The Never King

by James Abbott

  ‘Okay, it’ll be fine to go now,’ Elysia said.

  They weaved through the old city streets, hearing the occasional roar drifting from the battlefield about a mile away. Xavir began to piece together what might have been happening in Stravir City. The greater part of the city had been abandoned. Pockets of taverns and ancient trading plazas remained unattended. Whenever Xavir saw something especially strange, such as an open door banging in the wind, they ventured, momentarily, from their path.

  And within, they discovered scenes of horror.

  People had either killed themselves or been killed in their homes. Blood-strewn bodies lay huddled and stilled in front-room parlours. In other quarters people had been strung up on meat hooks as if they were about to be processed in some way, their naked torsos covered in the strange script of the Voldirik race as if they had been branded. That same script occasionally manifested on the whitewashed walls of buildings themselves, written in the blood of the victims in a manner that suggested certain buildings were being designated for specific purposes.

  Most horrific of all was the scene in one courtyard. From a vantage point high up on the brick walls, the group crawled across a grimy path so as not to be seen by those on the ground. But down below, among the dozens of bronze-clad figures, were eight huge vats. People – ordinary citizens – were being hauled up a wooden platform and thrown screaming into one tank. While from other tanks, different figures were being dragged out by rope and hook, caked in ichor and shivering. But their forms were very much different. They were paler, slenderer, and could barely walk. They were quickly clad in basic clothing and armour.

  ‘It is like some breeding programme,’ Jedral whispered. ‘They are being treated like bloody livestock. Except there is no slaughtering at the end for them, just . . . whatever that is.’

  ‘It’s something worse that being slaughtered perhaps,’ Tylos replied. ‘They’re turning people into the Voldiriks.’

  ‘As I thought,’ Xavir said, shaking his head. His grip tightened upon the Keening Blades.

  ‘I wonder if that’s what happened to most of the legions,’ Jedral suggested. ‘They’ve been turned into Voldiriks. It’d explain why we’ve seen mostly just them bloody aliens here.’

  Xavir’s group continued to look on, aghast at what was now happening below. More people were being brought forwards. Screams came from the plaza beyond, and the sound started off even more people.

  ‘Should we save them?’ Elysia asked. ‘Sounds as if there are even more through there.’

  Davlor shook head. ‘Nah. They’re too far and Landril said we could not risk the mission for a few people.’

  ‘But aren’t we supposed to help the people?’ Elysia asked Xavir. She gazed at him with those startling blue witch eyes.

  He thought of Baradium Falls once again, where he failed Stravimon’s people. He thought of Landril’s wise message of haste, that to sever the connection between Mardonius and his troops would see a swift end to the atrocities. Xavir’s mind flickered between the two extremes. He had been shamed in the past, and let down his people. That thought, that he had failed, lingered the most.

  ‘A change of plan,’ he declared. ‘We cannot allow this to happen.’

  ‘Landril said—’ Davlor began.

  ‘Landril has not seen what we are seeing with our own eyes,’ Xavir said. ‘We cannot allow this to happen. These are our people. Mardonius can wait a few moments longer.’

  ‘How do we get down there?’ Elysia asked, glancing back to the situation below, her raven-black hair trailing in the wind like banners on the battlefield.

  Shouting came from the wall at the end of their platform. More bronze helms came into view.

  ‘We start by killing them,’ Xavir announced.

  On instinct Elysia turned and released three, four, five standard arrows into their midst, sending the figures reeling over the edge.

  With his Keening Blades ready, Xavir jumped into the throng of oncoming Voldirik warriors. Three rushed towards him – and died. Another two scrambled up a stone stairwell and exited onto the platform, only to be greeted by arrowshafts through the face. Xavir cleared the area of remaining soldiers with a whirl of blades, allowing his daughter to recover her arrows from the corpses.

