The Crimson Queen

by Alec Hutson

  He turned to her, prepared to beg for a night’s reprieve, but the words died in his throat when he saw that she was not alone. A man stood beside her, not tall but powerfully built, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His skin was dusky, and his dark eyes flecked with gold. He was dressed in polished leather armor, the cuirass and greaves of which were dyed a deep burgundy, its fasteners and buckles shaped of red copper. Keilan had seen this guardsman and a few others in matching armor milling around the ornate wagon of the scholar from the Reliquary.

  The warrior flashed him a grin and sketched a shallow bow. “This one gives greetings to the young lord. This one is Xin of the Lapis Stables, Third of Five.”

  Keilan mirrored the bow, feeling flustered. “Ah, hello. My name is Keilan Ferrisorn.” He glanced at Nel questioningly.

  “Xin has agreed to train with us tonight,” the knife said, and Keilan suddenly noticed the bundle of wooden practice swords she was holding under her arm. Nel saw where he was looking and held out one of the leather-wrapped handles for him to take. “Wielding a dagger effectively is a valuable skill, to be sure, but limited in usefulness unless you plan on skulking in shadows and sneaking up on your enemies. In a straight fight a swordsman will always have the advantage. I have decided it is time I learned a bit myself.”

  “But . . . I don’t have a sword.”

  The warrior chuckled. “Little lord, this one will tell you a truth: there is no shortage of swords in this world.”

  Keilan took the wooden blade from Nel, surprised at the heaviness. “It’s weighted,” Nel said, hefting one of the swords herself and wincing slightly.

  “You both will have to strengthen your wrists and arms,” said Xin, plucking the last training blade from Nel’s hand and flourishing it as easily as if it was a willow reed. “Fatigue kills as many warriors as poor technique.” The sword became a blur, carving patterns in the air faster than Keilan’s eyes could follow.

  “We could ask for no better teacher,” Nel murmured, also watching the dancing blade. “Xin is a Fist warrior. The others you’ve seen in the caravan dressed like him are his brothers.”

  Keilan blinked, surprised. The Fists were legendary, reputed to be some of the finest warriors in all the world. The stories he’d heard in his village were certainly embellished, but from the respect in Nel’s voice at least some of what he’d been told might be true. They were the elite slave-soldiers of Gryx, renowned as incorruptible bodyguards. He remembered, though he wasn’t sure where he’d heard it, the strange tale of their origins in the red-brick slave city of the Fettered. Five slave mothers matched to a great warrior of the fighting pits, five mothers who lived and ate and slept together, and finally gave birth together to five sons on the same hour of the same day, sons that forevermore shared an unbreakable bond. A Fist of Gryx.

  Xin winked at him. “Come. This one has much to teach you.”

  Deep in the mists corpselight flared, a fleeting burst of green and blue flame. Jan peered into the grayness blanketing the marshes, but he felt no tingling to suggest sorcery was the culprit. He pulled his black cloak tighter, trying to ward away the creeping chill of these wastes, and urged his horse into a canter. Perhaps the pale light had simply been marsh gas, as he had once heard a scholar claim, or maybe it was brigands warning others ahead of his approach. He kept himself alert. Immortal he may be, a thousand-year old sorcerer with a magic sword at his side, but an arrow in the eye would kill him just as easily as any other man.

  He rode along the Wending, the ancient, rutted road that bound together the scattered settlements of the north. Bits of broken stone tiles embedded in the earth only hinted at the road’s ancient glory. Memories like ghosts hovered on the edge of Jan’s thoughts, haunting him with faint recollections of a distant time when great forests hemmed this very way.

  Now on either side of the road spread the Mire, league upon league of frozen, desolate marsh. Hummocks of mud rose from reeds and water, invisible sinkholes lurked that could swallow a horse, and copses of twisted bloodbarks trailed their tangled roots into stagnant pools. During the day it was the same unending sight, while the last three nights he had camped on the relatively dry earth of the old road, huddled beneath his blankets, watching pale clumps of ghostweed shimmer in the darkness.

