The Usurper

by James Alderdice

  “Ah, but you men are on horseback and I am not,” said Gathelaus, holding his hands out in mocking supplication.

  The wizard continued his sly grin as he gazed over the steel lined ranks of Gathelaus’s army.

  “Surely you have watched us enough without needing to witness us firsthand,” said Gathelaus. “What is your business?”

  “By your very actions I can see that you do not respect the divine right of kings,” said Tormund Ghast. “I wonder what you do respect?”

  “I respect the old gods, but I do not depend on them. A man has to make his own way in the world and do what is right regardless of anything else,” answered Gathelaus.

  Tormund snorted at that. “And creating a war wherein thousands may die and even more tens of thousands could starve to death from the disruption of plague and famine that will grip this land based on your selfish virtues?”

  Gathelaus shot back, “I know very well how Forlock treats his subjects, I was one, long ago. I backed Roose’s revolution and when you saw fit to take his life through black magic, I took up the mantle. I will right the wrongs of this king and slay him and you to do so. Be off. We have nothing more to talk about.”

  “Then you may be interested in an offer of sorts,” responded the wizard.

  Gathelaus folded his arms dubious. “And what is that?”

  “A challenge,” rasped the wizard. “King Forlock does not wish to lose any more men to your rebellion, men have abandoned their fields to join your cause, crops go uncollected and the harvest rots in the field. This fallow period must end.”

  “I saw plenty of harvests destroyed by the Pict’s that Forlock brought to fight his own countrymen. That carnage is on his head,” said Gathelaus hotly.

  Tormund Ghast wrinkled his nose, then said, “Yes, well, he would prefer to not have you burning and looting once this is over.”

  “So, he seeks to surrender? Very well, I accept.”

  The wizard snorted. “Hardly. You and your revolution,” he said the word dripping with disdain, “cannot possibly succeed. We have the great walled city, we have a massive garrison of men to defend her. We have thousands more returning from their callings away, they will be here within days. You, Gathelaus, are nothing more than an opportunist usurper. You have even stolen a nobleman’s falsified cause for vengeance and made it your own. And for what? Soon you will flee with your tail between your legs. I would rather you did no more destruction to my lords land with this, your mass attempt at suicide.” He stretched out his hand signifying all of the Usurpers army.

  “No more insults wizard,” snapped Gathelaus, “If you came to speak, come to the point.”

  “My apologies.” Tormund Ghast gave a courteous nod and said, “I was told that you are a man who values history and tradition. You emulate the heroic stories and eldritch myths of yore?”

  “You think you can call upon my duty as a Northman to obey the king?”

  “No, I do not,” said the wizard, “But I thought you might accept a challenge?”

  “What challenge?”

  “In the old days your kind settled clan feuds with but single champions, allowing for only one man to die instead of the many. I think you might agree to this one, if King Forlock himself challenges you?”

  Gathelaus looked to his comrades. They were as surprised as he. Many of them laughed aloud. “You have come to ask if I would accept a challenge in personal combat from Forlock himself?”

  “King Forlock,” corrected Tormund Ghast. “You still must respect his position.”

  Gathelaus snorted at that. “He would challenge me himself then?”

  Tormund Ghast shook his head slowly, “Alas, we all know that the king is aged in years, he is almost sixty and you are a much younger man and all present know of your deadly prowess, no, the king would have a champion to uphold his honor, a man that would be a worthy opponent for one such as yourself.”

  “I accept Forlock’s challenge.”

  “King Forlock,” grated the wizard.

  “Where is this champion?” asked Gathelaus.

  Baron Undset looked to Gathelaus with worry in his eyes, he whispered, “There is much riding on this.”

  “As much for you as I.”

  Tormund Ghast continued, “But with so many lives at stake and the possibilities for ill luck to decide so important a fate, I have requested that instead four champions should face another four from the opposite party. You and three of your best men. There would be no rules, no mercy expected and no ranged weapons. What say you?”

  “It changes nothing. I accept the challenge. Now you, when and where?”