  To the right was a network of paths and bridges that weaved like latticework towards the palace. To the left was the route down to the plaza. Looking down through gaps in the architecture, Xavir could see dozens of bronze soldiers surging towards them now. Another band of warriors blocked the opposite exit; Xavir rushed into them, knocking their weapons aside and driving one of his wailing blades into necks or severing arms. In the rare event any of the Voldiriks bypassed Xavir and climbed onto the platform behind, Tylos was next in line to the kill – carving a searing blow with Everflame through their bodies. The black man looked as if he was having fun with the weapon.

  ‘Are you actually going to let me use my fancy axe on any of this lot?’ Jedral called forward.

  ‘Blame Xavir,’ Tylos replied, standing watchful for any more attackers. ‘I am merely feeding off his scraps.’

  Their chance to fight properly came soon enough.

  Redemption Proper

  Groans of a thousand hopeless people rose up from the plaza. They had been herded in like cattle, towards where they would be twisted and remade beyond recognition.

  Xavir ran down the spiral stairway until he landed on a viewing point that looked down across the site. The group joined him, crouching down low. Xavir peered up over a decorative stone ledge that was attached to an empty apartment.

  The plaza was several hundred yards long, and perhaps a hundred wide. It was the largest marketplace in the city, where Cedius had often come to give speeches to the people, and through which the legions toured after victorious campaigns. The road through at the far end had been blocked by rubble. In the centre there had once stood a statue of the Goddess, but it had long since been destroyed. Stone gargoyles lined the tops of the three-storey grey-granite buildings. And, of course, filling all of this were at least two thousand citizens. Men, women and children, they looked grubby, malnourished and miserable. They were sitting on the cobbles, sprawled on blankets and piles of clothing, whilst they awaited their fate. To the left, down on the southern exit of the plaza, just out of sight from ground level, was the route to the enormous tanks.

  Voldirik rangers patrolled either end of the plaza, thirty figures in each unit, and more were stationed by the ruins of the fountain.

  ‘Elysia,’ Xavir said, a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. ‘I need two explosive arrows – one at each end of the courtyard – to eliminate as many Voldiriks as possible. Nothing toxic, the civilians must be protected. The act will cause panic. You are to remain here and cover the rest of us while we head down there. We will start from that end.’ He gestured to the right. ‘And work our way towards the other. At that point, concentrate as hard as you can on protecting citizens. If a Voldirik moves to strike them, kill it. But be selective, not hasty.’

  Wide-eyed and eager to help, she nodded and selected her arrowheads.

  ‘I will meet you back here before we proceed up the city,’ Xavir said.

  ‘When shall I release the first arrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Count to fifty,’ Xavir said, and with that he ran.

  *

  By the time Xavir’s gang arrived by the bank of rubble blocking the far end of the plaza, the blue fire from Elysia’s first explosive arrow had vanished. A dozen charred Voldirik corpses were strewn on the ground, and in the clearing smoke a dozen more stood in confusion. Xavir leaped across the mess and sliced into them with whirls of the Keening Blades. His gang followed, Jedral screaming with rage as he put his axe to good use. Armour crunched. Civilians shifted back, staring in amazement at what was going on. Within moments there were no Voldiriks here. Xavir followed the line of his daughter’s arrows from above and moved further into the immense plaza.

  As he scanned the fac
es for signs of the Voldiriks, he heard his name mentioned many times over. He stood tall, allowing the symbol upon his chest to be visible to all. People parted for him as he caught sight of a bronze helm and rushed towards it. Another thicket of Voldiriks turned to face the gang members – and died. Xavir, Tylos and Jedral rendered them useless within heartbeats and, with Elysia’s arrows sailing in to pick off those who turned, there was nowhere for them to hide.

  Elysia had already thinned the foe from the centre of the plaza, making the group’s progress even quicker. Xavir continued across the cobbles until he reached the far end, citizens moving out of the way of their approach, again, some calling out his name.

  ‘He’s returned!’

  ‘Goddess bless us, Xavir Argentum is here!’

  Xavir ignored their words and focused on the task at hand. The final group of Voldiriks stood before him, already falling to arrows from above. A whirl of blades and metal and the gang moved through the narrow road towards the enormous tanks.

