The Never King

by James Abbott

  ‘The sisterhood sounds like an organization the world could do without. Who are they to tell you what to do? The world is yours to claim. Take it. No one will hand it to you. People who cling onto power like those old witches, it’s their only way of validating themselves in this world. They will do everything they can to put others down. It is they who are weak.’

  Elysia smiled. Xavir did too.

  *

  They walked for the next hour up the dark roads of Golax Hold. Xavir and Elysia ducked in and out of grimy taverns and stores, gathering information about Lord Kollus and Duchess Pryus. The townspeople were only too happy to gossip about the duchess and gestured uphill, towards the estate that overlooked the settlement. She had banquets every other night to keep morale up – now and then a few of the townsfolk would be invited, but they were typically small gatherings, fifty or so dignitaries from various parts of Stravimon. The thought of these parties did not sit well with Xavir, when people around the nation were living in poverty and being driven from their homes. Some whispered salaciously about celebrations of dark, forgotten idols, though they had no details to offer. Xavir saw that although the cathedral was for Balax, the ancient god of war, both his and the Goddess’s presence had long been driven from the town. Only a shrine to the Great Eye lingered. What else was there to worship but hedonism?

  They stopped at one tavern, a whitewashed building that looked out across a cobbled market square. At the bar Xavir asked the old landlord, ‘I’ve not seen many men on patrol. Does the town not have a watch?’

  The landlord shrugged. ‘Used to. All I know’s that men keep getting drafted for the main army. Leaves very few here, pal. All go up to the capital for the most part. Some we hear from, others we don’t. You look like a fighting man, so I dare say you know how it goes in times of war. Hear the usual tales of barbarian hordes in the north, but we only get that from official mouthpieces of the king. Who knows where the soldiers go? Just there aren’t as many around as there used to be, like.’

  Lord Kollus had lost his wife two years ago, the man told them. She died of a throat infection, though some said it was strangulation. The two had never been close and Kollus’s affairs were well known. The Duchess Pryus had never married, and still hadn’t in the time Xavir had been in gaol. She had the wealth of her father and never needed to work. Such a status ensured she held the attention of most ambitious men. They swarmed around her estate as if they were worker bees and she their queen. As such, and as she had been to Cedius, she remained a key ally to the throne. She and Kollus had always been close, but now it seemed as if their power was shared in some other way.

  There would be another of her gatherings, held at her estate, tomorrow night.

  Xavir told his daughter that then would be the perfect time to strike.

  At the Silent Hawk

  ‘Landril was right,’ Xavir announced. ‘This is a fine tavern.

  They were seated at a table in an alcove of the Silent Hawk. From the window they could see the dark cathedral in the evening light.

  The tavern was filled, but not with the usual crowd one might expect in a watering hole. Judging by clothing and accents, the people here were of good stock and weren’t short of coin. The wines that were on offer were of vintages and locations that Xavir knew to be greatly desired; the main ale was said to have the blessing of Mardonius himself, which presumably explained its bitter taste and high price. The decor was of good quality, with fine mullioned windows and clean floors. Every polished table had a couple of candles in the centre of it, creating a pleasant atmosphere.

  They lingered for a while listening to idle chatter. Golax Hold seemed entirely disconnected from the world. While people suffered elsewhere, the discussion here focused on trade, weather, gambling and society. Their people lived in isolation – these concerns were trivial – and were not at all bothered about the issues that affected the rest of the nation. No mention of the king, no mention of troop movements, or battles, or who had died and where.

  Xavir and Elysia ordered some venison stew and bread, and waited for Landril and Birgitta to arrive. About an hour or so after they finished their meal, the spymaster and witch strolled through the door, shrugged off the rain and advanced over to their table. Landril had a spring in his gait, indicating that he had found what he had been looking for.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ Landril announced, as if it had been Xavir who had been away all this time.

  ‘You took your time.’ Xavir sipped from a cup of wine, one of the fine Chambrek vintages.

  ‘And it was time well spent.’

  Birgitta sat down next to Elysia. ‘I take it you two haven’t butchered anyone yet, then?’ Her tone was judgemental, her expression indifferent.

