The Usurper

by James Alderdice

  “What if someone forgets their place? Forgets their oath and honor?”

  Gathelaus smiled. “Then they had better hit their knees and remember.”

  Yosiah looked away. This time Gathelaus’s answer wasn’t so easy for him.

  “Years ago,” said Gathelaus. “I led a party of men, and there was only one from the people of Alamane.”

  The boy’s bright eyes looked sharply at Gathelaus.

  “I knew your father. I buried him myself.”

  Yosiah’s eyes watered but he retained a stronger grip on the banners stand.

  “Your father broke his covenant with Alamane to come and fight under me. He lost his life in the process. What you don’t know is he died defending other fallen men. Perhaps some would say your father was an oath-breaker and got what was coming to him…but not me. Your father was a hero,” said Gathelaus.

  With hands tight around the banner stand, Yosiah wept.

  “He came to me wishing to break his oath and help defend his land from its enemies. I reminded him of his oath, and he told me he had prayed long and hard about it. He said the Gods would understand him breaking one oath to live a higher one and I couldn’t argue. I let him fight. If you’re going to be angry…be angry with me.”

  Yosiah clasped Gathelaus hugging him as tight as the armor would allow. “How do you know the pain of my heart?”

  “I realized last night that you look just like your father and are just as brave. That’s why you must stay with the banner on the hill. I don’t want to have to explain you to your mother, but I’ll not begrudge you doing your part here either,” said Gathelaus looking to the east and across the river.

  “Thank you. I will make you and my father proud,” said Yosiah.

  “I know.”

  ***

  By late afternoon the sun blazed overhead like a fiery chariot. Yosiah wondered if Gathelaus was wrong about the time and place of the Picts crossing the wide Rites river. Then sudden cries came resounding from far across the river. Men were dying and battle raged.

  It was hard to distinguish individuals at that distance but the shifting colors and glints of light on steel showed the movement of men and war. Darting black clouds would rise up low from each side only to fall like rain and dim figures would drop to the ground. The dusky figures moved into the river and lumbered toward the west bank.

  Gathelaus kept his men low and silent, waiting for more of the Picts forces to get wet.

  Yosiah had been ordered to keep the banner hidden behind a tree. From his lofty vantage the river was teeming with men forging across toward him. These Pict warriors were naked to the waist, only war-paint covered their upper torsos. Some had rucksacks and quivers with bows they held high above the water to keep their bowstrings dry. Most carried the favored scimitar. None but the captains wore helms or armor they had plundered from fallen Vjornishmen. There were so many, Yosiah worried at Gathelaus’s ability to defeat them.

  Yosiah remembered to pray as Gathelaus had. He asked for strength and courage, for protection for him and his new friends. He thanked the Gods of the North for the opportunity to be here beside Gathelaus and participate in what was sure to be epic. As Gathelaus had said, their enemies were delivered into his hands and here they came in droves.

  The first few Pict warriors came trudging out of the river, many tired from their wet trek, breathing heavily. Some sat down on the banks watching the distant fighting across the Rites river.

  Yosiah knew Gathelaus had to let the Picts keep crossing before they realized how heavily they outnumbered Niels’s forces across the river and overwhelmed him. This was subterfuge and if the surprise was lost, so would be the gambit. The balance had to be found to allow the Usurper’s lesser numbers to seize the battlefield advantage. He watched Gathelaus hold the army at bay a little longer until the banks were crawling with dripping warriors.

  When the Pict army was nearly in thirds—those on the east shore, west shore and the last third still struggling through the Rites river—Gathelaus sprung the trap. Horns blew and Gathelaus’s men fell upon the naked-breasted Picts and slew them as they lay weary upon the riverbanks.

  Carrying the banner to an overlooking hill, Yosiah waved it proudly. The message of courage, freedom, truth and family meant more to him than any conquest ever could. He stared wide-eyed at the carnage unleashed below on the riverbanks.

  ***

  A pair of strong Pict warriors attacked Gathelaus with scimitars and axes, whirling death rung his ears inside the helm. With his small buckler shield he warded off the blows of one while slicing the earlobe off the other. Parrying against the one on the right he pushed him away before slashing at the one on the left. He sorely missed the attempted cut and the Pict easily moved to the side.

