The Usurper

by James Alderdice

  Roose showed a point on the southern coast, where the road ran alongside the beaches, “Here are the strategic points, and the lines of supply, fed by the kings ships. It has been swifter than going overland for my supplies. If I was not now suggesting this,” he dallied around the word, “Alliance. I think I should have men and weapons enough to crush you within the month. But that is not what I want. That is not what is best for Vjorn.”

  This is amazing, thought Gathelaus. But why?

  “Roose,” Gathelaus said, trying to use his words with care, “We have fought each other now for some time. I’ve known you as a brave man and a skilled strategist. Why do this?”

  Roose’s lip jutted out from beneath his mustache. He remained silent, though a pained look crossed his face ever so briefly.

  Gathelaus tried to think of another way to say it. There was none. “Why are you committing treason against your king?”

  Roose rose from his chair with a look that silenced the room. “That question,” he said, “should have my sword at your throat.” He paused. “But I can well understand why you asked. You must know, and I’ll tell you the final breaking degradation of the man standing before you.

  “A year ago, I went to my cousin the king. I took my annual journey to the palace in Hellainik from my estates in the south. There was more than mere homage, and more than to discuss plans and provisions. I took with me my wife and my only child, my daughter, Astrid.

  “The ceremonies and honors which were accorded me were impressive. As commander of all the Vjornish forces in the South and the military governor, I was honored because I had kept you Frinchant back from your greatest ambition the total subjugation of all the kings pride He didn’t want to lose an acre of land to anyone under his reign. Frankly, you are lucky that he was more occupied with the grape harvest and wine celebrations than extending his own borders. But there is a more important reason why I came to the court of Hellainik. I was to tell my king that my daughter had reached the age where a rough life in a frontier garrison town was not the proper place for the continuance of her upbringing. You may not know it,” Roose’s voice faltered, “but it is the custom of the nobles in our country for certain sons and daughters of noblemen to be invited to live in the king’s palace so they may learn manners and courtly graces. Quite naturally, this invitation was extended by the king, and a short time later my wife and I left Hellaink to journey home, leaving our daughter and her servants and retinue under the care and patronage of the King.

  Tears came freely to his eyes unbidden. His voice broke completely. “Kinsman,” he implored his companion, “you must continue for me.”

  His companion, Baron Undset stirred himself. “I think that you should know,” he began, “that the king reached the throne in his youth, he was a good soldier, and came to the throne a highly moral man.

  “But the rather unusual circumstances of his marriage to a touched Azschlander princess are, I am certain known to you. But in time his love for his new queen cooled, it was noticed that a moral laxity had settled over the court. She died more than ten years ago and the king gave up his ways of morality and decency with her death. It has been as such for more than fifteen years now” He paused. “Only recently the king received a message that Prince Roose had a very successful engagement against you and for lack of anything else to do, he summoned the girl Astrid and started to give news of her father. The king was surprised to see how beautiful Astrid had become. Or perhaps it is just that he had never noticed before. He delayed the audience as long as possible, as though to feast his eyes upon her.”

  “Later there was another audience, and still another, upon the slightest excuse or propagation. He appeared to have become obsessed with the lovely young virgin.

  The Vjornish noble paused awkwardly, then glanced at Roose his head was bowed. He then continued. “Upon the banks of the White river the king had built a rustic retreat for his deceased queen and other women of the court. It was a simple palace, but most beautiful with grounds and gardens and even in the Azschlander style. It was a cool refreshing place considering the summers of Hellainik. Moreover, that the charm of privacy, for its walls were high and many guards patrolled outside. This was the Queens retreat and the only man allowed to enter within is the king.

  “He walked there often. Amid the shade of many trees. The far corner the gardens was an enclosure, built like one of your Tolburnian gazebos. Here the former Queen, in remembrance of her youth, had set aside special gardens and teeming fountains where the women of court could relax themselves in complete privacy.

