The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond

by Simon Markusson

  “Maybe it used to be like that. Times are different now.”

  “Different,” the misty-eyed man concurred. “Dark times.”

  “How many are leaving?” Alwarul wondered, drawing the attention of both the men.

  “Some thousands, maybe,” the one with the thin hair said. “It’s mostly the young as stays, those with no families of their own yet. They’ll do good, too, if they manage. There’ll be plenty of land to work.”

  “The trolls will have them, be so certain,” the other one predicted, shaking his head. “An’ there’s been word of darker things, too, moving down the Hills. Beasts like you wouldn’t believe.”

  His friend inclined his head. “There has been word of such, aye,” he admitted. “You can’t know what’s true these days. But there is foreboding in Rurhav now. Foreboding, just. The scouts are hugging their wives as if it were the last time before they leave. And it is, mostly. It’s death to go into the Hills.”

  “Really?” Sir Conrad asked without waiting for an answer. “Tim, Nathelion, you — Molgan...”

  “Molgrimin!”

  “Mount up. We are continuing.” The knight swung up on his destrier.

  “Sir, may I have your name?” the misty-eyed man asked.

  “He is Sir Conrad Hardae,” Tim answered with a grin, and the two farmers stared at the knight who gathered the reins of his dancing warhorse.

  “Hardae...!” the thin-haired man exclaimed. “The Reclaimer! Are you returning to the Lions, sir?” His tone sounded hopeful all of a sudden.

  “No,” Sir Conrad answered. “We shall just be passing through the Hills.” And with that, the knight spurred his horse, leaving the two in stunned disbelief.

  As they rode, Alwarul looked back over his shoulder to see two men discussing if they should not turn their carts around. He smiled briefly. The Reclaimer, they named him? It would seem the countess had not been untruthful about the man. He wanted to know just what that title meant, though now was hardly the time. They all charged down the road in a cloud of dust, drawing puzzled glances from those leaving behind whatever danger their group rushed towards.

  The hours passed to the violent clapper of hooves, and when they rode in among the wooden houses of Hearthglen in the early dusk, the knight seemed pleased with their progress. “We have traveled farther than we meant to, thanks to Tim’s ghosts.” Conrad drew in his destrier before a two-storied inn with the affable name of “The Good Pie” written on a painted sign of the referred-to pastry. “We’ll reach Richard’s Defense tomorrow if we ride hard. But now I would be thankful for some sleep. Undisturbed sleep, make that.”

  The inn was a cozy place, with a clean common room that smelled faintly of flowers, and the pretty woman who presented herself as the innkeeper did it with a good-hearted smile. “You’ll find delicious food here,” she said. “Or good pie. We have a lot of apples at the moment, of course, and we can also put pork or chicken in it if you like. Or carrots: that’s an old favorite. Cheap, too, when compared. My name is Cindy. Will you want rooms, sir?” It was the knight who received her bullish welcome; no doubt, he’d given her the impression he was the one in charge. “For you and your people?”

  “Not my people,” the knight answered tonelessly, “but we’ll want rooms. How many do you have?”

  “Oh, enough for all of you. More are leaving than coming nowadays, I’m afraid. There’s all this talk of barbarians going around, silly, really. The Lions will deal with any that dare to come, as they always do.”

  “One room for me and my squire, then,” Sir Conrad said. “The others will pay for themselves.” He handed the innkeeper the coppers she asked for and added the sum for a meal. “I don’t care what you put in the pies so long as there’s plenty of meat. And you have cider here, I expect? Two stoops of that, too, and a mug of milk for my squire.” The knight didn’t give the innkeeper his name before turning to the tables.

  Nathelion was friendlier with the woman, as Alwarul could well have expected. He smiled at her and introduced himself, causing her to giggle. “Nathelion Nightshadow?” she exclaimed with delight. “What a quaint name to have! Is that truly your name, mister?”

  “I’m afraid so, Lady Cindy.” Nathelion grinned.

