The Never King

by James Abbott

  ‘Not only are you brothers, but you are my sons, too. I have no heirs, they all died in battle. But I have sons made of steel and light, and that is why I formed the Solar Cohort.’ He turned to the two new recruits and smiled softly. ‘Your training has been demanding. We have shaped you into weapons to be used only on missions that I decree. You are answerable to no one but me. In return you have my trust and my love as I would hope that I have yours.’

  Cedius waved for a high priest of Balax to step forwards. The elderly hunched man shuffled out of the darkness waving a censer bearing incense. Chanting a long prayer to the god of war, he began anointing the new recruits as members of the Solar Cohort.

  Thus began a long day, full of archaic ritual. Having seen a few of his brothers die and be replaced, this was Xavir’s third such ceremony – including his own. There would be vows, a repetition of them in his case, readings of ancient script, the surrendering of clan colours. Then eventually a feast, in Cedius’s golden hall, with a thousand candles and breathtaking food on brightly polished plates.

  It was a world away from where he was now. He was a different man from the proud young commander he had been then.

  *

  Xavir closed his eyes, seeing his brothers standing before his king in all their glory. So young, so full of hope, and they had died for following what they believed had been the king’s orders. Brought low in disgrace by the ambitions of a corrupt few who had no compunctions about having brave men executed like common thieves. No warrior deserved to die like that and Xavir would ensure that those who had caused their deaths would soon be facing their own.

  Even if it cost his very soul.

  Back on the Road

  ‘I have purchased a bard and a poet,’ Landril declared.

  ‘You’ve done what?’ Xavir replied.

  They were sitting in the main tavern in the early afternoon light. Birgitta scooped up mouthfuls of stew which, from the sour look on her face, she was not enjoying, whilst Elysia had returned from scouting the streets with Xavir.

  ‘I have acquired a bard and a poet,’ Landril repeated. ‘I met them at breakfast this morning. Fine fellows, both with commanding voices and charming grins. One of them toured the theatres of Chambrek for a while.’

  ‘What,’ Xavir replied, ‘are we to do with these people? Are we to skewer soldiers with stories now?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking . . .’ Landril leaned back in his chair, raised his boots to the table and took a sip from a cup of water. ‘But they won’t be coming with us. They’ve already left, in fact, for they have much travelling to do.’

  ‘Explain, spymaster.’

  ‘As I have said before. We need to spread news of our cause. Our army.’

  ‘We have no army.’

  ‘We will do in a few weeks. I’ve heard of rebel groups not far away, and we can offer to ally with them. Meanwhile, to encourage more men to join us . . . we need to spread stories of our noble deeds.’

  ‘What noble deeds?’ Birgitta asked. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve and pushed the bowl of stew away from her.

  ‘We have defeated an enemy of the people, defended those who were being victimized in his name and freed the locale from his corruptive influence.’

  ‘When did we do that?’ Birgitta asked scathingly.

  ‘We killed Havinir and took his manse.’ Landril told her smugly.

  ‘There was no army!’ she spluttered. ‘Less than half a dozen walked in there.’

  ‘By the Goddess!’ Landril exclaimed. ‘The truth doesn’t win wars. Legends are made by those who talk the loudest and longest. People need to know there is hope so that they’ll join our cause, and our enemies need to fear us.’

  Xavir tilted his head. ‘Fine. What news have you told the bard and the poet to spread?’

  ‘I have said that the Black Clan has gathered in rebellion against Mardonius’s army.’

  ‘The Black Clan?’

  ‘That’s what we’ll call ourselves. This is the resistance, driven by the Goddess herself. Led by a great warrior of the First Legion.’

  Xavir mused on the idea. ‘It could work, I suppose.’

  ‘I have said also that you have returned. The great Xavir Argentum, favourite of King Cedius. That will mean much.’

  ‘And they’ll think nothing of the murderous rampage that Mardonius no doubt has said I engaged upon?’

  ‘The poet didn’t think so. He reasoned that history is kinder to those who have served well, even if things ended in tragedy. The people – those who remember you, at least – already speak of the old times, given there’s nothing for them to look forward to. Besides, Mardonius has done far worse.’

