The Usurper

by James Alderdice

  “I choose rope. You’ve shamed yourself,” said Gathelaus. “Keep the ax. But I remind all of you, the legends say,” Gathelaus proclaimed to Halfdan’s kinsmen, “to shed blood on a day-old island is to invite disaster. Even children know this. Once I slay Halfdan, I warn against any reprisals for at least one day.”

  “You think to insult me?” shouted Halfdan, spittle flying, “whilst telling old wives tales?”

  “You insult yourself by dishonoring my claim in the first place,” said Gathelaus, taking a length of rope from Svenning. “But I’ll grant a final insult, I won’t send you to Valhol.”

  Halfdan’s one good eye crazed as he fully realized the implication of the rope. “You black-hearted troll!” Facing his kinsmen Halfdan shouted, “Let’s all just kill him an’ his family. Enough of this foolishness.”

  None moved forward, the challenge and duel had been issued and they would not partake of its grim derision despite the collective loathing they held for Gathelaus and his insult. No Jarl deserved such a fate as that Gathelaus suggested. What could be worse than denying a man entry into the Hall of Heroes?

  “The gods will damn you for such an act,” said a warrior in a bear-skin cloak.

  “Do they damn those that die at sea? Those that die in their beds?” challenged Gathelaus.

  “Yes, they do,” was the collective answer as the helmed men nodded in unison.

  “And what makes Halfdan any better? He seeks to steal my claim,” said Gathelaus. “He has no honor.”

  “Warriors belong in Valhol,” shouted Eorl.

  “Warriors, yes, but him?” asked Gathelaus, gesturing with disdain. “Why is he called the Black? Is it because his—”

  “Enough of the insults! Let’s end this,” said Halfdan, swinging his bearded ax.

  Gathelaus wrapped several feet of rope about his left arm and fashioned a heavy noose at the opposite end. He left another four strides long available to swing between arm and noose. This seemed a perilously short and poor weapon to the onlookers. Gathelaus swung the noose in a steady primal rhythm.

  Stepping to within six strides, Halfdan kept his ax raised close to his head, yet too wide a target for the narrow noose. “Think I’m an earsling? You think to trip me up and split my brains upon jagged rock? You’re a bigger fool than I reckoned.”

  Gathelaus backed up two strides, still keeping the heavy hangman’s noose swinging.

  Halfdan advanced two strides, Gathelaus retreated two.

  “The supposed bravery of Gathelaus Thorgrimson is proven false,” taunted Halfdan. “I’ll not be letting your father or brother live after this. Your clan is doomed.”

  Saying nothing, Gathelaus retreated a stride again as his foe approached.

  Steam billowed behind Gathelaus from hot pockets of boiling water and the red cracks of doom glowed not far beyond in the ash covered gloom.

  “Nowhere to run,” said Halfdan, closing in to five strides. “Truth is, I don’t even need this burning island but I’m happy to deny your family land.”

  The noose swung east to west like the sun rising and setting, Gathelaus’s hand was as the fixed earth. The mountain rumbled and once more ash sought dominion.

  Stepping to four strides Halfdan smiled in grim triumph. “Even if the blood legend was true, it’d be worth it to have your head on my prow. Think I’ll set it in the dragon’s mouth.”

  Halfdan’s men discussed the bloody end of Gathelaus and some few jeered him.

  Svenning and Thorgrim watched, waiting for the serpent’s strike.

  Halfdan closed to three strides and his muscles tensed for the death-dealing chop.

  Two strides.

  The noose shot out from Gathelaus’s swing, striking Halfdan in the face. Flying inside Halfdan’s reach, Gathelaus wrapped the rope about his foe’s neck. The bearded ax, thirsty for blood, dropped but connecting naught but rope held by the protected left arm. Halfdan screamed as a mouthful of taut cord went over his mouth. Bound up as a spider’s prey Gathelaus lifted Halfdan up and carried his enemy over a ridge of jumbled stone.

  Halfdan’s nose recoiled at the sulfurous belch that enveloped him greater than Gathelaus’s rope. He tried to scream through the gagging rope as Gathelaus raised him overhead. The stinking boiling pit popped and beckoned. Fingers bound by fierce strands of rope reached in vain, clawing at thick air.

