No choice but to stand.
Warriors raced into the glade. Only the sound of the rushing river below filed the air as Gathelaus’s blade sheared through neck cords and windpipes. He raged expecting that final cut to take him in turn at any moment, but none he came. He had won in a red instant.
He stood breathing hard, then was not alone.
They were all around him. A dozen Pictish warriors; savage dusky men unarmored and shirtless but bristling with muscle and weapons. Their faces and bare chests painted red and black to look fearsome and monstrous. They held blades of copper or steel. Axes of obsidian were clutched loose yet ready in their strong hands. Spears, javelins and bows hung upon their backs. Feathers dangled from their hair if they had any, for more than half had shaven skulls or mohawks. Picts were dangerous adversaries, yet even they held back a moment keeping their distance.
On the forest floor lay the slashed bodies of four of their brethren, the swiftest of the war-party. Now the swiftest to gain entrance thru the gates of hell.
They eyed Gathelaus in bitter amazement. He wore leather buckskins and was armed with a long sword and war-hammer. Each weapon smeared crimson with the blood of their fallen kinsmen. He moved with the deadly grace of a panther and now the Picts regrouped a moment daring each other to deal with him first.
“You’ve slain four of my brothers!” shouted the boldest Pict.”
“So you’re surrendering?” Gathelaus asked.
None laughed, seemed the Picts had no sense of humor.
“Tell us your name. That we might honor so dangerous a foe about the campfires to come. Sing your death song for us.”
“Now you’re trying to make me laugh.”
They edged closer in unison.
“I am Gathelaus Thorgrimson!” he shouted, defiantly. “And I’ll kill the next man who steps forward.”
This wasn’t the first time he had been surrounded by enemies, but it was the first time he had been surrounded by this many. He could smell their fetid breath from eating raw unwholesome meats. He swung his sword hand once to loosen and be ready for them. He repositioned himself with stout trees at his side and the gorge at his back so he could not be fully surrounded.
“Dive in and die, dogs! I was born to kill!”
They charged. Blades, clubs and hammer flew about in a cyclone of death.
His twin attack slew the closest Pict and took the head of the next behind. A spear launched and stuck a tree as he dodged and let the hammer break the shaft before the foe could pull it free. A backhanded swing took the broken spearman in the exposed chest and he went down in a gurgle.
Their full strength could not come at him in the forest and always he kept a wary eye to his back, protected by the trees and cliff face behind.
One of the remaining nine sniveled in pain cradling a broken arm.
“Will you throw down your arms now?” asked Gathelaus.
“We cannot let you go.”
“You boys should give me your names to laugh about the campfires.” His taunts had a purpose too, to keep their anger white hot lest they think clearly and remember they had bows.
The exchange enraged these last few. A parry and cut took the lead warrior and splashed blood into the face of the man beside him, blinding and leaving him open for his own deathblow.
Two more down, then three.
Gathelaus remembered very well that he was blessed not lucky. He knew he couldn’t keep this up forever, eventually he would be wounded and slow and they would have him. But for the moment he pressed the advantage of their growing fear and awe. He killed a man that tripped and fell, then struck another who had missed far wide and pushed a third into the oncoming swing of a comrade. It was dirty, unfair, but this was war, this was his life for theirs, his duty to warn the outlier colonies of their coming surprise attack. Any remorse for such foul behavior was gone. Gathelaus bore no regrets or mercy for these invaders. This was his land, not theirs. They came here, they were asking for it and he gladly gave them steel.
They broke apart for a moment, each man left breathing in heavy gulps of air.
“Two left,” he taunted.
“We are prepared to die.”
“Good, because I’m prepared to kill!”
They attacked, blows fell like rain in a storm and the Pict on the left took a sword cut to his shoulder and heart beyond and slowly dropped.
“Just you,” he said breathing hard in ragged gasps. “But you could still surrender. No dishonor considering how many I’ve slain.”
