The Never King

by James Abbott

  The only one left alive was lying on the floor clutching his injured leg. Xavir sheathed one blade over his shoulder, and with his free hand hauled the soldier onto the table, slamming him on top of his dead comrade. His victim was old and gaunt, with scars written across his left cheek like bad calligraphy.

  ‘Where are Havinir’s quarters?’ Xavir hissed.

  The man shook his head.

  Xavir covered the man’s mouth with his left hand, and raked a Keening Blade across his other leg. The man screamed into Xavir’s palm, his eyes bulging.

  ‘Tell me!’ Xavir demanded, removing his hand. ‘And I’ll spare your life.’

  ‘Up . . . upstairs, on the south s-side of t-the building. Double doors . . .’

  Xavir cut his throat, checked everyone else was dead, and left the room quietly. Landril and Elysia looked at him in shock when he rejoined them, Birgitta just glared at him.

  ‘On the level above,’ he declared, and moved onwards, ignoring their disbelief at his deeds.

  They progressed through the manse, finding the stairwell.

  ‘There are some strange goings-on in this place,’ Birgitta whispered. ‘I feel it, by the source, though it is not magic. It is something else.’

  ‘Do you think there are traps?’ Landril asked. ‘This place is labyrinthine. If I had to defend it, I’d have traps everywhere.’

  ‘I do not think it is that,’ she replied, staring thoughtfully at the ground. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more specific. Can you feel it, little sister?’

  Elysia closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Yes. It feels . . . full of energy. Full of life. Not unlike magic, though.’

  ‘Most peculiar,’ Birgitta added.

  Thinking it to be no specific warning, Xavir continued leading them upstairs. Again there came a musty smell, a staleness. Everything stank to him of death and decay – a contrast to whatever the witches had perceived.

  Along the corridor, under the watchful gaze of ancient portraits that hung at angles, they strode with quiet, considered steps through the house towards Havinir’s quarters. There was a double door halfway along the south side that Xavir thought to be his room, and he approached it.

  Before Xavir turned the handle he whispered to Birgitta, ‘This needs to be me alone at first. Conceal me when I’m in there.’

  ‘Is that an order or a request?’ she asked.

  Xavir stared at her.

  ‘If the door is ajar, then yes,’ she replied.

  ‘I will call for Landril if I need him.’ He paused. ‘Though not exactly a private matter, it will be better if you do not see it.’

  ‘I understand,’ the witch replied.

  ‘Keep me in shadow for a few minutes, and then release me from it. I want him to see me there.’

  Xavir eased the door open silently. Birgitta cast a shadow upon him, and he pushed the door back softly behind him.

  Nightmares

  General Havinir awoke from bitter dreams. They had all been bitter of late.

  Was that something outside?

  He was surrounded by darkness and found the sense of isolation comforting. The window was open and the curtains shook like banners in the breeze. There was a glimmer of moonlight upon the glass. He sat up on his bed, slid out the ceramic pot beneath it and began to urinate. Once that was over he rearranged himself, kicked back the pot with his heel and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

  He pondered the great campaigns he had led under Cedius and Mardonius. Long trips north beyond the Plains of Mica and Herrebron, into the tribal territories whose borders ebbed and flowed across the map. Those days had been about tactics and nuance on the battlefield, of great tides of armour clashing across mud and dust. Those were the days.

  Not now. Not killing idiots who couldn’t handle themselves let alone a sword – in his own country, no less. All the best fighters had gone or been transitioned, save the one who stood by Mardonius’s side, and even he was not really all there any more . . . There were dark glimmers now in his mind. He had done what he had set out to do, for the Voldiriks and for Stravimon. The alliance was true. His only concern was that this new army was not yet perfect. The transitioning left warriors in a worse state than before, and Havinir preferred campaigns with smaller, more effective forces . . .

  I should stop thinking about all of this nonsense now. I need to pay for more girls to occupy my nights.

  Havinir suddenly realized that a figure was standing in the room, between the curtains. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘This is what you have become then, General,’ the figure said. ‘An old man with a weak bladder. So much for the great warrior you once were.’

