The Rawn Chronicles Book Three: The Ancarryn and the Quest (The Rawn Chronicles Series 3)

by P D Ceanneir

  ‘The moment is now, my Lady!’ whispered Ness Ri with some impatience.

  ‘But…but…that’s the Blacksword,’ stuttered Vara, ‘I thought I was to patron the prince? I…’

  Vara flinched as the Ri gripped her bare wrist tightly, ‘apologies, my Lady, but I do not have time to explain.’

  Conducting a Thought Link on an unwilling subject was difficult and frowned upon by the Ri Order, but Lord Ness did not have time on his side and he could not allow the moment to slip away. He first used his influence to calm the woman and then feed her enough information in a series of short images to convince her of the necessity of the plan. For her part Lady Vara’s wide surprised eyes fixed on the Ri’s and slowly became glazed as if in some kind of drugged stupor. She nodded once and he let her go. The contact only lasted a few seconds.

  Below them, King Kasan was looking around at the dumbstruck audience. ‘If no one will come forward to patron this…this person, then I will have to…’

  A woman’s thin voice called down from above, ‘I, Lady Vara, former Queen of Sonora will patron the Blacksword,’ said Vara exuding a confidence she did not feel. Beside her, Lord Ness smiled and patted her hand.

  The crowd erupted into excited chatter as the king and Cinnibar both scowled up at the balcony. Saltyn Ri moved closer to the king.

  ‘The Lady Vara still has merit, she is a worthy patron, the rules are quite clear...’

  ‘I know the rules Saltyn!’ snapped Kasan cutting of his Consul, ‘very well,’ shouted the king towards the Blacksword, ‘who is your first opponent?’

  ‘Kasan what are you doing?’ rounded Cinnibar who frowned darkly at the king.

  ‘Following the rules that were set down and fixed by the nobles of this land,’ said the king. Cinnibar hissed in anger, folded her arms and then sat down.

  The announcer asked the Blacksword the king’s question. To Creed, the answer was not good as Dorif flinched and looked towards the northeast seating area then back again.

  ‘He wishes to fight...Mad-daimen of the Nithi.’ he informed the king.

  All eyes in the stadium looked at the Nithi nobles standing with their own people at the bottom row of seats. There were gasps of astonishment all around, especially from the king. All knew that the Nithi Lord was his closest ally.

  Mad-daimen stood to the front of tiered rows tall and broad with an air of authority on him. The years had given him a potbelly but he was still a formidable opponent. He scowled at the Blacksword from his cold blue eyes and scratched his big bushy beard, the rising sun shone on his bald head and everyone could see the gold feather tattoo on his scalp. Next to the Nithi lord stood Raimen, he was of the same height as his brother but slimmer. Raimen’s sons were beside him. Lorth the eldest and the youngest was Larsen. He had another son called Borath, but he was looking after things in the Wildlands. Beside the boys was an older man with a grey beard, this was Daimen and Raimen’s uncle, Tygen, the last remaining brother of their father. These five were the highest-ranking nobles of the Nithi.

  ‘They say he can’t be killed,’ said Raimen to his brother as they watched the Blacksword jump from the platform and walk towards them.

  ‘Then today we find out,’ growled Mad-daimen. He un-slung his big double headed battle-axe from his back. Being a noble, he was allowed to carry his weapon around the citadel.

  ‘I accept!’ he shouted towards the king’s royal box. The Blacksword had halted about a hundred feet away, close to the ornate wooden columns, which he could see were intricately carved with warriors in various poses of combat. Mad-daimen climbed down from his bench and over the waist-high fence that separated the tournament ground from the seats. He walked towards the black figure as the crowd cheered and clapped in unison.

  The Blacksword watched the approaching warrior. The Nithi Lord wore woollen trousers and a padded leather waist jacket. A gold hoop hung from his left ear and he wore a fine array of silver torcs on his right arm. However, it was the movement of his walk that interested him the most; he noted how the Nithi lord walked favouring his right leg and judged how that would affect his centre of balance. Like a mathematician with formulae swimming around in his head, the Blacksword had already thought through the technical moves he needed to beat his foe from first glance.

