The Never King

by James Abbott

  On recognition of the fact, Xavir began to stretch Dimarius, forcing his blades out wide and then making blows towards his body. The Keening Blades sang wildly as Xavir offered no respite. Wide and narrow, high and low, Dimarius was pulled far in his defence and showing signs of struggle.

  Xavir saw his moment: he drove one of the Keening Blades through Dimarius’s elbow.

  But a spurt of flame fired out and burned Xavir’s left wrist. Both men dropped their blades.

  Dimarius arm was severed now and he staggered to one side of the room. Xavir nursed his hand for a moment, before blocking the pain from his mind.

  Angrier than ever, he picked up his fallen blade and kicked Dimarius in the back.

  ‘Pathetic,’ Xavir spat. Dimarius turned with one blade but now that he was injured it was nothing for Xavir to sweep it away. The burning weapon fell to the floor feet away from the other.

  Dimarius once again regarded Xavir. ‘We are one.’

  Xavir slammed a sword through Dimarius’s neck. This time Xavir rolled to his right to avoid the fire and heat that erupted from Dimarius’s body. The corpse collapsed and shuddered into a smouldering, charred heap, leaving nothing but a trail of ash in its wake.

  Whatever had been inside the former warrior of the Solar Cohort had not been blood, Xavir realized. Something else had been holding him together.

  Xavir knelt down on the floor and gripped his swollen, burning wrist.

  Elysia ran to her father’s side. ‘Your hand . . . What’s happening to it?’

  It had begun to blacken where it had been burned, but embers began to form there strangely, and grew like a living thing.

  ‘Never mind,’ Xavir muttered. The pain began to throb through his entire arm. His shoulder was in agony. ‘We must get to Mardonius quickly. He’ll be through that door there.’ Xavir gestured with his chin.

  Xavir led Elysia, Jedral and Tylos through the doorway and up the stone stairwell. There seemed to be some strange substance oozing down the surface of the steps. A foul wind gusted down the passageway from above. Xavir, barely able to hold both blades firmly now, ignored as best as he could the mouths that appeared in the stonework, human faces that moaned and groaned silently, their impossible pleas never to be heard.

  ‘What is this devilry?’ Tylos asked.

  Xavir just focused on putting one foot in front of the other – he had one person left to kill, and nothing was going to get in his way.

  The royal chamber was before them, a strange and warped room that looked very little like the place he had once known. It was the room in which he had been issued the Keening Blades, in which he and King Cedius had planned and laughed and drunk the finest wines in the kingdom. All of that was a world away. Xavir’s body throbbed with pain, a harsh reminder of his realities. He began to see things from the corner of his vision, strange daemonic forms that ought not to have been there. He willed away the pain and saw the room in all its simple clarity.

  A strange figure was sitting, slouched upon a plain metal throne, at the far end of the room. The throne, as it had always been, was on the raised platform. From a distance the figure appeared blackened, and there were strange forms as if charred snakes writhed from its crowned head. But they were no snakes. They were wires that looped across to a glass tank that stood to the side of the throne. To the left was the open vista that regarded the city. Instead of a perfectly rectangular viewing window there was a ragged edge of crumbling stonework. Outside, the city’s spires were mired in a dense fog.

  Feeling time slipping away with every pulse of his burned hand, Xavir cautioned the others to remain at the back of the chamber while he stepped towards the figure.

  ‘Dimarius is dead. There are no more defences. It is time to die, Mardonius.’

  ‘Xavir Argentum, Xavir Argentum, Xavir Argentum,’ came a voice. Xavir glanced back to the others, who seemed not to have heard a thing.

  ‘The thing is speaking to me.’ Xavir tilted his head in the direction of Mardonius. ‘You can’t hear it. But it has spoken my name.’

  ‘So wise, so foolish . . .’

  ‘Mardonius . . . you’re a mess,’ Xavir declared.

  The thing laughed. ‘Mardonius . . . Yes, I remember him.’ Two eyes opened and the figure’s head lifted up as if a puppeteer had pulled a string somewhere. Fluids pulsated back and forth towards the glass tank, which contained a murky solution. There was Voldirik inscription along the metal framework that held it all in place.

