The Usurper

by James Alderdice

  The demon laughed like a hyena, then spoke, “No weapon forged by man may harm me. Born from another plane am I.”

  Gathelaus struck once more, and the brute took the blow full in the chest, the center of the blade sank deep until only the handle and tip were visible. The demon then held the sword in place while allowing its own body to reseal and thus steal the sword.

  “Libnah’s teeth!” cursed Gathelaus.

  The swine thing grasped Gathelaus and opened its mouth, bringing its murderous slathering jaws ever closer to Gathelaus’s throat. Saliva dropped on his cheek.

  Trusted men appeared behind but could not engage the demon in such tight quarters for fear of striking their commander.

  “Strike it down!” ordered Gathelaus.

  The demon wrenched the sword from out of its own chest and tossed the blade at the men in the doorway.

  Gathelaus heard them scream, at least one man perhaps two took a fatal blow from his own sword.

  The demon crushed the him to its hairy breast and said, “I told you no weapon made by mere men can harm me. Now you will die.”

  Gathelaus was strong, the demon was stronger and inched its open mouth and bone rending tusks ever closer. Black talons ripped the links in Gathelaus’s mail apart which sounded like the strumming of a tuneless minstrel. His spine felt as if it was about to crack from the crushing pressure of the demon.

  The open maw drew nearer.

  Gathelaus pulled a hand free from the crushing embrace and grasped one of the six-inch tusks jutting from the demon’s mouth.

  The swine thing tried to shake its own head away from Gathelaus’s grasp but could not get him to let go. It renewed its effort to crush him.

  Gathelaus threw all his remaining strength behind his right hand and yanked the tusk loose. He then spun his hand about and slammed the makeshift point back into the swine-things head.

  The demon cried out as black blood spurted from the wound and this time it did not heal. Even in its pained cries however it would not let go if the man who caused it this agony. It bawled out and squeezed him ever tighter.

  Bracing his legs for all they were worth, Gathelaus pushed and spun, sending the demon falling to the side and upon the burning wall of the tent.

  Flames licked over the coarse bristles and hair of the swine demon and it roared mournfully. Pain must have swollen from the cleansing fire versus the diabolic cold from whence the demon came.

  Blood and fire mixed like oil and the demon burst into flames and smoke, and then was gone in an explosion of nauseous fumes.

  The men raced forward to witness the duel. Their eyes were aghast, several of them having seen the demon and yet, it was now gone and Gathelaus yet stood, but there at his feet, Prince Roose was dead.

  Ten years earlier…

  The Great Unifier

  Swift as Thor’s thrown hammer, the dark-haired giant of a Northman dropped the plank, barring the alabaster-framed door against the caliph of Mohasag’s other guardians. Immediately, the puzzled but dedicated Almohadian bodyguards pounded on the oaken doors demanding entry.

  Only the voluptuous harem remained inside with the caliph and his prized foreigner of a bodyguard in the opulent golden hall. Long-lashed eyes watched from behind azure veils, breasts heaved in anticipation. They knew blood would flow, staining this palace of cruel beauty.

  The Northman then locked the bolt upon the thick doors.

  Wheeling with eyes opened to the foul treachery, the caliph feigned indifference while trying to buy time. “I don’t find that humorous. Do not tease me, Gathelaus.”

  He pronounced the infamous Northman’s name as ‘GaTeierloss’. The caliph’s eyes twitched rat-like as he glanced for either weapon or escape. His prized Damascus scimitars were missing, even the ceremonial wall hangings, gifts from the sultan, had vanished. The pale bare outlines on the stucco walls mocked his hopes. Among the concubines a pretty brunette from mountainous Hawkton would not meet his leering gaze. But his attentions were forced back to the fearsome traitor.

  The bodyguards outside threw themselves at the shuddering but steadfast door.

  Gathelaus drew his long knife, a venomous looking falcata. He slapped the flat of the blade against his palm and smiled knowingly at the brunette.

  The caliph shouted, “But you saved my life from Hassan’s killers twice! Why now?”

  Gathelaus smirked, in a way that belied no humor. “If he’d succeeded, I wouldn’t be paid.”

