The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond

by Simon Markusson

  “We were enraged and shocked when we saw what they had done to our kindred, even to Haxamalath: they had taken their eyes and left their wounds to bleed and fester. Without the eyes, the Inquisition thought, a spellcaster was harmless. They were wrong, of course. Haxamalath could have brought all of Lourne to ruin and let every man meet hell in a way that would have made the Inquisition’s torture seem friendly. But he did not. Instead, his blind gaze found us in the crowd, we young and foolish who had planned to make this a bloody rescue, and before the torch was thrown, he used his last power to commune with us...”

  Alwarul’s eyes glistened in the firelight, and he would not turn to look at Nathelion. “What he told us, I remember still. ‘Let not the Kindred’s power be a source of more ill. And take those frowns off your faces!’”

  Alwarul almost seemed to have forgotten Nathelion’s presence, his eyes staring deep into the past from a countenance that could well have been the one he had worn in that agitated square beneath the Temple of Uamar. It almost made Nathelion too uncomfortable to ask, “But your story still hasn’t given any explanation to the fact that there is no Seventh Tower. And I’ve never heard of the Inquisition.”

  Alwarul continued. “We would not let them have the Tower of the Rizych — not our sanctuary, not our home with all its secrets. We could not do battle with the Inquisition, but we were numerous enough to deny them the use of the Seventh Tower.

  “Together, we entered the base of our order, determined to preserve it and keep it from our enemies. The ritual we performed then was the most complex and demanding task ever put before us, incantations devised by the Old Masters and never attempted, yet our will guided us to some success. We moved the Seventh Tower, but not over any corporeal distance. No, we shifted it to a...higher frequency, another plane. It was brought to a dimension apart from ours, where none could possibly take it from us. In this world, it is still tied to the same spot in which it stood then — though it is invisible and wholly imperceptible to those who do not know the Art.

  “The people of Lourne stared in wonder when they first discovered that the Seventh Tower had suddenly vanished, but they soon celebrated it as a sign of the Rizych’s defeat. The Inquisition lasted for some four hundred years, however, and burned more alleged sorcerers than I dare imagine. In the end, people tired of seeing their young and their old dragged screaming to the stakes. The Witchwar was mostly forgotten or discredited as legend, and the threat of the Inquisition was far more real than that of spells. It was King Maliam who famously said, ‘If sorcery truly is so dangerous and so common, so powerful and perilous as has long been assumed, then I am truly amazed at seeing so few casualties among those who battle it. Inquisitors, how come the farmer girls you burn do not answer in kind with their spells? How come the midwives do not curse you in the dark tongues of fiends?’ The Inquisition was abolished, and we who remained of the Rizych, no more than dozens now, stayed hidden. Thus did the arcane leave the world and mind of mankind, Nathelion, and thus came to be the Secret Tower of Lourne.”

  Nathelion nodded slowly as Alwarul finished, feeling oddly impressed by the old man’s story. His delusions are far more complex than I would’ve thought, he realized. Perhaps he was a learned man before he went mad. Within his deranged narrative were bits and pieces of information that suggested a real and wide knowledge of the world. The story was also cunningly devised to be impossible to disprove, with an invisible and imperceptible tower and monsters that were now long extinct. He couldn’t help but probe it. “So how does one enter this secret tower, then?” He made his voice uncritical so as not to insult the old man.

  “Those with the Gift see it, and they can open the door provided they know how. Only thirteen of us still live, and we meet much more seldom than we used to, but we still keep the tower as a gathering place. Hopefully my kindred will be able to aid us now. Believe me when I say that their assistance would be invaluable.”

  “I trust in your judgment,” Nathelion acknowledged with an inclination of the head. He had always wanted to see the capital, and after Alwarul had spoken in the invisible tower with his undoubtedly equally subtle friends, they would be able to move on to new sights. Perhaps Meirovitan would be next. He had always found the stories of its harbors appealing, and they said that the city was so full of whores that they had started a guild. Yes, Meirovitan seemed a splendid idea.

