The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond

by Simon Markusson

  “I warn you,” The knight said, his eyes pitiless, “Rurhav is not a kind place to the old and infirm.”

  “It is not,” Alwarul agreed grimly. “It is not.”

  They followed the road northwest after they left a still sleeping Hearthglen, in which the sturdy houses stood silent and dark with their gavel roofs jutting sharply against the sky. The clouds were in motion this day, heaving in winds as distant as them, though their veil would not be lifted from the world, and its many shadows remained. The knight kept a steady pace, and the party passed the numerous lakes of the Harp as they rode along the heights and gazed out over the vast, sullen waters coming from the Valdmer.

  In summer, these lands were a gem, with everything bathed in sunlight and flowers and the lakes shimmering with magic. But now there was only a crisp chill and a constant darkness, and not even the colorful leaves, where they could still be found, could gladden the image. It all looked desolate, and Alwarul suspected that it was not just due to the season of the year. There was something more to it.

  He was not certain of much concerning the abyss. Scarce knowledge was to be found of the darker planes, even in the Secret Tower and even among the Rizych, and few things made for such perilous study. He had never endeavored upon it. There were those who had been braver than him, having ventured to discover the secrets of the depths. Some had died in ways that were still unexplainable to the tower. Others had become cruel and twisted in ways shockingly deviating from their original character. Yet the most memorable were perhaps those who...faded. Many men and women who had been counted as wise numbered among them, scholars who had known to practice caution when dealing with the nether. They had managed to learn much from their meticulous studies. Their change of character had been subtler and slower than that of the others, yet it had been no less profound for it. Their laughter ceased, and their eyes grew ever weary, bereft of heart. A darkness seemed to settle over them that they could not shrug off even when their bodies remained intact and their mental faculties stayed as apt as ever to reason. They ceased to speak with their friends and colleagues, abandoning all studies and commitments to wrap themselves in a brooding kind of solitude that eventually numbed their minds to the world. For some of them, the heart simply stopped a short time thereafter, while others lived on for years, cared for by the Rizych and yet never breaking out of their strange apathy. Others still would kill themselves.

  It was a dangerous study, and many who had been interested in it had come to be revealed as Barizych. Now none of the Thirteen possessed much of the knowledge that had been gained and lost through tragedy, and then gained and lost again. There was only one tome ever written that held considerable lore of the abyss: a thick, heavy piece that Alwarul had made sure not to read. The writer of it, Rotofos Amulen, had slit his wrists after scribbling the last words, and it was said that his blood had poured to stain the page. None of the Thirteen had been interested in verifying it, and the Black Tome of Rotofos had been forbidden by a unanimous vote. It was locked away now, in parts of the library to which only Seluiel had the keys.

  Yet, even without that dark lore, and without any committed study of the abyss, Alwarul still thought he could recognize a slow transformation in his own world. The presence of the nether seemed to taint the very air, to suffuse the whole of nature, making all trees whimper and sigh in winds that carried the cold promise of lost eternity. Wherever he looked at the landscape, it seemed as if abyssal reflections were taking the place of every plant, every body of water, and every inch of land, slowly damning the world around them.

  They were riding down a long slope when Alwarul suddenly felt a freezing tingle in his mind and heart, and the whole world seemed to fade from his vision. Before his inner eye, a face flashed and disappeared, and then it came again, a frozen beauty unlike any other. “Show him to me...” Her voice suddenly seemed to sound all around him, drowning out the clapping of hooves. It echoed in his mind. “Show him to me...to me...to me... Show him to me.” The woman laughed, and her brilliant eyes appeared before him. “Wizard...wizard...show him to me!”

  “Ho!” Sir Conrad shouted, and he slowed in his horse as he caught Alwarul’s reins and prevented him from falling out of the saddle. The party came to a halt, but Alwarul was almost too shaken to notice. “Old man,” the knight growled, releasing him, “why do you insist on continuing with us?”

