The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond

by Simon Markusson

  It was on the fifth day of their journey through the Savage Hills of Rurhav that their attempts to remain undetected finally unraveled, a day that would be forever imprinted in Nathelion’s memory.

  They had been riding through a widening passage during the late midday, entering a broad depression between the hills that was strewn with large and small rocks, and the higher slopes around it were blanketed with gnarled trees and tangled bushes covered in thorns. They had heard no barbarians throughout the day, so Sir Conrad decided that they would stay there for their brief meal. The passages around them and above the depression were mostly obscured by stones and rough undergrowth. No one coming through the passages should need to descend into that bowl, for it was easier to walk around it and take another path without crossing its obstacles.

  “Tim, up there,” Conrad said, pointing to a high precipice among the bushes of the slope above them. “Keep watch. If you spot anyone coming, don’t shout. A subtler sound will do — just roll down some stones.”

  Nathelion watched as the squire clambered up the heights, racing on all fours to keep balance when the slope grew steep and then threading past bushes and thorns to lie flat-bellied on one of the protruding rocks, barely visible from below even when you knew where to look for him. The squire must’ve been able to enjoy a wide view, though, well over the nearest hills that fell away short of his vantage point. Even so, Nathelion still didn’t like to be blind, and he found himself chewing very hastily on the bread and cheese.

  Arisfae settled down next to him with his usual smirk. “You look very fretful, Chosen One,” the singer said despite the fact that Nathelion wouldn’t acknowledge his presence. “It must be your glorious quest that weighs on you, no doubt. For, surely, you cannot hold such fear for the things in the Hills? How would that work when you’re supposed to face that terrible creature—”

  “I’m not afraid,” Nathelion snapped too sharply. He looked around, but no one was frowning at him, and Conrad seemed very distracted by his own thoughts.

  The bard chuckled. “The old man picked a poor Chosen One, I must say. But maybe you were the only one willing to play along. Your reasons for that, though...I guess only the gods know.” Arisfae bit into an apple and looked about as he chewed. “That you would take it so far as to follow him into the Savage Hills... One might almost believe that you truly think yourself chosen.” He always tried to pry loose some confession in that manner, hoping that Alwarul would overhear it.

  “I am going to Lourne,” Nathelion said in a bland tone.

  “Oh? But hardly for the purpose Alwarul hopes, surely?”

  That, he didn’t answer. He doubted there was a need to. Arisfae seemed aware enough of his detachment from the old man’s thinking, though he insulted Nathelion with suggestions to the contrary.

  “Gods, surely, you cannot believe the old man’s delusions? Am I surrounded by madmen?” The singer took a final bite of his apple and then flung the core out of the depression to thud against the ground somewhere, out of sight.

  “Are you mad, fool?” Conrad stormed at him at once. “Will you scatter trails after us for the savages to follow? Scarce few apples grow in Rurhav, I can assure you!” The knight rose and made as if to walk after the fruit. Before he could, though, they heard stones tumbling down the slope.

  They all looked up to see Tim flailing his arms in silent alarm.

  “Get down,” Conrad snarled, turning to everyone. “Hide and keep the horses quiet.”

  They scrambled to conceal themselves, and Nathelion found himself pressed against one of the hollow’s walls where the rise of it grew almost perpendicular to the ground. The others were close as well, hunching down behind rocks, while the horses had been drawn deeper into the back of the depression. If anyone threw an eye down over the rim, though... He could hardly breathe as he heard men approaching, coming through some passage behind them.

  There were many of them by the sounds of it, and they were far too close. They spoke of hunting and of lions, and their cruel laughter echoed off the cliffs. Every scraping of boots against rock and every clatter of a kicked stone was deafening. Blood thumped in Nathelion’s ears, so loud that he feared the barbarians might hear it too, and his hands turned white against the rough surface of the stone at his back.

  His heart stopped when the nightmare came true.

  A shout rose from somewhere above the hollow, from where, he didn’t know, but there was a shout, and it doomed them all. “There, down in the cleft! Look!”

