The Usurper
James Alderdice
The Usurper Copyright 2020 James Alderdice
Digital formatting by: Hershel Burnside
Cover by Damonza
Map by Anna Stansfield
Interior illustrations: Three of Fornir by Nikki Rossignol
Swords by Mathias West
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owners and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Some names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously others are historical and used for entertainments sake. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
LOST REALMS PRESS
The World of the Usurper King
For My Muse
Chapters
Prologue: Tell Me The Tale
The Usurper 1. Word of Weird
The North Way
The Usurper 2. A Princes Proposition
Savage Mercy
The Usurper 3. Banners In The Wind
The Deed Beyond The Deed
The Usurper 4. Born Under A Bad Sign
The God From The Pit
The Usurper 5. Stalker From The Shadows
The Great Unifier
The Usurper 6. Covenant Of The Scalp
Voice Of The Ancients
The Usurper 7. Last Throw Of The Dice
Dance of the Seven Sabers
The Usurper 8. Follow the Phantom Drums
Legacy Of The Cloud Eaters
The Usurper 9. Barbarians At The Gate
The Blood Red Crown
The Usurper 10. Day Of The Lion
Epilogue: A King’s Obligation
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The Present…
Prologue: Tell Me The Tale
Gathelaus stood against the notched barbican and looked out over the night-covered city. A smoke-filled sky turned the moon scarlet and its wicked cold light made the towers and citadels along the outer wall gleam redly like the spires of a splattered and bloody crown. His crown.
The palace was now his home, though he wasn’t yet used to the wide-open spaces of the interior halls that echoed with each step, nor the cavernous chambers where the ceilings were dark as a night of blotted out stars; even outside the fountains, fragrant gardens and fruit trees surrounded by tiled brick didn’t seem altogether real. The servants within the palace appeared even more artificial with their bizarre caste system and rigid demeanor. Gathelaus could accept that they had no say in who ruled them, and that they were used to nobles with pompous attitudes and set schedules of decorum and tradition all bound together by haughty indulgences. He was but a barbarian from the outlands, now a seemingly cruel commander who had destroyed the old order and replaced the cultured aristocrats with sword-wielding barbarians. His brothers in arms of course.
There would be no changing the servants dismal view of him, at least not for years he imagined. If he chose to even keep them. At least the common folk seemed to welcome him. So long as he could retain his grip on the fractured kingdom this rich land was his, though he knew all too well that life has a way of surprising you. It would take vigilance to survive the year. Already in the last few days, less-than-professional assassins had made clumsy attempts on his life. Being good with a sword is most useful for kings with enemies lurking in every shadow and haunted corner. Being the best in the land is a godsend.
Somewhere down the corridor, a trio of women from the former king’s seraglio hissed like alley cats at one another. There was a brief clatter of struggle, the stinging sounds of a pair of sharp slaps, a wilted gasp and cry, then the hush of feet hurrying away. He could tell that the winner of the argument was coming his way.
Gathelaus heard the soft skip of her footfalls behind him. He remained at the overlook but watched her from the corner of his eye over his shoulder. She wore a gossamer gown over a golden girdle. It complimented her long auburn hair. Her silken slippers created the delicate pad of her feet over the white and black marble tiles; while the golden bracelets upon her wrists gently clinked like chimes in the wind.
“What was that about?” he asked, sternly.
“I was asserting my place, my Lord.”
He chuckled to himself. “The only reason I haven’t kicked you all out of the palace is because I know that you have nowhere else to go. And I’ll not see more people suffer than is necessary.”
“Yes, my Lord. My thanks, my Lord.”
Gathelaus faced her. “I remember you. You have my thanks. What is your name?”
“I am called Tiara by the court.” She hesitated a long moment. “But my given name was Melisandre, before I was claimed by king Forlock.”
Gathelaus snorted in derision at the former king. “Melisandre then, despite what you may think. I don’t keep slaves, nor the harem of my enemies. If you could roam free and return home, then do so. Nothing is keeping you here.”
She looked away but said, “I think I am from the far side of Dyzantium, but do not know for sure. I was very young when I was brought here. I have no other home and know no other master.”
He nodded at that. “Then you may stay, but I do not need company. I need folk to help rebuild the nation.”
“I was trained with only one skill, my Lord.”
He looked at her suspiciously.
“I am a court dramatist. A storyteller,” she said. “True, I did service the king, but that was his choice not mine.”
“You’re a bard?” he asked.
“I have studied the classics of many nations but I’m afraid I’m not much of a singer. I recite epic poems and such.”
He nodded. “Always good to hear the days of yore I suppose.”
“Then I shall be pleased to perform at your leisure,” she said.
“Perhaps later.”
She stepped closer. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You have but to ask. I bear no great secrets,” he said.