  After his harrying visitation, Alwarul was almost without patience. “Because, otherwise, the world would be doomed to the hells!” he snapped in a voice that made even the knight go silent. “You do not know of what I speak. You never met Rotofos, you never saw the change in Myela, and you never faced the darkness of the Barizych. So, silence yourself, child, and mind the task that your liege lady gave you!”

  The knight afforded him a dispassionate smile. “Very well,” he said. “We stop here for some rest. It’s as good a place as any. Then we continue on to Richard’s Defense.”

  They had stopped just below the hill, which was surrounded by thickets. Alwarul was too lost in thought to take notice of the others, though he hoped they were not unsettled by his sudden show of weakness. And that they did not see his growing desperation. The Queen Beyond will not sit idle while we prepare to defeat her. She has her eyes on me still. She is assailing me.

  17

  A Duelist of Savu

  “We have company,” Sir Conrad called very suddenly in a toneless voice that communicated danger. “Tim, be ready.”

  Nathelion rose to his feet and looked down the road at the men who had been spotted. They were six unshaven louts stumbling over the ditch before the thicket. Their talk was excited until one snapped something like a command. Three carried swords — drawn — two had cudgels, and one held a staff with both hands. None looked to be out for a stroll.

  “And who are you supposed to be?” Sir Conrad called out as the group approached. “Is it perchance Jalen Thorne and his band?”

  Some of the men laughed, but the one who seemed to be in charge silenced them with a cold glare. “Funny, knight. Will you be as funny with a blade in your gut?”

  Sir Conrad shrugged. “I’ve only tried with a spear and a few arrows. Will you be as bold before the gallows? I’d call it cruel, tricking these men to assist you in a robbery so close to Richard’s Defense.”

  The filthy bandit spat, and then he leered at the knight, revealing a mouth mostly empty of teeth. “Why so? This is the best time for it. All the Lions stay within the walls, and these roads bring rich folk thinking like you in from the towns. Don’t worry, though, we’ll soon be far away with those horses of yours. Now, give them over, along with all your coin, and maybe we’ll let the boy and the old man live. Aye, and maybe the dwarf, too.”

  “We can take the dwarf with us, Waeron,” one fellow with a cudgel said. “I hear they can sing to create gold.”

  “Shut up, Tommel,” Waeron snarled, while the others sniggered. “You want that one to sing for you?”

  Molgrimin had been sitting with his bottles and his jolly hymns, but now he seemed to notice the newcomers through his drunken haze. “Eh, trouble, is it?” he said almost eagerly. “I was hoping for a good fight.”

  The band laughed and exchanged a few jokes at the moinguir’s expense. Nathelion drew his sword — maybe too soon. Fright had made him stupid. We’re dead.

  “Look, the serf knows how to fight, too!” one of the men exclaimed, giving rise to more chuckles.

  Sir Conrad grinned. “Nightshadow, make sure you show these nitwits how one fights on Savu before you end it.” His eyes were full of confidence, though Nathelion felt something wholly different. Guess I’ll die the fool. I really wish I hadn’t deserved it so much.

  “That’s no bloody duelist,” Waeron laughed. “Who gave the farmhand a sword, anyway?”

  “Look at the sword, though...” one of the men said softly, almost inaudibly. “What kind of sword is that?”

  “Aye, look at it,” Tommel added in a louder voice. “I nev
er saw a farmhand with a sword like that.”

  “A fine sword, indeed,” Waeron agreed. “So, who wants it?”

  Every man called out to claim the weapon.

  “Ye think to take Nathan’s weapon, eh?” Molgrimin said, a great fury entering his voice. The moinguir’s eyes became like furnaces, and the bandits took some startled steps back. Even Waeron frowned and appeared to be wary. Molgrimin didn’t wait for them to regain their courage. He charged headlong, unarmed and unarmored, with a furious roar. The men shied away from him as if he carried a disease — which seemed increasingly likely — but the one with a staff thrust the butt of his weapon in the dwarf’s stomach. Molgrimin grunted, slouched, and tipped over onto the ground. “Sucker punch...” he groaned, writhing in the dirt.

  The men around him laughed — until Sir Conrad’s voice whipped them silent. “You all seem very brave to me,” he snapped. “So, come like brave men and engage us one against one. Who’s first?”

