The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond

by Simon Markusson

  “We seek passage to Lourne,” Alwarul said. “And we can pay well for speed.”

  But the man was already shaking his head before Alwarul had finished the sentence. “You’ll find no ships here to take you to Lourne,” he said. “All have been contracted by the countess to carry supplies down to Evratilin. The siege and all what’s going on.”

  “Surely, there must be some?” Alwarul asked.

  “Nothing that the three of you couldn’t row,” the man replied. “The countess is the one telling the ships where to go now. Of course, the moinguir might be able to get you a petition. It’s rare to see one of his kind here...” The overseer trailed off when he spotted two men dropping a crate, and then he stalked off with a growl followed by angry shouts.

  “So...what do we do now?” Nathelion asked. “It might be best if we stay another day, anyway, considering the weather.”

  “No, we must continue,” Alwarul said. “The countess is eager for friendship with the moinguir, so let Molgrimin of Kast-Harnax request an audience. She must give us a ship.”

  Molgrimin hummed as they started away from the wharves. “And I suppose we aren’t going to tell her much about our quest?”

  “No,” Alwarul said. “That would not do at all. You need a swift journey to your home, for important things are taking place there. Something a noble moinguir wouldn’t want to miss.”

  “Aye, and who will ye be, then?”

  “Your traveling companions, met by chance on the road. Taking the opportunity to stare at her castle, why not?”

  They left the docks behind to turn towards the high castle, riding through a morning that brought no light and through streets that appeared strangely quiet. The people were there, of course, only fewer, perhaps, than should be up and about. And most seemed dejected and suspicious. A few well-to-do gentlemen rode through the streets on elegant palfreys, followed by a retinue of heavily armed guards. There was a wary air over the entire place, Nathelion thought. Grisly murders, the captain had said.

  Somber mansions appeared at their sides when they came higher up the slope, and empty parks with frozen trees lay in desolate silence. The only sounds here were those of the howling wind and bare branches rasping against each other.

  “Silverstream isn’t a very cheery place, is it?” Nathelion asked. Alwarul also seemed to have grown disquieted.

  Unexpectedly, they heard two voices up ahead, a conversation that quickly became hushed. “Someone’s coming...!”

  They rode within view of the speakers and found themselves being warily watched by two nervous lamplighters. One of them had a firm grip on the long pole that had just been used to kindle the lamp above them, holding it more as a spear now. They visibly released a breath, though, when they saw that the newcomers were three mounted men.

  “You seem unsettled, friends,” Alwarul called out. “Is something amiss?”

  “In Silverstream?” one of them replied. “You can bet your horse on that.”

  “You haven’t been here in a while, eh?” the man with the pole said. “You shouldn’t be out and about before the lamps are lit, not when it’s this dark.”

  “And why is this?” Molgrimin asked curiously. “Are there some troublemakers about? Just point them in our direction, and we’ll have yer streets safe again.”

  “Troublemakers...” The man spit to the side. “Nay. There’s something unholy about this. People have been disappearing, that’s true enough. Only, when their corpses are found, they aren’t looking much like people anymore.”

  “More like eaten people,” the other put in. “Eaten right to the bloody bones.”

  “The watch has been killing off dogs, but that hasn’t helped,” said the first, shaking his head. “Ain’t no damn dogs doing this, mark my words. Stay long enough, and you might get to hear those screams. You’ll know it’s not dogs then.”

  “Come, Caedmon, I want to have these damn posts lit.”

  “Aye,” the other lamplighter replied, stopping only briefly to give Nathelion a glance before following his friend. “Keep that sword close, lad. Keep it close as long as you’re in Silverstream.”

  Nathelion frowned as the two left them. Superstitious fools. Why invent more horrors than already exist?

  “There is something eerie about this place,” Molgrimin said after a while when they continued. “There is death in the air.”

