The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond

by Simon Markusson

  He snapped at her now, something stupid and rude. Perhaps it was because of his drinking. Someone rose from one of the tables, and Nathelion immediately felt embarrassment race down his spine.

  “Is this lout bothering you, Elsa?” asked the broad-shouldered man. Nathelion almost tripped over a chair in his drunkenness. The chuckles rose around the room, and he could feel his face growing red.

  “No, you let him be, Greine!” Elsa scolded, taking Nathelion under her protection in a most humiliating manner. “Nathelion never bothers anyone, and I think we all know who the lout here is!”

  There was some laughter at that, but it was friendly, the kind that was never afforded Nathelion. For him, the edge and the ill intent remained. He couldn’t stand being in that common room, with its warm and thick air. He scoured his pockets for the few ugly copper pieces that he’d scraped together most recently, deposited them on the table, and stumbled towards the door.

  The autumn dawn was red and glowing, a smoldering sky burning without warmth. The cold winds immediately came to accompany the muffled laughter that echoed after him from the Widow’s Rest. His cart was waiting beside the inn, the donkey tied by the well-worn hitching pole where he’d left the animal under supervision. The ragged boy who watched it had looked up when the door had slammed open, and in his apprehension, the donkey had succeeded in procuring the bundle of radishes that he’d been feeding it, wolfing them down victoriously. Nathelion was silent when he walked up to the animal and untied it.

  “I watched your goods, mister,” the boy said behind him in a squeaky voice.

  “Thank you,” Nathelion muttered distractedly, pulling the donkey with him as he started down the dirt road that he had to travel. The runt didn’t seem to catch his mood, running up beside him with anticipation large in his face.

  “You promised I’d get a copper. You were in there for longer than you said.”

  Too long, Nathelion reflected glumly. He had set out early from Shepherd’s farm so as to get to the damn market before midday, but now he’d be running late. He’d only planned to stop for an ale, just the one. He should’ve known better than to get the taste for it. “Yes, but you just bought yourself a handful of radishes. The donkey is grateful, no doubt. Now, off with you!”

  The snotty boy glared at him with shining eyes. “You owe me a copper!” he twittered. “Liars go to hell. Mother says so. Give me my copper!”

  Hell. Now there’s some relief, Nathelion thought. Still, the boy’s disappointment and anger made him feel absurdly uncomfortable. The fact that he didn’t have any copper left to give only made him more ashamed. “Shut up before I box you silly, you obnoxious little ragamuffin!”

  The boy kicked him in the shin and then ran off, quick as a little rat. “I’ll get you one day, you wide-eared mongrel!” Nathelion spit after him.

  The ugly donkey tried to turn around to the load of radishes it was pulling, but Nathelion gripped the rough piece of rope tied about its neck and forced the animal back on track. “Don’t you even think about giving me trouble, ass,” he growled at the stubborn beast, promising untold lashes with the stick if it didn’t comply.

  He was grinding his teeth when he continued down the trampled road, struggling periodically with his four-legged companion and trying not to get overly concerned by the icy cold that seemed to be setting in. His clothes weren’t at all suited for this windy weather, the drab woolens that he wore being too thin and ragged by far. The hopelessly worn shoes were especially lacking, with holes in the leather that allowed his filthy socks to peek through. He wouldn’t be having any good and warming meal this day either, nothing save maybe a pair of those radishes. It was all sure to make him sick. It certainly had before. It had never earned him pity from Master Shepherd, though; so long as he kept away from the fat pig’s family, all was well. Once, the bastard had even reduced his portions on account of his inability to work as hard. Nathelion had done the rare thing and tried to demand his normal amount, but Shepherd’s violent rebuttal had quickly put other thoughts in his head.

  “What are you going to do, boy? Burn my stable down?” the man had spluttered at what he’d perceived to be rebelliousness. “But you sleep in there!”

  He’d stay away and stay quiet till his grisly cough got better. Or until he perished — Shepherd’s eyes had told him that bit.

