The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond

by Simon Markusson

  “Black-lacquered ringmail, black fox helm. Strange requests both. He never came back to pick them up, though. Guess I should’ve figured, way he stormed about. A whole lot of effort went into that helm, a whole lot.”

  Nathelion could see it. The helmet would only cover the upper half of the face, leaving the mouth free, yet the parts that it did cover would be exchanged with quite adorable foxlike features, turning the eyes wild and cunning. It was truly an impressive visage: the mere sight of it at once seemed to suggest a professional trickster. How would I look in that? “Can I try it?” he heard himself asking. Why? I can’t bloody afford it...

  “Of course, sir,” said the armorer, and he laid his work to the side. He pulled a chair over to the wall so he could take the helmet down. “Good steel, this, and it’s well cushioned inside, too. You could take a war hammer to the head with this one on, mark my words.”

  Nathelion received the helmet in both hands and gazed into the fox’s empty glare for a while. It looked so mystical and playful that he almost thought it could see him. Then he put it on and felt how it fit his head just perfectly. The armorer nodded with approval. “You must have nearly the same measurements, it would seem. Goes well with your clothes, too.” The man chuckled. “You must excuse me, sir, but you look like a...bloody something from a storybook. Bloody sharp.”

  “Can I try the ringmail?” Nathelion asked.

  “The black one? Aye, seems like your color.” The armorer plucked the ringmail shirt down from its hook. Molgrimin came over to look on as Nathelion tried it out. The dwarf nodded silently, and Nathelion found it to fit quite comfortably. It gave his body a formidable sense of weight that still wouldn’t become cumbersome, and he felt very protected in it.

  “Very nice fit on that one as well,” the armorer commented. “Aye, very nice.”

  “Put on the helmet again, Nathan,” Molgrimin suggested, “and the cloak. Let me see ye.”

  Nathelion did as the dwarf asked, and Molgrimin nodded with a grin that had Nathelion grinning back despite himself. “Aye, now yer beginning to look the warrior that ye are. Have ye tried the belt?”

  He put the belt on, too, and sheathed his sword in its scabbard. Gods, it felt empowering.

  “Well, would you look at that,” the armorer cursed. “A damn champion. Wear all that, and you’ll have your enemies fleeing before you draw your sword.” For the moment, Nathelion could well believe him. He felt mightier than he’d ever dreamed of. “Do you want them?” asked the armorer at last.

  If I do. He knew that he couldn’t afford any of it, and yet he asked. “How much is the cost?”

  “Expensive pieces, all of those...” The armorer thought for a moment. “I couldn’t let them go for less than five silver crescents.”

  Five silver. Well, you knew that you couldn’t have them. He pulled the helmet off. “I’m afraid I can’t afford that much,” he confessed regretfully.

  The armorer nodded. “Aye, well, they look like they were made for you. If you find the coin, maybe you’ll want to come back—”

  Molgrimin cleared his throat loudly, interrupting the man. “If my friend Nathan has need of armor on his quest, then he shall have it. I’ll not be the one to witness the tragedy of the greatest warrior in the world standing without coin for equipment.”

  They both frowned when the moinguir dug a broad fist into his beard, and then stared, even more perplexed, as his hand came back with a fat pouch in its grip. Molgrimin opened it and picked from among its glittering contents a thick, heavy coin of gold that he flung to the gaping armorer.

  “Five silver crescents of it are yours.”

  24

  Instead of the Kisses

  Sir Conrad had returned to The Green Gown late, through cold and empty streets that had seemed drearier with what thoughts had accompanied him — and, at least in part, accompanied him still. He’d gone to his room, finding there only a little rest before the morning had swiftly arrived and prompted him to rise even when it mostly looked a twin to the night. The sky always had room for dark clouds now, it seemed. He found himself in the common room, sitting with too heavy a breakfast at a table next to the burning hearth. He had ale too, and he found it far more appetizing than the sausages. At his side, a damn singer insisted on talking to him.

