Usurper

by David Waine

  “So the answer will be no?”

  She shook her head. “The king’s strategy is to delay. He has accepted the visit in principle, but has asked that it be delayed for three months because we are currently very busy in negotiations with other nations. At least that is the official line. In practice, it will give us time to marshal our defences and review our position. It will also reduce his window of opportunity for invasion to dangerously near the snows.”

  Callin still looked at her hard. “You have not answered my question.”

  There could be no denying the intensity of her stare or her resolution. “I am not for Kubelik, regardless, although he does not intend to say that unless he has to.”

  Callin sat back and thought for a while. The subterfuge seemed paper-thin to him.

  “That is why you are recalled. The Kingdom has dire need of men like you, Master Rulik and Master Treponic. The overriding consideration now is to get you all dubbed and we can’t do that if you are entombed in Nassinor, looking after your ailing father.”

  *

  “Touch your toes!”

  Lissian could not, but each day her fingertips crept a little nearer. Gallen treated her with no more civility than any of the academy’s official students, nor did he make any but unavoidable concessions to her gender. Overall, she underwent much the same training as the men did.

  Her diet was working. She had already lost weight visibly and her muscle tone was improving daily. Further improvements were apparent in her complexion and her hair, both of which had now acquired some lustre. She cursed him roundly for the hell he put her through, and the miserable rations to which he restricted her when not pushing her body to its limits, but she obeyed him. She could not only see the improvement in herself, she could feel it too. She could move more quickly, although frequently rather stiffly, but even that was lessening. She could arrive at a chosen destination without gasping for breath and she hardly broke wind at all these days. Other ladies of court were beginning to notice. One or two had even complimented her by pointing out how well she looked.

  “That’ll do!” The harsh voice rasped its closing command and she collapsed in a panting heap on the floor.

  “May every deity who ever claimed immortality curse you to eternal damnation, Gallen,” she gasped.

  “They did that long ago — and at the request of worthier subjects than you.”

  She was in no fit state to argue so she allowed her head to lie on the floor until the room stopped spinning. When her chest seemed equal to the volume of air that her lungs tried to draw in, she sat up. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “How am I doing?”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  She allowed a pause to develop, then pressed her point a little harder. “And better?”

  “And better,” he confirmed.

  “Much better?”

  “Yes.”

  Irritation showed in her voice. “Master Gallen, are you going to give me an honest appraisal of my progress or not?”

  He considered. She had pulled him away from his ale every evening and he was beginning to feel the benefit of that. He supposed he ought to be grateful, not that gratitude was an emotion with which he was very familiar.

  “You have lost some flab, your muscle tone has improved, you are stronger and your stamina is increasing.” He would also have added that she looked better for it as well, but there was a severe limit on the number of compliments he would pay anyone.

  “So, I am making progress?”

  “You are.”

  “Much?”

  “A little. There is a long way to go before I will be satisfied.”

  Lissian was not remotely interested in whether he would be satisfied or not. She had her own agenda to follow and Master Gallen was simply a necessary cog in that complex machine. She was fully aware that she was nowhere near being fit enough yet and that months of continued sweat and pain lay before her, yet she felt he was pleased with the progress that she had made.

  “Why have you not allowed me to handle any weapons?”

  “You’re not strong enough for weapons.”

  “Try me!”

  He looked back at her coolly. All right, he thought, time for a reminder of how little she had really achieved. He walked to the rack and took down a particularly large sword, swung it unnecessarily and dropped it at her feet with a resounding clang. She knew that he had selected a weapon far too heavy for her, but had no option but to go through with it until she could respond with a little demonstration of her own.

  Wrapping both hands around the hilt, she straightened up. It rose with her but the point did not. The weapon remained at a steep angle with its tip resting on the floor. She attempted to lift it but could not raise it sufficiently for its weight to pivot down into her instead of away from her. Moments later, she dropped it back on the floor with another loud clang.

  Gallen bent down without a word, retrieved the sword and replaced it in the rack. Then, with an ‘I told you so’ look, he turned for the door.

  “One moment!”

  He paused. She strode past him to the archery rack, selected a medium sized bow and nocked an arrow. There was a target fully thirty paces away against the wall. With studied smoothness, she adjusted her stance, took careful aim and released the bowstring. The thud echoed around the room before shuddering to silence. Gallen’s eyes widened. The arrow was quivering right in the centre of the gold. He paced out the thirty steps and examined the projectile. Its tip was firmly embedded to at least a finger's depth. This was no lucky shot. He pulled it out and carried it back to its quiver, placing it back among its fellows with a sense almost of reverence.

  “Where did you learn to shoot?” There was a new degree of respect in his voice. His eyes were wide with surprise.

