Usurper

by David Waine

  The Hag had bred changes in him that went beyond his understanding. Although he looked no different, his physical strength had been increased massively. His stamina was also increased. He did not waste his leisure time, but exercised long and hard to be in the best possible condition for when the academy reopened. It also helped to take his mind off Mussa’s rear end.

  The greatest change, however, was mental. The old Callin would have been appalled at the butchery he had meted out to two men. Admittedly, it was self-defence on each occasion, but he had killed without mercy. This thought troubled him greatly.

  *

  “Master Callin!” It was Mussa, crossing the courtyard towards him a week later, bearing a letter. “It’s from Nassinor, sir. I hope it’s not bad news.”

  Callin took the message with a smile and broke the seal. “Thank you, Mussa. Will you prepare me a warm bath this evening?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m always at your disposal.” She bobbed a curtsey, blushing at the implications of what she had just said. Embarrassed or not, the idea seemed to please her and that, in its turn, pleased him.

  She went, rump swinging happily behind her. He waited until she was out of sight before turning his eye to the folded sheet of parchment. He recognised Dorcan’s confident, bold hand immediately.

  Nassinor

  12th August

  Callin

  You lucky dog, getting to complete your qualification at Brond, where all the best trainers are, not to mention the most beautiful women. There’s a new family in the village, got a cracker of a daughter. I saw her swimming in the river the other day. It was a sight to make your eyes stand out on stalks, I can tell you. I almost went home on three legs! That’s the good news. The bad news is that the priest is her uncle, so father has told me in no uncertain terms to leave her maidenhood intact. Being the dutiful son that I am, I have done so.

  That is the most exciting thing that has happened in this backwater, unless you count the fact that we have an honoured guest. Princess Avalind is very gracious to everyone and very grateful for our hospitality. My, she’s a looker too, isn’t she? As it happens, it’s good to have a young woman about the castle again. She puts bowls of flowers everywhere and cheers people up. Even Simack managed a faint smile yesterday. Why is it that she can get the staff to work at double speed, of their own free will, just by smiling at them, rather than resorting to the threats that father and I would use? Would I had half her charm.

  She is even working her magic on Father. Instead of his usual gruff self, he goes all gentlemanly and courteous whenever she is in the room. Sometimes I think he wishes he were thirty years younger.

  Speaking of Simack, his headaches are getting worse and he’s running short of palliative salts. The local shop has run out and the next supply train from Brond isn’t due for over a month. I couldn’t ask you to get him a few bags and send them straight along, could I? I’ll reimburse you by return, of course.

  That’s it for now. Send a letter with the salts to let me know how you are getting on. Less than a year to go to your dubbing, isn’t there?

  Your ever-loving brother

  Dorcan

  *

  Supper was finished. Mussa was mixing the hot and cold water in his bathtub. Callin sat in his robe, watching that splendid rump bounce. Could he take her tonight? Had he been able to read her thoughts, he would have known that she was wondering the same thing.

  “Your bath is ready, Master Callin.” She bobbed a curtsey.

  “Thank you, Mussa, that will be all. Good night.”

  She looked a touch wistful as she bobbed a further curtsey and left.

  His sleep was fitful that night. He floated constantly between varying levels of consciousness that never seemed to attain full waking yet equally never allowed him to sink to blissful oblivion. His mind was plagued by visions of a door. Time after time he found himself approaching it, only to stand, confused and disorientated. He knew that door, yet he could not place it. He would know what lay beyond it if only he could remember where he had seen it before.

  *

  “I am to take the six red bags to Nassinor and deliver them to your brother, sir,” said Tetcher.

  “Good.” Callin folded the letter, dripped wax on the join and sealed it with his ring. “Here is money for your journey. You may keep whatever remains as well as the payment you will receive.”

  “Oh thank you, sir, that’s very generous of you.” The man was genuinely grateful. “Might I ask, sir, what is in the bags?”

  “Palliative salts for my brother’s headaches.”

  *

  Callin’s leisure was over. Sharp after breakfast, squeaky in his new training leathers (a parting gift from his father), he presented himself along with the other pupils before Master Gallen and his fellows at the training field. The old soldier stumped sternly along the line of his charges, his unremitting eye missing nothing. Callin ventured a look at the others.

  “Eyes front!”

  Too late, Callin realised that the command had been barked at him. Master Gallen stood before him, a thickset, brooding man with a livid scar across his nose and one cheek. His leather jerkin was sleeveless and the muscles on his upper arms more granite than flesh.

  “Step forward.” Callin did so. “Name?”

  “Callin Vorst, sir,”

  The hard line of the mouth tightened still further. “I was told you would be joining us. It seems that the Academy of Nassinor did not instil discipline into you?” Callin thought it better not to reply. The top lip curled and the brows knotted over the eyes. “When I am inspecting you, I expect your eyes to face front, Master Vorst.”

  Callin swallowed. “I’m sorry, sir. It will not happen again.”

  Master Gallen snorted and passed on to the other initiates. He stopped at a strapping fellow. “What is your name?”

