The Never King

by James Abbott

  ‘Can these people not think for themselves?’ Birgitta sighed. ‘This is a lesson for you, little sister. When confronted with things they don’t understand, it is a rare commoner that does not defer to a sister. We are viewed as otherworldly beings with powers of clairvoyance.’

  ‘I’m sure many of the sisters love that they’re viewed that way.’

  ‘That they do, that they do . . .’

  Birgitta began to stride back through the trees. Elysia looked back and forth between the felled creature and the older sister, and eventually cut through the undergrowth to catch up with her. ‘Are we just going to leave it there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And so we just go back to bed?’

  ‘With any luck,’ Birgitta replied. ‘And I know what you’re thinking. But we simply cannot meddle too much in the affairs of everyday folk. What we have done tonight is more than enough. We ourselves must show some kind of restraint. Otherwise they would drain all the source from our blood entirely. Worse still, we would begin to see ourselves like goddesses among them. I’m not sure which would be a worse fate.’

  Another Night of Dreams

  The more comforts Xavir experienced, the more he communed with the ghosts of his past. His vision started with a golden dragon soaring through silver skies, and it arced ever higher until it vanished into the sun.

  Xavir was there again, back with Clan Argentum. The golden dragon was now a symbol upon his silver shield. The dream was becoming something stranger: not a tapestry of images, but a single clear event from his past. This felt very real.

  Upon a commission from the king, he had returned from a skirmish with coastal invaders, after saving a village from their onslaught. Ten of the tribe had been killed, the rest scattered back to the seas. The other Clan Argentum warriors had little ahead of them now, save feasting and drinking large goblets of wine to celebrate this victory and their name being recorded in the king’s favour.

  Xavir was not interested in the celebrations, though. The fact they would happen tonight simply gave him an excuse to do what he really wanted.

  As dusk began to deepen and the wind brought a pleasant chill to the warm autumn air, Xavir washed away the blood from his arms, changed into fresh clothing and headed out of Castle Argentum.

  Lysha was in the normal place waiting for him on horseback, a riderless mare at her side.

  The two young lovers thundered through the woodlands, the moonlight illuminating their path through larch, ash and elm. As their horses sped onwards, fallen leaves flashed up around them and descended for a second time to the ground that year.

  Less than an hour later they arrived at the old ruins from the Fourth Age, a supposedly haunted site known casually as Castle Rapier for its single remaining, sharp-looking watchtower that pierced the sky like a blade. Inside the broken structure, moss carpeted the stone floor, and where there may once have been coloured glass there was now an open, perfect view across a dark lake.

  There was nothing around for miles. No villagers would stray so close to a place they feared.

  They lit a fire within the walls, which Lysha had taken the trouble to prepare earlier in the day. She unwrapped some of the sweetmeats she had taken from the castle kitchen. Entwined in each other’s arms, the two of them ate their food at a leisurely pace. Once they had consumed it they turned their attention to each other’s barely restrained lust.

  Lysha lifted Xavir’s shirt and kissed around his many healing wounds. She bit his shoulder, wanting to add herself to his list of conquests – although Xavir felt it was Lysha who had been the conqueror all along.

  He was drawn to some baser instinct, basking in the wrongness, the pleasure, the heat of the firelight. This was not making love, as the poets might like to suggest, but something born entirely of ancient, almost violent passions.

  They lay there afterwards watching the moon sliding past the tip of the ruined tower, with the warmth of the fire on their bodies. They did not talk of the future, but of trivial things from their pasts. For Xavir it was a childhood memory of his father being invited to hunt deer in the estates of King Cedius the Wise, or the first time he bettered his tutor in sword training. For Lysha it was when she could first shatter glass with a witchstone, or when she moved an object with her mental powers that the other sisters could not – a rare technique even for the sisterhood.

  Lysha spoke of her wish that Valerix would allow her to use more experimental techniques with the witchstones rather than being so conservative. Xavir encouraged her, saying that when Valerix was out on clan business, Lysha should try doing so behind her back.

