The Usurper

by James Alderdice

Gathelaus laughed. He hadn’t slain the monkey god after all, just a great beast. The monkey god was the voice echoing through pipes and horns lined about the walls. Here and there as a monkey chattered near an ancient mouthpiece, the sound was amplified and deepened.

  The priests cast whatever answer they wanted from the booming sounds. Tradition held the Bhustani people in thrall and Gathelaus knew how he would cripple them.

  Taking the hammer in hand he smashed the dirging stone instruments again and again. Cracked frescoes and statues all felt his blows as he crumbled the work of ages.

  The priests went silent from their chanting as they realized the monkey god’s voice was lessening every moment.

  Gathelaus counted ninety-nine sounding tubes, as he called them, all embedded along the decadent frescoed walls in the temple. He destroyed them all.

  Stepping to the open gateway, he called for Belanah, but she did not respond. Kicking a monkey out of his way, Gathelaus pressed his way to the limp girl.

  Bound between the pillars, she did not move.

  Ignoring the shouting priests, Gathelaus felt for a pulse.

  A flame of bitter hatred flared then. Gathelaus swore to never feel such emotions again. Casting his gaze at the screaming dead men, he charged and swiftly cut them down.

  Before they were all slain, they did raise the alarm for their brethren across the bridge, who ran at breakneck speed across.

  Gathelaus thought to cut the bridge as he had before, but knew he could not reach it in time. He faded back into the jungle. He would make his way back to the dugout he had hidden and float his way back to civilization.

  ***

  The Bhustani’s brought more priests forward who could interpret the commands of the monkey god, but it never spoke again. Thus both the god and war that Gathelaus sought to slay, died.

  Seven days earlier…

  The Usurper 7. Last Throw Of The Dice

  The bloody dawn rose and Niels came and awoke Gathelaus. “Someone is coming?”

  Gathelaus rubbed his eyes and splashed water from the basin beside him. “Who?”

  “Looks like its Frinchant,” said Niels, before he vanished out the command tent.

  “Votan,” swore Gathelaus, as he fully roused himself and strapped his sword belt on. He went out into the clearing just as Duke Frinchant rode in on his glorious charger.

  “Ah! Gathelaus! I have come to congratulate you on the victory over Forlock’s Picts! Grand! Incredible, snatching victory from defeat like that,” he said, as he took of his helm and tossed it to a steward beside him. He then dismounted and looked about. “But where is Prince Roose? Or should I be saying King Roose? It can’t be long now, eh, what with all the successes you have had so far.”

  “He is indisposed,” said Baron Undset, rather uncomfortably.

  “He will see me,” insisted Frinchant, as he adjusted his fancy uniform.

  “He won’t be seeing anyone,” said Gathelaus sourly.

  “We are allies are we not? I must see him,” said Frinchant. He looked at the host of glum faces. “What is the matter? Is he with a woman?”

  Gathelaus took Frinchant by the arm saying softly, “Come with me, if you will.”

  Frinchant’s brow raised in consternation as he followed the Sellsword general into the command tent.

  There beneath a woolen blanket and sheet still covered with dried blood was Roose’s corpse.

  Frinchant gasped. “How?”

  “Forlock’s sorcerer, sent a demon. It killed Roose before I could dispose of it.”

  “A demon!” Frinchant stepped back.

  Gathelaus took hold of the Duke’s arms. “Wait! We haven’t told anyone yet.”

  “Why the devil not?”

  “He has been dead for four days. I needed the men to think he was alive so I could defeat the Picts.”

  Frinchant stepped away from Gathelaus saying, “I can understand that. You were caught between a rock and hard place, but now…” He stole a glance at the cold white hand of Roose peeking out from the edge of the sheet. “You can’t keep up this disgrace any longer. It’s over. Forlock must know by now and surely he will crush whatever forces are left to you. There is nothing left to do but flee for your lives.”

  “I still have a chance to pull this out of the fire,” said Gathelaus with gritted teeth.

  “No, you can’t. There is nothing left to pull out. It is all ash now,” said Frinchant.