  ‘Whatever you are,’ Xavir sneered, ‘you and I have unfinished business.’ He felt his left arm burn violently. His hand was beginning to glow red and, realizing he was possessed by whatever it was he had contracted from Dimarius, he knew he had to act quickly. Nonchalantly, he severed one of the wires with a flick of a blade and liquids gushed out across the platform. Mardonius hissed and laughed inside Xavir’s head. The platform bubbled violently where the liquid had been spilled. Xavir could smell the stench of strange magics.

  ‘Elysia,’ Xavir called out, kneeling down in pain.

  ‘What is it?’ she said, rushing to his side and placing a hand to his shoulder.

  ‘I am finished,’ Xavir replied, noticing the coolness of her palm on his burning skin. ‘Presently I will turn into whatever Dimarius had become. A daemon, or some Voldirik trickery. You must prevent that. On my word, you must kill me. Use an arrow. The most potent arrow that you have. It will be essential that nothing remains of me.’

  ‘What?’ She looked astounded at the thought. ‘I can’t do that. I refuse to—’

  Xavir gripped her hand, ‘I understand and I’m sorry we did not have more time together.’ He paused as mockery came from Mardonius into his head. He shook himself alert again. His body was in agony. ‘But you must do it. I am going to die and I would rather it was while I am still myself rather than whatever this magic will turn me into.’

  ‘You’re my father. I can’t kill you. I can’t.’

  Her reaction unearthed in Xavir sensations he never knew he could experience. He barely even recognized them. But this was not the time. There was no time.

  ‘You will be saving me from something worse than death,’ Xavir said with urgency. ‘If you have any feelings for me you’ll do as I ask. Will you follow my instruction?’

  Elysia said nothing, her eyes moist.

  ‘Promise me!’ Xavir snapped.

  She swallowed hard and nodded.

  ‘You are the Argentum family now,’ he said, shrugging himself free of his shoulder straps and allowing the scabbards of the Keening Blades to clatter to the floor. ‘Whatever I had is rightfully yours, I suppose. Take the blades and keep them in good condition.’ He heaved in a breath as a burning pain rippled through his abdomen. ‘They’ll . . . be proof . . . of the blood bond.’

  With his chest half turned towards the others, half facing the ruined king, he gave them a nod, which they returned. Nothing else needed to be said.

  ‘Get back as far as you can. Keep the others away.’

  As Elysia took away his weapons and joined the others, Xavir staggered to his feet and used his bare hands to rip away the wires holding Mardonius together. There was nothing for Xavir to feel now: there was no man here, no king, no satisfaction to be found in his defeat.

  Simply emptiness.

  That was the great sadness which he felt, as each and every disconnected wire shot out noxious and burning fluids into the room. The realization that there would be no great victory and no triumph of battle, and there would be unfinished business that he would no longer be able to deal with – it was a family matter now. He had passed on the mantle. He lived on through Elysia. And that final thought – that he endured, in blood – gave him just the slightest hope that it had not all been a complete waste.

  ‘Get ready, Elysia!’ Xavir’s voice echoed in the chamber. Winds gathered momentum, and abstract nonsensical sounds filled his ears. The air was charged with the promise of violence, but he kept on pulling the wires, watching the
fluid spill and the figure of Mardonius twitch savagely with every passing moment.

  ‘What the hell are you?’ Xavir gasped at the thing that had been the king of Stravimon. ‘What are you?’

  A sibilant voice issued from the dead king. ‘I am something that you cannot fathom, Xavir Argentum.’

  Mardonius’s mouth moved out of sync with the sound.

  ‘I am the ruler of your nation, and I rule from afar. I will come to these shores once it is mine for the taking. This body gave itself to me. Its soul lives on in me. It wanted power and it got more than it could ever want.’

  ‘And what do you want?’ Xavir asked, his legs weak as if under some draining enchantment. ‘What is the reason for it all?’

  ‘Time,’ it replied. ‘Eternity.’ It began to laugh and laugh.

