The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond

by Simon Markusson

  The Queen Beyond lifted her head with a last, defiant laugh. “I will grow stronger, wizard. You cannot save him. And you cannot save your world.”

  Alwarul flung out a hand at her, his long fingers flooding with an invisible force. “Av’rivilas!” he shouted, and with that command, a surge of power struck the Queen Beyond, dispersing her form into a thousand shadows.

  Alwarul fell to the floor.

  20

  Looking into the Shadows

  Sir Conrad walked with long strides along the cobblestone streets of Richard’s Defense, moving between silent buildings in the lantern light. The crisp chill made his breath mist in the air. He had been expecting snow for a long time now, though none came.

  He pulled the right flap of the cloak around himself while leaving his left side free. Strangely, he had come to feel as if it might be wise to let his sword remain visible, as if there were some threat in this city of his childhood. It was a slight, nagging unease that wouldn’t quite turn to fear, though it had him alert. He was used to trusting his gut.

  It was a long walk to the fortress, yet the massive stronghold never vanished from his sight when he stepped through the streets — it always loomed over the city, black and crude. The keep seemed part of the night. He could have ridden there, but now he needed to think. He didn’t know what game the blademaster was playing, but the man seemed to be enjoying it. How much did Nightshadow know? How much did he himself know? Damn you, Destette, what’s this bloody task you’ve given me?

  He had wondered if it was not just a way to have him killed, sending him into Rurhav now. He had almost refused her, for many reasons. Some folly, that would have been. Sir Conrad did not have the power to challenge the countess. She was more sovereign in her own lands than most rulers, and the hold she had on him was strong regardless. Perhaps she was just toying with him, taking the same devilish amusement as a cat with its helpless prey. But he thought that he had begun to notice some wider depth to it all now, and he was ever kept guessing.

  Sir Maran Street looked familiar with its old houses and older tavern a short way from the fortress. A few Lions crossed the street, their fiery cloaks trailing after them, but he did not recognize the men. Good, he thought as they turned into the tavern that often enjoyed the custom of the Order. They are not completely lacking recruits, then. The Lions of the Pass would need far more, though, if they were to keep the Harp safe. Twelve hundred men... It was enough to keep the city, certainly, with the barbarians lacking the means to carry out a proper siege. But the entire Harp could not be guarded from the city walls. If the savages were coming down in enough numbers to make the city into an island, then the lands would again be burned and raided. We bloody just drove them out. Why are the Lions so few? Olwyn should have taken every measure to bolster the ranks!

  It was what he would have done had he still been commander. But he had nominated Knight Commander Olwyn Sennhelt to the post when he had seen the Defense needed him no longer. The knight was a good man, in truth, wiser in leadership than Sir Conrad had ever claimed to be, and it should have been him leading the Lions from the beginning. Or so Conrad had thought. Gods, Olwyn, what have you allowed to happen? Sir Olwyn Sennhelt had always been a careful man, one who planned for catastrophe and planned well. It was why he had earned the nomination. He wouldn’t hound the barbarians in the Hills, but he would bloody not let them have an inch of the Harp either. This decline in the order was alien to what Conrad would have expected from the man’s leadership. The only thing that seemed like him was the number of scouts he appeared to be sending out. But why keep sending them when they keep dying? He knows the enemy is there. He should be taking measures. Had Sir Olwyn even sent for help? No word of the crisis had reached Silverstream from what Conrad knew, or Woevane. There were no soldiers marching to the Harp, only people leaving.

  A lamp’s flame suddenly fluttered when he walked past it, and then it died. His eyes were pulled to the alley behind him by chittering sounds, as if a pack of rats was running there. The yellow eyes that flashed in the darkness told him that a cat must be among them. He felt a strange unease, though, standing there. And he could not say why he made a point not to turn his back to that alley when he started moving again. The sounds of the panicked rodents somehow unsettled him. He had his hand on his sword. Gods, what is wrong with those rats?

