The Never King

by James Abbott

  ‘It’s dead, that’s all that matters.’ Xavir turned to the others to see them tending to Davlor.

  Jedral, who had argued with Davlor on countless occasions, had attempted to see to his head wounds, but even he quickly realized it was pointless.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Xavir said sadly, a hand on his shoulder. ‘He died on a hero’s quest, and that is how we shall speak of him. Now, we must continue.’

  Jedral nodded and rose from the ground.

  As they were about to step into the next room Xavir realized there was something peculiar about the walls. Pressing through the paintwork and tapestries were elongated faces. They looked at first like decorative features high up, but they were in fact all around the room.

  ‘Those heads – they’re moving,’ Tylos announced.

  The mouths of the apparitions were opening and closing as if chanting something.

  ‘Who knows what unspeakable things we’ll find here,’ Tylos repeated, wiping his face clean of sweat.

  Xavir elected not to tell the others that he recognized the faces as former members of Cedius’s court.

  *

  Each successive room was now enveloped in darkness and echoed with thousands of whispers. Strange channels of wind were blowing back and forth along corridors, as if the adjoining rooms were exposed to the elements, yet many of the doors were sealed.

  They turned a corner and halted.

  A mob of horn-helmed soldiers in the colours of the legions were standing at the far end of the corridor.

  The legion soldiers marched in slow unison, twenty in all, towards the infiltrators.

  ‘Fire, Elysia!’ Xavir commanded.

  Elysia immediately commenced releasing arrows. The shafts steered through the channels of winds, appearing to struggle to stay on one course, but she managed to will them home. After the first three shots she became accustomed to this mid-air struggle, and began to direct the arrows towards weaknesses in their armour. Two of the soldiers fell, clutching underneath their helms. She released more arrows now, these ones charged with the potency of witchstones. Explosions of fire eliminated four more, but even more filed in behind them, filling the corridor ten abreast.

  ‘Keep going,’ Xavir shouted. ‘Try not to hit any of us. Watch your back as well.’

  Elysia nodded whilst she nocked another arrow.

  ‘Jedral, Tylos – follow me. Grend, protect Elysia.’

  Xavir waved one blade and led the charge towards the onrushing traitors.

  He slammed into the first two, his Keening Blades whirling their constant wail of death. Heads clattered against the wall and Xavir kicked back their falling corpses into the following rows, sending them reeling. Two more men died.

  Jedral and Tylos hurled themselves alongside Xavir. A trail of flame left Tylos’s blade as he carved his way into flesh and metal. Men screamed as they fell, but there remained a sea of helms ahead of them. As Xavir hacked down the lines, the scene became a bloody, slippery mess of flesh and shattered armour. Arrows were sailing past the cohort into the masses ahead of them, exploding in the attacking forces and causing havoc within the confined space, but as Xavir inched forwards he had to navigate an ever-growing pile of corpses.

  Body by body, Xavir beat down the remaining defences. He grew breathless, and in this tired state his weakness allowed a few strikes to get past his defences. His forearm received a deep cut and his shoulder was struck by something hard. He was drenched in blood, most of it not his own.

  Behind him Jedral continued to swing his axe with glee, as if these soldiers provided an outlet for his fury, whereas Tylos nimbly dived this way and that, drawing his glowing blade up only when an opportunity arose.

  The three of them inched forwards until there were just a few of the legionaries left standing. Elysia’s arrows shattered their armour into tiny, inward-turning splinters, brought them to their knees easily enough for Xavir to rid them of their lives. But he turned to see, to his annoyance, that Voldiriks had entered from the opposite end of the corridor, the direction from which he had come.

  Those things just keep on coming.

  His former brethren of Hell’s Keep had rushed back to deal with them, but by the look of it they had already suffered a loss. Grend was dead, his body shattered against the doorway.

  Elysia fired rapidly, an arrow per heartbeat slamming into the enemy. She felled them until they fell over each other as they hurried into the room. Running short of arrows, she dropped a green witchstone from her pocket to her feet and fired its partner arrow: immediately it shot forwards, scattering green light across the fallen bodies. Arrows that had killed targets immediately freed themselves and flew back across the room to clatter by her feet again.

