The Usurper

by James Alderdice

  Zushia stepped away from the wagon toward yet another divergent alleyway in maze-like Mohasag.

  “Don’t let that wretched child escape either,” Kamal ordered.

  Two horsemen rode about blocking Zushia’s escape, but with a look from Gathelaus she didn’t give any ground.

  “What makes a man obey without question his lord, even saving this lords life, and then turn upon him in a most despicable manner? I want to know why before I have you executed,” said Kamal.

  Gathelaus shrugged.

  “You’ll not goad mercy from the caliph’s family with such disrespect. You will be made to speak. Shall I have the girl tortured to learn the truth?” snapped Kamal. He was a few paces before Gathelaus, who stood with irritating confidence. But Kamal was not worried either, two of his best men kept their crossbows trained on the hulking Northman.

  Gathelaus’s eye twitched and he said, “I swore no oath to the caliph, I broke no word with him. If he assumed my loyalty because I saved him from other assassins that was his mistake.” His body rocked with a silent chuckle.

  “Why do you laugh when a pain-wracked death and even worse afterlife awaits you?”

  Gathelaus answered, “The death goddess Hel receives the cowardly. I know where I’m going.”

  Kamal frowned. “You Northmen are touched in the head.”

  “Probably,” answered Gathelaus with a laugh. “Zushia, go under the horses legs if you need to. Get out of here!”

  The girl still stood frozen.

  Kamal signaled his men to grab the girl.

  Zushia moved as they dismounted.

  Movement in the alleyway caught Gathelaus’s eye. He laughed, proclaiming, “Votan smiles upon me.” The last great hound appeared in the alleyway. “Go get him! Go get him!” Gathelaus commanded pointing at the nearest Almohadian.

  The hound looked confused, even unwilling, but a bodyguard already nervous of the giant hounds, panicked and ran. The hound tore after him, pouncing on the hapless man’s back, tearing out his throat.

  The Almohadian’s took their eyes off Gathelaus for the briefest moment and he launched himself at Kamal’s horse. With a savage fury born in frozen north, he knocked the horse’s foreleg out from under it.

  Screaming, the mare toppled taking Kamal with her. Another Almohadian’s horse bucked and threw their rider to the ground trampling him in the tumult.

  The deadly falcata took Kamal’s throat before he could shout.

  Wrenching a thin-shouldered Almohadian from the saddle, Gathelaus mounted and slashed at those remaining.

  A shrieking dervish whipped his blade, severing a lock of dark hair from Gathelaus’s mane.

  He was in turn met with a slash across the face. Blinded, the dervish fell screaming from his horse.

  The fear spread thick as Kamal’s blood on the ashen cobblestones. Ill luck had stolen the day and some of the more pious Almohadian’s fled the scene.

  The last archer took aim at Gathelaus, but the Northman weaved and the bolt took a bodyguard behind Gathelaus. The pierced man called upon his mother and fell.

  Striking with a calculated thrust, Gathelaus prevented the archer from loosing a second time. The archer clutched his shattered breastbone and fell sputtering, his fingers frozen to his pain.

  The hot smell of copper hung and Zushia froze at the unleashed carnage surrounding her on all sides. Gathelaus reaped a scarlet whirlwind about her.

  Choosing the finest horse remaining, Gathelaus mounted and rode after Zushia. He scooped her up and rode away down the avenues of Mohasag leaving the stink of offal and blood on the bazaar. The loyal hound followed after.

  When miles away and out of the city, near a crossroad for Avaris, Zushia asked again, “You haven’t answered. Did you slay him? The man who murdered and dishonored my mother?”

  His eyebrows raised, Gathelaus answered, “What do you think?”

  She nodded before speaking, “I lied. I have nothing to offer you for granting my revenge.”

  Gathelaus nodded, “I knew you didn’t. I accounted for a few things myself.”

  Zushia furrowed her brow.

  “Bellissima,” called Gathelaus, as they drew up on the crooked crossroads.

  A brunette woman stepped from behind a stand of trees. She wore the light blue and somewhat smoke-stained harem veils that had been hers since she had been stolen from Hawkton. In her arms she clutched the two prize weapons Gathelaus desired since he began this odyssey. The finest Damascus swords money could not possibly buy.