  ‘The “butchering” will take place tomorrow,’ Xavir replied quietly. He went on to describe his discoveries of the afternoon, and that the duchess’s clifftop estate would be holding yet another social gathering.

  Landril sat down alongside him. ‘There will be some influential folk there, no doubt.’

  ‘People to intimidate,’ Xavir said.

  ‘Persuade first, if we can, then intimidate later,’ Landril replied. ‘They might have private troops we can use for our own force. Or indeed they might simply have money, access to good blacksmiths, a supply of ore and horses . . . Try not to kill everyone.’

  ‘My business is with two people only, and whoever happens to get in my way.’

  ‘I can’t imagine there are many heroes left in Stravimon, so you’ll have no problem there.’

  ‘If it makes the job easier,’ Xavir added. ‘What did you find?’

  Landril spoke about his old friend at the library, and waved over the serving boy to enquire about the Chambrek wine that Xavir had been drinking, and if there was any of the vintage from twelve years ago. Indeed there was, and the boy brought goblets to him and Birgitta.

  ‘All very nice, I’m sure,’ Xavir said, ‘but I assume you didn’t spend all your time talking about the old days?’

  ‘No. No indeed.’ Landril glanced over to Birgitta.

  ‘By the source, we have discovered plenty about the Voldirik people.’ Birgitta took a sip of the wine. ‘They are, and should be, a far bigger concern to us than Mardonius. A bigger concern to me than the sisterhood pledging a bond between the themselves and the king. Perhaps a greater concern than the purging of religious followers, although I dare say Landril will disagree with me on the matter.’

  Landril shrugged insouciantly, swirled the wine in the cup and nosed the aromas. ‘It is all connected.’

  ‘Go on,’ Xavir said.

  Landril leaned forwards with Birgitta, as if conspiring. He encouraged the others to gather closer so that people couldn’t eavesdrop.

  ‘What we discovered was not merely in the records of the library,’ Birgitta said. ‘The journal taken from General Havinir also helped. It has pages written in code and even in ink that could not be discerned by any ordinary methods. Landril’s friend, Jamasca, helped us translate the words, source bless her.’

  ‘Turns out that it is true that the Voldiriks are the Irik people who left our shores from the Second Age and sailed into the far west,’ Landril continued, ‘to realms beyond our knowledge. That much we know. And yes, it is strange that they have returned, in the Ninth Age, is it not? This is not the first time. They have made numerous invasions over the millennia, each one gaining in . . . momentum, if you can call it that. There was even a significant attempt at the beginning of the Ninth Age, when Queen Beldrius defeated them – though the archives are lacking details as to what transpired. Perhaps that was what led the first queen to establish so many libraries about the place. Anyhow. At first, Voldirik incursions were rather primitive affairs – nothing more than the smallest of the barbarian nations casting their ill-equipped ships onto the wind to return here and conquer. Each time, they failed.’

  ‘They’re not doing so badly now,’ Xavir added.

  ‘Indeed not. They
are a very curious race. Over time, in whatever realm they now inhabit, their people changed. Evolved. They developed into almost different breeds of humans. Slender. Pale. Ethereal things. But what they lacked in substance, they made up for in knowledge. In fact, they hoard knowledge. They gather information from all quarters and record their findings assiduously, in a manner that we cannot comprehend. Their entire culture was structured upon those who had the most knowledge about the world. Philosophers, astronomers and engineers were regarded as the highest authorities in the land. That is the impression that history has given about them, at least. However, dig deeper into the records and we find that their thirst for information served another purpose.’

  Landril took a sip of wine and sighed contentedly at the taste.

  ‘Which was?’ Xavir said.

  The spymaster placed down his cup. ‘They had made a god.’

  ‘They had done what?’ Xavir asked. ‘Explain.’

