The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond

by Simon Markusson

  They had pulled the corpses to the side of the road, with the knight muttering about bandits so close to the home of the Lions of the Pass. “Vultures trying to feed on a lion they think to be dying. But Richard’s Defense doesn’t fall.” Yet Sir Conrad briefly went silent. Finally, he said, “How could they dare be so near? These roads are patrolled regularly.”

  Tim had been quiet during their wait, first staring at the corpses and then going to care for his sword. Apparently, he had killed his first man today. And Sir Conrad didn’t allow him to forget it. “Waeron didn’t have a bloody chance,” he said with a chuckle. “You got him right through the lungs. Ouch, must’ve hurt! Drowned in his own blood, hah! There’s the beginning of a knight.”

  Nathelion didn’t think anyone had seen him fight, if it could be called fighting. I kept myself alive against two men. He didn’t know how it was possible, but he didn’t carry a single scratch from the encounter save for the nasty bruise on his neck where the staff had bludgeoned him. What had happened after that? He had felt almost...almost as if he could use the sword. You managed to swing it wildly enough to make them think you insane and run. Fortunate, certainly, but hardly skillfully done. The blows you dodged must have been unusually feeble. Gods, you saw how Molgrimin dealt with that man! He smiled at himself ruefully at almost having fancied himself the warrior. This will be a story, though. I’ll tell my children of how their father single-handedly scared off a pair of bandits once. Yes, a good story. They’ll be proud so long as they can believe me.

  It was not until nightfall that they climbed the top of a hill to gaze out over Richard’s Defense in the distance. The fortified city lay just outside the Lion’s Pass, sprawling beyond the fields and the flowing river. It was a shadow full of lights among the looming mountains, and in that shadow, the great fortress Sacrifice rose like a monument. Its many stout towers flew banners that rippled proudly in the wind. There, Nathelion had heard, stories were always made.

  “Richard’s Defense,” Sir Conrad said wistfully as they stopped atop the hill to take in the sight. “Home of the Lions of the Pass, the true defenders of the realm. You’ll not find a better fortress than Sacrifice. Here’s a place of song. But they are not always happy ones, you should know.” He looked back at them. “There’s still time to reconsider this route.”

  Nathelion was surprised when Alwarul rode past them without a word, straight-backed as a king.

  18

  The Green Gown

  The city was closed when they reached it, the walls dark. The only light came from the rows of torches that illuminated the catwalks high above them.

  “Will we have to wait for tomorrow?” Nathelion asked, frowning at the big gate that seemed made for a giant. But Sir Conrad didn’t answer. Instead, the knight called up to the men at the top of the wall in Anteari, the words incomprehensible to Nathelion’s ears.

  A guard appeared above the gates, a helmeted shadow against the torchlight. “Commander?” the shadow’s voice called down, sounding confused and surprised.

  “Not anymore,” Sir Conrad shouted back. “Gods, Sir Wilfrey, you’re still watching the gates at night? When did your wife leave you?”

  “Not yet, not yet!” The man laughed. “I’ll have the gates opened for you. Or...you aren’t helping the barbarians inside, are you? There, have to make sure.” The guard bellowed some orders that were almost immediately picked up by others. When the gates began to open, Sir Wilfrey called to the group, “I’ll come down and meet you!”

  The shadow proved to be a steely, slim man with hard features that Nathelion wouldn’t have expected after hearing his rather blithesome voice. “Grand Commander Conrad Hardae! Or sir now,” Sir Wilfrey said as they dismounted on the cobblestones. “Damn it if the Lions haven’t sorely missed your leadership.” The man was dressed in shimmering ringmail and a cloak that bore the image of a lion made of flames, in reds, gold, and orange, and Nathelion knew he must be one of the fabled knights. “Do you know that there’s hardly anyone patrolling the roads anymore?”

  “Aye, I know,” Sir Conrad said. “And why is this? We were attacked by bandits just some hours’ ride from here.”

  Sir Wilfrey nodded grimly. “I’d have been surprised a few years back. In your time, certainly. Our numbers have dwindled, though. Together, we are only twelve hundred now.”

  “Twelve hundred?” Sir Conrad exclaimed in disbelief.

