The Never King

by James Abbott

  ‘His heart gave way,’ Tylos repeated. ‘I can perhaps vouch for this diagnosis, for I have had some training from a physician. That is what I will say in the morning light.’

  Landril felt the tension dissolve as the burden was shared. ‘We are in this together now,’ he said.

  ‘We have been since Hell’s Keep, friend,’ Tylos replied, staring into the dying fire.

  The Road to Golax Hold

  Three days had passed since they had burned the old man’s body. Elysia found the event sad, largely because no one else did. It was strange how some men – like her father, and Valderon – could kill, brutally, and be looked upon favourably, whereas others like Harrand, despite only being sour in mood and showing little violence, passed from the world with little comment. It was a thought that lingered with her over the days on the journey to Golax Hold.

  It was taking longer than Elysia had thought to get there, but she was glad of the uneventful journey. They had taken horses and ridden through peaceful glades under a sunlight that, according to Landril, was uncommonly persistent for Stravimon. She was a little sad to be away from the company of the others. She had enjoyed listening to their pleasant simple banter that was a world away from the politics of the sisterhood, and though Elysia never said much, she enjoyed the snippets of their conversation, even the crude elements that spoke of lives radically different from the one she had known. She wished that her father would talk with Birgitta more than he had done, although at least his bitterness against them seemed to have faded slightly.

  Elysia wore a few items that had been gleaned from Havinir’s treasury of artefacts: a small adjustable leather breastplate that had a decorative leaf motif across it; brown, calf-high boots to match; and a tough, green undershirt, with gold stitching. It had a strange effect on her: she felt as if she had properly become someone else, that she was no longer one of the sisters. Birgitta, however, still preferred to dress exactly as she had upon leaving the sisterhood, though she made no comment about Elysia’s new garb.

  The peaceful glades soon became patches of darker, macabre forests. Amidst the thorny thickets, a few old ruins lingered, but old stone had been reused to make farmhouses or surrounding hamlets, leaving only markings on the ground for the most part. This repeated itself for miles into Stravimon.

  Stravimon. The vast nation her mother had come to. Lysha – that had been her name. Lysha, she repeated in her head over and over. This was the land where Lysha had met the warrior, Xavir. Elysia had always been curious about her origins. Now one of her parents was riding beside her and she had no idea what to think about him, not really. Part of her was unsettled at what he had done to the general back at the manse, when she had seen that rage unleashed, but part of her understood where that anger had come from and even felt that the punishment was justified.

  Xavir trusted her and her skills without question since he had witnessed them by the Silent Lake. It was refreshing not to be derided and doubted, as the sisters had done; unnerving but exciting to be relied on for her skills. What worried Elysia more was the thrill she had felt during the act: the rush of emotions, her ability to override them, the fact that each arrow enabled them as a group to achieve their aims. She felt as if she had a purpose, finally, and that she had contributed to something. That she had meant something to someone.

  Was this normal?

  Each night Xavir had handed her one of the Keening Blades and they had sparred calmly under a dark canopy. The blade was light and much to her liking, and though she felt she could somehow activate the witchstone within the hilt, out of respect she opted not to. Her father was being overly gentle with her, and she knew it. Whether or not she was really learning much about swordplay did not seem to matter. It simply felt right.

  Xavir had attempted to speak with her about her mother on a couple of occasions. He did not say much. He spoke about the past because he thought that was what she wanted to hear. At first it had been, but soon she just enjoyed talking to him. Xavir had led an interesting life, certainly compared to her cloistered existence, and she enjoyed listening to his tales of campaigns, his friendship with Cedius, his travels with his brothers and encounters with figures out of history.

  The one thing he didn’t discuss was the battle that had led to his incarceration. She had heard the other men talk about it quietly when Xavir wasn’t in the vicinity and understood that those responsible for the slaughter, the execution of his brothers and his fall from grace were what caused his dark moods and the rage that flared in his eyes. She wondered whether, when retribution had been dealt, Xavir would find some form of redemption. From what she had seen of him so far, she doubted this was a man who would ever find peace.