  The big Pict chuckled at his dodge. He realized too late that Gathelaus had missed on purpose to counter the blow of the other chop home on a friend rather than a foe.

  With the Pict on the right aghast at his deadly miss, Gathelaus swung back sending him to his comrade’s side beyond the shadowy veil. Sounding the war-cry, “Votan!” Gathelaus led his men against the foe with the echoing rally.

  The brutal shock forced many in the river to try and evade the destruction. Gathelaus’s warriors poured out of the valley to the south of wooded hillock. Thinking the Usurpers forces had approached from downriver, many Picts wearied themselves, struggling against the river current, trying to move upstream and away toward the wooded north. Gathelaus had planned such a possibility knowing the current would weaken the foe here. He pressed the attack all the stronger, laying waste to the invaders.

  The armored men were careful to stay on the banks and away from the river, though one or two were pulled in to their doom. The Pict war chiefs recognized the one weakness of the Vjornish armor and called for their men to hold back. Once concentrated, they charged in mass against the shore, fighting with all their fury.

  Even Gathelaus was taken aback at their savage and twisted rage; never before had the Picts been so filled with the spirit of hate and malice. The river ran red from the clash. Pict deathblows cleaved through armor with stunning power. Here and there a helm was cloven in half and others even had breastplates pierced and limbs sundered. Enterprising Picts with hooked spears snagged armored men and pulled them into the river to drown.

  Sidrezyul revealed himself at the head of a red and black painted war party. He began a bloody murderous chant and soon the entire Pict army had joined in the awful dirge. The fierce wicked bass of their voices rose off the river like an evil fog and sapped the courage from many of the Vjornishmen and Derenzian troops. Some few of the Picts even had skin or kettle drums that throbbed a terrifying beat. And still they slew their enemies while singing melodious darkness. They encroached upon the valley’s edge cutting down men as they came on.

  It took Gathelaus to break that demonic spell.

  “Hear me, sons of Vjorn. Hearken not to this symphony of destruction but remember our banner and for what it stands!” He pointed back at Yosiah, who stood tall waving the banner back and forth. “We fight for our homes! Our families! Our lands! Our rights and our faith! The Gods will stand by us if we shall stand by them! They have delivered the Picts into our hands. They stand in the river, let us fight on and wash them away!”

  The Usurpers forces cried aloud and following Gathelaus’s lead fought all the harder turning the tide of fear back upon the Picts. It didn’t matter that the Picts outnumbered the Usurpers by two to one still, their spirit was crushed as the mantle of the power was lain upon Gathelaus’s shoulders and he struck down Picts before him as a lion among jackals.

  Even Yosiah heard Gathelaus’s thunderous voice and he too came charging down carrying the banner with the surge of Usurper warriors.

  They could not help but follow the roaring courage of their commander and so the Usurpers slammed the invaders with a wall of steel. Trampling his foes underfoot, Gathelaus an unstoppable juggernaut of iron, took the fight all the w
ay to Sidrezyul before ceasing the devastation of his blade.

  Trapped between the fiery Gathelaus on one side of the river and Niels and Thorne with another wall of archers behind their back, the Picts were struck with such dread, as they had never known. With the river flowing red at their ankles, Gathelaus called for an end of the bloodshed. With a wave of his mighty arm, the fighting died away.

  Gathelaus stood upon the wet riverbank and pointed an accusing finger at Sidrezyul. “We don’t desire to be men of blood. The Gods have put you into our hands and still your death is not our wish. Will you end this and return to your homes and wives?”

  Sidrezyul snorted at that, “Your ambush says otherwise,” he said pointing at Niels’s army across the river and Gathelaus’s own army hedged in around them, shields overlapping.

  Raising his voice even more Gathelaus said for all to hear, “We didn’t come to battle with you for power or glory, nor to throw you into bondage but to defend ourselves from your attempt to do this to us. I know your heart, Sidrezyul, you hate us because we abide in the land, you in turn can only hate. What a sad excuse for life.”

