by P D Ceanneir
The Blacksword stood above her as she backed away slowly aware that his sword, now merged into one, was hovering above her chest. His head tilted to one side as if listening to something. He moved his body forward to regard her face. A flash of lightening revealed his pale features and those black lifeless eyes, despite herself, she cried out in fear.
The Blacksword looked away as Tia heard Serena call her name. The taller Havant was climbing out of the smashed skylight. The Blacksword moved back from her and sheathed his sword in one fluid movement. He then crouched and summoned a strong gale, which surrounded him, whipping the rain around him into a waterspout. She watched in wonder as the slates crack under his feet and he leaped into the air at tremendous velocity, landing onto another roof over a hundred yards away.
She continued to watch with wide eyes as the rain soaked night swallowing him up from her sight.
Chapter 11
The Blacksword versus Lord Udren
The third day of the heats went well.
The arena overflowed with more citizens to such an extent that it exceeded previous competition records, because news of the death of the Nithi lords and the appearance of the Blacksword got around. People had come to get a glimpse of the fabled Blacksword of prophecy. They would be disappointed however, because the Blacksword did not show up.
People believed that he had entered purely for the chance to kill Mad-daimen and his kin; others knew he had no need to return on the third day because he had proved himself worthy to take part in the Final Bout. Whatever the reason, it put a dampener on the whole tournament because the Blacksword was not just here to wow everyone with his charismatic appeal. Not everyone failed to notice the increased amount of guards all around the arena.
Nevertheless, Havoc was there to watch the remaining champions battle it out with their enemies, with the Blacksword watching also, tucked away behind the princes eyes. The prince tried, without much luck, to forget the events of the previous day. Telmar still alive, the revelations of the Brethac Ziggurat, his responsibility regarding Verkin’s death and the obvious affection between Shanks and his mother disturbed him. He fingered the ridges of the Horn of Relin sitting under his cloak as he lost himself deep in thought. All he needed to do was wait, and win.
On the battleground, everyone cheered when Handan killed the butcher, gutting him from the front to the backbone. They roared in triumph when Nox beheaded his rival, a Mubean assassin called Tuchal, and Garran the Molvonian finally killed his treacherous cousin for steeling away his fifth wife.
That made four combatants, including the Blacksword, to slog it out in two days time before the Final Bout with the king’s champion. King Kasan called for a day of rest so that the champions could recuperate and their wounds healed by young Rawn Apprentices that were always on call.
Havoc found a small tavern, The Baron and the Maiden, in the Canal Quarter of the citadel and spent a quiet day resting and eating alone in his room. He decided not to visit his mother again. To do so would court danger for both of them and he felt that staying out of trouble until the last day of the Ancarryn would be wise.
Until then, the hours dragged by, but he got the rest he needed.
‘What do you mean he’s not human?’ said Cinnibar, a wrinkled frown creasing her face as she stood at the window of her private apartments. Below, the street had returned to its normal busy throng of people after the no-show of the Blacksword. It seemed as if the citadel breathed a sigh of relief at his absence. The Queen of Sonora knew he was still within the city, somewhere. She could feel his presence; a pronounced presence much like Telmar sitting in his small cell, but filling it with concentrated energy, an energy she craved each time she felt it flowing through her veins. She shuddered and turned to her two Havant Assassins. Her questioning scowl demanded an answer to her question.
‘I saw his face for the briefest second,’ said Tia, ‘it was not the face of a human.’ In fact, Tia’s thoughts brought her the image of her mistress in the throes of excitement when she created the Drakken; her thin pale face was not unlike the Blacksword’s on that stormy night by the Rings of Dulan.
‘Of course he is human, girl, he must be or the prophecy is wrong!’ snapped the queen.
Serena watched the conversation with a small smile on her pretty face. She had received some cuts from crashing through the skylight, but healed herself so they shrunk to small puckered white scars on her cheek and forehead. However, a longer white scar under her left eye gave her an even more sardonic appearance.