  Oh, but how he could admire the ruthless and utterly unscrupulous vagabonds that roamed the woods and the remote roads, taking what they willed. They’d never be in Nathelion’s position. They also occasionally got hanged, of course, to the great fascination of the crowds. But then there were the lucky sods who managed to stay in business and reap the rewards. Take that Jalen Thorne character, for example; the Widow’s Rest was always alive with stories of him. By all accounts, he was a bandit king of great cunning and deadly prowess, commanding a band of villains joined in brotherhood by their shared skills and lust for gold and for women. Man o’ Dusk, they called him. No one would mock him for that name.

  Many miles were still left to cover before Nathelion would reach the bustling market in Heath Berme. It was a town that was watched over by the only true fort in the southern barony of Widowswood. Yet Nathelion suddenly felt the urge to just walk away and leave his miserable life behind. The desire grew so intense that he stopped in the middle of the road, breath misting in the cold air. The bray of the donkey pulled him back to reality. “I guess it’s not for me, is it?” he asked the jackass, resuming his steps. “You who can eat anything, why don’t you ever run away?”

  The animal’s blank stare offered no explanation, though Nathelion imagined it wished to remain just for the possibility of hassling him.

  The bridge came into view as he followed the crook in the road, the gray and weathered stones suspended only five feet over the wild river that sloshed and sprayed ceaselessly. A sound drew his eyes from the waters as he reached the end of the bridge, and the donkey brayed at the appearance of newcomers.

  They emerged from the deep shadows of the trees: three unseemly, brutish louts, all armed. No, there were four. One followed farther behind with a crude crossbow in hand. The others carried well-kept swords and wore ringmail over tanned leathers, with stained cloaks that were otherwise dyed in pale greens. Nathelion’s breath caught in his throat as soon as he saw the steel in their hands and in their eyes. Deserters, he thought. The free-wheeling kind.

  He needed his tongue to speak — and speak well — yet as always, it tied and left him mute in the face of danger.

  “Who’s this now?” one of the men asked, a tall and unshaven figure with a steel half-helm on his head. “A good serf hard at his task of carrying some... What are those things there?”

  “Them’s radishes, Hal,” another said, this one shorter and skinnier but with a hard streak to his face that suggested tenacity. “Can be good food.”

  “You call those shriveled things good food, Jelden?” the first replied mockingly. “Never mind, I’ll eat just to fill my stomach.” He turned back to Nathelion with an almost abashed look on his grimy face. “I’m sorry, friend. In truth, we’ve been looking for some pretty doll and maybe a bit of bread, not a poor ugly fellow with a donkey.”

  Nathelion moved his lips to utter some wit, but instead, he just gaped like a fish.

  A broad-shouldered and bearded man chuckled. “Seems we startled him,” he said in a dark voice. “He’s shit his pants, perhaps.”

  The crossbowman was quick to fill in: “More often than just now, from the look o’ them clothes.”

  The one wearing the helmet smiled. “What’s your name, serf?” He retained the controlled tone that marked him as the leader.

  “Na— Na—” Nathelion stuttered, unable to finish a word before being interrupted by more laughter.

  “Na-na-na-na- Hah! Mewling like a babe,” barked the bearded man, and the others sniggered.

  “Listen, serf,” the one named Hal said. “We will take those radishes and that donkey of yours, and then
maybe you can tell us where to find our looker wench. Say you’ll get to live if you do.”

  Part of Nathelion wanted to sputter out directions to the Widow’s Rest, with its handful of drunkards and beauteous serving girls — and among the latter, Elsa, who seemed to him the cruelest type of tormentor, comforting him without commitment and then just as eagerly taking part in the bedevilments. But even as his dark thoughts were encouraged by his predicament, a word escaped his mouth that made him certain of his own insanity. It was the singularly most idiotic word he could have possibly uttered in the given situation, and yet it was spoken with a firmness that he could hardly recognize as his own voice.

  “No,” he said, and for a moment, only confused silence followed, with the sorry band of deserters just as surprised as he was at hearing that stupid defiance.