  ‘Xavir Argentum,’ he breathed.

  Havinir shivered. His stomach curdled. The figure was tall and two swords showed over his shoulders. Is it really him? ‘The butcher of Baradium Falls. You have tormented my dreams over the years.’

  ‘I’ve come to relieve you of that suffering.’

  ‘So be it,’ Havinir whispered, lying back on his bed. He could hear the gentle wailing of those ancient, powerful swords being unsheathed. It had been many years since he had heard that noise. Those Allimentrus-crafted blades would have been just the thing for his prized collection of artefacts. If only he’d managed to get hold of them before that damned wolf queen had done so all those years ago.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ Xavir stepped forwards so that he loomed over the bed. ‘Why did you consign me to that place?’

  ‘What was it like in there?’ Havinir asked calmly.

  ‘Cold,’ Xavir grunted. ‘Too much time to think. Why did you send me there?’

  ‘I didn’t send you anywhere, certainly not there. We wanted you dead. We wanted you out of the way.’ Havinir sighed. How could he even begin explain the complexities of it all?

  ‘Out of the way of what?’ Xavir demanded.

  ‘Progress, of course. The future. A chance for a better way for our world.’

  ‘You speak in riddles.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it, warrior. This is not about simple politics. Nor the crudeness of war. This is not even about possession of the throne. Oh, such simple desires! This is about much more. This is about surrendering ourselves to a greater force entirely. This is about understanding life and death themselves.’

  ‘Explain,’ Xavir growled, still in the shadow.

  ‘Have you explored my home yet?’

  ‘Some of it. I made a mess of some rooms.’

  He’d come straight for Havinir, then. No nuance. No reconnoitring. Though older, possibly weaker, he was just as blunt. An instrument of war, nothing more. How he could have been favoured by Cedius was mind-boggling to Havinir. Rule was about more than force and personality. This man had never been fit to be king. ‘I cannot be bothered to waste my final breaths explaining it to you. You’ll find some of it here, once you’ve finished me off. Beware of the Voldiriks, is all I will say.’

  ‘You have not explained,’ Xavir continued, ‘why you wanted me out of the way.’

  ‘You would have prevented so many great things from happening to our world. Cedius should have let you die after Baradium Falls. But he didn’t trust what was going on around him. He was a canny old man, I’ll give him that, for all his stupidity in favouring you. That’s why he kept you alive. Only you. The one he wanted to take the throne.’

  ‘Mardonius is now king. He was part of your schemes, I know this much. He, too, will die. Who else had a role to play in that night?’

  ‘Who do you think?’

  Xavir listed the other names Landril had given him.

  ‘You’ve done your research well.’ Havinir chuckled. ‘There is a brain in there after all.’

  ‘Why did you set me up?’ Xavir demanded, sheathing his swords. ‘You haven’t given me a good reason yet.’

  ‘You’ll find out sooner or later. You were just better off out of the way.’

  ‘Tell me why.’ Xavir lunged, grabbed Havinir by his collar and sl
ammed him onto the floor. A surge of pain flashed through Havinir’s back. ‘Why did you have us slaughter all those innocents? Besmirch our name, have my brothers killed?’ Xavir placed a hand on his throat, fingers of iron gripping . . .

  ‘Such simple barbarism.’ Havinir squirmed, laughing at the crudeness of it all. ‘Whoever . . . has the wisdom . . . has the authority. The Voldiriks will be too much . . . for you.’

  Xavir began to slam his fists into Havinir’s face repeatedly. Pain came quickly, then thankfully numbness. ‘Tell me!’ Xavir snarled.

  ‘Whoever has the wisdom has the authority,’ Havinir spat one final time.

  Then he lay there silently smiling, absorbing the agony, staring into this darkened angel of death, until a strange feeling eventually took over.

  *

  Xavir hammered his fists again and again into the general until bone gave way and his knuckles sank into something far softer and his hands were covered in blood.

  The man’s face was unrecognizable. His legs no longer twitched.

  Killing General Havinir did not grant Xavir the satisfaction he had thought it would. Revenge had been dealt but the old general had taken the answers they’d needed to the grave. Xavir cursed his lack of control. It was unlike him . . .

