THE UNCHOSEN
BOOK ONE OF THE QUEEN BEYOND
Simon Markusson
Copyright © 2019 by Simon Markusson
All rights reserved.
Design & Layout by Standout Books
Map by Maria Gandolfo
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations for criticism, comment and other purposes that are considered fair use.
ISBN (Paperback): 978-91-985365-0-8
ISBN (Ebook): 978-91-985365-1-5
Contents
Prologue
1. The Prophesied One
2. A Guiding Light
3. Dreams of Hope
4. A Beast
5. The Dwarf
6. Silverstream
7. Shadow of the Countess
8. Jail and Thorn
9. The Spine Makes the Calls
10. A Knight’s Valor
11. The Beast Within
12. If There Were Ghosts
13. The Harp
14. Perhaps She Was Cold
15. It Answers Not to the Runes
16. Whispers from the Past
17. A Duelist of Savu
18. The Green Gown
19. Breaking a Wizard
20. Looking into the Shadows
21. A Leper’s Mirth
22. The Bard
23. Five Silver Crescents
24. Instead of the Kisses
25. Cruel Satire
26. Poetry
27. Into Rurhav
28. The Darkest Caverns
29. Symbolism
30. Hell Doesn’t Wait
31. One Must Not Hesitate
32. A Last Stand
Thank You
About the Author
The foxes are dancing,
Naught will be the same,
The Chosen has fallen,
And everything’s a game.
Prologue
THE ORACLE
He rode quickly through Widowswood on an overgrown path that few dared take. The very air here seemed heavy and morose, utterly devoid of the life that ought to inhabit such a wild place. Yet the fears he carried with him gave the evergreen forest a voice.
In the chill of the moonlit night, the breeze rose to stir the treetops in gentle unison. It sounded like ethereal whispers, full of mockery. If Alwarul the Old had been in a state of peace and calm reflection, his mind would surely not have clothed the scene with such sentience. But his mind held no peace now. Memories raced through it like a play in constant repetition, dark and haunting. It was all too late. The knowledge was more chilling than the cold fingers of autumn.
The wizard stopped the frenzied flapping of his cloak with one gloved hand as he leaned forward in the saddle, bracing himself against the winds. The melancholy luxury of resignation was not to be his; still, there lived some hope that the consequences of his foul deed could be prevented. In his memory, the Oracle spoke again in her crystalline voice — in the gloom of that echoing cavern high up among the frozen peaks of the Cloudshroud Mountains.
She had been a vision once he’d stood shivering beneath her lustrous form, humbled under the pervasive gaze of divinity that stared through the very veil of time. He had sighed her name, Hyahiera, in veneration as he cast his eyes down from her ghastly beauty. But he could not escape her words.
“I wept when I saw what your power wrought, man of the Art,” the Oracle said, already knowing Alwarul more fully than he knew himself. Outside, the winds howled, lamenting spirits alive with grief. Tears came to his eyes as she named his crime. “I grieved I could not communicate my sight to you. I wept as you poured darkness out before my eyes and made the future foul. You cloaked it in shades of malice that seem to steal fate away from me even now. My power is waning. You know this. And the very world cries out in dying.”
Alwarul fell to his knees. Tears were pouring down his wrinkled cheeks. “Goddess,” he called, “surely, there must be something in your sight that can put things aright? Surely, not even my great folly will be the doom of our world! Show me a path to the prevention of this, and I shall not stray from it!”
His words echoed off the cavern walls, first mighty and strong before turning whiny and distant, a thousand parodies of his desperation. The Oracle stood silent.
“You showed yourself to me! There must be something you see that can defy this malice! Tell me, or came you here only to torment me further?”
The Oracle’s pale, silken hair flowed behind her like a soft silver waterfall carried by otherworldly winds. Yet her air of tranquility was broken by the trace of worry and anger on her face. “There is a man whose destiny was a beacon of light,” she said at last. “A man whose soul is pure and whose heart is just. I have watched him closely, for I knew he would come to do great deeds. Never has a mortal’s heart sung so beautifully across the planes. This man is—”
“Where?” Alwarul cried out, interrupting the chiming voice despite himself. “Tell me where to find this great man, and I shall guide him through the trials that are to come and see without hesitation or doubt that he succeeds in his destiny! Such will be the task of all my power.”
“You don’t understand!” The echoes of the Oracle’s voice hammered down on him with divine wrath. “His destiny was bright, so bright and strong and beautiful that I would have protected my eyes from its glare if it had not been so sweet and wondrous and rare. He was a sun, yet one mortal, living so short a time that I felt compelled to savor every moment of that beauty before it vanished.”
Alwarul dared almost not ask. “But Goddess, you said—”
“His destiny was certain, powerful and potent in ways beyond your words,” the Oracle said in a fury of rank contempt. “Now things have changed. His light has grown fickle and shy, a candle gasping for air in the darkness that you unleashed! I cannot look upon that dwindling star without being overcome with grief and worry, for no longer can I see the certainty I once thought was there.” A single tear, sparkling in its purity, traced down the goddess’s cheek.
