The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond

by Simon Markusson

  They found the stable boy tumbling in the straw with a voluptuous woman who seemed too old for him by half, and they called for him twice before being noticed at all. He leaped up and nearly fell down again as his pants caught at his knees in a most humorous fashion, while the woman pulled up the top of her dress and rushed past them.

  “See that our horses do not catch a cold and have them brushed and fed properly,” Alwarul instructed the boy and handed him a pair of coppers along with the reins. “You’ll have the same amount on the morrow if you do not neglect them.”

  The stable boy forgot his embarrassment as soon as he received the coin. “Yes, sir!” he exclaimed with a sudden sense of duty, rushing to his work.

  “What horse is that?” Nathelion asked while the boy took his stot away. All the stalls were empty save for one in the corner of the stable, where a short and rotund horse with a shaggy mane stood. He had never seen such a specimen before. Its golden fur was thick and lustrous, and its head was powerful, with a broad muzzle and long, pronounced cheekbones. The eyes were large and had an intelligent gleam, and the ears ended in tufts almost like the ears of a lynx.

  “Some pony,” the stable boy said with a shrug. “A dwarf brought it just yesterday. Didn’t give me nothing, though. Dwarves are cheap.”

  “If you called him a dwarf, I’m not surprised,” Alwarul said, and then he mused to himself: “One of the moinguir here? Perhaps one of the inhabitants of the Skypeaks, though they are known for being rather notoriously hermetic. An oddity. Did he tell you what his business in Silverstream was?”

  “No,” the stable boy said as he unsaddled Alwarul’s mount. “But he threatened me with a thrashing if I didn’t care for his pony. He has thick arms, but I swear I could take him. I’m not weak myself, and I’m pretty quick, too.”

  “You were wise not to challenge him. The moinguir can be quite sinister when they pick up grudges. Nathelion, come. Let us find some warmth and see what food they offer here.”

  Nathelion felt rather stupefied when he walked out into the rain behind Alwarul. Both the old man and the stable boy had talked casually of a dwarf, or “moinguir,” as if such beings were quite real. He had heard plenty of tales involving the reclusive mountain dwellers, but surely, the moinguir did not truly exist. He had always assumed them to be yet another legend. Could he have been the ignorant one in this regard? The boy probably meant an ordinary person who happens to be unusually short, and then Alwarul took the liberty to elaborate on it.

  They stepped into a common room filled with burly men laughing and swearing in a haze of tobacco smoke that mingled with the sour odors of sweat and alcohol, along with the smell of something burnt that seemed to come from the kitchen. The light was dim and unsteady, cast by a small hearth opposite the door, along with a few candles melting on some of the rough plank tables. Most of the men seemed to have gathered at the bar, where a heated argument could be heard. Nathelion had as little interest in it as Alwarul did, and they snuck aside to one of the tables farthest away.

  “Yea, watcha want?” a rather attractive serving wench asked them.

  “Is that stew cooking in there?” Alwarul asked, and he indicated the kitchen door.

  She looked over her shoulder. “Yea, it is. Malla has gotten hold of some pork, so she’s at it now. She spices it hot enough that the taste won’t bother you. It’s warming. You want it?”

  “Yes. And generous portions, mind,” Alwarul said. “We have traveled far and will travel farther.”

  “Yea. I’ll get it before Haesen has me cleaning up the blood from that fight, too,” she said.

  “What fight?” Nathelion had to ask.

  “The one that is brewing over there,” the wench said, nodding at the collection of men by the bar before she scurried away to the kitchens.

  Most of the scorn in the common room appeared to be directed towards a single person, a situation all too familiar to Nathelion. The men were shouting insults and laughing with derision while one voice seemed to be in the center, causing the surges of laughter and provoking increasingly angry rebuttals.

  “Ye think yer size helps ye when ye pick a fight with me, eh? Only if ye bloody well fall on me. Which, to be fair, might be a risk once I’ve knocked ye blank.”

  Nathelion couldn’t see who had said it, but laughter rose at the bold utterance. The man it seemed directed at was by any measure a large fellow, at least seven-foot tall and with shoulders half as broad. The large man tossed his head back in laughter, his face full of scars. “No, little man. Please, stop your charade and apologize before I’m weeping.”