  “I can take Forlock’s crown for the good of the nation,” said Gathelaus.

  Frinchant stood a little taller now. “I see. You think you can gamble your way in, eh? Fool the men until you hold the crown? It won’t work. The people won’t stand for a barbarian ruler. You’ll have a mutiny; from half the men you’re leading now to say the least.”

  “No, he won’t,” broke in Baron Undset. “I back him. The men will back him and the people back him already.”

  “Preposterous,” said Frinchant.

  The Baron interceded before Gathelaus could say anymore. “Everyman that knows, back Gathelaus for the crown. He has won their loyalty and mine.”

  Frinchant looked at the two of them. “A handful of mercenaries and one Baron do not a king make. Look, there was your one chance at a new king and he is dead. Forlock will destroy this rebellion. Perhaps Roose took the easy way out.”

  “Do not speak of the man like that,” snarled Baron Undset.

  Frinchant grew bolder. “This is over. I regret my part. I’m taking my men and going back to the border which I now consider mine. Forlock himself will have to remove me from the fortress like a buried tick.”

  “No, we need those men,” said the Baron. “We lost hundreds defeating the Picts.”

  Frinchant sniffed. “Can you not see the way the wind blows? Your rebellion is doomed. Gathelaus, I am sure I will need you to help hold the border until the dust settles. I can guarantee you employment for at least two more months, on the condition we watch for Forlock attempting any repercussions.”

  “I’m not going. I told you I can win this,” growled Gathelaus.

  Frinchant wheeled on him. “Are you insane? You may have defeated a bunch of Picts, but that was the army Forlock threw at you just to slow you down.”

  “I won.”

  “Yes, but you haven’t even faced the Vjornish regulars yet, nor this sorcerer that can conjure demons.”

  “I slew the demon.”

  Frinchant sniffed once more and said as if he spoke to an idiot. “This is gone. You can’t take up Roose’s mantle.”

  “I led the men more than he did. I have their backing and I can take the crown from Forlock if I can get there within the week and I believe I can.”

  “Pipe dreams,” sneered Frinchant, as he stepped out of the tent.

  Gathelaus and the Baron followed him.

  Frinchant mounted his charger shouting, “Steward, announce that all men in the service of the Derenz faction are returning with me immediately.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” shouted the Steward. Several attendants hastened to alert their comrades throughout the war-camp.

  Gathelaus approached Frinchant. “I’m telling you I can still do this.”

  Frinchant looked down at him and shook his head sadly, “A pipe dream.” He turned and rode away, followed by the column of men he had brought along as well as a number of dirty soldiers who had until moments ago been under Gathelaus’s command. Some few looked back disappointed, but they were not many.

  One young pikeman named Rensliegh, watched Frinchant ride away. He approached Gathelaus asking, “May I defect from lord Frinchant and remain with you and join the Sellsword’s?”

  Gathelaus said nothing but nodded.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Rensliegh.

  It was the most pleased a man defecting had ever looked to Gathelaus.

  “My men are with you,” said Baron Undset.

  Gathelaus looked at the host of men watching, wondering what had just transpired. There was nothing to do but take
the grim initiative. He mounted his own black charger and shouted, “Men who have bled with me, hear me! Prince Roose is dead, slain by sorcery, but that does not mean our cause is dead. Follow me to victory over our same enemy Forlock! And I will rebuild this nation in our image! We will throw down our enemies and build anew!”

  “Who will be king?” shouted Jolly, leading his lord to the answer with glee.

  “I will be king!” proclaimed Gathelaus, holding his sword aloft. His horse reared and he could not have asked for a more magnificent appearance in the moment. The army had to think their warlord looked like a king; and with the morning sun crowning him in glory, that mantle was accepted by most of the army.

  A large contingent of men cheered. Some did not, but these only murmured and prepared to desert the cause.

  ***

  “We have no choice. We must flee,” said the Baron’s steward.

  “That’s no choice at all,” argued Baron Undset. “If the mercenaries abandon the cause, Forlock will hang all my folk. When I swing from a gibbet it will be a mercy compared to that which will befall my family and vassals.”

