The Usurper

by James Alderdice

  “I see a light,” said Jolly.

  Ahead they saw through the curling fog a small thatch hut with one glowing window. It was almost three hundred strides away. Smoke rose from the chimney like a twisting unwholesome vine.

  “He should wait here,” said the boy, pointing at Jolly. “Their words are for you alone.”

  Jolly made as if to protest, but Gathelaus stilled him. “If they meant to murder me in subterfuge there would have been a dozen good places already. I think this is safe.”

  Jolly shook his head in disbelief.

  “I can’t explain it, but I feel it is all right, Roger,” answered Gathelaus, using Jolly’s real name. He shook his friends’ hand and followed the boy. The mist flowed all around him as they walked the final steps.

  When they reached the doorway, the boy said, “You know the way back do you not?”

  “I do,” answered Gathelaus.

  The boy nodded and walked directly into the swamp water and disappeared under the murk.

  Gathelaus was taken aback. The boy did have a grey pallor about him, but he thought he was perhaps just sickly not a changeling or worse. He watched the fetid pool a moment until a trio of voices inside bid him enter.

  “Come inside, Gathelaus the Sellsword.”

  “Gathelaus the Usurper.”

  “Gathelaus the King.”

  Each title of his was spoken by it seemed a slightly different voice. He warily poked his head through the door and saw three women sitting about a great cauldron. The firelight danced upon their faces and while they were all wholly different by age, they each looked like the same women at different cycles of life. Here was a young one, almost pretty in a unkempt way. Then next looked like her mother, middle aged and just beginning to grey. The third was an ancient and wrinkled crone.

  “You called me by two names that are not mine,” he said. “But I am Gathelaus the Sellsword. And you,” he looked to the crone, “Are the witch Norn?”

  The old woman cracked a smile, at least with the teeth she had left.

  The maiden spoke, “We three sisters are the witch Norn, all of us. Together.”

  Gathelaus looked at them dubiously.

  The mother figure said, “We three are indeed sisters, though you may not think us so. But our message for you Gathelaus Usurper is indeed true.”

  “That is not my name.”

  The crone cackled. “We know you mighty swordsman. Gathelaus the king. We have seen your fate.”

  Gathelaus rebuked her, “No fate but what we make.”

  “We know what you will make,” challenged the mother, as she made a sword-like motion chopping with her arm at an imaginary head.

  Gathelaus said, “A man’s character is his fate, no blind destiny foretold by stars and mummers.”

  The maiden said, “Like the light of the sun, the energy of the planets too touches and shapes our world even if our human eyes cannot see those strands.”

  “The universe is vast, but it is all one,” chimed in the mother. “Like a spiders web, it is connected, and forces can be felt far across the breadth of the web.”

  “The power moves and focuses. Sometimes we see where, sometimes we do not,” said the crone.

  Gathelaus shook his head. “You said you had a message from the gods. But perhaps I am not the man you thought I was.”

  The crone approached him with a hideous shuffle. Her gnarled hands reached out and caressed his cheek, before pinching it. “You are the man we seek. We sent the undead boy to fetch you and you have come. You are the man.”

  “What do you want?” asked Gathelaus casting a look behind him at the bog the dead boy had vanished in.

  “We seek only to tell you,” said the maiden.

  “Of your coming trials and fate,” finished the mother.

  “I told you I don’t believe in fate.”

  The crone mocked, “Yet it believes in you all the same. The weird of your life is known to us.”

  Gathelaus looked them over closely now and indeed they appeared to be the same woman just at various stages of life. The maiden, the mother and crone. “Why should I believe anything you have to say?”

  “We wouldn’t lie to a slayer such as you,” said the maiden.

  “No, never,” said the mother.

  “Never,” repeated the crone.

  “A truth that leads to my own folly then? Tempting me to become an usurper and disgrace my name. I have no intention of stealing the crown of Derenz. I fight for gold and that is enough. I won’t ever plant wheat nor break a vow.”

  “Nay, good swordsman born of the far north, nay,” replied the maiden.