  They passed a big temple on a street that remained unlit. The painted windows looked strangely sinister, the figures in them appearing like inhuman shadows in the darkness. The graveyard with its monuments and crypts made Nathelion feel spooked as well. The wind blew through the sparse trees among mourning statues and cold tombs to make the autumn leaves swirl, with a chill that cut deeper than usual. The stillness was consuming, transforming the clip-clops of hooves into thunderclaps. The statues seemed to follow their movements as they rode by, watching them with stony faces that were always cloaked in shadow.

  A pang of fear went through Nathelion when movement by one of the graves caught his eyes. Something yellow flashed in the darkness, but then the thing was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. A cat. He breathed out, his heart beating violently. Just a bloody cat. It had to be. What else had such eyes? Yet he couldn’t help but draw a sigh of relief when they left the temple behind and rode out onto streets with some light.

  The castle had looked imposing at a distance, but that was nothing compared to how it loomed up close. When they neared the inner walls, it grew into a dark mountain dotted with burning windows numbering in the hundreds. Shadows moved on the high catwalks, peering down at them.

  At the gate, they were approached by a pair of guards. “Who are you, and what do you seek at the castle?” one of them asked coolly. “The trenchers are distributed at the square in the evenings.”

  The other leaned in to whisper, “Moinguir.”

  “Ah,” said the first, turning friendlier. “I apologize, friend. It is dark. What business does one of the mountain dwellers have at Castle Scarlet?”

  Molgrimin dismounted with surprising nimbleness. “I’d like to have a chat with the countess.”

  The guardsman smiled. “Blunt, as always. But I’ll need to know exactly what you seek to ‘chat’ about.”

  “Ships,” Molgrimin said simply.

  “Very well.” The man nodded when he realized he wouldn’t get a more elaborate answer. “And your...friends?”

  “They want to talk to the countess, too. And they are cold. Will the countess receive us, or are ye sending us away?”

  “No. No, of course, she’ll hear that you’re here. You.” The guard pointed to Nathelion. “Give your sword over. No man enters armed.”

  Nathelion reluctantly handed him the sword, feeling immediately small before the castle and its structure of authority. Then the gates were opened, and they were led into the courtyard. Buildings lined the walls on the inside, and a couple of stable boys came running to take their horses.

  “Do not unsaddle them,” Alwarul instructed. “We won’t be long.”

  The guardsman guided them to the main gate of the castle proper, past a wizened garden with colonnades and pouring fountains. After their guide had made a brief exchange with the guards, the door was opened for them. Nathelion gasped. He was staring into a great hall full of light, color, and gleaming gold, with high balconies and galleries full of dazzling paintings and tapestries. Every fluted pillar was carved with gilded wines and flowers that shone in the light of a hundred rich candelabras. The floor was made of such sparkling marble that Nathelion feared it would be slippery as ice if he stepped on it. A red carpet stretched down the length of the great hall, ending at a high, golden chair on a dais with rich crimson curtains hanging down behind it. The curtains bore the coat of arms of the countess, embroidered in gold and black. A mighty spotted owl, it was, with glowing eyes that stared out over the hall from the black night sky of a flowery lozenge.

  “Wait here,” the guardsman said, and he walked awa
y with Nathelion’s sword. He left through a side door below the elevated throne. Nathelion hardly noticed him leaving, as he was busy staring at the smooth marble tiles of the floor that formed the shape of magnificent roses encircled by thorns. He had to make an effort not to gawk at everything he saw, and he was so overwhelmed by beauty and elegance that he almost thought it all a dream. Molgrimin scrutinized the gold and the decorations with much less admiration. The moinguir shook his head now and then, mumbling to himself as if he found something wanting in everything he inspected.

  After a while, the guard returned and made a stiff salute by the door. “The Countess Felicia Destette of Silverstream,” he announced in a formal voice that echoed in the hall. Then the most bewitching raven-tressed beauty entered.