  Those Voldiriks on the wooden framework around quickly jumped down from their position and ran towards them. Tylos and Jedral leaped forwards to intercept, leaving Xavir to deal with the figures at the base: a mixture of Voldiriks and Stravir soldiers. Two rushed forwards in the alleyway; Xavir severed their heads. Another three Stravir now marched awkwardly to greet him with more than a look of nervousness about them. They bore colours and insignia of senior officers of the military, and Xavir was beyond rage that, while supposed to protect the people, they had permitted these atrocities to occur. The first man, stocky and short, attempted a blow, but Xavir’s defence was so hard it spun the man around; Xavir hauled back his head and cut his throat, allowing him to collapse in front of his comrades. The other two hesitated, and in that moment found their limbs severed and blades forced through their throats. Xavir spun around to check his gang had killed the remaining Voldiriks, which they had. Grend had suffered a cut to his upper arm, yet, typically, it was Davlor who was the one who moaned the most about his twisted ankle.

  They approached the enormous containers, which looked like much larger versions of the ones they had seen in General Havinir’s manse. There were eight of them in all, arranged in two neat rows with a network of wooden platforms and walkways around them. The stench here was horrendous, a mix of urine and rotten eggs. There were many people in the vessels who were beyond saving: palms brushed along the surface of the glass, hair drifted like pondweed, and now and then a bloated-blue face would manifest.

  ‘This doesn’t make sense,’ Tylos observed.

  ‘What?’ Xavir asked.

  ‘The Voldiriks were merely guards. From what we’ve heard they are footsoldiers; they would not have the intelligence to process these people into new forms. We should see a wayseer here at the very least, no?’

  Xavir turned for a second to see a long-haired figure run past one of the tanks at the far end. ‘Halt!’ he demanded.

  It was a woman, with stark blue eyes and blonde hair, dressed entirely in black. For a moment she stood there, brazenly, in between two tanks, just laughing. Then she pulled her cloak across her form – and vanished.

  Jedral ran, clutching his axe, to the very spot where she had been standing, but there was nothing for him to kill. ‘A bloody witch,’ he shouted back. ‘Boys, I swear that was a witch.’

  ‘It was one of the Dark Sisters,’ Xavir announced grimly. ‘We had heard rumours of this – them having made a pact with the Voldiriks. Now we know they are real.’

  ‘Now what?’ Tylos asked. ‘There are many people still confused in the plaza and we have a king to kill.’

  Xavir made his way back into the open courtyard, through the milling townspeople, heading for the ruins of the statue of the Goddess. He stood upon her tumbled form and looked at the people.

  ‘There is a battle being fought outside these walls,’ he shouted, watching their expressionless faces, ‘to save this city from the devilry that has claimed it. A force called the Black Clan made up of rebels against Mardonius has come to help you. My name is Xavir Argentum. I am the last man of the Solar Cohort. And you are free.’

  A noise rippled across the crowd. People were relaying his message back to the furthest reaches of the plaza.

  ‘You should find shelter,’ he continued. ‘You are free to go. Return to your homes. Wait in your basements. Block entry. Protect your loved ones.’

  There was murmuring as someone began to chant his first name. Others joined in. Soon dozens and then hundreds were saying the same thing over and over again.

  ‘Xavir! Xavir! Xavir!’

  And for the first time in a very long time, the last man of the Solar Cohort felt a lump in his throat.

  Xavir had returned.

  A Task Unfinished

  Xavir’s men reconvened with Elysia on the balcony and he praised her skills with the bow. He gripped her heartily by the shoulders and declared that she would one day be a hero of the people.

  ‘Now for the next stage,’ he said. ‘We must tackle the hardest part of our mission.’

  The central palace walls were made of a black rock that glimmered with fragments of mica. Immense cressets carried orbs of flame along the front. Numerous spires, each one built for a different Stravir king or queen, layered back up towards the royal residence, which was lost in the cloud. A fine drizzle covered the scene. Along the base of the first wall roamed a dozen Voldirik soldiers, with a few men in the legion colours in their midst. They seemed unworried by, or oblivious to, the war going on outside the city’s main walls.