  Tylos arrived at the end of the corridor and sent an arc of flame into any more scrambling Voldiriks, smouldering arms and swords ricocheting into the wall to his left.

  ‘Stand back!’ Elysia shouted, as Xavir arrived at her side.

  Tylos leaped aside, and watched a blue-tipped blur slam into the three Voldiriks that were attempting to push their way through the mass.

  In an instant they stiffened like statues, covered in a blue frost. Elysia had to pull Tylos back the final few feet as everything connected with the fleshy quagmire became covered in the same substance.

  ‘It’s ice,’ Elysia said. ‘They’ll need a wayseer to get through.’

  ‘Which they will probably have.’ Xavir heaved in breaths of the rancid corridor air.

  For a moment Tylos knelt on a safe spot alongside Grend’s body. ‘He was a fine and gifted companion. As the Chambreks are with poetry, so was this man with cuisine.’

  ‘We’ll have to mourn later.’ Xavir peered back towards the far end of the corridor and gestured with an outstretched blade. ‘We must head that way now. The worst of the fighting may be over.’

  Very faintly he believed he could see something. A figure in red armour stood in the room beyond.

  The Red Butcher, Xavir thought. The so-called king’s protector.

  Without a moment’s hesitation he turned and walked towards the figure. Jedral, Tylos and his daughter followed behind.

  Melee

  One thought kept replaying in Landril’s mind: what, in the name of the Goddess, was he doing here?

  Thousands of soldiers ebbed and flowed on the bloody tide before him. Metal clamoured into metal and the shouts and screams rose to his ears. There was a stench of blood and mud that rose softly from the melee. How had it come to this? Had this been his plan all along? He was no leader of men. A tactician, perhaps, but he felt out of his depth here. A good thing Valderon knew what he was doing down below. But things were happening that were well beyond his control. When he issued a command for the infantry to maintain its position, some bastard wayseer would move the ground and spread his formations out into a pitiful line. Every man who fell to his death began to weigh heavily on his conscience.

  Landril had attempted to initiate shock attacks, where he directed cohorts in short bursts of vicious combat, but the Voldiriks seemed immune to his efforts. The plan that was proving most successful was for the infantry to progress in smaller, circular formations, a protective ring around a cluster of archers. Arrows sailed overhead, thumping into advancing Voldiriks, whilst the infantry stabbed and ground down the enemy with sword and spear.

  Consequently, Landril declared that this should be the tactic for the rest of the forces, and where possible men rearranged their positions according to this theory. He found himself continually processing the odds and likelihood of which tactic would work well and when. From the top of the slope, on horseback, he scrutinized the scene for the slightest alteration. He scanned for the standard bearers, the flow of arrows and the direction of the wind . . .

  The Dacianarans continued to be the bane of the defensive forces. Having honed their skills against Voldirik forces on the hills of their homeland, they now raced to the left flank of the battle, drawing ever more of the foe to their inevita
ble fate. At one point they had come to within a few hundred yards of Landril’s position, delivering a charge of the Voldirik right into Valderon’s cavalry.

  And somehow, through all of this, the Voldirik numbers had been halved. This was reason enough for optimism.

  The only enduring issue was the two wayseers that were out there, their positions moving with the ebb and flow of battle, and whose magic was causing great difficulties for his forces.

  Landril’s latest tactic was to manoeuvre the witches in a more unpredictable fashion, and so he bid them walk on foot to join the archers who were ringed by infantry. The witches would then use their abilities to aid the infantry on their progression towards the towering walls of Stravir City. Soldiers buckled under their witchstone trickery: armour crumpled in on the flesh it contained as the women weeded out the more able bronze-clad warriors.

  Valderon’s men ripped free from the battle itself and returned to Landril’s side, the numbers of the cavalry reduced to a little over a dozen now.

  ‘Are you enjoying this, spymaster?’ Valderon brought his horse to a halt.

  ‘I can control very little,’ Landril shouted back, ‘so no, in answer to your question.’