  Terror gripped the caliph, his guardians banged on the door but still could not enter. Perspiration sprouted over his forehead as his bejeweled turban slipped. “Whatever it is, I’ll double it. Name your price. Triple?!”

  “Already spent. Besides, we both know there’s no going back now,” rumbled Gathelaus.

  The caliph backed toward the dais, his craven gaze meeting the largely indifferent harem. Beautiful women that were stolen from around the world, blondes from Vjorn, fair-skinned redheads from Azschland, dusky lovelies from Kathul and Avaris, even a trained courtesan from far Shang Henj. All were slaves to his lust, prisoner to his foul passions, and now witnesses to a grim end. They would offer no help, no love lost.

  Nowhere to turn, the caliph paced to the massive curtained windows then back to the dais. Gathelaus outpaced him at every step. No amount of wealth or finery would aid him here. In a fit, he flung his bracelets, rings of gold and precious stones at Gathelaus.

  This only made the Northern giants eyes flash with the cold burning fires of Ragnarok. He slapped the caliph, exploding blood from the nobleman’s lips.

  Weeping, the caliph felt himself a child again. “Mercy?”

  Gathelaus rebuked, “Accept your fate with dignity dog!”

  “Help! Help! I am slain,” cried the caliph in futility to the bodyguards behind the flexing doors. To Gathelaus, he raged, “A thousand and one curses upon you Gathelaus! May the Djinn never allow you peace! But I . . . I shall go to paradise.”

  “Hel awaits you,” Gathelaus snarled, slamming the falcata into the caliph’s hairy breast. The titanic blow from the Northman knocked him against the dais. The once fine white silks bloomed into scarlet rags.

  Pounding upon the thick oaken doors grew frantic.

  Wrenching the curved blade free, hot blood spurted across Gathelaus’s hand and the cold marble floor.

  Paling with blood loss, the caliph asked, “Why?” He trembled, clutching a plush divan as he fell.

  The doors rocked at the blows raining upon them. A halberds head bit through the door vomiting splinters.

  Gathelaus’s eyes flickered to the door and back to the dying caliph, he answered, “Why is a question only the damned ask. You can ask the woman Aliah.”

  “Aliah? But she is dead,” trailed the caliph, as his eyes dimmed.

  “So are you.”

  The harem looked on silent and frightened, their scent morphing from myrrh, jasmine and excitement to fear and panic.

  Curses and threats protested louder behind the fracturing doors.

  The caliph went still as his blood pooled ever wider.

  Bursting through the doors, the Almohadian bodyguard wielded halberds, scimitars and crossbows. They reeled at the loss of their caliph but vultureish Kamal, captain of the household troop, united them for revenge.

  “Slay the traitorous infidel!” shouted the captain.

  Bolts blazed past Gathelaus like sharp comets as sword dervishes sought to flank him. One of the caliph’s seventeen concubines screamed as a bolt took her naked thigh. Dodging the bolts, Gathelaus cast a candelabra against the drapes and ornate rugs. A bottle of potent wine followed, the scarlet contents resembled the caliph’s blood moments before flames erupted across the unlikely fuel. Venomous smoke and licking fire obscured the domed golden hall.

  The first bodyguard to reach Gathelaus, had his halberd batted aside as Gathelaus’s fist smote him across the jaw, breaking his neck. A second Almohadian with a raised scimitar had his belly opened with the curved knif
e. The third caught fire as Gathelaus tossed another bottle of the forbidden grape, feeding the flames.

  Gathelaus was grateful this was Mohasag, where the Holy Law was overlooked if not ignored and the nobles drank their heady wine freely behind closed doors where the clerics and imams could not see.

  The hungry fire took the turquoise drapes and crimson banners in the hall like fat to a hog, clothing everything in dull orange hues of madness. The harem cried out as they fled past the bodyguards, aiding in Gathelaus’s calculated chaos.

  A shrieking dervish lunged with his wicked blade.

  Gathelaus sidestepped and cleaved his falcata to the teeth on his opponent. The dead man’s arms danced as the blade was pulled free. Gathelaus caught the corpses falling scimitar and slashed it left-handed across the chest of the next charging Almohadian.

  A burly guardian found the blade halfway through his ribs before realizing he was even struck by the wolfish Northman.

