Usurper

by David Waine

  The city nestled before its mighty citadel, Castle Brond, itself dominated by towering mountains to the north and Ferullas’s defiant spike above all. Once a humble fort, it had been enlarged and extended over the centuries into a formidable fortress. Despite its outwardly forbidding appearance, the current incumbent had civilised the interior so that it resembled more a palace than a military installation insofar as the staterooms and private apartments were concerned. For all that, however, its defences were still massive and its garrison still slept in plain barracks.

  Callin and Dorcan hurried through the crowded, jovial streets, the entire population having turned out to share in the festival, arriving finally at the same postern that had been locked when the younger of the two returned the previous night. The guard admitted them with a nod.

  Amerish Vorst, Count of Nassinor, flared his nostrils as his two younger sons rushed into the outer bailey, buckling their hunting gear about them. “Where have you been?” he snarled.

  “The big city can’t contain him, father,” answered Dorcan, chuckling.

  “I have a cell in Nassinor that will contain him ideally,” came the barked reply. “On your horses!”

  Callin now noticed the pale, ascetic figure in his father’s shadow. “Morning, Simack,” he called.

  “I have a headache,” mumbled Simack.

  Almost at once trumpets rang out and hush fell on the crowd. With a rumble, the portcullis to the inner bailey was raised and a small procession issued forth. Cheers erupted everywhere at the sight, hats were flung in the air and hunting horns were lifted to a hundred mouths.

  King Rhomic Vandamm, a huge bear of a man, sat astride an even vaster white stallion, which snorted petulantly and stamped its fore hoof. His outfit was richly designed, flecked with gilded studs, crimson in contrast to the more usual green of these occasions. About his brow was the single golden circlet of state.

  Behind the king rode his two offspring. Soth was a solemn young man, straight of back and dark of hair, and worthy, if sober, of countenance. Beside him rode the Jewel of The Kingdom: Avalind, an elfin figure who breathed beauty and joy in every pore, tresses tumbling over both shoulders in a carmine cascade that captured the sun in its flaring strands and flashed as if cowled in rubies. Unlike her brother, she wore a blue hunting outfit, and hers was cut more tightly to favour her feminine form. She bore a hunting horn but no weapon. She enjoyed the chase but often contrived to be elsewhere when the beast was killed, which had caused her father and brother considerable worry over the years. For all her other accomplishments — and there were many — she was an indifferent rider. Never had Callin seen such beauty in a mortal. Even the Hag’s allure had been of an earthier sort. She had stirred his loins. Avalind stirred his soul.

  “Is that Avalind?” he asked softly.

  “Who else?” replied Dorcan.

  King Rhomic sat squarely on his mount and surveyed the scene with pleasure. His steed stamped impatiently on the cobbles as its master turned to exchange an observation with his son and daughter. It must have been jocular, so amused was the fit of delighted giggles that consumed Avalind, and a smile even swam across Soth’s face. King Rhomic was a monarch renowned for his good humour and fairness.

  He had inherited a poor land, weak from centuries of Draal incursions from across the mountains. Despite that, he had transformed his realm into a power second only to that same Draal that constantly coveted fruitful farms and villages, yearning to dominate them again.

  During his youth, their massive neighbour had twice tried to overrun its former province, first near the end of his father’s reign and again in his early days of his. The Kingdom had triumphed both times, despite being heavily outnumbered, and it was following the second victory that he had forced the Draal king, Sulinan, to cede his southern port of Graan. That one achievement gave his landlocked country access to the sea, thus increasing its commercial wealth hugely. That was the rock on which he had built his realm’s stability and strength. This was a great ruler.

  A grinding rumble announced the opening of the outer gate. King Rhomic spurred his horse, the prince and princess fell in behind and the others behind them. Prime among these was the second family.

  Behind rode the gross third lord of the Kingdom: Baron Loda Dumarrick and his retinue, followed by a host of lesser nobles. Here and there occasional ladies proved that they would not allow Avalind to be the only female.

