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

by P D Ceanneir

The sun peeked over the rim of the arena walls shining down through the roofless opening to reveal to Havoc, as he wandered to a vacant seat, that thousands could fit into the rows of tiered stone benches that reached up to the open balconies for the rich section at the top of the structure. On the ground was a flat surface of fine white gravel, with the occasional mounds or hillocks of the same substance scattered here and there. Seven tall, but very slim branchless tree trunks of various heights sat in the centre of the arena but positioned in such a way that the width of a man could slip between the poles. Havoc could only guess, though an artistic feature, they were mainly there to pose as obstacles during a bout. To the south, directly below Havoc’s seat was a ramp that descended from the battleground down to the contender’s rooms. This was where the champions would come out from as the first “Heat” of the tournament begun.

  The Ancarryn began with an opening ceremony, dancers, acrobats and fire-eaters performed as people took their seats. Charioteers, from the distant continent of Fyrandia, raced around the outside rim of the tournament ground to rapturous applause from onlookers when several unavoidable crashes occurred. Havoc took the time to scan the crowd and saw that the Nithi observers were sitting on their own at the east end of the arena, a group of richly clad warriors in half armour sat at the front; Havoc assumed it was Mad-damien and his family even if he could not see their tattooed scalps. All of the nobles from everywhere filled up the high balconies, most of which were personal booths decorated with rich silk curtains. He was happy to see Lord Ness in his fine white robes, and to his surprise, he saw his Aunt Vara sitting beside him. Why did she come? He worried for her safety, but knew that the presence of the Ri was her protection. He wondered if Lord Ness had explained everything to her.

  His track of thought was broken as the crowed suddenly cheered when King Kasan arrived to take his throne-like seat in the royal box. The prince’s heart filled with hate for his uncle. Even the Blacksword hissed in his head. His hate became rage as he saw the Queen of Sonora sit on the kings left. She had aged much since he last saw her, thinner, and greyer and this made him wonder. A Rawn that could age in such a short time was impossible, especially a female Rawn.

  His heart leapt as the next person arrived to take a seat. This was someone he had not seen for many years, his mother. She was just as beautiful as he remembered and he wanted to shout out his presence to her, but obviously did not. Besides, to his surprise, the former Queen of the Roguns received the loudest cheer from the crowd; she was clearly very popular. Molna sat on Kasan’s right and looked very sad about it, yet smiled at the people in the crowd who continued cheering much to the obvious disappointment of Cinnibar.

  As the ceremony ended the King, in his royal white fur gown and Queen Molna, in her shimmering blue dress, stood and the murmuring crowd went quiet. The king made a short speech; his voice augmented by the unique curvature of the arena, and officially opened the tournament to resounding applause.

  It was customary for a champion of a tribe to defeat an enemy, or enemies, before moving on to the next stage of the tournament and become the overall winner; This was done on the first three days of the Ancarryn and referred to as Heats. Anyone with a noble patron could compete.

  As Havoc watched, several large men in light armour and carrying swords fought against each other to win the first Heat. An announcer, bald, but with a ponytail of white hair and a squat stature, stood on a small portable wooden stage to introduce each competing champion and start their bout. The rules were simple, kill or be killed.

  The first day of the Rite of Ancarryn went well, but only for the winners, swords clashed and blood splashed the ground. Losers screamed, winners yelled their battle cries; the crowd’s exuberance steadily whipped into a frenzy of roars and jeers. In the middle of this theatre of death, Havoc got up, walked out of the seating area and found a way to the champion’s rooms. These rooms were more of an open cellar under the main tourney ground full of stunted foundation pillars that split the room into three sections and segregated to keep the competitors from each other’s throats until the bout. On one side sat old wooden barrels of wine that the waiting champions were getting drunk on, obviously to give them courage before their fight. The smell of stale sweat and blood was strong. Over by the entrance was a narrow ditch cut into the floor to serve as the only toilet. Water continually trickled along it to flush away any effluence.

  Havoc used the Subtle Arts and casually slipped by the single guard at the main door and the many warriors waiting to face their enemies. He found a secluded niche in a dark corner and slept until the morning.