  “One day the king was sitting in the outer garden, he heard loud noises coming from the private section arising he walked to the gate of the enclosure. Peering through an aperture, he looked inside and saw around the fountain several of the women of the court, half dressed, relaxing and confident in the privacy they displayed themselves around the fountain splashing water on one another. Remember the king has his own seraglio. Delectable courtesans from all around the world. He had many women to please him carnally, but he should not have abused his privilege with these noble ladies of the court.

  “Among them was the young Astrid lying a bit away from the pool. He watched her. And when he had a moment, he caught her in an embrace which permitted no outcry.”

  There was a long silence. At length the Baron continued painfully. “As you well know, the war here in the borders flared up again. Your month-long siege of the Fort of Malmberg had just broken. It was a great victory for us and was accounted to inform the king in Hellainik.”

  Gathelaus and Frinchant looked at one another.

  “In the very midst of the celebration,” continued the Baron, “I arrived here from Hellainik with fresh troops. I presented myself to Prince Roose.”

  “What tidings from the king,” he asked me. “None was my reply though I bear a letter from your daughter the lady Astrid.”

  At this moment the Baron reached in his cloak and brought forth a letter, just as he had done for Roose.

  “It begins, Would to God my father that the earth had opened and swallowed me, ere I had been reduced to write these lines. I blush to tell that which can not properly be concealed soon enough. That I have been dishonored and our lineage insulted and disgraced. Hurry my father to rescue me from the power of the spoiler and vindicate the honor of your house.

  “And that,” said Roose, breaking in, “Is my reward for serving the king, and the honor given me by this country while fighting in battles in the border lands.” His face was livid. “That evil might overtake me instead of my only daughter. I will not rest until I have avenged myself on that demon with a crown! Now I am cousin to the king. We share the same grandsire. It is true that should he fall, I would be the next in line to the throne and never in a thousand years did I dream that I should be king of my land, but this disgrace has moved me to act. Such a man cannot be ruler of our nation. The gods and I will not stand for it.”

  Roose paced the room. “You have the rest of the story,” he thundered, “for Forlock is my king no more!”

  Gathelaus helped himself to a bottle of wine as he could tell that Roose was not nearly done speaking of his anguish.

  “The days which followed I made my plans. This meant going to Hellainik, the most difficult of all, pretending that nothing had happened. This I managed somehow, I was received by the king and congratulated for my victory.

  “But to him and his counselors I gave a solemn warning. Your Sellsword’s, I told them, were far from beaten. I warned of a huge military buildup. I yet magnified the danger in the South that I might convince the court that they must give me most of the men and arm those still remaining in the countryside. Thus, I drained away almost all the king’s defenses.

  “My every request was granted, perhaps even because the king wanted to atone for his own conscience. He trusted me as I had formerly trusted him. And my plans are coming to fruition. I will have my revenge and be granted a position where in I can rebuild our nat
ions fractured woes. My only regret is that I had to be so far personally before I should act.”

  Gathelaus twisted his jaw and raised his glass signifying that he was still listening.

  “Then before leaving, I asked one last favor. My wife, I explained was quite ill and desperately needed the presence of our daughter Astrid to aid in her recovery. Then I left Hellainik with a weeping daughter and a vast array of the remaining military strength of the kingdom.

  “Will you help me?” asked Roose.

  ***

  Frinchant was positively delighted. “I will gain the Tyrian river valley and not lose any more of my men.”

  “He wants you to give me a command of a thousand or more,” reminded Gathelaus.

  Frinchant waved off the suggestion. “You shall have them. All of the mercenary companies I have already paid are yours to command in this endeavor.”

  “I doubt that is what Roose had in mind. He wants a royal ally.”

  “I will support him in words if nothing else, the men are your problem,” said Frinchant haphazardly. “Now go and prepare your company,” he said dismissively.