  “Little man? Did I just hear wrong, or did ye actually have the poor judgment of calling me little?” There was a dangerous edge in the voice that had Nathelion anticipating bloodshed. The laughter silenced, and everyone waited for the big ruffian to answer.

  “Aye,” the scarred fighter said. “What of it, little man?”

  “What of it?” the voice said silently. “I’ll have ye be my height after I’ve chopped off yer head, after I’ve chopped off yer knees, and that’s what’s of it.”

  The men not involved personally in the fight hooted and backed away, revealing who the speaker was.

  Nathelion almost fell out of his seat in astonishment. He couldn’t help but stare at the short...well, dwarf who stood atop one of the chairs by the bar. How did he dare to pick a fight like this?

  “This will turn bad,” Alwarul said in a whisper. “The moinguir are proud.”

  “Are they also bloody suicidal?” Nathelion asked.

  “You make me look bad, dwarf,” the big man complained. “I don’t kill women, and I don’t kill children either, so I guess I don’t kill your kind. Just apologize, and I’ll let you go.”

  The sudden expression in the dwarf’s face made everyone back off. He turned so red and wrinkled with rage that Nathelion almost thought the bearded figure would grow out of his skin. He sputtered before any comprehensible words came out of his mouth. “Ye...ye...what!?” His roar almost made Nathelion cover his ears, and then the dwarf took a mighty leap through the air, jumping high towards the suddenly backstepping ruffian with a terrifying fervor and...falling short of his target to crash headlong right into the solid floor planks. The sound made every man and woman in that room wince. Nathelion looked away.

  “Please, friend, leave him be. He might be wounded.” Alwarul rose from his chair.

  “I never did nothing to him,” the big man said defensively. “Never touched him.”

  The old lunatic stepped around the table and quickly crossed the floor. “Nathelion, come here. Help me get him up.”

  The dwarf still lay sprawled face down when Alwarul kneeled over him. The other men were streaming out of the common room, the brawler talking to one of them. “Didn’t do nothing to him. The watch isn’t having me for this.”

  “Nathelion?” Alwarul called again, and Nathelion rose to join him.

  The dwarf was limp, though he was still breathing. And his head seemed like it was still appropriately attached to his body. Alwarul took a grip under one arm and indicated for Nathelion to take the other, and then they heaved the insensible dwarf to his feet and dragged him back to their own table. After putting him in a chair, Nathelion was pleased to see that his face had not been completely smashed by the impact with the floor. The only obviously new wound — and there seemed to be several old ones — was an ugly gash across his powerful brow.

  “Will he be all right?” Nathelion asked.

  Alwarul nodded. “I believe so. The moinguir have a sturdier constitution than do men. A hardy folk and very honorable as well — after their own fashion. They are known for their staunch loyalty, once loyalty has been earned, but never make one of them your enemy. Bartender!” Alwarul called. “Here, will you bring some ale? The darkest kind you have, that ought to rouse him.”

  “He won’t thank you,” the bald man shouted back as he poured up a pint. He came over and placed it on the table. “He called
it piss.”

  “Of course he did.” Alwarul chuckled. “It’s not moinguir ale!”

  When the bartender left them, Nathelion turned to Alwarul to ask, “Are you truly a physician like you told those guards?”

  Alwarul smiled at his question. “Certainly. I know more of the human body and of illnesses and cures than any physician alive in this day. But the moinguir, they want a wholly different medicine. Here, hold his head.”

  Nathelion held the dwarf’s head back hesitantly and observed as Alwarul put the brim of the mug to the small man’s lips. Some of the ale spilled into his long, braided red beard, but Alwarul kept pouring. Soon the dwarf began to cough and sputter.

  “No more... No more, I say!” He sat up and looked about with orange eyes that baffled Nathelion. “I cannot stand that bloody insult to brewing! Ah, well, maybe a little more.” The moinguir — it actually was a moinguir — took the mug from Alwarul’s hands and downed the last of its contents. Then he burped loudly as he slammed it back onto the table. “Now, who are ye that I have the pleasure to be drinking with?” he asked. “Were ye hoping that I might teach ye to fight like that?” The dwarf was looking at him, Nathelion realized. “What’s the matter, lad? Are ye dead drunk, or are ye stupid?”