  ‘I have never theorized from a distance.’ Valderon’s expression was surprisingly happy, despite the fact that he was covered in blood and mud. ‘I prefer to be in there, where the honest work is done.’

  ‘There is no honest work here. It is a miserable business.’

  Valderon gave no reply but gazed across the scene around him. Any remaining tendrils of daylight were starting to retreat. Night would come soon enough, and then what?

  ‘Is it worth fighting through the darkness?’ Valderon asked.

  ‘Their infantry is as fragile as predicted. We might grind them down if we continue.’

  ‘A hazardous business, night fighting.’

  ‘I have plans, should we need to. How do the witches fare?’

  ‘The sisters are alive and, so far as I can see, still seeking the wayseers, as you had instructed. I believe they feel they have their own axe to grind with these foreign magic users.’

  ‘We are holding our own,’ Landril said, ‘but unless Xavir manages his part we may still be lost.’

  ‘No news?’

  ‘No news,’ Landril replied. ‘Until we get a signal from that young witch of his, then we must continue.’

  ‘So be it,’ Valderon said, nudging his horse into a circle around Landril. ‘Where are we to be deployed next? You have a much better view of things than I do.’

  Landril scanned the scene once again, noting how the attack on the right flank had weakened greatly. The archers and witches were drifting into the centre of the battlefield. The riders who were resupplying arrows to them from the far right were now vulnerable. Should they be cut off, the archers would lose their power, and his small, vicious islands would be rendered useless.

  ‘Head to the right,’ Landril pointed. ‘It’s vital we protect the road we have marked as our supply route if we are to remain much longer.’

  Valderon turned in an instant, called for his fellow riders and descended downhill with a bloody cry.

  *

  Xavir stepped into the vast chamber, his two men at his heels and his daughter by his side. Every window here had long since been shattered. Wind gusted through the openings, forcing the tapestries to slam repeatedly against the stone walls. Outside, clouds scudded through darkening skies.

  This was one of the great octagonal spires of King Cedius – though it was no longer great.

  ‘I know you,’ came a hissing voice.

  A figure materialized in the centre of the chamber, its armour glowing like embers. Xavir waved for the others to take a few paces back.

  There were no eyes within its pale head, merely black orbs, but the shape of the face was familiar enough to Xavir. That long, noble nose and the strong jawline. All that had changed was that his skin possessed an unearthly sheen. The uniform was also familiar. On the breastplate was the crenellated tower and the rising sun above it. Behind the shoulders of the figure were the hilts of two swords.

  ‘Dimarius,’ Xavir whispered. And laughed.

  ‘What do you find so funny?’ The glow of Dimarius’s armour pulsated slowly, as if it was attuned to his mood or heartbeat. The figure paced back and forth in the centre of the room.

  ‘Your presence fills in the void in my knowledge,’ Xavir said. ‘Baradium Falls – you were in on the plot. This explains much. You worked with Mardonius to see we were finished. You have helped Mardonius claim the throne and this – whatever this is – is your reward.’

  ‘The throne does not belong to Mardonius,’ the burning figure sneered.

  ‘Explain,’ Xavir snapped.

  ‘The throne belongs to another king from another shore. A god,’ Dimarius hissed, the final word echoing around them. Something in the chamber above – the throne room if Xavir recalled correctly – groaned like some primordial beast.

  ‘And you,’ Xavir continued, ‘you have done the bidding of this other race? You have killed your own people. Mutated them for Goddess only knows the reason.’

  ‘It is for the people’s own good,’ Dimarius answered. His eyes glowed like embers, before returning to black. Smoke came from his mouth. ‘Greater things in life await them.’

  ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about, Dimarius. It was ever the way.’

  Agitated, the figure burned vibrantly at the suggestion.

  ‘In the years to come you will go down as a pointless traitor, as someone who should never have been in the Solar Cohort to begin with, and as someone whose skills were not up to scratch.’ Xavir goaded him. ‘Perhaps it is one reason why Cedius never gave you command. Is that why you felt the need to betray us?’