  Yellow eyes flashed again, bobbing oddly in the darkness, and Conrad felt a piercing sense of danger. He backed into the light of the next lamp, and then a bit farther still before turning forward with an angry swirl of his cloak and a curse. Yet the unease stayed with him, flaring coldly in his neck when he felt that he had been looking ahead of himself for too long, and he had to throw the odd glance over his shoulder to ensure that he was not being followed. Behind him, there was nothing except the extinguished lamp standing dark in the lit row, and the shadowy alley.

  Conrad cursed himself again, and he cursed Tim, too, though he wasn’t sure why. Bloody boy needs to stop believing in ghosts. What was that sudden fright in the valley? Damn idiocy to bother me with it. He had little patience for such fantasies. When you saw battle, you never needed ghosts, and he had seen too many of those. Yet he did not like this nightly city now. It was not the escape from Silverstream that it should have been.

  He had been growing increasingly disconcerted in Silverstream, and not solely because of his son. The streets had begun to make him leery — looking into every shadow and clenching his teeth at every sound. Castle Scarlet had the same strange mystery, though its looks were much prettier. He had never been comfortable in the service of the countess, naturally, but it was not just her presence that had brought him on edge. A grim air had come over Silverstream and its castle, just like the one he now found here.

  It had been a long time since Sir Conrad had feared death, yet he understood that he was not completely without fear for all that. Lately, he had felt a certain unease that he could not find a source to, a dread of something unnamed and unknown, and not the simple death that he knew. It appeared he was carrying the sense with him and hadn’t left it in Silverstream as he’d hoped. Even Richard’s Defense failed to keep his apprehension at bay. I must be growing old.

  He left houses and shops behind as he began to climb the hill towards the lounging fortress with its indomitable walls, a grim and old citadel that he had once known as home. It was so familiar to him, with its rotund towers, shadowy battlements, and the banner of the Lions still flying high from the highest spire in the middle of the keep — the Watchtower that saw far into the Pass and into the Hills. The Lion of Flames roared from the greatest vantage point that could be afforded, though in the murky darkness, Conrad could only see the hint of gold and red on the banner, the proud sigil wrapped in shadows now.

  A pair of Lions stood posted outside the heavy gates of Sacrifice and followed his approach with suspicious eyes. Conrad frowned at the cage that hung over the gates, its chains creaking as it swayed gently in the soft breeze. A corpse sat stooped and naked in the cramped confinement, clasping the bars with rotten hands — a nightmarish puppet, thin, fleshless, and reeking of decay.

  “What business have you in Sacrifice, sir?” one of the Lions called in a nasal voice, drawing Conrad’s eyes from the grotesque corpse. He realized that he knew neither of the guards. The man who had addressed him had a thin face and cold eyes.

  “I have come to see a friend. Sir Haeigwyn. I’ve heard that he is wounded?”

  “Aye, he’s wounded alright,” the other guard confirmed, his voice darker. He was a sturdy fellow, with a broad face and a thick neck. “Question is, how do you know him?”

  “I see the castle’s security has been increased,” Sir Conrad noted with a grin. “Will you tell Sir Olwyn that the grand commander has returned? I’m sure he’ll have you open the gates.”

  The two guards both frowned at him, and then the one with the gloomy face spat. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, sir, but you can tell the traitor whateve
r you wish right here.”

  Conrad’s eyes darted to the corpse in the cage, and he almost gasped with the realization of who he was looking at. “What...?” he breathed. “This is—”

  “Good, hard justice,” the nasal voice finished. “Grand Commander Maven keeps discipline strong now. There’ll be no more treachery in Sacrifice; you can take my word for that. We had to stuff our ears as the traitor starved, bloody too squeamish to be a knight.”

  Conrad could hardly believe what he was hearing. What is this place? “What...what did he do?”

  “Nothing, save empty our coffers into his own purse. Most of it we’ll never see again, but he’ll not either.” The man laughed. “He was ready to sell his soul for a bit of bread in the end, but we figured it wasn’t worth it. We fed the birds, though.”

  Conrad almost threw a punch to take out a few of the man’s teeth, but shock had him in a stupor. Sir Olwyn an embezzler? Is that why the Lions are so few? He couldn’t believe that he had misjudged the man so.

