by Ashley Capes
The Book of Never
The Complete Series
Ashley Capes
The Book of Never: The Complete Series
Copyright © 2017 by Ashley Capes
Cover: illustration by Lin Hsiang, typeset by VividCovers.
Layout and Typset: Close-Up Books & David Schembri Studios
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9876231-5-7
www.ashleycapes.com
Published by Close-Up Books
Melbourne, Australia
The Amber Isle
Book of Never
One
Ashley Capes
Chapter 1.
The drunk blocked most of the firelight in Petana’s only inn.
He staggered over to Never’s table. The man’s breath preceded him and it was not pleasant – in fact, nothing about the slob was. Some manner of bug leapt in his lank hair and his teeth were green stumps. Red-rimmed eyes squinted down at Never. A rather sharp-looking butcher’s cleaver hung from the man’s belt.
So much for getting a good night’s sleep somewhere warm.
“You’re sitting in my seat, stranger,” the drunk said.
Never lowered his cup. “Good to know.”
The man blinked and a frown formed. He placed his knuckles on the scuffed table; Never glanced away. Half the patrons of the Petana inn were on their feet. Talk of war in the south, of how one of the village cows had gone to giving sour milk, of bad weather coming – all of it stopped. Never sighed inwardly. Don’t do it, fellow. Please. If things got out of hand, the man might die. And despite the drunk’s demeanour, Never didn’t truly want that.
Futile.
The man leant forward and the stench of his breath thickened the air. Somehow, it was worse than the capital’s sewers. It also seemed something had died on the front of his tunic. “I said, you’re sitting in my seat. Move.”
“I’m really quite comfortable here; how about we share?”
His brow furrowed. Perhaps the man was unable to comprehend what was happening, how someone could refuse him. No doubt he was used to getting his way. Or at the very least, to people getting out of his way. Some of them fainting probably.
“Custom would suggest you get angry now,” Never offered.
“What?”
“Why don’t you sweep my drink from the table?” He smiled. “Or you could roar something obscene, that’s always fun.”
The drunkard finally realised he was being toyed with. He growled as he reached for his blade, raising it level with his face so it caught light from one of the torches. It did look wicked. “Last chance, funny-man.”
Never sighed. Another evening ruined – thanks to his own pig-headedness no doubt. Yet why couldn’t the drunk have chosen another time to stumble in? Just one night in a bed would have been enough.
And now this wreck of a man had ruined it.
One of the serving girls was gaping; spiced sausage and red peppers sliding to drip from her tray. Time to put an end to all the fuss. Never winked at her then whipped a knife free from beneath the table. He slapped the cleaver. The flat side of the weapon smacked the drunk in the face. The man blinked then dived forward with a growl.
Never had already slipped from the seat.
The slob crashed into the table, floundering and cursing. Never leapt onto the man’s back, eliciting a grunt, and grabbed a handful of greasy hair. He jerked the man’s head back with a grimace, placing his knife against an unshaven neck. Yet he did not draw blood; not if he could avoid it.
“You had to ruin things, didn’t you?”
“What?”
“Tell me, do you live here in the charming village of Petana then?”
“Get off me,” he gurgled.
“Don’t be a fool. Just tell me where you live and I’ll let you go.” Never glanced over his shoulder. The rest of the inn was standing now, men with hands by their own weapons and women with wide eyes – all save one woman in a green cloak with hood, who merely watched, arms folded. Curious. He addressed the crowd, pitching his voice to carry. “Worry not, good patrons, I will be swift. And because I’m feeling magnanimous – I won’t kill this poor wretch.” He wrinkled his nose and leant closer to the drunk. “Well, I probably won’t kill you, if you tell me where you live.”
He swore. “Why would I do that?”
Never kept his voice low. “Because you’ve laid waste to my plans so now I’m going to rob you when I leave – or perhaps I’ll kill you now and then rob you. You choose.”
“To the Burning Graves below with you.”
Never inched the knife in, drawing blood – just a trickle, but it was enough; his own blood stirred in response, veins bulging. Damn it. Always the same. Never gritted his teeth. No. None of that today. Or any other day, ever again, if he could help it. “Tell me.”
“Lone house. East end of the village.”
“Wonderful. Goodnight then.” He switched his hold to lock the man’s head in the crook of his elbow and applied pressure until the fellow went limp. Never stood back, hesitated. No way was he wiping grease on his own clothing. He found a relatively clear patch on the back of the man’s tunic to clean his hand. Gods, did the fellow bathe in slime? Never collected his pack from the splinters of the table and turned to the assembled folk of Petana.
“Is he alive?” The barman waved a skinny arm at a nearby patron. “Check him, Juan.” To Never he growled. “You wait there.”
A dark-bearded man rushed to the drunk, eyes narrowed. Muttering swelled – an unpleasant music indeed. A few men held weapons – mostly scythes or knives drawn from beneath tan robes with multi-coloured stripes. If he was feeling ungenerous, Never had to admit that the Marlosi fondness for colour sometimes cast them as somewhat child-like.