  They parted and Gathelaus sat astride his magnificent stallion watching the Vjornish prince and Baron gallop off.

  Behind him a warm breeze blew in from the south. It seemed to swirl about him, or was it his imagination?

  What was it the witches had told him that night before? So many revelations in one night it almost made him almost lose track.

  He sat there staring across the valley with an exhilaration which only he could comprehend. Something great was about to happen, and he wondered whether every conqueror of old felt the same tremor of their deed before it happened.

  As the dawn came, the rain moved on and the far rolling hills of southern Vjorn became visible. He watched the light grow, he thought of the enormity of what Roose proposed – the conquest of a kingdom for the sake of a raped virgin.

  Eighteen years earlier…

  Savage Mercy

  War cries faded in the wooded hills and drowned in sheltering silence. Birds shot from trees like arrows signaling the invading armies advance march. Perhaps only a few miles ahead of that treading doom, black-haired Gathelaus moved between the early morning shadows. He stepped cautious to leave no sound, nor sign of his passing on the forest floor. Senses alert, he paused before a small grove.

  Though a man of blood and thunder, he trusted the noble instinct that whispered warning, knowing it as his guide.

  Sword at the ready, he peered through the lush greenery, sensing enemy Pict heartbeats, quick, anxious and murderous.

  A grove of ancient oaks stood supreme, watching over their young. But for the whispering of the wind and light kisses of the disappearing rain the forest was still. Almost three centuries these colossal trees felt no anger, saw no violence, heard no war, scented no murder, tasted no death. This would change as the men who crouched behind them, fingered their weapons and sat preparing malevolent designs for the approaching warrior.

  “Watch and pray,” Gathelaus murmured softly.

  Three trees stood in a triangular pattern. These were thick enough to conceal men—and that they did. Gathelaus could smell their ochre war-paint. He knew what he faced. Strong, wary men with bows and scimitars.

  This had to be faced head on, there was no other way.

  Gathelaus picked up two stones and flung the first at the furthermost tree shattering the tranquility. A scuffle and hush of breath alerted him to his enemy’s positions. He threw the second in the opposite direction to draw their attention the other way to the west.

  With his sword and war-hammer in each fist, Gathelaus charged from the east, the morning sun at his back, blinding the foes.

  The two nearest Picts whooped in glee yet looked back at the second stones disturbance as the farthest bowman peeked around the side and loosed an arrow that went far too wide of the mark.

  Gathelaus’s sword rose and fell, sending the nearest Pict back to the land of mist and spirits.

  The second painted warrior dodged the return cut of Gathelaus’s blade but had the tip of his bow sheared off and made useless as his arrow dropped away. He struck back with his broken dogwood bow but it was a terrible tradeoff.

  Gathelaus swung his war-hammer, nailing his opponent in the chest, smashing sternum and beaded stone gorgets alike, breath escaping unbidden and never to return. A sword stroke finished whatever final thought might have been left in the shaven skull.

  The third Pict startled, drew a second arrow.

  Gathelaus threw his war-hammer with brutal accuracy.

  The Picts aim, right arm and bow were instantly crippled. He was lucky it hadn’t killed him outright. Or was he? Backing away from Gathelaus he was like a kite losing wind, slowing and dropping.

  Striding closer, Gathelaus glared at the Pict, but paused noting the lock of brunette hair that lay as braided wreath upon the warrior’s breast. A token from the man’s wife no doubt, given to him as a reminder on his long march into the heart of the civilized lands.

  “I have no quarrel with you or your people,” Gathelaus growled.

  The Pict stared at him, disbelieving and curious.

  “But you came to my land,” snarled Gathelaus, cold as the north wind.

  The Pict stepped back clutching his bleeding arm.

  Gathelaus raised his crimson smeared sword.

  The Pict knelt and lowered his head. Ready for the death-blow, he sang his death song, a somber dirge of remorse and regret. He would join his dog-brothers in the afterlife, there was no dishonor now, and soon no more pain.