‘He was incredibly quick and agile,’ she said to her mistress, ‘his grasp of the Rawn Arts is… exceptional. He beat us both fair and square, and yet,’ she turned her head to look at her companion; ‘he let you live, Tia.’
Tia felt Cinnibar and Serena stare at her. True the Blacksword had her close to death, the point of his sword just inches from her heart, all he had to do was thrust the black blade into her heart, but he had hesitated.
Why?
On the final day of the Ancarryn, Death came to the Criab Arena.
The Blacksword was already in the grounds when the crowd filled the seats on this, the last day of the Ancarryn. He was sitting, cross-legged, on one of the tall wooden pillars, his sword held in front of him by both hands, the pommel only inches away from the darkness of his hood the blade tip resting on the top of the pillar’s flat surface. To an observer he looked as if he was praying. The wind whipped his cloak so it fluttered around his sitting form like bat wings.
Guards mingled around the base of the pillar, none of them in any rush to ask him to come down. They were debating among themselves. How did he get in with so many guards watching? Was he already in the grounds at the end of the last tournament? Heads would surely roll.
The king, once informed of the Blacksword’s presence already inside the arena, calmly smiled and ordered the guards to leave him be, for now.
Dorif the announcer tried to ignore the Blacksword as best he could and continued with the task of welcoming the crowd back to the last day of the Ancarryn, but there was a slight edginess in his voice. He introduced jugglers and troubadours who swarmed around him, troops of musicians strummed stringed instruments and an odd assortment of trumpets and pipes, drums and cymbals all of which thumped and clashed as they paraded their way around the edge of the tourney ground. Each one of the entertainers looked up at the lone figure in black as they passed him. A few off notes and mistimed drumming could be heard as they did so.
‘Welcome one and all...um...this is the last day of the Bout of Champions,’ said Dorif through his coned mouthpiece, ‘four will fight it out till one remains... to...er, to fight the king’s champion and claim the Kings Gift.’ There was a loud cheer.
‘We have Handan the Corseare,’ said the announcer and the crowd clapped.
‘...Garran the Molvonian...’ another round of applause.
‘...Nox from Trandahl Slone...’ a larger cheer this time for the Ancarryn favourite. Then Dorif, now in full swing, allowed his voice to rise and he pointed to the tallest pillar.
‘...and the Blacksword!’ the crowd roared and stood, the ripple of clapping went on for a while. In the royal box, Queen Molna smiled while Kasan shifted uncomfortably. Creed stood behind his high-backed throne looking anxiously towards Lord Udren, but that man just stared ahead of him clenching his jaw muscles. Queen Cinnibar, flanked on either side by Tia and Serena, gave a dry chuckle to herself.
Creed’s eyes flicked from the announcer to the Blacksword and them up to the furthest stand. There, flapping effortlessly in the wind was the same red kite from the other day. He frowned. Something niggled in the back of his mind about the appearance of the bird, a theory that disturbed him more than he thought it possible. He shrugged it off and turned his attention back towards the tourney ground.
As the announcer called the names of the last four champions, Handan, Nox, and Garran all walked up the ramp and onto the dusty white ground, waving to the cheering crowd as they
did so. All of them wore mail shirts, leather carapaces, long steel greaves on their boots and helmets of different styles. Nox was the only one not wearing a breastplate; all of them had long-bladed swords apart from Nox who preferred his curved scimitar.
The crowd stopped clapping and went dead silent as the Blacksword suddenly stood up on the pillar. The wind catching his cloak tails. He turned to look at the royal box, everyone there looked back, some with fear and hate on their faces, others with pride and awe.
He back flipped from the pillar and landed lightly on the sandy ground kicking up dust as he landed, the crowd gasped in wonder.
Deep inside the darkness of the Blacksword’s mind, Havoc watched everything through the eyes of his alter ego. He regarded the three warriors walking towards him. He had no quarrel with them, they were not his enemy and under different circumstances he would find them good company, but this was a tournament in which only one could win and the Blacksword saw no compunction in killing these three; if they used a weapon against him then they were an enemy. However, the prince had convinced him that they would be given a choice.
