The Never King
Page 6
‘You’re certain you do not need me?’ Valderon asked.
Xavir shook his head. ‘One of us needs to remain to keep an eye on the men.’
Valderon nodded and handed over the witchstone.
It felt unusually cold and heavy in Xavir’s palm.
Stone held tightly, Xavir handed his sword to the other former soldier and turned to face the bank of grey rock just off the path, where he had spotted a few caves. There were no dwellings here so it was the most probable place of habitation for the witches.
He strode between the wide fir trees, then looked down as his foot twisted on something in the undergrowth. At first he thought it mossed ivory roots, but looking closer he realized they were bones – and not just animal. He had seen enough rotten corpses in his time to know that the bulk of these were human. He took a firmer grip on the stone. Eventually he came to a pathway leading up to the caves.
Sunlight lanced through the trees and onto his face, and he took a brief moment to enjoy the warmth – something he hadn’t felt for years in the cold confines of Hell’s Keep. If he were to die now, better he die free than in shackles. Protected only by two stolen gauntlets, and still garbed in his grey prisoner tunic and crude strapped sandals, he strode up the stairs and towards the wide cave entrance. He had to duck slightly to enter the darkness and stood there for a moment to let his eyes adjust. There was a faint burning aroma, something charred, then it faded entirely to leave the damp chill of the cave. Around him feathers were dangling on wire from the roof. Etchings were scratched into the rock – esoteric symbols and words in an ancient form of a common language. He thought the spymaster would probably know what they meant.
Xavir stepped further into the gloom, and with every step the remaining traces of daylight began to fade. After a few moments he was far enough inside that he was able to stand tall without striking his head against the rock. Voices suddenly rushed towards him as echoing whispers:
‘What does a warrior want with us?’
‘Has he come to kill or maim?’
‘His hatred of us burns!’
‘He has no sword, but he has something else.’
‘What does he want?’
‘Who are you?’
‘What is your name?’
Xavir called out through the caves, making no effort to hide the distaste in his voice. ‘My name is Xavir of Clan Argentum. I was once a warrior in Cedius’s Solar Cohort. More recently a prisoner at the keep.’
A moment of silence in return, but then, with startling clarity: ‘Cedius died years ago. You have dwelt on the mountaintop for a long time. But you do not fear witches, do you? We can sense that you dislike us. You are . . . familiar with our kind.’
‘With one of our kind,’ another added.
‘She changed you, did she not?’ hissed another.
How could they possibly know? Xavir thought. It was years ago. He shook his head and forced the memories away. The witches were playing tricks with his mind.
‘What do you want?’ one of the witches asked.
‘There are about a dozen men outside.’ Xavir looked around but could see only darkness. ‘We wish safe passage through your barriers.’
‘And why should we help you?’
‘The magic that is there to stop the likes of you escaping.’
‘And to keep others away.’
‘I heard tell that the soldiers at the keep may have stolen something from you.’ Xavir held out the witchstone and placed it on the floor. He could not bring himself to go nearer. ‘I have come to return it. In exchange, I request our safe passage.’
A figure scrambled forwards from the gloom. She stepped into a thin spear of light from above.
Her eyes had been cut out, her eyelids stitched together. She would have been a time mother, a seer, with no reason to look upon the mortal plane. How she managed to pick up the stone without being able to see was beyond Xavir. He had long since stopped trying to fathom how these things operated. The witch caressed the stone and scurried back into the darkness. Only then did he notice the two other dark figures alongside her; he turned to address the three of them.
‘The soldiers had taken this from you. I came to return it. Will this be enough to let us pass?’
Another silence, and then the whispers again:
‘He speaks the truth.’
‘The stone is here again.’
‘Fire and light.’
‘What are the consequences of letting him out?’
‘Does it break the pact our sisters made?’
‘Why so much anger against our kind?’
Though he could not see it, in the ensuing silence he felt their probing gaze upon him and, worse, inside his mind.
‘Why do you want to be free?’ one of the witches asked. ‘You feel nothing but guilt and shame for your deeds, Xavir of Clan Argentum. Of the Solar Cohort.’
‘Famed Legion of Six,’ added another.
‘You welcomed the punishment. You did not want to escape. We sense this. What has changed?’
‘I have business with the world outside,’ Xavir replied. ‘People have requested my help.’
‘The world is changing.’
‘Alliances are shifting again.’
‘Things have come into this world. Unnatural things.’
‘We know much about what is going on.’
‘But we cannot say.’
‘We know much about the futures that may happen.’
‘You may leave,’ a witch whispered in his mind.
‘She had marked you long ago as to be left alone.’
‘Her seal will always be upon you.’
‘Our magic will have faded by the time you get back to your soldiers,’ a voice said aloud.
‘Go now,’ came a whisper into his head.
‘In haste.’
Xavir strode towards the light angrily, mocking laughter echoing behind him. He scrambled out into the brightness, shading his eyes as he returned down the path and towards the other prisoners, who were still resting.
‘Get up,’ Xavir ordered them all. ‘Get up now. We haven’t got long.’
The men groaned and pushed themselves up from the long grass.
