The Never King

by James Abbott

  ‘I seek no answer, friend,’ Valderon replied. ‘Just a happy comrade.’

  They continued in companionable silence, and Xavir enjoyed the eventual peace and the sound of the gentle rain hitting the leaves. Both men retrieved their waxed rain capes from their saddles, and draped them around their shoulders. Somewhere, in the distance, he could hear a hawk calling out.

  The two warriors turned off the path and up a steep slope where the vegetation died back. A plateau lay ahead of them, the track now a little slippery because of the weather. Xavir tilted his head down as they rode into the elements.

  Pausing at the edge, Xavir gestured with an outstretched palm. ‘There.’

  Valderon’s expression turned from a furrowed brow into surprise, and he dismounted from his horse. ‘You were busy, my friend.’

  Down in the wide valley below, spread out across the hazy grassland, was a vast encampment of two thousand warriors. Many were in the process of putting up enormous canvas tents and organizing themselves into neat columns.

  ‘They’re made up of the different clans who had come primarily from the north and western provinces of Stravimon,’ Xavir declared. ‘These were the warriors who likely would have been pledged fully to Mardonius had Duchess Pryus had her way. After the gathering, I received the loyalty of eleven estate owners and wealthy families, and on seeing what the Black Clan might do to the capital, they saw it as an opportunity for regime change. They want to ally with us, no doubt so they can jockey for court positions when Mardonius is dethroned. In fact, I suggested the idea to them in a way that would make them think they would receive favours. That, of course, is up to you.’

  ‘It does not matter,’ Valderon said. ‘We have their soldiers. We change the regime first, and then worry about diplomacy and politics.’

  ‘I should make it clear,’ Xavir added, ‘that these soldiers are not of the legion. Some of these men are not what you would call professionals. But their numbers are impressive.’

  ‘They will do,’ Valderon said, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Indeed they will do. We have almost a thousand Dacianarans at our bidding as well, and we have been building up the Black Clan from surrounding rebel groups.’

  ‘When should we march on Stravir City?’ Xavir asked, wary as ever that he had declared himself not in charge of the operation. Now that he had killed many of those on his list, a part of him wished it could be him at the helm, spearheading the attack into Mardonius’s forces. Old urges in his blood still stirred, but it was not to be. He knew he was going to separate himself from the main force. He would have to advance with a hand-picked band of soldiers to infiltrate the palace and slay the king, for no one else knew the place as well as he.

  ‘We must train first. We must spread communication among the men so they understand what’s happening, what our codes are and what our tactics will be, especially if there are many who are not professionals. We cannot simply advance blind, and with our hands tied behind our backs, into the capital.’

  ‘Wise enough words,’ Xavir replied.

  ‘But we must not train too long. From what we are hearing, the people of Stravir City may need us very soon.’

  Questions

  The rain cleared, and sunlight hit the tents from an oblique angle. A hazy orange glow began to cast itself across the encampment and all the people who were milling around underneath the fluttering banners.

  Elysia watched Xavir from a distance. Her father and Valderon had ridden up and down the rows of clan symbols and tents for most of the afternoon. It had been impressive to see so many colours and emblems fluttering in the breeze and around the smoke from their fire pits. The soldiers all seemed to look upon Xavir with great respect.

  Birgitta took Elysia’s hand and the two sisters walked a little way along the fringes of the camp and the nearby woodland. Two crows landed on a nearby branch and overlooked them as the gloom of dusk set in. The air began to chill slightly. Laughter could be heard from the soldiers nearby.

  ‘And what do you make of all this, little sister?’ Birgitta asked softly.

  ‘I don’t know . . . it’s better than being with the sisterhood.’

  ‘You say that now,’ Birgitta replied. ‘Perhaps not when the fighting begins. Blood will be spilled.’

  ‘I’ve seen plenty of blood already.’

  ‘You have,’ Birgitta replied thoughtfully. ‘And I’ve yet to question you about the matter sufficiently. You are still my student, after all.’