  ‘What became of you, Mardonius?’ Xavir demanded, stopping to draw in a laboured breath.

  ‘Mardonius is no more . . .’

  Xavir inched forwards towards the crumbling steps of the platform, feeling his left arm shivering with the ill effects. Then it became utterly numb.

  ‘What you see before you is empty . . . Mardonius was never the king

  never king

  the never king . . .’

  The charred form of Mardonius rocked back and forth. The skull was showing through the blackened skin in places, the desiccated lips drawn back to reveal rows of rotting teeth in a grimace. Every time it moved, a trail of ash was left. The shell was possessed by some form of Voldirik magic. How long had that been the case? How long had Mardonius been alive to enjoy his partnership before the thing possessing him consumed him?

  How has all the glory of Stravir, how has the glory of the past, come to this?

  Xavir grasped Mardonius’s ruined head in both hands. Using all his remaining strength, with a flick of his burning arms that glowed with every moment, Xavir wrenched it clean off. What seeped from its neck began to bubble and burn, its flesh merging with Xavir’s own form. Xavir began to laugh wildly, a laugh that wasn’t his own. He could see his whole body becoming red and burning with rage.

  Xavir managed to find clarity enough to turn and meet his anguished daughter’s gaze. He nodded, her name on his lips as a blinding white light filled his vision, and the pain vanished.

  *

  Valderon, now on foot, waded into the remnants of the Voldirik front lines, a blur of energy – even now. The skies were darkening and the plains before the city were a quagmire.

  Landril found himself, sword in hand, doing what he hated doing the most, and almost certain of the fact that he would die here.

  ‘Defend yourself, man!’ Valderon bellowed. ‘Tactics are pointless now. The fighting’s almost done.’

  ‘Easy . . . for you to say,’ Landril replied, dodging a Voldirik spear to his ribs. Valderon slaughtered the offending wielder by cleaving off its arm and then sending it spinning bloodily backwards into a thicket of attackers.

  ‘By the Goddess, I wish it would end now. It’ll be pitch black before long.’

  ‘Battles end when they end,’ Valderon said, clearing the path before them. ‘Even when those . . . half dead on the ground . . .’ he sliced through a Voldirik throat, ‘. . . don’t realize the outcome and carry on regardless.’

  ‘Well . . . finally.’ Landril looked relieved and a little surprised as a blinding light shot up from heart of the capital, like a star ascending. Elysia’s signal.

  ‘Would you look at that?’ Valderon gasped.

  Across the plains before the city, the Voldiriks began to collapse as if a silent wind swept across the battlefield. Scattered lines of bronze warriors tumbled into the mud. The sudden absence of the sound of fighting was startling. The remnants of the Black Clan were as dumbfounded as any remaining from the opposing legionary forces, who looked in horror at their fallen Voldirik comrades. Most threw their swords down in surrender.

  In the distance, the Dacianarans howled.

  Into Reality

  Night smothered Stravir City, but there was no bustling throng in the streets. Of the tales her father had told her, of bawdy drinking sessions and festivities among the cobbled lanes, there was nothing. Of people starting fires and dancing from balconies, or the smell of roasted meats from around the continent being cooked and enjoyed by all, there was nothing to be sensed.

  The streets remained largely empty in the inner quarters. Only down among the crude taverns and rundown buildings was there any activity – and that was where the remnants of the Black Clan were to be found, too morose and tired to celebrate. The Dacianarans refused to enter the city, which they felt was haunted by the evil that had occurred there, and decided to set up camp just to the south.

  How do we move on from this? she wondered.

  Landril was the one who found her shortly after the battle, after the immense wooden gates to Stravir City were heaved open by both force and magic. The spymaster had ridden inside, raced with Valderon and Birgitta across cobblestone roads and up towards the towering, dark stone palace, only to find Elysia, Tylos and Jedral sitting on various steps up the palace’s enormous front stairway.

  The Keening Blades lay on the stone next to Elysia, her hand resting on them. He gave her rations and asked, perhaps already knowing the answer, having seen the swords, about her father’s whereabouts.