  “As I said,” the bard continued, reclining back into his chair. “The moinguir requested me to accompany you through Rurhav. Quite a persistent little bugger, but he convinced me. Of course, the Mirenas are no strangers to danger, so how much convincing was needed?” The man’s laughter sounded like a bloody girl’s, high and bright. Conrad had heard too much of it already; it threatened to give him a headache. “So, regardless, seeing as I am coming along on this little adventure, perhaps you could tell me of your battles with the barbarians? You rarely get the perspective of the Reclaimer himself.”

  Conrad grunted. “People die, and people kill. Both sides want to live.”

  “Ah,” the bard breathed. “If you do not mind me saying it, sir, that was fairly poetic. Everyone likes a laconic veteran as the hero. Yes, I feel plenty of songs taking shape, even from that.”

  Conrad took a swig of ale. He liked music well enough, but for some reason, he seldom cared much for the singers. Unless they happened to be proper womenfolk. Arisfae, as the man repeatedly introduced himself through his anecdotes, did nothing to change his disposition.

  The singer said that he had some elven blood in him, and Conrad guessed that was one way of explaining his small stature. He was short — even timid looking — with thin limbs seemingly lacking any muscle. Yet even without all that, his overflow of satin would immediately suggest that he was soft. And did he powder his face? Conrad wouldn’t ask. He had seen plenty of nobles’ seats and witnessed as many strange habits. Arisfae kept his hair long, too, a flow of spun gold that did not make him appear any manlier. In the wrong light, the bard would be bloody fortunate if he weren’t mistaken for a woman.

  “So, how many times have you been to Rurhav, sir?” Arisfae asked casually, and then he took on a more intense tone. “Do you expect us to encounter any difficulties?”

  Bloody just did. Yet the moinguir decided who he wanted to bring along. But this one? Gods, at least Alwarul’s voice isn’t offensive. The old man’s dribble was much easier on the ears. “Some of us will probably die,” Conrad answered, shrugging. From his experience, it should be true, but he said it in the hope of deterring the fool from following them.

  The obnoxious little man gave a laugh. “That is perfect! What an adventure. The Reclaimer will pass through Rurhav knowing that it will probably mean death! Sir, you are doing almost all the work!”

  Conrad looked at the girls, who stood grinning in the entrance to the kitchen. They were still toying with him, all waiting to be the one bringing in more ale or removing his dish when he called for it.

  “May I ask when we shall be leaving, sir? I have only a few things left to pack, and I would...” The man went quiet at Conrad’s glare. “I think I shall go and pack. Yes, that’s... I’ll go and pack.” Arisfae rose quickly and hurried up the stairs.

  It was that easy? Conrad thought with sullen regret. Why hadn’t he tried that earlier? The man had stolen far too much of his time. Of course, he could still invite the girls. He liked the new one especially: a young, dove-eyed lass with full lips and fair hair.

  Conrad was just about to rise when the door to the outside opened, and he was suddenly made wary by the figure appearing in the doorway. There stood a knight clad in rich blacks and gold and silver, his heavy cloak covered in golden blades that overlapped like the scales of some mighty beast. Yet what drew the eyes more was his face, or rather what concealed it: a demon’s visage glared out over the common room, a fiend wrought in black metal. When that gaze found Conrad, he expected trouble. He was ready to reach for his sword. But then he frowned. Mollgym was with the stranger, the dwarf carrying a heavy sack slung over one shoulder. But then who...?

  The f
iend, or rather the fox, he saw, removed his mask. To Conrad’s astonishment, it was Nathelion’s face that was hidden beneath. No longer did he have the uncertain countenance of the young peasant that he had kept during their journey. So, he has finally dropped his disguise, Conrad mused as he watched this formidable warrior approach with a faint smile on his lips. If Nightshadow had been dressed like that when Conrad had first met him, he would never have doubted the man’s prowess. He wears the fox as a sigil. It figures.

  The man sat down at the table, along with the dwarf, and Conrad noted the words that were written on his cloak. “Interesting words,” he said, and Nathelion looked down on them. “M’vaesh ai halaesi. ‘Everything’s a game.’ Or how should they be read?”

  Nathelion seemed to hesitate a bit, but then he nodded with a grin. “Just so.”

  How much has this man fooled me? Conrad found himself wondering. Is he a noble with estates in the Defense? Where else did he get those clothes? Gods, am I the one being led around by the nose?