  “Keriak Rulik, sir.”

  Gallen looked him hard in the eyes. “From where?”

  “I am a transfer from the Academy of Graan, sir.”

  “See you know where your loyalties lie,” was the growled reply.

  Rulik flushed but held his peace as the master passed on to a weedy looking fellow.

  “And you are?”

  “Simian Treponic, sir. Transfer from the Academy of Yelkin.” Gallen looked at the young man’s unpromising build with evident disapproval. Treponic’s response was calm and measured. “It is true that I am not favoured physically, sir, but my tutor at Yelkin taught me that a soldier’s most potent strength is in his head. In that, at least, I trust that you will not find me wanting.”

  Gallen grunted and he passed on down the line. Having completed his tour, he took up a position on a dais so that all had to look up at him.

  “This is your final year in the Brond Academy, where you will be trained to become knights. Is that possible?”

  Turning, he indicated the two elderly tutors standing behind him. Unlike him, they wore academic robes and had none of his physical bulk. “Master Treasor will be your strategy tutor for this final year while Master Ferian will instruct you in chivalry. Should you fail to impress me,” he added with a sidelong glance at Master Treponic, there is always the chance that you may distinguish yourselves in their lessons. Behind them stand our assistants: Acolytes Territ, Mesumin and Krenn will stand in for us should we ever be indisposed. Are there any questions?”

  There were none.”

  Callin made a mental note to excel at everything.

  “Armour!” Master Gallen indicated the glinting heap before them. They all felt a surge of interest. For the first four years, training was restricted to wooden weapons and padded leather protection. Now they were to experience the real thing.

  *

  Warm, autumnal evening sunlight filtered through the leaves of a tree outside Callin’s window to cast flickering patterns on the wall opposite. The room was bathed with a golden glow that matched the feeling of relaxed ease in the pit of his stomach. There was no sound save the o
ccasional snort of a horse some way off in the courtyard. Callin Vorst felt absolutely at peace.

  He raised his head from the bolster and lifted the coverlet so that he could admire the curves of the girl sleeping lightly beside him. Her dark brown hair fell lightly over her cheek, a wayward curl resting just beneath one nostril, the rest fanning out to form a flared frame for her face, a face that looked increasingly fine to him every time he beheld it. Moving down he was able to admire her body. Her form was trim and petite, all the curves being profoundly pleasing. Returning to her face, he liked the way the lashes lay softly on her cheeks and how her lower lip protruded ever so slightly.

  Reaching over, he stroked her slender neck lightly and traced a path down across her shoulder, coming to rest on her left breast, which he caressed gently. The nipple responded, growing into a little budding mound.

  The full mouth broadened into a slow smile and the eyes, deepest hazel, flickered open. She lifted her face and pressed her lips lightly to his before commencing her own exploration of his body. He felt the physical response almost immediately, and so did she.

  Mussa raised herself to a sitting position, her smile so open, and desire burning deep in her eyes. In a single smooth movement, she swung over him, and eased herself slowly down on his renewed arousal, thighs gripping him gently but firmly as she came to rest against his loins. Her head came smoothly down to his and her soft mouth drained a bottomless kiss.

  A shaft of evening sunlight fell across her heaving, glistening body. Callin felt himself drifting, unable to stem the tide building inside him. He grabbed her shoulder, his face buried in the wet valley of her breasts. As she pounded his thighs with increasing ferocity, he gritted his teeth, a small whimper escaped her throat, his own head jerked back with a searing grunt. Then an all-consuming fire flooded their loins.

  Both cried out, straining, their bodies rigid, glistening with sweat, before collapsing back in a tangled heap, lips locked in a mutual embrace of fulfilment.

  They lay there in each other’s arms for some time before either of them became aware of the tapping on the door. They sprang apart like guilty children caught rifling the pantry. Callin rolled sideways out of the bed, landing painfully on one knee. Casting around, he pulled the coverlet off and wrapped it round himself. Mussa did not know what to do. She pulled her knees up to her chin and stared at him with alarm in her eyes.

  “Master Callin,” she whispered frantically, “I ain’t got no clothes on.”

  He gestured to his bathroom and she scuttled into it, her bottom wobbling in time with her footfalls. The wait to see it without a skirt had been worth it.

  The knocking was now accompanied by Tetcher’s voice. “Master Callin, are you in there?”

  Relief. He was not about to be inconveniently summoned away on some official matter after all. He pulled the coverlet around himself and opened the door. Tetcher stood there, a letter in his hand.

  “Sorry, Master Callin, sir, I didn’t know you was taking a nap. There’s a letter for you, sir, from Nassinor. The postmaster says it’s marked urgent.”

  The beater touched his forelock and left. Callin shut the door and examined the delivery. The Seal of the Vorsts, crowned by the letter ‘M’, for Magister, and written on the best quality parchment. From his father then. A sinking feeling began to manifest itself in the pit of his stomach as he broke the seal and opened the letter. Count Amerish rarely wrote to him, and never just a friendly missive, such as Dorcan might pen. Some hidden sense told him that it contained terrible news. As he opened the sheet, his eyes swivelled involuntarily away for a moment, subconsciously dreading the task that they had to perform.