  Then, before returning home, they talked about the future, making ever wilder promises . . . promises that Xavir had known, even then, they would never be able to keep.

  *

  ‘You’re awake, then,’ came a voice.

  ‘I thought I was dreaming.’ Xavir’s eyes scanned the cabin. The light of dawn spilled inside, highlighting dust motes above his head. It was warm. There was no dripping of water onto old stone. No guards mocking him through barred doors.

  ‘Wishful thinking.’ It was the wolf queen. ‘You were staring at the ceiling.’

  Xavir pushed himself upright, the bedsheets falling off his shoulders. Landril was still asleep in the next bed. Lupara, however, was already awake and dressed in her fighting leathers.

  ‘Are we expecting trouble?’ Xavir asked.

  ‘Specifically now? No. I have my wolves out along the fringes of the forest on guard. They’ll call if there’s danger. We can have a leisurely morning.’

  ‘Leisure . . .’ Xavir yawned and wondered what exactly people did on leisurely mornings. It was three days now since the attack and he found himself filling the free time with training, exercise and meditation. ‘I ache. I’m obviously not used to travel and fighting. I need to improve greatly to be what I was before.’

  ‘It’s just as well that’s all we have planned for the future,’ Lupara. ‘Grend is cooking breakfast at the moment.’

  ‘He’s a useful man,’ Xavir replied. ‘I had no idea he was so good with food. I remember him saying how terrible the food was at Hell’s Keep, but everyone said that.’

  A knock came from the open door. Valderon stood there, waiting for Lupara to bid him enter. She waved him through. ’Good morning, my lady. Xavir.’

  ‘You do not have to show such formalities,’ Lupara replied. ‘We are all equals now.’

  ‘My breeding, my lady. Hard to shake. You are a queen and I will treat you as one.’ Then, addressing Xavir, ‘Some of the others were keen on joining you for your training today. They’ve watched the past two mornings and now they’re restless. They feel weak. Old.’

  ‘So, I am to become an instructor.’ Xavir smiled. ‘This is my life on the outside.’

  ‘They would appreciate learning from someone of the Solar Cohort,’ Valderon replied. ‘I must confess, so would I.’

  ‘You’re good enough to teach them yourself.’ Xavir weighed up Valderon’s humility. ‘To be in the Solar Cohort was an honour, but selection was a matter of being on the right battlefield at the right time. It could have been you on any other day.’

  ‘That may be so,’ Valderon admitted. ‘But you were in the Solar Cohort. And that means far more. Besides, you would have learned and refined some special techniques. Sharing that with the men can only be a good thing.’

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ Xavir said. ‘I taught my boys a few close-quarter tricks in Hell’s Keep, should the guards have tried anything, but I shall see about getting them to use blades more effectively. Tylos is already very skilled – take note of that. Whatever he learned in Chambrek will be useful.’

  Landril yawned and presented himself to the group, scratching the back of his head. His sleeping robe, which he had left with Lupara on his first encounter with her, seemed far too loose for his slender frame. ‘Teaching others what we know is how we thrive as a people. I am happy to advise on languages or mathem
atics when the men are ready for it.’

  ‘As hard as it is to believe, there has been little demand for those subjects,’ Valderon said. ‘I’ll pass on your suggestion, though.’

  Lupara laughed and placed an arm on Landril’s shoulder. He almost buckled under her force. ‘I will be happy to test you on some forgotten languages. Though I have kept myself active, I have not had the books and debates that I am used to from my court.’

  ‘That would be my pleasure,’ Landril said, struggling to remain upright. ‘But we should also start making more formal plans. After your morning training, Xavir, I suggest we convene to discuss our next steps. But first –’ he strolled towards the door – ‘it is time to eat.’ And with that he walked outside.

  ‘Who put the spymaster in charge?’ Xavir asked.

  ‘He has been all along,’ Lupara replied. ‘The reason we’re all here is because of him.’