  The dwarf called loudly for ale, and Conrad briefly considered if Mollgym might know some of Nathelion’s secrets and if the dwarf would be willing to tell him anything. He doubted it. Nightshadow appeared very much his own.

  “So, where is Alwarul? Are we ready to leave?” Nathelion asked as two tankards were brought for them. It was the shy girl who served the drinks. Her eyes kept flicking to Conrad without quite daring to challenge him. He had his eyes on her, though, and he grew curious.

  “Aye, where is Alwarul at? And don’t forget the bard!” the dwarf reminded Nathelion while the serving maid slipped away.

  “I don’t know where the old man is,” Conrad said in a distracted tone. “Probably sleeping still.” How is he going to follow us through Rurhav? Damn Destette for burdening him with this lot.

  “Sleeping?” Nathelion asked with a frown. “Maybe we should wake him up.”

  “Why? To have him collapse from exhaustion in the Hills?” Conrad rebutted. “If he wants to stay another day here, then let us stay another day.” He rather liked The Green Gown.

  “Of course,” Nightshadow agreed, but then he uttered a concern. “Though perhaps the Hills grow more dangerous the longer we delay?”

  He was right about that if the barbarians were coming. The sensible thing would be to leave sooner — if there was anything sensible in what they were doing. “By all means, rouse the old owl, then,” Conrad muttered reluctantly. “We’ll leave as soon as everyone is ready.” He wouldn’t go without a few kisses, though.

  The girls saw him coming and scattered subtly to occupy themselves with tasks near at hand. Except for the fair-haired one, who remained silent and blushing when he approached her. He was a head taller than her, and she seemed as frail and lovely as a spring flower. Her eyes were a wonderfully clear azure. He turned her head up with a finger beneath her chin to admire them closer. “What’s your name, love?” he asked quietly while she turned warm and flushed at his touch.

  “Jenna,” she almost gasped when he drew his hand over her soft hair. The serving maids cleaning tables giggled softly.

  “Do you know who I am, Jenna?”

  The spring flower nodded, and she took the hand that caressed her hair in a soft grip. “You are the Reclaimer, sir.”

  “I am Sir Conrad Hardae,” he said. “And I came to see if your lips can be as sweet as they look.”

  He leaned in, and Jenna welcomed his kiss, hesitant at first but then with surprising hunger. She put her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. He lost himself in that embrace, tasting the young woman’s vitality and heat and, for a moment, forgetting both time and worry.

  “Sir Conrad,” a voice called again, maybe for the third time, but only now firmly enough for him to register it.

  “What is it?” Conrad broke the kiss with the young woman to see who was calling, but he kept his arms around her slim waist — and she continued to nuzzle at his neck in a most rousing manner. “You come at a bad time, Sir James,” he said when he found the knight standing by the door. Sir James was with two others as well, a knight at each side. “What’s this now?”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not here for enjoyment,” Sir James told him with an apologetic expression in his face. “The grand commander wishes to see you.”

  “What?” Conrad asked. The young woman had started nibbling on his ears, but he pushed her tenderly to the side. “Another time, love,” he told her.

  Sir James gave Jenna’s back an appraising glance before turning to Conrad again. “The commander heard that you were at the castle yesterday. For some reason, he wants to see you now.”

  Maybe I’ll find out that I’ve been leeching on some coffers, Conrad reflected glumly, but there was hardly anything to do but follow. “Hannah,” he told the serving maid he knew best. “Tell my friends to be ready by the time I return.”

  They walked out into the gloomy streets in an almost formal silence. People looked at the knights in the dim light of the still burning lamps and no doubt saw an arrest. Conrad just wished he hadn’t felt as if it were one. James walked beside him, and the other two followed behind, but all save he were draped in the fiery cloaks of the Lions of the Pass, singling him out. He came to think on all the hasty hangings that he had heard were now the city’s custom. He also scolded himself for his ridiculous anxiety. It was in a way strange, though, that a mere summons would require three Lions to be sent for him. Did this Lord Maven expect me to resist, or does he just revel in authority? He had seen the kind before.

  “What did Haeigwyn tell you yesterday?” Sir James asked suddenly at his side.