  Xavir, Jedral and Tylos clambered down from their position on a higher pathway and ran towards the soldiers. They peeled away sideways from the arched entrance. Many Voldiriks remained as sentries. Xavir glanced back to see Elysia, under the protection of the others, fire the first of her arrows into soldiers; two short explosions later and they lay in a heap. She then turned her attention to the twelve that were charging, weapons raised, towards Xavir. Two at the back fell instantly to her shots. The remaining ten were hewn down like blades of grass in the face of Xavir’s onslaught.

  Xavir kept only one legionary alive, which was his aim, and dragged him screaming bloodily up against the black wall.

  ‘Name and rank,’ Xavir demanded.

  ‘Galwyx. Sergeant.’ The man squirmed.

  ‘You know who I am?’ Xavir demanded.

  ‘I see . . . the badge of . . . the Solar Cohort.’

  ‘Good.’ Xavir snarled. ‘What defences are there inside.’

  ‘Three dozen men in the next level. Most are out by the main walls.’

  ‘What else is inside?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . sir.’

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’

  ‘Haven’t been inside for months. No one knows. Just take orders.’

  ‘What have your orders been exactly? To slaughter the people of this city?’

  The man gave no answer to that.

  ‘Tell me!’ Xavir roared, and raked his blade across the man’s thigh.

  He gave an awful scream. Blood came from his bruised mouth. ‘Don’t know! I just took orders. Did as was told.’

  ‘Do the Voldiriks, these aliens – do they run the operation here?’

  ‘No. Orders . . . from the king.’

  ‘Where’s Mardonius?’ Xavir demanded.

  ‘Top of his palace.’

  ‘Who guards him.’

  ‘Close guards. Red Butcher. We – they – all fear him.’

  The man looked desperate.

  ‘Red Butcher indeed,’ Xavir sneered, ‘I’ll give them all something else to fear.’ Then he cut the soldier’s throat and shoved him to the ground in a gargling heap.

  Looking up from the body, Xavir spotted a mass of bronze-clad warriors heading in their direction. Among them were more of the horn-helmed elite soldiers of the legions.

  ‘We’ve no more time for them,’ Xavir declared to his men, and together they progressed inside the palace complex.


  Corridor by corridor, marbled room after marbled room, they pushed forwards and kept vigilant and maintained the pattern: Xavir would press himself up against a door and peer inside the next room, before gesturing his cadre inside. They sealed heavy oak doors behind them and blocked them with the palace furniture. They ascended stairwells onto the next floor. Arched windows overlooked courtyards with more of the strange Voldirik figures in them, wearing brightly coloured clothing and working with more of those enormous tanks.

  It was as if they had long since made the palace their headquarters.

  In the very next room was a hooded wayseer. Its expression was one of utter calm at being presented with Xavir’s group. The thing jutted out an upturned palm; paintings were wrenched free from walls and floors and hurled towards them; statues and busts spun in an unlikely manner, caught up in some invisible vortex. Xavir rolled to his left and ordered the group to spread. Elysia attempted to fire arrows at the wayseer, but it brushed them aside with a finger stroke.

  Then a statue struck Davlor as he dived towards the corner, smashing his skull against the wall. The man cried out for just a second, looking surprised, and then fell lifelessly to the ground as pieces of statue broke over his still form.

  Tylos and Xavir both charged, ducking the objects that spiralled around, using their swords to cleave a path. Elysia lay flat on the ground and fired an arrow that somehow got through the wayseer’s defences, sending the figure to the floor clutching its foot. Immediately Tylos sent his burning blade through the thing’s arm. The wayseer hissed horribly, but began to heal in an instant. Xavir swiped his blades through its neck and across one leg, making sure there was no flesh that could rebind. The body still moved, though, and Tylos raised his blade and thrust it down into its chest. Fires rippled across its body until the thing was nothing but a charred mess. Eventually it became still.

  ‘We can ill afford to come up against a few of these,’ Tylos said breathlessly, ‘if we are to get to Mardonius.’