  Instead of slicing off the Picts head, Gathelaus asked, “What is your name?” With no reply, he asked again, slowly in the crude Pictish tongue he had been schooled in as a youth, knowing it would sound barbarous to the Pict.

  “I am Racham, son of Lamoni, son of—”

  “That’s enough. I see you have a fetish from your wife.”

  The Pict rubbed his calloused fingers across the brown silk-like hair. “No, my twin son and daughter.”

  “If you want to see them again,” Gathelaus pointed west. “Go and never return to my lands. Swear it.”

  Furrowing his brow, Racham stood, put his hand across his heart and nodded. “I swear by all the gods of Pictdom to leave your lands in peace.” He then asked, “Who are you?”

  “I am Gathelaus Thorgrimson, now go.” He pointed with the still dripping sword.

  “I will remember you,” said Racham. He nodded once more and trotted away clutching his broken arm.

  Gathelaus mused that whether Racham did as asked didn’t matter, he had given the man a second chance. A savage mercy that might allow himself a second chance someday to make up for his own sins.

  But, if he saw Racham in his own lands again, he would kill him without hesitation.

  The pain in Gathelaus’s side flared, now that the fight was over. He clapped a hand to the seeping wounds on his side and grimaced. The punctures from battling advance Pictish scouts the night before stung but he had to keep going.

  He had to warn his people on the borders of the coming invasion. The first in a hundred years. Was there still time? He didn’t know but he had to try. There was no one else.

  Gazing up, his head swam. Would his family be ready for war? Was it too late already? He wanted to rest, to sleep but if he stopped now he knew he wouldn’t rise again.

  The brooding trees looked on, wind shaking their leaves to the east, to home. Gathelaus took that as a sign to keep moving despite the pain.

  A man must do all he can before he asks the gods to take up the slack.

  Gathelaus stepped careful, leaving no track, but scarlet drops ran down his side and fell upon dead leaves.

  ***

  At dusk, Gathelaus found shelter near an overhang where he would be able to hear any Pict’s that could possibly be tracking him as the shale here was broken and would slide if there was a man trying to move over it in the dark. He wasn’t sure how
close he was to a settlement but guessed from the whooping brazenness of the Pictish warriors that he still had a long way to go. He made no fire and rested but lightly until the pain and exhaustion caused him to fall into a demon-haunted sleep.

  Gathelaus awoke with a splash of golden sunlight greeting him and the shadow of a figure momentarily blocking that blinding gleam.

  He started suddenly reaching for his sword bit was beyond reach from where he had last laid it.

  Picts!

  Men were moving slowly across his frame of vision. How had they not yet seen him? Lying out in nearly the open. Glancing at his dirty buckskins and leaf-covered torso, he understood that he had been naturally camouflaged by accident. Blood and sweat had glued forest detritus all over him.

  Somehow the Picts had missed him. He remained still as stone, while cursing himself for a fool that in the dark he had made his own camp perilously close to a deer path they were using.

  If he remained still, they should move on and he could continue with his own mission.

  A few minutes after they had rounded the edge of the canyon, he got up and stole through the forest attempting to stay well parallel of them.

  A war cry called out. They had seen him.

  He dashed through the woods jumping over boulders and fallen logs. No time to hide tracks now.

  A river, dark and green, at the bottom of a wide gorge blocked his path to the left. A smaller stream that fed into the river came down a steep ravine to his right. That way was climbable.

  Crossing the tumbling creek, he ran jumping from stone to stone and then dashed through a low hanging thicket of thick greenery. He raced up the steep hillside and then back down hoping he had fooled his pursuers long enough to buy time for a quick breather. No such luck. He could hear them climbing the ravine after him, baying like dogs.

  He had to find the ground of his choosing. Back down the other side of the slope he came to the gorge. A small glade stood before him, open beneath the trees like a dueling ring.