Usurper

by David Waine

  Once through, they dug their heels into their mounts’ flanks and rode for their lives. Callin saw them go and, leaving Surinak to mop up the remainder of the defeated Draals, surged in pursuit, Gallen at his side, his divisions of cavalry falling into disciplined formation behind him.

  The retreat to Glast was much quicker than the advance had been. Kubelik’s indulgence had delayed them long enough for the call for help to reach Nassinor, reflected Trulik bitterly. Was there yet another army from Yelkin now barring their path? He did not doubt it.

  Trulik had stolen a start on Callin by acting decisively when the moment came. If the pursuit was determined, Trulik’s flight was even more so. After an hour he judged that he had stretched his pursuers out far enough to mount some sort of surprise attack to blunt their advance. He detailed a thousand troops to ambush Callin’s vanguard, wreak confusion among the enemy and then rejoin the flight. By dawn, none of his ambushers had rejoined the main company.

  Just before first light, his bedraggled stragglers reached the still smoking ruins of Glast. They were exhausted, dispirited and utterly beaten. They had ridden all night without pause to put distance between themselves and their pursuers, over two hundred of their horses dying beneath them as they rode. Now they gathered in the predawn, a pathetic gathering, the ragged shreds of a once mighty army. Hopeless eyes stared back at him from red-rimmed sockets. Already they could hear the thunder of their pursuers, still distant but growing nearer with each hoof beat. There were other sounds as well, drums from up ahead.

  A scout rode in, saluting vaguely.

  “Another army blocks our path, General.” He gestured to the east. “A league that way.”

  Trulik nodded. He had expected it. “Yelkin?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, they carry the Dumarrick banner.”

  “Then it is as we feared,” muttered Trulik. “Flenn has failed and we must assume that Grelk has suffered the same fate. We were consummate only in failure.” Silently, he cursed Kubelik again. Realising that no way out remained open to him, he accepted his fate. Dismounting, he strode to a point in the midst of his remaining force, he held up his hand for silence.

  “I will not lie to you. There is no point in pretending that we can still achieve some sort of victory from this. We are defeated. I call you together, my friends, to bid farewell.” He gestured westwards. “Our pursuers will be here soon enough.” He gestured eastwards. “A league yonder lies another army under the command of Dumarrick.” Finally he gestured to the mountainside behind him. “If you would take that road, may Fortune smile on you, though I doubt Sulinan will. I will serve the remainder of my commission here. Those who would remain with me may do so. We will cover the retreat of those who return to Draal, and buy you the time that you need. Who stands with me?”

  His remaining men drew their weapons. For a moment only, Trulik’s heart swelled with pride at the sight — until he realised that they were closing in on him.

  *

  Riding hard, Callin, Gallen and their troops saw the smoke still rising above the debris that was Glast. The force that Trulik left behind by had failed to delay them, surrendering without a struggle. Callin now knew that he had only to catch the fleeing Draals and the war would effectively be over. Reining in, he raised his hand to call a halt. The others reined in behind him, the entire force, mud bespattered and sweating, glad of a moment of relief.

  “Do you hear that?” asked Callin.

  “Drums,” confirmed Gallen. “Dumarrick?”

  Callin nodded.

  “Sire!”

  Callin turned at the sound. A young officer was pointing up at a spot high on the mountainside to their left. A file of bedraggled men was leading their horses up a steep path towards a high hanging valley.

  “So that is where their secret entrance is,” cried Callin. “Now we have them. General Gallen, take half our men up that path and prevent their escape. I will greet Baron Dumarrick. We will both join you directly.”

  *

  The new king and Baron Loda Dumarrick met at Glast, to find the mangled body of General Trulik wrapped around a spear, stuck in the ground, on top of which rested his severed head, skewed at an obscene angle. As they disposed of him, every man who had been under his command had taken a slash at his body. In truth, there was little left to bury.

  Dumarrick was horrified to hear the news of the destruction of the Vandamm dynasty, but swore undying fealty to King Callin at once, commanding his troops to do the same. They would not have dared do otherwise.