The wounded warrior knelt and lowered his head, ready to accept the killing stroke.
Sunlight caught blood dripping down Amaron’s blade, shining cold light across the edge. Dark clouds rolled in, covering the scene with a harsh shadow.
“I won’t kill a man that surrenders,” said Gathelaus.
Head still bowed, the Pict answered, “I’m not surrendering. I’m accepting the fate the gods have given me.” He held out his blood covered hand, revealing a terrific gash in his stomach. The blood was dark and frothy. Gathelaus recognized the man’s lungs were damaged as well as his liver.
“You’re still alive. You have a choice.”
“No, you are the last scout from yesterday. You have slain more than two dozen warriors of my tribe. You are a murdering demon in human form I will not bow to your bidding I choose death rather than dishonor.”
Now Gathelaus’s own anger flared. “You invaded my lands! You slew my company of scouts! Only I survived and you speak of murder!”
The Pict began his death song and wavered back and forth on his knees.
He spared a man yesterday through savage mercy but now it was time for savage justice.
The Pict sang on. He was ready to accept his fate.
Gathelaus nodded and raised his sword for a clean stroke.
Bursting sunlight from behind the clouds brought the red scene to life. A score or more Picts appeared at the edge of the woods taking in the carnage. They screamed in horrified rage.
Gathelaus did the only thing that made sense against such an incredible amount of men. He ran—plunging through the trees letting the forest envelop him.
The Picts were stunned a moment staring at the bloody red glade with bodies of their brethren piled atop one another. Recovering their senses, they chased after Gathelaus into the darkened wood, calling for blood.
Blessings only carry so far, and this was yet another blessing allowing Gathelaus a moment to run before they could cut him down and he wouldn’t waste it.
A cliff overlooking the dark river was the only path left.
No way to tell how deep the waters were.
War cries erupted close behind.
Gathelaus leapt, praying that the river was as deep as his faith.
The cold water was deep. It was a savage mercy.
Seventeen days earlier…
The Usurper 3. Banners In The Wind
The sun hid behind grey clouds as Gathelaus met Prince Roose and Baron Undset on the former field of battle. The sky above was filled with wheeling scavengers. The cold and wet kept the flies at bay. Far down along the Tyrian river, Gathelaus could see camp followers stripping the dead and if it were not for last nights agreement, he would have sent men down to dissuade them.
Roose looked regal upon his big red charger. He gave a welcoming salute to the forces which had formerly been arrayed against him and said, “I wouldn’t have thought it would take the famed Sellsword’s this long to be ready to march. I worry that these last few days only bought time for word to reach king Forlock’s ear and that he might be moving against our plan even now.”
“Your plan,” corrected Gathelaus. “But it wasn’t my company that needed the time, it was Duke Frinchant’s restructuring of whom he would grant me to command on your behalf.”
Gathelaus rode up beside Roose, and motioning over the battlefield said, “You might have had more men for your plans had not we fought the day you planned on making the pact with
us.”
“I regret the loss on your side captain, but there was a plan. I purposefully put the strongest loyalist men of Forlock in the front and if you remember, I did not send the cavalry to back them up. Nor loose any ballista at you.”
Gathelaus nodded at the statement. “I thought it a rash move from a strategist who had been so careful previously.”
“I did what I had to do,” said Roose.
“They were sent to be slaughtered?”
Roose nodded. “A king must do what is necessary for the greater good. I knew those men’s loyalties were too great. They were handpicked because of their ties and allegiance to Forlock. If I had not kept up the charade for as long as I did, my plans could have fallen apart. I hope you understand, and we can move forward.”
“I regret the men I lost, but we knew the risks and accepted Duke Frinchant’s pay,” responded Gathelaus.
“Will your men be so amicable?” asked Baron Undset.
Gathelaus chuckled and wheeled in the saddle to look at the Sellsword’s as they crossed over the former battle lines. “They may be sour for losing friends and brothers but as I said, they took the gold.”
