2289 A.D. - Arcane Darkness: A Paranormal Fantasy Adventure Saga (The Ashlyn Chronicles - Book 3)

by Renee van Dyke

  With each commanding blow from the Drac, Ashlyn’s shoulders grew lower, her sword barely rising in time to meet the next attack. Seeing her down on one knee, confident of victory, the Drac raised the sword above his head, preparing to make a final, heavy downward strike. It opened him up to her, and rather than trying to deflect the blow as he’d anticipated, Ash came forward, shifting her weight onto her front foot. With the lunge, she thrust her sword into him.

  The Drac screeched and staggered a half step back. Ash pulled her sword from him, and spun—swinging it in a full circle, beheading him.

  The colosseum went silent.

  The members of clan Leviathan let out a shrieking howl, conveying their anger over the loss of one of their own. Ash grabbed the sword in his hand and gave him a kick in the abdomen that toppled him over the edge. His body fell sixty feet, landing on the spikes below.

  Ash never heard the moans of those in the stadium, whose eyes were locked upon their fallen friend and champion.

  Running to the platform’s edge behind her, in a single swift motion, Ash threw the Draconian sword. The Draconian on the platform below, the same Drac that had thrown the spear at her moments before, was caught unaware. The twirling sword found its way through an open eye-socket in his helmet, killing him instantly—the tip of the blade exiting out the back of his neck. Though dead, his body teetered, as though it were unsure of where to fall. With a thunk, it fell facedown onto the planks.

  Seeing his shield lying there, Ash jumped down to his platform fifteen feet below. In trying to pick it up, the large clawed hand and arm of the Drac was stuck, the two leather securing handles holding him tight.

  Releasing a breath, Ash slashed his arm off above the elbow and lifting the shield, took hold of his claws and pulled his arm out.

  A murmuring growl of discontent passed through the audience.

  In a blur of movement, Ash turned and ran across the suspension bridge toward the next occupied platform.

  Seeing her coming at him, the Drac took a defensive posturing, bringing his spear up in readiness. His furrowed brow and bared teeth, a proclamation of delight—for the honor of the kill was going to be his.

  Seeing vulnerability in his stationary stance, Ash quickened her pace. Nearing him, she dropped to her knees atop the shield, using the round, smooth surface like a skimboard to carry her along the planked wood. As she slid beneath the tip of his spear, Ash thrust her sword upward into his lower abdomen. The Drac squealed, a heavy stream of blue-gray blood gushing from him.

  The audience moaned, their eyes wide with disappointment.

  Ash finished the slide by letting her momentum carry her into a standing position behind him. The wounded Drac had fallen to his knees, his tail shaking spastically from the pain.

  Hefting her sword back of her shoulder, Ash brought it down with a heavy strike, slicing through his helmet and splitting his skull in two. Putting her foot to his back as a brace, she pulled her sword from him. Heavy drops of blue blood streamed from the tip of the sword as she lowered it.

  Ashlyn’s sped perceptions followed the Drac’s pooling blood as it sought escape between the broad planks, to fall to the ground below. The movement was mesmerizing and in a strange way, beautiful.

  The warriors aligned around the Gorgos, seeing that Ashlyn had broken protocol by abandoning the top platform, began to converge on her from all directions.

  Reacting to the sound of a war cry to her left, Ash saw two Draconians running toward her. One held a broadsword—the other a weighty, war hammer.

  From her right, the loud squeak and rattle of the suspension bridge chains told her that more were coming from that direction. Ashlyn’s only avenue of escape was the chain rigging in front of her that led back to the top platform. Sheathing the sword, she climbed quickly.

  Near the top, Ash looked down at those behind her. The four warriors were struggling, encumbered by their hefty weapons to climb the rigging. She was grateful for the few extra seconds it bought her.

  Scrambling atop the platform, she saw that the bridge that led to the next, lower platform was blocked by two Dracs heading toward her.

  Trapped between the two in front and the four about to top the rigging from behind, Ash backed into a corner. She was out of room to maneuver.