Irrational of him to think so, and there was certainly little child-like about their expressions. Or the steel they held.
“He breathes yet,” Never said. He moved toward the door and the barman stepped over to intercept. Never shook his head, pulling his cloak open to reveal a row of knives.
“Gum’s alive,” Juan announced.
“Fine,” the barman said. “Out with you then. Don’t want no trouble makers here anyway.”
“A pleasure.” Never strode from the common room and into the wind. The yellow glow from Petana’s windows didn’t penetrate too far into the night, and the dirt beneath his feet soon turned blue then black with shadow. Candlelight winked in about half of the homes he passed; the thatched rooves were unkempt hair touched with starlight, resting on squat heads thrusting up from the earth. The poetry of a village.
He was a fool for letting his temper get the better of him. At least none had died.
But Gum was still to pay for his belligerence.
He passed no-one on the street, pausing once to wrestle his cloak from a strong gust, then slowed at the edge of the village. A stand of trees encircled the southern end of Petana, beyond which lay the dark road that hopefully led to the coastline, but no lone house...unless...there, right against the trees.
A shack rather than a house, he decided upon reaching it. The roof was a nest of thatching; the door ajar. Never knelt in the entryway and removed the blue-stone from his pack. He rubbed it in his palms until warmth spread, a blue glow rising. “Wonderful.” He stood, took a breath and slipped inside.
Th
e shack reeked of old sweat and rotten food – even holding his breath it was a slap to the face. He sighed, switching to shallow breathing as he stepped over crumpled shirts on squeaking floorboards. The bed was a mound of...unpleasantness and the table featured a half-eaten meal on a broken plate. The pale-blue glow set congealed fat to glistening.
Nothing yet.
A second room looked to be a hasty addition, and held a tall, locked cupboard. Never set the blue-stone down and removed his lock picks from a vest pocket then set to work. The lock soon clicked.
Inside lay a shining breastplate and helm inlaid with the charging stallion insignia of the Marlosa Empire. So the slob had a respectable past. How far he had fallen. Next, Never lifted a heavy dagger in an ornate sheath worked with a Hero’s Seal. He gave a soft whistle. The weapon would have personally been awarded to Gum by the Empress. Before she was driven from her city anyway. Never removed the blade. Beautiful condition. He took the dagger itself but replaced the sheath with a shake of the head. Whatever the drunk had done to earn such an honour, he deserved its memory at least.
Especially when times for the Marlosi were destined to become harder still.
“Now for the stash of coin,” Never murmured. Surely there was one somewhere. Moving back into the first room, he placed the blue-stone on the table and stepped over to the bed. If only he had a nice pair of gloves. He lifted the mattress, pushing it against the wall.
A small pouch lay in the centre of the floor, its drawstring tied.
He smiled. “There you are.”
Light flickered and he spun, Gum’s knife in hand. A dark figure stood in the doorway, stars and the faint glow from the village behind, waiting just beyond the reach of his glowing stone. “What are you doing?” A woman’s voice.
Never chuckled. “Robbing the owner of this house, of course.”
“No you’re not.”
“No, I am.” He bent without taking his eye from the figure and retrieved the pouch, untying it with one hand and emptying most of the coins into an inner pocket in his cloak. He grinned. “See?” Then he dropped the pouch back into position, which gave a sad clink.
“Put that back.”
“My dear, I could never do that.”
She shifted, reaching behind her back. The thin outline of an arrow appeared against the starlight. The creak of a bowstring followed.
“Last chance.”
He kept his hands raised and moved slowly toward his blue-stone, collecting his pack. The archer’s silhouette tracked him. “And now I have to leave. Since the hospitality of Petana is so lacking, I have to find a nice ditch to spend the night in.”
“I can thread your eye from here.” Her voice was hard but she sounded young.
He took a step closer. “You’re not a murderer, girl.”
“It’s not murder if I kill a thief. It’s a service.” She paused. “And I’m not a girl.”
“Very well, ‘young lady’, perhaps? Let’s say twenty summers or so?” He took another step and raised the stone. Her arrow was knocked and the bow at half-draw. Pale hands held the weapon – not a local then, and not with those green eyes either. And her cloak was green too. The woman from the inn? Beneath her cloak she wore a light blue tunic with no insignia, rank or sword. Not a Vadiya soldier either – how they hated everyone not knowing exactly their rank and family.
“Stop moving.”
He paused. What was that accent in her command? “Do people mistake you for the invaders?”
“How do you know I’m not Vadiyem?”
“Because your accent isn’t right for Vadiya.” Never shrugged. “In any event, I have to leave. People are following me and they’ll catch up sooner or later.” One more step and the arrow was inches from his chest. “Could you please move aside?”
“No. I’m keeping you here.”
“Not providing a service anymore?” He softened his voice. “Come now, we both know that if you were going to kill me, you’d have done it instead of announcing yourself.”
She drew the string to full stretch. “Sure about that?”
“Are you sure I care either way?”
She frowned.