  Formalities over, Dumarrick greeted the young king with a fatherly embrace. “And you slew Kubelik yourself?”

  Callin shrugged. “I had some help from a bolt of lightning. I don’t know how it didn’t kill me too,” he lied, “but there you are.”

  “I do, sire,” replied the corpulent baron. “You were the Lord’s Anointed, the rightful heir, with Soth, Avalind and your brother tragically lost in the fray. Kubelik was never more than the Devil’s spawn.”

  “Tell me of the war in the east,” commanded Callin.

  “There was never more than the threat of war, sire. When Prince Soth left to return to Brond, we were ready to stem any invasion through Dragotar, but none came. We received confirmation that Admiral Killian had destroyed Flenn’s fleet at sea only yesterday. Of course we upped camp and marched on Brond forthwith. I am torn with conflicting emotions. I am hugely relieved that the attack on the capital failed, yet so disappointed to miss the victory.”

  Callin clasped him by his huge shoulder. “Had Flenn’s ships got through, you would have had enough to deal with, believe me. Now you can help us finish this war and impose a particularly severe peace on Sulinan.”

  Dumarrick laughed openly. “Whatever my dull wits can conceive is at your disposal, My Liege.”

  *

  Gallen and his detachment rode into the hanging valley, fully expecting to face a fight against a determined rearguard making a last stand. But they did not. The last of Trulik’s men had surrendered.

  He reined in and marvelled at the sight. Before him lay a military base: tents, huts, training fields and a broad road that lead to a mighty scree in the mountain wall ahead. He could see the entrance to the tunnel, heavily guarded, but they were not flying Draal banners. The colours were those of Graan and the Border Force. The remnants of Trulik’s army, all disarmed and seated cross-legged, their heads hanging, were guarded by Kingdom soldiers.

  A welcoming party awaited him. Sitting their steeds easily, a smiling Sir Simian of Treponic and Sir Keriak of Rulik both saluted smartly.

  “Where is Baron Coreth?” asked Gallen.

  “Baron Coreth fell in battle, defending Graan,” replied Keriak soberly. Admiral Killian now commands the city, following his destruction of the Draal fleet.”

  “Where is King Rhomic?” asked Simian.

  Gallen’s eyes clouded and he hung his head. “Prepare yourselves,” he said quietly, “King Rhomic is dead. Prince Soth and Princess Avalind are both dead. Count Dorcan is also slain. King Callin rides to battle and scatters all before him. He killed Kubelik himself.”

  Both Simian and Keriak gaped. “Callin is king?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A dreary dawn revealed a scene of utter devastation in and around Brond. The storm had finally blown itself out and the sky had finally emptied itself of rain, but the weak, watery sun cast little warmth on the broken walls, smoking ruins, churned up ground and heaps of twisted bodies.

  Gledden supervised the mopping up with a fixed frown of disdain on his face. Tired soldiers were detailed to guard the slain from looters, who were among the first to appear from within the castle. Treasor and Ferian had already begun the process of setting up compounds outside the city, to accommodate the Draal prisoners, now stripped of their weapons and armour, which were stockpiled well out of their reach. All appetite for war having left them, they squatted in the dishevelled squalor of defeat, hollow eyes gazing fearfully at their guards or cast
to the ground to hide their tears. The Kingdom would require new armouries to be built if all of these prime weapons were to be stored properly. Gledden knew that they did not have sufficient men to wield them all, were they to face the brunt of yet another army, but at least the land was now armed as it never had been throughout its entire history.

  The citizens of Brond were released from their confinement within the castle and set about salvaging what they could from what was left of their homes. Shelter would have to be arranged for them as well, thought Gledden, and that won’t be easy with the winter coming on. If they could get rid of these prisoners back to Draal, they could use their compounds until the city was rebuilt. That could not happen, however, until the king returned.