  His friend seemed to have expected the reaction. “Just so,” said Sir Wilfrey. “We need more prestigious characters to draw recruits, but most knights prefer war in the civilized world, where they get booty for their efforts and have their lives ransomed rather than ended. All fighting men seem to think the same in that regard. A song doesn’t feed you as well as pillaging, unless you’re a singer, perhaps.” The knight gave a sigh. “We still get plenty of those, for all the good it does us. Their songs tend more towards tragedy nowadays.”

  “I heard there is an invasion, a bad one. The roads south of Hearthglen are full of folk leaving the Harp.”

  “Aye, a shame, that,” Sir Wilfrey said somberly. “We could have used every bit of help they’d be able to offer. This just creates more chaos in the countryside. Gods, as if we didn’t have enough of it. Unrest is growing even in the city. In case you don’t believe me, we’ve had thirty hangings in the last month — thirty! It was never more than the odd five or so every year, but now...people are going mad, it seems, and you’ll find a doomsayer in every street. Don’t ask me where they all come from. The singers tell of trolls and beasts and whatnot, trying to account for the scouts that aren’t coming back. Those are too many now, Conrad, and we’ve had reports of barbarian movements of a scale. Some say they’re to be counted in the hundreds of thousands, but the best have it at twenty thousand. Still, that’s a worrisome number as well.” The Lion of the Pass shrugged. “Have it be true, and the singers might soon sing their greatest tragedy yet, that of the sack of the Defense. The savages will be pouring in like a flood after that.”

  “Never in the day does the sun fall...” Sir Conrad began.

  “...and the Defense doesn’t fall at all.” Sir Wilfrey finished. “Aye, so we say. The Defense we once knew certainly didn’t. But if it changes, can, perhaps, the new Richard’s Defense do it? It’s weak now, though all the Lions are here. Damn it, Commander, are you coming back?”

  “I’m afraid not. I still have other obligations.”

  Sir Wilfrey turned solemn at that, nodding respectfully. “How is your son, then? Is he better?”

  Your son? At the mention, Nathelion noticed Sir Conrad had become guarded.

  “He is as well as can be expected,” the knight answered without looking at his companions. “I hope that he shall recover soon.”

  Sir Conrad has a son? Imagine that, Nathelion thought. He doesn’t look like the fatherly kind. More like a sour uncle.

  Sir Wilfrey wished his old friend to be right and then turned to the rest of them. “Who are these folk that you bring with you?”

  “Alwarul.” Sir Conrad indicated the man with a nod. “A sage of sorts, if you will. That’s Mollymin...”

  “Molgrimin,” the moinguir growled.

  “That’s Nathelion Nightshadow, a blademaster out of Widowswood, raised by warrior monks and a survivor of the pits of Savu. Did I get it all, Nightshadow?”

  And how should I know? Nathelion thought.

  Sir Wilfrey looked at him in confusion, undoubtedly taken aback by such a presentation delivered by one he knew to trust. Then he saw Nathelion’s fine sword, with its slim blade and silvery roses, and seemed to take it as some kind of confirmation. “Bloody hell,” he said with a laugh, “we need such men here right about now. Widowswood, eh? Sinister place as any, I’ve heard. They turned cannibal in the Long Winter, didn’t they? Yes, I remember how the priests spoke of purging the place. Ugly business. You must be tough as nails, hailing from there,” the knight rambled on without giving Nathelion a chance to speak. “Is it the way
they describe it, with cold and silent people uncaring for life? To eat one’s own children! Don’t be surprised if a bard here comes to question you for material; the ghost stories of that place are quite popular. But don’t think to say that it isn’t haunted,” he finished with a chuckle, “for they’ll sing of ghosts and ghostly widows regardless.”

  Nathelion tried to share his mirth, but his smile became as cold as he felt, and the knight quickly turned to Sir Conrad with another subject. “So, you are not joining the Order again. Then where are you headed? Do you bring any news? The countess, does she send reinforcements?”

  “Not farther than to the docks,” Sir Conrad muttered, which made the other knight frown. “We are heading through Rurhav. Moongimp is in a hurry to Kast-Harnax—”

  “Molgrimin!” the dwarf exclaimed.

  “The countess has me escorting them.”