  “Yelkin,” she tossed over her shoulder as she left.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The captain opened the door to the interrogation room and stood aside, just as he had all those months before. The king again sat, bear-like, at the table but the little room was fuller. Masters Gallen, Treasor and Ferian stood behind him, like a judgement tribunal, while Keriak and Simian stood to attention.

  The king seemed occupied in some document as Callin went in. He scanned the lines for a few moments more before laying the paper to one side and looking up.

  “Be seated,” he instructed, indicating three chairs opposite. “How is your father?”

  Callin knew that he wanted an accurate report, and would receive them from Avalind anyway.

  “He is pining for the death of my brother, sire, and no physic can cure him. Your own physician, and ours from Nassinor, have despaired of him. He says he has but one remaining wish, and that is to see me knighted.”

  The king nodded sadly. “Avalind has indicated as much in her letters,” he confirmed, showing them the paper he had been reading. It was a message from her. “She adds, however, that he is bearing up.”

  “Her presence lightens his spirits, Your Majesty — she has that effect on everyone, as I am sure you know — but it is purely temporary. She will help to see him into the spring. Dr. Sirulak is confident that he will remain among us at least until summer, but cannot see him surviving another winter.”

  Rhomic nodded. “Avalind also intimated that. Master Gallen!” The trainer stepped forward. “Your professional opinion of these three students, if you please.”

  Gallen eyed the three young men with his usual degree of harshness. “All three of them have acquitted themselves to my satisfaction, sire.” Simian’s eyebrows rose a fraction at such an accolade from such a source.

  “Master Treasor?”

  The Strategy Tutor stepped forward. “The best strategist is Master Treponic, but the other two are also capable.”

  “Master Ferian?”

  “I have little to add, My Liege. All three of them are well aware of the chivalry expected in a knight and they display its requirements on a daily basis in their
lives.”

  “I see,” nodded the king sagely, “so you are all agreed that these three students are fitted for immediate elevation to the knighthood?”

  All three tutors nodded silently. Callin and his two companions felt their chests swell with pride.

  “Very well,” continued the king. “We do a general dubbing after the annual hunt. In real terms, however, you are knights from this moment forth with full rights, army pay and positions on our war council. If there is a severe worsening in Count Vorst’s condition, we will move the dubbing to Nassinor. I imagine, however, that he will enjoy a marked, if brief, return to fortitude when he hears your news, Sir Callin. I assume that you will be writing to him today?”

  “As soon as you are finished with me, sire.” Callin was almost beside himself with joy. He could see his own exultation mirrored in the faces of his two companions.

  “Congratulations, gentlemen,” Rhomic shook the three of them by the hand, as did the three tutors, “welcome to the ranks of the elite. I am afraid that I am not finished with any of you quite yet. I believe, Master Vorst, that Avalind has given you some details of the current situation?”

  “She has, sire.”

  “Very well, the war council is in session this morning. Follow me, gentlemen.”

  So Callin Vorst entered the council chamber for the first time in his life. There was the vaulted ceiling, hung with the banners of every household in the Kingdom. There was the huge arched window, giving out onto the courtyard and, beyond it, the gardens, Avalind’s pride and joy. There was the vast inglenook fireplace with its log fire blazing at this time of year. In the centre of the room stood the great oak table, polished until it gleamed, and strewn with maps. A huge chair stood at one end. Around the table were nobles and soldiers of rank. Callin recognised Soth and Baron Dumarrick. He also noted that not all of the Kingdom's knights were present by any means. In fact, most of them were absent. Only the chosen few sat on the war council, it seemed. Rhomic took his place at the head of the table; Callin, Keriak and Simian were directed to vacant chairs. The king nodded and everyone sat down at once.

  “The war council is now in session,” intoned Rhomic. “We register the apology of Count Vorst, who is indisposed through ill health,” there was a general nodding of heads, “but are pleased to report that he will be represented by his son, Sir Callin, whom we have had the pleasure of elevating to the knighthood this morning.” Smiles of approval broke out on several faces. Before we begin, I wish to introduce our three new members: Sir Callin of Vorst, Sir Keriak of Rulik and Sir Simian of Treponic. May they serve this council as faithfully as any who sit here now.”

  The introduction was greeted with a single thump on the table from many gloved fists, the traditional symbol of approval.

  “You will recognise Prince Soth, and Baron Dumarrick.” Heads bowed again. “Sir Keriak, I imagine, knows his own lord, Baron Coreth of Graan.” A swarthy lord smiled and nodded. “And you will be more than familiar with Generals Gallen, Treasor and Ferian, although you may not be aware that they are serving officers in addition to their pedagogic duties.” There were no exchanges this time, none was needed. “The only further introductions necessary at the moment are General Vlaan, who commands the Border Force, and Admiral Killian, who commands the fleet.” Two more heads nodded. “So, to business. The army, General Gallen?”