  ‘Created a god. Or bred one. That’s what we believe the records state. Through magic – via whatever channels of magic the source uses, or perhaps even creating those channels – it is believed they spawned a god, and that their endless quest for knowledge is in order to quench that god’s thirst. They made a god of magic. And that god, I suspect, has somehow allowed them to reach out through time itself. Now – as before – they are attempting to expand their empire. This time they have used more nefarious means, and managed to gain an alliance with Mardonius by somehow entering his mind and his beliefs. They corrupted him. I can’t imagine it was difficult – he always was weak-willed and greedy. One might suggest that, in this manner, they have already conquered Stravimon without shedding blood. More of them are coming. Oh yes. Many more. They have control of the throne and, therefore, the entire kingdom.’

  Xavir leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes. He had heard many fanciful things in his lifetime, and this was certainly up there with the best of them. ‘The connection with Havinir?’

  ‘My friend Jamasca,’ Landril said, ‘showed us how Havinir had been . . . researching, shall we say. On the local people. People who had been disappeared. They were the subjects of his work with the Voldirik wayseers, who are the most magical and mysterious of all the Voldiriks. Havinir was researching methods of extending life, so that he might one day become immortal. He was using the Voldiriks to help him do this. No doubt, they were just as happy to take the findings for themselves. It is suggested . . .’ He paused and glanced to Birgitta. ‘In his notes he mentions assistance on some of the materials from some of the sisters, whom he refers to only as “the Dark Sisters”. They’re referenced here and there throughout the early notes in his journal, long before the Voldiriks get to grips with the locals. The general had forged an unlikely alliance with an ill breed of witch.’

  ‘I believe these could be some sisters who went missing some time ago,’ Birgitta added. ‘Not even the matriarch knew of their whereabouts. But that they have turned to this darkness is a valid explanation for their disappearance.’

  ‘So Havinir,’ Xavir said, ‘in his retirement from the business of death, was looking into the secrets of life. If we are to believe that Mardonius and the Voldiriks are in some way aligned, then it would make sense that Mardonius has allowed the Voldiriks to work with Havinir.’

  ‘I had similar hunches. The journal suggests so.’ Landril took a sip of wine. ‘The Voldiriks are sailing to the far western shores and Port Phalamys. They are coming in to our world and learning – one might reasonably assume – a great deal to please their fabricated god.’

  ‘If it is true,’ Xavir said.

  ‘I have no reason to believe it is not.’

  ‘I have no reason to believe it is,’ Xavir said, ‘not unless it can be seen and proven.’

  ‘Much of history cannot be seen – we have only the records to go on. Is it all a grand lie? No. Of course, one must read between the lines, but there has been plenty written about the Voldiriks and the theory holds true in my eyes.’

  ‘I am a much simpler creature in that respect, then,’ Xavir replied. ‘I have seen this new race, the descendants of the Irik people, and therefore I believe they exist and that they are likely expanding their empire – with minimal violence. I have not seen this god yet. In that I remain to be convinced.’

  Landril shrugged. ‘It matters little to us. We know where they are coming from and that they pose more of a threat. I have a much better understanding of them. There is more to learn, so while you pursue your vendetta tomorrow I may well return to Jamasca.’

  ‘I could do with Birgitta this time. The extra magic will be necessary. I have no doubt that there will be some kind of witch working with the duchess.’

  Birgitta bowed her head in acceptance. ‘If I must. But I’m only coming to ensure you don’t corrupt this one any more with your death-dealing,’ she said acerbically, pointing to Elysia.

  *

  They spent the night in a room adjacent to the Silent Hawk, in a ramshackle property owned by the landlord. Though he had used it as a storage premises, he quite often rented a few of its spare rooms out to travellers, given his tavern was dedicated solely to drinking and eating. He was grateful for the business. It was a place devoid of style and substance: once they had passed through the flagstoned storage quarters, which were also sparse, they entered a vacant dormitory with beds, tables, chairs, and not much else. A smell of preserved cheeses and cured meats lingered. They lit a few lanterns only to realize there were no windows, but at least it was an improvement on Hell’s Keep and so Xavir did not complain.

