Usurper

by David Waine

  “Tell me, Master Vorst,” she asked some time later from the back of his horse, while he led hers on foot, “how may I repay you for the service you have rendered me today?”

  He swept aside the host of Hag-inspired thoughts that surged through his brain unbidden. “My Lady, it is enough for me that I should be of service to you.”

  She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “That’s what they all say. Come along, Callin, you’ve done me a good turn; now what can I do for you?”

  “Well,” he replied with a smile, “you could let me dance with you at the ball tonight.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The great hall of Castle Brond was the most sumptuous stateroom of all those civilised by Rhomic since his accession. The bare stone walls had long been plastered over and emblazoned with frescoes. Brilliant stained glass windows gilded the final shafts of the summer sun as it sank from view behind the mountains. Where icy stone flags had formerly admitted draughts unhindered, thick rugs now insulated. Cushions had been added to the bare wooden benches of yore to support weary backsides. There were ornaments, paintings, sculptures and, thanks to Avalind, flowers everywhere. Chandeliers that had not been so laden with candles since the previous year, dripped a steady trickle of molten wax onto the crowd, swirling in time to a vigorous lay from the musicians’ gallery.

  Overseeing it all, the monarch sat alone at the high table, surveying his guests with pride.

  Rhomic was not a vain man. He had set up no monuments to his glory, considering the State itself to be his monument. Thanks to his care, the precarious realm that he had inherited from his father was now strong and rich.

  As was his custom, he had used this year’s festivities to perform two functions. Gathering the noble families from every corner of the land was a major undertaking, for the Kingdom's road system was still somewhat rudimentary. The Hunt marked the end of the academies’ years, so he included the general dubbing within the festivities. Between killing the pig and tripping a measure, he had tapped another batch of strapping young men, Dorcan included, on both shoulders and bidden them stand and be recognised.

  From his huge chair he took in the scene. A matching chair, empty for two years, stood beside his. In life, Queen Usalla had sat there. Now that she was gone Rhomic could not bear to have a memory of her removed. Normally Soth would have sat at his hand and Avalind at hers, but both were dancing.

  Rhomic drained his latest goblet and held it up for replenishment. Wiping the residue from his lips, he scanned the gathering for signs of his offspring. He soon found Soth with some girl he didn’t know. He had long since forgotten who was invited to these gatherings. He had a chamberlain to deal with such matters. Speaking of which, where was Gledden? There he was, leaning on his staff, swaying gently in time to the music, an avuncular smile creasing his elderly features. As long as his real friends, like Amerish Vorst, were present, Rhomic was content.

  He was fifty years of age, already an old man by the standards of the world. He did not feel old, nor did he look it. He exercised regularly and hard to keep fit. A fit body bred a fit mind, he told himself, and his fit body and mind had governed the Kingdom well for twenty-four years.

  Hearing her clear laugh above the general hubbub, he scanned the crowd for Avalind and saw her emerge, arm in arm with a young man, from a clutch of clapping courtiers. She looked wonderful in her white silk ball gown with the gold brocade at the neck and waist. Her head was thrown back, laughing without restraint. Her escort was certainly making an effort to please her. The smile that she beamed back at the young man bore no hidden depths, no veiled insincerity. She wore her heart openly and he loved her for it.

  But who was he? Now their heads were together and he was whispering something to her. Her head shot back in a squeal of ecstatic giggles as she aimed a playful cuff at him. Rhomic was beginning to warm to this fellow.

  Another young man appeared and the two stopped dancing to speak with him. It was Vorst’s son, Dorcan, with whom, he noted, the newcomer seemed on familiar terms. Realisation dawned: her saviour of the morning. He recognised the family resemblance in the nose and eyes, the line of the jaw. Both favoured their father well in those respects. The newcomer had neither Dorcan’s build nor height, although he was solid enough — certainly a better prospect than the weedy Simack.

  “Good health, sire!” growled a military voice at his shoulder.

  Rhomic looked round. Count Vorst was leaning across the table with a fresh flagon of wine ready to pour.

