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

by P D Ceanneir

  Twenty-five of his black and white clad warriors waited behind him on horses or, like him, on camels as the three scouts rushed back from the wreck of the large reddish-brown ship. Al Mullach listened closely to what they had to say. His straight face did not give away any of the emotion that he felt. Eager eyes looked at him when the scouts finished their report. He sat silently, deep in thought and then he signalled for the scavenging to begin. With a loud whoop, his men swarmed over the hull of the Cybeleion.

  Unconscious bodies lay everywhere and Al Mullach had to step over several of them as he approached a young girl in a purple cloak. He could tell that none of these people were natives of the desert because their skin was lighter than his people were. Already some of them were starting to burn red under the desert sun, and yet they still did not wake, it was as if they were under some sort of drug-induced coma.

  He placed a brown hand on the pale thigh of the girl while at the same time undoing her robe and pulling it off her shoulders. She groaned a little but did not wake, he lifted an eyelid, and the unfocused eye whipped back and forth showing she was in deep sleep.

  A cry of fear from one of his men brought him out of his appreciation of the young girl and he looked back towards the centre of the deck. One of his men was pale with shock as he stood over the prone body of a young man wearing fine green armour. Like most of the prone bodies, he was under wreckage, splinters of planking, ropes and sheeting covered him. Al Mullach approached and noticed his man firmly held a beautiful, long, black-bladed sword in his hand that did not shine in the noonday sun. His man suddenly screamed and dropped the sword, holding his hand and uttering in agony. Yet Al Mullach could see no marks on his fingers or palm.

  More of the Kaleeth Eba crowded around the sleeping form; Al Mullach had to push his way through his men. He shouted at them all to be quiet as he pushed away the debris to see the man’s face. The stranger was tall, taller than any of the Kaleeth Eba, skinny and with pale white skin, but it was the face that made him pull his hand back from the body.

  His men gasped at the sight. One of them quickly unsheathed his wide curved sword, with the point aimed downwards and two hands on the hilt, he was about to plunge it into the creatures chest. Al Mullach stayed his hand with a growl and a sharp babble of words. He tentatively put a finger on the thin man’s forehead and tilted his head towards the sunlight. Two black eyes looked sightlessly back; the leader of the Kaleeth Eba jerked back and cursed the creature lying in front of him.

  He stood and barked out orders to his men to continue their work. As they scattered, he picked the slowest two to leave and pointed to the man in black.

  The reluctant volunteers prayed to their god as they picked up the Blacksword and carried him off the ship.

  Havoc felt calm and relaxed as he floated in the silver mist.

  Flashbacks of the storm and concern for his friends brought him out of his blissful utopia, though only for the briefest second, and then he lapsed into tranquil peace once again.

  He looked around him. Eddies of the mist flowed into shades and patterns of complex shapes merging through one current and creating another. The silver particles formed into filaments, like stringy dust motes, becoming more alive and active and then collapsed before they formed into any coherent shape.

  This landscape was all he could see. He had no idea of distance, for it was difficult to fathom if he was in a closed tight space or a vast void. He tried to look at his hand and was not surprised to see that it was not there, neither was the rest of his body for that matter as he looked down.

  Could I be dead? He thought, is this the Isle of the Dead? I do not remember passing the Halls of the Heroes.

  ‘Am I dead?’ he said aloud and his voice echoed loudly around him, bouncing off walls beyond the mist that he could not see. As the echo came back to him, another voice joined it.

  Careful Havoc, this is a place for thoughts only. It said with a kind, soothing, motherly tone. To Havoc the voice was familiar, it sounded like his younger sister Verna.

  This time he talked with his mind. ‘Is that you Verna?’

  As an answer to his question a shape formed out of the motes, it was faint and lacked great substance, but there, in front of him was a girl with her brown hair in pigtails and a blue dress that came down to her ankles and showed off her bare feet.

  The girl smiled lovingly at him. It would have been a perfect moment if it were not for her burning orange eyes staring back at him. If he had a heart, it would be thumping hard in his chest.

  ‘You are not Verna,’ he said.