  Tormund Ghast showed his teeth with that hideous smile once more. “King Forlock would like to watch the event and this is too far for even the best of spyglasses.”

  “Why not use your witchery?”

  The wizard sneered. “King Forlock has suggested that low lying area, down by the walls. Your men could of course venture closer yet still feel safe from artillery, for the most part, and the king can watch from yonder tower.”

  “And if I win? He’ll throw himself down from it?” prodded Gathelaus.

  “I very much doubt that, I cannot read his mind, but all will know you have rightfully won the proposed challenge and are entitled to the crown by rights,” said Tormund Ghast.

  “I’ve known many men in my time who did not honor the law,” said Gathelaus.

  “The king would honor this.”

  “Name your champions. I would have myself, Jolly Roger, Thorne Berant, and…”

  “I will stand with you,” shouted Baron Undset.

  Gathelaus had not expected that. “Baron,” he whispered urgently. “Whomever they send will be the best fighter they can find in the kingdom. I do not doubt your courage, but…”

  “You think I’m too old? I need this like you need the crown. If we fail, I’ll not face the gibbet,” said Baron Undset.

  “This is bigger than that. We could win and you could still be slain by a swifter opponent.”

  “Is there a problem?” taunted the wizard.

  “Who are your champions?” asked Gathelaus, signaling the Baron to be quiet.

  Tormund Ghast cracked his neck then said, “Terhrun Oxblood, General Sarvan, Tokberu of Valchiki and Jadjonel of Avaris. Do you accept?”

  “I am not familiar with any of those names save Sarvan, but I accept,” said Gathelaus.

  “And does the Baron stand with you? Or must you put someone else forward?” said the wizard wickedly.

  Baron Undset nodded that he would stand, but Gathelaus said, “No, he will not.”

  “Let me,” said the Baron, grasping hold of Gathelaus sleeve.

  Gathelaus grit his teeth and said, “I need you to stand back and command should anything happen.”

  “That’s what you have Niels for,” argued Baron Undset.

  Gathelaus ignored him and called to one of his trusted men. “Topper, you game?”

  “Always chief,” he replied, doffing his cap.

  “Topper is our fourth,” shouted Gathelaus.

  “Very well,” said Tormund Ghast. “At dawn then?”

  “At dawn,” agreed Gathelaus.

  ***

  Dawn arrived swiftly bright and clear, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Men crowded upon the verdant slope, eager to secure their place to view the contest. The circle marked to be the perimeters of the battlefield had been cut and stepped upon to the point that it was now a muddy grass strewn track. While it wouldn’t be the slickest arena Gathelaus had ever fought in, it was not ideal.

  A wide section was held by Forlock’s forces on the east where men could watch, using a long rail fence as seating for the contest. High in the jutting corner of the city walls, a throne covered with a canopy was waiting for the king to watch. Gathelaus guessed that it was too far a distance from the makeshift battlefield for an archer to make the shot. There had been no lack of claiming the field in their own favor from Forlock’s forces. The wizar
d was nowhere to be seen. Though it was impressed upon his mind that there could very well be some sorcerous trickery to aid the combatants. Though even without such, the opposing champions looked like impressive fighters. Sarvan, a muscular general with fine plate armor and a savagely scarred face, the tall lean black with a skull-helm would be Tokberu of Valchiki, an Avaran swordsman with dancing scimitars who appeared just as nimble with right or left hand must surely be Jadjonel of Avaris and the massive yellow-bearded Northman with a bearded axe could only be the one known as Terhrun Oxblood.

  After the parley yesterday, Gathelaus searched his memory and thought he had perhaps heard of Terhun; a man widely known as the Skullsplitter. These would be fearsome adversaries.

  Gathelaus downed an ale then approached his comrade champions. “Well, we have an idea at least of their strengths. I’d wager the general is the least deadly, but that’s only a guess. You don’t get scars on your face like that and still become a general without killing men left and right. That Valchiki bastard looks pretty nimble and the Avaran swordsman looks very serious, I think you should take him Jolly.”