  Gathelaus rubbed at his chin. “There is always a choice.”

  The steward said, “If general Sarvan has arrived in Hellainik, you will be outnumbered two to one along with the cities walls and you having no cover or foodstuffs.”

  “If you want to hit, you have to take the chance on being hit yourself.”

  The steward squinted at that answer and said, “In civilized warfare, Sarvan already commands the high ground and the numbers. When I studied warfare at the university…”

  Gathelaus cut him off. “Listen pup, I was slaying men before you left your mothers breast. You studied but I lived it. There is no civilized warfare. Why should there be?”

  The steward glanced at the Baron who motioned for him to remain silent.

  Gathelaus said, “Whatever cannot be resisted with words will be resisted with the sword.”

  “And if the sword breaks?” asked Baron Undset.

  “If the sword breaks, you pick up a stone. There is no substitute for victory. We defeat Forlock, or we die.”

  ***

  They marched all the next day and by nightfall were within sight of outer Hellainik.

  “I am amazed, but you got us here,” said Baron Undset. “I only wish…”

  “That’s understandable but it’s in the past,” said Gathelaus finishing his thoughts.

  The baron nodded soberly, then said, “We can see by the light of the moon that in those fields there I expect them to try and lay traps of a sort. Maybe even try to flank us from the river and such.”

  “We’ll be prepared but at this point, I think they’ll trust to their walls more than anything. Unless a reinforcement arrives with a bold commander, they’ll wait us out.”

  Baron Undset grunted, “If general Sarvan comes then he might be so bold.”

  “If,” answered Gathelaus. “But a wiser man would wait us out.”

  “Then with so little time left to us what do you suggest?”

  “Which gate is weakest?” asked Gathelaus.

  Baron Undset pondered only a moment. “That would likely be the southern Wells Gate. Its none too big and they likely think it would be the last one an invading army could reach. You have to go along the river and cross a bridge to get to it. It’s a small bridge that only two wagons can cross at the same time abreast of each other. If an army were to use it, they would be very vulnerable to archers and ballista. It would be suicide.”

  Gathelaus rubbed at his jaw. “Not if they couldn’t see us.”

  “At night? They would have men on watch and see anyone coming along the road. They would hear the march of men on the bridge.”

  “So what if we make it that they can’t see or hear us.”

  “How could you do that?” asked the Baron.

  “We have our ways. Just have to make them look elsewhere for a few.”

  The Baron twirled his long mustache, “Ah, a diversion and then a crack crew of yours might take the gate and allowing us a point of entry.”

  “Like an infected wound to seize the body.”

  “That’s a terrible metaphor,” lamented the Baron. “We want to take this body intact do we not?”

  “Of course,” said Gathelaus. “But there will be casualties. To cut the rot out of the body, you need a sharp knife.”

  “Do you have such a knife?” questioned the Baron.

  Gathelaus nodded and motioned to Jolly.

  The wolfish swordsman gave a crafty grin saying, “I’ll get to work on it chief.”

  Six years earlier…

  The Dance of the Seven Sabers

  Sundown in the conquered territory of the nomadic Sho-Tan, and the caravan had trouble finding a site free of corpses. A spot was found beside a bloody polluted river.

  Proscopius the apprentice scribe, jumped from his cart and went to relieve himself in the river when a gruff voice on horseback called out.

  “I wouldn’t do that there.”

  “Why not? It can’t get any filthier,” said Proscopius. He couldn’t tell who the horseman with the sun at his back was.

  “Perhaps, but the Sho-Tan believe that river spirits can enter the body through urine. Legends all have a basis in truth. Don’t tempt fate.” answered the horseman, trotting away.

  Proscopius realized the word of warning came from one of their reluctant traveling companions, Gathelaus, now a minor chieftain of the Sho-Tan despite having once been a somewhat civilized man from the Northern Empire not unlike himself. He wondered what could make a man give up his enlightened people and join the barbaric horde. But there was no time to think on that, his other duties had him catering to his elderly master, the diplomat Maximinus, on this mission of truce and union.