  Although the battle for Brond had been indisputably won, he had no idea whether the war was over. Messages had come back confirming that Trulik was dead and the last of his army had surrendered, that the king had linked up with the forces of Yelkin, Graan, and the Border Force to invade Draal. Who was to tell what would happen? Daily, he scanned the eastward horizon for signs of his new liege lord fleeing home with the tattered remnants of the army, hotly pursued by an all-new and fresh Draal host, hacking them to pieces as they rode, but it did not happen.

  A month passed. No further word. A makeshift roof had been erected on the cathedral, so at least services of thanksgiving for their deliverance and Yule would be observed in the proper manner. He noted that several of the tradesmen had managed to put rough thatches on their roofs and move their families back into their homes. Baroness Dumarrick and her younger daughter, Xunin, arrived from Yelkin to assist with the wounded and homeless. The families occupying Lissian’s quarters had been moved to Mussa’s cottage on the cessation of hostilities, and she was again in her old rooms. Gledden saw fit to lodge her mother and sister with her. Baroness Dumarrick was less than pleased about this, but accepted the situation on Xunin’s insistence that Brond was filled with people whose homes had been destroyed whereas they had their own castle.

  He was concerned about the prisoners, though. They were in a desperate condition and their plight was getting worse. At first he had ordered their camp stripped of food and medical supplies, so that they could be looked after without digging into the Kingdom’s own resources. Those supplies had now been used up, however, and that would mean shortages. That a military high command could plan its campaign so meticulously in terms of slaughtering the enemy, and yet leave its own supply needs largely to luck annoyed his essentially tidy mind. No wonder they were consistently beaten by the more organised forces of the Kingdom. A civilised land, he told himself, takes every aspect of war into consideration, not just the bloody parts.

  Shortages would lead to rationing and rationing, in its turn, would lead to disaffection among the people. With winter falling rapidly all about, the nation had to be fed and the prisoners could not be left to starve either, although they would receive less than their captors. The new king would need to return quickly with news of a stunning victory if public disorder was to be avoided.

  It was, therefore, with relief that he received the news that His Majesty was returning with banners flying.

  The column came from the east, the route over the pass being even more thoroughly blocked by snow. At its head rode Callin, followed by Dumarrick, his son, Bram, Gallen, Simian, Keriak and Killian. The troops behind them — the cavalry that had departed on the chase, augmented by detachments of infantry and sailors from Graan, Yelkin and the Border Force — followed smartly behind. Their numbers did not seem significantly reduced nor, apart from the expected grime of travel, did they display the usual signs of having engaged in a desperate struggle.

  The word spread like wildfire through the castle and, before many minutes were out, the entire population had left the stronghold and pressed to the edge of the ruined city to greet their new leader. Gledden ordered the guards to make a passageway through the throng, to allow the procession through, and to let himself, Generals Treasor and Ferian plus the Dumarrick women stand at the front.

  The king reached the end of the street, now cleared of rubble although most of its buildings were shattered ruins, and rode slowly along it to the steps of the cathedral, where he dismounted and received the Blessing from the Archbishop.

  When he turned to address the gathered populace, an expectant hush fell over the crowd. When he spoke, it was without the bombast of a conquering hero but, with simple sincerity.

  “People of the Kingdom,” he began, his voice measured, “the war is over and our independence is secured.” Stirrings of relief were visible in the crowd and Callin noted an easing in the set of Gledden’s shoulders. It meant he could return the prisoners at long last. “General Trulik was killed by his own men at Glast. We pursued them only to find that they had already surrendered to the combined strength of the Border Force and Graan, under the joint command of Sir Simian and Sir Keriak. The Draals, it appears, had enlarged a cave into a tunnel, giving them secret access to our land. On passing through this tunnel in strength, we found Sulinan’s kingdom to be emptied of prime troops. There were reservists, reservists in plenty, but they showed no will to fight when they realised that their invasion had failed. The road to Zinal was open.”

  He paused to allow the inevitable cheering, and then waited for it to subside.

  “Faced with a Kingdom army at his gates, his son dead, his generals and admiral dead, his best troops dead or prisoners and his reserves lying low in barracks, Sulinan had no option but to capitulate and accept our terms without negotiation.”