  Xavir was not convinced. He had seen the faces of those around him as they looked at him with fear and horror as the Solar Cohort had massacred their own. He remembered the cold stares of Cedius’s courtiers as he was sentenced to be taken to Hell’s Keep. Those expressions had haunted him for so long now that it was difficult to imagine that the masses would view him with anything other than hatred.

  ‘Anyway,’ Landril continued, ‘we are spreading the news that you were betrayed. That there is an evil plot afoot – even if we don’t know all the details. There has been enough suffering caused by Mardonius that when we offer them an alternative more people will join our cause. Our numbers will swell more quickly. If the legions still exist in any recognizable manner then many may be tempted to flee to our side.’

  ‘Poets and bards can do this?’ Xavir asked.

  ‘It would not be the first time that forces have used such methods to achieve these aims. Wars aren’t fought on the battlefield alone. They’re fought in the minds and souls of the people as well.’

  ‘Much as I hate to admit it, he has a point,’ Birgitta said, waving her spoon towards him.

  Xavir rose from the table and stared at the spymaster. ‘You’ve done well. But you do not need me to say that.’

  Landril’s grin widened. ‘Nope.’

  *

  They continued on their journey to Golax Hold. Steep-sided cliffs gave way to more agricultural vistas of small, interwoven, untended fields of barley, a picture that lasted the rest of the journey until late afternoon. A cold but gentle breeze brought forth hints of autumn. Xavir noticed the leaves were beginning to redden as they stirred in the wind, and that flower heads drooped down with their petals withered. Summers were always short in Stravimon, but intense.

  Xavir felt little comfort at being back here. He had travelled this road many times as it connected with the great road north to the capital. Familiar sites stood around him, but they were noticeably different: a farmhouse or mill had become abandoned; forests were much smaller than he remembered; villages appeared sparse; no one was present to say a greeting on the road. This was a great nation in fear.

  The track became a wide well-trodden road surrounded by muddy fields of livestock. A citadel wall loomed ahead of them, and poking up behind that was the spire of a cathedral. Behind the structures was an outcrop of granite rock that formed the rear of the town. It looked larger than it actually was – a trick of the distance, and perhaps intentional by whoever built the place.

  Golax Hold, as Landril clearly enjoyed explaining to the witches, was the one-time capital of Stravimon, but as the nation grew in the Seventh Age the capital moved north to Stravir City. Golax first became a garrison for the most part, a military headquarters in the southern region of Stravimon. And with it being a soldier town, it had attracted a reputation for drinking, whoring and gambling on a grand scale.

  Kings and queens attempted to challenge this by reducing the numbers of soldiers kept here, hiring more priests, building a cathedral and sending families to settle. But everyone mostly kept drinking through the Eighth Age. It retained its fortified front, protecting merchants and families from any bandits bold or stupid enough to attempt a raid on the settlement.

  In the Ninth Age Queen Stallax set her bloody stamp on the place, though, as she ha
d done elsewhere, and the town became disciplined in its ways. Her statues could still be seen in many a courtyard – partly out of superstition for what would happen if they were removed. It was only during the reign of Grendux the Fool, although Landril said he was far from that, that the place eventually settled down to being a respectable trading post. Banking houses and merchant guilds were established here, outside the capital, and it was in this city that King Grendux managed the nation’s finances. No one asked questions, but against all odds Stravimon prospered while the king seemed to do very little apart from drink and dance with ladies of his court.

  There were now more people on the road here – hardened types used to weathering storms of all kinds. There didn’t seem to be the oppressive air of fear in Golax Hold that they’d encountered in the outlying villages. Perhaps where there was coin there was a will to endure – or perhaps it was something more sinister and the mistress of the hold had made a deal to keep her townsfolk safe while the rest of her countryside suffered.

  Wagons and carts were pulled by shabby horses along the different tracks. There was a wider road in the distance, which eventually became the great north road, and Xavir noticed it was quiet too. Strange, for the quickest link to Stravir City.