  She was pale and finely dressed in a wondrous crimson dress that hugged her bosom and delicate waist and whose flowing skirts trailed behind her soundless steps. Rubies were set in her shining black hair, glimmering almost as much as the lustrous necklace that graced her slender neck and reflected the light of the candelabras a hundred times in diamonds and gold. Her smile was white and enchanting, framed by the most seductive red lips that Nathelion could have imagined. And she didn’t even blink when she laid eyes upon the ragged appearance of the visitors before her, so composed and graceful was she that it seemed no surprise could unravel her perfect etiquette.

  She took a seat on her cushioned throne, whose size made her seem almost a child, and two large, armored bodyguards planted themselves to either side of her. When their clinking steps grew silent, the great hall became still.

  Nathelion bowed together with Alwarul and Molgrimin before her radiance, and the lady’s fine hand beckoned her visitors to approach. “It is a long time since I was visited by one of the moinguir. Please, introduce yourself. From whence do you hail?” Her voice was a beautiful melody, her pronunciation so rich and clear that it soothed the ears to listen to her. Her soft, graceful gestures made everyone else look almost burlesque in comparison.

  “My name is Molgrimin, my lady, and I come from Kast-Harnax. Where I hope to return soon.”

  “Kast-Harnax!” the countess exclaimed, her mere expression of joy making Nathelion feel warm. “What a wonderful pleasure to see you here, then! I have always admired the craft in Kast-Harnax. Do you know that I have tried to establish a moinguir smithy at my castle?” She pouted adorably. “It is so difficult to persuade your stubborn people.”

  “Perhaps so, but ye should be trying to get a brewer to come here instead. I’ve been suffering human ale for years now. Only in Golowych did I find proper moinguir ale.”

  “Truly?” The countess smiled thoughtfully. “Could it be that moinguir brewing would encourage your people to join my household? If that is what has been lacking, I have wasted much time berating my poor messengers.”

  “Well, that’s one thing that Silverstream is lacking,” Molgrimin went on. “Aside from that, there is also the matter of the oversized pubs. Now, don’t misunderstand me — I like big pubs — but when the bloody tables are so big that ye can hardly use them, then it becomes troublesome. I was laughed at just yesterday for not being able to reach up to the counter of an otherwise fully respectable establishment.”

  “No!” The countess sounded appalled. “Please, give me their names and descriptions, and I’ll have them penalized for it.”

  “Nay, nay, ye’ll not! We moinguir fight our own battles, my lady,” Molgrimin said. “I’ll show anyone who dares to mock me what moinguir warriors are made of.”

  The countess’s eyes narrowed. “But I can see that you are hurt,” she said, sounding concerned. “Please tell me what has happened, and I shall do justice. I’ll have my physician—”

  “Nay, ye needn’t worry,” Molgrimin said, interrupting her. “These are mere scratches to any moinguir. We’re not as frail as yer kind.”

  “But still, I wouldn’t feel—”

  “I’ll hear nothing of it, even if it means that I have to take my leave at once,” Molgrimin said firmly.

  “Of course not!” the countess said. “I know that your brave people have the staunchest constitutions. But you must understand that the sight of wounds causes a woman like me such distress. Please, I beg you to forgive me.”

  “Ah, my lady, in truth, it is I who should apologize,” Molgrimin insisted. “I should have thought of yer fine nature and cleaned myself up. Anyway, the reason I did not was that I found myself in a bit of a hurry. There are reasons for me to be back home quickly, see. Family matters. Something a noble moinguir wouldn’t want to miss.” He actually winked at Alwarul. “Aye, we need a ship to take us past the Gray Mountains.”

  The countess took on an apologetic expression at once. “Oh, I’m sorry, Lord Molgrimin, but all ships are bound south. There is nothing I would rather do than help you, but the king would be terribly wroth with me if the supplies did not reach the siege in time. I’m already very pressed.”

  Nathelion could see Alwarul’s frustration growing while the noblewoman spoke. When she finished, the old man seemed unable to remain silent. “Countess Felicia Destette,” he said, making Nathelion wince. He had the tone of someone berating his granddaughter. “It is of utmost importance that we make good time. Things would otherwise turn dire in a way I dare not express in your halls.”

