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

by P D Ceanneir

  With his left arm hanging limp, the Blacksword went into the attack again, this time a little more cautiously. Udren was growing in confidence and aimed his attacks at the limp arm. He caught it again, thirty seconds after the first cut, and the Blacksword backed off once more.

  Udren did not let him rest, he advanced quickly, but the Blacksword backed away, deflecting the others slashes and jabs as he did so.

  ‘He’s done it Aunt Cinnibar,’ Creed heard his father say with an exited high-pitched voice that rose above the noise of the crowd. ‘Udren is going to win!’

  ‘Don’t be overconfident nephew, remember the prophecy,’ said Cinnibar with a sigh.

  Kasan’s smile faded as he heard the Queen of Sonora’s comments and he stared at the combatants more intently. Creed, gripping the backrest of the king’s chair so hard that his knuckles were white, urged his master on to victory.

  The Blacksword backed off again, the crowd were booing him each time he did so and this gave Udren the lift he needed. His opponent was flagging, wounded and scared. It was time to finish this.

  With his left arm limp at his side, the Blacksword backed up; SinDex’s tip trailing on the ground, he was panting heavily. Blood, plenty of it, trickled down his arm to soak into the black sleeve and stain his pale hands. Under the rules of the Ancarryn, a Rawn was forbidden to heal himself no mater if his opponent was a Rawn also or a mere mortal. The Blacksword moved himself between the tall pillars to avoid Udren’s blade. The big champion dodged through with remarkable speed for a big man and caught the Blacksword a glancing blow on his black ash scabbard that was strapped to his back; this strike had some force to it and it knocked the Blacksword through the pillars and back onto the tournament ground. Udren saw him stumble and with a yell of triumph ran out of the pillars, sword raised level to the ground, swinging from left to right, aiming at the Blacksword’s wounded arm.

  However, the stumble was not what it seemed and neither was the wounded arm that bad. The Blacksword straightened and rushed forward to meet Udren, passing the Sword that Rules over to his left hand with the blade facing the ground. He brought the tip curving upward in a high arc, it cut into the big champions exposed let side, slicing through his polished chest armour and chain mail, leaving a deep gash in his side and slicing his kidney in half.

  As Udren roared in pain, the Blacksword followed up his first strike with downward hack onto the champions back, cutting a long red tear from left shoulder to right buttock.

  The crowd were on their feet cheering, clearly the master of the feint had been outdone.

  Udren stumbled up against one of the pillars, his teeth gritted in pain as he looked up towards the royal box. The king and Cinnibar were standing beside each other and shouting down at him. Even through the pain and the rush of blood in his head, he could clearly hear their voices.

  ‘Kill him, Udren. Kill the Blacksword!’ they screamed.

  Udren turned to the Blacksword; he stood as best he could. His blood gushed onto the sand at his feet. Left unattended he would surely die of blood loss, one of the few ways to kill a Rawn Master. The urge to heal his wounds was overpowering.

  ‘This is not a competition anymore!’ he hissed through gritted teeth. Then he summoned the water element. The blood stopped flowing from the wound and then flesh and skin knitted together to form a long red scar on his back and side. Many there in the crowd with Rawn talents felt him use the energies of the Rawn Arts. The crowd also knew purely from the champion’s posture, as he stood erect with no look of pain on his face and the small puddle of fresh spilled blood on the ground. Murmurs rippled around the arena. The use of the Rawn Arts was forbidden in the Champions Bout. Udren had clearly broken the rules and from the worried look on his face, he regretted it.

  This could be interesting, said Havoc inside the Blacksword’s head I don’t think you will get away with fooling him again.

  ‘I will just have to kill him then, won’t I?’ growled the Blacksword.

  You have an advantage he will be weaker now that he has healed himself

  Unfortunately, that was not the case. Udren threw three bright orange Fireballs at him in quick succession. The Blacksword raised the black blade and deflected the first to the other side of arena. The second ball clanged as they struck the black blade and whistled through the air as he batted it away. The third he grasped with the wind element and flicked it over his head, not caring where it landed. People in the crowd screamed and ducked as the balls of flame came close to them.