  Once through the gate, the hunting party wheeled right and made its way along Brond’s broadest street, which led clear to the edge of the town. Unusually, the city had no defensive walls. Being relatively small, there was plenty of room within the castle itself to protect the entire population and their belongings should it ever come under attack. Rhomic had contingency plans to build walls eventually, but the funds and materials to do so were not yet available, having been diverted for years to enrich Graan, thereby ensuring its loyalty.

  The party paused before the cathedral, where the king reined in to receive the Blessing from Archbishop Cloor. Then they were on their way out onto a short, grassy plain, facing the forest, a vast arc of greenery that flanked the city on its two lowland sides and stretched, league after league, over the rolling countryside that led first to Glast, and then Yelkin and Nassinor.

  Here Rhomic held up his hand. Before the royal steed knelt a small, ragged beater.

  Rhomic smiled benignly. “Well, young Tetcher?”

  The young man rose, twisting a small cap in his hands, his official headgear. “Never better, sire,” he ventured, “I reckon we got a boar or two.”

  “So be it!” roared Rhomic, rearing his mount. Horns blared immediately from a dozen throats, one of them Dorcan’s. Callin’s steed was jostled as the charge commenced.

  The royal party issued forth in a whirlwind of colour and noise across the wide expanse of long, dusty grass that led clear to the dark fringe of Brond Forest. Not sixty paces ahead a grassy clump stirred, then exploded with rage. A black, hairy snout, adorned by long curling tushes, appeared. Whether it understood its peril or not, it disapproved mightily, issued a defiant challenge and bolted.

  The king made after the fleeing pig. As one body, his court thundered after him. Beaters scattered in all directions. Tetcher threw himself to the ground, plaiting his fingers behind his head and curling his knees up to his chin. Barely a hand's breadth away the royal stallion ground its hoof into the earth in full gallop. Horse after horse flew past or over him, showering his already grubby tunic with clods of earth and torn grass.

  The trampling passed and the violent drumming of the earth faded as the cavalcade vanished beneath the nearest eves. The beater raised his head cautiously. The world was a golden haze of dancing dust motes. To either side he saw his fellow beaters emerging from the flattened grass and dusting themselves down. Slapping the earth from his tunic with irritation, he stared after the disappearing horde and spat. “Thank you, you old goat. You might have let me get out of the way first.”

  “Is that any way to talk about your liege lord?” The voice, clear and well spoken, came from behind him.

  Tetcher whirled round. The speaker, a young man, well dressed, sat on a horse not five paces away. The animal wheeled, eager to be off, running with its fellows, but the young rider brought it about. “You called your sovereign liege, Rhomic Vandamm, an old goat. Would you like to repeat that to him personally?”

  Tetcher turned ashen and fell to his knees, babbling on about how he had only just inherited the job from his father and how he had a wife and young family.

  “Do you know who I am?” A shake of the head. “I imagine you will have heard of my father, Count Vorst.”

  Tetcher, if anything, turned grey.

  “I am Master Callin Vorst.”

  Leaning back, he cocked his leg over the horse’s neck and slid to the ground, handing the reins to Tetcher, who took them automatically. “Walk with me.”

  Together they followed the other beaters. Idly Callin plucke
d a stalk of grass from a tall clump and sucked on it. “You are the head beater?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you like the job?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How much do they pay you?”

  Tetcher was becoming more at ease now that he supposed that he was not to be reported after all. “Oh, not much, sir. It’s only casual work when there’s a hunt on.”

  “I see,” Callin stopped and faced the beater. “Tetcher, would you like to do some casual work for me?”

  *

  Leagues away, high in the mountains, an old soldier with a grizzled face and too much flesh around his midriff paused to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his eyes. The sheep track wound ever upwards towards a wall of rock that soared seemingly to the sky, where it was crowned by a tiara of jagged, fang-like pinnacles, in which lay patches of snow and ice even in summer.