  Jolly grinned and rubbed his hands together furiously in glee. “I was hoping you’d say that. I might remember him from my days in Dar-Al-Hambra, and those boys deserve some payback.”

  Thorne said, “You want me to take the Skullsplitter?”

  “No, I will,” said Gathelaus.

  “Hold on,” said Topper. “He’s big sure, but he’s got to be the slowest of the bunch. Let me take him, you take the general.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure,” said Topper.

  “What?!” shouted Thorne. “I have to take the one with the skull mask? He’s probably all show with no teeth!” They glanced across the field, and Tokberu must have surely heard him, because he was grinning with a dazzling set of white teeth at them.

  “You have a problem with that?” asked Gathelaus.

  Thorne looked at the others, back toward the four champions and said, “Am I the only one seeing this?”

  “What?” asked Topper.

  “He has the ones with ‘J’ names fighting each other, and the ones with ‘T’ names fighting each other.”

  “So?”

  “And,” complained Thorne, “The men with clean shaven faces are fighting each other, the two goatee’s,” he gestured at Jolly, “are dueling each other, and the two with beards are up against each other, and the two guys with mustaches are fighting each.”

  Topper glanced from Gathelaus back toward the enemy. “I think he’s right.”

  Jolly disagreed. “Yes, on the letters but no on the mustache, that black feller doesn’t have any facial hair.”

  Thorne looked again. “You sure?”

  “Shut up,” growled Gathelaus.

  “Any other contingency plans?” asked Topper.

  “There are no rules but survive, soon as one of us kills our man, we take down the rest,” said Gathelaus.

  “No mercy eh?” asked Topper.

  “Not with these killers,” answered Gathelaus.

  “You think Forlock will keep his word?” asked Jolly.

  Gathelaus shook his head. “No, I don’t, but its worth a shot putting the fear of the old gods into them after we four kill their best men.”

  A man shouted at them. “Are you lot ready or what?” It was the general Sarvan. He wore fine plate armor, but no helm. He carried an exceptionally wide bastard sword and certainly looked like he was ready to use it. Beside him were the three other champions of Forlock.

  Tokberu, the lean, midnight-skinned man wore no armor, save his iron skull helm and a simple chainmail kilt. He had a variety of bones and feathers dangling from a dozen necklaces. He had a long knife on his belt but his weapon of choice was a long studded staff. Weighted iron capped both ends of the six-foot pole.

  The Avaran, Jadjonel also wore little to no armor. He dressed like so many other rakes and dandies of the Kho-Peshli city states with a black turban and fine maroon silks but his grace with the twin scimitars was incredible. He would swing them back and forth and every which way before tossing them in the air, letting them spin end over end and then swiftly take them back again, but with opposite hands that had thrown them. Gathelaus couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a fighter that ambidextrous.

  Lastly, Forlock’s own pseudo-giant, Terhrun Oxblood the Skullsplitter, wore a long-horned helm, a mismatched set of steel pouldrons upon his shoulders and greaves that could have been breastplates for a boy. He also wore a long chain shirt with a brown bear furs stretching and fastening with the clawed paws over his enormous torso. The weapon in his hands might as well have been a small tree with an anvil attached, except this anvil had a razor-sharp side that hooked downward as long as most men’s swords. He had to be one of the biggest men Gathelaus had ever seen that was not a giant. Though, in this day and age, who is to say that his mother had not bed a frost giant?

  Gathelaus’s men, the best of the Sellsword’s by comparison looked more or less similar enough, with dented armor, scale tunics and well-worn chainmail. Even their individual leathers and kits were the same faded black. But each carried their own preferred weapons.

  Jolly was a master duelist and carried a long katana forged by the ancient sword masters of Sen-Toku, he also had a matching long wakizashi knife in his belt that he used to finish duels, while leading the enemies’ blade away with the longer sword.

  Thorne would use anything he favored that week. Right now, he had a great-sword that was almost six feet long. It was a fine weapon on the battlefield where a man of his strength might cleave over several enemy at once, but during individual combat against skilled opponents? Gathelaus had his doubts.

