The Never King

by James Abbott

  ‘Shows you have some feelings, at least,’ she muttered.

  ‘They are not fatherly.’

  ‘Oh, but they are,’ Birgitta pointed out.

  ‘The word father, the word daughter, they describe a relationship I have no context for. They tell me I should feel protective of her: I translate this as killing those men around her. Is that what fathers do?’

  ‘Some of them . . .’ Birgitta had a smug smile on her face as if she had achieved some kind of victory.

  ‘I see her mother in her.’

  ‘Fathers often feel such things. Even those who are commanders of the Solar Cohort.’

  ‘Who were commanders,’ Xavir corrected.

  ‘Nonsense. So long as you endure, so does the cohort.’

  ‘A pretty thought.’ Xavir recalled again the faces of Brendyos, Jovelian, Felyos and Gatrok. And of the great Dimarius, his close friend for so many years. Those men were the cohort, and now they were dead. ‘There’s only me left, Birgitta.’

  ‘You have Valderon too.’

  ‘A good fighter.’

  ‘He looks up to you.’

  ‘He looks up to my name. That is different. He was a good soldier and wanted to be a legendary one. Now he has a chance and that is why he is best to lead whatever can be formed. I am now little more than an assassin.’

  ‘Strange that you two were enemies for so long,’ Birgitta said.

  ‘Enemies of a sort. Hell’s Keep required some kind of structure, to give us a sense of belonging to something. There was nothing else. The place was hell because we lost our identities and needed other ways to define ourselves. For men of our station in life where honour and our reputation was everything – to becoming nothing and no one in gaol, well, that was torture. We found ways to survive.’

  ‘You feel no need to lead these men?’

  Xavir shook his head, giving a wry smile. ‘I leave that to better men than me. I have only one thing I care about and that’s bringing justice to those who wronged my brothers and me.’

  ‘You care not at all for your daughter?’ Birgitta tilted her head towards Elysia. The witch had slugged back a cup of wine and by now was quite voluble. ‘Is she not worth fighting for?’

  ‘I am sorry to disappoint you,’ Xavir said.

  ‘You crusty old shit,’ Birgitta spat. ‘You feel nothing?’

  Xavir laughed at that. ‘What do you want me to say, witch? That I will take her under my wing? Well, I’ll ask her to fight alongside me as I see great potential in her. That is all I can say.’

  ‘She’s nothing more than another weapon to you, is she?’

  Xavir sighed. ‘I recognize her potential and see her longing to become better at what she does. I can help her do that in a way that the sisterhood never could. Is that wrong?’

  ‘You have a point.’

  ‘Anyway, what does it matter?’

  ‘Because you are a father, Xavir. To put it bluntly, you were perfectly willing to stick your cock in a witch without considering the consequences of your actions. Well that’s the consequence,’ she said, gesturing angrily towards Elysia. ‘Now take some damned responsibility.’ With that, Birgitta rose from the table and began talking to the landlord about rooms for the night.

  *

  There was just one room available: a large space at the rear of the tavern. A lantern in the back window and a decent moon illuminated some of their surroundings. These shared quarters overlooked the cliff face, with a few trees here and there and a pile of refuse further along that was likely overrun by rats.

  Xavir listened to Landril’s updates on Golax Hold, the information that the spymaster had gleaned earlier. That the settlement remained protected was no surprise; that it was only clan soldiers doing the protecting indicated something rotten in the main army, for this was a Legion town through and through. Still, it was nice to know the clans still held some sway and that the old ways were not completely lost.

  While the witches and Landril settled in, Xavir headed outside for some cool air. Truth be told, he didn’t like being kept in such cramped rooms now that he was free.

  He walked the street for a good while, staring across at the ramshackle wooden buildings and trees. In his youth he had passed through this town once, following his father on clan business with the crown, but he could not recall much of it. Memories before Hell’s Keep were somewhat unreliable in his mind and he had no desire to scratch at the surface of his past tonight.