  *

  On the second night of travelling from Havinir’s manse, heading ever deeper into Stravimon, they reached a settlement of a few wooden buildings bordering the road, which then continued beneath a small forested cliff. This was, Landril said, a place for travellers, yet Elysia observed that the residents, who were sitting on porches, swords or axes at their sides, seemed surprised that anyone at all was coming through.

  They stopped at a dingy tavern called the Strong Ox, which looked as if it had seen better times. A large place, with wooden floorboards and candles melting on just about every table, there were a dozen people here at the most, each staring out into the coming evening or into the bottom of their own tankards.

  ‘The only commodity of value here will be news,’ Landril whispered to Elysia, ‘and I’ll be happy to pay for a round of drinks to loosen tongues.’

  They approached the bar and waited while the landlord served them.

  ‘Place is a shit-hole now,’ one man said, rising from a table by the fire. He gave half his life story in the time it took him to get from the table to the group: his name was Gorak and he used to work for the nearby mining company. He wore a simple, drab brown and black outfit, with old boots, and the travellers obviously broke the tedium for him as he regaled them with the town’s history. ‘Decade ago when old Cedius ruled, this was a boom town. Even when King Grendux, fool that he was, ruled for so long. Half the place has been torn down and sold on. Few of us stayed. I think I’ll take my chances here, given what I’ve heard’s going on in Stravimon.’

  ‘And what exactly have you heard?’ Landril asked.

  ‘Beasts stalking the forests, taking more than just cattle,’ Gorak declared. ‘King’s troops turning on his own people. Invaders from another kingdom – can you imagine that? Foreigners here in Stravimon . . .’ Gorak shook his head.

  ‘There have always been foreigners,’ Landril replied. ‘They have bought our wares and put money into our cities.’

  ‘Not this lot, though. They’re violent. Bugger knows where they came from. Bugger knows where our own legion is, for that matter. It’d be a brave man who made a prayer to the Goddess about the matter too – not that I’m bothered by such things. Cedius must be turning in his grave. Ain’t a world I want to be a part of, no sir. I’m happy here with that miserable landlord and my drink.’

  Gorak took a swig of ale from his tankard, leaving foam around his grey beard. Elysia found him vaguely amusing, if crude. He paused and his eyes narrowed at Xavir. ‘That’s a fancy uniform, lad.’ He prodded the motif on Xavir’s chest, which was head-height for Gorak.

  ‘It belonged to the Solar Cohort,’ Xavir replied.

  Gorak made a sharp intake of breath and shook his head. ‘Have we ever needed them. Where’d you find it? It looks expensive. You should watch your back – there’s a good few thieves round these parts these days.’

  ‘It is mine,’ Xavir replied.

  ‘Come again?’ Gorak leaned forwards, tilting his head.

  ‘I am Xavir Argentum, former commander of the Solar Cohort. This uniform is mine.’

  The man’s jaw was agape. Gorak didn’t look like a man who was impressed easily. He regained his composure. ‘Thought you were dead with the rest of ’em.’

  ‘I’m sure so
me people wish I were,’ Xavir said abruptly, glaring at him disdainfully.

  Gorak took a step back.

  Landril leaned in. ‘Let me replenish your tankard.’

  ‘Aye, that’s good of you.’ Gorak was still staring at Xavir as he handed over the container and slunk back to his table.

  ‘We’re supposed to be making friends here,’ Landril hissed quietly at Xavir, who frowned at the spymaster and shrugged. Landril looked at those watching them and gave a huge smile. ‘And drinks for anyone else who cares for another.’

  Within a few moments the entire place had lightened in mood. They seated themselves at a table out of the way and watched as, with every drink, the patrons became jocular – and more importantly – increasingly garrulous.

  It was mostly men here, with a couple of women that Landril explained were probably being paid for their company.

  ‘Which gives me an idea,’ Landril said, turning to Elysia with a sly gaze. ‘I need a pretty young girl, like you, to keep me company. Along with these free drinks, you’ll help loosen tongues – because men can be stupid like that. Tonight you’ll be my sister. Yes?’