  Hearing was the first of Lord Ness’ senses to return to him. He heard people shuffling about on the wooden deck split only by the sounds of painful groans. Sight was the next to come back, this was only because the bright sunlight burst through his half closed eyes. He breathed in sharply through gritted teeth and covered his eyes with his hand.

  He gradually woke from unconsciousness. Confusion followed as he saw the other members of the crew awaken around him. After the confusion came the pain and he groaned like the others as he gripped his head to stop the pounding of his brain against the inside of his skull.

  He flinched when he felt someone try to lift him up, he recognised his helper as Sir Powyss, who had obviously not healed his broken arm because it hung limp at his side and his face was pained as he helped the Ri to his feet .

  ‘The pain will wear off after a while, my Lord,’ said Powyss, ‘the ship is in a bit of a mess.’

  Lord Ness groaned as he stood. He pointed to the commander’s arm.

  ‘It’s partly healed. Set as soon as I broke it,’ said Powyss who rubbed his forearm and flexed his fingers, ‘but it did not heal completely and hurts like a bugger! It’s as if the Rawn Arts have left me.’

  Ness Ri looked at him thoughtfully and then he looked around him at the wreck of the Cybeleion and groaned again. Part of the port decking had a huge crack, which zigzagged into a wider scar down the port side of her hull. The starboard stern mast was snapped in two, the horizontal sail was shredded and its tatters of burnt leaves flapped in the wind, the main outrigger sail for the port side was gone, but miraculously the backup canvas outriggers were still intact.

  ‘She will heal herself, Commander,’ said Lord Ness, ‘all she needs is time.’

  He placed his hand on Sir Powyss’ arm and detected the micro fractures still unhealed along the Ulna. The Paladin-knight hissed through gritted teeth. Lord Ness used the Arts to heal the rest of the arm, but summoning, and merging, the energies of Earth and Water was a struggle that left him panting for breath.

  ‘For some reason, that was very difficult,’ he said as Powyss moved his arm more freely and thanked the Ri.

  Lord Ness looked up through the wide holes in the sail and saw ripples of thin clouds drift lazily over the desert sun. They reminded him of similar clouds that always appeared at home after a storm.

  ‘Storm!’ His heart jumped as he remembered last night’s storm. The Prince had done it, and he had dispersed the storm by using the earth’s energies from the ground. He smiled and looked at the centre of the ship’s deck for Havoc.

  All he could find was the green cape the prince had been wearing.

  ‘Where is the Prince?’ he asked Powyss.

  ‘I was just wondering that myself,’ he stomped away, shouting out the Princes name. Other members of the crew helped him as they searched the deck. There was a sudden cry of alarm and the Wyvern Faille called Maleene ran towards Powyss from one of the doorways to the stern.

  ‘They are gone!’ she cried, ‘some of the women folk have gone missing.’ Powyss gripped her shoulders and talked in a level tone to try to calm her down; she explained that seven of her people were not on board the ship.

  ‘Where is Tia,’ said Hexor as he pushed away debris from the area the Havant had stood, ‘she was here, there is her cloak.’

  The Prince, Tia and some of the Wyvern missing. Lord Ness was puzzled, surely they could not ha
ve left the ship for some reason.

  ‘I think we are not alone, everyone,’ said Gunach, as he looked over the starboard railing at the sea of sand below. Everyone on deck joined him and they saw dozens of footprints in the sand leading away to the north, too many for nine people to make on their own.

  Hexor had picked up Tia’s cloak as he walked to the starboard side to see what everyone else was looking at, when something white fell out of the garment and clattered on the deck. It rolled to Lord Ness’ feet and he stooped to pick it up.

  ‘That’s a Lobe Stone,’ informed Powyss.

  ‘And it belongs to Tia,’ smiled Hexor, ‘she is full of surprises.’

  ‘So that is how the storm followed us,’ said Lord Ness. As he looked at the white orb, it pulsed once, then after about a minute it did it again. The Ri walked to the stairs leading to the stern, climbed them, then walked to the end of the ship.