  It was well past midnight. The tavern had long since emptied, and people – if they had any sense – were resting in their warm beds. He must have walked a good few hundred yards, climbing gently from the foot of the cliff to where the road reached a track carved into the cliff face. Standing at the edge of the settlement, he looked down towards the black expanse of Stravimon. The moon was full, casting light across miles of grassland. A lantern glimmered in a far-off village, and woodsmoke travelled on the gentle breeze.

  He was no Dacianaran wolf, but his senses were still sharp enough to detect a shuffling of feet behind a cluster of outbuildings some distance away. He turned to make his way back towards the tavern, ensuring that the blades on his back were loosened in their scabbards.

  There were men following him. Two. No, three.

  They were hooded and moved in his wake, trying to keep to the line of buildings and out of the moonlight, nestling themselves behind barrels or crates whenever he paused. Deliberately, he stood in a position where even a fool would think it advantageous to attack him, with his back turned to the buildings.

  They came at once, three men with long daggers flashing in the moonlight. Xavir knelt and rolled to his right, watching the first man collapse over his outstretched leg; Xavir grabbed the man’s flailing wrist and, using the force of his own leap, snapped it. Screaming, the man dropped the dagger. It fell into Xavir’s free hand while the other two men slipped in the muddy road to change their line of attack. Xavir slammed the dagger into one man’s thigh and he, too, fell to the floor in agony.

  Then Xavir eased free the Keening Blades and pointed one of them at the remaining attacker. The man stopped, shaking where he stood, the smell of fresh urine demonstrating just how terrified he was. He moaned pathetically.

  Xavir sighed impatiently. ‘Take off your hood, Gorak, and drop your weapon. I have no desire to kill you or your friends.’

  Sheepishly, Gorak did as he was asked. ‘H-how did you know?’

  I could smell you downwind, Xavir thought. ‘You’re the only person I’ve spoken to in this town; I can tell you’re hard up. You see a man in fine clothing and you think that the Solar Cohort have faded into stories, so he must have stolen those items from somewhere. You think it unlikely I am Xavir Argentum. You think he is dead.’

  ‘Times is hard.’ Gorak found more interest in the ground than Xavir’s face. ‘So maybe you are him. Why should I give a fuck, though? If the Solar Cohort was here, they wouldn’t be letting the king get away with what he’s done. Maybe you’re just a man who looks like he’s in the Solar Cohort instead. So yeah. I take a chance. The coin from that pretty armour would feed us for months. That’s got to be worth more than chewing wood.’

  His accomplices staggered to his side, clutching their wounds. They stood like admonished children before Xavir, but he felt no sympathy for any of them.

  ‘Kill us and be done with it,’ one of the others said. ‘I’ll take my chances in another world.’

  Xavir took a single step towards them and they flinched. Two of them winced. Gorak had his eyes closed, expecting the worst.

  ‘Pathetic,’ Xavir muttered.

  Then he put away his blades and walked back towards the tavern.

  Fading Dreams

  It wasn’t Stravir City as he knew it was now. This was another time entirely.

  A decade ago.

  A younger man with few burdens. His black war gear was fresh, the leather uncreased, and it felt like a second skin. Xavir was standing in the quarters of the S
olar Cohort, which was an annex of the palace of King Cedius. Their station was a crenellated limestone tower, second only in height to the chamber in which Cedius held court. Standing by the short but very wide windows, which to the outside looked as if the building had narrowed eyes, Xavir stared out across Stravir City.

  The slate rooftops were glimmering after the rains, miles across the city. Some of the more prestigious white limestone and sandstone buildings shimmered with damp facades. There were numerous bridges in the city, over which hung tendrils of flowering plants. Numerous market plazas – different ones for food, metal, precious stones or leather – could be seen in between the buildings, each one thronging with crowds. The smell of bread drifted up from one of the capital’s famous bakeries. A great many soldiers patrolled the distant walls and the river beyond curled like a snake towards blue-green hills, which remained hazy in this soft light. Everything was civilized: the light, the pale stone, the scents. Here was no shit-and-mud city; this was the seat of Queen Beldrius, the first queen of the Ninth Age, and her three long-lived successors. Whilst other cities had faded from history, Stravir City remained untouched by time, unchangeable.