  ‘I guess,’ Elysia replied with a shrug.

  ‘Do you mean to whore her out?’ Birgitta snapped.

  ‘Not at all.’ Landril said calmly. ‘But a pretty face does wonders in making men want to impress. They’ll spill all sorts of secrets just in the hope of a kiss.’

  ‘A kiss,’ Birgitta scoffed.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Elysia said, ‘really.’

  ‘Wait.’ Xavir leaned down, withdrew a small blade from his boot and handed it over to her. ‘In case anyone tries to be more than just friendly.’

  Elysia gave a thin smile and accepted the blade, slipping it down the side of her own boot.

  ‘How fatherly,’ Landril said drily. Now –’ he turned to Birgitta – ‘you and Xavir sit over here and have a drink. Talk about the old days or something – you’ll enjoy it. Meanwhile, we’re going to glean as much information from this rancid little settlement as possible.’

  Elysia looked back over her shoulder at Birgitta’s fuming face as Landril took her by the arm, steering her towards a group of men.

  ‘Your name is Brella,’ he said, ‘and I am Baun.’

  They seated themselves at the end of a large table. Landril was no more the cautious, nervous man she had seen privately, but like an actor upon a stage – controlled and composed. ‘Gentlemen! I hope your drinks are not as foul as the landlord’s face?’

  They chuckled at his comment and thanked him again for the free drinks.

  ‘Why’re you throwing the coin around?’ someone asked.

  ‘Ah well, we have just fled our parental home, having inherited a little money. Given we hated our father so much we decided to give some of his coin away to worthy causes. And what more worthy a cause than drink?’

  ‘Why’s she got witch eyes, then, eh?’ one man muttered.

  ‘Abandoned. Poor Brella here, her mother was a witch. Our father sowed his seed in just about every field in the country, but we got what was rightly ours, if you follow me.’

  ‘Killed him?’

  Landril shook his head theatrically. ‘I did not take his life, merely his coin. Now, will you permit us a little of your company? We’ve been on the road for hours and not spoken to a soul apart from the companions we fell in with – and they are not the most merry of souls.’

  They spent the rest of the evening engaged in conversation. On one hand Elysia delighted in the freedom of the locals’ speech, which was a world away from the sisterhood’s controlled and secretive conversations; yet on the other, she despised the looks she received from two men sitting close to her. She did not want to reveal her discomfort and certainly didn’t want to show up Landril. The spymaster was at work and seemed to be enjoying every moment of it.

  With the mines closed and people fleeing their homes, times had changed and this settlement had changed with them, recently becoming a smuggler’s haven to cater to those who had money to spare and no interest in where the goods were coming from.

  Landril learned that out here in the more remote places, things had gone from bad to worse. The clan system, whereby families provided their loyalty and support to the king by keeping the peace in their own realms, had collapsed. Instead a centralized army, the king’s legions, filled its place. No more were the soldiers honourable, trained well and fighting for the good of the country. They were mainly paid mercenaries, with no morals and little interest in justice – taking what they wanted and leaving chaos in their wake. For a large amount of ‘protection’ money they left this place well enough alone, so the town was free to carry out its furtive business.

  ‘I also heard a rumour from a woman on the road about some foreign rangers, not mercenaries, but something else,’ Landril said more quietly. ‘I heard the word “Voldirik”, though it meant nothing to me.’ He shrugged and sipped his drink, though Elysia could see he had one eye on the group to judge their reaction.

  There was a moment of discomfort, until a younger man with wide eyes said, ‘We don’t know where they came from, or what they want. But they bring no good to these parts. I heard more than one rumour say they took a man in the forest. Cut his head open. Ate his brains. Wanted to know his thoughts and everything by eating them.’

  Whoever has the wisdom has the authority, Elysia thought darkly.

  ‘Stories, Tek, nothing more.’

  ‘Maybe so, but it ain’t exactly a good omen, is it?’ the local stifled a belch.

