The Never King

by James Abbott

  ‘I would say,’ Valderon replied, ‘that the whole incident concerned passion rather than love. Passion speaks of the intensity involved at all levels. Love needs time – and we never had that.’

  ‘Do you regret your actions?’

  ‘No,’ Valderon replied eventually. ‘Because, despite all the complications of the incident, I rid the world of an odious man who treated his wife abhorrently. I gave her justice, in the end.’

  ‘And yet you ended up in prison for it . . .’

  ‘I did. I could have been executed. Made an example of. But I was well regarded by many and I had friends in the First Legion who had better friends than I did. Cedius showed mercy, thankfully, and instead I was sent to that rotten place. I lost years from my life there, but at least I am still alive. So no. No regrets. And I would do it again, should the same situation ever arise.’

  ‘Do you feel your reputation ever suffered?’ Lupara focused on his face. This brave soldier of Cedius’s army could barely look back at her. Landril wondered if it was shame from years in prison, or simply that even a mighty warrior could not meet an intense gaze from the dark-eyed wolf queen.

  ‘The opinions of others can change with the winds. And it is an ill-fated ship that sets sail in such transient conditions. So, though I do not like to think opinions matter to me, I do wish to claim something of the honour I once had. A reason to walk with pride again.’

  ‘That honour of which you speak,’ Lupara continued, ‘was that being in service to a king?’

  ‘A great man, yes. But the honour came from serving the people of my country. We protected the borders and kept their homes safe. We brought them wealth and glory from other lands. I am simply grateful for the chance to serve them again, with or without their knowledge.’

  This seemed to satisfy the wolf queen. The lines around her eyes changed as he spoke and she patted him gently on the arm, then rose and strolled back towards her wolves.

  Valderon, meanwhile, continued to check the sword blade, running his thumb along the edge.

  *

  Lupara’s small force went on the road again. Xavir was eager to reach the Silent Lake before nightfall and no one was in disagreement, save Harrand, who by now had grown into someone who complained at just about every decision that was made. And Davlor, who simply wanted to sleep some more. Landril knew the young farmhand was lucky to be alive. Without any talent for swordplay, the man had survived several skirmishes now and the consensus from the others was that he must have the luck of the Goddess. Then Davlor would yet again say something to reveal his stupidity, and Landril wondered how long that luck would last.

  Their horses continued along the main road through Burgassia for a few miles before taking a track that brought them yet again to the ancient, rarely used hollow ways, sunken routes that left the forest high around them.

  The day continued to be clear and warm, bringing an almost dream-like tranquillity to the land of Burgassia. Though Landril knew the country had experienced a strange history, today it had blossomed into a quiet garden nation: rolling meadows of bright orchids and softly stirring grasses; untilled earth that had been invaded not by armies, but by vibrant poppies; ancient forests shading strangely shaped fungi. Landril did not know half of the plants around him, and he wished he could spend a little time making notes. There would be treatments and poisons aplenty out here.

  Alas, it is not to be.

  It was the following day that they actually reached the region around the Silent Lake. The forest died back, and vegetation was sparser here, leaving bare, grass-covered rock undulating for miles. Knuckles of granite protruded from the earth, leading towards steeper mountains in the far distance to the east. The grassland was full of yellow-green and ochre tones, a sharp contrast to the cloudless sky. Now and then the wolves headed up to one of the higher plateaux, nosed the air and scoured the landscape with their fierce gaze.

  They continued all morning until, by noon, the landscape dipped to reveal a vast, dark lake surrounded by a lip of pale stone shore. The lake was more than a mile wide and, sheltered by the surrounding land, it remained utterly calm. A few tributaries on the opposite slopes threaded into it. And on the western shore, standing on terrain that jutted out into the lake like an upturned palm, stood a crenellated tower.

  ‘That’s the old watchtower in the distance,’ Lupara announced. ‘That’s where we must meet our guests.’

  ‘Are our guests armoured?’ Valderon asked, gesturing to the hillside. Four hundred yards to the right was what appeared to be a group of armed figures advancing towards them.

  ‘They should not be,’ Lupara replied.