  There were no signs of occupation by the Voldiriks. And no signs of anything unnatural here at all, which was enough of a warning to Xavir, as he knew all too well that this place was full of strange sights and sounds.

  Under a rapidly greying sky, the group approached the main gate to the Hold, an enormous wooden double door set into the slab-sided wall, operated by chains. The left side of the door was open, allowing in a goods wagon.

  Six soldiers in the legion’s colours of red and bronze stood before the doors, inspecting another wagon which they quickly waved on into the city. None of the men was wearing his full face helm.

  As the four travellers came closer, Birgitta used her staff to cast Xavir in shadow, ‘I think it will attract quite enough attention having a member of the Solar Cohort return from exile in a soldier town, do you not think?’ she said to him.

  Xavir scowled. ’I will not hide from who I am. Why should I?’

  ‘This is not for your sake, Xavir,’ Birgitta replied. ‘We want to operate swiftly and without trouble. We can enter this town without blood being spilled.’

  ‘It would be quicker that way, but as you wish.’

  The riders approached the two soldiers and Landril dismounted before them.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ he announced.

  ‘Huh,’ the soldier on the left said. He was a lanky young man whom Xavir could have broken with one hand. Had things really become this pathetic in the army? ‘Could’ve sworn there were four of you a moment ago.’

  ‘A trick of the elements, no doubt.’ Landril grinned.

  ‘Sure it isn’t a trick of them,’ the other guard grunted, his face full of cynicism. The stocky man gestured with a lance to Birgitta. ‘Them’s witch eyes, if ever I saw them.’

  ‘You’re quite right, my friend,’ Landril replied. ‘But they are visitors of his lordship, and old friends of Duchess Pryus.’

  ‘Sure they are.’

  ‘Allow me to present their documentation.’ Landril rummaged in a saddlebag and brought out a scroll, which he cheerily unravelled before them. ‘It’s written in Dacianaran, which I take it all gate soldiers can read? It’s on behalf of the Duchess Pryus’s summer estates. I’m afraid I cannot tell you their business, for the duchess would have me hanging above this gate with a rope around my neck if I did. You know what she’s like.’

  ‘Uh . . .’ The tall soldier held the paper limply and looked across to the stocky one. ‘What d’you reckon, serge?’

  ‘Let me have that.’ The other soldier snatched the scroll and eyed it warily. Xavir, who still hid in Birgitta’s shadow, noted how the man’s eyes went up and down the parchment unnaturally. He wasn’t reading it at all.

  ‘Seems right enough.’ He sniffed. ‘All fair. Better get on your way quickly.’

  ‘Most kind of you,’ Landril said, giving a short bow.

  The soldiers waved them through and getting into Golax Hold was as simple as that.

  Once they had entered and turned out of sight from the gates, Birgitta released Xavir from shadow.

  They dismounted from their horses momentarily. Xavir turned to Landril and asked him, ‘What was on the paper you presented?’

  ‘A poem I found in Lupara’s cabin,’ he replied.

  ‘Does Lupara know you have it?’

  ‘Well, she was going to leave it there and I thought the cadence rather nice. Evidently the guard enjoys poetry too.’

  ‘He did not,’ Birgitta replied, ‘look as though he enjoyed anything. Do they breed nothing but idiots in Stravimon?’

  Xavir looked around to ensure they weren’t overheard. ‘I want to find my targets and be gone swiftly. How long will your studying last?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Landril shrugged and turned to Birgitta and Elysia. ‘One can spend hours in libraries, isn’t that so?’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Elysia said. ‘I’d rather be anywhere but surrounded by scrolls and books. I’ve spent most of my life in them.’

  ‘Then you can go with Xavir,’ Landril replied.

  Xavir raised an eyebrow at the girl who stood straight-limbed before him. ‘Are you certain you have no wish for a quiet few hours?’

  ‘No,’ Elysia replied.

  ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘You may as well learn the skills of killing, then.’

  ‘By the source, I will have no such thing!’ Birgitta spluttered.