  He knew at once that they had been spotted, and his blood turned first to ice and then to rushing fire.

  Sir Conrad cursed and swung himself up on his destrier to charge out of the hollow with a growl. Nathelion saw him storm past on his mighty steed, meeting startled barbarians above the gentler rise of the depression and giving them scarce time to realize their danger. An eyeblink, and he was already swinging his sword while his horse kicked and bit with equal passion. Suddenly, men were dying.

  Nathelion was frozen in shock.

  “Well?” Arisfae hissed from behind a rock. “You have a sword, so use it!”

  Savages leaped down from the edge of the hollow, weapons brandished. Nathelion drew his sword. Every eye among the barbarians fell on him as he bared his steel, and they grinned at seeing his fine garb. He hesitated and started backing away along the wall of the hollow, but they came at him like the wild beasts they looked like. He jumped to the side to avoid an axe that struck the rock instead, and then he had to duck away from an ugly, spiked club. Four, five, six savages tried to slay him, monstrous men in furs, growling like beasts as they swung their crude weapons. There was no time for thought, scarce time even to breathe. His heart thundered, and his steps sped to match its beat. Again, the world turned insane.

  The blows rained down, but he saw them, felt them, pulled away as if he were mist before the blades. He dodged and leaped away, bounded to a rock and then to another, his sword darting to parry, to turn away slashes and break attacks in such rapid succession that it seemed his arm was possessed. He had to keep moving, away, every eye-blink’s respite a sanctuary, and his legs carried him to the side, back, to the side, away.

  He didn’t know when he’d left the hollow, but he was fighting above it now, along its edges, and he was dimly aware of Sir Conrad fighting his own foes farther away, letting blood gush and spray as his sword flailed after heads and throats from his horse. But Nathelion couldn’t watch, as more enemies were swarming him. Gods, there must have been ten on his tail — and he jumped up a slope as they crowded to get after him, always someone about to deal a blow that he had to escape from.

  “Bloody viper, this one!” one of the savages at the back called, trying to get around his fellows. “Bloody viper... Kill him!”

  “Stand still!” another shouted, flustered when his axe missed, but Nathelion wouldn’t listen; he had to get away. He madly ran a few steps, and as he came to a rock rising from the ground, he set a foot on it and threw himself out into the air. He came out in the open, far too open, and his enemies soon began to swarm around him once more. Fear and shock raced through him. He could not let those weapons strike him. His arm flung out, always, letting his blade meet and check attacks. Two of the savages dropped their swords at his parries, cursing while they pulled back. Another had to run after his club as it flew high into the air, and a fourth lost his broad axe, only to have it trampled by his fellows.

  “Get around him, damn it! Get around him!” one roared, but Nathelion wouldn’t let them surround him. He leaped away at once in his panic, always somehow managing to keep his foes in sight. “Bloody fiend!”

  “Kill them!” another voice called, farther away, Sir Conrad’s voice. “Kill them, Nightshadow! Don’t bloody toy with them! Kill them quickly!”

  Kill them? He hadn’t once tried to strike back at the savages. He had only avoided the blows and disarmed them in fright. Yet apprehension seemed to grow in the men’s faces even as their frustration and
anger faded to disbelief — and even as their attacks grew more hesitant.

  “Kill them!” Sir Conrad shouted again, closer this time.

  And then he was there.

  The charge brought down three men at once as the destrier suddenly rushed in from the side, speeding through the lot of them and then turning as Sir Conrad pulled the reins and swung his sword. The barbarians backed away from the sudden onslaught, but the knight wouldn’t give them any chance to recover, swinging his sword in ruthless arcs that sent blood raining through the air while his mighty steed carried him after any who tried to back away. One even attempted to run, but after Conrad had slain the last of those who had stayed, he rode the man down with a sword to the back of his skull, nearly cleaving it in two. Then he turned his destrier around, looked about hastily for other foes, and dismounted in a fury when he found none.