  For tomorrow would bring a new day.

  The morning would bring the Envoy to the Queen of the Ravens.

  And with the Blacksword came death.

  Chapter 7

  The Blacksword versus Mad-daimen

  Creed deflected the wooden sword strike and moved left to attack his opponent, his lunge was blocked and he stepped away from the next slashing movement just in time. Udren, his instructor, was an excellent teacher and a brilliant swordsman but his patience was short, and as a result tended to be dominating and strict.

  The ten-year-old prince rushed in to hack at his teachers legs and managed, with much joy, to put him off balance, but it was a feint and Udren spun on his heal, smacking the boy’s forehead with the flat of his sword.

  Creed fell, but got up quickly to defend himself, blood oozed down his fiery red birthmark that covered half of his left temple and cheek. Tears welled, but he did not cry from the pain, he would not give his Master the satisfaction.

  ‘Do not heal your wound!’ boomed Udren, his massive shoulders flexing as he talked. He looked down at Creed with hooded eyes. The look was always sardonic as if he was laughing at the world, ‘that way you will weaken as the battle progresses. Your attack was good, however, your defence was very poor against my counterattack.’

  The double doors of the large training room opened to reveal Cinnibar, King Kasan and Queen Molna. Lord Udren and Prince Creed both bowed towards the royal trio.

  ‘Ah... my little soldier, how are you, oh... that looks nasty,’ said Cinnibar and brushed away Creed’s long, wavy brown hair. She touched his temple and the wound disappeared within seconds, blood and all.

  ‘Thank you aunt, but I can heal myself,’ said Creed, flinching away from her.

  ‘Has he improved?’ said the king to his champion.

  ‘He has skill, but no discipline. He has a long way to go yet,’ said Udren in his gravelly voice as he put the wooden training sword away in its rack at the edge of the training room.

  ‘Molna, will you take Creed out for a moment, we need to talk, that’s a good girl,’ said Cinnibar with a dismissive wave of her hand.

  ‘Of course,’ said the queen smiling with her mouth, but not her eyes.

  Creed allowed his mother to usher him out, but shrugged her hand from his shoulder. His dislike for his mother grew every year as he aged. Her disliked anyone ordering her around and was embarrassed about her willingness to obey. He thought she was weak and it was not in the nature of a Vallkyte to be weak, even though he had to remind himself that she came from the other side of the continent from a noble family, he considered, were inferior to his own.

  As the double doors of the training room closed behind the queen and her son, the king, Cinnibar and Udren huddled close by the twenty-foot tall window at the far end of the training room. The sun was fading behind the sprawling harbour and the tall tower of the Lantern as dusk settled on the land. The remaining sunlight cast long shadows of their bodies on the marble floor.

  ‘He did not show up, aunt. You were quite adamant that he would,’ said the king in a very displeased tone.

  ‘There is still time. Have faith in your plan, Kasan, it is only the first day,’ she said looking out of the window at the fading light.

  ‘Maybe the great Havoc is a coward,’ growled Udren, ‘if he is as smart as they say he is then he would surely know it’s
a trap.’

  ‘Oh, he knows it’s a trap,’ nodded the queen, ‘but that is not what we are here to discuss. How many of the order are with us?’

  ‘Apart from Saltyn there are three others; Nester, Fowyn, and Varix,’ said the king.

  Cinnibar smiled ruefully and nodded.

  ‘Good,’ she said, ‘familiar names.’ She stared out of the window deep in thought. The other two watched her and waited patiently for her to speak. When she did, they listened intently to her words.

  ‘The time has come to call together the members of the Brethac Order. Lord Sernac has informed me that the Cybeleion in nearly finished and I want the Gredligg Orrinn before Ness gets it.’

  Mirryn was never far away from Havoc, and in the early morning light she was giving him a view of the citadel through the glowing orb on the Sword that Rule’s pommel. What he saw in the harbour disturbed him; the Vallkytes had stepped up their war effort and built more war galleys. On top of that he counted six Sky Ships floating just off shore. The Vallkytes, in their arrogance, were not attempting to keep anything secret even at the time of the Ancarryn. They were stepping up their war effort and wanted everyone to know it.