  “Stop, you can’t do that to my father,” screamed Eorl.

  Grim satisfaction on his face, Gathelaus threw down his enemy.

  Halfdan flew, flailed, splashed, boiled and was still.

  Gathelaus took up Halfdan’s ax, scowling at the wide-eyed kinsmen. Pride is a hard thing and the race for new land must be won.

  “Kill them!” shouted Eorl. Two dozen men followed the Jarl’s son brandishing iron.

  “Stop! Or the gods will sink this land because of the blood. Votan will send the island back into the sea,” called Gathelaus.

  But none would heed his superstitious warning, they came on calling for the blood of the man who had cruelly denied their Jarl entry into Valhol.

  Lamenting the islands loss over the blood that must now be spilled, Gathelaus threw deadly stones down the mount at the charging foe.

  As drops of spilling crimson hit the ground, the earth shook and reeled, molten rock burst from the peak. A titanic groan issued from the mountain like a dying gods bellow.

  Half the kinsmen stopped and ran for the longboat. The remaining few met the cold iron of the ax above, then the shuddering heated stone below. Eorl turned and ran as Gathelaus raged and chopped asunder the last of Halfdan’s kinsman who dared face him.

  Angered at losing his island to the blood law, a madness swept over Gathelaus like a storm. Picking up a boulder, large as a man’s torso, he charged after the fleeing Eorl.

  The mountain rocked again, spewing ash like a drunkard’s vomit.

  “A curse on you Gathelaus,” shouted Eorl. His men pushed the longboat off with their oars. Waves threatened to keep them close to the chaotic vibrating shore.

  The momentum carried Gathelaus, racing down the mountainside with the massive stone over his head. The longboat rolled over the tide, gaining a few yards from the island. Running to the black surf, Gathelaus cast the projectile into the belly of the ship, smashing through the hull. A geyser erupted from the decking as Eorl’s men rowed away.

  Gasping and panting, covered in gore, Gathelaus turned making his way back to Svenning and his father.

  “By the gods boy, I’ve never seen the like,” grunted his father as he slapped Gathelaus proudly on the back.

  Svenning was stunned looking over his gore-covered older brother.

  “Cast off, we must be away,” said Thorgrim.

  Doing as his father asked, Svenning cast off and raised the sail. The brothers rowed like titans, rising over the breaking grey surf. The island buzzed and grumbled an unholy tumult.

  The longboat of Eorl listed now, taking on water and turned back on its starboard. Men cried aloud as the deck sank rapidly under their feet.

  Shaking with venom and internal vigor, the black mountain lurched and sunk at an incredible rate. Steam and hot gas boiled the sea as red fire was quenched, tempering men’s souls. Seawater rose and fell in blooms of undertow and the black island was gone.

  Eorl and his kinsmen shook and cursed, they knew the doom that was upon them for violating the law of the North Way. They turned swords on each other in order to be allowed entrance into the Hall of Heroes as waves lapped hot at their bodies. The only way to be granted entry was a quick and bloody death. They shouted their clans name and plunged blades deep. Cold iron was sheathed in hot flesh. The sea turned crimson and then all was silent.

  Gathelaus grumbled. He had won the race but lost the island.

  Thorgrim said, “The god’s laws will not be mocked. Fresh blood cannot be spilt upon new land. My sons, mark and remember.”

  “Where shall we build a homestead now?” asked Sven.

  “All la
nds are claimed west of here,” answered Thorgrim. “Maybe we go up the coast further.”

  Grinning, Gathelaus said, “Wait. All lands west were Halfdan’s lands, and they are without menfolk now.”

  They turned the skute toward the former land of Halfdan’s clan and laughed deep and hearty as only men of the frozen North can.

  Nineteen nights earlier…

  The Usurper 2. A Princes Proposition

  The summons was unusual. Duke Frinchant of Derenz was not in the habit of overstepping his bounds with the chief captain of the Sellsword’s. He was paying them to win not talk. For all his low opinion of the man, Gathelaus could at least appreciate that the flamboyant Duke stayed out of his way.