  Then Udren leapt into the air and so did the Blacksword, their swords clashing together as they met and passed each other by. Now began a battle that few have ever witnessed in this day and age, a battle of Rawn Masters.

  Localised gales and thunder of clashing air shook the arena as the combatants used the Arts to leap through the air or away from a counter-attack. The impossible sword movements whirled into a blur, the high kicks and the ability to use the arts in defence and attack was there for all to see. However, it was fast becoming clear to everyone that the arena was too small to contain such a fight as flashes of fire and bursts of concentrated air blasted around the combatants in a circle of devastation. Gusts rippled outwards at tremendous speed towards the outer tiers, forcing the spectators to fall over their benches and land in a huddle. Soon, two of the wooden pillars at the centre of the arena were ablaze; gusts of wind picked up the lighter grains of sand and dashed them at unprotected eyes of the crowd on the lower seats. Some people watched in awe, others ran to the nearest exits. Panic flowed around the onlookers like a rabid beast.

  Udren hit the Blacksword with the large compression of air and it pushed him back ten feet, but he nullified it with his own power and ran forward again. The wound in his left arm pained him, but he only concentrated in slowing the blood flow hoping to conserve his energy until the fight was over, and allowing Udren to use up his own strength. Havoc felt useless; though, surprisingly, his own energy reserves had not depleted. He could sense the Arts used by his alter ego in the fight and the mix of energies were not drawn from him, but rather from the Blacksword himself. He had not time to contemplate this phenomenon so he tried to heal the Blacksword’s wounds and surprised himself when he was able to do so quite easily. However, the energy came from his own reserves and he sensed that he would only be able to use the Art to a small degree, seemingly, because he was not back in his own body.

  Nevertheless, the Blacksword acknowledged his aid with a gruff, ‘thank you.’

  You are welcome said Havoc.

  The Blacksword dodged another orange ball of flame and then hesitated as Udren rammed his fingers into the earth in the same way that Soneros Ri did when he fought the Vallkyte horsemen in the Eternal Forest. The Blacksword knew what was going to happen next as ripples in the ground quickly spread out from the champion’s fingers like an earthquake pulling apart the continents. He jumped for the nearest, unfired, pillar, just as clots of earth and soil burst out from the ground where he was standing. He rammed SinDex into to wooden column and hung there near the top as he watched the earth jettison high into the air and then fall back to the ground, looking, for all to see, like a thick-gloved hand with many fingers. As it settled back into the crater it came from, the Blacksword extracted his sword, landed at the base of the column, then cut through the wood about two feet from the ground with one swipe of the indestructible blade. As it fell, he used the wind element to push it hard, at speed, towards Udren.

  The champion stood his ground and held out his arm. The pillar shattered into millions of small pieces, spreading wide from the original point. Many of the splinters flew backwards towards the Blacksword, but he used intense heat to burn them into blackened cinders. Black ash, rimmed red with flame, floated down around the arena like burning fireflies.

  Udren ran at breakneck speed towards his opponent. The shattered and cracked ground did little to slow his progress. The Blacksword threw a Fireball of his own at him, but it was deflected by the cham
pion’s blade.

  He threw another as the distance between them halved.

  Udren moved quicker than the Fireball as it whizzed past his ear, missing him by an inch.

  The Blacksword formed another in his left hand; it hung there like a small red and orange sun. He waited until Udren was closer, the big man saw it and was ready with his sword, but the Blacksword linked a Pyromantic Surge to the flame just before he threw the missile. It glowed, white hot, as it shot from his hand, leaving a long vapour trail in its wake. It whistled for a split second before it hit Udren’s sword. Udren had managed to lift his weapon in time and caught it close to the centre of his blade. Unfortunately, he could not stop the sheer velocity of the speeding ball and it flattened the blade to his chest, denting his armour and lifting him off his feet with violent force.

  He soared backwards through the air with the burning Pyromantic heat surrounding him. He landed with a loud metallic crunch and skidded along the earth, ploughing the surface into a long shallow ditch; the sandy ground rose up into a cloud and helped to dowse the rim of flame around him.

  The crowd was shocked into silence, they could not believe their eyes.

  ‘Pyromancer?’ Creed heard his father mumble, ‘the Blacksword is a Pyromancer!’ Creed felt a mix of emotions, he was anxious about Udren, but was curious to know what a Pyromancer was. Before he could ask, he heard his aunt reply to the king.