  ‘Then I’m guessing we can expect trouble.’

  Earthcraft

  Xavir and Valderon marched down the steep grassy slope, careful to not lose their footing. Lupara’s wolves bounded ahead of them, with the warrior queen calling for caution as she came behind them. Behind, the prisoners trudged through the long grass.

  The sun was bright and falling, meaning the strange figures were almost lost in the hazy shadow of the hillside. But it was clear they were on a direct course to intercept them. How long have they been here? Xavir wondered if they had been tracking them all along.

  As Xavir examined their adversaries across the steep slope, he reasoned there was more cause for concern. Among this band of five was one who appeared cloaked – like the figure from the previous night, who had wielded magic with alarming skill. The wind around this region was utterly still, and he could hear the harsh and guttural utterances of their language.

  Lupara’s wolves thundered across the distance and lunged to savage the pack of warriors. But the robed figure held aloft a hand and then shoved the air, as if slamming back a door. The wolves howled and were sent reeling backwards, sliding down the grass towards the lake. With quick readjustments, the animals regained their footing just before they reached the rocky shoreline, but they were a good hundred yards away by now and visibly confused.

  The alien warriors withdrew their swords and, whilst protected by the barrier, formed a tighter formation behind their shields. The ground between the forces began to shake and crack. Xavir was forced to leap from one splitting ridge of grass to another. As the magician continued its despicable earthcraft, Xavir found himself isolated, forced to take routes away from his attackers so that he was not swallowed up in the unnaturally swirling rivers of mud between. Valderon stood on the very opposite side of the warriors, and was also unable to find a simple route to fight.

  ‘It’s futile!’ Xavir bellowed.

  ‘There’s no way to them,’ Valderon replied.

  Lupara, who was close behind, managed to leap across to a bank of grass alongside Valderon. The group of prisoners, Landril alongside them, scurried in her wake, but could not catch up. Between each of them were steaming rivers of earth, which drifted like a mobile swamp.

  There appeared to be no way to the foe.

  ‘I can help!’ bellowed a new voice. A woman’s voice.

  Xavir turned, startled. Behind him, at the top of a hill, stood a woman in a fluttering blue robe. She was gripping a staff in one hand.

  A witch.

  Scowling, Xavir watched her hold her arms aloft like a prophet. In her hand was a witchstone, though he could not discern the precise colour. She began to chant. The air changed, voices began to travel much further. Clouds massed from nowhere and the hillside began to shudder.

  Xavir stood with his Keening Blades wide for balance as the rivers of mud began to coalesce into something firmer. The witch touched the head of her staff into the mud and a flash of yellow light skidded along its surface, rippling along the hillside.

  A moment later, with the other end of the staff, she tapped the substance firmly, indicating the issue had been solved. Xavir wasted no time. He threw himself across the dried mud, which was like walking on the bark of a flat tree, and made haste towards the enemy.

  Ahead of him, the robed and bronze-helmed foreigner ma
de frantic hand movements, which occasionally made the ground shimmer, full of promise, but nothing happened. Xavir jumped across onto their island of earth and slammed the Keening Blades towards them. The invisible barrier that protected the creatures shone, then shattered like glass into nothingness, leaving the warriors fully exposed to Xavir’s onslaught.

  Two of them held aloft their shields futilely – and died.

  Another screamed hideously in Xavir’s face as Valderon’s blade thumped into its back, whilst Xavir blocked the strike of the fourth with one blade and sliced its throat with another.

  Only the robed figure remained, but with a deft twist of its hand it vanished to twenty paces to Xavir’s left, further down the slope and towards where the freed prisoners were running to join him. ‘Stop the bastard!’ Xavir shouted.

  One of the men, Krund, raised his own blade to strike the figure. But with a dismissive gesture the robed figure gripped the air and the old man dropped his weapon, clutched his throat and was tossed backwards, screaming, into his comrades.

  The figure stared at Xavir as he made his way across the awkward terrain. Whether or not it smiled, Xavir could not tell, but the thing vanished in the blink of an eye and Xavir slipped to a halt.