  ‘It suits us well, my friend,’ Dimarius said. ‘The craftsmen get better each time.’

  Xavir turned to regard him. Dimarius was standing tall in the doorway, having just been outfitted in similar attire to himself. Black leather jerkin. Black tailored breeches. Black boots. A fine cloak. His hair was as golden as the afternoon light that spilled into their chambers, bringing warmth and good feeling. His slender face and strong features defined him as a handsome man. The image of the tower upon each of their chests reflected this light, lending all of the Solar Cohort an almost holy appearance. He gave a wide, genuine smile; here was a happy man indeed.

  ‘The leather is too stiff. They’re cutting costs.’

  ‘You complain too much!’ Dimarius laughed and stood before his commander. ‘We should enjoy this, should we not?’

  ‘We should,’ Xavir replied with a smile, ‘and I am.’

  ‘Your criticisms come from a need for perfection,’ Dimarius said, then turned to the others. ‘Gentlemen, you should get used to this. And don’t look so serious! This is a grand moment for you all.’

  Coming in behind him were Brendyos, Felyos, Gatrok and Jovelian. Together they were the six men whom Cedius would shortly be declaring to the court as his champions. It was the same ceremony each year, on the Day of the Five Deaths – dating back to the Seventh Age where five heirs to the throne were all butchered in their sleep – but now with Brendyos and Felyos having just joined the cohort, it would act as their initiation.

  Sitting on the bench with their backs pressed against the white marble wall, the two men looked nervous. In the hour that Xavir had spent in their company, he judged them good men. He had already known them to be smart, athletic, each trained to believe he could do anything, but without any arrogance. No doubt they were comfortable riding out on the plains into battle, or scrambling furtively on some mission of assassination, but they were visibly nervous waiting for the honour of the king to be bestowed upon them.

  Remembering what it had been like for him that time, Xavir smiled reassuringly at them. Afterwards things became far more difficult, for he realized he had ascended to the greatest station possible for a soldier, and that came with new burdens. People began to view him differently, with veneration – and expectation. Cedius had encouraged an almost spiritual appreciation of the Solar Cohort, even within his court. He had treated them as his elite force, given them only missions of the greatest importance, which required subtlety, precision and the finest battle skills. It was not always in battle, but in hostage situations or rescuing vital gem-laden cargo when it was rumoured northern war bands would strike at the king’s wealth. And, when required, to aid the legions in situations where the Cohort’s presence and reputation gave courage to their own forces and brought fear into the hearts of their enemies. As such the Solar Cohort were living legends – they had never been bested so they were idolized by the king’s armies, and their mere presence could swing the outcome of a battle. That was a great burden to bear, and new recruits chosen for their fighting skills and bravery knew only the half of the weight of expectation.

  Brendyos made a joke to break the tension in the room. Only Dimarius laughed. He held his new axe across his knees and was still staring at it in awe. Eventually the stoutly muscled man rose from his feet, rested the axe on the bench and examined the fineries in the room – the ancient banners hanging from the wall, the plush gold-leaf furnishings, the portraits of great kings and queens to have ruled Stravimon, in whatever form the nation had been known, and the golden statue of the Goddess.

  ‘Worth a pretty penny, all of this,’ Brendyos said. ‘Not even in our castle did we have this much wealth on show.’

  ‘It’s a different life to ordinary soldiers,’ Xavir said. ‘And I mean no disrespect by that – for there are many, many good men in the ranks of the legions who deserve this life too. But I have been in this brotherhood for two years and only now am I getting used to the fineries enough to ignore them.’

  ‘What’s different about the other things?’ Brendyos asked. ‘I mean, I know about the fighting. But there are always tales about what the Solar Cohort get up to, yet one never knows what to believe.’

  ‘We have wealth,’ Dimarius announced, ‘greater than many. Our families grow rich and privileged because of our position. There is no greater station in life, save that of the king. Given his only heir died years ago, it is said that Cedius may select an heir from our ranks.’

  Dimarius glanced towards Xavir.

  Brendyos raised an eyebrow. ‘I also heard that the most beautiful women throw themselves at you, and there are fine wines and banquets at the end of a hard fight. I am fully prepared for such challenges, you understand.’

