The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond

by Simon Markusson

  His breath slowed as he listened. He was about to curse himself for being an idiot and worse, but before he could, he was filled with fear as the sound of a woman’s laughter drifted through the door. It was not the voice of the serving wench, but haughty, like that of a queen. His thoughts went at once to the vision he had seen outside Silverstream. “Who’s there?” he asked.

  The laughter became louder and then quickly faded away. Gossiping women, looking through the keyhole, Nathelion thought with relief and some embarrassment. No doubt they thought it curious that someone dressed like me carries a sword. He snorted a brief laugh of his own, shaking his head.

  He picked up his pouch of coppers from under the pillow and tied it to his waist, and then he stepped into a corridor ruled by shadow. It was a bit strange how none of the lamps along the walls were lit. He’d expected someone to have seen to them earlier than this. It was cold, too. He looked to both sides to see if the mischievous girl was present anywhere, but there was only darkness. Did they not know how to warm this place? Someone was going to complain.

  Nathelion hurried down the corridor to the stairs that led to a somewhat brighter common room. It was illuminated by a smoldering hearth and a few burning candles on some of the tables. The agreeable smell of baking bread greeted him, along with Molgrimin’s hearty laughter.

  “There ye come at last, Nathan!” the moinguir said, belching over a stoop of ale that could not have been his first this morning. Beyond the dwarf, the common room was empty of patrons. The pretty woman from yesterday was tending the bar for the moinguir’s sake alone. “Here now, Nathan, ye want ale, perhaps? The lass here won’t have any, but ye can stomach it, ye can!”

  “Certainly,” Nathelion said, gladdened by the dwarf’s enthusiasm. He turned to the darling bartender, resting his eyes on a captivating face only made more adorable by the small smudge of dirt on her cheek. “And some breakfast would be nice. What have you?”

  “No more pork, though Malla’s still got potatoes and carrots. She’ll make it taste the same. Really quick, too. Want some?” The young woman had a spry and sort of shrewd way of speaking that had him absorbed.

  “Yes,” Nathelion said, taking the seat next to Molgrimin. “And bring in some of that wonderful bread I smell, too, with some cheese if you have any.”

  “Yea, we got cheese,” the woman said, brushing aside some of her blonde hair. “Bit stale, though, but Malla knows to warm it just right. It’ll seem almost fresh.”

  “Will you have anything, Molgrimin?” Nathelion asked.

  “Aye, give me three cooked eggs, and none of that almost fresh this time. Some bread, too. And more importantly, more ale!”

  The woman poured up ale for them both before scurrying away to the kitchen. Her stained dress was pleasantly snug over her rear. Nathelion wondered fleetingly what it would take to impress her. He wasn’t very well kempt, or even very clean, but he had a sword and a rowdy friend, so maybe he’d be able to play the rogue.

  “Now, Nathan, let us toast for the adventure to come, aye?” Molgrimin suggested, and Nathelion didn’t mind raising his tankard with him.

  “So, you are a fighter, Molgrimin?” he asked in a friendly manner after having swallowed some of that terribly strong ale. Too strong to be drinking this early, in truth.

  “Nay!” Molgrimin exclaimed vigorously, spilling ale over the floor as he rocked in the chair. “I am a warrior, lad, a warrior! Fighters are the sort that brawl in places like these just to blow off some steam. Warriors, now, they know what battle is about. Ye know what I’m talking about, don’t ye, lad? Ye live by the sword, same as I.”

  Nathelion felt oddly flattered by Molgrimin’s treatment of him, however absurd it was. Still, the sword did make him feel capable. “But where is your weapon, Molgrimin?”

  “Gone, I fear.” Molgrimin took a deep swallow from his pint. “Or rather stolen. Some cowards managed to make away with it after a fight they wouldn’t want to experience again.”

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t, Molgrimin,” Nathelion said before hastily hiding his smile behind his tankard.

  “Of course, I bought a new weapon in Golowych when I was there,” Molgrimin continued, “a sturdy hammer. But it looked more dangerous than it was, being made by humans, and I lost it in another fight. I mean no offense to ye, but ye’ll never see me buying a human-forged weapon again. My fists serve me better.”

  “Absolutely no offense taken, friend. I’m sure moinguir smiths are vastly superior.” They would bloody well have to be.