  ‘Well, this is a mood killer, no messing, an’ I was having such a good time.’

  ‘My apologies, gentlemen,’ Landril announced, ‘but you can understand the worry of two travellers on the road with such fiends about.’

  ‘She can stay with me,’ one of the men said with a leer. ‘I’d keep you safe, honey.’ The others laughed into their ale.

  Elysia gave him a stiff smile and fingered the knife in her boot.

  ‘We have even heard tell of a general named Havinir,’ Landril continued, ignoring the comment, ‘and were told not to stray too close to his dwelling . . .’

  The mood turned dour.

  ‘You’ll vanish,’ the man called Tek muttered. ‘He’s hired helpers in the past. Whores and servants. They never return.’

  Landril quickly turned the conversation to other matters, asking more about the local soldiery, querying whether any were for hire to protect two travellers on the road. They told him that Golax Hold was the only place that had a standing guard: a handful of its clan’s soldiers still protected the place.

  ‘Mind, they won’t venture out near here or into the forests,’ Tek said, swilling the beer in his tankard. ‘Not with all them rebels attacking soldiers.’

  Landril looked at the young man with curiosity. ‘Rebels?’

  ‘Aye,’ Tek said. ‘All those that won’t kowtow to the army, they’ve set up camps in the forests. Attack the king’s merchants and armies like bandits. Foolish, if you ask me. Best to just accept the way things are and pay for protection. That’s if you got the money.’

  Elysia thought it sounded hopeful if there were others out there fighting against the king.

  ‘Like the Duchess Pryus over at Golax Hold. Got more money than sense, that woman. Instead of building up an army to protect herself, she has some celebration, they say. Each month. The woman’s blind to what’s going on in the outside world. Either that or she just don’t care.’

  ‘A ball?’

  ‘Something like that. Drinks for rich people, anyhow. Nothing for the likes of us,’ Tek said bitterly.

  ‘When is it?’ Landril asked casually. Elysia realized this might be the opportunity for them to enter unseen into Golax Hold.

  ‘Next one’s in about four or five days’ time,’ someone replied at the far end of the table. ‘She’s got more of them planned. Seems to be a gathering for those who once meant something in Stravimon. All different now Mardonius is doing things
his own way. Barely holds court himself, and who’d be mad enough to go near that Red Butcher of his?’

  Elysia was saddened at the stories of Stravimon. She had been led to believe it a place of grandeur, of nobility, of honour. Little of that was left, going by what these men were saying. There seemed no future or hope, so they just got on with things the best they could.

  Landril eventually rose, pulling Elysia with him. The men either side of her looked crestfallen. ‘We must bid you good evening, gentlemen. It has been a pleasure, but we are tired travellers and must arrange our rest for the evening.’

  Landril bowed and, under the watchful gaze of several men, they stepped back across the tavern.

  A Night at the Tavern

  ‘What do you think of her, then?’ Birgitta asked Xavir, scowling at Landril’s back as he steered her charge towards a group of men across the room.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your daughter. What do you think?’

  ‘What am I supposed to think?’

  ‘Something. Anything. Speak!’

  Begrudgingly, he had found Birgitta’s company on the road tolerable, and that she had fled the sisterhood meant that he did not despise her as much as the rest. But that still did not stop her being irritating from time to time.

  He wanted to ask her more about Lysha: if she remembered certain times with her, what she had been like. He wanted to verify his memories, but realized that it would have done little good. Xavir had not touched a drop of ale and was not inclined to do so. Since he had left prison, he found he had no appetite for alcohol, but the witch’s commentary was making him reconsider his choice. She would not shut up.

  ‘She’s good with a bow,’ he sighed eventually.

  ‘This is all you think of your daughter?’ Birgitta asked with the sharpness of a blade-edge. ‘A girl of seventeen summers, the child of the woman you loved? And “she’s good with a bow” is all you’ve got?’

  Xavir shrugged, regarding his daughter from a distance. ‘Other men are trying to place their hands on her and I have a simple desire to cut off their heads. Does this make you feel better?’