  The red kite flew over the arena next, and she perched on the slated roof that was part of the north end’s curved structure. People had come early for the good seats and were filling them up quickly.

  The combatants had come early too.

  Some time during the night the Blacksword had taken dominance of the prince’s body. This did not bother Havoc; it was after all part of the plan. Besides, floating inside the darkness of his alter egos mind was quite relaxing.

  The Blacksword remained hidden inside his dark corner, which expanded and deepened under his influence. He watched the contenders as they arrived and began buckling on protective clothing and limbered up for the fight to come. He took note of their movements and scrutinized the way they held their posture and shifted their balance as they practiced with their chosen weapons, because at some point in the competition he would have to fight these warriors.

  The cellar-room was split into three sections, keeping the enemies of the champions separate. An iron chain on removable posts cordoned off their route to the ramp that led to the tourney ground.

  As the warriors prepared for glory or death, they talked. Sometimes about their prowess in battle or the techniques they would use. Occasionally, to the Blacksword’s surprise, they spoke about Prince Havoc.

  ‘They say he is the greatest swordsman on the continent,’ said a slim man with white scars on his face and body.

  ‘Can’t be, Garran,’ said a seven foot topless barbarian on his left, ‘for I am he.’ The big man stretched his arms out so his many tattoos rippled along his muscled torso.

  ‘You think too highly of yourself, Nox. It is said that the prince killed twelve men in battle with one swipe of his sword,’ said Garran as he sharpened the edge of his blade with a wet stone.

  ‘Bah... is that all? I killed the Kuth’tyl Chief, Shifen, and his bodyguards outside a Mubean waterhole last year, and I was stinking drunk!’

  ‘The stinking part I believe,’ laughed another warrior sitting across from them in thick brown leathers. As the men talked the Blacksword rose, the darkness in the corner rose with him.

  ‘Watch it Handan, you are still young enough to go over my knee,’ smiled Nox, showing teeth that were black and rotten.

  ‘You and whose bodyguards?’ chuckled Handan.

  The dim light that filtered in from the ramp disappeared as a dark form passed the talking warriors on its way to the ramp. Some of the champions looked at the darkness and then shook their heads wondering what urged them to look when there was clearly nothing there.

  ‘Prince Havoc is a powerful Rawn,’ Garran mused, ‘difficult to kill, a Rawn is.’

  ‘You know as well as I do, Garran,’ said Handan, ‘that the use of the Rawn Arts at the Ancarryn is forbidden. Everyone is on an even footing.’

  They all heard the distant voice of the announcer confirm the opening of the next day of Heats; this was the only day any new contenders could come forward. The Blacksword walked to the ramp, the shadows went with him.

  ‘Not everyone is on an even footing,’ said Nox, ‘not when I am the clear winner.’

  ‘If you fight as well as you talk then you may have a...’ Handan’s voice tailed away as he looked towards the bottom of the ramp. To him, a shadowy formation had appeared out of nowhere and was now partially blocking the morning light filtered down from the opening at the top of the ramp. This preternatural combination of shade and shadows danced around what looked like a tall-cloaked figure. All of the champions turned to look at what Handan stared at, squinting to focus at what lay within the shifting shadows. They all gasped in astonishment as they recognised the creature within the mass. They remained silent as the Blacksword walk up the ramp.

  ‘Never mind the prince,’ whispered Nox as the Blacksword disappeared out of sight, ‘my money’s on him.’

  Creed listened to the droning of the announcer from behind his father’s seat. Beside him stood Udren, now that he was his apprentice he was to share in his duties and learn at the same time.

  ‘...and we have the greatest from all over the world competing today,’ said the stocky announcer as he shouted through a large sea horn that sat on a frame fixed to the wooden platform he was standing on.

  Mild chatter spread around the crowd as the announcer spoke. The sky overhead was dark blue, growing brighter as the sun crested the north end of the arena. Creed, from his viewpoint, saw a red kite perched high on the north roof; it barely moved and seemed to be looking down at the ramp exit.

