The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond

by Simon Markusson

  “Perhaps,” the knight said, smiling. “To tell you truly, I don’t know why I found my way here. There is a...” He looked about with an almost devout air. “There is a sense only, almost as if I am being called. It’s like things are...tugging at me.”

  Nathelion was almost taken in by his spirit, as if he truly could gaze upon a part of prophecy unveiling. “Well, I am grateful for it at least.” He had to clear his throat. “You came just in time to save my life. Thank you.”

  “Think nothing of it,” the knight answered with noble humility.

  Of you saving me or of my life? Nathelion thought reflexively. “I have to see these to market now,” he said, excusing himself. “Once again, my thanks, and good travels to you, sir.” He pulled the rope to make the donkey move, and he had to struggle a bit in front of the knight.

  “And good travels to you!” called the knight as the cart set into motion. “May you walk in the light.”

  Nathelion moved past the corpses without much care, though the donkey brayed and grew difficult, and then he began ascending the steep hill. The progress was slow with the donkey setting the pace. Nathelion ground his teeth and promised the animal a beating once they were up the damn slope. Near its top, his anger was replaced by sudden alarm as the sounds of speeding hooves reached them. More bandits, and on horseback!

  He flinched away from the crest of the hill to warn the knight by the riverbank, but the donkey brayed and went out of control, kicking and pulling at the rope. It somehow managed to loosen the cart, setting it free. The cart rolled down the hill with a terrible ruckus, radishes spraying as it bumped over the uneven road. Nathelion could not run after it, what with the damn donkey trying to bite and kick him to get loose. He couldn’t allow the animal to run, and desperately tried to restrain it with that sorry piece of rope.

  A hoof hit him in the stomach and forced the air out of his lungs. He sank down to the ground while the animal disappeared somewhere among the trees. At the same time, other sounds reached him: a violent splash, a whinnying horse, more hooves. When he finally managed to get to his feet, though hunched at the middle, he turned at once to the bridge and saw to his horror that no one was there. The knight was gone, as was his white steed, while the sound of the approaching rider grew louder over the hill.

  He lunged down to the riverbank, hoping to call the knight back before that dreadfully speedy mount of his carried him out of earshot. But the knight was nowhere in sight. He stopped helplessly by the waters of the deep, rushing river that hurried into Widowswood. It carried radishes along with it now, the red vegetables bobbing away in the stream. He searched for the readiest route to escape whoever was approaching on the road. His eyes stopped upon something at the riverbank. The knight’s sword. It was still stuck in the dirt as if forgotten.

  Why would he leave his sword behind? Nathelion thought in bewilderment. It was a masterful weapon, with a graceful pommel and cross-guard in the shape of leaves and flowers. He must have forgotten it. He pulled the sword free. Its grip felt comfortable in his hand. The balance of the blade was perfect as far as he could tell.

  A solitary rider appeared at the crest of the hill. His horse seemed near collapse. Nathelion was surprised to see that it was an old man who sat in the saddle, not a bandit at all. The man was clad in once-well-made robes that were now torn and dirtied, though his long white hair and beard shone in the sunlight. It was impossible to make out his facial expression with the bright, red sun behind him, but he must have been quite shocked at what he saw, considering the corpses and all. Instead of turning around, though, the old man snapped the reins and had the horse canter down the hill at an easy pace, greeting Nathelion with something almost like relief reflecting in his gray eyes.

  “I have found you,” the old man said as he approached, and he dismounted next to Nathelion. He looked oddly majestic even in what seemed like beggar’s garb, his luxurious white beard and sharp black eyebrows giving him an air of authority.

  Nathelion lowered the sword, feeling completely devastated for having riled himself up on account of nothing but a harmless old man — and in doing so, losing both donkey and the cart of radishes.

  “Here among the remains of your fallen foes, I have found you,” the old stranger continued. “Humbly clad yet deceivingly capable. But of course, the humble always hide the greatest prowess. I should have known better than to expect a louder character.” He walked up to Nathelion with a knowing smile. “I see that there is a question in your eyes, friend, but let your questions instead spring from this: you have been chosen.” Here, he bowed his head, his white beard flowing to his knees. “I am Alwarul the Old, Keeper of the Five Scrolls, Solver of Puzzles, Loremaster of the Ancients, and... Ah... Student of the Arcane.” He winked at that, but Nathelion felt lost.