  Much of the crew had woken and formed into a large group on the main deck. All of them were staring at the orb in the Ri’s hand when he returned, it now pulsed every thirty seconds or so. Lord Ness was aiming it to the north where the tracks disappeared into the distance. To the east, he could see the long spine of the Plysarus Mountain Range. On the northern horizon, he could just make out a dark brown ridge shimmering in the heat wave.

  ‘The Prince must have his own Lobe Stone on him,’ said Powyss in such a way that it was almost a question. Lord Ness pursed his lips and nodded.

  ‘Zabel, how long will it take the desert winds to cover up the tracks?’ he asked the ship’s doctor.

  ‘About a day, maybe half that,’ informed Zabel.

  ‘What’s the plan, my Lord?’ asked Captain Danyil.

  ‘I have never trusted Lobe Stones,’ said Lord Ness, ‘we can assume that they are at least half a day ahead of us and that there are others with them. So the plan is, follow the tracks.’

  Gleddis was the first of the Wyvern Filial hostages to wake up, and she woke to a nightmare. She, six of her people and the Havant were no longer aboard the Cybeleion, but trussed up in a crude wood barred cage on two solid wooden wheels being pulled by four black horses. Dozens of men in dark clothing and wearing white turbans rode on camels beside them; none would speak to her. Some would laugh or jeer as they threw leather bags of water into the cage or wicker baskets of fruit. After a time all of the Wyvern Filial were awake apart from the Havant who slept on and could not be woken.

  They travelled through a gap in a ridge inside a long narrow valley as the day wore on. Then, on the other side of the ridge, they saw a ruined citadel nestled amongst dead stunted trees. Their kidnappers stopped and camped for the night.

  Several of the men put ropes around the tops of two palm trees that stood side by side; they pulled down the upper half of the trees until they curved from the middle and then pegged them to the ground. They then attached manacles to the trees, dragged an unconscious man from a tent, and cuffed him to the manacles. Gleddis could see that the man wore the green armour of the De Proteous, but the man in the armour was not the prince.

  Linth looked at the new tracks as he covered his mouth with his scarf, the wind had picked up, and the tracks were disappearing fast.

  ‘The new tracks are made by a two-wheeled cart of some kind,’ he said to the others. They had come across the desert sands to find an abandoned camp on the edge of a salt flat plain. The camp was a popular sight for the nomadic people of this land. Many campfires, old and new, were scattered all around the sparse oasis.

  The tracks led north east over the salt flats, on the other side of the flats lay a wide ridge about two hundred feet high and perfectly flat on top.

  ‘I hope there is a way through this,’ said Lord Ness who, because of the heat, had discarded his white robe and wore only the clothes underneath, a wide shouldered sleeveless cream shirt, white linen trousers and brown riding boots. His sword-staff strapped to his back, battle ready.

  Powyss envied him, even though the Dwarves of the Vale had made his Raider armour light and heat resistant he still sweated in the heat of the day. Though he was not alone, Little Kith, Velnour, Whyteman and Furran also perspired in their armour, but the hooded green capes and scarves they all wore helped to protect them from the blasts of sand, which sharp gusts of desert wind would pick up and constantly assailed them with annoying clouds of grit. Only little Gunach seemed comfortable in his dwarven carapace and leather trousers; slaving in front of a bellows fed forge tended to make the dwarf immune to the discomforts of heat and hot weather.

  Luckily, Doctor Zabel had joined them on this trip; his knowledge of the local languages could prove useful. He had given each person a long flat leaf that tasted like mint, which they all placed on their tongue. The doctor explained that the chemical properties in the leaf helped to cool their body temperature. They were all surprised at how well it actually worked, until the leaf dissolved completely and the sweat started to trickle again.

  Maleene and her sister Jilkyn insisted on joining them; seven of their people were missing after all. Powyss had refused at first, but Maleene was steadfast about her, and her sisters’, involvement in this mission and eventually got her own way. However, the rest of the Wyvern Filial would have to stay aboard the Sky Ship; their songs would help the healing process and repair the ship. The two Wyverns were a distraction to some of the Paladins. Too much bare flesh was on show, tanning in the sun, causing their dry mouths to water even without Zabel’s herbs.