  Breathlessly, the two veteran warriors strode across to the rest of the group, while Lupara advanced up the slope to greet the witch. The skies cleared. The ground began to heal itself and the mud cracked and split like rotten floorboards. Xavir could see the broken body of Krund, the former lawyer, and realized the worst had happened.

  Tylos leaned over the corpse. ‘He is dead.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ Davlor muttered. The young man placed his sword in the ground and began scratching his crotch.

  ‘At least it was quick.’ Tylos added.

  ‘That damned thing,’ Valderon muttered. ‘I don’t know if it was the same one who was present last night, but it looked the same.’

  ‘Magic,’ Xavir sneered. ‘It is a hideous thing.’

  ‘Not all magic.’ Valderon gestured with his blade to the woman Lupara was embracing.

  ‘Even that,’ Xavir replied morosely. Especially that. ‘They may well be human. They may look human. But those who handle magic are a different breed entirely. They’re not to be trusted.’

  Pyre

  Funerals were all much the same to Xavir. His view on death was that it was inevitable. Deal with it, or fear it – and if you did the latter you might as well be dead anyway, for all the good it did. Xavir carried Krund’s corpse down the shoreline. The men had gathered wood and made a pyre. Their comrade was placed upon it and embraced by the inferno. There were no words – just a solemn silence that spoke of the understanding that any one of them could be next. Jedral’s face was hard and emotionless; Xavir knew just how long Jedral and Krund had known each other. The two had spent much time together in Hell’s Keep. Xavir, too, had enjoyed Krund’s easy company, and knew the old lawyer would be missed.

  A smoke trail rose like a thread dangling from a needle, up on the still air of the Silent Lake. Xavir didn’t trust this windless place. It was full of ill omen. Blue sky deepened towards nightfall. The flames died down and the men covered Krund’s charred remains with rocks from the shoreline.

  All the while, Xavir eyed the witch suspiciously. Lupara knew her, that much was obvious, but no formal introductions had yet been made. Xavir was fine with that. He had no time for those belonging to the sisterhood. Not any more.

  Eventually, when it was clear they had finished with Krund’s pyre, the witch and Lupara approached.

  ‘I was leaving you to mourn your friend,’ the witch announced.

  Xavir just scowled at her.

  Lupara seemed a little taken aback by his response but continued nonetheless. ‘Xavir. This is Birgitta. I have known her for many years.’

  Xavir regarded the woman’s blue eyes and nodded coldly.

  ‘Quiet one, isn’t he?’ Birgitta said to Lupara.

  ‘I have little to say,’ Xavir said abruptly.

  ‘Well, a thank you wouldn’t go amiss now, would it?’ Birgitta replied.

  ‘It was useful.’ Xavir had little interest in pandering to the old crone’s pride.

  ‘Useful, was it?’ Birgitta scoffed. There was a question in her direct gaze that unsettled him. ‘Useful indeed.’

  Lupara stood alongside Birgitta, her arms folded. ‘Xavir has never fought alongside those of the sisterhood.’

  ‘I never had need to. Life is far simpler without magic.’ Xavir spat on a rock and gazed across the still waters drenched in shadow, refusing to meet the witch’s eyes. Sweat cooled across his back.

  ‘The lad has a point,’ Birgitta added cheerfully. ‘I have done you no harm, warrior, so why the barbed tongue?’

  Xavir ignored her and turned to his men. ‘We must set up camp here tonight,’ he told them. ‘It is too late to travel. I suggest a night watch upon the hill’s summit.’ He turned to face the blue-eyed woman. ‘I am more than happy to take first watch.’

  Lupara turned to the witch. ‘You will stay with us?’

  ‘No, my dear lady,’ she replied softly. ‘I ought to return to my companion, on the far shore. I only left her to follow those creatures – wanted to see what they were up to. On the morrow, we will meet around the bend in the lake. By the watchtower.’

  The woman smiled to Lupara and turned to walk back along the shoreline. Lupara scowled at Xavir, who simply shrugged.

  Davlor slunk alongside his former boss. ‘Why d’you hate ’em so much? Thought a man like you’d like a bit of magic on side to weight the odds in your favour.’