“My Lord, why do they call you the Usurper?” she asked, extending her pale white arms around his thick shoulders, the golden bangles about her wrists clacking dully against his dented armor. He was strong and built like a gladiator. More than a dozen scars crisscrossed his face, stubbled chin and brow in varying white streaks that stood out bold from his bronzed skin and dark hair.
“As if you don’t know,” he answered, as much with his penetrating eyes as words. He took hold of her arms and forced them down and away. “I will not be toyed with.”
“I am sorry, old habits.” She blushed. “I do want to know though, truly.”
“Ask any of the servants then, but do not play games with me. I warn you.”
“The other women in the seraglio have told me, yes, but I want to hear it from your own lips,” she cooed. “I’ve not heard you deny nor denounce the term. And as a storyteller, I like when I can be a witness to history in the making.”
“The history is already made then. I am here and Forlock is dead.”
She stood back a pace now and quested at him with sparkling hazel eyes. “But I would like to hear your whole story. How you came to be the man who made himself a king by his own hand.”
> “Is that why you chased the others off?” He raised a suspicious eyebrow at her.
She attempted to nuzzle into him once more and for a moment he didn’t think she really wanted an answer. But she persisted, “I do want you for myself, but tell me in your own words. I can tell you aren’t insulted by it.” She curled a lock of auburn hair out of her face in a come-hither manner.
“I wouldn’t let words hurt me,” he said, as he eased her back and away gently.
“So, tell me,” she prodded.
“It’s a long story.”
“We have all the time in the world,” she said, taking hold of a golden decanter full of purple wine and offering him a goblet.
Gathelaus couldn’t argue the point, so he sat in an ornate chair and took a drink from the golden decanter. “I’ve been many things in my time, an untested youth in the clan wars on the western coasts of Vjorn where the ice meets volcanic rock, an adventurer in the north where the legends of frozen gods are hidden and the wild Picts make war under a pale moon. I’ve been a reaver in the far eastern jungles of Bhustan, and an assassin in the southern desert lands of Mohasag. I was a sellsword for hire marching over the burning sands of Kathul and finally company commander of the famed Sellsword’s leading the siege on various warring city-states. One of the last assignments I agreed to for the company brought me hither, back to the land of my birth.”
“So it was destiny,” she said eagerly.
He shook his shaggy head. “Hardly. I don’t believe in destiny, but if fortune is placed in my path, I will not refuse it.”
“The crown was in your path?” she teased.
Gathelaus paused a long moment. Had the three sisters been right? Was this all fulfilling a cosmic game of the gods; were they dicing with his life even now? Surprise and danger could always come from anywhere, anyone. Was the wine poisoned? Did the doting voluptuous girl hide a dagger somewhere in her girdle. Nay, they had drunk the wine for some time now and his trusted men still watched from the shadows, and the girl wore scanty enough clothing to conceal any weapon outside of her own charms.
“My lord?” quested Melisandre, probing for an answer and disturbing his reverie. “Was it prophecy?”
Gathelaus looked at her and said, “No. Some have claimed to divine such events, but I think that wise guesses have been just as true as the soothsayers. I have fought for what I have and won. I just as easily could have lost everything when gambling with a sword.”
“You have won me,” she proclaimed, letting herself fall into his lap. Wine splashed across his shoulder and upon the white marble floor.
It looked like blood.
“Tell me the tale,” she said as she reclined her face upon palm and rested her elbow on the chair’s armrest.
Gathelaus considered tossing her from his lap, but he honestly liked her. “Where to begin?” he asked, lost in the supernal moment of time.
“Anywhere you like,” she replied with a wink. “I want to hear it all.”
Twenty days earlier…
The Usurper 1. Word of Weird
Thunder rolled and a hard rain fell on the Sellsword’s like the crashing of foaming steins from drunken gods. Gods that battled, laughed, loved and roared in a frenzy of blinding white lightning and black terrible winds. The Gods of the North.
Gathelaus and the Sellsword’s lieutenants found shelter beneath a great oak, sacred to that most wonderous god, likely the same one pissing on them even now—Votan. But no need to be angry with him for the trespass, for hadn’t he deigned to give them shelter beneath his own sacred oak tree? It was huge with gnarled limbs like a storm giant reaching skyward to Valhol. Its many clustered leaves staved off the rain and the men huddled closely while another set of warriors kept watch on either side of the perimeter facing the enemy encampment. A longer picket of the Sellsword regulars were watching the enemy arrayed for several miles in each direction. Gathelaus was chief captain of the company and commanded from this centermost position.
They lit a fire careful not to damage the sacred tree. The blaze was smoky and took some time to get going in the wet. At least the smoke cut at the smell of damp rot from the river bottom that hung about like an unwelcome caller.