  “Trulik,” he grumbled, “I don’t take kindly to being dragged where even my horse cannot tread. I did not come to admire the view.”

  “Not much further, Siriak,” replied his companion, of almost equal age, but who wore his years more easily. “Look ahead.”

  They had been climbing since dawn, with no more refreshment than the meagre rations in their packs. Trulik had warned Siriak off consuming any ale. Instead he had to refresh himself from the many springs and waterfalls they had passed on the way up — enough to satisfy the thirst of many, many men.

  Wheezing hideously, the older man rounded the final fold in the rock wall, where the path suddenly petered out altogether. Ahead of them lay a vast green bowl, known only to the occasional shepherd, which sloped gently upward to a fissure in the rock face.

  “A cave?” he queried. “I am to go crawling on my hands and knees in total darkness and then vanish down some bottomless pit?”

  “No,” replied his companion with a slight smile. “You can walk through it with a bit of paddling from time to time. Never more than ankle-deep.”

  After half an hour of trudging through icy water shrouded in impenetrable gloom, Trulik pointed out a chink of blinding light ahead.

  “That is our destination,” he said triumphantly.

  “At last,” groaned Siriak, emptying water from his boot. “What is it?”

  The other beckoned him forwards. The gathering light from the chink revealed it to be a natural hole between boulders that formed a scree.

  “At one time the cave must have run clean through the rock face to the other side. An avalanche closed this side long ago. See for yourself.”

  Siriak bent his eye to the chink. It was no more than the size of a man’s head, but he could see through it quite clearly. Before them lay a silent valley, stony and barren. Craning further, he surmised by the lay of the mountains, that they had passed right under the ridge.

  “The hole was bigger when I first found it,” said Trulik. “Enough to get out and walk around. They must have had another rockfall since then. We’ll have to do a bit of building to keep it open.”

  Siriak withdrew his eye from the hole. “We are on the other side?” he asked.

  His companion nodded. “We crossed the border a few minutes ago.”

  “Is it not guarded?”

  Trulik shook his head. “Not here. Vandamm deems the ridge sufficient defence on this stretch, for we could never march an army over it. He and his generals are unaware of this breech.”

  Siriak’s eyebrows rose. “That valley?”

  “I have explored it all. Uninhabited. No paths overlooking it either. It does, however, command Glast, largely deserted today because they are all at their precious Hunt.”

  Siriak pulled back from the chink, his feet already turning for home. “An excellent place for a bridgehead,” he mused, “we could take Glast and prevent Nassinor and Yelkin from supporting Brond while we launch another assault over the pass — and we wouldn’t even need to hurry.” His face crumpled into its nearest equivalent of a smile. “This could be the turning point, General Trulik,” he said flatly. “The Light of Heaven will be pleased with you. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to return home to Draal.”

  *

  Callin Vorst stood up in his stirrups and looked around. He could just make out the retreating back of Tetcher following the beaters contentedly.

  The day was warm. Sunlight flickered through the trees, dappling the ground and casting slanting beams through the branches. His horse toed the sward, wanting to be off with its fellows, even if its master didn’t. He could still just hear the faint cries and whoops of the others crashing through the undergrowth in pursuit of that hapless creature. It wasn’t that he actively disapproved of hunting, so much as he could had never enjoyed it. For the present, he preferred the peace and solitude of the greenwood. The grass around his mount’s feet was sprinkled with pine needles, their scent drifting tantalisingly up his nose. The leafy canopy formed an arch between him and the heavens, shot through with golden shafts of sunlight. The entirety of the forest was his to explore as it straddled the gentle hills and shaded valleys between Brond and Glast, the vital crossroads that led to his home and also to Yelkin, stronghold of the Dumarricks.

  He tensed his legs and the steed made off at a loping trot. The morning sun glowed on his back, alternating with the sudden chill of shadow. Gradually the distant whoops and cries diminished until they ceased altogether. He was alone now with the forest and the sunlight and the shade, alone to enjoy his ride in peace.