Despite his fear that foul hags were toying with him, true to their word, the wall of magic began to stutter and fade, until there was nothing there at all.
‘How can we be sure it’s gone?’ Valderon handed Xavir back his sword.
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Xavir replied, and strode towards where the barrier had once been.
Strange Noises
‘We’re in Brekkland now,’ Landril said.
A lush forest of oak trees extended before them, smothering the landscape. Ancient ruins, pillars and still-standing arches were tucked away in occasional clearings, but civilization on any significant scale had long since left these parts. A cool wind sent shivers down Landril’s spine.
The once-mighty Arjal kingdoms had extended through here in the Seventh Age, with major settlements on the nearby river, but that culture had collapsed a thousand years past. Their crops had failed, and that was that. No wars, no politicking or drama. Just a basic lack of food.
Landril knew how they felt. He hoped that, now the prisoners were out of the mountains, they could seek a village or town in which to feed themselves. Scavenging berries in the forest staved off starvation, but he was in the mood for a haunch of some fat animal in a rich sauce to be mopped up with a loaf of bread.
‘Where’s Brekkland exactly?’ It was Davlor who spoke. ‘Never heard of it.’
‘That is because you are still young. You have barely left your mother’s breast, and now find yourself in a strange land,’ drawled Tylos. The man’s ebony face was covered in sweat. Landril had realized only recently that Tylos came from Chambrek, a noble country to the south, which explained the graceful manner in which he spoke. Every word that left his lips possessed a rich timbre, as if he had been an orator in his previous life.
‘Quiet,’ Xavir told them. ‘The forest conceals eyes and ears with remarkable ease.’
Landril was glad for the silence that followed the order. The last thing he wanted now that he had come so far from Hell’s Keep was to listen to the two men bickering.
Xavir and Valderon were in the lead, peering into the gloom of the forest. Landril noticed how the two had found something of a camaraderie, despite their rivalry within Hell’s Keep. Landril reasoned that, of any here among the escaped prisoners, those two shared the most similar heritage. Senior military men among Cedius’s finest, Goddess bless his soul. There was something reassuring about their manner, too – life on the road, keeping their men safe, looking out for danger – all of this was familiar territory to them.
Whereas Landril felt like a fish out of water: he was used to neither prison life nor countryside route marches. He needed cities and people to thrive and apply his skills. He was grateful for the leaders’ presence, especially considering some of the sounds they’d been hearing recently from the surrounding forest. The undergrowth brushed his knees as he moved towards them.
Xavir turned to him. ‘You say we’re in Brekkland, spymaster. Yet those noises are like nothing I’ve heard previously in that country.’
‘You’ve been here before?’
‘Briefly,’ Xavir replied. ‘And I know enough of any forest to know that some of the sounds around here are not from any animal I’ve ever encountered. Valderon, have you campaigned out this way?’
‘I haven’t. Anyway, fighting wars in forests is not my expertise. Open, muddy plains and rows of warriors grinding against another line. That’s mostly all I know.’
‘You may have to fight in forests yet,’ Xavir said, ‘if we are to join with the wolf queen.’
‘So that’s where we’re headed?’ Valderon asked.
‘Apparently,’ Xavir told him. ‘Landril knows how to find her.’
Both men glanced towards the spymaster, who nodded. ‘I do. Her place is only known to me because she wished it to be so. Otherwise she lives very deliberately alone.’
‘Where is it?’ Valderon asked.
‘The Forests of Heggen.’
‘What’s a queen doing there?’ Valderon asked. ‘Nothing but trees and farmland for miles around.’
‘It is how she prefers to live. I cannot speculate as to her reasons for it. Her home lies a few days away from here, even if we move at a fast pace.’
‘This terrain doesn’t make for swift travel,’ Xavir said, gesturing at the dense undergrowth surrounding them.
‘It does not.’
‘We have come down on the opposite side of the mountain from the main path. This territory is unfamiliar to us all. But if we can find a road and a town we could find horses,’ Xavir continued. ‘Sooner or later.’
Landril closed his eyes to recall the maps he had committed to memory before he came to Hell’s Keep. They would want to avoid the road that ferried prisoners and soldiers, particularly now that Stravir warriors marched far from their borders on the king’s command. There would be toll houses along the way, and each of those would be manned by guards. Landril walked the lanes of his mind. Slowly the lanes became lines, and the map began to take a more coherent shape. Settlements began to spring up, but he could not tell how close their group was to finding these places.
‘I think,’ Landril eventually declared, ‘that I know where the towns are. How far away we are will require triangulation.’
‘Do we have time?’ Valderon asked. ‘Should we not just press on until we find somewhere?’
‘There is some wisdom in that,’ Landril admitted. ‘I can use the mountain as one aspect, but if would help if we came across another marker I can use to pinpoint our location. I know there’s a river somewhere we will need to cross at some point.’
Xavir nodded. ‘We’ll head west, then. But tell the men to keep their wits about them. There are unnatural things out here.’