  They continued north over the salt flats. Their horse’s hooves sunk into the ancient lake bed. All around them was a cracked ground that looked like a multitude of white lilies frozen in time. Daylight was fading fast as they got halfway over the flats, but time was irrelevant in the desert and time was also short.

  Tia woke suddenly; her body was sluggish and weak. Her dim vision picked out familiar faces in the group of women that sat around her.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she said thickly, her tongue dry in her mouth. She took in the wooden cage they were all in and the black and white dressed guards that surrounded the prison. ‘Where are we?’ she asked.

  One of the girls, Kelia by name, explained. ‘We have been kidnapped by these ruffians,’ she said, ‘they have taken us from the Cybeleion and brought us here.’

  Tia looked around her at the landscape that was slowly dimming in the evening light. They were surrounded by ancient ruins, tall limestone walls that were once grand buildings of an ancient city. Square blocks of white marble slabs lay scattered in the sand as time and weather wore the material away.

  ‘Can you use the Arts?’ said Kelia, ‘turn the bars to dust and help us escape.’

  Tia tried the use her powers, but she found that her energy was so low all she wanted to do was eat and sleep. The others understood; they gave her some food and water.

  ‘Never mind, we have other things to worry about, so have our captors,’ Kelia nodded towards the man tied to the two trees. He was wakening up, and even though he wore the armour of a Paladin, Tia could see he was something different.

  He was alone, more alone than he ever felt in his short life. There was no second voice in his mind, no other presence to annoy him and he revelled in the fact that there was no prince bouncing about in his head like a trapped bee.

  Yet the absence of Havoc was disconcerting. The loss and the loneliness made him anxious and for the first time he felt a twinge of fear.

  What had happened? Where was he?

  The Blacksword felt pain in his wrists. He lifted his head and focused his eyes to the scene around him. Evening light flooded in. He hated the daytime. He was a creature of the night. His glance took in his surroundings very quickly and it became obvious he was no longer on board the Cybeleion.

  Four men in black clothing, dirty white sashes and turbans, looked out through their face scarves at him with their dark brown eyes. He recognised the look that they gave him, could smell it on them. It was fear. Two of the men had their curved swords drawn and eac
h were resting them against a length of taught rope on either side of him. Each end of the rope was staked to the ground, while the other end held down the top half of two similar sized palm trees, bending them into a curved shape. One cut from the curved blades and the trees would spring upwards due to the pent up tension. Because the Blacksword was attached to the trees, meant that his arms would no longer be attached to him if the ropes were cut.

  These men were not taking any chances.

  Did they not know he was a Rawn Master? He could turn the manacles to dust before they were halfway through the rope. The only problem with that was that he felt weak, very weak. His energy was so low he could barely stand and just let his feet drag in the sand as he hung from his chains. Whatever the prince did to disrupt and disperse the storm last night must have used a vast amount of his own reserves of energy. For the first time in his life, he did not feel the build up of Pyromantic Power.

  Beyond the four guards were several white tents and a large wheeled cage with some more of the Sky Ship’s crew. They were all awake and staring straight at him. He recognised the Havant, Tia, and gave her one of his better smiles; it turned his face into a death mask of a grin and made the girls flinch away from the bars.

  Around this small camp were more armed men, sitting in groups among old ruins. Each group had set fires in a crude circle around the camp to light up the darkening evening. The shadows cast by the men’s bodies played out a vibrant dance on the surviving white walls of the once high and majestic buildings.

  One of the four guarding the Blacksword barked out something in his own language towards the largest of the tents. An answer followed out of the open flap and a tall man of maturing years walked out. He wore the same type of clothing as the others, only his were white with a blue sash and turban. He carried SinDex by the ash scabbard in one hand and the Prince’s Lobe Stone in the other. He never took his eyes off the Blacksword as he approached.

  Al Mullach stopped within six feet of his captive and looked him up and down, he slowly lifted up the strange sword he held and watched the magic unfold.