  The Pict war king was a tall and lean warrior. He wore no crown but a mohawk of his own black hair and a few feathers dipped in blood hanging from the rear. This was his crown and was as a king to his peoples. Still he grimaced but did not deny Gathelaus’s words.

  “Sidrezyul, I command you now in the name of the new king of Vjorn, Roose the Usurper, that you will throw down your weapons of war. I swear we shall not seek after your lives in revenge, but you must leave our lands and never come against us in war again. If you won’t do this—I will kill you and my men will fall upon you reaping a full harvest of blood.”

  Yosiah now stood beside Gathelaus with the banner firmly planted in the ground.

  Sidrezyul conceded he was beaten. He came forward hanging his head, dark baleful eyes glaring the malice of ages. “Here are our weapons,” he said dropping his war axe and bow, “but I’ll not swear to you. I would rather die than give you control of my people’s souls.”

  The two men stared hard at each other as Sidrezyul finished. “I deny you that the Gods wished you to win this battle. It was your cowardly armor and dishonorable cunning that won you this day,” spat the Pict king.

  Gathelaus said to Sidrezyul, “Pick it up.”

  The Pict king’s dark eyes flared at the stern order of Gathelaus.

  “We will end this here and now. I will not take back the promise to slay you if you won’t have the peace I offer you,” said Gathelaus, his mighty arms folded as he thundered the rest of his speech. “As the Gods live, you can claim the peace of life or death.”

  Sidrezyul picked his spike war axe up and wiped the clinging mud and gore from its grip. He hung his head low and submissive as if he would accept Gathelaus’s order. Stepping closer he leapt like a serpent striking, his blade arcing for Gathelaus’s exposed throat.

  With the speed of eagles, Yosiah swept the banner pole between the hungry axe and Gathelaus. The stout pole batted the weapon away and took Sidrezyul in the face, dazing him. The axe fell between the earth and a river stone. Yosiah smote it with his foot and the handle snapped at the neck. Taking up his own blade Yosiah took the vanity from Sidrezyul’s crown and struck off his scalp. Stabbing the scalp with the sword point, Yosiah held it up for all to see.

  “Even as this scalp of your war chief fell to the earth, so shall all of you, unless you throw down your weapons and depart with a covenant of peace!” shouted the boy becoming a man.

  The once mighty warlord of the Picts, Sidrezyul, crawled away clutching his bleeding head.

  The strength and speed of the boy impressed the Picts, they lined up to swear peace to Gathelaus and the boy beside him. Telling their names and families, multitudes of Pict warriors delivered their weapons into a great pile of steel and obsidian, while swearing peace. These oath men were permitted to depart, and they disappeared into the northern wilderness.

  In his blood-fueled hate Sidrezyul defied the words of Gathelaus. “They will slay us when we are weaponless, and our backs are turned we know the trickery of these dogs! We fight or we perish! A man cannot live with this dishonor,” he screamed, leading a new assault on the Usurpers as they were taking the weapons of the covenant keepers.

  “Unleash the furies upon them,” shouted Gathelaus. “We’ll have no more of this.” Then he too jumped into the fray, slaying those that yet fought. He battled through the bodyguard of Sidrezyul bashing their bare heads and naked skins with his sword and shield.

  With even less men than before, and the Usurpers moral at a high, the last of the Picts were gradually pressed in and cut down.

  Sidrezyul faltered seeing Gathelaus’s scowl growing ever closer and his sword-blade ever more scarlet. “Wait, wait—I swear to you, spare me and my people and we shall never come against you in war again, I, Sidrezyul swear it.” He bowed his head to Gathelaus and held up his war-club in submission.

  Gathelaus took the club and cast it into the river. “Peace brothers and be still,” he shouted, and the slaying ended.

  Sidrezyul and the remaining Picts swore the oath of peace and departed swiftly. The multitudes of the dead were cast into the Rites river to be carried down to the sea.

  “Your father would be proud of you Yosiah. I know I am,” said Gathelaus. “If more youth were like you, I’d march our armies to the gates of hell and batter them down. I’d call out that old serpent and break him.”

  Yosiah grinned sheepishly at the bravado and said, “I’m nothing special. My mother taught me what was right all of my life, there are thousands like me back in Hornburg.”