  ‘There was no guilt in betraying you, Xavir. The butcher of Baradium Falls. You were of the old ways. Too unwilling to embrace better things. Forever looking at the past. When one can see greater things in this world, you are but a transient thing. An obstacle, but nothing more. A king’s pet.’

  ‘This is nothing more than envy of me, then?’

  ‘Not everything is about you, Xavir,’ Dimarius said. ‘That was always your problem. The world does not revolve around you, but you failed to see it. And Cedius did not help matters. Think on – this world will be so much better without you.’

  Dimarius withdrew the two blades from over his shoulders, and Xavir raised the Keening Blades in return.

  ‘I am ready when you are, traitor,’ Xavir said.

  Elysia raised her bow, but Xavir shook his head. ‘Keep to the back of the room, all of you. This is my business.’

  His warning was for their own good. None of them would last a heartbeat against this new foe. The next few moments would tell what these strange changes had done to Dimarius’s skills.

  Xavir strode forwards to meet Dimarius, watching his every move. Each circled to their left. Dimarius had been an aggressive fighter, too keen with his moves at times when they had sparred in the training quarters, and Xavir waited for him to make the first move. The first mistake.

  ‘You look tired,’ Dimarius hissed.

  ‘I have had to fix what Mardonius has broken,’ Xavir replied. ‘But give it a few more hours and I will rest well enough. It is nice of you to care for me still.’

  ‘You must feel anger at what I did,’ Dimarius hissed at Xavir.

  ‘Is the first of the sparring to be done with words?’

  It was hard to read a reaction on Dimarius’s face. He had always been of cool temperament, but the strange sheen upon his skin seemed to fix his face in place. It was difficult to discern precisely what those black orbs were perceiving.

  ‘Anyway, I do not,’ Xavir lied, ‘feel anger. It is clear that if I am to be angry, it is to be with whatever did this to you, to Mardonius, and whatever you claim sits on the throne. And I pity you for taking leave of your senses. I can see now that there is a greater power at work. You have
made a pact with it, certainly, and looking at you I doubt you’re satisfied with the outcome.’

  ‘You continue to be an arrogant fool,’ Dimarius snapped.

  Xavir shrugged. ‘I do not dispute my arrogance, but I am no fool, Dimarius. My incarceration left me with a simple mission – to issue justice to those who put me in gaol and killed my brothers. But there is much in the world that is wrong and someone needs to step in and fix what traitors like you and Mardonius have broken.’

  ‘And you think you can be the great saviour?’ Dimarius gave a cruel, deep laugh.

  ‘No,’ Xavir replied, and Dimarius paused. ‘I have seen the ebb and flow of power all my life, and I may not be the man to direct it. If I die, so be it. But before I do, I want to take that damn crown off Mardonius’s traitorous head.’

  Then one of the Keening Blades sang out as Xavir’s right arm whipped through the air. An ordinary man would have been killed in that instant, but Dimarius was no ordinary man. A burning sword met the strike, and a spark shot off into the corner of the room as from a hammer on a smith’s anvil.

  Dimarius’s other sword moved towards Xavir’s legs, but Xavir had already seen the gesture and leaped several feet up and to the left; his other weapon did not defend the strike, but rather attempted to cleave into Dimarius’s upper arm. The Red Butcher rolled back his torso, stepped apart and the two warriors found themselves facing each other neutrally.

  ‘What exactly,’ Xavir asked, laughing, ‘did you get out of your pact with the Voldiriks? You’re just as predictable as you always were.’

  Dimarius walked towards Xavir and unleashed a series of sword strikes; the heat from each one was like a furnace door being opened in front of Xavir’s face. The man’s armour burned brightly, as if Xavir was fanning the flames of anger within him. Xavir parried each blow, sidestepping vicious lurches and knocking back any attempts that came close to his body. Dimarius grunted in frustration; there had never been any elegance to his technique.

  Xavir turned on his heel and worked through many of the classic series Dimarius had always struggled with – the eagle, the titan, the dancing wolf – each one provoking a slight stumble or potential gap in defences. With his unique armour, Dimarius was light on his feet, certainly, but he was restricted in his movements.