  “Is that your youngest I see making my daughter laugh?” asked the king, extending his goblet for Vorst to fill.

  “Where?”

  “There.” The royal finger stabbed forth, indicating the giggling couple off to the right.

  “Oh yes, Callin.”

  The music rose to its final phrase and stopped. The dancing ended with a ripple of applause as couples drifted to the tables around the walls. Callin kissed Avalind’s hand and led her to his family’s reserved place.

  “Is that your father talking to mine?” she enquired.

  He followed her look. “It is,” he said. Extending his hand, he guided her to a seat.

  “You know, Master Vorst,” she pointed out thoughtfully, “if I am to spend the whole evening with you, there may be others in the hall who interpret our actions incorrectly.”

  “I could wish for no greater compliment than their jealousy,” he replied.

  She giggled guilelessly, holding up a gently deprecatory hand. “No, sir,” she admonished softly, “I am a princess of the realm and must behave myself properly.”

  A hand descended on Callin’s shoulder. “Master Vorst?”

  Crown Prince Soth stood above him, resplendent in crimson velvet, flecked with silver, the grandeur of his apparel rather at odds with his stern expression.

  “Your Highness?” replied Callin, standing.

  “May I join you?” He did not wait for an answer but seated himself in the vacant chair next to Callin’s. Avalind leaned forward, hands clasped under her chin.

  By nature, Soth was a serious man, not given to the frivolities of his father or sister. He was widely respected for his steadfastness. Repute had it that he was no mean swordsman. Such things were desirable in a future monarch. Now he sat with a grave, thoughtful expression on his face. “Master Vorst, my sister informs me that we have you to thank for extricating her from the forest today.”

  Callin shrugged. “I would hardly have thought it merited thanks, Your Highness.”

  Soth’s eyebrows rose a degree. “Really?”

  “Her horse picked up a stone. It so happened that I was nearby. Had I not been there, I am sure she would have been able to find her way back by herself.”

  The prince nodded. Callin noticed his face harden slightly as he turned to his sister. “The truth is that she had no business being in that part of the forest at all. She could have been attacked by wild animals and none of us would have been any the wiser until it was too late.”

  Avalind pulled a face. “Oddsteeth, Soth,” she exclaimed hotly, “you left my collar and leash behind!”

  With that she was up and off, train flapping furiously in her wake. Callin grimaced. Red hair, he supposed. He turned back to find a steely stare confronting him.

  “May I ask why you were there as well?”

  “It was pure coincidence. I happened to be riding by.”

  “You were not with the Hunt?”

  “I don’t like hunting. I accepted the invitation out of courtesy, but have little taste for it. I thought nobody would mind me going for a ride by myself instead. I wasn’t to know that Princess Avalind would feel the same way.”

  He could see that Soth did not believe him. He spoke earnestly. “Your Highness, I did not know she was there until I heard her cry out.”

  “Cry out!”

  “She was having difficulty controlling her horse.”

  That had the ring of truth. Soth knew well that Avalind was, at best, a mediocre
rider. The hostility died in his eyes but a hint of suspicion remained. He nodded, repeated his formal thanks for rescuing his sister and left.

  Callin leaned back, feeling suddenly deflated. Grimly, he found himself eyeing a goblet of wine held out to him by an attractive young serving girl, and seething inwardly.

  “Who are you?”

  She smiled. “I’m called Mussa, sir.” Now that he had a good look at her, she really was very pretty. Not an Avalind or a Hag perhaps, but probably much more accessible than either of them at present. An unfamiliar stirring sensation in his nether regions began to establish itself.

  “Thank you.”

  She handed him the goblet, bobbed a curtsey and left. He took a sip and reflected. Mussa. A good name for a whore. It dawned on him that he could no longer remember whether he had engaged carnally with the Hag or not. How could he forget something like that? In fact, he could remember very little of the previous night’s encounter at all — only her ludicrous demand for a king’s head.

  “Master Vorst?” An army captain stood before him. “You will accompany me, please.”