  Alwarul seemed to take his silence for understanding. “You must tell me your full name, friend, that I may know what to call the one required by the Goddess.”

  “My name is...Nathelion Nightshadow...”

  “Nathelion Nightshadow.” Alwarul the Old said slowly, as if tasting the name and storing it well in memory. Then he smiled with confidence. “A name well earned, I do not doubt. Tell me, are you a pilgrim who has retired from his knightly profession in search of deeper insights, or perhaps a warrior who has taken up the noble work of cultivating the land after returning from battle? No, never mind — this will not be important. Nathelion, now you are called as the Avatar, and I am the messenger carrying the words of Hyahiera. A great task is laid before you, and it shall require you to leave behind everything that has been your life. This question I can ask you only once: are you willing to abandon your old life and leave your home behind?”

  “Uh...” Nathelion was still numb as he watched the radishes float down the river. Gods, but the old man could not have a clue as to what trouble Nathelion was in. No one could. “Yes...”

  Alwarul nodded sagely. “Are you then also willing to follow me down this path of peril and face the darkness that you were foreseen to battle against? I will not lie to you. You may not survive.”

  Shepherd would have him hanged for theft, or at the very least, he’d take one of Nathelion’s hands and toss him out to starve in the coming winter — even if losing the damn cart had been an accident. Nathelion could almost see the fat man’s empty pig-eyes staring at him with part self-righteous, self-important fury and part malevolent pleasure at seeing “justice” done to him. He knew that he should be monstrously fearful now, for Shepherd was a powerful man around these parts.

  “Where do we go?” he asked with the voice of a man who’s surprised himself. He had never dared to gamble before — and he still couldn’t eat all the things a donkey could. Now the time had come to take a chance. It was almost baffling what relief he felt.

  “Far, I fear,” Alwarul answered. “To Lourne.”

  Nathelion nodded slowly. He didn’t know at all what the old man was going on about. From the moment Alwarul had introduced himself as “Student of the Arcane,” Nathelion had understood that he was dealing with a lunatic. And he hadn’t really listened to anything he’d said. The old man seemed to be a friendly lunatic, though, and Nathelion knew that agreeing with such usually kept them amiable. Aside from that, the man did look like an experienced traveler, and he would certainly appreciate a guide.

  “We should leave as soon as possible,” Alwarul stressed. “The fate of the world truly lies in your hands.”

  Nathelion had nothing against departing quickly. But now that he would be free from Shepherd’s oppression, he felt that he still wanted to leave some token of his appreciation behind. “Wait,” he told the feeble-minded man. “There is something that I must do.”

  Alwarul smiled sorrowfully at him. “I understand,” he said, putting a gnarled and comforting hand on Nathelion’s shoulder. “Yes. Say farewell to all of your friends.”

  A Guiding Light

  Alwarul had felt rare relief upon finding the Chosen One, even though he
had at first been somewhat startled by Nightshadow’s simple looks. For he did seem a simple young man by appearance: slim, even scrawny, of average height, and boasting stringy hair and a thin face with ears just a bit too large for proper harmony with his other features.

  Nightshadow was an enigma. Alwarul was old enough that he had begun to think himself aware of most paths a soul could travel, but Nathelion had at once humbled him with his unique strangeness — one which seemed to convey a staggering power of character.

  With his prowess, Nightshadow would no doubt have been able to afford himself a luxurious life full of earthly pleasures. But instead, he was clad head to foot in the clothes of the most miserable pauper, his hair and face dirtied as if he were utterly oblivious to the concept of physical delicacy. Alwarul recognized this sentiment, although he had never witnessed it in such willing extremes. He himself had long preferred simple garments that were practical and unpretentious, but Nathelion’s clothing was scarcely enough to fend off the biting cold that had Alwarul’s old bones trembling. Yet he walked the frozen dirt road while cold winds blew all around without showing even a hint of discomfort, as if ascetic habit had tempered his mind until he had finally reached some plateau of mental control that was beyond Alwarul’s ken. Indeed, the only item he carried that seemed wholesome was his sword, which stood as a powerful symbol of what he did value.