  Slowly, confidently, the six Dracs fanned out in front of her, their prodding weapons preventing her from counterattacking.

  Ash watched their feet, feeling the vibrations of their heavy weight on the planks. Inch by inch, she crept backwards until the heel of her back foot hung off the platform. Out of room, she took a quick, nervous glance below.

  Seeing she had no escape, the Dracs made her an offer. “Drop weapon, we let choose one to slay you. Slayer make death honorable, quick.”

  “Very kind of you—” Ash rolled her head round, releasing the tension in her neck. “—but I don’t believe in a no-win scenario.” To their surprise, Ash whirled and jumped. In midair, she swung her sword, breaking the heavy chain that connected the corner of the hanging platform to the massive Gorgos’ central stanchion high above.

  With so much weight on a single corner, the already high tension on the chain, made it snap back like a retracting whip. The chain cut through one of the Dracs, nearly severing his shoulder and arm. The platform instantly dropped, tipping sharply downward. The other chains creaked, the strain of the collapse taxing them. The central stanchion shuddered, shaking the entire structure.

  Thrown off-balance, the Dracs scrambled, trying to find their footing—but it was impossible. The angle was too steep, their close proximity to one another only adding to the chaos.

  Ashlyn’s jump to the platform below was precarious, and she barely managed to stay on. Looking up, her sped perceptions allowed her to see everything in slow motion.

  She saw the tipped platform vacillating, quaking like the entire thing might fall. The six Dracs tumbled over. Four missed her platform entirely, falling all the way to the bottom to be speared by the long spikes.

  As for the two that landed on her platform, Ash was ready and waiting for them. One had landed on his back—and before he could even open his eyes, Ash thrust her sword into his throat. The other had landed on his side, his momentum rolling him over the edge. He’d caught himself and hung from the side, his claws dug deep into the wood. Ash walked over and looked down at him. Recalling what the darkness had sought to do to her aboard Destiny, Ashlyn grew fearful that her daughters might face the same fate. “It is for my daughters that I fight.”

  With a quick swipe of her sword, she cut his hands off, letting him fall.

  Sensing that the last of clan Leviathan was not nearby, Ash took a moment to collect herself. She turned slowly, her head rising to look over at her son’s crumpled body lying upon the steps. “I’m sorry, my son. You were innocent in all of this.”

  Driven by rage over what they had done to her son—driven by fear for what they might do to her daughters, Ash turned her attention to the four remaining members of clan Leviathan.

  The Dracs approached with caution, evaluating their attack. There was two on her left and two on her right. They’d underestimated her, and they’d not do it again.

  The noise from the stunned audience was again beginning to rise. Their shock gave way to the hope that they would soon see her death. The platform above slowed to a stop at a steep cant. She could have almost reached up and touched it with her sword.

  Looking at the approaching attackers, and not wanting to again be caught in the middle, Ash decided to take the battle to the two on her left, effectively cutting their forces in half.

  The two warriors she’d chosen were on the suspension walkway, each carrying a polearm and shield. Ash sheathed her sword and took a long, deep breath. She then broke into a full run, running straight down the middle of the walkway toward them. Once again, her choice to attack had managed to surprise them. They came to a halt, both lowering their polearms to waist height.

  When she got to with
in a few feet of them, Ash veered and dove over the railing of the suspended walkway. Her dive took her to a lower platform support chain, and sweeping around it in slingshot fashion, she hurled herself back up and onto the walkway. While in the air, she’d pulled the sword. Having landed behind them, she had them at a disadvantage. Their long polearms were unable to easily reverse direction in the tight confinements of rope and chain.

  Giving a loud scream to raise her adrenaline, Ash thrust her sword into the back of the Drac nearest her. Leaving the sword in place, buried deep in the Drac’s back—she then grabbed the polearm in his hands and redirected it, spearing the second Drac. The jab was serious, but not fatal.

  With a guttural cry, she pulled it out of him. Digging her feet in, she threw her weight behind it and thrust it again, pushing hard until it was all the way through him.