  “You are destined for brighter kingdoms than that small pigsty,” said the mother.

  “You will not be a mere duke but a king,” said the crone.

  “King of the North,” shouted the maiden.

  “King of Vjorn,” declared the mother.

  “King,” finished the crone.

  “I don’t know what your game is, but it won’t work. You can’t divide my loyalty. I have given my word to Frinchant and I do not break my vows.”

  The three women all held up their hands in denial of any wrongdoing. “We seek only to enlighten you mighty Gathelaus,” said the crone. “Be wary of forces sent from the foul side.”

  “The dark goddess,” said the maiden.

  “And her vile minions,” said the mother.

  “These forces are marshaled against you as we speak,” said the crone.

  Gathelaus marveled at the witches knowledge, answering, “I have faced the anti-gods before.”

  “That you halted their entropy is well known amongst the wise and learned,” said the crone.

  “The gods spoke of your valor and the coming travails of your sword and arm,” said the maiden.

  “You will do mighty deeds and be pained terribly, but you will be king of Vjorn and unite the land against a great foe,” finished the mother.

  Gathelaus held up a hand, asking, “What of the Divine Right of Kings? What claim could I ever have on the throne of the North?”

  “Your blood is as noble as any man that now holds the throne,” answered the crone.

  He snorted. “I was born on the steppe to an outcast clan. We were not noble.”

  “And what made your fathers father an outcast?” asked the mother.

  “A claim to the crown,” answered the maiden.

  Gathelaus protested, “That can’t be true.”

  “Ah, but it is,” answered the crone. “Remember the lost banner of your fathers’ father. You have a claim.”

  “If the truth of that claim were revealed some would wish you dead,” said the maiden.

  “But many more would accept your Divine Right!” proclaimed the mother.

  “You have Divine Right!” shouted the crone.

  “What are you asking of me in return?” probed Gathelaus, expecting to hear some horrific bargain for his obedience to their prophecy.

  “We ask nothing of you,” said the maiden.

  “We seek only to inform,” said the mother.

  “We tell only the truth,” said the crone.

  Gathelaus glanced over them suspiciously. He strode about the small hut, examining any sign of treachery from his enemies. There were herbs and spices hanging from the ceiling to dry, even a skinned rabbit, but there was no other sign or portent of guile or ill omen.

  “How could such a thing come to pass? I have no desire to bring ruin to this land and fight my way through to the royal palace. Others are embedded in that the palace like ticks on a hound.”

  “Yet the gods speak true,” said the maiden.

  “They know the future,” said the mother.

  “As they know you,” said the crone.

  “Is that it? A fortune told without even a plea for a copper?”

  “We’ll ask nothing of you good Gathelaus, save that you remember our words,” said the maiden.

  “Remember. What you become is far more important tha
n what becomes of you,” said the mother.

  “When the time comes, choose the correct path. Step carefully,” said the crone.

  “How can I be sure this comes from the gods?” he challenged.

  The crone answered, “The gods are not being tested, Gathelaus. You are. Pass the test.”

  “Pass the test,” they chimed together.

  “When?” he asked, as a mist arose in the small hut.

  “Remember,” they said in unison.

  The mist then swirled python-like over him covering him in its vaporous coils until he could not see the hut, cauldron or the witches. The mist vanished and he was standing alone under the clouded moon in the fog-ridden swamp. A short distance away in the mud, he saw the small leering skull of a boy.

  ***

  As Gathelaus and Jolly strode back toward the encampment near the oak, the men were preparing a horse for him.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  Niels answered, “The Duke has summoned you. The messenger only just rode back a moment ago. What did the witch say?”

  Jolly shrugged.

  Gathelaus lamented that he would eventually have to speak of such. “I’ll tell you later. Any idea what the Duke wants?”

  “No, but one strange thing happened while you were gone.”

  Gathelaus gave a Niels a look as he mounted the horse. “Well?”