“And what of Duke Frinchant?” asked Roose.
“He will remain here. He doesn’t wish to be involved in crossing over into your lands beyond the valley if it can be helped. He says he will remain in the fortress for a few days with the bulk of his army.”
“He thinks we will fail?”
Gathelaus shrugged. “Let’s just say that he is playing it close to the vest. If you win, aided by his men,” he emphasized strongly, “who are outfitted as my Sellsword’s, he gains the disputed Tyrian river valley. But if you fail in the attempt, Vjorn will be sufficiently weakened that he guesses he can claim the whole valley anyway.”
Roose squinted as he asked and looked over the men pouring over the demarcation. “How many men has he allowed you to command?”
“Only a thousand. I command almost two thousand strong now. And if we can’t make your revolution work with these war dogs combined with your forces, it won’t happen.” Gathelaus chuckled.
“Such has been your experience?”
“If you have moved Forlock’s other generals and armies to the outlying provinces as you claim—.”
“And I have,” snapped Roose.
“Then we shall only deal with Forlock’s home forces and royal guard. If that is the case, the armies abroad will accept you as king once Forlock is dead. The average soldier in the field has more loyalty to his commanding general than he does a king anyway. If you grant the nobles and generals titles and lands, they will serve you as faithfully as Forlock.”
“Perhaps. All but general Sarvan. He is fiercely loyal to Forlock.”
“Never heard of him,” said Gathelaus. “Where is he stationed?”
Roose made an exaggerated gesture. “I had him sent to the far southwest, to Danelaw. To watch for a seaborne invasion that will never come. Even once he turns back it should be too late. I can deal with him in time.”
“I just like to know what to expect if I can,” said Gathelaus, as he saluted some of his more familiar men crossing the boundary.
Roose nodded. “Until word of my rebellion reaches Forlock I think we will have no trouble getting to Hellainik. I am sure that word will eventually reach him however. Try as I might there must be spies within my own ranks and eventually Forlock will know I am coming for him. He should have at best, a thousand men to man the wall of Hellainik.”
“But they have walls, even if we have greater numbers.”
Roose nodded. “But my men will be reluctant to attack and slay their own countrymen. The sooner we can wrest power from Forlock, the less blood that will have to be shed. I don’t want to harm my countrymen if I can help it.”
Gathelaus nodded at that and signaled his men to keep moving as they approached the fortress that so recently had been their goal for destruction.
Duke Frinchant rode up upon his gleaming white horse. It was a beautiful creature but headstrong. It sidestepped and turned this way and that, making Frinchant work at staying in place. “Prince Roose. You agree to the terms and give me the fortress of the river?”
“I do,” said Roose. He signaled a man on the parapet who pulled down the Vjornish battle flag a black wolf on a red and white field. He then raised the banner of Derenz, with its double headed black eagle on a green and yellow cross.
“My thanks Roose and I wish you the best of luck in your endeavor,” said Frinchant.
“Will you be gracing us with your presence any time soon?” asked Roose.
Frinchant shook his head. “With any luck, no.”
“Until we meet again,” said Roose.
Gathelaus gave a final salute to Frinchant, then rode beside Roose as the long steel column headed northwest.
***
Two days later, they were before the gates of the fortified city of Tallon. They would have avoided it entire but that it held the bridge to cross the Spirit river.
As they neared the city, Jolly Roger came riding up from scouting ahead. “They have the drawbridge up. Looks like we are expected. It does not look friendly.”
“Impossible,” shouted Roose. “I left trusted men in Tallon for this very reason.”
Jolly shrugged and looked to Gathelaus.
Gathelaus said, “We keep moving, can’t stay here on the road. Maybe it is a miscommunication.”
“Heads will roll for this delay,” grumbled Roose. “That bridge should be down, and we should be across it by nightfall. Idiots.”
Baron Undset asked, “Wasn’t it Mancos you left in charge?”