  The two Dracs slumped, falling atop one another on the bridge. Pulling her sword from the back of the first Drac, she finished each of them off with a stabbing blow to the throat. Atop the walkway, their blood spurted, raining down like blue raindrops to the sand below.

  Quickly collecting both polearms, Ash ran to the platform behind her, distancing herself from the two last members of clan Leviathan.

  Unless they decided to retreat and go the long route around, the two warriors had but one access point to her—the walkway—and having to step over the two dead Dracs.

  Ash knelt to her knees in the middle of the platform, and closed her eyes. Her actions bewildered the warriors, her calm demeanor something they had never seen before.

  Letting her senses expand, Ash could see everything. The audience was silent, awed by what they had witnessed. Ash imagined that more of them now wished that the first thrown spear had found its mark.

  Steven seemed disimpassioned, like it had all been expected. Her daughters were nearby him, each still in the grasp of a Draconian warrior. The eyes of her children were fixed upon her and though they were afraid, Ash was thankful for their youth—their tender years and naiveite providing unfounded hope.

  “F6, C4,” said Steven’s faint voice in the fugue.

  “Yes,” commended Ash. “F6, C4. I believe in you, Steven. I love you, and I’ll never again leave you.”

  Ashlyn sensed the humiliation of the last two warriors. Under the gaze of the watching audience, their delay brought shame to clan Leviathan. With caution, they anxiously started moving toward her, each step calculated and decisive. Nearing the middle of the bridge, the two Dracs looked down at the slain brethren lying at their feet.

  Ashlyn, her eyes still closed, sat patiently waiting, tempting them to attack. They cautiously stepped over the first body, growing ever slower as they stepped over the second. It was with good reason that they were suspicious.

  Jumping to her feet, both polearms in her right hand—she staggered the sharp, steel points of the spears, putting one, two feet back of the other. Ashlyn took a large, lunging step forward—hurling the two spears with all her strength.

  The lead warrior squared his stance and raised his sword, and with a swipe, deflected the lead polearm aside. The second however, met its mark—spearing him through the armor covering his chest.

  With the felling blow—he lost his footing and fell over the rail. A hush fell over the stadium.

  The second Drac was leaning over the railing, watching his fellow Drac fall to the ground. He winced as he saw his brother fall upon the spikes.

  Had he been watching Ashlyn, he would have seen her spinning sword hurtling through the air toward him. The sword entered the side of his neck and ran him through, clear to the cross-guard.

  And right behind it, was Ashlyn. By the time her hand fell upon the hilt, blood was gurgling from the warrior’s mouth. Seeing his stumbling feet, his hands grasping at the wound on his neck—with a light push, Ash sent him tumbling over the waist high railing—her hand pulling the sword from him as he fell away.

  A horn sounded.

  Chapter 16

  The Challenge

  Sheathing her sword, Ash turned to face Steven.

  He stood, and going to the balcony, he addressed the crowd. “Clan Leviathan has been defeated. By Draconian law, all sons of the fathers that dishonored their family here today, shall be killed.”

  Ashlyn felt a pang of sadness—like her own son, they were innocent of having done wrong. And yet, she would willingly kill them all if it would save her children.

  “Prepare the Gorgos for the next clan,” ordered Steven.

  The spikes on the arena floor retracted, disappearing beneath the sand.

  If I’m going to fight them all, then it’s going to be on my terms, thought Ash. Drawing her sword, Ash ran along the suspension bridges connecting each of the lower platforms. At each juncture, she cut away the entrance ramp that led to the ground, letting it fall back to the arena floor—as well as the chain rigging ladders that led to higher platforms.

  Like Steven, the audience was captivated by her actions. In the history of the games, they had never seen such a competitor.

  Ashlyn was encouraged that Steven had allowed her to carry out her plan. If it went as expected, it was going to funnel the Dracs through a singular approach point from the ground, all the way to the top platform.

  Ash then ran back up, taking a position at the end of the walkway attached to the precariously tilted, top platform. She was breathing hard, her chest heaving.