  “Is it bad, Master Callin?” enquired Mussa softly.

  Count Amerish’s rigidly regimented hand contrasted sharply with Dorcan’s florid script. Typically, it was brief, terse and to the point.

  Nassinor

  14th September

  My dear son, Callin

  It grieves me more than I can express to write this. Dr. Kraan informs me that Simack’s infirmity is about to run full course. He was taken ill suddenly and deteriorated rapidly. He fades constantly and the physician has despaired of him. We ease his torment as best we may. He must know the gravity of his situation, yet he shows remarkable courage, as a Vorst should.

  Princess Avalind has been an inspiration and comfort to him, as well as a rock of strength to Dorcan and myself. I know that we could not have coped without her.

  His condition is now dangerously weak. The doctor hopes that he may yet summon the strength to linger a few more days. It is his final wish to see his family together once more before the end. You will beg the king for compassionate leave — he will surely grant it — and ride to Nassinor with all possible haste. May God preserve him until your arrival.

  Your ever-loving father

  VORST

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The first screams brought servants scurrying from their beds. The second brought a horrified Count Amerish and his middle son, Dorcan. Before either of them reached Simack’s room, Avalind, robe trailing and hair brushed out, joined them.

  Count Amerish entered the room first. An ominous stillness gripped the dormitory wing as a crowd of servants gathered nervously outside.

  Sensible of the servile prattling beyond the door, Avalind closed it silently behind her. She could only see the men’s backs, but their postures told her everything. Count Vorst, normally so straight, was sagging. The moment he had dreaded for so long had come at last.

  Simack lay back on his bolster, face haggard, eyes sunken in their sockets. His hair, never lustrous or luxuriant, now clung to his gaunt grey cheeks in sweaty strands, the longer wisps trailing away forlornly over the linen, stuck to the cloth by their owner’s secretions. A thin rivulet of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, over his chin and onto his neck. Already a large crimson stain was spreading about him. Count Amerish stroked the young man’s brow. It was slick with sweat and he was shivering feverishly. Avalind and Dorcan each placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. He had dreaded this moment since the boy’s nurse told him the child was sickly when he was scarcely a month old. For more than twenty years he had covered his foreboding with his natural gruffness and military demeanour, both of which now deserted him.

  Her hosts beyond action, it fell to Avalind to provide the sort of comfort that only a woman could give, but also effectively to become the head of the household. She must be the rock to which the two men would cling as the crisis deepened, and to comfort the dying man as he sank into the grave with what little dignity remained.

  She engaged the first servant she saw and sent for the castle physician. Dr. Kraan arrived within two minutes.

  Ushering Count Amerish and Dorcan gently out into the corridor, she bade them wait there. The old count sat heavily on a bench and buried his head in his hands. Still feeling useless, Dorcan placed a consoling hand on his father’s shoulder and entreated him to bear up. His father raised a faltering hand and squeezed his arm gratefully.

  Avalind organised the servants. All windows were to be closed or shuttered, if unglazed, and draughts blocked up. Fires were to be lit; warm water and fresh linen to be supplied immediately. Rush matting was to be laid down in the corridor to muffle the passage of feet and mouths were to kept shut as far as physically possible. Her word was law. Servants hurried away in all directions on tiptoe, falling silently over each other to carry out her bidding.

  The waiting seemed endless. Nothing could be heard from within the room, a grim silence pervading the corridor. At least the screams had subsided. Avalind supposed the physician had given Simack something to soothe him.

  In time the numbness wore off the old man and he began to revive, if not in spirits at least in awareness. His grizzled, leonine face took in the freshly laid rushes, the quiet and efficient manner in which the servants were transforming the dormitory wing into a small hospital, the lack of draughts (a rare occurrence in his domain) and the al
ready warmer and more comfortable air. Knowing that he had not ordered them, he looked first to Dorcan, who stared back blankly, then to Avalind. She knelt before him, taking his hands in hers and pressing them gently. She kissed his knuckles lightly and smiled faintly. An even fainter smile twitched the corners of his mouth.

  Hours passed. The door opened once and the doctor’s head appeared to call for warm water and clean linen, only to find that they were already there. Every so often a servant would scurry by, with eyes averted, intent on some vital task but with ears pricked for any fragment of news that they could carry back to the servants’ hall. Now sounds came through the heavy oaken door. Even footfalls — the doctor pacing; a feeble groan — Simack; then more silence; a lengthy pause, then several quick footfalls.

  The door opened and the physician appeared, wiping his hands on a bloody cloth. Count Amerish sprang to his feet. Avalind hung back, reluctant to engage too openly. Her role, she knew, would come to the fore increasingly in the days to come.

  The doctor shook his head. “It is beyond my experience, My Lord,” he said resignedly, “I will consult my books, but I am certain this malady is not mentioned.”