“Do not fear, High One. I shall aid him.” Alwarul was eager to chase away the sorrow that he had caused. “And I shall find others who will aid him also. He will not face this darkness alone.”
Silence. And then, at the end of reflection, acquiescence. “He must not...” The goddess nodded wearily. “He must not.”
She had told him where to seek the one chosen. In the south, in Widowswood. The old road you must follow before he turns elsewhere. Hurry, and at the bridge of dawn, you will find my star, he with the Sword of Roses. I think he can sense the winds of fate. He will follow you.
Those words had driven him the last weeks, driven him to forsake food and sleep for the sake of speed. He had only stopped by some of the larger strongholds he’d passed to beg an audience with their lords and try to rally support for a cause more urgent than any other. Yet the realm was at war, and the lords had eyes only for battle outside the borders against the enemies under King Hawreius of Marenn.
“Old man,” a heavy duke had sighed when Alwarul presented the matter before him in his great hall. Nobles had moved like puffed-up exotic birds beneath the balconies, mingling in their colorful silks and velvets and reeking of quaint perfumes. “I have little time for raving prophets now, and certainly not for ones so poorly dressed.” The aristocracy giggled softly around them.
“Your Grace,” Alwarul said, taking a step closer, his staff ringing loudly on the stone floor, “this entire realm will be barren and dead befor
e the year’s end if this threat is not countered. What I speak of is not an enemy satisfied with conquest and rule, not one concerned with ransoms and treaties! There is evil brewing, my lords and ladies. I have seen it. I brought it!”
“Then it seems I should have you arrested, no?” The duke lounged in his throne, unimpressed, and nibbled at some grapes. “Truly, old man, I am beginning to grow weary of your tirade. I can have pity for you for your lack of peace, but do not raise your tone in my halls if you value your tongue.”
“I value my tongue little more than the continued existence of life upon this world,” Alwarul replied, not bothering with correcting his acrid tone. “Take my bluntness as confirmation of the truth that I bring.”
“Your careless manners will assure me of nothing other than that you truly are mad.” The duke waved his hand to a pair of guards. “See this doomsayer out of here. I do not want his tragedy to unsettle my children.”
Alwarul had found similar welcome everywhere else. The aristocracy had nothing but scorn and obnoxious jokes for him, yet he had not ceased his efforts to warn them. The Oracle’s cryptic answer had not revealed how much time he had. She might not have known. I am drawing close now, he thought, and will be beyond Widowswood soon. May it just be that the Oracle was right.
He was not certain what kind of valiant figure was to meet him, but the words of the goddess had assured him of the fantastical character of the one chosen. He prayed that this soul was indeed bright enough to chase away the coming darkness. The memories flickered in his mind. Just like the forest and the cold night sky, they were dark. The brooding shadows of Widowswood seemed all too fitting for his recollections...
The temple had been brought to ruin long ago by the ever-persistent force of time. Yet even in the desolate clearing far above the Ruihumyi and away from the greedy reach of kings and queens, the residue of power remained, and it called to him. It was the soft, dormant pulse of a force that had found — for the moment — tranquility. But even this residue hinted at a monstrous force that was as raw and primal as the very natural elements themselves. Birds had been chirping for him as he’d wandered through those old woodlands in his search, yet in the clearing, the silence soon came to his attention. It was as if the looming authority of the temple managed to convey a sense of worship and holiness even to the animals of the forest. Here, beneath the corpse of a once magnificent edifice, reigned a heavy air that made time itself slumber and become forgotten.
If only he had sensed the threat of the presence then, as the animals surely must have, he would have turned back. Turned back and never again let gaze or thought visit that cursed place. Alas, he had not. The gaping remains of the temple’s gate had beckoned him, and like a witless fool, he had walked into its dark, suffocating bowels...
His mind shied away from those memories, and he focused once more on the dark road before him. He snapped the reins and shouted at the poor creature that suffered as his mount. The bay courser would doubtless not last long after this journey. For that matter, he himself might not. For Alwarul was old. Indeed, many were those who would marvel in wordless disbelief upon learning his full age, and the physical energy that he applied now, he had earlier considered long lost. Yet what strength is denied a man who bears an obligation such as his, one with the full, unmasked realization of what failure will bring?
No, this journey would end with his death.
And so he rode with speed — through a forest that often deterred the staunchest of travelers — and as he came to where the trees grew sparse and distant fields could be seen, the sun was rising. Its deep, throbbing light poured out over the murky sky and filtered throughout the vast forest with its whispering trees.
Its color was red.
A bleeding sun.