  “Uh, your eyes...” Nathelion managed to say, fascinated by their orange glow. “They’re orange.”

  “Aye, and yer eyes are some other color. What of it?”

  Alwarul entered the conversation. “The eyes of the moinguir often startle humans who are not used to them. Red, gold, or orange, they are quite exotic by our standards.”

  “Aye, so they are,” the moinguir said. “Anyway, lad, I can’t teach ye to fight like that; it’s in the blood. Ye have to be made of very certain stuff.”

  Nathelion felt confused. “What do you mean? You didn’t even...” a look from Alwarul made him quickly reconsider what to say. “I mean, I would never dare to fight like you did.”

  The dwarf seemed pleased, a broad smile growing across his hard face. “Aye, it’s the rage that makes one disregard all that’s causing fear. Nothing stands against that rage, not reason or worry. Once the fury has ye, ye become something different. My name is Molgrimin, by the way. What do I call ye?”

  “I am Nathelion Nightshadow. You can call me Nathan.”

  “A true pleasure to see that there are humans with a bit of sense in them, Nathan.” Molgrimin smiled and took Nathelion’s hand in a dreadfully strong grip.

  “And I am Alwarul the Old,” Alwarul put in, taking Molgrimin’s hand in turn. “But tell me, Molgrimin, what is your full name? I thought it the custom of—”

  “Ah,” Molgrimin turned his gaze away as though he were ashamed. “I...don’t use my clan name anymore.”

  “Oh,” Alwarul said. “Then let us not tarry on the subject.” The serving wench came back and placed two steaming bowls of stew on the table, full of garlic, onions, carrots, and indeed a bit of pork. “Thank you, girl,” Alwarul said to her. “Please, will you fetch a portion for our friend here as well?”

  “I’ll fetch you stew all day so long as you pay.” She gave Molgrimin an amused smile. “You didn’t bleed as much as last time.”

  “Indeed not, sweet lass,” the dwarf boasted. “That big one didn’t pack much of a punch. At least the louts yesterday had the spirit to do a bit of violence before they ran.”

  The serving wench gave him a confused look, but Alwarul pressed a copper in her hand and smiled. “Now, girl, see that our friend has a meal.”

  As she went, Molgrimin inclined his head to the old man. “It has been a long time since I met such kindness. Who are ye, Alwarul the Old? Are ye a pilgrim?”

  “Ah, not quite,” Alwarul said. “I am a member of a certain order with a long-running interest in learning. I am a member of the Rizych.”

  “Rizych, now?” Molgrimin asked while Nathelion tasted a spoonful of stew. It was too spicy, but its warmth and shock of flavor gave him some comfort after the cold rain outside. “Never heard of the Rizych before. Is this a new order?”

  Alwarul held back a smile. “No, it is rather old, actually. It has grown small, though. I’m not surprised that you have not heard of it” — Or seen its invisible tower! Nathelion thought — “and I expect that you must be distanced from Lourne. Is it the Skypeaks that you name your home?”

  “Skypeaks!?” Molgrimin exclaimed. “Nay, nay, though it is fair that you think so, seeing me here. Nay, I had the pleasure of calling Kast-Harnax my home, though misfortune carried me elsewhere.”

  “A great kingdom,” Alwarul said without hesitation. “I hear that your mountains are rich in both gold and honor. But then you have traveled far.”

  “Far, aye, and for a long time, I’m afraid.” Molgrimin sighed. “Five years it’s been since I saw my home. I left on a hunt lacking a trail. Wasted, all.”

  “What hunt is that?” Nathelion asked over his stew. He had expected a decisive answer, but Molgrimin only shrugged.

  “A hunt for something worth hunting, some feat that would bring me honor, some beast that would allow me to die without shame. I found nothing.”