  ‘Of course he’s a Pyromancer, you fool, it tells you in the prophecy.’

  Saltyn Ri stood up, ‘we seem to have come full circle,’ he mumbled. ‘Telmar ended the last Ancarryn in his rage.’ Everyone looked at him for the briefest moment but remained silent, hiding their own thoughts and feelings. Over forty years ago Baron Telmar had destroyed much of the Criab Arena in his rage. If the Blacksword was a Pyromancer then he certainly had the power to do the same.

  Remarkably, Udren was still alive, though only just. His armour was blackened with the heat from the Fireball. Half his sword, from the tip downwards, had melted to the front of his chest armour. Badly burnt, in some places on his arms the fire had blackened the flesh to the bone, steam escaped from the popping scabs. The right side of his face had taken the brunt of the fame and that side of his helmet had melted like quicksilver. It ran down his face fusing to his eyeball and the exposed bone of his cheek and jaw.

  He wobbled on his feet as he tried to stand and then fell to his knees as the Blacksword approached him. Udren tried to heal himself, but his energy was gone. It would have been pointless now to mention to him that healing a wound from a Pyromancer was just as difficult as healing from Dragon Wyrmfire. He groaned in agony.

  ‘Make it...q…q…quick,’ he tried to say to the Blacksword, but it came out as whistling garble because his lips hung in black ribbons and his tongue was burnt to a shrivelled hard crisp.

  The Blacksword understood enough to put him out of his pain. SinDex swung in an arc down on the champion’s neck, cutting Udren’s head from his shoulders.

  ‘NOOOO!’ shouted the king in protest, ‘GUARDS, SEIZE HIM!’

  A hundred guards ran onto the tournament grounds and formed a wide circle around the Blacksword who was walking calmly towards the announcer’s platform. The guards held their spears out in front of them, but even though their officers ordered them forward, they were reluctant to move and none attempted to stop the tall black-cloaked warrior.

  ‘WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? KILL HIM!’ shouted the king.

  The Blacksword grabbed the mouthpiece of the large horn that sat on its iron frame and said in a harsh voice, ‘give me the King’s Gift.’

  King Kasan regarded him for a while, looked at Cinnibar, and saw he was not going to get any help there. The crowd waited for his response as waves of silence rippled around the arena.

  ‘The Ancarryn is null and void,’ said the king, ‘you are a Pyromancer...a cheat!’

  ‘There is no law against a Pyromancer taking part,’ whispered Saltyn at the king’s shoulder.

  ‘SHUT UP!’ the king’s anger stunned everyone.

  ‘Your champion broke the rules and used the arts before I did. Now, I want the gift.’ This he said as a growl, ‘or I will burn this place to the ground.’ The Blacksword’s patience was wearing thin, ‘like Telmar before me.’

  The crowd remained silent at that last comment. Somewhere off to the south someone started a slow clap, and then more clapping followed. Another started chanting, it was only a few voices at first then it got louder.

  ‘GIFT! GIFT! GIFT!’ they said until the whole stadium was ringing with that one word.

  The king gave in to the cries of the mob. He nodded and raised his arms for quiet.

  ‘What is it you wish?’ he said warily. There was a pause before the Blacksword answered.

  ‘QUEEN MOLNA!’

  The crowd gasped, all eyes focused to the queen sitting on her chair with a smile on her face. Then a loud wailing echoed around the arena, which took everyone’s attention off the queen and back onto the Blacksword as he blew on a small brown horn.

  Both the Blacksword and Havoc repeated Ciriana’s name together in their minds as the droning tone of the Horn of Relin vibrated into the air and seemed to flow out of the arena in a clear crisp tone. They hoped that she would show soon or this would be the shortest prize giving in history.

  When the sound of the horn rumbled away into the distance, everyone was giving the Blacksword a perplexed look. The guards edged forward some more; the king was debating with Saltyn Ri and Cinnibar.

  ‘He can’t take the queen, can he?’ said Kasan.

  ‘The gift is anything he wishes,’ said Saltyn Ri, ‘those are the rules...although it’s never been a person before. That just…well, it just isn’t done.’