  “Why did you bloody jump around like that for?” he raged at Nathelion, who had already gone mute. “Anyone who gets away calls for help; we’ll have the whole bloody clan coming down upon us if that happens.”

  Nathelion didn’t know what to say. But the knight didn’t seem to require an answer; instead, he turned on his heels to stride back to the depression and see how the others had fared under the attack. Nathelion followed with a flaring sense of apprehension.

  But their group was unharmed. Arisfae was dusting off his clothes after having lain low among the stones, and his smirk was more amused than anything. “So, the peasant does know how to fight,” he observed with a chuckle.

  Molgrimin was writhing on the ground, but he didn’t seem wounded except for a big bump on his head. He groaned feebly, and Nathelion thought he heard him mutter, “Sucker punch.”

  Alwarul was silent, but he also appeared unharmed, though not unaffected. It must have been a heavy shock for such an old man to witness the violence of the savages.

  “You were not attacked?” Sir Conrad asked.

  Arisfae grinned at that. “Certainly, but it seems the peasant managed to pull them all away. Quite valiant, Nathelion, truly.” He laughed. “And what a show! I feel an itch to pick up the harp and start to compose!”

  “You won’t touch an instrument now, bard,” Conrad said. “We must move quickly and be away by the time these corpses are found.”

  But then Tim pulled their eyes, rushing down the slope to send stones smattering into the hollow. “Sir, sir!” he panted as he ran to them. “It’s too late, sir. A man saw you. Up on the hill!”

  Sir Conrad threw his head around to glare at the hill that the squire pointed out, but there was no one there anymore. Nathelion’s heart began to beat harder again as the shouts rose from one place after the other in the Hills, and then long, ominous horn blasts echoed over the landscape. Boh-hroooom, boh-hroooooom!

  They all gathered to listen in silence. Nathelion knew at once that they were dead when the knight turned to his squire.

  “Tim,” Sir Conrad said. “Help me don my armor.”

  32

  A Last Stand

  Nathelion sat on a stone and watched as the knight was encased in steel: first, a mighty hauberk and then plate leggings and boots. Plates also covered his arms all the way to the heavy gauntlets that made iron fists of his hands. Beneath it all were ringmail and padded cloth, and over the mail coif that covered his head was a steel bascinet, round and firm over his skull. The great helm was saved for last, and when it was lowered over Sir Conrad’s face, he became an impersonal and formidable creature of emotionless metal, with only thin, black slits for eyes.

  The squire shook the helm a little to see if it sat on well, and the knight nodded. Then Timothy helped strap the kite shield to his left arm. It was a mighty, curved triangle of hard oak with a steady metal rim all around it, dressed in cloth bearing Hardae’s coat of arms: a split field of black and argent upon which was blazoned a wolf’s head. For all the good it would do them, the knight looked formidable.

  Nathelion brooded silently over his coming end and wondered if he would kill someone before he died. Hearing the shouts rise from the hills, eager voices excited by the presence of an enemy, he started to feel angry enough to do it. The bard had picked up his harp, and he was now playing some sorrowful melody to which he hummed softly with his eyes closed. Molgrimin was pacing about, perhaps building up some rage or just cursing their luck.

  “Take the horses,” the knight’s hollow voice commanded them, and he pointed with his sword. “We make our stand there.”

  Nathelion looked up to the spot indicated, at the top of a low slope abruptly ending in cliffs that curved inwards to create a dead end. As long as the barbarians did not scale those high precipices, they’d be able to face them only a few at a time, their backs safe against the rocks. He took Skull’s reins and followed the others, treading somberly up that slope.

  With the cliffs’ protection behind them, Conrad said some private words of encouragement to his squire, who seemed to have grown misty-eyed, though he had a determined expression all the same. Then Conrad turned to the singer. “There’s an extra sword on the packhorse if you wish to fight.”

  But the singer declined, shaking his head with a smile. “My life is dedicated to the harp, sir. If I shall die, it will be to its sweet tunes.”