  “I see,” Alwarul said, reclining as the serving wench came back and deposited a third bowl on the table. The old man thanked her and then leaned in over the table again when she left. “And what would you say if I told you that we are on such a trail?”

  Silence settled among them, and Nathelion turned uncomfortably in his chair. This was going to get embarrassing.

  Molgrimin took a mighty spoon of stew, chewing slowly. Once he swallowed, he let his orange eyes rest upon the old man. “I’d ask ye, what exactly are ye up to?”

  Alwarul straightened calmly, and when he spoke, every word was full of meaning. “We are on a quest. A rather perilous quest. There is a change in the world, Molgrimin, a change I think your senses have already caught notice of. A darkness that must bring unrest to your heart.”

  Molgrimin grew silent again, and though Nathelion expected some laughter, none came. “Aye...” the moinguir said instead. “There is a...hopelessness in the air. And a...pressing darkness. I have felt it. Aye, I have felt it.”

  Alwarul went on with a voice heavy with import. “Its origin is a force that transcends all measure. The Queen Beyond has risen, and she lays claim to all life. Neither humans nor moinguir nor ilesefen nor any other of the high races will be able to stand against her: no armies can win this battle. Only this man is destined to face her.” Alwarul gestured to Nathelion, who just dropped his spoon. “This man, chosen by Hyahiera, marked by the Great Mother as her champion, and foretold as he who can vanquish the Vile One.”

  Molgrimin regarded him silently, now surely ready to laugh. But he did not. Instead, he looked, inspecting Nathelion’s face intently, as if he could see through some mask. “Aye,” he breathed. “Aye, ye are a warrior. I know a whole lot about fighting, so dammit if I cannot see it. Ye are a warrior, lad.” The dwarf seemed to have completely forgotten their initial discussion.

  “So, will you join us, then?” Alwarul asked while Nathelion sat speechless. “Will you share this burden?”

  When he spoke, there was a renewed strength in the moinguir’s voice. “By the spirits of my ancestors, I shall aid ye in yer quest even if it means my death.”

  “Then we have a worthy ally,” Alwarul intoned somberly. “When spells become weapons, no one is better armored than the moinguir.”

  “Ye say we’ll be facing magic, aye?” Molgrimin grinned. “Ye’ve given me some hope, Alwarul the Old. Ye’ve just about given me some hope.”

  Shadow of the Countess

  Nathelion’s room was still dark when the soft taps came on the door, awakening him. The window offered but a paler shade of darkness in place of the light of dawn, and all was dim around him. He found that he was covered in sweat. His night had been full of nightmares, though they quickly faded from his memory.

  “Mister, you wanted to be up before dawn?” a mild womanly voice called hesitantl
y through the door. “The...moinguir is already downstairs. Drinking quite eagerly. He called for you.”

  “I’m coming,” Nathelion told her, rising from the bed to put his clothes on. He now regretted having snuffed the lamp’s flame out before going to sleep. “Go and wake Alwarul up if you haven’t already. We’ll be leaving soon.”

  He heard the woman leave while he was struggling with his boots. Outside the small window, the heavy clouds still hung over the town, spreading their somber darkness and hiding the moon as they would soon hide the sun. Damn our poor luck with the weather, Nathelion thought. How are we to travel with it looking like this?

  The street below his window was empty, its shadows melting into each other in dark patterns between equally dark houses. The crude signs of some nearby shops swayed stiffly in cold winds that promised to remain. It better not start raining again, he thought as he looked out over the glistening wetness of the street. While he was fastening the sword to his side with the piece of rope he’d taken from Shepherd’s barn, he caught the sound of footsteps outside his door again. “Yes, what do you want?” he asked as the woman stopped outside his door. No answer came. “Did you wake Alwarul?”

  The silence sent a reluctant shiver down his spine. Had he even heard footsteps? Why would the woman come back at all? Suddenly, he was overcome with discomfort at the thought of having spoken to nothing but a fantasy. He intended to open the door and make sure, but he stopped before reaching it. Somehow, the door emanated a terrible sense of danger, as if it would open into the very abyss itself. For a while, he stood frozen by indecision, torn between his desire to see whether or not he had heard anything...and the fear of what might be there if he had.