  ‘I think it best that I go,’ said Molna for the first time, ‘we do not want to incur the wrath of a Pyromancer, do we?’ she said with a glint of glee.

  ‘Why does he want you?’ said Cinnibar with a frown, ‘unless.’

  The Blacksword was watching the skies when Cinnibar asked the question.

  ‘WHY DO YOU WANT QUEEN MOLNA?’

  ‘She is the rightful Queen of the Roguns,’ said the Blacksword, ‘and I have come to take her home and out of the hands of the Brethac Ziggurat.’

  That got a reaction from the royal box and several of the nobles in the crowd.

  The Queen of Sonora looked down at the Blacksword in wide-eyed surprise; she looked at Molna, then at the balcony where Lord Ness and Lady Vara were standing on the first day.

  ‘You are the reformer of the dungeons,’ she said to Molna in understanding, ‘you must have helped Ness and Vara...’ her frown deepened, ‘you obviously talked to Shanks and... Damn it! Tia! Serena!’ she shouted.

  After a moment’s pause, the two Havant Priestesses appeared at her side. These two were never far away from the Sonoran queen.

  ‘Go to the dungeons and tell me if the prisoner in cell forty two is there. Go!’ They rushed off, secretly happy to be away from the tense atmosphere.

  ‘Prince Creed,’ said Cinnibar, ‘ensure your mother does not leave.’

  ‘Yes, my Lady,’ Creed stepped out from behind the throne seat and unsheathed his sword; he pointed it at his mother chest.

  ‘No son, please,’ pleaded Molna as tears welled in her eyes.

  ‘You are no mother of mine!’ snapped Creed with an evil scowl on his face.

  The Blacksword regarded the sword that Prince Creed pointed at Molna. From the darkness of the hood, he hissed in anger. He knew it would take time for Ciriana to get here, even though stalling this long was not part of the plan. Therefore, he took down his hood to reveal to all the face of the Blacksword.

  Everyone gasped as the thin skull-like features and the black eyes looking back at them.

  ‘We need to stall for time,’ he said to his counterpart.

  Agreed, said Havoc.

  The Blacksword allowed the prince to take dominion of his body and slowly his face became m
ore human as colour flushed his cheeks and the eyes shone bright green.

  ‘Havoc De Proteous Cromme,’ said a smiling Cinnibar, ‘we meet at last.’

  ‘What?’ gasped the king, ‘Havoc is the Black…?’ He shook his head in confusion and looked around the arena. ‘Where did the Blacksword go?’

  ‘Ohh, my son,’ smiled Molna as she looked down at Havoc. Creed lowered his sword as he moved closer to the edge of the royal box to get a better look. It was the moment Havoc needed. He reached out his hand, used a Pyromantic Surge, and linked it to the wind element. The gust of wind pushed everyone in the box to one side and lifted his mother off her feet. Safe inside a pocket of hardened air, she started screaming over the howling gale as it whipped up the dust into a spinning vortex around her. Havoc pulled her forward over the heads of the crowd in front of the royal box and the circle of guards who ducked as she passed overhead. He set her down in front of him on the platform as the wind dissipated; she grasped him in a big hug and began to cry.

  ‘You could have warned me that you were going to do that,’ she chided him as she shook with shock.

  ‘Sorry’.

  ‘GUARDS, KILL THEM!’ shouted the king who stood up, hands encased in flame, his face contorted in anger. The enclave of spears were raised upon the king’s command and aimed at the two on the platform. Havoc raised SinDex and pushed his mother behind him. He was ready to use the third element to deflect the spears as the guards pulled back their arms to throw.

  That was when the sun went out and darkness filled the arena.

  Chapter 12

  Destinies Converge

  Ciriana, the last dragon of the Dragor-rix, bellowed so loudly that it caused people to scream and cover their ears. The clarion call of the great dragon shattered stained glass windows on the Arcun Ken Temple’s fluted spire and even as far as the Great Museum on the canal banks. The massive bulk of the dragon’s huge body blocked out the sun as she flew into the arena, casting a long dark shadow over the tournament ground and her wings churned up dust into oppressive billowing clouds. The crowd finally panicked and ran for their lives; most became trampled as people rushed towards the exits.