  “We all have our reasons,” said Gathelaus. “This time I had about three,” he said, laughing as he took Bellissima in his arms. “Now on to Avaris, and then a fast ship.”

  Nine days earlier…

  The Usurper 6. Covenant Of The Scalp

  The dense forest brooded, full of unclean spirits, dark magic’s and broken covenants. That’s what Yosiah’s mother always said to keep him away from the woods. She still called him a boy but Yosiah thought himself a man now, especially since father was gone, never to return.

  Alone now in the wilder lands, he paused to watch ants roiling over the corpse of a dead bird, an eagle by the look of it. Yosiah had to get moving, but the scene reminded him too much of his own nation.

  There is a price good men must pay to take care of their families, his father had always said, and he paid it down to the last senine and drop of blood. Despite his mother’s protests, Yosiah would now do as his father had before him and take up the fight against the invaders. If he did not help take the fight to them, then someday it would come to his mother’s farm and the Pict aggressors would swarm over and engulf it, just like the eagle.

  Using his spear as a walking stick, Yosiah pried his way through the stinging brambles and brush. Despite the shade of the trees, sweat drenched his woolen tunic while biting flies bickered with him for purchase. After a few miles the noisome darkness in the forest got to him and he sloped down to the Rites river’s banks to travel down a game trail in the waning sunlight.

  It was beautiful here. The Rites river meandered, its murky green-brown waters swirling in odd patterns like serpent scales. He whistled while making relatively good time beside the wide river. Yosiah thought if he had a canoe, he could travel even faster but dismissed this; he didn’t have one and general Gathelaus wouldn’t be beside the river. To find the general of all the Usurper armies would take venturing much farther toward Hellainik. At least mother would be safe, the war was far from the land of Mantinea. Among all of father’s shattered promises the move had been for the best, the safest for the family.

  Ahead on the game trail, a flock of birds scattered, and the usual sounds of the wilderness ceased. Looking over his shoulder Yosiah had the eerie feeling of being watched. This gap between the hills felt unsavory and the still small voice inside warned him of going on, yet his mind panicked at standing immobile. He crept forward, ever alert to any disturbance in the primeval wood. Did a branch on the trail ahead just move, he wondered?

  A bowstring twanged and the shining black arrowhead flashed past him, missing by a hairsbreadth. He went low expecting another arrow to pierce him. He thought of his father, buried deep in a mound somewhere on the borders of Hornburg. Buried so deep the lies couldn’t find him.

  A chopping wet sound fell between the leaves, along with a gurgle and then a second arrow loosed wildly into the air, coming down in the middle of the river to his left.

  Grunts and cries of pain erupted from the thick bushes just ahead. A fearsome Pict burst out, clutching a murderous notched scimitar. The ghastly look upon the Picts painted face startled Yosiah who backed away and stumbled.

  Thinking he was doomed, Yosiah held his spear up. But the Pict pitched forward, collapsing on his face just a few yards away. A buried hatchet in the Picts back revealed his ruinous end.

  Another sound of savage struggle followed, a chopping thud, then ominous silence. Ducking into the grass, Yosiah waited a tense few seconds.

  Out of t
he bush glided a broad-shouldered warrior, graceful as a panther. Dressed in buck-skin breeches with a tarnished breastplate upon his chest, he had a smeared broad-sword in his muscular left hand. He wore an iron helm with no plume but short curling ram-horns on the sides, his long dark hair spilled out the sides. Kneeling, he yanked the hatchet from the Picts back and tucked it into his wide leather belt.

  The warrior’s ice-blue eyes pierced Yosiah, even in his hiding spot. The sword in his hand dripped crimson and he took care to clean it as he spoke. “You can get up; I have finished them off.” His voice was harsh and firm.

  “Them?” asked Yosiah, as he came forward.

  “Yea, four Pictish scouts. I have been tracking them since noon. They meant to murder you,” said the warrior as he sheathed his fine steel sword. “We could hear your whistling a long way off.”

  “Then I am in your debt. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

  “You’d be dead,” the warrior answered stolidly.