  The pretty woman commented on his sword, asking if he were a soldier. Nightshadow held to his humility and assured her that he knew only how to use it “well enough.” Of course, the woman must have seen through his wise manners, and as the man sat down together with Molgrimin at one of the tables, the lingering look she gave him was more than she had spared for the knight.

  “A room for me as well, please,” Alwarul said to her, drawing her attention. “Though I shall not require any of your delicious food. Age lessens one’s appetite, I’m afraid.”

  The innkeeper gave him a smile along with the key and told him where to find his room. He did not linger with the others, feeling already too exhausted to remain in the din.

  The room he was given was neat and comfortable, with the same flowery scent that could be caught below. There was a window, a bed, and a small cupboard with a porcelain basin holding some fresh water. Alwarul propped his staff against the wall and eased himself down onto the bed, feeling more than ever his age. He needed to sleep, but he doubted that he’d find rest in it. He hadn’t for weeks. His nightmares were too terrifying, reminding him that he had doomed forgiveness itself.

  A small oil lamp cast a frail light in the room. He found himself staring at the struggling flame, imagining it as a representation of the dying world he inhabited, surrounded by a sea of darkness. Suddenly, the small flame was snuffed out, as if someone had suffocated it, and darkness filled the room like an omen. The oil had run out.

  He sighed heavily. I should be studying now, not wasting my time with sleep. I must... His thoughts were dark and fumbling. I must find the temple. Yes. So much work. The power is there, in Wythrax. I should not waste my time with sleep.

  Muttering, he fell back into darkness without realizing how his thoughts had deviated. Wythrax. The clues.

  14

  Perhaps She Was Cold

  Nathelion sat down at one of the tables in the common room with Molgrimin. It was Cindy, the innkeeper herself, who brought them the two mouthwatering chicken pies they had ordered. She smiled very prettily while she warned that they were hot.

  “But that shouldn’t be a problem for you, of course,” she said to the moinguir, and then she added, with a glance to Nathelion, “And maybe not for you either.”

  He didn’t know what that meant exactly, but she smiled, and he found himself doing the same.

  “Will you be on the road again tomorrow?” Cindy inquired in a friendly manner.

  “Yes,” he answered. “We are trying to travel rather expeditiously, actually.”

  “Oh, are you on some important errand? When I first saw you, I could almost guess it.” Cindy was quite an attractive woman, round-faced, plump, and curvy, and possessed of an endearingly enthusiastic spirit. Her smiling ways and honey-colored locks no doubt recommended her to many men. She was clad in a fine woolen dress of earthen tones with gold embroidery around the eye-catching bodice.

  “Well,” Nathelion said, clearing his throat, “I can’t tell you what we are about, unfortunately.”

  Molgrimin nodded gravely to that. “Dangerous business, it is, m’lady. Dangerous business and best left unspoken of.”

  “How exciting!” Cindy chimed. “Will you share where you are going, at least? Is it Richard’s Defense that has need of your swords?”

  “No, but we shall pass by,” Nathelion confided. “We are going to travel through Rurhav and make use of the Martyr’s Passage.”

  “No!” she exclaimed, putting one soft, pale hand to her mouth. “You are going through the Hills now? Misters, you are brave as...well, as in the songs!”

  “Our quest calls for it, I’m afraid,” Nathelion said, feeling quite proud at her comment. It even made him forget about the actual, mortal danger.
“Another route would, of course, have been preferable if time had not been of the essence.”

  “Aye,” Molgrimin agreed. “But this will be to the barbarians’ grief.”

  “Oh, you must be very seasoned to be so bold,” the woman said, and then she leaned in over the table slightly as if to put emphasis on her words. Nathelion could not help but look at her generous bosom. “If you need anything, anything at all, my room is just through the kitchen. Please, do not be afraid to ask. But you are quite fearless, aren’t you?” Her eyes glimmered as he met them briefly, and adorable dimples framed her smile.

  Nathelion cleared his throat again. “I choose not to let fear dictate my life.” He’d read that somewhere.

  The innkeeper straightened again. “Well, I should leave you big boys to eat. Remember what I said, though. It would be my delight to assist you.” She left them with a swaying walk, gliding away into the kitchen.

