The Forever King Read online

  This book is a work of fiction, but some works of fiction contain perhaps more truth than first intended, and therein lies the magic.

  – Anonymous

  Copyright © Ben Galley 2020

  The right of Ben Galley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used, edited, transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), or reproduced in any manner without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews or articles. It may not be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the Publisher’s permission.

  Permission can be obtained through www.bengalley.com.

  All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. And weird.

  Kindle Edition

  FKEB1

  First Edition 2020

  ISBN: 978-1-8381625-1-1

  Published by BenGalley.com

  Cover Design by Pen Astridge

  Original Illustration by Ben Galley

  Map Illustration by Ben Galley

  About the Author

  Ben Galley is a British author of dark and epic fantasy books who currently hails from Victoria, Canada. Since publishing his debut Emaneska Series, Ben has released a range of epic and dark fantasy novels, including the award-winning weird western Bloodrush and standalone novel The Heart of Stone. He is also the author of the critically-acclaimed Chasing Graves Trilogy.

  When he isn’t conjuring up strange new stories or arguing the finer points of magic and dragons, Ben enjoys exploring the Canadian wilds and sipping Scotch single malts, and will forever and always play a dark elf in The Elder Scrolls. One day he hopes to live in an epic treehouse in the mountains.

  Ben can be found on Twitter or vlogging on YouTube @BenGalley, or loitering on Facebook and Instagram @BenGalleyAuthor. You can also get a free Emaneska short story by signing up to The Guild at www.bengalley.com.

  OTHER BOOKS BY BEN GALLEY

  THE EMANESKA SERIES

  The Written

  Pale Kings

  Dead Stars – Part One

  Dead Stars – Part Two

  The Written Graphic Novel

  THE SCARLET STAR

  TRILOGY

  Bloodrush

  Bloodmoon

  Bloodfeud

  THE CHASING GRAVES

  TRILOGY

  Chasing Graves

  Grim Solace

  Breaking Chaos

  STANDALONES/SHORTS

  The Heart of Stone

  Shards

  No Fairytale

  For Dan

  THE FOREVER KING

  SCALUSSEN CHRONICLES BOOK ONE

  By Ben Galley

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Imperial Map of Emaneska

  Of What Has Come Before

  Part One: Hollow Peace

  1. Of Wolves & Daemons

  2. The Wreck

  3. Broken Things

  4. The Price of Magick

  5. The Coldest Morning

  6. Of Beasts & Rebels

  7. Kindling

  8. The Winter’s Revenge

  9. The Hunted

  10. Chaos Sound

  11. Skin in the Game

  12. A War to End All

  Part Two: Revenge Loves Company

  13. True Magick

  14. Some Wounds Never Heal

  15. A City Called Scalussen

  16. Mistakes Most Dire

  17. Old Man Grey

  18. A Different Kind

  19. King’s Problems

  20. Dark Council

  21. Antithesis

  22. Death & Glory

  Part Three: Shadow’s Rage

  23. Warbringer

  24. The Beginning of the End

  25. A Battle Joined

  26. The Craft of Killing

  27. Reaping & Sowing

  28. Abomination

  29. What Rises, Falls

  30. The Death of Mercy

  31. Extant

  32. Foul Hands

  33. A Wretch in Silk

  34. Repercussions

  35. Masks

  36. Hope’s Embers

  Epilogue

  More Books

  All books by Ben Galley

  Imperial Map of Emaneska, commissioned year 913

  Of What Has Come Before

  While this account of The Forever King is the start of the Scalussen Chronicles and a new tale entirely, its beginnings are rooted in the Emaneska Series. The Forever King is set after the events of the Emaneska Series, and thus, some outcomes of that epic tale may be hinted at or discussed in this book. Effort has been made to ensure readers who are entering the savage world of Emaneska for the first time can do so through The Forever King. If you, dear reader, have any concerns, begin with The Written, the first of four books in the Emaneska Series.