  Once settled, and with the Keening Blades lying on a bed, Xavir began to plan the following evening’s attack. Landril described and drew out what he believed to be the approximate layout of the duchess’s estate on the clifftop. It was deceptively large, he said, because the cliff’s other side was a gentle slope, with a more sedate path down to ground level. It meant a great deal could be built upon it, and her estates sprawled from a central, more fortified building, which was her main residence.

  ‘How good is security?’ Xavir asked. ‘I haven’t seen many soldiers around on patrol in Golax Hold. Mostly off-duty or retired men. I’ve heard there is a shortage of fighters, but that was just one man’s account.’

  ‘It’s possible she could have all the decent ex-legion soldiers in Golax Hold lined up on her estate,’ Landril said, ‘but I doubt it. I have heard similar, though, and the lack of news from the capital does concern me.’

  ‘You know about wars better than us,’ Birgitta added. ‘Is it natural for soldiers to leave towns undefended across Stravimon like this?’

  ‘To a certain extent,’ Xavir replied. ‘Some campaigns required a contingent of men from the clans which came from towns like this. Often there would be expeditions to the west, but they were messy affairs with a great loss of life. Usually at the whims of royals – Grendux, Cedius’s idiot father, was terrible for launching futile expeditions. Normally the legions are bolstered by the clansmen when there’s a threat from the barbarians in the north. The barbarians number in their tens of thousands and are vicious fighters. Now and then they unite – tribes like the Gous and the Joakals – and they make a determined push to gain lands within Stravir’s borders.

  ‘It is nothing new. It will probably continue for the next thousand years. Cedius always had the legions patrolling those hills. There was little glory to be found there. It was cold and it was a miserable business just trying to prevent the barbarians from carving their way through to Stravimon. That’s what they always wanted – to bring down the glory of Stravimon and one day to be at the capital’s walls. If there are troubled times now in the north, then it will draw a lot of men into the legions. I knew there was a shortage of good soldiers at our escape from Hell’s Keep. Maybe Mardonius has spread his forces too thinly – a purge of his own whilst still staving off the influx from the north . . . It is unwise to be stretched like that.’

  ‘Then this will work in our fav
our,’ Landril declared.

  ‘Maybe it will, maybe it won’t,’ Xavir said. ‘Depends how many legionaries have so far rebelled against the king. We can take it for granted that there will be some who see sense. All we can hope is that we can get a good two or three thousand before we march on Stravir City itself.’

  ‘As few as that?’ Landril asked.

  ‘More would be better. But you are forgetting who we have fighting for us. No doubt Lupara has sent word back to her homeland, which is not that far away, in order to bring reinforcements should we require them. But it needs to be a Stravimon army that marches into the capital. It needs to be made of our own people. It just wouldn’t work otherwise. People will see themselves as occupied, and they will fight back harder. If it is us, Stravir, then citizens may join us – especially if they are oppressed.’

  ‘Well, we can only hope, then,’ said Landril with a sigh.

  A Celebration

  ‘No not over there,’ shouted Duchess Pryus.

  She gestured angrily at her serving staff who, in their black tunics, were carrying amphorae of wine back and forth for the evening’s festivities. Tonight was an important date in the Voldirik calendar and she would see to it that their god was honoured appropriately. It was a shame that none of the foreigners could bless her estate with their presence, but it mattered not: the gesture to the king was reason enough. It would keep him happy – or so she hoped. She hadn’t actually spoken to Mardonius in months.

  ‘Put them over here, where the guests will be chanting, so they don’t have to walk into another room to get a drink afterwards. No, on second thoughts, take them into the next room. There’s nothing worse than a drunken incantation. Go on!’

  The duchess stood back, satisfied, hands on hips, watching her staff scurry outside. There would be seventy-odd people coming tonight. Many had travelled from the protected estates of eastern Stravimon. Her hope tonight would be that they, then, would go on to donate some of their resources, land and people to the cause of the Voldiriks. This would please the king, as it would strengthen his bond with this strange and wonderful race. Only backward-looking followers of the damn Goddess or that oafish god Balax would hinder their progress. The little runts who clung onto their backwater homes making prayers to some false deity were always getting in the way. The sooner Stravimon was rid of them, the better. But that was easier said than done.