  Mad-daimen stopped twelve feet from the tall imposing figure of the Blacksword. The mysterious creature in front of him instantly disadvantaged the shorter and stockier warrior; the Blacksword was a clear two-foot taller.

  ‘So what is your beef with me?’ asked Mad-daimen.

  ‘You are damned,’ hissed the Blacksword, ‘just like the rest of your family and that is all you need to know.’

  The big man mulled this over and then shrugged.

  They both looked at the royal box. The king gave a nod, and the announcer signalled the go ahead for the fight to begin.

  ‘Draw you sword, boy!’ growled Mad-daimen as he hefted his axe in both hands.

  ‘I need no weapon to defeat you,’ said the Blacksword. The insult to fight a Nithi warrior unarmed was not lost on the big man.

  ‘Your funeral.’

  Mad-daimen swung the axe around in figure of eight movements as he surged forward with surprising speed for such a large man, but the Blacksword dodged away from the sharp blade with inches to spare. The crowd were cheering on Mad-daimen and booing the Blacksword for not fighting with a weapon.

  The Blacksword moved away from that axe with each passing stroke of its lethal blade. His movements were so quick it astounded many in the crowd. His fluid shift in stance and reaction time mesmerised the onlookers who slowly became quieter and watched the fight with stunned awe.

  ‘Damn, he’s fast,’ Creed heard Udren say, ‘his movements are a blur. There is something unearthly about him.’

  Creed had to admit that his master was right, but his attention was distracted for a moment as he noticed the red kite flying over the arena and calling in, what Creed thought, was rapturous excitement.

  Down on the tournament ground the fight was about to change tempo. As Mad-daimen swung his axe again to the left, and missed, the Blacksword stepped into the backswing of the arc and smashed his right fist into the nose of the Nithi Lord.

  The crowd stopped cheering as they saw Mad-daimen virtually lift from the ground with the force of the strike and fall onto his backside. The Blacksword waited, like a gentleman, for the big warrior to get back up again. Blood bubbled from the Nithi lord’s nose and fury from his eyes. Pain from the centre of his face formed into a red haze. He screamed and swung his axe again, running at his opponent in a rage. The Blacksword stepped away from the arcing sweep and again quickly stepped into the man’s backswing. He hit Mad-daimen full in the face again with two rapid balled fists and then kicked him in the side of the knee so his bad leg buckled under him.

  The crowd gasped and King Kasan was on his feet showing concern for his old friend.

  ‘This is the beginning of your pain,’ hissed the Blacksword through clenched teeth as he prowled around the kneeling figure of the Nithi Lord, ‘the rest will come when you spend an eternity in the pits of the damned.’

  Mad-daimen roared and was up on his feet, limping towards his opponent. The Blacksword spun on his left heel kicking the Nithi lord in the side of the head with his right foot. Mad-daimen crashed against one of the central wooden columns gasping for breath.

  ‘Do not worry, you will not spend eternity alone,’ goaded the Blacksword, ‘your family will join you, soon.’

  Mad-daimen stood up once again, although unsteadily. He spat out a tooth along with red phlegm, and then lunged towards the Blacksword who avoided the clumsy attack and then gripped the shaft of the axe as it swept around for a counter-strike. The big warrior tried to pull the blade from the Blacksword’s grip, but it was impossible. Mad-daimen was so stunned at the strength of his opponent that he actually called out in alarm. His cry became a loud grunt when a fist punched him twice in the chest and then delivered a scy
thing uppercut to the chin. As his head rocked back from the violence of the blow, the Blacksword pulled Mad-daimen’s axe arm onto his shoulder, and with the big lord’s elbow nestled in the hollow of his neck and shoulder, pulled down sharply dislocating the forearm from the elbow. The unique acoustics of the arena walls picked up the loud crack as the Nithi Lords limb snapped. There was a loud “OH!” from the audience as their faces screwed up in sympathetic pain. It had the effect of drowning out Mad-daimen’s scream.

  Creed winced at the Nithi lord’s agony, he also heard his father groan in despair. All of the Nithi people on the north seats were on their feet shouting encouragement at their leader.