  The countess raised an eyebrow at him, a bemused smile playing on those irresistible lips of hers. “Oh?” she asked curiously. “Yet you seem to dare quite a lot, old man. What is your name?”

  “His name is Alwarul, my lady,” Molgrimin said with a flourish. “And this is Nathelion. Strangers, chance met on the road and now become my...”

  But the countess was no longer listening to the moinguir’s prepared account. Nathelion did not know what had changed, but suddenly, she seemed to be eyeing Alwarul much more intently.

  “Alwarul...” She mused silently, and the old man met her gaze. “Alwarul is a very old name, if my knowledge of history serves. How come you bear this name?”

  “A mother with some knowledge of history, as you say.” Alwarul inclined his head. “She fancied the name.”

  “Is that so?” The countess’s eyes lingered on Alwarul, and for a moment, it seemed as if she were seeking a fuller answer as she silently observed his ragged robes and his staff.

  “Anyway, if we could just get a smaller ship...” Molgrimin picked up again, attracting the countess’s renewed smile.

  “It grieves me to say that I truly cannot spare a ship for you. But please, tell me which route you intend to take to Kast-Harnax.”

  “Eh, without a ship, we’ll have to brave the perilous stretches of Rurhav. Although, ye needn’t worry about us—”

  “You must let me aid you in what way I can,” the countess insisted at once. “If I shame myself with the inability to provide you with a ship, then you must let me regain some honor by providing you with an escort.” She turned immediately to one of her bodyguards. “Bring Sir Conrad here, please.” The man bowed at her command and turned on his feet to obey. “Sir Conrad is my most trusted man,” the countess informed the group. “I assure you he will serve you very ably. For five years, he was a captain of the Lions of the Pass, and he has fought countless skirmishes in Rurhav. He is a bit of a hero, really.”

  “Pardon, my lady, but we were not looking for swords,” Molgrimin pointed out.

  “Of course, you’ll have horses as well,” the countess quickly offered, almost making Nathelion blink. She slowed herself down and smiled warmly at Molgrimin. “You must be able to move with speed through Rurhav, naturally. Will you have kind words for me, Molgrimin, when you reach Kast-Harnax?”

  “The very kindest,” Molgrimin promised with a bow.

  The countess seemed pleased, and she even turned a friendly smile to Nathelion. “And who did you say this handsome young man was? Nathelion, yes?”

  Nathelion blushed despite himself, feeling those intensely bright eyes upon him.

  “Aye,” Molgrimin confir
med. “The greatest warrior ever to pick up a sword, ye can trust me on that. A true blademaster.”

  What? Is he deranged?

  “A blademaster?” the countess cooed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one who has earned the title, though I dare say that Sir Conrad comes perilously close. I did not immediately recognize you as a martial man.”

  Nathelion’s tongue stuck in his throat, as so often happened to him when he was pressed to speak, and he thought he must’ve looked like a fool just standing there without any other response than a bloody nod.

  “A silent one.” The countess gave him a second look. “Perhaps I should have recognized it. But regardless of your prowess and the moinguir’s courage, the lands of Rurhav are never safe. For the old man’s sake if nothing else, you will accept Sir Conrad’s aid.”

  While she spoke, a tall man entered the hall, clad in cerulean satin that emphasized his broad shoulders. His long, decisive strides sent clear echoes down the hall. He was a knight if Nathelion had ever seen one. His face was hard and square, with a slight beard covering his jaw and upper lip, and long brown and graying hair was gathered in a ribbon at the nape of his neck. A gilded scabbard was at his hip, its pommel in the form of a wolf trying to swallow an obsidian orb.

  “Ah, good, Sir Conrad! Tell your squire to have your horse saddled and your armor packed. You are going to be traveling through Rurhav with Lord Molgrimin and these gentlemen.”

  The big knight gave the three visitors a look that revealed no surprise, and little else either for that matter, though Nathelion thought he spotted some dislike in those hard eyes.