  ‘I killed him.’

  Landril was agog.

  ‘It is not exactly true,’ Tylos said, and explained what had happened with the Red Butcher and the man who once was Mardonius.

  ‘You poor girl,’ Landril said, offering a sympathetic hand.

  She shrugged it off. ‘I killed him. It was his order. It was his will. That was that.’

  Landril narrowed his gaze, but it softened. ‘You’ve taken it rather well, I must say.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do?’

  Landril knew better than to press her.

  But what exactly did she feel? For a figure she had not really known for most of her life, but who had somehow shaped it, and who had helped her realize her potential and celebrate her differences from the sisterhood and fill the strange void inside. A void that she did not even know she had possessed a year ago.

  Birgitta stared at her from her horse, maintaining a distance, waiting for Elysia to approach.

  ‘Are you well, little sister?’ Birgitta asked softly.

  ‘I will be,’ Elysia sighed. Her stance softened as Birgitta dismounted and came over to embrace her.

  ‘What did you make of this?’ Birgitta whispered her ear, stepping apart.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘The war,’ she replied. ‘The fighting. The deaths.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ She stood apart. ‘I felt I could have done much better.’

  ‘Better?’ Birgitta repeated, shaking her head. ‘This is not how I saw you, little sister. Our warrior sisterhood is a thing of the past.’

  ‘It needs to return –’ Elysia straightened her back – ‘if you ask me.’

  Birgitta raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘This is not a time for softness, not any more. There are sisters out there who committed many sins within this city. We saw how they had been involved with great atrocities. They’re the ones responsible for helping the Voldiriks turn so many of the people here into . . . whatever they ended up being. The Dark Sisters must be hunted down.’

  ‘And you base this on what?’

  Elysia glanced to one side, her hair fluttering in the gentle breeze. She spoke of the horrors that they had seen, and of the presence of the Dark Sisters.

  Birgitta demanded to see for herself. Elysia led Birgitta and Landril to the great vat-like containers that had likely been responsible for generating so much of the evil in Stravir City, just beyond the vast plaza. When the air was still and they hunted the ghost trails of these Dark Sisters, there was no one to be found. No bodies either, save those clad in bronze that had mostly been slain by Xavir. Nothing remained now – not even under the ligh
t of Birgitta’s witchstone, which she shone in all corners, behind casks and stone pillars, in an attempt to flush out any who might have been hiding. Yet she could sense something old in the air, the tang of magic that had faded away.

  Throughout the evening Landril ordered the finest of the Black Clan’s fighters to scour the streets and buildings. By dawn they had found nothing except the evidence of wholesale suicides or slaughter in the street.

  Of the Dark Sisters, nothing was to be found.

  The final thing for Landril to do before he could be satisfied and let Elysia get some rest was to investigate the scenes at the top of the royal palace. She was now numb to the reality of her deeds up there, of the many Voldiriks she had killed and of the way her father left this world.

  Landril was slack-jawed in awe as he inspected the debris, the frozen corpses, the bloodstains, the heap of bronze-clad bodies, and finally the ashy remains of the Red Butcher. Then Elysia led him into the throne room. Wind howled through the crumbled wall to the left. The marbled floor had black streaks across it, as if a fire had washed through the room.

  In the centre was the charred, broken and headless skeleton of Mardonius slumped upon its throne.

  Landril approached the figure.

  And as he did so Elysia could hear the intense, deep sound of a beating heart.

  ‘Does anyone else hear that?’ she asked.

  ‘Something still lives here,’ Landril cautioned, scanning around the room, ‘though not through Mardonius. Xavir killed him, you say, right here?’

  Elysia shrugged, then nodded, feeling a raw ache at the mention of his name.

  The heartbeat intensified and Landril began to step backwards from the skeleton king.

  ‘We should destroy this place,’ he declared, ‘as swiftly as possible. Bring the other witches.’

  *

  Back outside, after the witches had joined forces to purge the place, Birgitta asked the question softly to Elysia: ‘What arrow did you use, little sister? At the very end.’