  After building a cook-fire, Proscopius dipped his quill pen and wrote, ‘A truce is simply a war’s exhaustion personified.’ He was proud of that line and thought to show it to Maximinus, as an example of his prose in record keeping but already their companions were arguing about the campfire.

  Bigalus, their escort and a captain of Dyzantine Legion started with, “How can one compare a man to a god?”

  It was no thoughtless question. Everyone knew what Bigalus implied. Etzel, god-king of the nomadic Sho-Tan horde was but a man while his own Dyzantine emperor Marcelanius was truly a god.

  It was a slap to the face of both captains of the Sho-Tan, Etzel’s own advisors, Octar a swarthy chieftain with a long drooping mustache and the pantherish Gathelaus.

  “You seek to compare gods?” asked Octar. “Marcelanius has never set foot outside his own palace. He lives like a prisoner in his own home! Ha! While the world trembles at Etzel’s very name. I, Octar, speak the truth or we would not even be sharing this fire, cur!”

  Bigalus rose with his hand on hilt.

  Gathelaus did the same.

  Octar watched in unrestrained glee and laughed.

  Bigalus was a skilled fighter with gilded armor and a shining sword of the finest make, but sometimes a sword is just a sword and he was clearly outmatched by the rogue Gathelaus.

  Proscopius had little doubt which man would win the duel. But where would that put their mission? All that they hoped to accomplish here and now? Damn his eyes but Bigalus was a loudmouthed fool!

  Gathelaus had long dark hair, penetrating ice blue eyes. He was of the North, but Proscopius wasn’t sure from which nation. He wore a chainmail shirt, a simple tunic of faded royal blue held by a wide leather belt and carried innumerable blades. His speed and determination were sure, his short sword was drawn before anyone’s eyes could follow.

  Bigalus had a lop-sided grin, but there was no mirth in Gathelaus face, the campfire caught his blazing eyes and reflected back cold light.

  Maximinus halted certain bloodshed. “Please, our captain is no priest, nor theologian either. Allow me to assuage your insulted sensibilities and give gifts in exchange for his trespass.” He dug into a lar
ge trunk. “Say your regrets imbecile.”

  “I spoke in haste and jest both,” said Bigalus, his grin vanishing.

  Maximinus produced a bottle of wine from his personal stores and held it out to Gathelaus.

  Octar grunted his approval when he saw the wine.

  But Gathelaus pointed with his sword at Bigalus, then Octar, and said, “I’ll let this go, but I’ll not drink with him . . . or him.”

  Octar swore in Sho-Tan at this new insult. “I do not wish to drink with you either!”

  Maximinus produced a second bottle and handed it to Octar who grumbled but took it and wandered off into the darkness. Bigalus humbled at his hosts obvious lack of confidence in martial skill also made himself scarce leaving the scribe, diplomat and rogue about the fire.

  After taking several pulls on the wine bottle, Gathelaus handed it back to Maximinus. “Thank you for your respect. You’re all right, not like those dickless dogs at the palace.”

  Getting only a questioning look from Maximinus in in response, Gathelaus continued, “When I arrived at the palace, I saw Octar had been given tribute and gifts befitting a diplomat and chieftain of his station, I was given nothing but scorn. It seems your emperor and his puppet master eunuch are playing favorites of Etzel’s captains.”

  “That’s odd,” broke in Proscopius.

  “Hush boy!” snapped Maximinus, as he stroked his whiskered chin.

  “Perhaps because you are considered a traitor to your people?” said Proscopius.

  Gathelaus raised his brows at that, while Maximinus cuffed the youth. “I said hush! Let your elders do the speaking.”

  “Traitor?” Gathelaus leaned back and laughed. “My former Dyzantine commander, the noble Romanus, gave me as a blood hostage to the Sho-Tan after last year’s battle. He never paid the ransom to get me back. The Sho-Tan are wild and reckless but they value courage and skill. I survived all their trials and eventually became friends with the Etzel. In time I took my place in the Horde as a blood brother to Etzel. Everything I have, I have earned. Who committed treachery to whom?”

  Maximinus nodded but kept silent.