  “Now, won’t you ask him to have the gates opened?” the knight with the dark voice asked. “He doesn’t speak much, though.”

  Conrad wouldn’t let them see him shaken, and he was used to steeling himself quickly. He had trodden among the corpses of friends many times before. And they all seem to keep dying. “Who is Grand Commander Maven?” He kept his voice very calm.

  “A good commander,” the thin man said. “What’s it to you, sir? Will you give us your name?”

  Before he had the time to answer, the small door in the gate opened to let out a group of Lions, undoubtedly on their way to the tavern. “Bloody... Sir Hardae!” one of them exclaimed upon seeing him, and Conrad recognized the young man at once as Squire James. Sir James now, judging by the brown-haired man’s fiery cloak. Why, he even has a beard.

  “Last one I expected to see here now. Grand commander...eh, sir, what are you doing here?”

  “That’s the Reclaimer?” the sturdy guard asked incredulously.

  “How’s that for a surprise,” muttered his friend.

  Sir James heard them. “Have you been keeping him at the gates?”

  “Former Lions aren’t let in without reason.”

  Sir James ignored that and turned to Conrad instead while his group waited by the door. “If you’re looking for Sir Olwyn...” he began uncomfortably.

  “I’m not,” Conrad said, his tone revealing that he had just learned of Olwyn’s fate. “I’m here to meet Sir Haeigwyn.”

  “I see.” Sir James’ face was somber. He nodded. “I’ll take you there. He doesn’t sleep anymore, though the physicians say he ought to. He’ll leave us soon.”

  “You take him inside, and he’s your responsibility,” the thin guard said. “He was friend to the traitor.”

  “Sir Braxton, shut up.” James didn’t look at the man. He turned to his waiting friends. “I’ll meet up with you later.”

  “Yea,” one of the Lions said as they began down the hill, grinning in a way that made him seem the joker of the group. “We’ll probably spot you in an alley on our way back.”

  Conrad didn’t see the joke. “In an alley?” he asked James.

  The man shook his head as they began crossing the dark courtyard. “Murders have been going on here for some time. Ugly ones. And they don’t stop either, no matter how many men are hanged.”

  “Murders?” Conrad stopped for a moment, frowning. “Are the victims...mutilated?” As soon as he asked, he already knew the answer by the expression on James’s face.

  “How do you know that?” the knight asked. “Did you talk to Sir Wilfrey?”

  “I did, but he did not tell me that. It’s the same in Silverstream.” Conrad didn’t know what that meant, but it was very curious.

  “What?” James asked in surprise. “People are killed...”

  “Nearly every night, screaming like under torture. Though you’ll not find many running to the rescue. When they are found in the day, they scarcely have any flesh left on them.”

  “Gods! In Silverstream, too?” James frowned. “That sounds like a cult to me.”

  “And how do you fight it?” Conrad asked, looking at the other man. “You hang men. Do you also patrol the streets?”

  “Not much,” James said regretfully. “The commander doesn’t want us to play gendarmes now. He prefers to send us scouting. Keeping eyes on the Hills is what’s important. Unfortunately, he might be right. We’ve had reports—”

  “I know,” Conrad said. “The barbarians are amassing.”

  “Not just barbarians, either. But Haeigwyn will tell you that bit. He’ll tell you what the others died knowing.”

  “And how many are those?”

  “Hundreds,” James said, shaking his head. “All experienced scouts, too. The commander only sends the most seasoned, but the Hills still swallow them like never before.”

  They passed beneath the arch of the southwestern bridge and entered the western courtyard with its now empty training grounds and archery range. Stone barracks lined the walls, along with sturdy armories and smithies, but everything was still now save for the guards who walked the catwalks above them. Torches and braziers lit up most of the castle grounds, though the shadows remained deep and many. “Who is this Maven? I never heard of him.”

  “Lord Maven Veirden.” James shrugged. “Some noble from Meirovitan. Bloody good swordsman, though, and he knows command from birth, that’s clear. He was voted quickly to the post after the things about Sir Olwyn were revealed.”