  As he neared the makeshift command station of the Duke the road was miraculously lit. Guards in plumed helmets too pretty for battle stood a rigid attention besides flaming torches. Gleaming spears were in their hands. Surely this regal presentation was not merely for him and the Duke to discuss tomorrows battle plans.

  Gathelaus glanced at them casually. They were alert and properly close. No one would get into the Duke’s command tent.

  “Your second must remain here,” said a steward.

  Gathelaus looked at Niels then said, “My second will know my battle plans as well as anyone. He comes with me.”

  “No,” repeated the steward. “These are my orders. Only you and the Duke are to speak with our two honored guests. You may keep your sword, but your man must remain here.”

  “All right, have it your way,” Gathelaus said. He gave a mocking salute to the steward and strode past the guards into the inner ring of gaudy silken tents.

  Fine horses he did not recognize were held nearby and attended to by what looked like a Vjornish captain.

  The thought distracted him, and as he walked past a flickering torch, he found himself wondering, what did Frinchant want? He continued, wary as a cornered wolf.

  He bit his lip. The realization that he would ask himself such a thing enraged him. Who was the Duke to call a meeting at this hour? Battle could erupt at the front lines at any moment. He didn’t have time for such pomp and back patting. Now was not the time to congratulate themselves over what was so far, a stalemate.

  For a moment he thought of returning to the borders, and sending a messenger requesting the reason for the summons, but he was already here, he may as well see what the fool wanted.

  More lights flared outside of Frinchant’s quarters. Surprisingly, the entire bodyguard stood in formation beside the gaudy tent flaps. A light was thrust close to Gathelaus’s face for positive identification. Then he went inside the massive silken tent.

  The room blazed with light from dozens of oil lamps, his eyes were blinded, what was this?

  He began a salute to Frinchant when, suddenly the hair on the back of his neck stood out, and his hand went to his hilt.

  “Gathelaus!” roared Frinchant. “Stay your hand! We met them in peace. This is Prince Roose, the Vjornish commander. First cousin to King Forlock.”

  “I know who he is. I’ve met his men on the battlefield. What is this?”

  Gathelaus tensed and slowly let go the grip of his blade. Staring across at his foe, he slowly nodded never taking his eyes off the enemy. Gathelaus had seen the prince before. Once when he had visited the fortress city of Malmberg, disguised as a beggar, to look inside the city walls in preparation to know Vjorn’s gathering strength.

  “I assure you we are here in your best interests as well as our own. This battle has spent far too much good blood on both sides,” said Roose.

  Gathelaus grunted suspiciously.

  There was another Vjornish noble, someone also high born. He was introduced briefly as Baron Undset.

  Frinchant spoke, “Gathelaus, you are undoubtedly as surprised as I was when but a few hours ago these two gentlemen came to me. Obviously, something of great importance is at stake, but I dislike parleys where one side outnumbers the other. I asked them to await your arrival.”

  Gathelaus grunted once more and glanced about to see if this was some kind of joke. But no one was lying in wait to laugh.

  “And now, prince Roose,” Frinchant nodded politely, “will you please explain the purpose of your most unexpected visit?”

  Roose nodded to Frinchant. His handsome face looked pained. His graying hair denoted years past middle age. He was dressed in dark attire, as though to avoid detection in the night, yet the quality and richness of the clothing proclaimed him a proud and arrogant noble in the service of the Vjornish crown.

  “I will grant that my visit is unusual,” he began. “However, I am certain that you also understand that neither of our two disputed borders are so well fortified that a single rider cannot pass by with almost a friendly word.”

  “You sir.” He spoke to Gathelaus. “I was reluctantly told that you yourself visited us a few weeks ago. I’m sorry you did not call upon me personally. Or was it,” he added with grim humor, “because you felt you were not properly dressed?”

  Gathelaus smirked but said nothing.

  “My visit is a serious thing though, because of personal feelings which I cannot fully express.” Roose’s voice betrayed great emotion.

  “Captain Gathelaus, have you considered a full invasion of Vjorn?”

  Gathelaus and Frinchant could not help but exchange glances.

  “It is a beautiful land,” continued Roose. “It is a great and valued prize. We have many fields for cattle and harvesting of grains. When our forefathers took the lands and forced the Picts’ out—they thought of it as the land of milk and honey.”