  “They sure are,” Molgrimin said with a wide grin. “Though I have to admit that yer sword there looks decent enough. Of course, if it had been moinguir work, those details would’ve been of white, yellow, and red gold. The petals on them would’ve seemed to stir in the winds, and ye’d keep telling yerself that ye could smell those roses. Maybe the blade would’ve been inscribed with the runes as well if the runemasters had been so inclined. And then you might actually have been able to smell the roses. Runic weapons are mighty things, mark my words. Sought after by every warrior worthy of the name. Aye, and even better when they are made of hâlor. Such weapons are living things, ye know, seeking their kindred spirits. Aye, a warrior worthy to carry them into battle. Mighty stories of such, I’ve heard. Mighty stories.”

  “I’ve heard that hâlor is worth a whole lot,” Nathelion said.

  “Aye, worth more than any other metal ye’ll find,” the Moinguir agreed. “Ye don’t make coin of it, though. Hâlor be far too powerful to waste like that. And once it’s been tempered, it won’t reshape. Ye make weapons of it, see, nearly indestructible.”

  “Then wouldn’t it be wiser to make some armor,” Nathelion quipped.

  Molgrimin chuckled. “Aye, that, too. That, too. Only ye’ll be hard pressed to find anyone who can boast enough hâlor to have any large piece of armor forged. It’s rare, Nathan, very rare. But I saw a dagger once. That edge had a grim air about it, believe me. The blade was alive.”

  “Yet it probably offered little in the way of conversation, no?”

  “Don’t be so sure, Nathan,” Molgrimin answered. “They say that a hâlor weapon speaks when it has found its true owner. Not in words, of course. In the stories, the blade sings with the beats of the bearer’s heart and tells him what’s in the hearts of his opponents. When one is united with a hâlor weapon, something changes, they say. Even when one stands alone in battle, one is not alone. Even when the enemies appear innumerable, their number suddenly means so much less. The wielder knows this, aye, and his foes see it also, though they may not realize it. Easily do they falter before him.”

  “I think you’ll get along well with Alwarul,” Nathelion said, receiving a quizzical look from Molgrimin. “So, where lies this Kast-Harnax?”

  “High up,” Molgrimin said. “The other side of the Gray Mountains from Wythrax. It is a great kingdom, as yer friend said, though not as sprawling as yer human places. Smithies and workshops fill the mountains with heat and light, and in the grassy highlands and by the mountain springs, ye’ll find our farms and the yilval herds of ours. And in the most fertile valleys, ye’ll find the fields of barley, rye, and hops that make for the best of ale...”

  Wythrax? Nathelion thought as the moinguir described his homeland. Alwarul did know some things of the lands north of Rurhav, then. The world was just a tad stranger than Nathelion had supposed, especially after hearing of Molgrimin’s distant Kast-Harnax. Of course, the moinguir were not quite as peculiar as in the stories. If they had been, then Molgrimin’s skin would have been hard and crusted with gems, and his beard would consist of shimmering gold. Their existence, though, had Nathelion extremely intrigued. Who knows what other fanciful tales might hide some kernel of truth? Alwarul’s stories certainly seemed to be laced with reality. The sane parts, at least. He made a mental note to listen closer to the old man.

  “Oh, the ale, Nathan!” Molgrimin continued. “Nay, nay, don’t make me speak of it!”

  �
�How come you left, then?”

  “That,” Molgrimin said in a more somber tone, “that is something that I can’t tell ye.”

  “But surely,” Nathelion said as the dwarf drank deeply. “Surely, it is possible to win honor other than in battle?”

  “What do ye mean? How, for example?”

  “Uh... Well...” Nathelion thought for a moment. “By living a benevolent life, say?”

  Molgrimin stared at him in silence, and for a moment, Nathelion could not tell at all what the moinguir’s reaction would be. Then his face split into a wide grin. He laughed, giving Nathelion a hard slap on the back.

  The stairs creaked behind them, and Alwarul appeared. He looked very haggard, his features sunken and marked with worry as if he had not had a moment of sleep. Nathelion commented on this as the old man joined them, and Alwarul admitted grimly that his night had not been mild.

  “Nightmares of that Magdha?” Nathelion asked, thinking of the woman who had tragically lost her husband before passing away herself. “Or of that vicious bear?”