  While Nathelion enjoyed some enticing fantasies along with his bread, Alwarul suddenly rose to look about intently. Nathelion stopped chewing and heard the horses neigh in the chill air. “What is it?” he asked the old man.

  Alwarul shook his head gently. “Nothing,” he answered, and then, in a voice more at peace, he said, “Nothing. I am just... Of course, I am uneasy, but there is nothing here.”

  A pair of sticks in the fire cracked into a cloud of embers, and Alwarul looked over to Nathelion with eyes lit from below. “I will ward this place tonight. You will not need to keep watch. Sleep instead, Nathelion. Our morning will come swift and dark.”

  Nathelion felt oddly impressed by the ancient figure who stood over him, appearing now like the sage and the mystic from any fable, the shadows giving an almost otherworldly cast to his features. I’m too damn tired. Soon, I’ll start believing those bloody stories!

  He lay down on the hard, frozen soil next to the fire, wishing he’d had a blanket. The old man turned away and raised his staff in some mock ritual, though Nathelion had to admit that the grinding, dark speech that rose from his throat sounded almost like a real language. The intonation carried a strange force that hammered every word into his ears. He tried to shut it out, but the chant would not be silenced, and every hair on his body rose as the voice of the old man seemed to fill the surroundings with those harrowing, clear, and forceful syllables. The damn breeze is rising. It’s too cold, he thought, moving closer to the fire and hugging himself against the chill.

  “It is done,” Alwarul finally said. “I will awaken if any threat steps over the boundaries I have set. We can both sleep well at ease.”

  Nathelion doubted he’d be able to sleep particularly well at all. He’s harmless, he assured himself, an old man now living the final part of his life in some adventure story he’s concocted.

  Alwarul was quick in following his own advice about getting rest, lying down with the saddle as a pillow. It took only moments before the old man assumed the heavy, peaceful breathing of one fast asleep. Meanwhile, Nathelion huddled in the cold. Alwarul had given him a sense of unease that he couldn’t explain. He had wished for dreams tinged with hope instead of longing, but what found him when he finally closed his eyes and let his mind drift were nightmares — ceaseless and haunting nightmares.

  For some reason, Nathelion found himself high on a mighty mountain strewn with snow and rocks. He stood in the mouth of a cave, looking out over the vast forests and plains far below; like a map, the land stretched out beneath him so that he could see the routes of wide rivers and long roads. He could see brilliant, shimmering lakes and even the odd lone farmstead standing in stubborn defiance against the wild and rugged landscape. He could see farther than he ever had before, as if he were a great eagle perching in its high nest. And yet, nothing of what he saw did he recognize. He could not name the rivers or the forests or say what men called those distant fields; he only knew that they were not home.

  The winds blew harsh and cold among the mountaintops as he stood there watching, and they ruffled his hair, pulled at his clothes, and howled fatefully as they chased through the cavities of the mountain. He frowned suddenly, discerning something among those sounds... A voice? Yes, it was a voice he heard, a faint voice. He strained to perceive it. The winds picked up.

  “Who are you?” the enchanted voice asked in a low echo. It was a woman’s voice, beautiful and serene. The gusts blew around Nathelion as if to get a measure of him.

  “What?” Nathelion asked, bracing himself against the winds.

  “Who are you?” the question came
again, echoing as before.

  “Who is this?” Nathelion asked back curiously. He knew it was a dream already, but he knew not what kind.

  The wind grew stronger. “Who are you?”

  Nathelion smiled. “This is a dream, and I am the dreamer.”

  In the depth of the cave, the wind howled like a specter among the stalagmites and the dark tunnels, and Nathelion saw nothing but darkness, nothing but shadows. Then the woman spoke to him again, beckoning him. “Come,” she said. “You must tell me your name.”

  The winds started pushing him, forcing him into the cave, and he found himself unable to resist them. “This is a dream,” he repeated to the incorporeal voice. “Just a dream.”

  The winds brought him deeper into the cave. Minerals and crystals in the rock reflected some dim light from the opening. “Come.”