  For those returning to this winter-laden land, well met and good wishes to you. You will find a brief history lesson below. Be warned: the world is not as you left it.

  A NOTE FROM DURNUS GLASSREN, ESTEEMED SCHOLAR, MAGE, AND GENERAL

  YEAR 874

  The world of Emaneska once enjoyed an age bereft of war. The Skölgard Empire kept to their borders. The Siren dragon-riders held a fragile peace with the south. The Arka and the dutiful arkmages saw to the governance of the use and trade of magick across the lands.

  YEAR 889

  Betrayal and murder changed everything. A simple theft of a spellbook set in motion a cascade of events that irreparably eroded the Arka’s power. The Written mage known as Farden, previously hailed as the Hero of Efjar, was found to be the architect of the Arka’s demise, a traitor of the highest calibre. With Farden at large, the Skölgard emperor took up the mantle of the Arka dominion, appointing the sole surviving arkmage, Vice, as his vassal king.

  YEAR 890

  In the years that followed, the Arka not only grew in power, but rotted from within. To restore the Arka’s glory and stop its power consuming the rest of Emaneska, Farden led a bold invasion of the capital, Krauslung, with the help of the Sirens and Albion dukes. Though they were victorious, the cost was overwhelming. Farden consequently vanished into the Albion wilderness, beginning a hunt for the lost and fabled armour of the Nine, worn by the folkloric Knights of Scalussen.

  YEAR 890-905

  Once again governed by fair and just figureheads, a wise scholar and a mage, the Arka flourished in the vacuum of the Skölgard Empire. As did its enemies. An unknown force began to hunt down the remaining Written mages and long-dead daemons began to reappear in Emaneska, sowing discontent amongst the Arka. At the gods’ behest, it once again fell to Farden to lead the defence against these most ancient of enemies.

  YEAR 905

  So began the Last War: a single battle of last hopes and brave effort. Its outcome reverberated through Emaneska, a bitter wind that changed the world forever. The heroes of the Arka returned to Krauslung to find themselves vilified, branded enemies of peace, and exiled by the new ruler: the opportunistic Malvus Barkhart. Unwanted, Farden and his remnant forces disappeared into the Bern Sea.

  YEAR 906-9

  As the Long Winter faded and the first summer in decades brought warmth to Emaneska, Malvus united the fragmented kingdoms. Proclaiming himself emperor, he decried magick and declared it the root of all of Emaneska’s strife. The practice, use, and trade of magick was banned outright, and within years, the Arka dominion appeared to be a blessing of peace upon
Emaneska.

  The rebellion in the north, led by the traitorous Outlaw King, would disagree. Though the empire would have its citizens believe him a myth, his name is whispered in alleyways, painted on city walls. To most, it is a curse word, but there are those to whom that name is a beacon of hope. They know him by a different title:

  The Forever King.

  PART ONE

  HOLLOW PEACE

  CHAPTER 1

  OF WOLVES & DAEMONS

  The Spine of the World has Roots, and in those Roots burn the molten fires of the old giant. Burned forever, they have, and they will burn forever more.

  FROM AN OLD SCALUSSEN SCROLL FOUND IN THE WRECKAGE OF THE HJAUSSFEN LIBRARY

  YEAR 925

  A whimper. A garbled moan of a half-prayer to an absent god. That was the sum total of the last words the woman was allowed before the noose slid tight against her pallid neck.

  ‘The price of dallying with magick and disobeying the emperor’s decree is death,’ intoned the mage who stood alone upon that wretched stage with the condemned. His words lacked grandeur or ceremony. They wore the blunt edge of rehearsal. Bored, the mage sounded, and in that sense, callous, as were the shrieks of the rusted lever, the cruel clatter of the trapdoor, and the gap of silence before the woman met the scant limits of the noose with a jerk. The crowd cheered the snap of rope, applauding the limp convulsing of another heretic. Another traitor for Hel’s clutches. The eyes of their children were not shielded; they were teased open so they could witness justice served before them. The price of magick. The parents sneered proudly as if the woman were a prize trout on a line. It did not seem to matter that her crime was as inconsequential as owning a faintly charmed heirloom.