  Alwarul was silent for a moment. “I do not think that the beast was a bear, Nathelion. Nor, indeed, any feral thing of the woods.”

  “No?” Nathelion asked. “I thought the wounds suggested it.”

  “Undoubtedly, they did. But many things have claws, many things vastly more dangerous than any bear.”

  “What’s this thing ye speak of?” Molgrimin asked with a suddenly piqued interest. “Is there some monster hereabout?”

  “A monster,” Alwarul agreed, “yet only a foretaste of what we shall need to face.”

  Molgrimin’s face lit up at that. “Tell me, then, what was it?”

  “What it was...” Alwarul began slowly, his tone preparing them for a sinister description, “was a wave. A heaving surge of the black waters of the abyss foaming over our deck as the storm rages. Yes, her story would have told me that even if I had not felt that dark presence lingering. It was but one of the first, for the waves are rising ever higher. The Queen Beyond agitates the waters of the abyss, and the effects will be...unspeakable. This incident was a mere projection, I think, a fear held by that woman and that man given a fleeting life by the dark and unchecked energies of the Beyond. Greater waves will strike, and there is ever the risk that a thing in the depths will open its accursed eyes to look upon our frail hull.” The old man shook his head, as if lacking for words. “There are things there that go beyond time. And their dark maws will always feed.”

  Molgrimin seemed overwhelmed by what Alwarul was saying, his expression uneasy. “The abyss part, that, I think I understand. But what’s this ship?”

  “Our world,” Nathelion put in, feeling not the least bit concerned. In fact, he should have made more effort to hold back his smile. “Our world is sinking into the abyss. He is using the old ship-and-ocean metaphor. And it’s all thanks to the ancient evil of the Queen Beyond. Who has been awakened.” He did his best to sound suspenseful, but of course, the joke was lost on the both of them.

  Molgrimin looked pale. “Is this... Is this true?” He strengthened his voice. “If it is true, then my prowess will still be at yer disposal. I shall not balk even before...before fiends.”

  The old man smiled sorrowfully. “Then you truly are a worthy ally, my moinguir friend. Stalwart as your mountains.”

  Molgrimin turned disbelieving eyes to Nathelion. “Aye, but I fear that I’ll never be as stalwart as this lad. Bloody hells, Nathan, how can ye be so calm? The abyss! Bloody, bloody hells, to sink into the abyss!”

  Nathelion made his expression serious, liking this role. “Only if the Queen Beyond is not defeated, friend. Only then.”

  “Aye,” Molgrimin agreed. “Alwarul, what can ye tell us of this foe? What do ye know of this ‘Queen Beyond’?”

  Alwarul shook his head. “Precious little, I’m afraid. She is...a dark goddess, once worshipped before she was imprisoned. This, I know. For more answers, we must make for Lourne. There is a...certain place of knowledge there. And we must be moving with speed. Our world is no longer far from the abyss. I can feel it sinking.”

  Molgrimin looked into the air, breathless. “I can feel it, too. By the gods, Alwarul, the world never faced a greater peril.”

  “No, it has not,” Alwarul replied in a grim voice. “And never has any mortal man been given such a task as Nathelion, or as those who must aid him. If we fail, light itself will drown in the depths.”

  The attractive serving wench came back from the kitchen with their breakfast. “You want something, too?” she asked Alwarul.

  “No,” Alwarul said. “But be a dear and have the stable boy ready our horses, will you? We shall soon be leaving.”

  “He isn’t gonna like it, being woke up,” she said amusedly. “But I’ll do that.” The woman gave Nathelion a last smile before leaving again.

  I need to look more dangerous. That’s probably it, he thought. A bit better clothes, certainly. Better clothes and a nice hooded cloak for the added mystery. That’d do the trick. I could carry a knife at my belt and get a proper scabbard for my sword. Damn, and some real boots would look good as well.

  When they entered the stable, it seemed that the stable boy had encountered difficulties with the moinguir’s strange mount. “Your stupid pony tried to bite me!” the boy said sulkily, and the golden steed neighed proudly in its stall.

  “Did she get ye?” the dwarf asked as he approached the boy.

  The boy’s voice was glum. “No.”

  “Well, that be a bloody shame!” the moinguir screamed, kicking the boy’s ankle so he collapsed to the ground with a loud yelp. “Ye can’t be clumsy and stupid with the yilval, ye clout-handed piece of misfortune...”