*
For hours they trudged through dark green woodland, over moss-covered stones and along forgotten pathways that petered out into nothing. Whenever they glimpsed the sky it was filled with grey clouds. The freed prisoners complained endlessly, until they were too tired to say anything at all. None of them had yet attempted to make his own way, though Xavir would not have minded. If one of the men wanted to take his chances on his own out here, Xavir thought, then so be it. But it felt as though there was some unspoken pact to stick together.
As they finally came to a road that ran parallel to the river they had sought, tiredness overcame them and even Xavir flagged. He realized he had been without sleep for almost an entire day and he didn’t have the physical fitness of his youth. They rested by the edge of a clearing a stone’s throw from the road, with Valderon taking first watch.
After drinking from the river, Xavir sat on the damp earth and pressed his back against an oak tree. For the first time in years he breathed fresh air as he closed his eyes to the world.
*
In his dreams Xavir was taken to a distant place, happier times. A younger Xavir. He was eighteen years old and already one of the most able warriors in Clan Argentum. He wore the colours of his family with pride; a tunic the golden brown of the moorland, a golden dragon carved into every silver helm and shield.
A young witch had just been assigned to their clan, as was normal – each clan of import was allocated a member of the sisterhood. She was to study under the witch who had been attached to the family for decades.
When Xavir first met her, he was returning fresh from an assault on the family lands. His face was covered in blood, but he was smiling and full of the vigour of victory. His father had clapped him on the shoulder, welcomed him and his men home on the outskirts of the estate, and rode alongside him through the columned avenue to the stables.
Later, when Xavir dismounted alone and began to wash his bloodied arms with fresh water, he spotted the young witch peering at him from the stone doorway to one of the annexes, the tower in which the magical sisters dwelt. He had no need of the old woman’s magic today, as spear and sword had sufficed and he had no injury, but he wondered about this newcomer.
‘Why the sour gaze, lady?’ he called across the courtyard, wary of her and why she was staring at him. There were few things he felt he did not understand about the world at that age – in the way that the young consider themselves invincible – but no one could understand the ways of witches.
‘You look like a walking animal carcass,’ she said. ‘There’s so much blood on you.’
‘Come out of the gloom if you wish to insult me properly.’ He chuckled.
She seemed to drift rather than walk, her black cloak flicking to and fro in the evening breeze. Her hood kept her face in shadow, but there were two unnaturally bright blue eyes staring back at him. Witch eyes. She had an elegant, straight nose and a strong chin.
‘Are you the new child from the island?’ he asked.
‘I am no child,’ she snapped. ‘I am seventeen. But yes, since you ask. I’ve come from Jarratox.’
Xavir shrugged. ‘Welcome to the castle, anyway.’
She paused for a moment and rubbed her arm above the elbow, as if she was cold. ‘It is a miserable place, your nation of Stravimon. There is no sun here.’
‘I’m surprised they let you out of your tower to notice.’ Xavir gestured to the building behind.
She peered over his shoulder at the two swords poking out, and then at his silver shield that bore a golden dragon. ‘I have never really seen warriors this close up. Apparently I am to accompany you in war one day. It seems a crude art, what you do. To kill so many people so . . . brutally.’
‘Maybe it is.’ Xavir shrugged.
‘Have you no concerns for what you do?’
‘Why should I? Someone has to do the hard work so others can talk
of ethics in comfort.’
‘Work?’ she sneered. ‘It is butchery, not work.’
‘Even butchery can be an art,’ Xavir replied. ‘Anyway, I thought witches killed people too.’
‘You have an answer for everything,’ she declared.
Back then he did. Back then Xavir had fine training not just in the arts of the warrior, but in words passed between poets and scholars, and felt he knew it all. These days, the answers were not so forthcoming, but back then, back then it all seemed so easy . . .
‘That may be so, witch,’ he said eventually.
‘Lysha,’ came another voice. The old witch, Valerix, appeared in the doorway.
The young witch standing before him twisted her head to look back to her mentor, and her hood fell back. Xavir was taken aback by her striking looks. She had a very pale complexion and long black hair, tied back and down over her shoulder. Her features seemed even more delicate within the light.
‘I didn’t think witches looked as nice as you do.’ It gave Xavir an illicit thrill to feel attraction to one of their kind. Many of his comrades would have been sickened by the thought.
The young woman gave no response, though the lines around her eyes softened.
‘Lysha!’ With a crooked finger Valerix beckoned her student back into the old stone tower.
‘You do not speak with lay people longer than you have to,’ Valerix snapped as Lysha stepped inside. She placed an arm protectively around the young woman, as if Xavir had been trying to harm her. ‘I appreciate the world is a curious place, but still . . .’
*
‘Xavir!’
It was Valderon who spoke. The warrior approached Xavir with some urgency and shook his shoulder.
‘Soldiers are coming through the forest, a few hundred yards away. Heading west. I think their scout may have spotted us.’
‘How many are there?’
‘About ten. I’ll muster the others.’
‘No,’ Xavir said. ‘We don’t want to fight them if we can help it. Soldiers on the road will be reporting to somewhere. If they fail to arrive, there will be more soldiers. There are always more soldiers.’
‘But they have horses, we could use them.’