“Indeed,” snarled Roose.
“Who is that?” asked Gathelaus.
“My second cousin. He is young but a good junior commander. Still I will not go lightly on him for this mistake. It only wastes our precious time.”
They reached the end of the road and stood before the white walls of Tallon. The gatehouse was a well-fortified extension atop the bridge connected to the city walls. The river was given a small berth making a moat. The water flowed swiftly here and would not make for an easy crossing, let alone a siege.
“I am Prince Roose with the king’s army. Open this gate.”
Several armored men looked on, but none answered the prince directly. They spoke quietly among themselves and refused to move from their positions. They held crossbows at the ready and Gathelaus was sure something had gone terribly wrong from Roose’s original plans.
“Where is commander Mancos? Open this gate!”
A red-bearded man in a fine breastplate arrived at the battlements. His long hair and beard could not conceal the malicious look upon his cruel face. He shouted back, “I’m afraid Mancos is now hanging on a gibbet and I command this garrison and city, and we’ll not open the gates to traitors like you, my dear Roose.”
“Guthrum? What are you talking about? I am on the king’s business and demand you let me through.”
“Who is that?” asked Gathelaus.
Baron Undset said, “He was Mancos’s second in command. I thought we could trust him.”
“That’s the way of things,” lamented Gathelaus.
“That’s colonel Guthrum now and indeed you are a traitor Roose,” shouted Guthrum, pointing an accusing finger.
“Prince Roose!” he shouted back.
“No longer! King Forlock knows about your treachery. Your titles are forfeit. Any and all men within the sound of my voice can now disown you and return to the kings good graces, especially if they will take you into custody,” he shouted louder, so that men throughout the column might hear. “A double bonus of yearly wages to the man who gives me your head!”
Jolly turned in his saddle, shrugged and looked to Gathelaus saying, “That is a good deal.”
Roose snarled, “You have been gravely misinformed by vengeful charlatans. I am the king’s supreme military commander. And I demand you open these gates!”
Guthrum
laughed. “Stop this petty charade. Your secret plans were not so well kept. The king’s sorcerer Tormund Ghast watches and told the king all. I was offered this command and more, if I would hang Mancos and bar your way. So here we are. Your little rebellion is over.”
“Niels?” murmured Gathelaus.
“I have him,” said Niels, as he positioned himself behind Gathelaus with as much cover as he could manage. No good letting the enemy see your preparations. “This light windage might be a problem.”
“Open this gate and let us speak as men face to face, not like dogs worrying over bones,” shouted Roose, still working his game.
“The only bones here will be yours, traitor!” responded Guthrum.
“Take it,” said Gathelaus.
The bowstring gave an anxious twang.
“Your rebellion was strangled within the wom—” The rest of the word was lodged in Guthrum’s throat, transfixed by Niels arrow.
The red-bearded commander clutched at the shaft and fell backward into his men, who gasped aloud at the deadly accuracy they had just witnessed.
“I say,” exclaimed Prince Roose’s steward. “That was not gentlemanly.”
“I’m not here to waste time,” growled Gathelaus, before riding ahead toward the gatehouse and shouting, “I am Gathelaus, commander of the Sellsword’s. Open this gate and let us pass through and you have my word no harm will come to you. We seek only to pass by. Our fight is not with you but the tyrant king Forlock. Open!” he thundered.
The guards atop the gatehouse murmured amongst one another.
Gathelaus rode back to Roose and Baron Undset saying, “Better for one man to perish than a whole city.”
There was hesitation for few moments, then the sound of the gate being lowered and chains grinding against gears, cranked above even the muted drumming of a distant storm.
“Thorne, Jolly, Niels, take a score of men and make sure we hold that gatehouse immediately,” ordered Gathelaus.
Thorne signaled some of the foremost of the Sellsword’s and they rushed across the drawbridge and moved into position.
The Usurper Page 5