  ‘You know nothing about me, Davlor,’ Xavir told him with a scowl. ‘And you know nothing about witches. If you did, you’d want them as far away from you as I do.’

  *

  As if Xavir had disturbed some tomb within his mind again, his night was haunted by the past. Through a fog, faces came and went.

  He saw blades through closed eyes, blades slicing at his neck, people screaming his name, a woman’s voice calling to him through all of this. Then he saw his brothers-in-arms, again, the Solar Cohort: his comrades hanging from ropes off a tower in Stravimon, their necks broken. Their bodies swaying. And one by one, their eyes opened, their heads tilted unnaturally towards him. And they spoke his name: traitor. And suddenly they all had her face. Her.

  Xavir bolted upright with a gasp. Sweat dripped from his face and began to cool immediately in the night air. His chest heaved as he glanced across to the campfire nearby. The others slumbered peacefully.

  ‘What ails you?’ It was Tylos, sitting cross-legged nearby. Xavir stared at him. ‘Forgive my intrusion. I have returned from watch, but before I woke Jedral I saw you thrashing around as if you had daemons behind your eyes.’

  ‘They have been my companions for many years,’ Xavir replied, resting his head on his blankets.

  ‘I have heard of such things,’ Tylos began. ‘The poet Krendansos once said that all events in life are like blades on the bark of a tree. A few gentle strokes allow for effortless growth. Carve too hard and a tree can bleed, maybe never recover. I take it you have memories like that?’

  ‘Not all poets from Chambrek speak shit, then,’ Xavir said.

  Tylos smiled at that. ‘I will take that as a compliment. But your sleep betrays you, Xavir. Who is this Lysha you cry out about in the night?’

  Xavir stared hard at him, but the black man’s gaze and manner were soft in return. ‘A mistake. A long time ago. That’s all. Quoting Krendansos’s words, I am a gnarled oak ill indeed from wounds.’

  ‘Yet you do not have nightmares from your days of battle? That is what I find most peculiar.’

  ‘If anything, I am wounded from the absence of war, Tylos. Warfare, battle, the killing was all normal for me. I need the danger and the blood-letting to thrive.’

  ‘And Lysha? What part did she play in your wounds?’ Tylos asked.

  ‘Enough.’ Xavir sighed and rolled away
with his back to the Chambrek man. ‘That’s not something I’m prepared to talk about.’

  ‘I understand,’ Tylos said quietly. ‘But just remember, such wounds can fester and poison a life if they remain untreated.’

  Xavir said nothing and stared into the dark until the sun rose.

  Memories

  The past few days had remained largely uneventful for Elysia, save the excitement of Birgitta’s excursion the afternoon before. Birgitta had only intended to look at the path ahead while Elysia set up camp and prepared food. Elysia had started to worry when the older woman hadn’t returned after a couple of hours and was about to set off after her when Birgitta arrived, flushed by her recent adventures. Elysia was astounded by the description of the magical battle and wished she had been there to see it herself.

  Birgitta said that her friends would be joining them soon, but obviously felt no need to fill in any details about them. Elysia was used to that, frustrating though she found it: the sisterhood were experts at keeping information close to their chests.

  The weather was calm here, with blue skies and warmth, so Elysia occupied her time by practising with the arrows around the shoreline, willing the shafts to follow the line of the water’s edge with considerable success. Birgitta meanwhile, made frequent trips to the top of the watchtower in order to study the steep hillside. She seemed jumpy about the arrival of these new companions, and when she did come down to the lakeside and watch Elysia practise gave her a look of such uncertainty and even sadness that Elysia wondered just what these newcomers might be bringing with them.

  Eventually, when the shadows were short and the heat too intense for them to do anything practical, Birgitta scrambled down from the watchtower and announced: ‘They’re here. Come on, let’s gather up our belongings.’ Birgitta stepped around the fire, gathering a few small books into her bag, and picked up the Staff of Shadows.

  Elysia had nothing really to tidy up, so, seated on the ground, she raised her knees to her chest, shaded her eyes and peered up at the surrounding hills. There, to the south, she could see a line of figures zigzagging down the steep hillside.