  Sir Wilfrey’s tone became urgent. “Rurhav, Commander? Gods, you can’t ride into the Hills now. The barbarians are more numerous than ever before, and... Well, all stories of beasts may not be false. There are worse things than mountain lions out there now; the scouts have seen them. Ask me not how or why, but they say it’s as if every clawed thing is leaving Wythrax for new hunting grounds. Even the barbarians keep together in a way they haven’t done before. There’s no group fewer than the dozen, and there are still lots of those. The scouts don’t go half so far as to the Martyr’s Passage anymore. Surely, you cannot mean to—”

  “I mean to do exactly as the countess has instructed me,” Sir Conrad answered firmly. “And I know the Hills. Even in troubled times, mind. Especially then. We’ll get through.”

  “But Conrad,” the knight stressed. “Things have been spotted that we’ve never seen before. Our scouts speak of—”

  “Trolls, perchance?” Sir Conrad offered.

  Strangely, Sir Wilfrey did not immediately deny it. “The smallfolk like the name, aye,” the knight answered. “And there was a time when it meant little. But damn you, Conrad, Haeigwyn was never a superstitious man, nor was Ronne. You trusted their word as much as I did. Well, a month past, Ronne died in the Hills, and only Haeigwyn came back to tell of what killed him. The man rode up to the gate in the middle of the night, and there, his mount expired, and he almost did as well. We brought him inside, though he was unconscious, and he was covered in wounds of a kind you wouldn’t believe — claw marks to shame a bear. It was a wonder he survived.” The man grew silent for a while, hesitating. “He’s...crippled now, but he lives in Sacrifice, and the physicians care for him. The stories he tells... Damn it, but they weren’t even the first.”

  Sir Conrad seemed thrown off, staring at his friend with deep creases on his brow. “Ronne is dead?” he asked, confused. “Haeigwyn is...is crippled? How? What happened? Tell me, man!”

  “Haeigwyn can tell you better,” Sir Wilfrey said coolly. “He likes to sit in the tower, looking towards the Hills. The physicians don’t even bother to bring him down anymore. You’ll find him different now, Conrad. Aye, you might not even recognize him. Maybe he’ll have you believe in trolls.” Sir Wilfrey threw a look back at the wall, and he seemed to breathe unsteadily in the cold air, white mist rising from his mouth. “Let me know when you are leaving, Commander. I wouldn’t want to miss saying farewell.” He turned and walked back to patrol the catwalks over the city, his fiery cloak rippling with each step.

  “Come,” Sir Conrad said, mounting again to ride down the streets of Richard’s Defense.

  It proved to be quite true that there was much song here: the sounds of music appeared to drift into the night from every inn and winesink they passed. But as had also been said, they were not all happy tunes. Heroic, perhaps, warlike and mournful. The streets were well lit by lamps that swayed peacefully from their posts, but there were also pools of darkness in the nooks and alleys.

  Few people were out this late at night. They passed some poor folk who slept against the walls between the buildings, and a stooped old hag covered in rags met them once, humming silently, oblivious of her surroundings. Nathelion had a mind to give her some coppers, but when he looked back, she had disappeared into one alley or the other. “Where are we going?” he asked when they passed more than a few blocks that seemed of a kind, and more than a few homeless people as well.

  “To The Green Gown,” Sir Conrad answered. “A good inn in a good district, if it is still.”

  “The Green Gown” proved to be a prosperous establishment indeed. It was a pleasant, green-painted inn of three stories, its sign depicting a woman in a green dress standing in a meadow. The common room was the biggest Nathelion had yet seen, with a surprisingly high ceiling supported by sturdy wooden beams and interspaced with hanging chandeliers holding scented candles. A great hearth burned at one of the walls, while laughing serving maids swirled expertly in their skirts between the tables. The patrons were fine-clad gentlemen and a few luxurious women who sat by the round tables in chairs rather than on benches. Nathelion immediately felt uncomfortable in his torn roughspuns and with his hempen rope for a belt, not to mention his unwashed face. I look like a beggar, he fretted. Maybe they’ll throw me out.

  He received many a frown from the other patrons as the group took a table, but there was no usher running up to grapple with him. A pretty serving maid came, though, and she immediately recognized Sir Conrad. “Good Commander Hardae!” she greeted with a familiar smile. “How long it has been since I last saw you here. Is it really you?”

  “Indeed, sweet Hannah. I trust you’ll afford me a free meal?”

  The serving woman laughed delightfully, but nothing gullible was in her eyes. “Not even the Reclaimer eats free forever, I’m afraid. I’ll give you a kiss, though,” she offered instead, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

  “You hear that, Nightshadow?” Sir Conrad chuckled. “Will you buy me a meal if I give you her kiss?”