As the three champions stopped in front of the announcer’s platform they never took their eyes off the Blacksword.
‘I have an offer for the three of you,’ the Blacksword hissed as he approached them.
Nox stepped forward allocating himself as speaker of the three.
‘What choice would this be then?’ he asked.
‘You are all friends, it is dishonourable to kill those you respect,’ he let that sink in as the three looked at each other then at the darkness of the hood as the harsh whisper continued, ‘I have thought of a way of keeping your honour.’
There was silence among them for a while, and then Handan stepped forward.
‘What do you suggest?’ he said.
‘All of you can team up and fight me, ‘whispered the Blacksword, ‘if I die then you can continue as you wish, if I win…’ he shrugged, ‘then you would not care either way. I have given you all a chance. It’s your choice.’ He turned and walked away from then, leaving them open-mouthed.
‘Three of us together have a better chance at beating him,’ said Garran.
‘Bah...this in a slight on a warrior of my abilities, I will take him myself, alone,’ said Nox.
‘Nox, you are good, but he is better!’ snapped Handan.
‘We shall see,’ he scoffed and turned to the announcer and yelled so all to hear, ‘I will fight the Blacksword.’
The yell of the crowd drowned out the announcer’s introduction to the next fight. Nox walked into position about twenty feet from the Blacksword.
‘Your offer was a fair one, Blacksword,’ said Nox as he unsheathed his scimitar, ‘However, I have a reputation to keep. Come now to your death.’
‘As you wish,’ the Blacksword sighed. He dug his heels into the earth and then pushed off and sprinted towards Nox, without unsheathing the black balde. He left a cloud of dust in his wake. At about six feet from the warrior, he jumped up into the air and flipped upside down for the briefest second as he passed over Nox’s head, while at the same time he brought out his sword from its scabbard.
The attack was so quick that Nox had no time to defend himself as the black blade sliced through his helmet and cleaved his head in half.
The Blacksword landed lithely and walked away from the big warrior. Nox tottered on his feet for a few seconds. Blood cascaded down his chest and back, reaching his navel before he collapsed face first into the dirt.
The silence in the arena was deafening. The competition champion, killed with just one stroke of the sword.
‘Bugger it!’ said Handan as he hefted his weapon, ‘it’s a good day to die.’
‘Rather do the killing than the dying,’ quipped Garran, ‘I still think we can both take him.’
‘All Right! Let’s do this,’ Handan gripping his friends wrist and Garran did the same. They both ran at the Blacksword screaming their battle cries at the top of their lungs.
The Blacksword rushed in to meet them halfway and their battle screams were cut short as they concentrated on the fight. Handan relied mostly on the weight of his long broadsword to hack his foe to the ground, however, he soon realised that with the speed of the Blacksword that was going to be a problem and the strength of the black blade was already cutting deep nicks into his sword. He worked with Garran, whose shorter, lighter weapon landed with better precision than his own did. He helped to defend his partner when he faltered. They fought for about two minutes when Garran took a cut to the right shoulder and Handan received a slashing cut just above the left knee. They stepped back and wiped the sweat from their brows. The Blacksword hung back and waited, neither tired nor breathing heavily.
‘Damn! He’s good,’ said Garran as he flexed his wounded shoulder.
‘We’re not finished yet, old friend,’ said Handan who rushed to attack like a berserker, pushing the Blacksword back against the pillars, but the tall cloaked warrior shifted to the left quickly and brought SinDex down on Handan’s sword, cutting off the tip. Garran was there in support but was to slow to help Handan whose chest armour took a hefty blow as the Blacksword slashed the mail links open at his side; blood spurted out onto the sandy ground as Handan stepped away from the Sword that Rules.
With Handan maimed the Blacksword turned to Garran, who rushed in screaming to help his friend, the Blacksword knocked away his blade and twisted around Garran’s body bringing SinDex around in a wide sweep, inserting it through his opponents second and third rib and out through the solar plexus. Blood sprayed from Garran’s mouth in pink frothy bubbles as his left lung punctured.