  “Kill him,” Hal answered after having ascertained that he hadn’t misheard. Nathelion’s world grew sluggish and numb as death whispered for him from the bearded man’s blade.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said another voice farther back. Nathelion’s eyes turned to the steep hill that climbed away from the bridge, and there, he saw a mounted figure in the middle of the road, around whom the red dawn rose. The knight looked like the very picture of chivalry, his armor shining like burnished gold in the ruddy sunlight as he sat tall in the saddle of a white destrier. His sword was out, and its edge pointed toward the ruffian closest to Nathelion. “Little bravery is shown through striking down an unarmed man — I say turn your blade towards me!” There was steel in the man’s arresting voice.

  “A bloody knight,” Hal swore silently, but Nathelion could easily tell he was dismayed. The deserter raised his voice. “They taught us well how to deal with pompous fools like you, sir, and I’m afraid that it would be too much of a hassle for us to arrange for your ransom. Quinn, would you?”

  “With pleasure.” The man with the crossbow grinned and turned his sinister contraption towards the knight. “This might sting a little bit.”

  The bolt was almost immediately set loose with a deadly sigh, and within the blink of an eye, it had buried itself deep in the knight’s...shield. The armored man had been blindingly swift, and the shield had caught the projectile in its uppermost corner, where it sank into the wood with only a brief thud.

  Charge, Nathelion thought while the weasel named Quinn retreated in order to reload, cussing in a vile manner. Charge and have at them from your horse!

  To his shock, the knight dismounted instead, patting the horse to calm it. Then he turned to face the men, his cloak rippling in rising winds. “Since you know so little of honor, friends, I shall see it as my duty to teach you.”

  Jelden whispered quickly to Hal, “That horse ought to be worth a fortune. Let’s off this bucket and take what’s to take.”

  Hal nodded. “We surround him.”

  The knight’s eyes measured his opponents’ motions with minute alertness, as if he were preparing for the impossible task of countering all of their attacks at once. The situation seemed to be developing towards a brutal murder. Nathelion hadn’t noticed that he’d been holding his breath, but now he tasted air and considered if he shouldn’t run. He might even be able to fetch help if he did. No, there would be no time to find rescuers before the knight fell. But at least he would survive. He was just about to turn away from the scene and hurry back across the bridge, cart and donkey be damned, when the knight moved.

  It had seemed as if the armored man had intended to be on the defensive, warily eyeing his approaching opponents. But in the blink of an eye, he exploded into a violent charge to his right, to where Hal was trying to sneak around him. The bandit was so taken aback by the suddenness of the maneuver that he nearly failed to parry the knight’s blurring longsword, and he did fail to avoid the metal rim of the shield that followed soon after from the other side. It slammed into his cheek with teeth-rattling force that ought to have taken his head off along with his useless helmet. Hal fell to the ground without even a grunt, unconscious or dead before realizing that he’d been struck.

  Jelden had drawn back a bit in response to the knight’s charge, as if he’d feared that the initial sortie would be coming in his direction, and only the bearded man had rushed in, roaring, to support his companion. The knight surprised Nathelion and the deserters again with his lethal grasp of the situation. Instead of meeting the savage assault head on, he simply stepped to the side and swung his blade backhanded in the same quick motion. The blade caught the bearded man in the neck with a soft chuck that made Nathelion cringe.

  This grim turn of events had Jelden backing farther away, licking his dry lips as he threw a wide-eyed glance to the two bodies that the knight swiftly left behind. “We didn’t want no trouble with you, sir,” the villain said. “Just wanted some food. We hadn’t eaten proper in a week.”

  “And this stands as your excuse for bearing weapons against an unarmed man?” The knight lowered his sword.

  Jelden was quick to pacify him further, tossing down his own sword. “You wouldn’t attack an unarmed man, sir, and throw away all honor, like?” The slyness in the man’s voice made Nathelion’s hackles rise. “After all that you said. I beg for mercy, m’lord.”

  Motion in the corner of his eyes made Nathelion turn around to where the fourth man had run for respite. Under a pair of golden birches, Quinn was kneeling with his crossbow already reloaded, aiming for the knight’s unsuspecting back. Nathelion had no time to think. He threw a radish towards Quinn, shouting a warning to the knight at the same time.