  The noose was knotted mercifully. The condemned did not suffer, as others had on those squat gallows. Rent the Hoary dangled choking for three hours straight before they had to pull on his legs.

  With a last twitching gulp, the woman began her lonely walk to the goddess of death and her golden scales. Cheated of a grotesque performance, the crowd complained with handfuls of rocks and rotten vegetables thrown through the damp morning air. Their aim was poor: a curse of hangovers and those who had cursed the cockerel’s crow. Only one struck the hanged, cutting the woman’s grey cheek. The rest of the jilted missiles collided with the gallows or tumbled across the ground. With empty hands and the body hanging still in the breeze, the ennui set in rapidly.

  Like autumn leaves, the people drifted and scattered back to their homes and empty tankards. A single figure was left standing before the dead. His hands were thrust in pockets, his hood draped low. Lips taut and shoulders drooped, he tore his gaze away from the corpse and trudged in the direction of distraction.

  The gnarled coin slid across the marble with a banshee’s screech. Heads turned. Eyes glowered. The quiet tavern went back to its murmuring conversation and idle slurping of ale.

  ‘By the empire, you got a nerve, stranger,’ said the barkeep, who rubbed furiously at an imaginary scratch on the white stone. ‘You should have a care. Don’t you know where this marble came from?’

  ‘A quarry?’ the hooded stranger took a guess.

  ‘Yes. Well.’ The barkeep harrumphed. ‘At one point, I s’pose.’ He spread his fingers across the marble as if he were the very craftsman who had hewn it from the earth. ‘This marble,’ he breathed, wafting a delightful mix of pipe smoke and garlic in his patron’s face. ‘This marble came from the shattered Arkathedral itself, from the broken floor of the Marble Copse when it was ruined by the Outlaw King’s traitorous attack on Krauslung. This here stone is sacred ground, I tell you.’

  As half-hearted booing came from the nearby drinkers, the barkeep thumped his fist into his palm in agreement. ‘I bought it from a fat Manesmark stonemason and had it carried here on the backs of minotaur slaves.’

  ‘That’s some distance.’

  The barkeep swelled proudly. His ruddy face creased to make way for a smile. ‘That it is. It took two months and we left a share of marauders’ corpses behind us, but here it lies in the Patchwork Cat: a testament to the everlasting power of the Blazing Throne. Perhaps even trodden upon by the emperor himself!’

  ‘To Arka’s glory!’ cried a man lost in the crowd of drinkers. Appreciative echoes washed through the tavern. The drunker fellows clanged their tankards.

  The stranger showed off his teeth. ‘Incredible,’ he replied, speaking loudly for all to hear. ‘And here it lies, destined to have stew and ale slopped across it for decades to come. How fitting.’

  Before rising from his stool, he watched the barkeep’s proud smile fade like snow in a spring sun. A brooding silence fell. Ignoring the stares, the man sought out a table by a fireplace instead, eager to burn off the cloying cold of the road, to lose himself in the peaceful crackle of flames.

  The stranger sighed wearily as he propped an ice-rimmed boot up on a stool. By the whispers turning to angry mutters, he could feel his comment gestating into an insult in the minds around him. He cared little. He simply waited and enjoyed what peace and quiet he was allowed.

  It lasted exactly three sips of his murky kelp ale.

  Tankards clanked on tabletops. Chair legs squeaked. Boots clomped upon the boards until three burly townsmen stood between the man and his fire.

  ‘What was it you said?’ one asked.

  The man studied them over the rim of his tankard. Two looked to be brothers, one of whom had clearly received a larger serving of handsome and height than his sibling. Both had cauliflower ears and bushy blonde beards. The third, their self-appointed spokesman, was a weathered and wiry fellow. A bowl of black, greasy hair draped over his ears and cheeks. All of them typical Hâlorn brutes: too young in the head, never mind how many years stride past them, and with little else to do but brawling.