  He kept his attention where he had seen the corpselight, but nothing further disturbed the gray murk. Jan slowed his horse. There were many miles to travel before he arrived at the kingdom of the Crimson Queen, and if his horse pulled up lame in this desolation then he would have to suffer a very uncomfortable walk. The Mire, then bogs and moors, then the vast tiger-haunted forests that spilled down the slopes of the Bones of the World’s western reaches, and finally the Derravin Ocean and Herath. Weeks more travel, yet it was only a small distance when compared to how far he had already come, all the way from Alyanna’s pleasure garden.

  He had left Vis two days past. It was an old city, and he had been there before, he was sure, in his youth. The great, gleaming walls of black iron that girdled the more temporary buildings within had stood for thousands of years, the locals had assured him, predating even the last sorcerous age and its cataclysms. A chill had stolen inside Jan when he had passed through the teeth of the western gate, which had been shaped into a dragon’s roaring mouth, the coldness of the encompassing iron seeping through his furs and leather and drawing the strength from his bones. Ancient defenses had been woven into those walls, powerful spells to guard against sorcerers.

  A flock of birds rose shrieking from the tall grass fringing the road, his horse shying away from the unexpected commotion. Jan whispered encouragement, trying to calm his mount with a tendril of sorcery. The horse snorted, close to panic, and Jan was forced to harden his gentle touch before the animal could throw him. Surprised, Jan edged his skittish horse closer to where the birds had been feasting. He caught snatches of pale white flesh among the reeds, half submerged in the black waters. Jan grimaced. It was the corpse of a serpent three times the length of a man and as thick around as a small shield, though death had certainly bloated the snake somewhat. The thing’s eyes had been picked out, and at several points along its sinuous body the skin had festered and burst. Out of one of these openings several small, almost translucent snakes had spilled, and now floated motionless on the surface of the brackish swamp water.

  Jan patted his mount’s neck. “A good argument for finding shelter tonight, eh, boy?”

  The horse whinnied and stamped its hooves as Jan pulled it away from the rotting serpent.

  They rode on, their pace quickening as the gray day slowly began to darken. From the directions he had received in Vis he knew the marsh’s border should be close, and there he would find a traveler’s inn. The thought of a warm fire and a soft bed made his skin tingle in anticipation.

  Twilight had nearly given way to true night before the marshes finally dwindled and vanished, replaced by rolling moorland. The eternal grayness became suffused with pink and purple, and long tendrils of mists coiled just above the ground, unsettling reminders of the dead snake. Sounds carried across the wastes, low and mournful. Possibly the wind, and possibly not.

  The inn emerged suddenly from the darkness, bulked against the fading evening light. It was two stories, built of stone and surrounded by a low wall, the top of which bristled with iron spikes. Fingers of mist threaded between these points and tumbled like silken streamers to the ground. It looked more like a fort than an inn, but being just south of the Frostlands, and on the edge of the Mire, Jan could hardly blame its builders. Large torches flanked the open gate, dripping gobbets of burning pitch onto the frozen ground, and Jan could hear the faint sound of laughter from inside. Several wagons had been pulled within the safety of the walls, and he counted five big draft horses tied to a hitching post, along with a few donkeys. They grazed on a pile of mounded hay, where a young boy lay sprawled, his straw hat pulled over his eyes.

 
Jan slid from his horse and cleared his throat loudly; the boy shot upright, then scrambled to his feet when he saw the new arrival.

  “Begging your pardon, master,” he mumbled, pressing his palms together and ducking his head. “Rare t’have the lone traveler on these roads, ‘specially at this hour.”

  Jan handed his reins to the boy. “Never mind, lad. You have rooms, yes?”

  The boy scratched beneath his hat, glancing at something he pulled from his hair before flicking it away. “Not sure, master. Two caravans came through today. But if there’s no rooms then there’s always hearthspace.”

  “Or hayspace,” Jan said, and the boy showed a gap-toothed smile.

  “Aye, when the hounds curl up with ya its better than being beside the most blazing fire, that’s for sure.”

  Jan rummaged in his coin belt and tossed the boy a Visani copper piece. “Give my horse some hay and a few apples, if you’ve any.”

  The boy tipped his hat. “‘Course, master.”