  The radish bounced feebly off the tree trunk, missing Quinn by well over a foot, but the man winced at the sudden sound. The knight whirled around, Quinn swore, a bolt was set loose...and it flew past the knight’s shoulder to sink deep into Jelden’s unprotected throat.

  The man staggered back as blood poured forth from the wound, and his eyes grew big as saucers before he sank down to the ground. His murderer cursed again, loudly and vilely, and then turned away from it all, stumbling off among the shadows of the trees. The knight showed no interest in pursuit.

  A soft, rustling breath drew their attention to one of the bodies. Hal still lay unmoving, but his eyes now stared at the blushing sky above, and they glistened with moisture. He had trouble breathing, and his pale face was a half-swollen ruin where the shield had made impact.

  The knight walked up to him with heavy, clinking steps, his countenance taking on a somber look. He knelt by the man, laying his bloodied sword and his shield to the side to utter some incomprehensible sentences in Anteari. Then he reached for his dirk.

  “What are you doing?” Nathelion hardly had time to cry out before the weapon sank through ringmail and into Hal’s unsteady chest. The deserter sighed a muffled complaint, and then a few tears were freed from his eyes before they glazed over and abandoned sight. “You killed him!”

  “I killed him in the fight.” The knight rose. “This was mercy.”

  “But...” Nathelion felt chilled to his very core, realizing only now how strange deadly violence truly was to him. He’d seen pigs go to slaughter and had wrung the necks of plenty of would-be roosters. This was different.

  The knight fetched his horse and led the majestic destrier to the river. “It seems I have you to thank for my life,” he told Nathelion.

  When Nathelion managed to tear his gaze from the dead men, the knight was casually watering his horse and washing his weapons, letting all traces of blood pour away with the stream. “It was you who saved me, sir,” Nathelion said. “I could only scream and...toss a radish.” The donkey pulled at the string he held it by, made wary by all the commotion.

  The knight shrugged. “We help after our ability. That is where true honor lies.”

  The comment only made Nathelion feel more ashamed. Some ability, he thought grimly, feeling like he was shrinking down into his tattered boots. He couldn’t help it, but before this noble character, he felt almost grotesque.

  “I am Sir Ma
valyn Heath,” the armored man offered, stabbing his sword into the ground to rest his hands casually on the pommel. “What are you called, friend?”

  It was a simple question, but to Nathelion Nightshadow, it brought up gall. He’ll think I am mocking his noble blood if I give him my real name. “Nathan,” he replied. “Just Nathan. You...you are the baron’s son, aren’t you?”

  “His second son,” Sir Mavalyn clarified with a grin. “That means I have to find some other seat than Heath Berme. I don’t mind. There are too many tourneys out there for me to sit around.” The knight surveyed his surroundings as if searching for something. “Well, Nathan, would you be one to know where to find the nearest temple with consecrated grounds?” He nodded to the dead men. “They died for their wretched ways, but I will not doom them to restlessness.”

  “In Hobblehaul. A small temple, but that’s where everyone from hereabouts brings their dead,” Nathelion told him. He himself had been buried there, though not in the earth, cared for in its cellars by the priest who’d taught him to read before Shepherd had offered to foster him. “Got a sizeable graveyard that stretches far into the temple grove,” Nathelion added before giving him the directions.

  “Then that is where I shall bring them.” The knight looked at the cart. “I would have asked to borrow your cart, but you seem to have use for it. Never mind, I will try to find assistance elsewhere.”

  “Jarwyn has a good one used for such. He’s the priest — kind man, if a bit senile — he’ll be sure to assist you. If I dare ask, what has brought you here? Is there a tourney in the south?”

  The holding of such tourneys were the only times that knightly folk were spotted traveling down the old road. Nathelion had stood gawking at nobles and their passing retinues as a boy. He’d marveled at the sight of the banners and the armored warriors, at the beautiful ladies conversing atop their long-legged palfreys while the footmen marched before them in colorful liveries. He had dreamed vainly of knighthood then.