  “Awfully helpful lass, wasn’t she?” Molgrimin noted casually, beginning to dig into his pie. Nathelion went for the cider instead, and he surprised himself by chugging it down without taking a breath. The moinguir followed his example and then raised his empty stoop. “We need more drink here!”

  Nathelion finally felt like a real adventurer, spending his few peaceful hours in drinking company.

  “Now, Nathan, did I ever tell ye of the time when I was hunting for a forest lady?” Molgrimin asked.

  Forest lady? “If you mean the witch, you told me just—”

  “Nay, nay, not the witch,” Molgrimin said. “The forest lady. Ah, I can see that ye’ve never heard of such a creature, and I shall be fair and tell ye that neither had I myself. Not until that day.”

  Nathelion smiled, already intrigued enough to hear of this new “epic encounter.” “So, tell me, then, what was she?”

  “I think it best if I took it from the beginning,” the dwarf said delicately. “See, this was just some months after I had left Kast-Harnax, and I was still very eager to find myself some mighty foe.”

  “Even after the incident with the ‘witch’?”

  “Aye, I craved a new chance.”

  “So, where were you this time?” Nathelion asked.

  Molgrimin washed around the cider in his mouth a bit, seemingly thinking back. “I was on the road with Meriehse, soon outside the city of Golowych. I had just restocked on some good, moinguir ale. Then I met an old and wise hermit traveling the same road with his mule, aye, and I thought to stop and see if he had any advice that could help me in my quest.”

  “A wise old hermit?” Nathelion mused aloud. “Then he must have given you some sage counsel.”

  “Aye, and he was very friendly to me, saying that he’d never before been blessed with meeting a moinguir.”

  “Well, he was a hermit. His time was probably mostly spent in deep reflection.”

  “Aye, so it seemed to me. Anyway, before I even had the chance of telling him of my need, he warned me of danger in the woods.”

  “Danger, and that in the form of...a forest lady?” Nathelion asked.

  “Aye, that was the beast he mentioned. As I said, I hadn’t heard of it before, but the hermit now described for my ears a terrible, womanly fiend. She lived in the forest, he told me, and there, she lured to herself the hearts and the lives of young men. For she was a pretty one to gaze at, aye, right until ye got a full look of her. See, her back was hollowed out and covered in bark, and there, she hid the tail of a fox.”

  Nathelion frowned at the description. “And she lured young men to herself?”

  “Aye, to their dooms. Never heard in what form, though. Something very sinister, by the hermit’s tone. But he also said that my kind might just be able to resist her magic, and I said to him that we most assuredly could.”

  “So, you decided to hunt for this mythical creature, which you had never heard of before, because of this hermit’s tale?”

  “A wise hermit,” the moinguir stressed. “He seemed very wise and friendly. Though he did have this odd way of walking...kinda twitchy. And he kept asking me to sing him some songs even though I must admit to being a poor singer. I am a warrior, not a bard, and I told him as much.”

  “Okay, so you had your story of the forest lady, told by a wise old hermit who was a bit frail of body due to his age, and he gave you word of where to look for her.”

  “Precisely so,” Molgrimin said. “I only needed to ride on and hope to catch one of these fiends.”

  “So...did you find one?”

  “Well, when I came into the woods, I realized that it would be a bit harder than I had expected. I sent Meriehse away in one direction to see if she could discover any vile presence there, and then I turned to search the other way. I figured that since I had never heard of these creatures before, they must live quite deep in the forest when not on the hunt. I decided to bring the battle to them, so to speak, and began to make my way stealthily through the dense underbrush.”

  “The old tactic of surprise,” Nathelion noted. “Did you have any luck?”

  “At first...nay.” The moinguir took another deep swallow of cider. “I searched for hours, I did. Until night fell and darkness surrounded me.”

  “You wouldn’t give up.”