  The Blacksword had backed off by this time allowing his opponent to catch his breath, and also to prolong his misery. The Nithi warrior struggled to his feet, his right arm floppy at his side. One eye swollen and closed and his nose gushed blood over his fat bruised lips.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ mocked the Blacksword.

  ‘Who are you?’ mumbled Mad-daimen through broken teeth.

  ‘Your Nemesis and the destroyer of all you have worked for,’ was the reply.

  As the Blacksword talked, Mad-daimen reached for his axe handle, and despite his pain, hefted it around his left side, aiming it at his opponents head, but the Blacksword saw it coming and ducked. The axe imbedded into the wooden pillar and the Nithi Lord got a steel toecap boot in the groin for his troubles. The big man crumpled and fell to his knees in shuddering pain.

  As the slow dull agony in his groin travelled up his body, he heard a splintering sound as the Blacksword pulled the axe from the pillar with one effortless tug. The Nithi over by the north stalls fell silent. By Nithi tradition, death by your own weapon was the ultimate humiliation. It seemed the Blacksword knew this too.

  Raimen, the brother of Mad-daimen, groaned as he stood beside his sons, ‘no, not his own axe,’ he said.

  However, the Blacksword did something far worse. He held the axe shaft close to the blade, and grasping Mad-daimen’s head, he sliced the skin at the top of the forehead and pushed the blade under the scalp. The weakened Nithi Lord screamed when the axe scraped over his skull as the Blacksword scalped him in front of thousands of stunned observers.

  The Blacksword pulled the flap of skin, with the gold feather tattoo, off the head of one of the most powerful men on the island. He threw it to the down and ground it into the dust with the heel of his boot. The Nithi, once again, were in uproar shouting obscene abuse towards the tall cloaked figure, the Blacksword ignored them.

  Everyone in the royal box was shocked, all except Molna, who watched the fight with a bright-eyed interest. For one, she hated the Nithi Lord. Yet, she never took her eyes off the Blacksword. There was something familiar in his movements.

  Mad-daimen, unrecognisable under the mask of blood, swayed as he focused on the Blacksword with his one good eye. That was when he spotted the ebony daggers in the Blacksword’s boots.

  ‘I know...where you... got them,’ he stammered through his agony.

  ‘I got them from the innocents that were massacred by your people. Luckily, where you are going there will not be many innocents for you to taunt,’ said the Blacksword as he hefted the axe and put the Nithi Lord out of his misery. With one precise swing, he took Mad-daimen’s head off just below the chin, trimming his long beard in the process.

  The crowd and the Nithi were shocked into silence. Everyone watched as the Blacksword picked up Mad-daimen’s head by the loose jaw and walked over to the north section of the arena. He flung it into the air and watched it land amongst the crowd of Nithi. He laughed loudly as he observed many loyal followers shy away from their beloved lord’s head as it landed in their midst.

  He stunned the crowd by walking up to the seats where Raimen and his family now stood. He pointed in turn at Raimen, Lorth, Larsen and the older man, Tygen, then beckoned them to come and fight him. He turned from them, walked to one of the three-foot high mounds of earth near to the central ornate columns, and sat on top of it, cross-legged. There he waited.

  The seemingly paralysed crowed suddenly burst into chatter.

  The ground’s assistants hesitantly took away the headless body of Mad-daimen while others covered up the fresh bloodstains with of soil from wooden tubs. They avoided the Blacksword who remained motionless and ignored them completely.

  They were not the enemy, but the enemy would come.

  Therefore, he waited.

  Chapter 8

  The Blacksword versus Raimen, Tygen,

  Lorth and Larsen

  Creed would always remember this day with such clarity; the blood, the screams and the loud silences of the crowd as they watched the fast fluid moves of the Blacksword. He remembered big Tygen jump over the barrier first, followed by Raimen and his sons. Saw how the Blacksword sat calmly on the mound as his opponents approached. The day was bright, warm and calm. A shimmer of heat rested above the tournament ground and the excellent acoustics of the surrounding structure picked up the crunch of booted feet on gravel as the four Nithi warriors approached the lone figure in black.

  Four against one was not good odds. No one could remember this happening before, but the Blacksword had instigated it and those were the rules.