  Callin looked round. “Why?”

  The captain raised a warning finger. “His Majesty commands your presence forthwith.”

  The captain led him down a long, bare, draughty corridor in a wing that retained its military severity, his mailed boots echoing on the stone flags. They rounded a corner and stopped in front of a stout wooden door. The captain knocked twice. There was a moment’s silence, then a muffled, “Yes,” from within. He opened the door and stepped aside so that Callin could enter.

  The room was small and dingy. A single brand smouldered in a bracket on the far wall. Walls, floor and ceiling were of unrelieved stone. He could see no window, but smoke from the brand curled up to a small hole in the ceiling. A musty, acrid smell reached his nostrils. There was a plain table in the centre of the room, at which sat a huge man, his fingers clasped under his chin. Behind him was a tall, spare figure with a proud bearing. Both were in shadow but he had no difficulty in identifying either.

  “Your Majesty,” he bowed to the seated figure, and then to the other, “Father.”

  The hunched figure raised his head to acknowledge the salutation and then indicated an empty chair on Callin’s side of the table. “Sit down, Master Vorst.”

  Callin did so. Unable to prevent himself, he blurted out, “Is Your Majesty displeased with me?”

  In the shadow, he thought he saw a glint flash through the royal eyes. “Why should I be displeased with you?”

  “I don’t know. Prince Soth spoke to me a few minutes ago, to thank me for rescuing the princess, but he didn’t seem very pleased with me, and now I have been brought here.”

  The king stared at him flatly. “Soth’s manner is often formal, yet his heart is true. If yours is as steadfast, you have nought to fear from him.” Callin was reassured by his tone. “Avalind tells me that you saved her today.”

  “I helped her,” he replied, “but I doubt whether I did anything that she could not have done herself.”

  Rhomic Vandamm nodded. “Probably not,” he grunted, “nevertheless, you went out of your way to assist her and we are grateful. There have been rumours of brigands in those woods for several months. Did you know?”

  “No, sire, I didn’t.”

  The king grunted. “We haven’t found any yet, so it may just be a rumour. Until the situation is clarified, however, it would be unwise for the princess to ride out alone.” Callin blinked and then nodded, feeling the need to make some sort of response. “Yet it would be churlish of her father to lock her up with her sewing when her spirit yearns to be free under the sun, would it not?”

  “I suppose, yes.”

  Rhomic Vandamm rose from the table and leaned over it, supporting his considerable weight on two ham-like hands. “Then I will be plain, young Vorst. I wish to reward you for your act of gallantry and, at the same time, give you a future.”

  Now Amerish Vorst, Callin’s father, emerged from the shadows. “If I may, Majesty?” The king nodded. “My son, your position in the family is not to your advantage.” Callin said nothing. “Simack will inherit the title on my death and, loth though I am to say it, it seems likely that Dorcan will succeed him in time anyway. That leaves you.”

  Callin, listening carefully, assumed his best, eager to please expression. “If I can be of service…”

  The royal paw clubbed the table with a thud of approval that reverberated around the walls. He rose to his considerable full height, blocking out most of what little light the brand could supply. “Well said, lad. I will be straight. There is no future for you in Nassinor, but there is in Brond. I want you to live here, initially as a companion for Avalind.”

  Now Callin rose, clearly disturbed by the word ‘companion’. “Your Majesty,” the words were deferential but there was no mistaking his tone, “in Nassinor I will never succeed to my father’s title, but I am already advanced in my training and hope to be dubbed a knight within the year. I am not cut out to be a — forgive me — a nursemaid.”

  The king threw back his head and guffawed. Callin looked from his monarch to his father, in confusion.

  “Nor shall you!” He cocked a look at Callin’s father. Amerish Vorst shrugged and turned away. “Your training will continue here. I expect to be able to dub you a year from tonight.” Callin smiled. “In the meantime,” continued the king, “I wish you to join the court here in Brond and look after my daughter on her imprudent excursions. Would the term, ‘bodyguard’ be acceptable? Is it agreed?”