  Yosiah’s face reddened.

  “Who are you?” asked the warrior.

  “I am Yosiah, son of Gazelem. I’m hoping to join general Gathelaus’s army in the grand revolt.”

  “It is Prince Roose’s army,” said the warrior.

  “Yes, he will be king, but all men know it is general Gathelaus that leads the warriors,” said Yosiah.

  Grunting at that, the warrior went over the Picts belongings then dragged the bodies to the Rites river and threw them in one by one. “Let this carry them to the sea,” he said with grim satisfaction.

  “Do you serve general Gathelaus?” asked Yosiah.

  “You could say that,” answered the warrior, sheathing a long knife he had taken from the last Pict in his belt. “You can never have too many,” he smirked.

  “Why are you out here by yourself then? Why aren’t you with the army near Torgenstone?”

  “Because, boy, the army has already moved across the river since the last you heard tell and the wilderness is my specialty. Its why I have been gathering intelligence. Why are you here?”

  “I told you, I want to join general Gathelaus’s army,” said Yosiah a little heated. “Like my father did.”

  “You’re a little young for that. If I hadn’t seen those Picts planning on slaying you, I would have thought you a spy,” said the warrior without guile.

  “I’m fifteen years old and I’m no spy, my people covenanted with Alamane.”

  The warrior peered at him with hard eyes. “That covenant said they wouldn’t raise arms ever again, you lying to me about your father?”

  “No, he broke the covenant, I never made it.”

  The warrior nodded. “Fair enough. Tell me, do you think Gathelaus can use a fifteen-year-old boy in the army?”

  Yosiah pondered a moment. “I can read and write, I can wash dishes, I can help carry the wounded.”

  “I get it,” the warrior cut him off. “You’re willing, that’s good.”

  “Why were those four Pict scouts here? It’s a long way to Torgenstone.”

  “The fight won’t be at Torgenstone. It will be here,” said the warrior, gesturing between the sloping verdant hills. “Those four won’t be missed until it’s too late. They were supposed to advance and scout on outlier defenses. With the latest movements I’ve seen, Sidrezyul and the Picts will cut through this gap and go past Cado Peak by late tomorrow. They will flood past Torgenstone, then burn whatever farmsteads Forlock has told them they may have. He’ll do nothing to halt the wolves he has unleashed to stop Roose. They outnumber us more than two to one and if we don’t defeat them here, they’ll kill and cover the land like a snow-white sorrow.”

  Yosiah’s eye widened. “Mother,” he murmured.

  “You better believe it,” said the warrior, nodding. “This gap is our best chance of defeating them. Now, I need to tell the troops what I just told you.”

  Yosiah asked, “How close is general Gathelaus?”

  “His camp is in the valley yonder, we should get there by dusk…if you can keep up,” laughed the warrior. He carried nothing but his weapons and a water-skin.

  “I can keep up, just show me the way,” said Yosiah, hefting his pack and spear.

  ***

  They were waved through the rebellion’s lines by the outlying scouts of the war camp and Yosiah could tell that the men clearly held the nameless warrior in high regard. Toward the center of Gathelaus’s war camp, a fire crackled, flickering its tongue of flame as it slowly coiled and died. A command tent was set up nearby with lanterns hanging from its rigged canopy; each of them casting a weak light upon a table surrounded by four men. Yosiah guessed that the taller, commanding looking man was general Gathelaus, but he did not have any idea who the others were.

  The men discussed the map laid out before them, one in particular argued about the need to attack first. That was when they noticed Yosiah and the warrior.

  “Gathelaus, we were worried. You’ve been gone all day,” said the tall man.

  “I had to scout things out for myself one last time,” said the warrior. “Your spies were correct Thorne,” Gathelaus said to the aggressive captain.

  Yosiah was dumbfounded. He had never thought to ask the warrior’s name when they first met, thinking him just a lowly warrior. On the journey to the camp they kept silent to sneak past any more possible Pict scouts.

  “Who is the Pictish boy?” asked Thorne. “A prisoner with a spear?”

  “His name is Yosiah, he is of the people of Alamane and he wants to serve,” said Gathelaus. “He can read and write, so for the time being I will have him as my personal scribe.”