  “Do we have a misunderstanding?” broke in Gathelaus. “This battle is over the borderlands on behalf of Derenz, this is not a national invasion.” He looked at Frinchant who waved a finger for silence.

  “I understand your trepidation, oh commander of the Sellsword’s, but I have a proposition for both of you,” said Roose.

  “Vjorn is a great nation. The fields are lush, the mountains full of ore and riches. The orchards produce a great harvest. Unfortunately for our people, it is ruled by a cruel and corrupt King.”

  “You speak of King Forlock?” questioned Frinchant.

  “He has none of the virtues of his ancestors. The greater majority of the nobles who surround him are as bad, if not worse. Their evil examples even affected the holy priestess. The vows of chastity are ignored. The lavish homes of the clergy are the scenes of daily turmoil and midnight orgies. Something must be done.

  “The people, instead looking to their religion for spiritual guidance, merely joke of the excellence of the church while in the beauty of the female companions of the priests and bishops. The people of been betrayed by their rulers and are ready to revolt.”

  “You astonish me, prince Roose,” said Frinchant. “What are you proposing for me? I am not one to judge the actions of other men. But are we discussing our friends or our enemies? Especially that of a king, who quite frankly has never given me the courtesy of discussing our disagreement about the borderlands.”

  “The borderlands are nothing in comparison to the problems plaguing our nation,” broke in Baron Undset.

  “That is not my concern, sir,” said Frinchant, hotly. “He is king of Vjorn and as such has the divine right to do as he pleases for the good of the nation.”

  The words, ‘Divine Right of Kings’ rung in Gathelaus’s ears like a struck bell. His head buzzed and he shook his head to evade the witch’s reminder.

  “You doubt my words?” questioned Roose. “I assure you I am not joking. I have never been more serious about anything in my life. The king has by his horrific actions excused himself of his divine right.”

  Gathelaus and Frinchant glanced at one another.

  “He is a disgrace,” snarled Baron Undset.

  Roose took a deep breath and silenced his companion. “I will agree to mobilize my troops and withdraw, and I do also swear that the inhabitants will not put up any resistance to you when claiming the bord
erlands as your own. They are yours on this one condition.”

  Frinchant asked, “What pray tell is that? A tax? A levy? An impossible payment for the Tyrian river valley? I will not pay, sir, for something I believe is mine by rights.”

  Roose said gravely, “I am asking for help from both of you to succeed with my coup.”

  Neither Frinchant nor Gathelaus could believe what that they had just heard.

  “Will you repeat that?” asked Frinchant.

  Roose nodded. “Help me, to take back my country and I will cede the full valley of the Tyrian river to Derenz. But I need more fighting men. I need Gathelaus’s Sellsword’s and the outer support of your army to succeed. Too many of my own men will refuse to lay siege to the capitol city and the palace itself where, by the time I can get there, Forlock will surely have fortified himself. Too many of my men might refuse to oust the king, no matter his heinous crimes.”

  “What crimes? Why are you doing this?” Frinchant asked.

  “There are reasons which concern my personal relations with the king,” answered Roose.

  Gathelaus frowned. “What has your king, done to you?” He asked bluntly. “Do you simply seek power? I don’t think I’m interested in fighting a war inside Vjorn and the capitol.”

  “It is a personal matter,” said Roose.

  Gathelaus shook his head. “It is more than a personal matter.” He looked to Roose and then to Frinchant. “Is this is a trick? Some ambush to cut off our invading army?”

  He rose and walked to the table upon which a part which lay a map. Unrolling it, he walked back to Roose.

  “How many troops do you have in your fortress?” He asked brusquely. “If you really want our help, you will tell me a true number.”

  “Seven hundred, give or take the score that have fallen to archers this afternoon,” came the reply.

  “And men in the outliers and border camps?”

  “Two thousand, encamped in ten miles bivouacs between here and Malmberg,” was the answer.

  Gathelaus knew these answers were correct, for they tallied closely with his own estimates. He knew a good deal about the enemy forces. “And If I were to put a hostile army in the southern Vjorn, which road should I take?”