  Waeron only smiled his ugly smile. “You are,” he said unaffectedly, and then he turned to the others. “Kill the knight first; the rest will be easy pickings.”

  “Tim, cover my back,” the knight commanded, his voice suddenly very focused. “And don’t try to charge away.”

  Four men turned to engage the knight and his squire, among them Waeron and one other swordsman. Nathelion couldn’t watch them, though, for he found that two ruffians had picked him as their target: an ugly, scarred fellow with a rust-stained sword and the brute with a staff.

  Nathelion surprised himself with the amount of anger he was able to feel in the situation even though he was about to die. It was especially the man with the staff who earned his resentment after having beaten Molgrimin so cowardly. He found himself wishing that the man would one day face someone able to knock that smirk off his face, someone who’d match his ruthlessness and beat him in ability.

  “Why are you backing away, duelist?” the man jeered. He was broad-shouldered and a head taller than Nathelion. “Surely, the fighting pits of Savu offer greater challenges?”

  Hopefully, you’ll meet someone from there one day and be just as cocky as you are now. Nathelion cursed him silently, but he kept backing away all the same, for he knew that he’d soon have a sword piercing his gut or his skull. And the looming ass with the staff would watch it all happen.

  “Looks like your old man is croaking,” the wiry man with the sword noted, sounding amused. “Guess he won’t have to see his...grandson die.”

  Nathelion turned his head despite himself and saw that Alwarul was indeed caught up in some seizure, with only the whites of his eyes visible under fluttering eyelids.

  He shouldn’t have looked.

  The staff came mercilessly to strike his neck, a blow that burned rudely and made his world go black and stingy for an endless moment in which he staggered to the side and nearly fell. His brain flared with the desperate and numbing realization of its final seconds of life. The one with the sword came on, thrusting his blade while Nathelion was off balance. Nathelion could see him only from the corner of his eye, yet everything was slow, so slow and critical that he could anticipate the pain that would follow the metal piercing his flesh. That is, if something had not quickened in him.

  Thought left him at that moment, and only the burning desire to avoid that blade consumed him, setting him free to move through the frozen world. To move fast.

  Nathelion twisted like he had never done before, so simply, so instinctively, letting the blade pass just an inch behind his back. It was unbelievable — but it was without any questioning as well, so there was no delay — and his movements were tranquil. Balance was his again, and he stepped like a shadow away from the man, glided past him, and was suddenly at the side of both of his opponents.

  A curse was uttered by the man who had missed his blow, and then the other man swung the staff again. But Nathelion was quicker, every impression seemingly a trigger for his body to adjust with a speed that was free of all hindrance. He dodged the blow by just a hair’s width. It was as if he were intoxicated by rapid motion, and his heart beat such a quick rhythm, so quick and steady and focused. He moved through some strange world of wild patterns and hasty shapes that beckoned him to dance with them, to move with them, and there, he found release from himself. It was harmony.

  The man with the staff followed the missed swing with another, but Nathelion’s heart was drumming with a better tempo, thu-thump-thu-thump-thu-thump, and he stepped away quickly and easily, as if the movement had been long rehearsed. More blurred shapes assailed him, the sword, the staff again, but he dodged, pulled back, and danced to the side. And his own sword flashed like a snake to direct the play when he found the need. He parried attacks from both men, steel blurring to check the one’s blow and then bounding to divert the other’s again, deflect the downstroke, steer away the thrust, parry again. Again. And all the while, he danced away to take favorable positions.

  He noticed absently that his free hand was held behind his back, oddly poised with his fist against the lower spine, yet it felt comfortable, as if it gave him balance and spared him the need to guard the arm against blows. He didn’t need it now. One weapon was enough.

  “Bloody hell!” the swordsman cussed, wide-eyed and breathing hard from his effort. “I’m not staying here!” He turned and ran, giving no heed to his friend’s shouted complaint.

  The one with the staff found himself alone with Nathelion, who stood almost free from perspiration, and he hesitated just a moment before joining the other’s flight. He didn’t get far, though. Molgrimin tripped him where he lay, making the man fall forward and drop his staff. Then the dwarf was over him like a mad goblin, red and trembling with rage as he grappled with the much larger man in the dust.

