin at all? They had almost been selected as Uncrowned together.

  Yerin hadn't followed him. Face twisted in anger, she drew her weapon back with both hands.

  Here it came. The technique they had developed together and named together. Their adaptation of the Sword Sage’s strike, which they had designed to be her decisive ending strike.

  The Final Sword.

  To his Copper sight, she was a metallic sun. Sword-aura gathered in a storm around her, whipping her hair and robes. The Enforcer technique on her sword expanded until she held a silver torch, and she glared at him as she braced her stance.

  Lindon released the soulfire of the Soul Cloak, sending it into the shield instead. The protective Forger binding in the weapon activated, creating a transparent barrier between them. Fueled by his pure madra and his soulfire, it might be able to take the Final Sword...but the shield would break, and he wouldn't be able to recover quickly. Yerin still had her Blood Shadow, too.

  He had already lost.

  Yerin would be mad at him for a while, but this wasn't his fault.

  Instead of driving her blade forward and sending the Final Sword flashing at him, Yerin leaped. She carried her heavenly silver blade with both hands, raising it overhead to smash it down on him.

  He kept his eyes open, bracing himself for the brief flash of pain before defeat.

  “DROSS!” Yerin roared.

  Time came to a halt.

  Information requested: how to drag Lindon out of self-pity.

  Beginning report...

  Yerin hangs in the air above Lindon, expression furious, Final Sword cocked behind her head. She’s beginning to Forge its power into the shape of a massive blade, and her six sword-arms are poised like stingers.

  Lindon sees himself, crouched there, hiding behind his layered stone-colored turtle shell. A blue-and-green scripted sword hovers nearby, ready to dart in and protect him. A transparent dome covers him, but it looks fragile. He doesn't see determination in his own eyes, he sees...doubt. Hesitation.