  The woman pouted sourly. “Suit yourself, sir. You’ll change your mind once your stomach is full.”

  “Then see to filling it. Do you still have those rudely delicious ribs here? Bring enough of them for all of us and plenty of ale to wash it down. Gods, I missed this place.”

  Hannah smiled boldly at him. “I’ll let the girls know you’re here. They already decided to make a sport of who could claim the Reclaimer before you left. Don’t tell them I told you, though — just mind how much you drink. And if you feel hounded, remember that my door is always open. I’ll keep you safe, I promise.” She left them with a smile, or a smile for the knight, at least.

  Did he take us to a brothel?

  “She called you ‘the Reclaimer’?” Alwarul noted next to him. “What is this name?”

  “It doesn’t grieve me that you haven’t heard of it,” Sir Conrad said, reclining in his chair. “It was given to me only two years past, in an invasion that claimed several villages along the Harp, the barbarians reaching all the way to Hearthglen and farther. It looked like the Harp would be wiped clean and lost...”

  “Ah, but you were assisted by Woevane?” Alwarul put in.

  “Call it assistance if you will. There was precious little discipline among those men. Regardless, I led the force of Lions that rode along the mountains and drove the barbarians from the settlements. And then we bloody rode down every bandit and robber knight we could find afterwards. It was the men who reclaimed the place, not I.”

  “So, you are something of a local celebrity?” Nathelion asked.

  Sir Conrad grimaced at the comment. “More than local, unfortunately. They raised a statue for me in the Golden Square, and then what do you think the singers went singing? They bloody made me some fair, glowing prince able to grow wings and fly up to the sky to scan the Harp for intruders with eagle eyes...” Sir Conrad barked a laugh, and Molgrimin joined in, chortling wordlessly. “I also have statues in Lourne and Cawarath now, though I haven’t cared to see them. How am I to introduce myself with all this? People who have never been to the Harp are lauding me!”

>   “I should have known you, then,” Alwarul said. “Unfortunately, I have not been very attentive the last few years, and many things have passed me by.”

  “Never think I would take insult,” Sir Conrad replied. “I have enough trouble with fools asking if I can show them my wings. Of course, perhaps you’d be able to help me with that?”

  “There will come a time again, I think,” the old man said gravely, “when the Art is feared more than ridiculed. I am not eager for it.”

  “Depends on who you speak to, arcanist. I’m sure you could get the smallfolk riled up with your talk.” The knight did not look amused. “I’m tired of seeing pretty young women dying in the flames. People like you get the mobs all excited. There are plenty of places where you should guard your tongue better.”

  “Indeed,” Alwarul said in a lower tone. “Perhaps Silverstream was one such?” The old man fixed his eyes on the knight, as if there were a second meaning to his words. Nathelion frowned at the turn of the conversion, having no clue what it was about. He blinked when Alwarul said with an unflinching voice, “Perhaps I should tell you that we are going to Lourne.”

  What is he doing? Nathelion looked uneasily from the old man to the knight, fearing Sir Conrad’s reaction to this new information.

  “What?” the knight asked with an easy smile. “Lourne, not Kast-Harnax?”

  Alwarul remained silent, looking into the knight’s cold eyes as if trying to read something in them. Sir Conrad gave a shrug and a chuckle. “Do you think I care, old man? The countess bid me to escort you, and that’s what I’ll do. Kast-Harnax, Lourne, it’s all the same to me. No, Lourne is closer, so I’ll be rid of you quicker. I’ll leave you with my well-wishes in the capital then, hoping that you manage to complete whatever urgent task made you lie to my liege lady. Considering everything, I think I’d rather not hear it.”

  Alwarul remained silent while he observed the knight, long enough for Nathelion to wonder if he were having some new kind of seizure. Then a loud cry interrupted the tension. “Commander Hardae!” The woman’s voice made the knight’s smile thaw as serving maids came among them with the food. It took two of them to place the huge tray of honeyed ribs on the table, with steamed carrots, onions, and boiled peas, all covered in a fat sauce. Others swarmed to distribute mighty stoops with white foam running down the sides. They brought freshly baked bread as well, and butter and cheese and a large bowl of potatoes, too. It was obvious that it was too much for them, more than Nathelion thought Conrad had asked for. But there was nothing stopping the storm of skirts, trays, and smiling, pretty faces that carried some lovely perfumes with them.