  Xavir rose from the body in the darkness and called out, ‘I’m done.’

  The door eased back and he heard the others stepping into the room cautiously.

  Landril gawped at the corpse with his mouth open. ‘I see you didn’t need me in the end, then? It wasn’t exactly the most delicate of interrogations, was it?’

  ‘He wasn’t going to talk,’ Xavir said, walking away.

  ‘He didn’t get much of a chance,’ Landril said to Xavir’s turned back.

  Xavir paused by the door. ‘Whoever has the wisdom has the authority.’

  ‘What . . . ?’

  ‘That’s what he said. Many times over. Whoever has the wisdom has the authority. Does it mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not that I can think of,’ Landril said.

  ‘We have work to do here,’ Xavir said. ‘We need to search this place. Summon the others.’

  *

  By the time dawn light had broken across the old manse, Lupara, Valderon and the rest of the group had rejoined Xavir. Havinir’s corpse had been left forgotten in his bedchamber. Of more importance now was what lay in the building itself.

  They investigated one room after another together. In the basement quarters, they found treasures. Once illuminated by witchlight, the stone room revealed glistening items that had been hoarded from Havinir’s campaigns: antique weapons and armour, and wooden chests overflowing with coin. Draped here and there, like discarded rags, were banners from extensive military operations: legion colours, great sigils of the Elder Wars and the Desiccation, and of places long forgotten.

  ‘Here is your war fund.’ Xavir gestured to Landril, running his hand along the surface of a trunk full to the brim of silver and gold coins. ‘You can buy yourself a good army with this.’

  ‘Oh, I should say so,’ Landril replied with a grin of avarice.

  Lupara looked at the spymaster. ‘Get to the nearest settlements quickly. Find clothing, fighters and metal.’

  ‘It will take time, admittedly,’ Landril said, scrutinizing a golden cup, ‘to acquire such things.’

  Xavir nodded towards the weaponry amassed. ‘I have counted a hundred swords in this room alone that could be of practical use.’

  One item in particular was of interest to Xavir. It looked innocent enough – a flat-topped mahogany trunk of some considerable size – but once the dust had been blown off, the image of a crenellated tower was revealed.

  It was the Citadalia, the same symbol as was upon his chest armour.

  On his request, Birgitta melted the lock. Together Lupara and Xavir inspected the contents.

  ‘Three of these items belonged to the Solar Cohort,’ Xavir announced. ‘I know them well.’ He lifted out a black-bladed two-handed longsword, followed by a double-headed axe and then another longsword in a scabbard. ‘The swords were made by Allimentrus, like mine,’ Xavir continued. ‘They belonged to Felyos and Gatrok. Brendyos used to wield this axe.’

  Memories rushed into Xavir’s mind: covert operations under the cloak of darkness, spearing into the heart of enemies in distant lands. Fronting campaigns and cleaving through the flanks of powerful foes. The din of war rose again in his mind. He could smell the stench of mud and blood and horse shit, and recall the camaraderie of the Solar Cohort in their quarters in Cedius’s palace.

  ‘I had no idea,’ Lupara said softly, ‘what happened to these items. I only managed to recover yours, because your life had been spared by trial. The others . . .’

  ‘Were murdered for a crime they did not commit,’ Xavir finished. ‘These are their weapons and it is a waste that they lie here unused. Valderon – take Felyos’s weapon. You wanted a good sword. Now you can have one of the best. It’s called the Darkness Blade – a companion of sorts to my own swords. Forged by Allimentrus when he was in his thirty-seventh summer, in the Seventh Age; you can tell by the tiny inscription, “A-37-7”, on the base of the hilt. It’s inset with a black witchstone, which makes it a devastating weapon. When it encounters enemy flesh it blackens the skin. You can only imagine what a mess it causes when it strikes a body.’

  ‘Black stones!’ Birgitta shook her head in awe. ‘By the source, I haven’t seen too many of those. Allimentrus must have known some of the old warrior witches . . . They were thought to have vanished by the Seventh Age. Even some of those whom we refer to as Dark Sisters, who are a breed apart, were the sorts to have dabbled in the arts of necromancy too . . . and all manner of forbidden fleshcraft. Allimentrus kept strange company.’