  An expectant silence fell on the crowd.

  “First, has reaffirmed his recognition of our independence. Second, reconstruction of everything they have destroyed will be paid for in Draal gold. Third, the road over the Pass and the new tunnel are to be upgraded, at Draal expense, to provide year-round access to Graan. Fourth…” Here he paused, for he was coming to the most dramatic announcement of all. “Fourthly, he has ceded territory to us. The border no longer lies across the mountaintops but has been moved north, some five leagues to the Belya River. This means that the road to Graan lies within Kingdom territory for its entire length. No more will we have to pay tolls to use it. This strip of land will form the newly enlarged province of Graan. The people who live there, Draals for the most part, will have the same status as those Draals in Graan itself enjoy. Those not willing to live among us have until the spring to leave.”

  He had expected cheering to break out at that point and he was not disappointed. He allowed it to run its course before holding up his hand for silence again.

  “We have won our victory and inflicted a humiliating defeat on those who would enslave us, but it has been achieved at a terrible cost.”

  He paused again. The silence was complete.

  “King Rhomic gave his life to save Brond. Prince Soth and Princess Avalind died defending our freedom, as did Baron Coreth, General Vlaan and my own brother, Count Dorcan. Over ten thousand of our womenfolk weep today for the loss of their husbands and sons. Some, terrible to contemplate, also weep for their daughters and babies: innocent victims of the beast Kubelik. The fact that we threw Draal’s carnage back on them fivefold can never compensate for that. People of the Kingdom, I share your grief.”

  He paused again. Those of noble birth knew he referred to Mussa and his infant son.

  “On matters of state,” he continued, “I am unmarried and have no direct heir. By right of succession, should I die without issue, the throne will pass to Baron Dumarrick.”

  Dumarrick, flushing with pride, bowed as low as his corpulent frame would allow.

  “However,” went on Callin, “I am sure that, although My Lord Baron would make an exemplary monarch, he would be the first to impress upon me the need for an heir.”

  There was a general ripple of laughter in which the baron joined good-naturedly. “Indeed so!” he replied.

  “It is, therefore, my hope and prayer that the baron will consent to Dumarrick
blood, along with the Vorst, flowing in the veins of my successor. I would ask him, humbly, as his prospective son, for the hand in marriage of his daughter—”

  Both young Dumarrick women, standing by their mother, gaped at him, open-mouthed, yearning and hope naked in the elder’s face, the younger trembling. He saw the looks on both faces and murmured the name softly.

  “Xunin.”

  Lissian’s face shut like a clam. Xunin was staggered. She went pale and swayed visibly on her feet. Her mother and brother caught her and, between them, prevented her from fainting altogether. Her father stood before her, his face kinder than she could ever remember seeing it, the pride in his daughter obvious.

  “How say you, Xunin,” he asked. “Will you be queen?”

  The girl was still shaking. Her sister stared rigidly straight ahead, her hopes, her aspirations, her plans dashed to pieces in a moment. Xunin could not say anything. It was only when the new king stood directly in front of her, smiling and holding out his hand, that her eyes swam into focus.

  “Well, Xunin,” he asked softly, “will you have me?”

  For a horrible moment he thought she was going to refuse him. The longer she hesitated, the less suitable he appeared in his own eyes. He had placed her in an impossible situation with this most public of proposals — not even preceded by any form of courtship — and now she would humiliate him with the most public of refusals. He could feel his heart hammering.

  Then her hand was in his and she knelt in submission.

  The gathered assembly exploded in cheers. Gently, he raised her to her feet and led her up the cathedral steps to stand at his side, his royal consort, flushing, smiling and very, very happy. Her father, mother and brother applauded with all the gusto their rank would permit. Her sister also applauded, albeit mechanically.

  Again Callin raised his hand for silence.

  “Admiral Killian!”

  The Admiral stood before him and saluted smartly. Callin reached into his cloak and produced a chain of office.