  *

  Before breakfast, Xavir dressed in his old warrior garb and stood some distance behind Lupara’s cabin ready to practise with the Keening Blades. The morning sun warmed his face, and the grass around him was covered in glistening dew.

  Closing his eyes, first he removed the swords from their scabbards then replaced them – a hundred times. He missed their ornate casings on the third and eleventh attempts. Even that was still too rusty for his liking. With his eyes wide open, he moved through some of his old fighting postures – descending eagle, bitter wind, thunderbolt – gracefully arcing the Keening Blades through the air, hearing their gentle wails as he did so.

  These morning routines were an exercise he had kept up in Hell’s Keep, mostly to stave off boredom, but also so that he remained in some kind of fighting form. Xavir had never really needed most of these postures in gaol – and he had never had a sword with which to practise them – but he had persevered in the darkness. His men had likely thought him strange at first, but if they gave a damn about him they never commented on the acts. It felt good now to have the blades in his hands again, to become attuned to the nuances of these old friends.

  Later Lupara came to watch for a short while and offered to spar with him. Xavir knew that Lupara had ascended to rule on the merit of her skills in battle, and that she was no token warrior queen. She threw a slender tree branch his way and brought another for herself from the back of her cabin. Her three wolves came to watch impassively as the sparring began.

  The two warriors’ moves were slow and deliberate to start with, and their fighting styles very different. Xavir’s was more graceful and flowing, whilst Lupara’s was more savage. They did this for a while, examining the nuances of each other’s technique, sometimes speeding up, sometimes slowing, laughing at their own folly or smiling knowingly at each other’s clever series of blows.

  By the time they had finished, Xavir spotted several smaller wolves watching from the top of the gentle slope behind the cabin.

  ‘Do those animals always watch you like this?’ Xavir asked, wiping the sweat from his face.

  ‘They find us fascinating.’ Lupara took the other branch from Xavir and the two of them walked towards the cabin. She placed the wood back on the pile at the rear of the building. The three larger wolves followed at a distance.

  ‘I imagine they think us faintly ridiculous,’ Xavir added, ‘rather than fascinating. Life for them is admirably simple.’

  ‘But they have the same concerns, fundamentally. Food. Shelter. They find companionship beneficial, though. It’s useful to hunt in packs.’

  They approached the other men in their makeshift camp. Valderon had them running a neat operation. Four tents were arranged equal distances apart. There was no litter or discarded food items anywhere to be seen. Equipment had been stored inside the tents.

  In the distance were the remains of the creatures that had attacked them. The men had attempted to haul the carcasses some distance away and set fire to them two nights ago, but the things had taken a long time to burn and still smouldered even now.

  Valderon approached and handed over a bowl of stew to each of them, and the small group sat around the small fire in the centre of the camp. The other men were milling about in the grass or ambling further off, where Lupara’s wolves were now prowling. The men stared at the lupine beasts with a mixture of admiration and fear.

  Landril was keeping busy reading the parchments that Lupara had brought with her, or that had been sent to her over the years, occasionally glancing up to note the blue-green hills that loomed above the forest.

  ‘Fascinating region,’ Landril announced as Xavir approached. ‘We’re technically in Brekkland still, although the Forests of Heggen remain within that nation’s borders. According to this old account these forests were once the site of the Second Massacre of the Donevuls.’

  ‘I’ve heard of that,’ Valderon said. ‘The Donevuls were a powerful people. They dominated the Fourth Age. Their lands extended across most of this continent. Some of the First Legion tactics were said to be based on their strategies.’

  ‘And yet they were wiped out within a year,’ Landril added. ‘No one knows why, for the Fifth Age is largely unwritten about. History was almost all shared over campfires like this and not written down for future generations. Which makes tales like this one –’ he rattled the parchment – ‘all the more rare.’

  ‘The script halls of Dacianara were few,’ Lupara said, ‘but some treasures remained within them. I brought a selection of materials with me and from time to time I am sent packages that contain a random assortment of materials to engage my mind.’

  ‘Who sends them?’

  ‘As I remain queen by a technicality—’ Lupara began.