  The dwarf accepted the blade instead, though he grumbled over shoddy human craft while swinging it a few times through the air.

  “When they come...” Alwarul gripped his staff steadily, and his voice was silent and burdened. “When they come, let me speak with them.”

  “I’m afraid they won’t listen,” the knight said, no longer with any mockery for the old lunatic. He mounted his destrier and gathered the reins in his left hand. Tim mounted as well, though he looked nowhere near as mighty as the knight, outweighed and outsized by this unstirring warrior of steel.

  Molgrimin tried to tell his yilval to run away while there was time, but maybe the steed was not so clever after all. It stayed, and the moinguir reluctantly mounted it, patting the golden animal’s mane.

  “Do you fight as well from the saddle, blademaster?” the knight asked, but Nathelion only found it in himself to answer with a despairing smile. Before he mounted, he saw the helmet still tied to Skull’s saddle, and he loosened it. The fox mask. When he put it on, the world grew a bit simpler. He swung himself up on the black destrier, and it neighed fiercely with his grip on the reins. Alwarul remained on foot, along with the singer who sat down to play his instrument. The old man even took a few steps forward, placing himself near the entrance of their little retreat.

  “Get back, Alwarul,” the knight said wearily. “Get back with the singer. They might spare you if you make no trouble.” The old man didn’t listen. He remained in their way, looking out over the clearing below with the staff at his side.

  The singer sang a song of mourning in a stirring language as the barbarians started to well forth through the passages and gather below. Some had eager looks in their eyes, while others were more quizzical, even nodding along to the soft tunes that the bard played for them.

  “Who are you?” a big man called out, bearded almost like Molgrimin and armed with a two-handed axe that seemed light in his strong arms. “Are you lions?”

  “No.” Alwarul was the one who answered. “We are travelers moving at the behest of the gods, seeking passage through the Savage Hills.”

  The crowd of barbarians roared with laughter, and some called targets at once. “The fox warrior is mine. I’ll take that helmet!” Others shouted for the knight’s equipment or the horses, and more still for Nathelion’s cloak or boots. A few wanted the singer to play at the feast, and they won much agreement from their fellows.

  The knight rode up next to Alwarul, and his voice echoed out of his great helm. “If you are looking for easy pickings, then look elsewhere, dogs. Half of you will die when you try to take this slope, I swear it.”

  Again, the barbarians laughed, and it seemed indeed as if their mirth was justified, for there were hundreds
of them now. And more kept joining them. Nathelion looked out over the armed masses and saw how they appeared to be almost like a pack of beasts, each clad in furs of brown, gray, or black, and many bedecked in bone necklaces and wristbands that further added to their savage appearance. Some were painted with colors made of bark and clay, reddish symbols snaking over their bearded faces. He spotted one who had painted his face into a demonic scowl that made him look like he was glaring even when he was laughing. So, these are the faces of my killers, he thought distantly. Gods, he was going to die.

  “Knight,” the big man with the two-handed axe called. He was swathed in a thick bearskin, its arms hanging down over his broad chest. “Your head will make a fine trophy. Lokahm challenges you!”

  “And I accept,” the knight called back at once, and he dismounted without an ounce of indecision.

  A roar of approval rose from the assembled savages, and they beat their weapons together, or against hide bucklers if they had them, cheering on their champion for the duel. “Lokahm! Lokahm!” Their cries boomed over the hills in endless echoes.

  “No!” Alwarul cried, and somehow, his shout cut through the noise and made a curious silence settle. Lokahm stopped and frowned. “There will be no more bloodshed here,” Alwarul said firmly. “The quest that we are on will not allow it.”

  The savage chuckled. “We do not care for your quest, old man. Who are you to us?”

  “Who am I to you, indeed!” Alwarul’s shout was heard by all gathered there. “This question, only you can answer, and think on your answer well. For I am one of the Rizych!”

  Not surprisingly, there was some confusion in the barbarians’ ranks. They frowned and turned to each other. More surprising was the familiar word they repeated.