  “Tales,” Conrad muttered, and then he glanced at the man. “I assume you must be rather familiar with them already.”

  “Don’t be so certain that they are tales, sir.” There was seriousness in James’s voice. “We’ve had too many reports of the kind now.”

  “Really?” Conrad asked curiously. “And how many scouts have returned rotting alive?”

  “Just Haeigwyn,” James confessed simply. “But that is no ordinary illness, Conrad. Haeigwyn says things that—”

  “Easily confuse? I would not begin preparing the Defense for a moose attack just yet.”

  “I don’t think Haeigwyn is as amused by that as you.”

  “No? He seemed awfully amused yesterday.”

  “You think that’s merriment up there in the Watchtower?” James demanded as they walked. “Haeigwyn is mad — no one doubts that. But his accounts resemble those of saner men as well. There are strange beasts in Rurhav, Conrad, and they may be coming south. Chances are the commander wants you to convince the countess of sending aid, seeing as how you used to be a Lion.”

  “If he is asking for aid against monsters, I am not surprised that you are understaffed,” Conrad observed acidly. “Do you let these stories blind you to the barbarians?”

  “Never believe it. But at least we know the savages. We know how to fight them. That with Haeigwyn, though...it has the men wary. Some speak of witchcraft.”

  Conrad grimaced. “Then perhaps you should pile up firewood in the courtyard. That is how you fight witches, I’ve heard.”

  James did not appear to share any of his humor. “If Haeigwyn couldn’t convince you, I doubt that I can. It’s a shame, for no one learns the ways of their enemy as quickly as you. I was there when you reclaimed the Harp, you know.” The man grinned. “You knew just how to turn the barbarians’ strengths against them.”

  “Too bold and too stupid,” Conrad replied after a while. “An easy combination to handle when the circumstances allow it.” He had been able to outmaneuver them easily in the lands of the Harp, drawing them out, furious and loud, from their hiding places and from their brittle ranks. Arrows, spears, and lances had made those battles turn in the Lions’ favor; it had hardly been due to any great brilliance.

  “Well, I say no one else has handled it better.” James shrugged. “And I don’t think anyone else will, for that matter.”

>   Sir Olwyn would’ve if you hadn’t killed him. Conrad said nothing.

  After they’d walked through the city in the frosty chill, and in a prolonged silence that could only add to it, the road rose towards Sacrifice. The guards by the gate were the same as last, and the man with the thin face grinned while they opened the door. “Stole something, did he?” he jested. “Maybe Sir Olwyn is getting the company of a friend soon.”

  “You’re a fool, Sir Braxton. Hardae was commander before you were a knight.”

  “Aye,” Sir Braxton leered. “But so was Sir Olwyn, if I’m not mistaken.”

  They crossed the dark courtyard without looking back, James leading Conrad and the two other knights to the high gate of the main keep. The grand commander’s quarters were in the northern wing of the keep and encompassed a dozen rooms. In his time there, Conrad had only made real use of two or three of them. The carved door to the solar was familiar to him, and Sir James knocked three times on it with a steady arm. An admission was heard from the other side, and the knight opened the door to present Sir Conrad Hardae.

  “Good,” a silent voice answered from the room. “Send him in and leave us.”

  Conrad entered after James stepped aside with a nod, and then the door shut behind him.

  The grand commander’s solar was a large room with windows that gave a fine view of the city, which was now dark and dappled in lights. The sigil of the Order pranced in flames upon the banner that hung on the wall behind the desk. He remembered that desk, having spent long hours there with papers that he’d grown to resent. But otherwise, the furnishings brought little recollection to him. Now the solar was filled with rather luxurious pieces: gilded candelabras that burned in the corners and expensive furs of white tigers and snow leopards covering the floor. There were elegant tables and chairs carved in fanciful patterns with ebony inlay, and everywhere on the walls hung what he judged to be rather expensive paintings.

  “Welcome, Sir Conrad.” The grand commander was a tall man, pale yet seemingly lithe and strong, with a powerful face boasting a nose like the beak of some raptor and dark hair that fell just past his shoulders. He turned from the painting he had been looking at in the dim light of the candles and met Conrad’s gaze with bright, cold eyes. “I’m only sorry that I could not say it yesterday.”