  Nathelion almost ran to assist the moinguir, but he stopped with a frown as Molgrimin seemed to...overpower the man. The dwarf was less than half the brute’s size, like a heavyset child with a beard. But his short, thick arms still seemed to outdo the bandit. He would grab the man’s wrists and then headbutt him repeatedly, roaring like a beast, and when his foe freed his hands to desperately pull at the dwarf’s beard and try to punch him, Molgrimin bit into his fingers and then into his nose. It all made Nathelion wince, seeing the large man squeal like some wounded animal. He didn’t even try to fight anymore, only to get away. Molgrimin punched him, and his broad fists seemed to pack a teeth-rattling force as they smacked down over the man’s bloodied face, making him tremble with every impact.

  When the man finally managed to topple the dwarf over and get to his feet, he wasted no time trying to retrieve his staff but instead limped headlong into the trees. Molgrimin followed him, the dwarf’s short legs moving with a rather frightening speed, and the man he chased threw a terrified glance over his shoulder as if he were hounded by death itself. Then they disappeared into the brush, their screams rapidly growing distant, if not less intense.

  Men were fleeing from Sir Conrad and Tim as well, Nathelion noted, but only two. A pair of corpses lay limply on the ground, and one of them was Waeron. Both stared blankly at the overcast sky while blood pooled around them.

  Nathelion ran to Alwarul, who still shivered beneath the wide elm. “Alwarul!” he called, putting his sword away and kneeling by the old man. Alwarul looked harrowed, as if he had seen a ghost, but the worst of his seizure appeared to be over. “Alwarul, are you alright?” Nathelion looked into the man’s eyes, trying to determine how present he was.

  “Who...who are you?” Alwarul asked, peering at him.

  Gods, he is getting worse. “It’s me, Nathelion Nightshadow!”

  For a moment, the old man just frowned, as if completely lost to senility. But then he blinked and shook his head. “I’m sorry Nathelion, I...”

  “It is no matter,” Nathelion said. “Do you feel all right? What happened?”

  “She...” Alwarul began, but then he let the sentence die. “No, do not worry, Nathelion. I still have strength. We shall mak
e it to Lourne, and farther still.”

  “Are you...sure you wish to continue?” Nathelion asked delicately.

  “Yes, I can continue.” Alwarul supported himself on the tree to get up, and Nathelion handed him his staff. “I must. We cannot fail, Nathelion.”

  “Of course not... Of course not.” Dammit, Alwarul, you’re not in good enough shape to have those delusions.

  “What happened here?” Sir Conrad came over to them, sheathing his sword. He saw how shaken Alwarul looked, leaning heavily on the staff of his. “I can get you lodgings in Castle Sacrifice. They have a few skilled physicians there. Their methods may be less mild than the priests’, but they are more effective. You will be taken care of.”

  “No,” Alwarul said without hesitation. “I don’t need a physician’s care. There is no potion or medical treatment that could aid in the struggle I am in now.”

  Sir Conrad grimaced. “You mean some witchery? Doom yourself if you wish, old man, I won’t force your choice. Your life is not my bloody responsibility.”

  “Well, technically—” Nathelion began, more than willing to dispute the knight’s interpretation of his task, but Sir Conrad spoke right over him.

  “Where is the moinguir?” The knight looked around.

  “He chased after one of them,” Nathelion said, and then he added, “I think he’ll return once he’s calmed down.”

  “He better. We wait here and make ready to leave. Soon as the dwarf comes back, we ride for Richard’s Defense.”

  That was a whole lot of waiting, it turned out, before Molgrimin trod out from the thicket with twigs in his hair and beard. “You were wise to wait,” the moinguir shared while they mounted. “Had ye followed... Well, the bear seldom recognizes friend from foe.”

  Nathelion didn’t tell him that Sir Conrad had gone to look for him after his patience had grown thin, to see if the dwarf had “fallen in some hole.” At Nathelion’s suggestion.