  “Alamane? Those are the half-blood Picts that swore allegiance to the king and were never to bear arms, again weren’t they?” said Niels.

  “Aye,” said Gathelaus. “But this one is young enough that he never made such a vow.”

  “And you would trust a Pict?” asked an older man with a graying mustache in fine armor.

  “I would be considering Sidrezyul’s Picts were going to murder him.”

  The men gave their ascent to that.

  “Thorne you’re promoted back to command of the left flank.”

  “Thanks,” snarled Thorne.

  Gathelaus then explained his orders to the officers and how they might defeat Sidrezyul and the Picts. They discussed the battle plan formations long into the night and Yosiah almost fell asleep attempting to record on parchment anything Gathelaus said that seemed important.

  Out here under the wheeling stars, Yosiah felt almost as peaceful as he had right before his father left for war more than seven years ago. The peace was because of his mother more than anything; she taught him faith and prayer. Through these gifts he found peace enough to sleep while others could not slumber for the beating of war drums and sharpening of swords on stone.

  ***

  Dawn was swiftly approaching when Gathelaus shook Yosiah awake from his spot against a monstrous oak. The banner of the Usurper army flapped and fluttered in the early morning wind. “Come, assist me with my armor and tent, we move out in less than an hour.”

  They blessed and then ate a quick meal of dried buffalo meat, corn cakes and amaranth mixed with honey. Energy food, Gathelaus told Yosiah. A squad of soldiers, not servants, Yosiah noted, helped take down Gathelaus’s command tent. Each man in turn carried the burdensome equipment, including the disassembled table.

  Yosiah then aided Gathelaus with his armor, buckling the wide leather straps of his greaves over his boots and then the same for the bracers on each arm. Over his buckskin shirt, Gathelaus put a thick cotton tunic that was woven in many alternating patterns, checker-boarded this way and that.

  Noticing Yosiah puzzling over it, Gathelaus asked, “You’re wondering why I am wearing this?”

  “Yes, I have never seen its like.”

  “This thick clothing is hot and we’ll feel fatigued at the end of the day from wearing and fighting in them; but it can stop most arrows and light sword-stro
kes. It’s light enough that it won’t slow me down much. I’ve an extra one you can wear, just in case an arrow should fly far to the rear of the camp,” said Gathelaus.

  Yosiah looked at him. “Rear of the camp?”

  “Don’t be offended. You wanted an honorable duty and I have given you one. You will carry our banner when we meet Sidrezyul on the field. Does that please you?”

  Yosiah nodded, smiling at the honor given him.

  “You can’t let it fall.”

  “I won’t.”

  Gathelaus then put on his tarnished breastplate and wide leather belt with the hand and half sword in its long leather scabbard. He had several more knives and a tomahawk. Yosiah buckled the final straps and then handed Gathelaus his helm.

  From a small chest Gathelaus pulled a wide crest made of horsehair dyed a brilliant red. He affixed this to his helm. There would be no doubt from afar who the commander was. “We go to the head of the column now. I lead from the front,” said Gathelaus. “And you with the banner are beside me.”

  Nodding, Yosiah ran and took the army’s banner from its spot beside the oak and the two of them marched toward the rising sun.

  “We don’t have nearly so many men as I thought we did last night,” said Yosiah.

  “Niels and Thorne took half our forces across the river earlier. They’ll be concealed behind the hills until the Pict army passes and attempts to cross. We will be on the other side catching them mid-way and have them at our mercy while they are waist deep in a mile-wide river,” said Gathelaus.

  “Nowhere to run,” said Yosiah.

  “Nowhere to hide,” affirmed Gathelaus.

  After a few minutes Yosiah asked, “Now what?”

  “We wait. This is the hard part for many, waiting for battle. The tension and anticipation. Look before us,” Gathelaus said gesturing out over the valley, “these men have all chosen to assist in defending their homes and families. This isn’t about conquest or glory like it is with Forlock nor plunder like Sidrezyul and his dogs. My men are here to do their duty. Before many of these good men looms the terror, I’ve seen it many times. The only way to get through the fear is to remember your place among your brothers in arms.”