  “This is a dream,” he told the cave, the winds, and the voice. He tried to disobey the rushing gales, but his effort was wasted, and they sucked him into that dark place.

  “Who are you?” the voice repeated, and ice now seemed to fill Nathelion’s lungs with every breath he took.

  This is a dream.

  The winds vanished, and at the unexpected lack of resistance, his efforts to keep steady instead brought him to the ground. The rocky cavern floor crashed against his back. For a moment, he lay there, in the now still and silent darkness. An unseen thing brushed past his fingers, while something else slithered over his ankle. He pulled back as if he had been bitten. Snakes. He shivered. A nightmare, then.

  The reptiles’ low hissing came to fill the darkness, but when he sat up, it faded into the background. Something else caught his attention. On a rock just ahead of him, a slender figure was sitting, illuminated by a fantastical crystal garden that seemed to fill the mountain. His jaw dropped open. She was the most beautiful being he had ever laid eyes on. Long, golden hair fell down her pale shoulders, and her large eyes sparkled like diamonds. She wore a snug, cream-colored dress that was cut low, revealing admirable cleavage.

  She made him think of the stories of fae, nymphs, and elves that he had heard, seeming like some beautiful forest spirit that had taken human form. Her every motion was so full of grace that it was like watching a dancer perform.

  “Who are you?” the woman asked, walking closer.

  “It’s my dream. You should know,” Nathelion said with a smile. “But let’s focus on more interesting things...” He reached out to grab her bosom, but before he could touch her, she slapped him so hard that he fell to the ground.

  “Imbecile,” she said, looking down on him as he tried to regain his bearings. “The fact that this is a dream does not mean that you are alone in it. Now, tell me who you are. You are not the prophesied one.”

  Nathelion tried to think. How could he feel pain like this? It was a dream. Despite his fear, a strong sense of indignation grew in him at the thought of being unknown and stepped on even in his own dream. “You’ll have to ask bloody nicely,” he growled.

  The woman’s eyes became dark. A violent wind howled through the cavern, chilling as a hag’s grave. Somehow, the venom of the snakes was even colder when they lashed out from the darkness.

  Nathelion woke in the night with a panicked gasp and found himself utterly frozen, his teeth chattering and his whole body trembling. Dammit, I should have brought blankets. No wonder my dreams were so strange.

  He sat up and put his hands near the fire, shivering with discomfort.

  “You feel it too, don’t you?”

  Only now did Nathelion discover that Alwarul was also sitting up. He was looking out into the night. Nathelion’s hairs rose immediately at the man’s grave voice. Another dream? he asked himself warily. But no, it didn’t seem like a dream. It felt too real and solid. And yet, there was a nightmarish sense to the night. No, it’s my dreams that linger. I’m awake.

  “What do you mean?” he asked the old man quietly, as if afraid to speak aloud. He forced that folly away and steadied his voice. “What is happening?”

  Alwarul was silent for a while, seemingly watching nothing. “The darkness,” he finally answered. “It is growing strong. Here. Everywhere.”

  Nathelion’s attention was drawn to the fire, and he frowned. It still burned strong, crackling over the blackened branches that he had gathered... But there was something about it that didn’t seem quite right. The flames fluttered as if winds were hectically driving them, even though there were no winds. The dark trees brooded in silence around their camp. “What darkness?” he found himself whispering urgently. “What is happening?”

  “The change,” Alwarul intoned. “The change that the Vile One brings. The Queen Beyond. Her dark reach expands. Like abyssal winds does her influence spread. I can see them, and they are blacker than the night.”

  Queen Beyond? Nathelion thought. Yes, Alwarul had rambled about some such person for most of the day. But there was something else that stirred in him at the mention of the name, some faint memory that would not quite surface. A dream, perhaps.

  “Our world is being changed,” Alwarul continued solemnly. “Or rather...being phased out.”

  “How...” Nathelion asked suspiciously. “How do you mean, ‘phased out’?”

  ”Memories and shadows, evils, wicked things. The bounds of our reality are weakening, the laws are being unraveled, and behind it all stands the darkest shadow. The whispers on these black winds are everywhere, and they sing of horrors that must not come to pass. It is happening faster than I had feared. This is why we must hurry.”