Never put gentle pressure on the arrow, moving the bow aside. She let him, though her jaw was locked. Her expression wavered between frustration and curiosity. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Killing in cold blood cuts both ways. Let me pass, you’re not ready.”
“Damn you.” She finally stepped aside.
“Thank you.” Never slipped out of the shack and into the trees.
Chapter 2.
The road that led to the coast wound through the trees, and Never kept a parallel course with it. The wood grew deeper than he’d expected – one of the joys of being new to a place. Although, if he were honest, the northern reaches of the soon-to-be-former Marlosa Empire weren’t all that different from its golden plains, weeks behind him now.
This part of the nation simply possessed more trees.
And brambles for his cloak.
The plains had harboured the same worried people, same stories of war and death chasing them up the roads. He’d passed refugees in straw hats and coloured robes, burdened by carts as they fled invaders from Vadiya or recruiters for the Marlosa resistance. Sometimes it was Empire soldiers, their bright breastplates flashing beneath a summer sun, charging by on sweating horses. Deserting the front line he was sure. Three months of fighting and no gains, the Imperial City occupied and the Sistina River under enemy control, it was a losing battle.
At least those few fools fleeing realised it.
Never paused; the joy of night – all that troublesome shadow blocking his view. Even with a risen moon, the path proved difficult to follow. His boots still slid across piles of damp leaves but at least he didn’t fall. Judging how far he had yet to travel was impossible, but it was probably a fair time to rest.
He slowed when the path fed into a small clearing. The Vadiya Steelhawks would still be half a day behind. More. Making camp was safe enough. He rubbed at his back. Gods knew he needed to rest. How many days running now? Eighteen?
Never cleared a space on the ground the dug with his blunt knife until he had a fire pit. He paused then. A rustle of leaves? He eyed the shadows between trees. Nothing. He gathered kindling, started a fire and sat before it as water boiled in his small pot. Herbs followed and then just a sprinkle of crushed batena taken from a tiny cloth bag.
The rare fruit was more sour than sweet but it would do the job; giving sustenance where little else was available from his dwindling supplies. And it meant less cooking – usually quite the chore. When the pot boiled, he moved it off the heat and poured the liquid into a battered tin cup, then warmed his hands around it. Embers popped while he waited for the brew to cool.
His first sip widened his eyes; that was the batena, but it didn’t last. Each mouthful gave less of a spark but it sated his hunger at least.
Another sound from the trees – only a rising wind. It stirred the flames then died away. He was jumping at ghosts. No-one from Petana would have bothered to follow him. Not the villagers and not the girl. If she had truly meant to kill him, she’d have done so back at Gum’s house. And the Steelhawks were disciplined but slow; all those weapons held them back. They wouldn’t be so close. If he could keep ahead, he’d soon be sailing to the Amber Isle and whatever answers it held. If it truly did hold answers. Never grimaced, throwing twigs at the flames. Over the years, so few clues had borne answers. No rumour, no library, no mystic; no-one knew what he was. No-one knew the truth of his origins.
Curse or blessing?
His brother would have called it a blessing. Never knew better. It was not a curse in the traditional sense. No, it was simply a part of him, and it kept him alive even as he hated it.
Footfalls approached.
Never dr
opped the cup and stood, a knife in each hand as he backed toward the edge of the clearing. Did he have time to –
Two figures burst from the path with shouts. In the flickering firelight it was hard to take their measure as they spread out. He kept his blades ready. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Save it, cursed one.” The first voice was raspy, the hard edges of a Vadiya accent clear. So, they’d found him. Surprising. And quite inconvenient.
“Keep your distance, it might be catching.” Never grinned.
The ring of steel being drawn crossed the camp as both men stepped closer, revealing pale faces. One was a typical Vadiya soldier – armed with sword, and chain mail visible beneath his grey tunic. The other was something else. He twitched as he moved. He wore no shirt, carried no weapon, just heavy gauntlets.
“Planning to beat me to death, then?”
The bare-chested man said nothing, but the soldier spat. “Commander Harstas sends ill wishes.”
“Delightful. Care to send a message back?”
The man did not answer. Never shifted his feet for balance. Time to even things up. He flipped Gum’s knife, caught it by the point and threw. The blade flashed in the firelight as it spun, but the soldier deflected it with his sword. Impressive in such poor light.
Never frowned. He drew another knife. Both men were more than they seemed. Two of the commander’s best perhaps – or the most hasty? They circled apart. Trouble. The shirtless one drew level with the fire-pit and Never hesitated. The man had scratched himself somewhere in the trees, a thin line of blood running along his pale shoulder.
Blood in Never’s own veins pulsed.
No.
And yet, things were about to get very dangerous indeed.
Never growled a curse and charged. Do it. Get it over and done with. This was the last time. He wasn’t going to die here, not when he was so close to the coast, so close to answers. One blade he flung at the soldier, forcing the man to leap aside; the other knife Never used to slice his own hand. He ducked inside the shirtless man’s strike, ignoring the pain in his palm, and slapped his bleeding hand over his enemy’s wound.