They had fought all day against the best forces that Prince Roose of Vjorn could muster. This was an appallingly bloody border skirmish between two evenly matched powers. But they were only matched because a large contingent of mercenaries facing the Vjornish host were themselves—Northmen, Danelanders and Vjornish born sons at that. They lived to fight.
In times of peace, the Northmen would sell themselves out as mercenaries all over the world and in this case, Gathelaus was chief captain of the famed Sellsword’s and had been paid by the Duke of Derenz to enforce his will and lay claim to the disputed border reaches with Vjorn.
Upon the Vjornish side, the formidable Prince Roose had been dispatched by King Forlock to impose their claims. He came with three thousand warriors to face off against nine hundred men of the Sellsword’s and perhaps two thousand of Derenz’s less than stellar troops.
The beginning of the trouble with Border-lands was that it was divided by the Tyrian river, which was forever changing its course, snaking back and forth over the wide valley and each nation wished to hold as much land as possible in this troubled area.
It was indeed as fertile as anywhere on earth and even called a holy site by both peoples. Gathelaus suspected that was because of how much it was continually baptized in blood. He was lost in thought beside the tree, when they received company twice that evening.
A cook for the company named Gustal carried a steaming pot and held a makeshift umbrella. He put the umbrella down once he reached the safety of the trees cover. He then took the lid from the pot and dipped his ladle in as the men gathered with their kit.
He stirred it a few times, staring absently into the stew pot. “Someone is coming,” he said with a strange look upon his face.
“From where,” asked Niels.
“Behind us.”
The men glanced behind toward the swamp but saw no one in the gloomy downpour.
“Is he dreaming?” asked Jolly. “I can’t see anyone. And I was just back there gathering more wood.”
They watched attentive for a long moment then a grey shape materialized like clay on a potter’s wheel just on the borders of their perception.
“Someone is coming,” said Niels.
Jolly dropped his load of firewood and picked up a spear.
“It’s not a messenger from the Duke is it?” asked Thorne. The big dark-haired man, stepped into the rain, watching. His vision was not so keen as Niels. He held a shield and bearded axe at the ready.
“No, go easy,” answered Niels. “It’s just a boy.”
This caught Gathelaus’s attention. He had been warming his hands over the fire and keeping a wary eye on the enemy’s torches out across the vale in the opposite direction.
“Is it a messenger?” asked Thorne.
“Doubtful,” answered Jolly. “Who would come in this cursed weather?”
“Unless it’s a lost shepherd,” said Niels. “Here boy. This way. What news?” he called.
The boy walked straight toward them with purpose. He was young, no more than ten summers old and acted oblivious of the cold rain.
As he neared, they could see that he was thin, pale and sickly looking like he lived underground and supped on roots and grubs. They wondered if he was a beggar.
In return, he would have seen a motley collection of warriors, all wearing well-used armor from across the face of the world. One wore the scaled links from oriental Sen-Toku while brandishing a long spear. The tallest one who had stepped out into the rain to spot him held a tower shield and mighty axe, daggers were thrust into his belt, and his crimson stained mail, was clearly doused in blood that was not his own. The one who had spoken, held a bow and arrow. The final one standing beside the fire and tree, had two swords of differing makes and wore a helm with short bull horns
on each side. It made him look most monstrous of all.
“I have a message for Gathelaus, chief captain of the Sellsword’s,” said the boy in a high-pitched squeak.
“Who is this message from?” asked Thorne.
“The gods,” answered the boy.
The warriors looked to one another in surprise.
“Who sends you this message to give me boy?” asked Gathelaus stepping forward. “For you look like no seer.”
“Who does?” said Niels, as he smacked a hand across Gustal’s shoulder. The cook gulped.
The boy dully shook his shaven head. “I am not. The witch Norn sent me to find you. She alone can hear the gods speak and wished for me to fetch you to come and hear their words.”
Gathelaus rubbed at his jaw, pondering the boy. He seemed earnest. “Where is she?”
“Her home is along the river, there,” answered the boy pointing back toward their own defensive lines. “She lives on an island in the middle of the swamp. It is an hours walk from here.”
“Sounds like a trap,” said Thorne.
“Do you think Prince Roose could sneak behind our lines to ambush me in a swamp that we surround?”
Thorne’s jawline twisted. “No. But…”
Gathelaus turned to the boy. “I’ll come and see what she has to say.”
“Follow me then,” said the boy, turning back into the rain and heading toward the river bottoms and the encroaching fog.
“I’ll come with you,” said Jolly.
Gathelaus nodded at that and the two of them set out after the boy.
“What if Roose decides to attack while you are gone?” asked Niels.
“Kill them, like we have been,” said Gathelaus with a chuckle.
***
The boy was exact in his estimation of the time to walk to the witches’ hut. Gathelaus gauged that it was near an hour and they had traveled perhaps two miles into the marshy swamp.
The Usurper Page 1