‘Thank you,’ said Garran as he slowly died, ‘for a…good… death.’
The Blacksword nodded once and extracted his sword from Garran’s body as he slumped to the ground. He flicked of the blood from the blade with one movement of his wrist.
Blood soaked one side of Handan’s chain mail as he tried in vain to close the wound with his free hand. Part of his gut was hanging out and he was pale from the loss of blood, but he still stood and swung his sword, although without much enthusiasm. The Blacksword stayed away from the blade until Handan collapsed to the ground.
The wheezing breath of the warrior lying at the Blacksword’s feet became ragged with exhaustion. He looked up at the dark hood and grinned.
‘It was a good day to die after all,’ were his last words.
With the crowd silent and everyone in the royal box on their feet, the Blacksword waited and watched while attendants took the bodies of the dead champions off the tourney ground. Kasan and Cinnibar turned at the same time towards Udren.
‘It has been an honour serving you sire,’ said the king’s champion, giving the king a slight bow. He walked forward as the crowd started chanting his name.
‘I want him dead, Udren, do you hear me?’ said Cinnibar as she grasped his arm on the way past.
‘It may not be as easy as that, your majesty,’ said Udren.
‘Udren I...’ the king started to say, but he felt impotent so remained silent. Udren smiled in understanding. He walked down the stairs from the royal box; all eyes watched him as he opened the fence gate and walked onto the tournament ground, welcomed by loud cheering and clapping.
Udren walked towards the Blacksword, he neither limped nor gave away his centre of balance to his enemy. He was a mountain of muscle; bull necked and with legs like tree trunks. His large torso encased in a silver armour chest piece, with an image of a panther etched onto it. Underneath, his fine-linked mail shirt came down to mid thigh. His Rawn sword was just as long as the Sword that Rules and lethal in his hands. A silver helmet, with moulding of a panthers head on the front, covered his bald head; blue feathers bloomed from a small gold cone on top.
The crowd stopped chanting his name as he stopped ten feet from the Blacksword.
‘You have fought well, Blacksword,’ he said. He paused in expectation of an answer from his opponent. The B
lacksword remained silent. Udren shrugged, small talk, it seemed, was over.
Both men went into an attacking stance at the same time. They prowled around one another and probed each other’s defences with jabs and lunges. They were cautious. Each shifted their footing with elegance as if in a dance. They moved through complex forms with their blades, blurring them with each arcing swipe and probing slash. The speed of both men was astonishing.
Inside the darkness of the Blacksword’s mind, Havoc watched with eagerness. Udren was an exceptional blademaster; a warrior of the highest grade of sword skill. He would not be the King’s Champion otherwise, but he was disheartened to learn that the champion’s skill would have outmatched his in technical dexterity if not speed. This revelation made him realise that the Blacksword, who was staying away from the deadly point of Udren’s blade by mere inches, was a far better swordsman than he could ever be. In the years since the Raider Campaign, the Blacksword’s prowess had improved exponentially, but the fight with Udren was testing him to the very limit of even his skill.
The crowd watched, eager to see who would be the first to draw blood. Kasan sat forward in his seat watching the fluid movements of the combatants. The only sound in the arena was the clash and metallic clang of the two swords.
The minutes ticked by. The Blacksword moved around Udren and he noticed that the other warrior was a master at feigning moves and attacks. Therefore, he ignored the other warrior’s footings and concentrated on the movement of the sword and wrist; Udren was stretching out as he attacked and stepping back to defend, frustrating the Blacksword and moving him into a dangerous position. When first blood did come, it was a surprise to all who watched.
A nick, just a nick, by Udren’s blade, caught the Blacksword high on the left shoulder. He yelled in a high rasping cry as the blood trickled down the arm and he stepped back from Udren to look at it. An “OHH!” went up from the crowd and Kasan could be heard saying, ‘Yes, that’s it Udren!’