  “I wouldn’t give up,” Molgrimin repeated. “Not even when the stars came out and shone like a thousand jewels in the sky. This was quite a lovely night, actually. It was summer, see, and the forests around Golowych are light, airy places of aspen and birch, and crickets were chirping among the wildflowers and raspberry bushes, a soothing melody, as if they were there to see ye comfortable. I heard a few nightingales call through the cool air, seeming to sing of hope and beauty. Aye, quite a lovely night, and it made me patient.”

  Nathelion had trouble not smiling at Molgrimin’s surprisingly romantic descriptions. Yet the moinguir seemed quite oblivious to how lyrical he sounded. “And what did you find?”

  “When I had walked around until midnight’s hour in that enchanted night, I stumbled into a clearing with a high, old tower ruin that rose majestically under the full moon. I immediately got down to the ground when I heard something, realizing that I was not alone.”

  Nathelion leaned in over the table. “The forest lady?”

  “There was a lady all right,” Molgrimin said. “Beautiful as all the mystery of the stars. She stood a bit away from the tower, walking to and fro, looking at some necklace in her hand and then clasping it to her heart, whispering some silent words that I couldn’t hear. She was dressed in a flowing dress of silk, embroidered with silver and pearls, and her hair fell down her shoulders in the most delicate golden curls ye ever saw, glimmering like the rarest gems that the mountains yield. Aye, she was a vision. And, I thought, one belonging at some court rather than in the woods.”

  “Such a lady in the forest late at night? Quite conspicuous, I dare say,” Nathelion observed.

  “Aye, suspicious is just the word that I would’ve used,” Molgrimin agreed. Nathelion didn’t bother correcting him on that. “I understood that what I was looking at must, in fact, be a forest lady, like the hermit had said.”

  “So, what did you do?”

  “She hadn’t seen me, so I lay still a while, watching her. I tried to look for anything that would reveal her as a fiend. But she mostly looked up to the sky with that necklace of hers hugged close to her chest, sighing, and now and then taking a few dancing steps with graceful swirls like she was accompanied by spirits that I couldn’t see. I started wondering how I was supposed to see the forest lady’s hollowed-out back and fox tail when she was wearing a bloody dress. That seemed to be some subterfuge of the fiend.”

  “Indeed, quite a devious creature to hide her nature so,” Nathelion agreed. “What did you decide to do?”

  “Well, I had to reveal her, of course,” Molgrimin said. “But I wouldn’t give her the chance to run. So, I crawled near the tower and then walked very stealthily with my back pressed against the wall. Then I snuck out behind her when she s
trolled past, my sword in hand, and I thought I had my chance.” The dwarf shook his head. “She must’ve heard me. ‘Sir William,’ she said and turned with the most radiant smile on her lips. At least, until she saw me. Then her eyes went wide and terrified, be so certain.”

  “She must have seen her doom, no doubt.”

  “Aye, the moinguir are not so easily charmed by sorcery,” said the dwarf proudly.

  “So, she saw you, armed with a sword. What did she do?”

  “Well, she started backing away. And she asked who I was in her pretty, sweet voice, all innocence. Then she started begging me to take her gold, as if I, a moinguir, didn’t have my own! A clever fiend, though, I thought — playing it all so well.”

  “What did you answer?” Nathelion asked, wondering how long he would dare to listen.

  “She said she’d pay me to leave, and I said to that, ‘Ye’ll pay me all right, pretty thing. Undress!’”

  “You said...!” Nathelion wheezed over his cider, trying to cough up what had gone down his windpipe. Some of the other patrons frowned at him, and he lowered his voice. “You said what? How did she react? She must have been all beside herself!”

  “She was at that,” the dwarf assured him. “She seemed too terrified to speak, stuttering forth pleas that almost made me turn around and leave, to be honest. Claimed to be a pious virgin, of all things. She sounded so genuine. It seemed to me that some sorcery was at work, and I got quite upset at hearing the fiend mimic an innocent maiden.”

  “What did you do?” Nathelion had to know, listening in disbelief.

  “I tired of her begging and said that she’d at least bare her breasts and I’d satisfy myself with that.”

  “I will assume that she proved unreasonable.”

  “Aye, she was unreasonable, and my offer didn’t make her any less anxious. She was shedding tears, even.”