  But the most impressive thing about the chosen champion, the thing that truly set him apart from other men and gave him the air of legend, was surely the level way in which he accepted the very fact of having been chosen. How he, in a manner neither dismayed nor too untroubled — but rather utterly focused — met the idea of battling the darkness that Alwarul spoke of. While they followed the road, Alwarul took the time to inform Nathelion about the dangers he should ready himself for. The young man listened in silence, nodding now and then at critical points and uttering surprisingly few, and yet very pointed and relevant, questions that revealed both his balanced mind and his intuitive understanding of the grave matter.

  “How does one kill it?” Nathelion asked once, direct and simple, after a longer account by Alwarul on the theorized nature of the arcane being that had been awakened. And when Alwarul tried to explain in gentle ways that he knew not how the enemy that Nathelion would face could be harmed, the young champion took it all in stride with a mere nod. It was as if he expected the answers he received, somehow being wise in these things already. Alwarul knew not what kind of bonds Hyahiera made with her chosen ones, but it did seem like her strength and understanding were present in the man now. Nathelion kept his eyes on their path as Alwarul answered his concise inquiries, yet not a word seemed lost on him. Nightshadow, truly, Alwarul thought, almost in awe. I cannot see into his mind at all.

  Vast and now empty fields spread out around them on both sides of the road. The cawing of a few crows broke the near-perpetual silence over the distances. Dark figures could now and then be seen among the farmsteads, stopping only momentarily to gaze in silence at the wanderers on the road — the young man with his sword and the old man on horseback — before they again resumed their labors.

  Now and then, carts appeared on the road with their weary drivers and beasts of burden: oxen, mules, or plump stots pulling their loads to market. The hunched men by the reins seemed to awaken from their hazy half-slumber when they spotted Nathelion Nightshadow, and they stared with wide eyes and furrowed brows, turning their heads after him as they passed by in silence. It seemed that Nathelion was a recognized, if rare, sight around here, perhaps most having only heard tales of the mysterious blademaster and his solitary ways.

  Nightshadow’s animated persistence already gave off the sheen of endless spirit. He would need it all in time. Alwarul knew this well. He shivered at the memory.

  The temple’s echoing, pitch-black catacombs had led him deep beneath the earth, where the air grew dank and moist with subterranean waters dripping from cracked and painted ceilings and from crumbling walls slick with fungus. A scent of putrid decay had immediately embraced him as he descended the first uneven stairs, yet the energies that teased his mind would not allow him to turn back. They called from the depths to his vain pride and hunger.

  No torches seemed willing to catch fire in that thick darkness. But Alwarul had other ways of casting light, and with the power that he commanded, he conjured a brilliant orb that floated in the air above his palm. It was not as bright as he had intended, however. The orb, usually a soft, white light, was laced with darkness now. Black tendrils crawled through it like blind worms on a bloated, alabaster corpse. The power in the temple had...stirred, almost as if in response to his own. Alwarul knew not what it meant, but he needed the light.

  The ruined corridors led him ever onwards through their pestilent displays, and his steps sank into a moist carpet of rotten things. Yet he did not slow down. Gnarly vines from plants he could not identify protruded from cracks in the walls, but the lure of the power in the temple made him ignore them. The first corpse, however, made his steps falter.

  When he came into a small chamber, the sickly light came to rest upon a figure of torment. It should have been a skeleton, he knew. If it had been here from the days in which the temple had still stood whole, it should have had no traces of flesh upon its hapless bones. But this was not a skeleton that grinned back at him; no, this was a mask of anguish and rage frozen in a soundless growl, a black and shriveled corpse with yellowed teeth peeking from under the curled-up lips. The dark vines had come to burrow through the corpse, their stunted thorns digging into its flesh like the teeth of some gluttonous beast. They hugged tightly around its wrists and throat to spread out the body’s limbs in the semblance of a puppet on strings.