  ‘The technicality being?’ Landril asked.

  ‘That I remain alive.’

  ‘Forgive my asking,’ Valderon said, ‘but why did you forfeit your throne?’

  Lupara glanced to Xavir.

  He shrugged. ‘You may as well share it all.’

  And she did.

  Lupara spoke of her part in the tragedy of Baradium Falls from her perspective, telling the truth behind Xavir’s actions on that tragic day, but not shying from their shared shame and what it meant for their people.

  ‘We need an army,’ the warrior queen concluded. ‘And I need you to lead it.’

  ‘Me?’ Valderon’s head lifted in surprise.

  ‘You were a senior officer in the First Legion of King Cedius the Wise. Do I understand that correctly?’

  ‘Aye, I was, my lady,’ he said gruffly, looking down. ‘Then you can be the commanding officer in my army.’

  ‘But what about Xavir? His position previously far, far outranks mine.’

  Xavir gazed across at the man. ‘I am in no position to ask for any soldier’s respect now, Valderon. My legend is too tarnished.’

  Valderon looked as though he would object but realized Xavir was correct. The shame of the Solar Cohort would not be easy to dispel, no matter what the truth behind it. ‘And who am I to command exactly?’

  ‘That is the first challenge,’ Lupara said.

  ‘If I may interject,’ Landril cleared his throat, ‘I have spent some time contemplating this issue. Building an army requires funds and soldiers. If we can’t sway men through their own belief in our cause then we’ll need to hire them. The people who were responsible for Xavir’s interlude at Hell’s Keep are, it must be said, not exactly poor individuals. By the Goddess, they have immense wealth, and their dwellings contain a great many treasures they have hoarded over the years. We can take our wealth from them. Our funds for payment of soldiers can be found there. Kill two birds with one stone: revenge and resources.’

  ‘Where can they be found?’ Valderon said.

  ‘Two of them dwell at Golax Hold and the other has a manse on the border of Stravimon. In the meantime, we need to start building a reputation for ourselves. We need a nicely foreboding name and I suggest that we hire poets and minstrels to sing songs, through the taverns of Brekkland, Burgassia, Laussland and e
ven Stravimon, about us being defenders of the people, tales about our heroic stands against tyranny and the despotic leadership of King Mardonius.’

  ‘Propaganda, you mean?’ Valderon asked.

  ‘Exactly,’ Landril replied with satisfaction.

  ‘So what is our grand mission?’ Valderon said.

  ‘Defending the weak against the strong, of course. Putting a stop to the genocide of the followers of the Goddess, bless her hallowed soul in the seven heavens. We are here to be saviours, of a kind.’

  ‘Grand description for a collection of former prisoners,’ Valderon muttered. ‘I’m not sure even the best minstrels will be able to spin that into a crusade people will want to follow.’

  ‘But we have the great leader of the First Legion.’ Landril prodded a finger towards Valderon, before turning it towards the others. ‘And a member of the legendary Solar Cohort, who were tragically betrayed and deceived by traitors. And a famous warrior queen.’

  ‘And her wolves,’ Lupara added.

  ‘And her wolves,’ Landril repeated. ‘It all adds colour to the minstrels’ songs. We’ll also need weaponry, of course, but we can easily intercept the smiths that send their wares to Stravimon’s ever-burgeoning army.’

  ‘You make it sound so simple,’ Valderon said.

  ‘Nothing is ever easy. But people are dying across Stravimon and beyond. We passed soldiers on our way here who had been purging settlements of people purely because they worshipped the Goddess. What kind of world is that?’

  Valderon gave a glance to Xavir, and their eyes met in the silent understanding of well-travelled soldiers. That was the world as it had always been: people killing each other over things they did or did not believe.

  ‘So we are creating a rebellion against the crown, then,’ Valderon said. ‘We kill only those in uniforms.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Landril added. ‘But there are a lot of them in uniforms. There is talk of stranger things afoot, though I have yet to see them fully.’

  ‘Is Mardonius enlisting foreign troops?’