  Elysia gave a small smile. She no longer felt like a student. She no longer felt the person she had been all those months ago. Xavir had been teaching her many new and practical things about life on the road, from simple woodcraft to reading the elements. Landril, too, never missed an opportunity to teach her about history; his passion was infectious – unlike back at Jarratox, where miserable old women gave skewed and embittered accounts of past deeds. Elysia now had many people to learn from, each of them with something different to say and who didn’t force their teachings upon her. There was no kind way to say this to Birgitta, so instead she said nothing at all.

  ‘You have developed into someone who reminds me of other types of sisters,’ Birgitta continued. They stepped further into the woods, following a dark animal track that cut through the thick foliage. There was a dampness to the land of Stravimon that Elysia couldn’t quite get used to, and it was augmented in the country’s forests. There was such old history here, such strange mysticism, as if the source ran through its lands rather than rivers. But if it was magic, it was of a stranger, more archaic manner. Despite there being no oceans between this and her old home, it did seem a world away. She was more at home here, in the forests.

  ‘What’s that?’ Elysia replied.

  ‘They used to be known in the tales as warrior witches,’ Birgitta continued. ‘There used to be more like you, a few hundred years ago, in the Seventh and Eighth Ages particularly. The sisterhood’s breeding programme is designed to produce more malleable witches, because those warrior witches could not be controlled. They learned how to use weapons. Some say that the great Dellius Compol, of whom regular soldiers are so in awe, had a dalliance with many of them, and with their help perfected dangerous tools for violence. These bands of witches – who operated in warrior covens – began to act in defiance of the sisterhood, so I understand. There were wars amidst the ancient places of the world that almost wiped out the sisterhood entirely. Whatever happened to these warrior witches, I do not know. The sisterhood has done its very best to breed more docile sisters, more cooperative and collaborative. But your independent streak is considerable – and I believe quite unlike most other sisters. Perhaps it is down to breeding, after all, but whatever meshed between your father and your mother has become something very . . . special.’

  ‘I could live with a term like warrior witch if others gave it to me,’ Elysia replied. ‘I never had a problem with the word witch anyway, despite the other sisters frowning upon its use.’

  Birgitta gave a strange smile. ‘You were never much like the others. But would you be happy with such a life, Elysia? You will commit to no clan, you will be subject to no one unless you choose to. This is a rare for a sister. The rest of the sisterhood was forced to go out into the world and be a connection with the families that control it. That was our way of influencing the affairs of the world.’

  ‘I’d be able to control things in a different way,’ Elysia declared.

  ‘And your father?’

  It still sounded strange to hear the word – not so much for its freshness, but because talk in the sisterhood continually referred to mothers and daughters and sisters. To evoke a male relation seemed alien to her. She saw him as Xavir more than whatever it was ‘father’ actually meant. But she could feel more of his character in herself than any sister’s.

  ‘I’ve a role alongside him. I can’t explain yet what that is. I don’t understand it myself.’

  ‘You enjoy the combat.’ Birgitta’s tone was harsher now.


  ‘I wouldn’t say enjoy is the right word,’ Elysia replied, wary of Birgitta’s dislike of violence. ‘I enjoy helping him, certainly. He’s very good at what he does – he’s like no other – and it feels an honour to fight alongside him. We seem to work well together. But it all feels so efficient. So easy. So right.’

  ‘You complement each other,’ Birgitta said, narrowing her gaze.

  ‘Something like that, I suppose,’ Elysia replied. ‘Anyway, does it matter?’

  ‘I am thinking of the future when I ask these questions,’ Birgitta said, somewhat defensively. ‘It is Marilla’s talk of the Dark Sisterhood that concerns me. I can only hope those of us who left Jarratox that night will be able to salvage something for the future, for I believe a war of our own could be brewing. It will be the legacy of whatever happens at Stravir City. If the king has such Dark Sisters at his side, possessed by the lore of the Voldiriks, then we will have our work cut out for us when facing them. Not for aeons has sister fought sister.’

  ‘And we’ll need people like me to fight sisters?’ Elysia asked. She shook her head. ‘My techniques might not work so well on other witches.’