The Prophesied One
There was a time when the dying of the year cloaked the dying of the world and living things wizened and grew weak at the touch of a menacing darkness. Evil had come aware with memories. The world grew uneasy, restless — but not knowing why. The living trembled with a frail and deep sense of doom. Even as the cold autumn winds carried that faint promise of undoing over the decaying lands and the storming seas, there were none who could name it. Dire premonition hung in the air. Fathers brought more firewood into the crude cabins their ancestors had built, noting in steely silence the harsh cold that seemed unusually swift in coming. And mothers held their children close and warned them of the wolves in the forests — anxious during long nights that seemed rifer with peril than ever.
But in this time, there was one man who bore the name of the sinister stranger — or a name sinister and strange. A man who had always walked partly in darkness, knowing little of mildness and less of warm amusement. His name would be sung. Nathelion. Yes, it was Nathelion. Nathelion Nightshadow.
Damn them for naming me that, Nathelion thought bitterly — not for the first time — and he sent yet another silent curse to parents long gone. He sat leaning heavily over the lonely table in a smoky common room that enjoyed his custom far too often. Well, to hear proper folk talk. His head was fuzzy and unclear, wavering slightly over what must’ve been his sixth or seventh draught of dark and terribly bitter ale. It taunted him silently, claiming he couldn’t drink it. He’d disprove it, though. He always did.
The laughter sounded faint and distant when he bent his head back and emptied the hellish brew into his throat and over half his face, and he couldn’t tell if it was at him this time. Where Nightshadow walked, ridicule always followed. His dramatic name had doomed him to be a running joke. At least, it had in the illiterate backwater village where he’d been born and was no doubt destined to die, alone and miserable, and — gods forbid — there was also the risk that he might be sober at the hap. He did his best to prevent that.
The name was only part of the reason behind his misery, of course, but it had been quite a flawless indicator as to where his life would be heading. During his childhood, all the “Tailors,” “Farriers,” “Crofters,” “Skinners,” and whatnot had been all too eager in the full, cruel splendor of small boys to point out this little oddity to him.
“Which story are you from?” they had asked him innumerable times in their ruthless glee. “Nightshadow...are you a hero?”
Nathelion had seldom been able to come up with a response quickly enough, all too often standing dumbstruck.
“No, he just hides in the deepest shadows whenever monsters are near!” That little anecdote always drew laughter. Even though it was so bloody stupid. And he’d always been defenseless against the onslaught of rocks and pinecones hailing down on him. “Here, Nightshadow, hide from these!” His tormentors would chant happily, their little arms flinging away.
Nathelion tried to take another swallow from his mug to wash away the memory of his...well, of his life. Instead, he grimaced as he discovered it to be empty again. Worse still, he had ordered as much drink as he could afford. He’d come back next week, though, everyone knew that. The Widow’s Rest always saw him by week’s end, often by one of the small tables in the corners, drinking in his well-kept solitude.
The Widow’s Rest was a stout establishment, three stories of stone and wood that had been standing by the dirty stretch of the old road for a number of years in the hundreds that no one seemed to have bothered keeping count of. It drew patrons from all the nearby villages that were too small, gray, and uninteresting to have a proper inn or winesink of their own, mostly farmers celebrating good crops, weddings, or some occasion related to their offspring. It was certainly rare that it accommodated travelers coming from Widowswood — the supposedly haunted forest to the north that had served as inspiration for naming the place.
Nathelion had never been sure whether Widowswood was supposed to be haunted by grieving widows or by their late husbands. He had seen neither whenever he’d sought solace there. That had been when he was little, though. His life was counted just past twenty years now, and ever since he’d been a stringy boy of fifteen, he had
found better comfort at the Widow’s Rest. It was costlier, though, and it didn’t help that every bloody ale took about a day’s toil in Shepherd’s fields to earn.
Just thinking about it made his head cloud over darkly, and he got to his feet in a reckless manner, toppling his chair. Some of the other patrons looked up from their conversations, chuckled, and then rudely jested with each other. Though he boiled on the inside, Nathelion did not challenge any of them. He had never been the strongest or the swiftest, neither as a boy nor as a man, and he certainly had never been the boldest.
“So, are we done for today, Mr. Nightshadow?” Elsa’s smooth voice was music compared to the raucous tones of the patrons, but the serving wench’s address still made him frown.
“Don’t call me that,” he grunted sourly, this time hardly caring to stare at Elsa’s pale and very ample bosom. “Nathan. Why don’t you ever just call me Nathan?”
“Because I like Nightshadow better. It fits you, especially when you’re sulking.” She smiled at him, showing rows of admirably straight teeth, but he knew that her smile only held a kind of pity. When he’d been younger and a bit more foolish, he had thought that she actually fancied him, and as a response to that illusion of warm feelings shown towards him, he had gone all out and proposed with wildflowers from the thorny depths of Widowswood in hand. The memory of how she had very uncomfortably tried to make a joke out of it still stung him as if he’d been banished to that dark forest forever.
The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond Page 1