  ‘Allimentrus was a legend,’ Xavir said proudly. He had read tome after tome on the great man. ‘He was perhaps the only male who could manipulate magic. The Seventh Age was the most glorious time our realms have ever known – a time in which misery was a ghost and all nations prospered. Kings looked upon Allimentrus as a god, but he simply wanted to make better and more interesting weapons. In our Ninth Age we will never know the like.’

  ‘I cannot take such a precious relic,’ Valderon breathed. He shook his head, but his eyes were wide and greedy for it.

  ‘It is a weapon, not a relic,’ Xavir said. ‘It wants to be used, not remain dormant in a trunk.’

  Valderon took the blade with both hands and regarded it with awe. A moment later Xavir handed him the separate scabbard. Havinir didn’t even have the decency to look after these weapons properly, Xavir thought.

  ‘Tylos,’ Xavir called.

  Someone else called along the corridors for him, and while Valderon stepped away, inspecting the ancient weapon, the black man arrived at Xavir’s side.

  ‘There are some remarkable portraits upstairs,’ Tylos announced, ‘but this Havinir fellow, he has not looked after them.’

  ‘Never mind about that. Take this.’ Xavir momentarily withdrew the second sword from its arced casing, and the blade somehow shimmered in the murky light of the room. A red witchstone was set between the hilt and the blade itself, and old Seventh Age script wove itself around the weapon. ‘This is the Everflame, one of Allimentrus’s experimental items that he forged with a fire witch. Birgitta, you will have heard of those.’

  ‘By the source,’ Birgitta murmured from the other side of the trunk. ‘This is going back some time. They are forbidden now, but in the Sixth Age – the darkest days of the sisterhood – they were said to have specialized in the arts of fire. The things they could do! Legend has it that they themselves could turn into flame and travel up the sides of buildings . . . but the sisterhood today consider it devilry, and such things have long since been eliminated from our stock.’

  ‘It sounds to me,’ Xavir replied, ‘that you witches have tried to breed all the fun out of life.’

  ‘That’s about right,’ Elysia added.

 
‘Don’t encourage him,’ Birgitta muttered. ‘Anyhow, is it not amusing how he can appreciate witchstones when they’ve been through that weapon-smith’s hands?’

  ‘I do not have a problem with the witchstones, lady,’ Xavir said. ‘I have a problem with those who wield them.’

  Xavir narrowed his eyes at the ancient item, contemplating its lack of use over the years, and placed it back in its casing. ‘Gatrok once single-handedly held the Stravir flanks against a barbarian horde on the Plains of Mica with this. They had been supported by a cave-dwelling race who venture out in the dark hours, and we had been vastly outnumbered. The bodies this weapon created . . . Tylos, take this sword. It’s lighter than it looks and I think you’ll have good use of it. When you wield it, the blade leaves a small trail of flames. It gets hotter and hotter in battle, and when it is at its peak it is able to melt through the toughest armour in an instant.’

  Tylos bowed his head with grace. ‘It would be an honour, Xavir.’ He took the weapon in both hands as if it were some holy item.

  ‘Jedral,’ Xavir called out. ‘Where is he?’

  It took longer to find him, as he had been in the kitchens with Grend. Eventually the bald man with the scarred face stepped alongside his former gang leader. Jedral was wiping crumbs from his mouth. ‘My apologies, boss. We found some pastries in the kitchen . . .’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Xavir replied. ‘This double-headed axe was wielded by my old friend Brendyos. You remind me of him, although that’s not why I’m giving it to you. No one knows who crafted it, or why it is entirely constructed of a black alloy, only that its blade never needs sharpening. It could slice a hair.’

  ‘Why me, boss?’ Jedral, unusually for him, appeared disconcerted at the gesture.

  ‘I’ve known you longer than any of the others, and you’ve watched my back more than once. You may look like a savage, you may look like you’ll kill any of us given half a chance, but I know you’d stand alongside us when the time comes. You grew up using such weapons, so this will be second nature to you.’