  “Olwyn...” Conrad said. “What did he do exactly? I can’t think that he was corrupted by greed. Sir Olwyn?”

  “I know how it sounds, Conrad.” James sighed. “The man was a rock. No, not a rock, but a bloody steady tree, if you will. I was certain he was innocent, but then... Ah, there was too much evidence brought up, letters and ledgers and documents. Grand Commander Maven proved it all beyond doubt, and then... Dammit, anyone can be a traitor, it seems.”

  “Sir Olwyn’s replacement was the one who condemned him?” That made Conrad raise an eyebrow.

  “No, of course it wasn’t just the grand commander. Others brought up charges, too. Hugh, Dalwens, Adren... There was plenty of material already. Grand Commander Maven just helped lay it out for all to see. He did it very deftly.” James gave Conrad a look. “I’m telling you, Conrad, Olwyn was guilty. There’s no doubt about that anymore. I know how you trusted the man — I did too. No one could have foreseen this.”

  Conrad nodded wearily, too tired to keep the discussion up. Damn you, Olwyn. The man had been like a brother to him. The thought of how he had ended cut deep. “Why is recruitment handled so poorly?” he asked, partly to think of something else.

  “Because we are poor. The treasury is nearly empty, and the Order has taken loans already to pay what men we’ve recruited. The lands won’t give us any income in winter, and the hole in our coffers is growing. Grand Commander Maven says he’ll turn it around, though, but time is needed. There’s talk of selling some of the lands.”

  Conrad couldn’t do anything other than grimace. “And lose a steady income to pay off some loans? You should bloody ask the lords of the Harp how much they value their prosperity, for without Richard’s Defense, it’d belong to the barbarians.”

  “Well...” Sir James looked about as if uncomfortable. “There’s also talk of swearing the Order to one of the bigger houses, the Mylverys or the Areinins, and be—”

  “And be vassal? The Order is for the kingdom, nothing else. Let the lords in, and you’ll be knee-deep in feuds and plots. Gods, what will become of the Lions then? Our charge is Sacrifice, not being legion for a lord!”

  “Our?” Sir James said with a smile, and then he turned his eyes ahead. “I’m truly sorry you left, Sir Conrad. You were the best grand commander yet.”

  Conrad answered with a grunt as they passed beneath the second bridge, coming out into the courtyard that held the older barracks. The looming statue of Sir Richard Daye st
ood armored and solemn before the gray buildings with their stone lions running along the upper walls. He was never grand commander, though, Sir Conrad thought. He just created the Order.

  “But I’m afraid we must do something,” James told him at length. “Haeigwyn will convince you.” He shivered. “Times are dark, as they say. Things happening like you wouldn’t believe... These are dark times. Bloody dark times.”

  In the northern courtyard, they came to the high tower and the battlements that, more than any other, aided in the defense against the barbarians, looking out from the steep cliff upon which Sacrifice was built. “You keep him in the Watchtower?”

  “Aye,” James answered. “He’ll die up there, it seems. No one will force him to come down.”

  A guard stood by the tower’s door, another unfamiliar face. But James greeted the man and led Conrad inside. The Watchtower was large and full of short corridors that led to map rooms and twisting stairs, all lit with torches. Conrad needed no guide to reach the observatory at its top, but James followed him regardless, growing more silent as they went. What grim things that heralded, Conrad could not say.

  The tower appeared almost empty save for them, and their steps echoed against the cold stones. It felt as if they were walking through some crypt to visit the dead rather than one living.

  A drowsy guard looked up from his chair by one of the doors when they reached the highest floor. “Sir Conrad will see Sir Haeigwyn,” James announced. The Lion narrowed his eyes at them.

  “The...Sir Conrad Hardae?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, just go through. I don’t lock him in. Just here if he wants something.”

  Sir James opened the door and held it for Conrad. He didn’t follow any farther, however. “I’ll leave you now, sir,” James said without even looking into the room. “Maybe you’ll join us at the tavern later?”