  ‘... We have Nox from Trandahl Slone,’ said the announcer and the crowd cheered. The big barbarian, Nox, was a favourite to win, ‘...Garran the Molvonian, Lepet the Butcher...’ the crowd were roaring their approval as the names were called. Creed sighed, there was always someone calling himself ‘The Butcher’, ‘...Handan the Corseare...’ the cheer was not so loud and disappeared before it began, receding into chatter. Creed knew that Handan was another favourite, but as the announcer continued to list off the names, the ripple of chatter from the crown ceased and silence descended. The announcer continued talking barely noticing the silence around him as he concentrated on the list of contenders he retrieved from memory.

  Creed edged around his father’s seat to get a better view. People were on their feet to look over the heads of those in front of them.

  The ramp opening had gone, swallowed by darkness. All that could be seen was a black rectangle on the floor of the arena, but that was not what confused the crowd, it was the tendrils of inky blackness that writhed and twisted around the edges of the ramps exit, thrashing like tentacles of a squid in it’s dying throws.

  ‘What in the name of...?’ his Aunt Cinnibar gasped, standing to get a better look.

  The blackness extended, spread along the ground, shifting and swaying as if in a breeze, a breeze that did not exist inside the stillness of the arena. A figure emerged from the dark of the ramp. The shadows swarmed around it like a blizzard of black dust with no form or shape.

  The announcer had stopped talking in mid sentence and looked around him, confused at the silence from the crowd from his proclamations. He visibly flinched when he saw what was behind him.

  Creed was amazed. He had never seen anything like this in all of his short life. He felt a jolt of fear and was not the only one with his jaw open in shock.

  ‘What is it Master?’ he asked Udren.

  ‘I don’t know, but it doesn’t feel good,’ he said and Creed could see his master’s eyes were no longer hooded, but wide and watchful.

  The tendrils of darkness dissipated into fine dust and floated away. The shroud of darkness unveiled what was underneath. Creed saw a hooded, black cloaked, figure walk slowly towards the announcer’s platform, his sword strapped to his back over the cloak, similar to the way the Havants dress. The only thing that was n
ot black was the silver toecaps of his knee length-riding boots, three clasps that fastened his cloak at the front and the pommel of his sword, which glinted slightly in the morning sun. He could see nothing of his face through the darkness of the newcomer’s wide cowl.

  The murmurs from the crowd rose as people recognised the figure. Creed clearly heard the word “Blacksword” used several times.

  ‘This can’t be!’ said his father standing also, ‘is this some sort of sick joke?’

  The Blacksword’s walk to the podium was, to the announcer, agonisingly slow. Then when he climbed the two steps to stand before him he wished the walk had taken longer. The announcer looked up at the tall figure, which stood at least two feet above him, and felt the unseen eyes stare at him for a few seconds. Relief flooded through him as the figure turned to face the Royal Box.

  The cacophony of talk from the amazed crowd died down as the king waved them to silence. There was a moment of timelessness as the king waited for the announcer to do his part, but the man just stared at the figure beside him.

  ‘Dorif!’ shouted the king, making the announcer and a few others in the royal box, jump.

  ‘Ah? Yes, your highness, um,’ said Dorif. Creed saw him ask the newcomer a question, his name possibly.

  Dorif got his response, but hesitated behind the horn. He really looked like he did not want to be there at all.

  ‘Um, he, er...he says he is...he says he is the Blacksword, sire,’ stuttered Dorif and the voices of the crowd erupted again. The king waved them into silence for a second time, but as he did this Queen Cinnibar rose to her feet.

  ‘Who is his patron?’ she asked.

  The answer came quickly from the Blacksword and Dorif shouted through the horn, his voice unsteady.

  ‘His patron is the Queen of the Ravens.’ This time the king was ready with the crowd and shouted down towards the announcer.

  ‘There is no such person! This Blacksword needs a legitimate patron and not one from a world of fantasy.’ This got a few laughed from the viewers, but not many. Silence filled the arena; all eyes looked at the black figure on the platform as the silence lingered on for tangible seconds. High up on the noble balconies, the Lady Vara and Lord Ness peered down towards the royal box.