  ‘We have not had the need to go hunting them yet,’ Birgitta declared, ‘but that time could be soon. And besides, Marilla is a seasoned old sister, but we can work on ways around defences as robust as that woman’s. We may fine-tune our techniques – yours, mine, any of our existing sisters, those who have joined this so-called Black Clan of Landril’s design.’ She gestured vaguely in the direction of the camp.

  ‘You think it is a bigger threat, then, this Dark Sisterhood?’

  ‘You have heard less than I have. Whilst we have been on the road these past days, and while you spent time with Xavir, I conversed with all seven sisters from the clans who joined us. Their knowledge was limited, but I could put together their pieces to form some kind of opinion. It seems many sisters had difficulty with the power structures of Jarratox. Their resentment towards the matriarch, and those with whom she surrounded herself, meant that they were easy prey for the Voldiriks’ seduction.’

  ‘So the matriarch brought this upon herself?’

  Birgitta sighed, but gave a gentle smile. Her cloak fluttered in a breeze that swept through the forest, sending leaves skittering around them both. ‘I would not say it is as simple as that, little sister, but you may have a point. The politics of the sisterhood is not for everyone. But from what I can gather, it is as if these wayseers could sense the dissatisfaction of the sisters and offered them something else. Something more attractive. I don’t know how that happened. I think that there are witchstones from wherever the Voldiriks come. Perhaps it is something more potent as well, I do not know. Whatever the wayseers have done to the sisters remains to be seen. I have yet to observe one of the altered women with my own eyes. Only then can I discern what that difference is. Are they more powerful? We shall see.’

  They walked for a while longer, discussing their concern for the sisterhood, until Birgitta turned the conversation once again to Xavir. ‘One thing concerns me, little sister. If I may say.’

  ‘Why be so polite about it?’ Elysia asked. She stopped by a fallen trunk and the two of them sat down alongside each other. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It is the ease with which you kill other people,’ Birgitta said eventually.

  ‘Oh. Well, I don’t really find it easy.’

  ‘I remember killing for the first time, many years ago. It haunted me so much. For weeks I could not sleep properly. Every sister is different. But you . . . you have done it so easily, and so frequently.’

  Elysia contemplated the matter a little further. ‘I can’t explain why, but it doesn’t seem to bother me. What is the difference between the deer in the forest and those whom we fight on the road?’

  ‘Those we fight are people. They have souls.’

  Elysia shrugged. ‘Blood is blood. Maybe I’ve just got used to it during the hunts.’

  ‘Soldiers are not deer that need thinning, or to feed other people.’

  ‘No. But as Xavir keeps saying, they are soldiers and when they signed up to do the job then they became—’

  ‘Fair game,’ Birgitta finished. ‘Yes, he says that a lot.’

  ‘It’s still true, though. The soldiers can’t fight and not be prepared to die. It is the nature of being a soldier.’

  ‘And what,’ Birgitta said, ‘would you know about being a soldier, little sister?’

  ‘I know enough from Xavir’s tales.’

  Birgitta glanced to the forest floor. ‘The blood bond is strong between you.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Elysia said, looking down at the damp, leaf-strewn ground.

  ‘The man has no capacity to talk about such things. Some people prefer words, but others prefer action. He has shown his affection, albeit somewhat perversely, by trusting you to fight alongside him. He will want you to go all the way, little sister. All the way. I hope you know that?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He will expect you to fight into the darkest corner of Stravir City. He may well expect you to die alongside him if need be.’

  ‘Then I’ll just rejoin the source sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Oh, little sister. The young are too careless when it comes to risk. These attitudes change with age. We become more cautious. When did you become so hardened?’

  ‘A long time ago, maybe,’ Elysia replied. In honesty, she could not really tell what the fuss was about. Killing was killing. Death was part of life, and that was that. What difference did any of it make in the grand scheme of things? She would return to the source and there would be peace whatever happened after she died. What was there to fear?

  ‘Come, then.’ Birgitta rose to her feet and groaned. ‘I am too old for fighting,’ she continued, pressing her palm into her back. ‘That battle with Marilla, I could have done without.’