  A dozen riders set forth out of Prince Roose’s camp. We thought it might be a midnight charge, but they were the only ones. They made no secret of their movement, even bearing torches. They remained beyond bowshot until we could see a white flag. Then they rode to the Duke’s line and then an hour later, you were summoned.”

  Gathelaus wondered at that. Why parlay now in the dead of night with bloodied men aching to continue the battle of earlier that day?

  “What do you think?” asked Niels.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll soon find out.” He kicked his horse’s flanks and rode swiftly toward the Dukes encampment, with the prophetic words of the three sisters repeating over and over in his mind’s eye.

  Twenty years earlier…

  The North Way

  The dragon-necked prow of the skute ship carved tufts of ivory foam from a roiling azure sea. Salted spray and coarse ash laid foundation in Gathelaus’s nostrils as he watched his father hold the steer-board against the mighty current with his scarred right hand while the left clutched a finger of iron. Their goal loomed out of the depths like a god’s rotten black tooth. To lay claim to the newly arisen island, a race must be won.

  Gathelaus gazed at his father Thorgrim and his younger brother Svenning. This was for them. His family had been on the losing end of the clan wars and needed new land for a homestead.

  “Father,” said Svenning, pointing off the starboard.

  “Aye, its Halfdan and his clan,” muttered his father, saying as many words as he ever did in one sentence.

  A few hundred yards away sailed a full longboat with near forty men, rowing hard to assist the wind in their race for the trembling dark mountain. The longboat rose and fell with the heaving ocean, concealing it behind liquid hillocks every other heartbeat.

  Ascended from the deep, unsteady as a newborn calf, the island belched a steady plume of ash. Points of red flared across its jagged landscape and steam shot from the edges of angry frothing pits.

  “Won’t it be too dangerous?” asked Svenning. “It’s still afire.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Gathelaus with his usual wolfish grin. “We need land. Even if it takes weeks to make it hospitable, it will be ours.”

  “And if Halfdan reaches it first?”

  “Then we leave,” said Gathelaus. “But not unless he beats us on the square. All honorable men are bound to the oath. He must honor the oath.”

  His father grunted dubiously.

  “Give me the iron, father,” said Gathelaus.

  His father chewed at the corners of his beard but handed the lump of iron to Gathelaus saying, “Plant it first.”

  Drawing closer, the ash surrounding the island threatened suffocation and the sun resembled a great bloodshot eye.

  The longboat was nearly even with them to gain the island and all the saga poetry Gathelaus had been reciting to himself fled. The race must be won.

  “Hard to port,” said Gathelaus.

  “But they’ll beat us,” said his father, glancing at the rough waves.

  “Hard to port and keep going when I jump.”

  His father nodded while Svenning’s wrinkled brow questioned his brother’s sanity.

  A sudden knock against the keel shook them spitting water through the overlapping planks, but Gathelaus tensed as his father guided the skute closer. Already the longboat had overtaken them and seemed sure to reach the island first.

  “Why aren’t we turning about?” asked Svenning. “We’ve lost. They’ll call us raiders and use the excuse to launch arrows at us.””

  “Look forward,” answered Gathelaus.

  A string of wet stones formed a broken path to the island stretching some hundred yards or more. It was not solid and would require leaping from rock to rock many times.

  “Looks sharp as a dragon’s spine,” said Svenning.

  Gathelaus reached for his sword-belt but another rock just below the surface knocked the skute and his father had to correct hard for the pathway.

  Svenning gasped, “What if some are too far to leap?”

  “You worry too much, the skein is already cast, what will be—will be,” said Gathelaus.

  “Votan guide you son!” said his father.

  Gathelaus leapt to the first jutting piece of basalt.

  Seawater splashed, soaking Gathelaus’s woolen boots, but he never relaxed his grip on the finger of iron.

  “You forgot your sword-belt!” shouted Svenning.

  “No time, you bring it for me,” replied Gathelaus, as he danced like a skipping stone over the causeway despite the sharp fresh edges. The dark pillars were not steaming so he trusted their safety from heat. He was harder than stone and stronger than the sea. And the race must be won.