  Topper was practical and always had a multitude of weapons on him. A longsword, a short war hammer with a vicious spike, a misericord dagger, and a boar spear. He would start with the boar spear.

  Gathelaus favored a single-edged bastard sword but kept a dagger and Pictish tomahawk on his belt.

  Glancing toward the tower where Forlock should be watching, Gathelaus noted that the king was not yet there. “When does this begin? Who calls the time?”

  He had expected Tormund Ghast to call the shots, but no one had seen the wizard, instead a nervous captain was officiating for Forlock’s champions. “The champions of the mighty King Forlock are ready to meet justice to you,” squeaked the captain.

  Before Gathelaus could answer in the affirmative, Terhrun slapped the backside of the captain and sent him sprawling face first into the grass and mud of the field. He laughed then and it sounded deep like an echo from a bottomless cavern.

  The captain did not get up. Another trooper of Forlock’s who had evidently been his friend ran up and rolled the captain over. “He has a snapped neck,” said the trooper angrily. He glared at Terhrun but dared not say anything more.

  “Get him out of here. Real men will die on this field!” shouted Sarvan.

  A pair of troopers came and assisted in carting away the dead captain.

  “Looks like he had reason to be fearful,” said Thorne under his breath.

  “Topper, you sure you don’t want to trade?” asked Gathelaus.

  “No sir. I’m aching to send this boar spear into his gut,” answered Topper.

  Sarvan looked over his shoulder and saw that king Forlock was now in position and that Tormund Ghast was beside him. An attendant beside them waved the flag to begin.

  Phantom drums throbbed in the background. Men cheered and wagered, but the only guarantee was that there would be blood.

  The eight champions took the field and squared off with one another.

  If Forlock’s men had planned on facing anyone in particular they didn’t show it, instead they each seemed more than content with allowing Gathelaus’s men to decide whom they faced.

  “I was hoping it would be you and I,” said Sarvan, gesturing with his sword.

  “Oh?” said Gathelaus as he stepped carefully on t
he slick field.

  “Aye. I raced back here as fast as I could, and my army bolstered the city arriving nearly when you did.”

  “I didn’t see you,” said Gathelaus, as he still watched his opponent, measuring his footwork and skill.

  “We entered the southern Wells Gate. Your foolish scouts were so excited to see the grand city walls and throw fire arrows at the East Gate, you didn’t even see us enter,” said Sarvan with a sneer.

  Gathelaus had seen him, but it was all part of his plan to lull the city into a false sense of invulnerability. Besides he knew he could not have prevented Sarvan’s troops from racing across the bridge and entering the city. Better to let the enemy think they had outfoxed him.

  “And now?” Gathelaus taunted.

  Sarvan grinned viciously, teeth bared like a hound about to pounce. “I slay you and gain the greatest thanks from my king.”

  “Come on then,” said Gathelaus, beckoning with his free hand.

  Sarvan raised his heavy blade for a crushing stroke and lunged. He was quick and Gathelaus battered the blade away, but his own hands rung from the impact.

  The general cried out in anger that his tactic had not split through Gathelaus’s defenses and he kicked at his foe, as he swung his blade back. He was a powerful contender but did not possess nearly the savage feline speed that Gathelaus did.

  Gathelaus pressed him and used Sarvan’s own momentum to spin him backward. Then dropping low, Gathelaus slashed his sword across the back of Sarvan’s legs, where his armor plate was exposed just below the waist and only boiled leather held the joints in place.

  The blade sliced clean through, leather, skin and bone and Sarvan’s legs were fully severed. He fell sideways in a cry of anguish, his fingers clutching at the blood covered grass.

  Gathelaus looked down at him.

  “Kill me,” begged Sarvan, as he spun over on his belly and stared with eyes full of hate at the Usurper.

  “Crawl to hell on your own,” answered Gathelaus.

  ***

  Tokberu gave a cold-eyed stare at Thorne. His dark eyes were like black pits lit by cold fire within the skull helm. He spun his great staff in a circular motion and said with a deep bass tone, “Last night, I rolled the bones.”