  It was Callin’s turn to laugh now. Fate had handed him a golden opportunity. He looked to his father’s face and found approval there.

  “Agreed,” he said with a smile and a shrug.

  Immediately he found his hand gripped by that of the king and his father’s arm around his shoulder, hugging him with pride and assuring him that he had just made the most significant decision of his life. As Callin listened, smiling, a contrary thought flashed through his mind. Had he not made that decision the previous night?

  *

  A light lace curtain billowed gently at the window. Callin had looked askance at this feminine adornment on his arrival. His father was, by nature, an abstemious man, ascetic even — a Nassinor tradition stretching back centuries — and he expected his sons to follow his example. This suited the hardy Dorcan but had given Simack a bellyful of problems over the years. Few rugs, little upholstered seating and no lace curtains in Nassinor.

  There was glass in the window — another commodity rare in Nassinor. Callin recognised the value of a glass window in winter, having spent many nights curled in a shivering ball when the shutters admitted icy winds. In summer, though, he considered it an extravagance. It made the room unbearably hot and denied the occupant sleep. At least this room had a window that could be opened. He had flung it wide on retiring from the ball, before leaving again to carouse with Dorcan, celebrating their respective elevations.

  It was almost midnight when they returned. The castle was quiet, but the guard at the postern had not yet retired and admitted them without question.

  This bed was softer than the one he was used to at home. His central region sank into it and that made his back ache. He shifted, but it did not ease his discomfort. Again he turned and lay on his back, waiting for elusive sleep to claim him. It seemed to take an age, but slowly, and finally, his eyelids drooped.

  A gleaming flash cut through the darkness and jerked his awareness into life. An instinctive twitch of survival rolled his whole body sideways.

  The sword slashed into his bolster, hurling a cloud of down into the air. Instantly Callin was wrenched from his stupor. He fell, head first, from the bed, sprawling on the floor. There was a shadow in the room that moved and wielded a massive, glinting weapon. His eyes, torn from sleep, screamed. His fingers groped for the wall and clawed him upright. He saw its head twitch sideways. The figure grew, black and menacing, as it leapt over the bed
towards him. He heard the rip and curse as it caught its foot in a rumpled blanket and pitched forwards. As it fell, it lashed out with its weapon. Callin ducked. The blade bit into the wall behind him with a shower of sparks and flying plaster.

  Immediately he was on his feet, stumbling. He flung himself sideways as the blade flashed past his ear again. One hand closed on a bedpost. The other found a belt.

  He remembered. Muttering thanks to Providence, he withdrew his dagger from its sheath.

  Instantly it was knocked from his hand, to lodge itself with a quivering thud in the opposite wall. Callin felt the sword brush his cheek on the upswing and arched backwards, out of its reach, landing on the bed. The hiss of rage sounding in his ears, he groped desperately for his weapon, but his foot slipped.

  He landed heavily, skidding over the stone floor to crunch against the wall, sending his senses spinning again. Vaguely, he detected the snarl of triumph from the assassin. His muddled awareness took in the broadening band of moonlight that flooded across him, a plain target for the kill. His eyes registered the towering figure, the upswing of the blade, its hovering zenith and the final cataclysmic arc as it scythed down to his skull.

  He shut his eyes involuntarily. The moment stretched on in emptiness and silence. ‘This cannot be right,’ he told himself, one eye flickering open. The edge of the blade was poised scarce a finger’s breadth above his head. The figure’s face contorted with effort as he brought all his strength to bear. Yet the weapon refused to budge.

  Callin forced his body to obey his will. The wall scraped his back as he slid upwards, his hand groping and closing at last on his dagger. With a wrench, he tore it from the wall and slammed it into the man’s heart.

  The gurgling death cry rattled his ears. Arms closed about him, leaving the sword suspended in mid-air. For a moment the two of them stood, wrapped in an obscene embrace, eyes locked in shared horror. Then the man vomited blood over Callin’s chest and slid from his grip.

  The sword fell to the floor with a loud clang.