  The longboat slowed and turned to land amongst the raw jagged coast. They found a patch of black sand that they dared lay keel to. Halfdan’s men used oars against the surf to hold the ship steady as he dropped into the shallows and waded ashore. “I’ve done it,” he shouted. “I claim this as Halfdan the Black’s island!”

  “You’re too late, Jarl Halfdan,” said Gathelaus, a number of paces beyond. The wild-haired youth stood upon the slanting black mountainside.

  Halfdan’s men gasped in surprise.

  Showing them the finger of iron in his right hand, Gathelaus knelt and buried it beneath crumbling black sand. “I have planted my iron here, the island is mine.”

  “You dog. How could you’ve beat me? Your skute is still in the breakers,” frothed Halfdan.

  Svenning and father were struggling but the skute drew nearer. They too saw that Gathelaus was first and cheered victory.

  Halfdan argued, “No mere boy can steal my honor.”

  “I planted iron first.”

  Halfdan roared and threw his finger of iron at Gathelaus, who calmly leaned to the right to avoid the projectile.

  “It doesn’t matter, it’s my island. All men know the law. It is the North Way. Leave.” Gusts of ash swirled about Gathelaus, shooting his long dark hair forward. “I can light my fires around these few acres of rock and you witnessed my planting iron here . . . it’s mine,” said Gathelaus. “Leave.” He pointed a finger out to sea.

  Halfdan’s good eye twitched as his broken nose ran. He sniffed and said, “The Bone Woman told me I had best kill you an’ your family. I ought to have done it.”

  “You can try and shame yourself on another day.”

  “We’re forty men. I could take you and yours an’ let you all sleep in the fire. None would know your end.” Halfdan laughed. His men laughed.

  “You are a respected Jarl, yet you wou
ld violate the oath of my land claim?” Gathelaus asked. “When I have some forty-two witnesses.”

  Halfdan shook his hoary head. “You have balls I’ll give you that thinking you can count my clan as witnesses.”

  “It true. They saw for themselves and all would know that you are no respecter of the North Way. In their hearts they will always suspect you of treachery against them someday.”

  “You presume much, boy,” Halfdan snarled.

  Gathelaus shrugged. “It is the North Way.”

  “Kill him father,” shouted Halfdan’s son, Eorl, who was Gathelaus own age.

  Halfdan nodded. “Aye! I will kill him. The dead men in Valhol will ask why a beardless boy is there, and so burnt by the earthen fire.” He looked to his kinsmen for approval.

  The motley group of men chuckled and muttered amongst themselves. Gathelaus was as large as any man, even if he was not yet eighteen winters old. Halfdan’s clan hated him, but respect remained for so strong a young man.

  “I’ve been shown the skein of my life.” Gathelaus smirked. “I know I won’t die here . . . do you? Coward? Oath breaker?” His father and brother nearly had the skute to shore.

  “Your tongue demands a duel, boy,” said Halfdan. “I challenge you Gathelaus Thorgrimson!”

  “What weapons do you choose?” asked Gathelaus, watching his father guide the skute to the rocks as Svenning held his sword and belt upon the bow.

  Halfdan snorted saying, “Men say your strength is with the sword, so I’ll choose the ax.”

  “I choose what is in my brother’s hand,” said Gathelaus.

  Halfdan and his kinsmen laughed. “Agreed!” he chortled with laughter even louder. “After all you want the North Way and this is it, pup!”

  Turning, Gathelaus saw Svenning now held only a rope which he attached to a pinnacle of stone securing the vessel. His face darkened but he would not go back on his word, he smiled not allowing Halfdan any pleasure at this cruel turn of events.

  “Change your mind? Boy?” taunted Halfdan. “Who is concerned with dishonor now?”

  “I said it and I’ll take the rope. Don’t need iron to defeat an oath-breaker like you,” said Gathelaus.

  The kinsmen laughed now at Halfdan.

  Halfdan frowned. “You’ll not shame me to accept rope against iron.”