  Jan offered a curt nod and then strode to the heavy oaken door and rapped loudly. Several voices inside were raised in song, and he had to repeat his knocking a few times before he heard the sound of latches being lifted and the door was slowly pulled open by a wiry old man. The graybeard blinked watery eyes at him in surprise, his toothless mouth hanging open. Beyond him the common room had quieted – it was a standard northern traveler’s inn, with trestle tables filling most of the space, a bar against the back wall, and a raised area in the middle. A trio of dark-skinned Visani, their long black hair tied back into topknots, stood with arms linked upon the stage, staring at him. Their fellows clustered below, and a few who had not yet noticed Jan’s entrance tossed out ribald heckles for the pause in the performance. A pair of young girls – one with long blonde hair and an ample figure, the other smaller and thin faced, with auburn curls – were being dandled, squealing, upon knees as roving hands explored the laces of their blouses.

  Closer to the bar, a group of Dymorians huddled around a table, their bushy black beards almost dipping into the tankards set before them. Where the Visani dressed simply, in gray and black doublets and breeches, the westerlings favored garishly bright colors and enough silver jewelry to give a demon pause. The Dymorians spared him a disinterested glance, and then bent again to their talk.

  The old man swallowed hard, the lump in his throat bobbing. “Ah, greetings young master. Come in, come in. Did ya arrive by yerself?”

  Jan stepped inside, unclasping his mist-damp cloak and handing it to the doorman. A fire blazed in the hearth and he closed his eyes, enjoying the rolling waves of warmth. “Aye, from Vis.”

  The old man paled slightly. “Through the Mire? And only you?” He shook his head, turning to hang Jan’s cloak on a peg driven into the wall. “Young master, you are either very foolish or very sure of that sword.”

  “Some of both, I imagine,” Jan replied with a smile.

  The old man pushed shut the heavy door with a grunt. “Well, go speak with Alomir about a room and some food. He’s there.”

  Jan nodded thanks and made his way to the bar, the drunken Visani revelers returning to their songs as he passed. The stout bald man behind the length of polished oak watched him approach without smiling, yet still he pressed his hands together in the traditional northern greeting. Row upon row of stoppered green-glass bottles lined the wall, and mounted above these, almost brushing the rafters, was the cracked and yellowing skull of some massive lizard. It was fully half the height of a man, each curving fang the length of a child’s arm.

  “Welcome,” the barman rumbled, “to the Demon’s Mouth.”

  They clasped forearms, and the innkeep seemed to relax slightly.

  “Well met. My name is Jan, once of the Shattered Kingdoms. Your inn is a welcome find.”

  The barman turned and spat something into a pot set beside him. It clanged hollowly. “Aye, I’ve heard that before. I’m Alomir, and this here’s my house. Our rooms are full, but there’s bedding and a place by the hearth, if you wish, and hot food on the spit. Ale as well, of course.”

  Jan placed a pair of silver pieces on the bar. “What’s supper tonight?”

  Alomir scooped up one of the silvers and studied it critically. “We’ve got a goat roasting for the westerlings.” He indicated the Dymorians with his chin. “And there’s a bit for you, if you want. Also my boy netted a few fat frogs this morning, and the wife makes a savory black eel stew.”

  “The goat and a flagon.”

  The innkeep pulled out a tankard and bent to fill it from a cask. “You should give the eels a try. We swampfolk know how to cook ‘em up right. Throw in some spiced leeches fattened on sheep’s blood, and you’ve the perfect answer for a cold and wet night such as tonight.”

  “Another time,” Jan promised, hiding his smile with a long draught of ale. It was bitter and strong, with more than a hint of the marsh.

  “Mella!” barked Alomir, and the busty blonde girl disentangled herself from the arms of her Visani admirer and flounced up to the bar, ignoring the exaggerated pleas for a swift return she left in her wake.

  “Yes, uncle?” she said sweetly, fluttering her long lashes at Jan and standing close enough that he couldn’t ignore what her half-unlaced blouse revealed.

  Alomir jerked his head towards a door at the end of the bar. “When the goat’s done carve off a bit for Master Jan here. And a ladle of the eel stew. On the house.”

  She waited a moment longer, her gaze lingering on the fire opal set into Bright’s hilt.