  The snort of a horse, followed by a sudden cry, brought him up short. His first thought was of attack, but the cry had been high-pitched: a woman. He dug his heels into his mount’s flank and urged it in the direction of the sound. Ahead of him, through a thick screen of bush, he could hear babbling water. The Silling River ran through the forest and afforded him an easy route back in case he got lost — unlikely, as his sense of direction was good. Softly, he reined in and listened. Scarcely ten paces away, on the other side of the brush, he heard her voice again.

  “Now why did you do that? If my father finds out, I don’t know what he’ll think.”

  Silently he slid from his horse’s back. Taking the reins in his right hand, he placed his left over its muzzle to keep it quiet. A gap in the thicket was not large enough to permit the animal to pass, so he tethered it there and stepped through himself onto the riverbank.

  Some way off, another horse, a dappled grey, stood on three legs. The fourth it held off the ground and shook worriedly. It snorted and shook its proud head vigorously, its eyes wide with alarm. A girl held on to the reins, pulling with all her strength, lest the beast take flight and leave her alone in the forest. She was dressed for hunting in a tight-fitting blue outfit, but she bore no weapon. Her red hair cascaded over her shoulders, glowing in the sunlight. She was quite unaware of her watcher. Callin made use of her ignorance to admire her curves under the tight strictures of the hunting outfit.

  She had her back to him and did not hear his approach. It was only when his gauntleted hand grabbed the reins from her and pulled the horse’s head round that she realised she was not alone.

  Gently, he breathed up the animal’s nostrils to calm it. Stroking its nose, he turned to behold the matchless face of Princess Avalind Vandamm.

  She looked shocked, backing off a step and glancing round for a way of escape.

  Realising that he had startled her, he assumed his most courteous expression. “My Lady,” he said with as florid a bow as he could manage without letting go of the horse. She nodded once in reply, but said nothing, her clear blue eyes still betraying alarm.

  “I did not mean to surprise you, ma’am, but I heard you cry out. I do not like to think what may have befallen you had you suffered the loss of your mount alone.”

  The ingenuous tone of his voice reassured her. She maintained a discreet distance, but her alarm diminished.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “My name is Callin Vorst, My Lady. I am the third son of Count Amerish.”

&nb
sp; A light came into her eyes, illuminating her entire face, as she remembered. “I saw you as we rode out. You were with your brothers.”

  Callin smiled, genuinely pleased before turning back to the horse. “Is he lame?”

  “I think so,” she replied, coming to his side. “I came to the riverbank because he was thirsty, but he stumbled and threw me off. Luckily, I kept hold of the reins.”

  “Lucky, indeed,” remarked Callin, “are you hurt?” She shook her head. “Let’s have a look.”

  He felt down the back of the horse’s leg, testing the supple muscle under the smooth coat. Nothing wrong there that he could detect. Taking hold of the feathers above the hoof, he pulled gently, clicking his tongue to the beast. It raised its leg obligingly. “Here we are.”

  She peered down beneath the animal’s belly. His dagger had scraped most of the dirt from the hoof so that she could see the shard of flint wedged under the shoe.

  “Picked up a stone,” he explained, “soon have it out.”

  He began to probe with the point of his dagger. The horse nickered and stirred but he quieted it with a soft word. She marvelled at the way he worked the blade between hoof and shoe, gradually loosening the stone until it popped out and pattered on the ground. He picked it up and handed it to her as a trophy.

  She accepted the gift with a giggle, all reserve now gone. “Could that really have made him lame?” she asked, “It’s a very small pebble.”

  “It’s big enough,” replied Callin, walking the beast back and forth to check that its gait was not impaired. “I don’t think he suffered any more damage.”

  She looked pleased. “May I ride him, then?”

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am. That pebble still may have caused him some injury. I advise you to let the farrier at the castle check him over before mounting him again.”