  Steven grinned, his Draconian lizard smirk belying the evil within. “You have been honored with a worthy opponent this day.” He again reached into the stone bowl to pick a Standard. He raised it into the air. “To clan Timra, goes the honor and the glory.”

  Clan Timra, like those chosen earlier, took a step forward, thrusting their weapons into the air while roaring in celebration.

  “Let the—” said Steven, his words interrupted by Ashlyn.

  “If you truly want to honor me, let me fight them all. Make it a true challenge,” taunted Ashlyn. Steven’s hesitation was brief, but he responded as she expected.

  “A challenge has been issued. The request is granted. Clan Mordath shall join clan Timra,” said Steven.

  Those belonging to Mordath stepped forward, roaring their acceptance of the challenge, proud to have been asked to join the battle.

  “With the new challenge, we advance the games to the closing round,” ordered Steven.

  From out of the ground, the spikes again arose.

  As one, all twenty-six warriors assumed a readied position, preparing to charge the Gorgos.

  “Let the games begin.” Steven dropped both Standards onto the arena floor.

  Soon as the Standards touched the ground, a horn sounded and the Dracs charged. Each followed the narrow path through the spikes.

  Behind each step, flames sprang from the sand. As the last of them stepped onto the single walkway, the circle of flames expanded and surrounded the Gorgos. It grew in height, forcing the warriors to seek refuge on higher platforms.

  Without warning, the central stanchion trembled and descended toward the ground—the structure slowly lowering the platforms into the flames.

  The warriors, threatened by the encroaching flames were moving quickly as they wound their way up the connecting walkways and platforms.

  Ash backed up, carefully planting each foot on the wooden planks as she crossed the swaying and angled platform at the top of the Gorgos.

  Reaching the large stanchion that held the entire structure, Ash took hold of an empty eyelet, one of three that were going unused for the structure’s current design. Now she waited.

  Steven rose from his throne. His reptilian brow lowered, unable to accept what he saw. As incredulous as it was, he believed he knew what she was about to do.

  The lowest platform was burned. The flames grew in height as the wood added fuel to the fire—the rising heat carrying the smoke and embers aloft.

  Another tremor rocked the structure. Ash felt the subtle increase of speed in the lowering stanchion.
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  The lead warriors started onto the last walkway.

  When Ash had first stepped foot upon the Gorgos, she’d taken note of its mechanical workings. She’d been captivated by the size of the structure and the simplicity of its design. It was one of the things Steven’s tactical training had taught her. When facing an enemy of superior strength, knowing the lay of the land better than the enemy, could often shift the balance of power in one’s favor. As she’d walked into the den of her enemy, she’d strove to absorb all she could. Her life now depended on what she’d learned.

  With one hand grasping the iron eyelet, she put her sandaled feet against the eight-foot in diameter stanchion—taking her weight off the platform. Raising the sword—with a loud adrenaline inducing scream, she swung it.

  Ashlyn’s powerful swing of the sword snapped the main chain that was used to hoist the structure.

  The taut chain recoiled, racing upward and around the large ring, comprising the elaborate pully system. As it came free and fell, Ashlyn took a step to the right, allowing the heavy chain to whip past her. The platforms, all twelve of them fell with incredible speed, dropping all the Draconian warriors into the waiting flames and spikes. Three hundred tons of wood, iron, and steel crashed to the ground. The vibration through the central stanchion dislodged Ashlyn’s footing, and she came close to falling. The noise was thunderous, the displaced air sending thousands of sparks flying. The rising heat was intense, the crackling flames less than thirty feet below her.

  Briefly, because of the heat and flames, Ash thought of using the locket’s armor. It was for fear of what the Dracs might do to her daughters that she did not do so.

  The Dracs below, screamed. Some flailed, spiked but alive, the flames peeling their skin away. Others were pinned beneath the structure itself, the fire slowly charring their skin. Those killed were the lucky ones, their lives taken without having to suffer.

  A horn sounded.

  The lowering of the large stanchion came to a stop, leaving Ashlyn holding on to the eyelet, fifty feet off the ground.