  “Go, girl, get,” muttered the innkeep, and with a pout and a flirtatious glance at Jan she disappeared into the kitchens.

  Alomir shook his head. “Foolish girl. She wants out of the swamps so badly, but refuses to listen to me when I tell her that anyone she runs away with from here will just leave her at the next stop. I’ve had to break a few bones when someone’s tried to take advantage.” The innkeeper spat again and gave Jan a long warning look.

  The bard tapped his nose to indicate he understood, an old northern gesture. Alomir grunted and set to polishing a glass.

  “Where did the monster come from?” Jan asked, indicating the skull with his tankard.

  The innkeeper paused and turned to regard the bones. “I’ll tell you the tale I tell my boy,” he said, clearing his throat. “One day his grandad was out fishing in the Mire, which for my pa usually meant long hours sleeping in his skiff with a bottle or two of old marsh juice, and nary a tickle on the string. But this day he feels a bite and gives the rod a good tug. What breaks the water then and dives back down was a swamp demon that hadn’t been seen round these parts for about a hundred hundred years. Now his missus, my mama, was the stubborn kind, and had told him not to bother coming back if he didn’t bring home something, so instead of turning tail he wrestled the demon up from the black depths and dragged it home. Mama didn’t even blink, either, when she saw him straining to pull this thing through the reeds to our house, just chopped it up and set to frying some steaks.”

  The innkeep set down his glass and looked at Jan. “D’ya believe that?”

  “There’s a kernel of truth somewhere in that tale.”

  Now a slight smile tugged at the corner of the barman’s mouth. “Aye, there’s bit hidden away. My granddad did hook this beast out in the bogs, but it had already been picked clean, same as ya can see here. Pulled up a small piece of it, then returned the following season during a drought and claimed the rest. Been starin’ down here ever since.”

  Jan silently toasted the leering monster. Perhaps it was a strange swamp creature, but from the cast of the skull he imagined it was in truth a wyvern, the smaller, beast-dumb spawn of dragons. Fragments of a memory drifted closer, and he grasped for it greedily. He remembered that decades had passed in Nes Vaneth between blessed clutches. When the great wyrm Xocl’etal had produced a royal egg the entire
city had feasted and celebrated, the fire warden had made the sky burn with cavorting images, and the silver trumpets atop the Winding Stair had pealed the good news. And she . . . she . . . had been so happy, as she talked of a future where her daughter would fly beside her. What was her name? Jan lowered his head into his hands and concentrated hard, but the memory faded and was gone, leaving only the echoes of her laughter.

  “Here now, son,” said a gruff voice as a hand slapped his shoulder. “Surely it’s not all that bad.”

  Jan raised his head, blinking away the shadows of his lost past. One of the Visani had slipped onto the stool beside him, a man well into his middling years, with a weathered face and hair almost totally gone to gray. The fellow gestured at the lute strapped across Jan’s back.

  “My boys are wondering if you know how to pluck that thing. We’ve been traveling for near a week now along the Wending, all the way from Ver Anath, without a decent song to lighten our hearts. Jerrym there,” and now the Visani jerked a thumb at one of his companions, a scrawny, sad-eyed lad idly fingering a lyre, “had his voice crack just as we left the scholar’s city, and it doesn’t sound near as sweet as once it did.”

  Jan glanced at the innkeep, who shrugged.

  “Yer supper will be little while yet, and I’ll throw in a few extra flagons if you play half-decent.”

  A smile broke the Visani’s creased face, revealing surprisingly white teeth. “It’s settled, then. What better way to warm such a wet and frozen night than with a song in the air and ale in the belly?”

  Jan pushed away from the bar, eliciting a small cheer from the watching Visani. He slipped his lute from the case strapped across his back as he threaded his way between the tables towards the raised stage, clenching and unclenching his hands to try and get the lingering marsh chill from his fingers. Empty tankards pounded tables as he climbed the stairs, and a few sharp whistles cut the din, but all noise quieted when he reached the top and faced the common room. Jan almost smiled. He had performed for Visani before; they were a loud, boisterous people with a love for song, but also respectful and generous. A minstrel’s perfect audience.