  Xavir smiled at that. ‘What did you expect me to do here, witch?’

  ‘I expect nothing less from you,’ Birgitta replied, ‘but I will not have you corrupt a sister so.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Elysia said. She and Birgitta shared a look.

  ‘That she will,’ Landril replied, leading his horse between Birgitta and the rest of the group. ‘Now we will go this way, as the largest library in the city lies to the east. We must arrange a rendezvous before nightfall. The Silent Hawk is a fine tavern, if I remember correctly, and lies near the cathedral. At nightfall we will wait for you there.’

  *

  ‘And why, pray tell, did you send her with him like that?’ Birgitta was walking with Landril along a cobbled street by the side of the cathedral. It was a cold afternoon, despite the sun breaking through clouds now and then. The seasons were changing and summer would soon be forgotten.

  Golax Hold remained cast in shadow – partly because of the tall buildings and partly because of the looming rock face to one side of the city. Dwellings had been built into the granite outcrop, in little nooks and crannies that formed a steep slope. A few large buildings stood on top of the hill, overlooking the settlement, and Landril remembered them as belonging to Duchess Pryus, but wasn’t certain they still did.

  ‘Because Xavir and Elysia are family,’ Landril replied, ‘and it will be good for them to bond.’

  ‘Bond over death?’

  ‘You’ve seen the girl with those weapons – she has it in her blood,’ Landril said, ‘so it’s only natural that she’d want to hone her craft. Better she be prepared than not, don’t you think?’

  ‘I would, in theory,’ Birgitta replied. ‘But that man has a dark heart.’

  ‘He has no heart, I would say. But that is what years of war – and years of gaol – will do to a man.’

  ‘I hope such an attitude will not spread to his daughter.’

  ‘Do you think a relationship is forming between them?’ Landril asked.

  ‘Hard to say,’ Birgitta replied. ‘For all that Elysia and I have shared over the years, we do not necessarily talk about those things. A woman of her age needs to form her own understanding of the world and doesn’t need an old thing like me wittering on. She has always been quiet and reflective, too. Not one for words – always wanted to be out and about, in the hills and fields with her bow
.’

  ‘She has certainly had the chance to do that.’

  ‘And she is the happier for it. I think she enjoys her time with Xavir, because he values her skills. Even if he cannot value her as a daughter.’ Birgitta sighed. ‘I just hope that she does not misunderstand his using her as being something more meaningful.’

  ‘It might be,’ Landril replied.

  ‘If Xavir had a heart,’ Birgitta concluded.

  Landril gave a soft smile. ‘Your greater fear, though, is that Elysia will inherently be a killer like him. I believe instincts are carried in the blood.’

  ‘It does concern me,’ Birgitta admitted. Her face looked tired. ‘Are these qualities bred in a person from a young age? Are they there already – as you say, carried in the blood?’

  ‘Philosophers have argued for centuries on the matter.’

  ‘With no resolution,’ Birgitta said. ‘But I do fear it. I can see how easily she has taken to killing at his request. A few days ago she felt guilty at taking the life of a deer . . . now . . .’

  ‘If anything,’ Landril replied, ‘it is you who have accustomed her to the ways of killing. Hunting in the forests . . .’

  ‘Come now, it’s hardly the same, is it?’

  ‘Blood is blood,’ Landril replied, ‘no matter how it is spilled.’

  ‘Well, in that case perhaps Elysia is destined to be a killer after all. Be it in the blood, or be it part of her education. Maybe it is my fault, but I have always made my views on violence clear to her.’

  They continued to the rear of the cathedral, passing traders and locals draped in dreary shawls. A handful of soldiers in bronze armour lingered on certain street corners, and Landril took these to be streets where senior administrators of Mardonius’s regime would pass through.

  Landril was tempted to go into the cathedral itself and begin prayer, but he knew Birgitta, being a witch, would be uncomfortable. There was always time later. The streets became more illogical and angled, narrow with tall buildings that looked so precariously constructed that they might fall down at any moment – and had probably looked that way for decades. Cloaked figures squeezed by, their faces concealed by hoods.