  “Memories, shadows... What does this mean?” Nathelion asked, licking his dry lips.

  Alwarul turned to him, gray, old, and wise, his eyes now holding a terrible fear. “You will see, I’m afraid,” said the elder. “You will see.” For a moment, upon meeting that meaningful gaze, Nathelion tried to fumble for something to say, a question, but he found words had abandoned him. Alwarul nodded. “I think we should continue.” Then he rose and picked up his saddle. “While time is still ours.”

  A Beast

  Nathelion and Alwarul saddled their horses and put out the fire in haste, deciding to take their breakfast on horseback. They were passing farms by the time the sun rose, leaving the uninhabited lands behind, and they turned in on well-traveled roads that allowed them speed. Safe roads, Alwarul assured Nathelion.

  It seemed the old man was right. They passed hillforts, most made of wood with palisade walls but also some made of stone, with tall towers boasting the banners of their masters. Around each was a village or at least a collection of farms.

  “How long will it be before we reach Lourne?” Nathelion asked.

  “A fortnight if we manage to secure a ship at Silverstream,” Alwarul replied. “If not, we shall have to move past the Harp and into Rurhav to get around the Gray Mountains. The barbarians rule those lands, but hopefully, we will be able to avoid unwanted attention during our brief passage through.”

  Nathelion didn’t particularly like that. There was the faint worry that Alwarul might lead him into danger due to his strange delusions. “And you have gone this way before?” he asked.

  “I have,” Alwarul answered, sounding soothingly unconcerned. “There is a pass in the Harp guarded by the great fortress-city of Richard’s Defense, which allows a traveler in great need to speed through Rurhav and arrive at Cawarath to the northwest.”

  “Did you see any barbarians on your journey?”

  “I have traveled through Rurhav more than once, Nathelion,” Alwarul said, sounding amused. “Yes, I have seen them on that route. I have also visited the tribes, long past when the Rizych were still strong. They named us ‘seers’ and ‘shamans’ and treated us quite affectionately.”

  “So, they were not hostile to you?” Nathelion probed on, uncertain of how much was real in that story.

  ”Not when they knew who they were dealing with, no. To harm a seer would be to declare war against the gods themselves. They were always very eager to seek fo
rgiveness if they had at first acted in an inappropriate manner towards us.”

  Nathelion felt a slight sting of irritation at the man’s unwillingness to speak without putting something of his lay sagas into every sentence. It made it nearly impossible to tell what, if anything, held any truth among all the gibberish. He couldn’t very well denounce Alwarul as a liar and a fool, though. He would simply have to rely on his own wit in order to discover what accurate information the old man possessed.

  “What does it look like, Rurhav?” he asked, trying to steer away from anything that would encourage Alwarul to add fantastical elements. In the description of a landscape, surely, Nathelion could tell what was authentic.

  “Rurhav is vast, my friend,” Alwarul answered. “When the people of the Harp speak of it, they mostly mean the Savage Hills, but that is merely a hinterland that the tribes may pass through on their journey south. Farther north lies the frozen forest of Wythrax, as large and dark as any woodland you have seen, and full of beasts. They are the clansmen’s only commodity, those beasts. The barbarians hunt them for their furs, which are sorely needed when the northern winter comes. They live where the cold and the ice lasts for the greater part of the year, farther away from the Harp’s rich lands than many fancy. Some dwell in crude cabins and work the soil as do the southern peoples, though the soil there is meager and the harvests are seldom enough to feed them. Most are nomads.”

  Nathelion nodded, feeling some satisfaction at an answer that seemed to be reasonably sane. But he still wanted some further confirmation. “May I look at the map?” he asked. “Show me this route we shall take.”

  Alwarul did not object, pulling the map from his saddlebag and handing it to Nathelion. “First, we make our way to Silverstream. A ship from there could swiftly take us to the sea by the Valdmer. Then we can sail along the coast all the way to Lourne.”