  Xavir clapped the man on the shoulder. ‘You don’t need to try so hard, Brendyos. There may be women if you wish. There may be enough expensive wine to drink until you vomit. But you will grow tired of them.’

  ‘Not all of us,’ Dimarius interrupted, smiling.

  ‘Dimarius entertains enough women for all our needs,’ Xavir replied. ‘But there are great reasons to serve the king. Nobility. Honour. Loyalty. Protection of the innocent and being prepared to give your life for others.’

  ‘I can handle nobility as well as my drink.’ Brendyos gave a youthful, handsome grin that could charm a thousand cynics.

  ‘There will be pressure, though,’ Xavir continued. ‘Expectation will be heaped upon you . . .’

  There came a knock at the door. The king’s messenger stood there in a regal blue robe with a red sash across his body. ‘His esteemed highness, King Cedius, now summons the Solar Cohort to his side.’

  The six men picked up their weapons, then followed the messenger through the marbled hallway and up the three flights of stairs that led to the level of the royal quarters. Outside the throne room stood twelve warriors in golden armour, bright swords and white robes – the light of the sun somehow coming through the adjacent window to shine off their armour in a bright ethereal glow. Xavir knew that these guards were largely ‘ornamental’. Secretly he thought it indecent that such delicately armed individuals ‘protected’ the king.

  The six men of the Solar Cohort and the messenger advanced upon the double doors, which were drawn open from the inside. The room was drenched in golden light from the setting sun: mirrors were angled by the windows to cast the sun’s beams into the space. The floor was polished, almost pure white marble. At the end of the room was a raised platform, on which the king’s throne was positioned. The first time Xavir had come here it had taken him a while to realize that Cedius was the only one who could see out of the vast, rectangular windows to the east: they had been constructed eight feet up, meaning ordinary men and women could not see out. Only those on the throne could regard the view, and there was only one man in that position.

&nb
sp; The messenger beckoned forward the warriors of the Solar Cohort. Xavir and Dimarius led the way, side by side, their steps in sync, followed by Gatrok and Jovelian, and finally Brendyos and Felyos bringing up the rear of their group. Xavir had walked this route so many times that he knew there were sixty-six paces across the sparsely decorated chamber to the throne. Obscured slightly by the hazy light of the room were the usual courtiers watching the proceedings with quiet respect.

  The throne itself was plain. Each king chose his own; Cedius’s was forged from the melted armour of fallen soldiers and fashioned into a simple steel seat. It was, he often told people, to remind him that when he made decisions there would be soldiers who died because of it.

  On it sat King Cedius the Wise, son of Grendux the Fool.

  He wore a cream leather breastplate bearing the symbol of a crenellated tower – not unlike that featured on the black uniforms of the Solar Cohort. His crown was gold and of a plain design; nothing showy or decadent. Cedius was a gaunt, austere-looking man. But his blue eyes were fierce, almost like those of a witch, some said.

  The six men of the Solar Cohort fanned out in a line and stood before the king with their hands behind their backs, their heads bowed respectfully. Cedius smiled at Xavir.

  ‘My days of being a warrior king are long behind me,’ Cedius began, his deep voice resonating around the chamber, ‘but I am not so old to forget the sorrow of comrades dying in battle. The men whose place you take died as heroes and they will be remembered as such.’ He looked piercingly at the new recruits: ‘Brendyos of the Clan Gallron, and Felyos of the Clan Bryantine, you have been chosen not only for your tenacity and skill, but also for your aptitude and temperament. You –’ Cedius gestured with a frail hand to the six men of the Solar Cohort – ‘are brothers of war, loyal to the crown and to one another. Defenders of the people and bringers of justice.’

  Cedius rose from his throne slowly and Xavir had to stop himself from going to his aid. Truly, Cedius was no longer the warrior king: the aches and injuries of war had come to haunt him now in old age. He had trouble walking, but was proud and refused to show weakness in front of his court. Only Xavir knew how much such a short walk cost him. Cedius descended four steps until he was level with the Solar Cohort.