  Flames roared, devouring the golden hall and Gathelaus thought for a moment he could hear the singing of the Valkyries through the chaos. But he rejected dying here as his own fate and decided he only heard the harem fleeing and Kamal swearing unholy curses of ruin.

  Taking up a small divan, Gathelaus cast it against the spider web-like window, shattering the myriad hand-wrought panes. He glanced out into the courtyard to see thirty feet below, twelve-year old Zushia waiting on the street with the hay wagon. Her tiny mouth was agape since the divan and broken glass landed just beside her.

  The caliph’s guard, choking on acrid smoke struggled to advance. Sacred duty demanded they slay the caliph’s murderer. Though the Almohadian’s were legion, inside the burning hall their numbers were for naught against the blood drenched Northman.

  Despite the fire, more crossbow bolts whisked blindly past Gathelaus’s head. Sheathing his falcata, Gathelaus leapt out the smoke-belching broken window. His body slammed hard into the wagon, almost buckling its thin frame.

  Startled, the horses snorted as Zushia whipped the reins. True to her role, the little brown-haired girl sent the wagon dashing down the narrow streets of Mohasag.

  Soot-blackened faces peered from the ruined windows of the burning hall and rather than confront the flames, a half-dozen of the bodyguard jumped to the cobblestones. Broken bones were their reward, but new men would replace these now lost to the pursuit.

  Captain Kamal rallied the bodyguard, screaming oaths of revenge and honor. He would drink the assassin’s blood or allow the desert Djinn to take his own soul for the price of failure.

  Mere blocks away, Zushia shouted at Gathelaus over her shoulder, “You almost hit me with the sofa!”

  Gathelaus shrugged, “Sorry. The bodyguard got through the door faster than I thought.”

  “Matamoros said you were reckless. Said it was a fools hope that you would succeed,” she said.

  Gathelaus laughed in the way that only men used to death usually hear.

  She looked at him, then glancing back, her eyes grew wide at the rapid pursuit coming from behind.

  Horses, chariots and great Molossian hounds boiled out of the palace like angry hornets in desperate pursuit.

  A pair of Tuareg’s, swift mounted archers, closed the distance first. Bred in the saddle, these Tuareg’s were deadly accurate. Having served among them for the last two months, Gathelaus knew their strengths, habits and limitations.

  “Get down,” Gathelaus demanded, as he tossed the girl back into hay before she could move. “Hold on!” He whipped the reins and pulled hard to the right, lifting two wheels off the ground as they spun hard down a side street. As soon as they were momentarily out of sight, Gathelaus yanked back on the reins and halted the horses. He then readied himself with a long staff.

  The pair of Tuareg’s rounded the corner at top speed and crashed into the waiting wagon. Gathelaus crushed their skulls with his staff. He then leapt back to the front and whipped the reins, letting the back wheels roll over one of the dead archers.

  The clatter and landing rattled Zushia’s teeth. She was angry but the advancing dervishes on snorting black horses and frothing giant hounds made her forget.

  The caliph’s bodyguard waved scimitars over their heads, shrill calls echoed from their bearded mouths but most frightening of all was the baying of the great hounds. Large enough to be mistaken for lean bears, the hounds more than kept pace with their master’s horses. Their huge pink tongues lolled as they gave chase.

  The folk of Mohasag jumped back as the wagon raced by leaving a trail of flying hay jetsam.

  Zushia shouted, “Did you?”

  “Throw the jar I put on the left out now!” Gathelaus interrupted.

  Reaching into the thick straw, Zushia found a large clay container, big as a bees nest. She cast it into the street shattering the fragile vessel. A few dozen iron caltrops spread across the cobbles.

  The first horse struck them, screamed, and threw her rider. The next did the same, piercing its hooves. Another mount avoided the trap but jerked and tossed the screaming rider upon the ever-vertical black spikes. The wounds were not deep but the Almohadian would never walk again.

  The wary hounds instinctively went around the vile reaching iron. They leapt over the caltrops graceful as sleek dragons, baying loud as thunder.

  Zushia watched them gaining and buried her face beneath the hay.

  Gathelaus looked back, counting four of the beasts. “Votan’s beard!”