  The dwarf picked up the small saddle that had been abandoned by the stall gate. Before he began to saddle the animal, he spoke softly to it in a language that sounded like the crumbling of stones. The animal was soon docile. “The yilval have some dignity, ye dunce. Now, now, Meriehse, the fool boy didn’t know who he was dealing with.” Molgrimin gave his mount a few apologizing pats.

  “What is a ‘yilval’?” Nathelion asked as he took the reins of his own horse.

  “The mountain steeds of the mountain dwellers,” Alwarul said, leading his smoky black stallion. “As endurable as they are fierce and possessing an uncanny balance. ‘Yilval’ means ‘fire spirit.’ It is quite apt.”

  “Aye,” said Molgrimin. “And don’t ye worry that I won’t be able to keep up! The yilval will match yer ungainly horses over the plains just as they outdo them in the mountains.”

  Alwarul tossed a copper to the stable boy, as promised, and then added a second. “For your discomfort.”

  The guards by the city gates looked surprised when the three rode up to them, eyeing Molgrimin on his yilval mount. “What will be your business in Silverstream?”

  “We wish to seek passage on a ship,” Alwarul said.

  “The docks are in no want of beggars.”

  “Ye have a mind to call us beggars?” Molgrimin growled from his saddle.

  “I...” the guardsman hesitated suddenly, looking away from the dwarf’s burning glare. “I...”

  “He made a mistake,” said a firmer voice. They all turned to watch the officer stepping out through the door of the toll office, his breastplate gleaming under a heavy cloak that stirred in the wind. He looked older than the other guard, but it could have been authority and sternness that added extra years to his appearance. “You will be allowed to pass, of course. The countess always finds welcome for the moinguir and their friends.”

  Molgrimin nodded respectfully at the reception he was afforded.

  “You must excuse Sam here, however. He only tried to act in accordance with orders. The city has seen its share of violence and crime lately, and the countess has asked us to keep a lookout for...well, suspicious people. He has not acquired the routine yet, and he somehow failed to recognize your heritage...”

  The captain gave his subordinate a f
reezing glare. “However difficult that should be. Raise the portcullis!”

  The shout was to the guards on the wall, and two other men were already opening the heavy portals of the gate. The black metal portcullis behind it began to rise with a screech and a rattling of chains, making the way free into the darkened city.

  “I advise caution, though. The city is not very safe anymore. There have been plenty of murders in the night, grisly murders. Of course, it is nothing compared to what’s outside the walls. The countess will increase the watch, I’m sure. Now, I hope none of you gentlemen has taken offense at Sam’s audacity?”

  “Nay,” Molgrimin grumbled. “Nay, but ye better teach him a thing or two about the moinguir, I think.”

  “Of course.” The captain smiled. “Mistaking a moinguir for a beggar... He’ll never hear the end of it. I shall not delay you further. Have as good a stay in Silverstream as you can, and please forget about this little incident.”

  When they rode into the city, the portcullis quickly dropped behind them. Nathelion threw a glance back, but the captain was already out of view, and the gate was closing.

  The houses here were finer than those they had recently left behind, with chimneys and tile roofs. Alwarul led them towards the distant docks, which he seemed to have no trouble finding. On their way there, they passed plenty of inns that were full of laughter and music, the sounds of merriment from within drifting out into the streets.

  Farther down, the inns gave way to equally noisy brothels. In the early morning, they saw many well-clad gentlemen sneaking into one of those establishments, and many stumbling out as well. Otherwise, most streets remained empty, though here and there, they did pass glum and shadowy figures that made them remember the captain’s words of caution.

  At the docks, the air was alive with sounds, mostly those of loud orders being shouted and men hauling wares onto ships with great efficiency. Guards patrolled the place in numbers, stationed along the broad magazines whose windowless walls produced deep shadows. Alwarul dismounted by one of the busier wharves, where a ship was being loaded with heavy crates and barrels and large, hard sacks stuffed to the brink of bursting. The men toiling to get them onboard gave the company no more than a few quick glances. An overseer quickly came to greet them. “What may I help you with?” He was a balding man with a thick beard and a heavy gut, and the back of his hands were covered with coarse hairs that gave him a rather brutish appearance.