The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond
Page 33
“Do you claim to be Raijsyk, old man?” Lokahm demanded.
“I do.”
The savage regarded him for a moment in silence. “Prove it,” he challenged. Nathelion despaired after having found a brief hope. Alwarul, you can’t.
When the old man gave no response, Lokahm snarled and began his advance with long strides. Sir Conrad made ready, brandishing his sword and hoisting his shield. Alwarul serenely raised his staff, and Nathelion grieved at the sight. You can’t...
Suddenly, the ground began to tremble, and the warriors stopped in confusion. Then it seemed the very hills shook with anger, sending the barbarians tumbling as mighty tremors ripped through the landscape. Nathelion’s heart leaped in his chest when Alwarul took to word with a voice that was like the thunder and the storm.
“I am Alwarul the Old,” the thunder proclaimed, and Nathelion gaped in horrified disbelief as Alwarul rose in the air, his form surrounded by crackling lightning that illuminated the hollow. “I remember a time when your ancestors welcomed the Rizych and would not bear weapons against us. A time when all the clans saw us at their tables and treated us as friends. What has come of their children, their children’s children, and their descendants in turn to bring a generation about that would instead see us threatened?” The last words were like the crash of an avalanche, and winds swept past Alwarul even as the ground seemed ready to swallow the puny barbarians as it heaved beneath their feet.
Every single one of them dropped their weapons and bowed their heads. Then the ground settled, the mad rumbling ceased to deafen, and Alwarul descended while the last lightning bolt writhed around his robes and was quenched. Lokahm was already kneeling before him.
“Great Raijsyk,” the man almost whispered. “Today, you eat with the clan of Ondgrot.”
While Alwarul the Old — the wizard, the Rizych, the sorcerer — accepted the invitation, there was a scream somewhere in Nathelion’s skull that seemed to overwhelm all impressions. It was a loud scream that went on, and on, and on, and on, and on. And yet, for all that inner turmoil, there was also a stillness. A strange, almost peaceful emptiness. It was almost as if he had not seen what he had just seen.
He felt much like a man trapped on a small ice floe drifting away on a cold, black sea. A man who, instead of breaking into useless panic, sits down to watch the sunset. He could feel how his face was draining of blood, and while the voice screamed and screamed in his head, he still did not move a muscle. His breathing was calm and heavy, almost like the breathing of someone in a deep sleep, and somewhere, he could continue to think somewhat orderly. He didn’t think of wizards, though. He didn’t think of magic and spells and old sages. Or prophecy. He thought instead of the real things around him, the real and simple things that were so comparably mild to him.
The knight had fallen to the ground and scrambled backward during what had happened. Sir Conrad had torn off his great helm to stare from his mail coif, his face gone terribly pale, and his eyes full of apprehension. He was gaping, too, though he managed to form some words. Hoarse at first, they were, but then he strengthened his voice. “Witchcraft... Witchcraft!”
A stir went through the barbarians at the shout, and Lokahm growled. “Mighty Raijsyk,” he said to Alwarul as he rose, his eyes on the fallen knight. “Say the word, and you shall have his tongue.”
Alwarul raised a hand. “I have little need of Sir Hardae’s tongue, fierce Lokahm. Spare him the added discomfort. I think he is already a bit ruffled.”
Lokahm furrowed his brow deeply as he looked down on Sir Conrad. “Hardae? I know this name. Is this the one they name the Reclaimer? A great warrior, they say. But then, why is he so unmanned?”
“He has come to some new realizations, I think,” the old man answered, turning an amused smile to the disbelieving knight.
Nathelion should also have been coming to some new realizations, or so he thought, but there was this voice that kept screaming and made it difficult. Was that a realization? He turned his head to look at Timothy. The squire was smiling broadly, awe painted clearly on his face and in his eyes, and he sat straight in the saddle, listening with interest to the words passed between Alwarul and the barbarians. Then Nathelion looked at Molgrimin, who seemed awed as well, the sword long forgotten in his hand. The moinguir appeared to be mumbling to himself, and he was grinning almost greedily. And then there was the singer.
The music had stopped when the earth had begun to shake, and Arisfae had not resumed playing. He sat with the harp tipped over in his lap while his hands seemed to have frozen stiff around an invisible instrument. He seemed overwhelmed, frowning deeply, his lips pouting as if he were about to whistle.
How did Nathelion look? He didn’t quite know. He had his fox helmet on, so he couldn’t see his face from the cloud he sat on, far outside his body. But he felt very relaxed, so maybe he looked relaxed. There was that voice, though; it wouldn’t stop screaming. Should he be more upset over something? It was a bit difficult to think.
Meanwhile, Alwarul continued to speak with the barbarians. He spoke quietly and ordinarily now, as if he were just an old man, and Nathelion blinked slowly at the curious sight. Lokahm gestured with his axe, and the ordinary old man nodded. Then it seemed that they were bid to follow the savages — Alwarul said something of the kind as he mounted again — but Nathelion couldn’t really be sure. He was mostly listening to a scream now, so it was difficult to follow events. But then the others started to ride away with the barbarians, even Conrad soon regaining his bearings — though he still looked awfully pale. Nathelion couldn’t seem to move, though. His body felt a bit like ice, and his heart was beginning to beat mightily, almost drumming in his chest: Ba-dom, ba-dom, ba-dom.
Molgrimin called back to him, once, twice, and then Nathelion’s legs twitched to make Skull follow. It was good to be up on the cloud, though, because it was too loud in his head. His body glided along in the saddle, and he felt terribly calm as the passage slowly passed, with barbarians swarming all around, seemingly very excited about something. He didn’t really look at them, though, even when he thought that some of them might be asking him questions. He couldn’t open his mouth, and the scream had no words. He was silent, and he looked ahead calmly while the questions were asked and forgotten in the excitement, followed by jokes that were laughed at and echoes that boomed with the laughter.
Arisfae was playing lively tunes on a flute now. Where had he gotten the flute from? The man seemed as jubilant as the savages, moving in the saddle to the rhythm of his own music. Molgrimin tried to sing along, but it wasn’t a pretty song. He drew much laughter, though, and soon, others were singing with him just as poorly.
It was all a distant din that couldn’t drown out the scream. Nathelion was very upset about the things that had happened, he knew, though the full understanding of just why hadn’t come to him yet.
Then Arisfae rode up to him with a big grin while catching his breath between playing his merry music. “This is marvelous!” he exclaimed in awe, not mocking anymore, and then he brought everything crashing down. “If Alwarul truly is a wizard...then you must really be the Chosen One!”
Thank You
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About the Author
Simon Markusson is a journalist from Upplands Väsby, Sweden, holding a BA with double majors in Journalism and History. He enjoys brooding over tomes of philosophy when he isn’t found deep in meditation. His superpower is the ability to take things lightly, but his weakness is timing. The Unchosen is his first novel.
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