  ‘Stay in a half circle,’ growled Tygen, pulling out his sword as he advanced with the others towards their foe, ‘Lorth stay on our right with your crossbow, Raimen on my left.’ Each nodded imperceptibly towards the older man and shifted into position.

  Lorth moved catlike away from the others, adjusting his crossbow, but kept an eye on his great uncle as he awaited any signal the older man would give. The younger Larsen beside him, stony faced, never took his eyes from the Blacksword. Their father on Tygen’s left moved with pent up energy and an anger that they all could feel. All, bar Lorth, had swords drawn and edged slowly forward. Lorth had now armed the bow, a black bolt slotted into place, and he nestled the butt against his shoulder and kept his aim on the Blacksword as he walked towards him with the others.

  ‘On my word we rush him,’ said Raimen as they moved closer, hefting his long broadsword onto his shoulder ready to swing it as the distance shortened. The fine gravel underfoot cracked and split with every footstep, sweat trickled down their backs as the sun climbed higher in the blue sky. The crowd remained silent, watching with anticipation.

  The silence in the arena was such that all could hear the crunching footsteps of the advancing quartet. The noise slowed, as the Nithi lords formed into a half circle when they neared the unmoving Blacksword, who remained motionless on the mound.

  The Blacksword waited. His hands remained hidden under his cloak holding the ebony hilted Nithi Daggers. He knew who they were for, because he heard their names from the old man as they moved into position, but he wanted them closer.

  The daggers of the Nithi shall find their way home to the blood of their owners.

  That was what Verna had prophesied. It was about to be realised. Inside the Blacksword’s head, Havoc sat just as tense as the crowd did.

  The four stopped about a dozen feet from the Blacksword, they all held their breaths, and Lorth fingered the trigger, sighting the Blacksword through the round sights.

  Raimen stood in an attacking crouch; they all waited for his signal. The Blacksword was directly in front of Larsen who scowled down at him; he pushed his left hand into his shield strap to make it more comfortable and gripped his swords hilt tightly, but his hands were sweaty. Tygen raised his sword above his head, ready to bring it down on the Blacksword’s head when the attack signal was given.

  ‘NOW!’ shouted Raimen as he rushed forward.

  What happened next happened so fast that most of the crowd missed it; only the trained eyes of watching warriors caught the movement that the Blacksword made. One second he was sitting, the next he was in the air, like a wildcat springing onto prey with boundless energy packed in its leg muscles. As if in slow motion, the Blacksword leapt into the air from his sitting position. His ar
ms whipped out to the sides releasing the daggers that flew to their true owners.

  Lorth had the Blacksword in his sights, the next his target was in the air, something punched through his kneecap causing white-hot pain to shoot up his thigh, his leg buckled, and as a result, he fired the bolt into the ground.

  Raimen ran forward, and for the briefest moment, saw something whiz towards him. He had no time to move and then the object pierced his throat.

  The Blacksword’s flight path took him over the rushing Larsen. He somersaulted over the boys head, extracting SinDex from his sheath as he did so. Larsen’s attack faltered as his opponent landed right behind him, and as he turned, he felt long sharp steel stab right through his left thigh. He screamed long and loud, the Nithi observers were on their feet shouting just as loudly.

  Creed had seen the move, but could not believe it, and by the sounds of it neither could Lord Udren, ‘by the gods! He’s good.’

  Tygen was the only one of the four not maimed. He looked with concern at his nephew; saw the bright red blood pulse over the hilt of the dagger in his throat. He could not help him because he knew it was a mortal wound. Lorth was on the ground clutching at his leg, staring dumbly at the dagger, tears streamed down his face. Larsen had the Blacksword’s blade in his thigh, and the boy was in agony. He rushed in to help him.

  The Blacksword extracted SinDex from Larsen’s leg and met Tygen’s charge. The swords clashed and sparks flew. Tygen’s sword was long and heavy; it would cleave a man’s head in two quite easily, but only if he could get close enough to use it. The Blacksword deflected every jab and cut sent his way with a graceful ease.

  ‘Lorth! For the sake of the gods, get the crossbow boy!’ shouted Tygen as he aimed a scything blow to the Blacksword’s midriff, which his opponent nimbly avoided.