  It was plain this had nothing to do with speaking ill of the empire. That was merely a convenient banner to fly. An excuse to scratch the itch of violence. The man could see it in the ripcords in their neck; the way they tensed beneath their leather and hide tunics. A fight had been predetermined no matter his response. He smiled politely.

  ‘I don’t recall saying anything to you.’

  The wiry chap already had his words nocked and loaded. ‘What did you say just then,’ bout Leerol’s marble? You said somethin’ and we wants to know what it was.’

  The man took his time. Another sip of ale, another sigh. ‘I said, “And here it lies, destined to have stew and ale slopped across it for decades to come. How fitting.” Now, what I meant by that was—’

  One of the brutes kicked the stool from under the man’s boot, causing ale to slop onto his sleeve.

  ‘We know what you meant, old man.’

  ‘Old? That stings.’ The man slid back his sleeve to wipe the ale away, showing off scarlet and gold armour around his wrists. ‘Then aside from exercising your general dislike of stools and spilling my drink, what is it that you want?’

  ‘You insulted the emperor,’ replied the wiry fellow, omitting more than one syllable. ‘You don’t just get to speak treachery and get away with it.’

  Though conversation had but one outcome, the man had a casual interest in seeing how deep their rabbit-hole of stupidity went. ‘Did I, though?’ he retorted. ‘If anything, I merely told… Leerol, was it? I told barkeep Leerol there that perhaps his reverence of the empire was misplaced in utilising such a fine piece of marble to serve such a functional – and let’s be honest – messy purpose.’

  The brothers looked between them as though the man had just spoken in Paraian. The one with the black hair fumed. His right eye twitched. ‘You sound Krauslung but you don’t look it. Don’t act it. You act all foreign.’

  Irritable growls of agreement sounded. More tankards clanked. The whole tavern watched on. All of them wore the same indignant yet leering scowl. The morning had cheated the townspeople of blood. They could taste it now in the tavern air.

  The man swirled his hands. ‘And therefore I am you
r enemy without question. I see.’ He paused to drain his tankard, knowing it might be a while until his next. ‘If I could offer one small piece of advice. One day, sometime soon, you should try thinking for yourselves instead of regurgitating the same old shit your beloved empire feeds you.’

  The disloyalty was so barefaced it took a moment for it to make sense in the patrons’ addled minds. The tavern erupted, incensed. Wild-eyed, the wiry thug let out an almost gleeful cry as he seized the man by his cloak’s collar. His stupidity sealed his fate.

  The stranger drove the empty pewter tankard into the thug’s cheek. The weak metal crumpled under the force of the blow, driving sharp edges into vital places. Blood spurted. The fool howled but, to his credit, he did not let up his grip. A brisk kick to the groin from an armoured shin dislodged him for good and he fell writhing.

  The brothers tried their best, throwing a few haymaking punches that were all too easy to avoid. As they tottered with momentum, the man broke a stool against the scrawnier brother’s back. He was barged into the fireplace, striking his skull on the lintel with a fateful crunch before collapsing onto the flaming logs. He moved not a muscle.

  In the panic, the larger brother managed to land a meaty blow to the man’s stomach, but all that could be heard was wrist and knuckle bones snapping against steel. His roar of pain was strangled short as the man seized him by the throat and pinned him to a tabletop. To the horror of everybody present, blue lightning erupted from the stranger’s armoured hand. The brute quivered like a pennant in a gale while smoke and sparks fired from his gawping mouth. The foul smell of pork seeped.

  In the stunned silence that followed, as the stranger adjusted his collar and hood he wondered if the townsfolk had the smarts to stay put, or if they were the truly brainless kind and would challenge him further. His work was done, no more bloodshed was required. Judging by the fearful looks of the remainder of the tavern, they were in utter agreement.