  It must be the salt, Alwarul suddenly realized. That’s why it isn’t rotten. There is too much salt here. The clammy body did indeed seem covered in a weeping transparency of saltwater dripping down over the scalp from the murky roof and the mineral-rich sediments above. There was something more that his rational mind wanted to say, but his longing pushed it aside. Satisfied with his conclusion, Alwarul left the carcass and its lonesome tomb to continue through the ever-expanding halls that promised to yield their secrets to him.

  In the cavernous chambers that still had wide segments of their walls remaining intact, his diluted light fell over ancient inscriptions and glyphs that he assured himself he would have the time to study later. The place was full of forgotten knowledge and mystical lore. But he needed to do something else first. The power sang for him.

  More corpses were revealed by his light, wrapped in thorns from those strange, cruel vines that spread throughout the temple. Alwarul began to notice the silence. Of course, there was always the dripping of water that sent faint echoes down the somber passageways, filling the place with a rhythmic beat. Yet he could hear no other sounds. No rats seemed to infest these old catacombs. Somehow, the absence of those persistent rodents made an impression upon him, and the darkness turned a shade deeper.

  He had grown harder to unsettle for every century that he had wandered the world. Yet now he was...perturbed. It was a minor, fledgling sensation that seemed to drift in the depths of his mind, speaking of danger. He forced himself to ignore it. All things arcane held risk and danger. They could be deadly when probed the wrong way by the inexperienced. But no one was more experienced than Alwarul. He had been the apprentice of the Old Masters. He had studied the arcane under the tutelage of Haxamalath the Spellmaker himself. Long years of ceaseless study now lay behind him, overseen by those who had truly made the arcane into an art. And to that wisdom, he had then added his own discoveries during the millennia since the last of the Old Masters had perished in the Burning. Surely, none now living was better suited for the task at hand. However much he disliked disobeying his intuition, he knew this was true. It had to be him.

  His steps grew more steadfast even as the power seemed to echo in his ears like the beats of a living heart, and he did not heed any of his fears
or doubts. Nor did he pay attention when the orb above his hand bubbled with shadow.

  A door appeared before him out of the darkness of an anteroom furnished in death and eternal rot, a heavy door of stone blocks and with that spiky symbol upon it that had long eluded him: a metal circle, black, like a sun with angry, twisted rays clawing their way outwards from its surface. Here, at last, he stood before that door. Beyond it... Beyond it sang power like a thousand wailing voices, calling to him, promising him that it was all his — while the blackened corpses glared at him from their tangled and unrelenting chains. He had studied for this, and he knew the words. He spoke them.

  The doors pulled open with a rumble that echoed throughout the entire temple, sending out a tremor that made the dead seem to stir. And as Alwarul had stepped through that long-sealed doorway and into shadow, the orb in his hand had shone stronger than ever, though now black as night.

  The memories were too wearying, and they made Alwarul cringe. Nathelion seemed not to have taken notice of his sudden spell of anxiety, and for that, he was thankful. His shame, he hoped, would not need to be named, not yet. By the gods, what folly he had done, what insanity, to unleash that...! It was beyond words. Yet, in finding Nightshadow, he had moved one step closer to fulfilling penance, to correcting the mistake that should never have been made.

  “It’s over there,” Nathelion said at his side, pointing to a collection of trees that spread out over a field and separated it from another. “Beyond that thicket. You can wait here.”

  “Of course,” Alwarul quickly replied. He would not wish to intrude upon Nathelion’s farewells. This might well be the last time that the man would ever see his friends, and Alwarul was not about to sour that moment with his presence as the bearer of ill news and a dire summons. Instead, he took his discretion and dismounted by the trees while Nathelion continued onwards and out of sight. He does not give away his grief easily, Alwarul reflected at the sight of the other man’s expression, which, if anything, bordered on half a smile. The blademaster’s wisdom seemed, indeed, to extend far beyond his weapon of steel. But when he faces the darkness that I set free, will he still remain strong?