  “I’m scared. I don’t want to die,” pleaded Zushia.

  “We’ll not be food for wolves nor crows,” he assured her. “Take the reins.”

  She struggled but took hold and almost kept the pace Gathelaus demanded.

  The hounds closed the distance, their yellow eyes ravenous and brutal.

  The narrow street curved and Zushia was forced to slow even more despite Gathelaus’s protest.

  A gray furred hound was nearly to the rear of the wagon when Gathelaus struck it on the flat of the skull with his staff. The hound blinked and fell back, this time more cautious to stay out of the Northman’s reach.

  Two more hounds had almost caught up when Zushia called, “Gathelaus, the road!”

  “Keep going!”

  “I can’t!”

  A mass of vendors for a bazaar stretched over the Mohasagian avenue blocking their escape route.

  Gathelaus faced the hounds. The closest snarled as it ran, revealing massive teeth. “Stop the wagon,” shouted Gathelaus.

  Zushia panicked and yanked the reins back hard as she could. The horses slid on the cobblestones, but Gathelaus’s plan worked.

  The barking hound reared up on the end of the wagon. Gathelaus sent the tip of the staff down its gullet, breaching its gut. The animal fell, its lungs transfixed.

  With his staff ready, Gathelaus tensed. The hounds would attack on the left and right. Gathelaus knew their primal tactics, they would nip at each side, wearing down their prey until they could tear him apart.

  The hounds moved in on each side, their lips curled, teeth gleaming.

  Gathelaus threw his falcata into the hound on the right. The blade hit home and the animal yelped in pain, dropping upon its side. Swinging his staff at the other, Gathelaus swept its legs out from under it. He chased it off, only to have the hound come back snapping.

  Wary and unrelenting, the hound kept needling at Gathelaus, waiting for an opening to his throat.

  Knowing that he was running out of time, and that more Almohadian’s would arrive any moment. He had to end this now.

  Turning his back to the hound then wheeling back, he fooled it and finally caught its back leg, breaking it. He rained more blows upon the foe until it went still, then new pain latched onto his calf.

  The wounded hound was not dead. It bit down and shook back and forth, doing most of its damage to Gathelaus’s sheepskin boots. The falcata still stood erect from the hounds bleeding side.

  Gathelaus gripped the knife, twisted and ripped it out before plunging it again
and again. The hound retreated back to its mate and collapsed.

  Holding his bleeding leg, Gathelaus shouted for the bazaar to let them pass when the older, fourth hound appeared. Zushia screamed.

  Panting, the hound’s long tongue wagged as it struggled to keep up with the others, now lying dead in the street. It seemed oblivious of them and continued running straight for Gathelaus.

  Inspiration struck and Gathelaus turned his back and shouted as he had heard the Almohadian’s before directing the hounds. He waved his hand forward and pointed down a newly opened side street, “Go get him! Go get him!”

  The hound obeyed Gathelaus and ran past him, chasing ghosts.

  Zushia shouted, “Get in!” as she whipped the reins and forced the wagon into the bustling bazaar. They were enveloped by the motley folk of the street as more of the caliph’s horsemen came upon the dead hounds. Then they were lost from view.

  Shouting, Gathelaus tossed a bag of bright copper coins into the street. A multitude of Mohasagians flocked into the streets to gather what was considered a princely sum.

  The bazaar thinned as the road stretched around a long corner and when Gathelaus guessed they were nearly through, Captain Kamal cut off their route. He was flanked by a dozen horsemen. A pair of them trained crossbows on Gathelaus.

  “Assassin! There is a place reserved in the burning pits for those such as you!”

  Gathelaus shouted, “Hel awaits, but not for me.”

  Kamal signaled his men closer.

  The merchants and bazaar patrons rapidly bled away to the safety offered in the tall homes along the street. Still they watched anxiously, blood was always a favorite sport for thieves and kings alike.

  Gathelaus whispered to Zushia, “When the fighting starts, run and keep going until you are out of sight, then hide. Understand?”

  The girl nodded though her knees knocked, and tears threatened like rain clouds. “Did you?”

  “Do as I say. Now,” Gathelaus chided.

  Kamal and his horsemen cantered closer.