  They walked back along the forest path, pushing aside the damp foliage, until they emerged once again in the busy camp. Smouldering fires could be seen at regular intervals. Men and women soldiers sat around them, talking cheerily about the job ahead. Black banners had been raised – the stark, featureless sign of Xavir’s Black Clan. It was like a town had sprouted in the middle of a peaceful valley.

  When they found Xavir, several women were standing alongside him, each one a different age. They all wore cloaks of slightly different hues, and richly patterned grey and red tunics underneath, indicating that they had been assigned to clans. Bright blue eyes regarded her. Marilla was among them, and Birgitta must have known who all the rest were, judging by her insouciance.

  Elysia, in her leather jerkin, boots and light practical cloak, and her bow strong across her shoulder always, wondered if she was more like a warrior now than a sister, and as such had no need to stand alongside them.

  ‘These women,’ Xavir declared, ‘have requested we plan the role of magic in the forthcoming battle. And I agree. Tonight, in the manse, we must group together.’

  ‘When do we fight?’ one of the women asked, the oldest, judging by her white hair and withered skin.

  ‘That is not up to me to decide,’ Xavir replied. ‘Much of what happens now depends upon training.’

  ‘We need no training,’ Marilla declared.

  ‘That may be so,’ Xavir replied. ‘We’re grateful for your patience.’

  ‘I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for my master’s whim. One day we’re off to visit the king, the next we’re fighting him.’

  Xavir gave no answer. Elysia could tell by his glare that he was at the limits of his politeness.

  ‘Sunset, at the manse,’ Xavir replied, and turned to walk away.

  The Wait is Over

  Three weeks passed before the Black Clan was ready to march on Stravir City, and Landril enjoyed every minute of the training. There were calculations to make, plans to scrutinize and tactics to theorize. Of course, he didn’t actually have to do much physical training –
no, his role, he decided, was very much about the organizing, and almost everyone else seemed happy to leave him to it.

  Landril surveyed the scene around the manse in the morning light, his hands behind his back, his pace a leisurely stroll. The men who had come from the gaol had changed beyond all belief. They had a focus, something to work towards and a cause they believed in. As a result there was now a sense of pride as they went about their business.

  He watched Davlor sweating away as he attempted to defend some of Tylos’s mock-swordplay. The young fool was no match for the man from Chambrek, though even Landril had to admit he’d improved his technique significantly in the time he’d spent on the road.

  Landril tutted as Davlor fell face-first onto the grass, his sword knocked out of his hand. Someone behind laughed.

  ‘Are you actually going to do any work,’ Davlor shouted to Landril indignantly, pushing himself up from the ground, ‘or just stand and stare?’

  ‘My mind is a hive of activity,’ Landril replied, with a smile, before moving on.

  By now, Landril reasoned, the bard and poet should have spread some uncertainty in the settlements around Stravir City as well as inside the capital itself. The news of the Black Clan had already spread surprisingly far, and more joined the cause each day. Those who had come had their own reasons for doing so; some had been displaced by the king’s legions or borne witness to their brutality upon the king’s orders. Others were soldiers who had disagreed with the king’s tyranny. Some asked if the famous Xavir would become king, and Landril did not disabuse them of this notion, although he had no idea what Xavir felt about the situation.

  The only thing that unnerved Landril was the lack of news coming back from within Stravir City itself. He was a man who worked with information but every attempt he’d made to gain news from inside the walls of the city was met with failure. As he had no idea what they would be up against, he anticipated the very worst.

  The rest of the Black Clan had expanded into something of a decent force. They numbered about four thousand, with an extra nine hundred Dacianarans warriors. Training continued day by day. Xavir had coordinated the best of the warriors to educate the lesser soldiers in battle techniques, whilst Valderon and Landril ironed out what tactics to use, considering the geography surrounding the capital. The witches had been the most work but even they were coming together now. Birgitta had convinced them to put aside the usual politics and power-plays involved in the sisterhood. News of the Dark Sisters had clearly unnerved the women enough to forget their egos. The women were rarely to be seen at this hour: instead they convened in the twilight, to manufacture weapons from their witchstones, away from prying eyes.