  “I’ll have to remember that,” said Gathelaus clasping the man’s hand.

  Eight years earlier…

  The Voice Of The Ancients

  The dripping heat of Bhustan hung on them like a stinking towel from a diseased bathhouse. The slayers swatted bloodsucking flies or pulled leeches that dropped from putrid trees. The jungle demanded a blood debt and the captain of these slayers, a man known as Gathelaus, would see it paid.

  Removing his slouch hat, sweat streamed from Gathelaus’s shaven head, and dripped from his stubbled chin. Massive and strong as a bear, he signaled the men for a brief halt at a crossroads. They had entered Bhustan swift and hidden like venomous spiders, but Gathelaus warily watched their back trail. If discovered, they could expect a prolonged skin-peeling death.

  Verdant greenery draped everything but the sky overhead. The call of paradisiacal birds and swarming insects stung the air. A scent of damp rot wormed into Gathelaus’s nostrils and he cursed, noticing rust attacking his blades again. He was a Northman and these jungle hazards were only dreamt of in the north.

  Alien and hostile as this realm was, Duke Larkspur’s promise of reward was too great to deny. The Duke cloaked the mission in patriotism, but power and gold was the true calling. All twelve of Gathelaus’s slayers accepted the assignment with grim determination, they knew the score. A thirteenth soul, bound and gagged, was forced along.

  The prisoner, a bald dusky-skinned priest, motioned for water.

  Gathelaus signaled a halt then yanked the gag demanding, “Which way to the temple?” before offering the cured bladder.

  Gulping, the old priest pointed and said, “This path is death. You seek blasphemy.”

  “I’ll risk your blasphemy,” said Gathelaus.

  “You think slaying the god will stop my people?

  Gathelaus wiped his sweaty brow and snorted, “I do.”

  The dusky priest looked skyward crying, “He speaks. His will cannot be silenced. Always he speaks.”

  Replacing the gag, Gathelaus then made the gesture to renew the march.

  Newly fallen trees made for a tight passage down the trail. Gathelaus noticed that he no longer heard the cry of birds. He halted the men. Several nocked arrows as others drew swords. Silence mocked their preparations.

  Gathelaus narrowed his gaze at the impenetra
ble forest. The loud buzz of an invisible fly passed by him.

  A slayer facing Gathelaus, paled as his face went slack, letting drool run. Twisting, he fell, revealing tiny darts piercing his exposed neck. Then another man dropped and another.

  Ducking amongst fallen logs, Gathelaus drew his sword and tomahawk.

  The dreaded hiss and thwack of a dart stuck and vibrated beside Gathelaus’s face. “We gotta move,” he shouted to his men. “Throw down!”

  For a mad moment, the slayers loosed everything within reach at their unseen foes, before dashing down the trail. Thrown chaotically, arrows and stones bought precious seconds, the darts briefly subsided, and seven men survived the ambush.

  A high-pitched chorus rolled out wrathful and untamed.

  Looking back Gathelaus saw them, cannibalistic pygmies, armed with blowguns and copper knives. The tiny men swarmed through the underbrush, their painted faces a mask of hate. Almost naked, they would be vulnerable to the larger men’s swords.

  The slayers fled several hundred yards before Gathelaus realized he no longer had the priest. It didn’t matter now, believing he was on the trail to the ruined temple of the Monkey God, he urged his men on.

  The pygmies knew the jungle better than Gathelaus and his slayers, twice he was cut off and reversed course through the reaching vines and massive palm fronds. The whoosh and buzz of the darts stuck in trees beside him and fear of the poison was almost as bad as the prospect of being eaten.

  Finding the trail again, Gathelaus hoped he and his men could outrun their diminutive foes, but as they raced down the snaking path, the high-pitched cries endured. He lost three more men to the darts. Rounding a wide bend, he halted.

  A rickety rope bridge spanned a deep canyon. Across lay a complex of temples encroaching upon the jungle. Below a murky green river replete with crocodiles cut through the red-brown clay.

  Looking down one of the slayers, poked at the decayed wooden planks. “Here?”