  Gallen cleared his throat and rose to his feet. “The standing army, numbers some fifteen thousand men, sire, stationed in Brond, Nassinor and Yelkin for the most part. Add to that the Border Force, three thousand elite troops, who are permanently mobilised, and the Graan garrison, five thousand prime troops. That gives a total standing force of twenty-three thousand men, roughly a quarter of whom are cavalry. A further quarter are archers, of which the Border Force has a disproportionately high number. Reservists more than double this figure, in all departments, although it will take time to train them fully. All, however, have received basic training.”

  “Thank you. The navy, Admiral Killian?”

  The Admiral now rose to his feet. “We have fifteen large warships maintaining the Draal patrol and a further seven on the inshore station off Graan. Each warship carries some four hundred men, of whom half are designated to sail the ship — although all will fight it, if required. In addition, we have ten smaller, fast vessels for communications. If you look at the map here,” his finger jabbed at a roll of parchment, “you will see that the inshore squadron forms a line at an angle to the shore. The ships are within sight of each other from the masthead, so command many leagues of sea between them. The offshore squadron forms a similar line further out to sea. If an invading fleet were to slip by unnoticed, they would have to sail more than thirty leagues from the shore to pass us. In addition we have a further two smaller vessels on the northern station, ostensibly fishing boats, but they keep an eye on Draal’s northern port of Gulal for us.”

  “Fire ships?”

  “Two hundred hulks, either worn out vessels of our own or bought in. There is a pool of them at Graan and each warship has a couple in tow. They are ready filled with oil and brushwood and can be fired at a moment’s notice.”

  The king nodded thoughtfully. “And the condition of your ships?”

  “Perfectly good in the main. A few sprung masts from the winter gales, but these are being resupplied from Graan and repairs should be completed before the spring is out.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.” The king now turned to Master Ferian. “Support services, General Ferian?”

  The aged Chivalry Tutor now rose in his alter ego of Supplies and Services Commander. “We have ten field hospitals, fully staffed. All are struck down at the moment, of course, apart from the hospital ship at Graan and the mountain refuge for the Border Force. Medical supplies are the best they have ever been. Food stores are currently three quarters full and will be overflowing by summer. We can supply the forces even through a long war, if we have to. The only drawback is the condition of the Kingdom’s road system, which can hold supplies up in poor weather.”

  “Noted.”

  The king sat back, drumming his fingers together just beneath his nose. The reports had been as he expected. He would have been furious if they were not.

  “We are as prepared as ever.” He paused for breath. “As you all know, we have received a request from our royal counterpart in Draal for a friendly visit with his son, Prince Kubelik.”

  “The first in twenty years,” pointed out Baron Loda Dumarrick, remembering Draal’s last ‘visit’ all too clearly.

  The king inclined his head. “We have been endeavouring to improve relations with Draal for several years. The root of the matter is that the Kingdom was once Draal territory and Sulinan wants it back. We have accepted his request in principle but have asked for the visit to be delayed until the autumn, citing reasons of diplomacy involving other lands. It seems likely that he will propose a match between Kubelik and Avalind, ostensibly to draw the two crowns closer. Such a suggestion is anathema to us. We cannot state that openly, so I intend to fob him off with something about her needing to complete her studies before we can even consider it.”

  “Will he believe it?” asked Baron Coreth.

  “No,” returned the king. “When she does marry, it will be to the mutual benefits of both states involved and her own feelings will not be ignored either. An immediate invasion will be his likely course of action.”

  “What if he does not propose the marriage?” asked Baron Coreth.

  “Then he may enjoy his visit and go home in peace.”

  “I see no likelihood of that,” put in Baron Dumarrick.

  “Nor I,” agreed the king. “Therefore I have requested the delay. There are no pressing diplomatic negotiations going on with other nations, but he doesn’t know that. It also cannot hurt our chances if he suspects we may have powerful allies. That gives him very little time.”

  “What is to stop him from waiting until spring and then launching an invasion?” aske
d Callin.

  “Nothing,” admitted the king, “except that we would have four or five months warning and could mount a much greater resistance.”

  Master Treasor now coughed softly and spoke for the first time. “If I may, Majesty. He has tried before to invade the Kingdom and been roundly defeated. I believe there is danger in assuming that he will try the same tactic again.”

  Prince Soth now spoke up. “That has always been the Draal approach.”

  Treasor smiled indulgently. “For all his faults, he is no fool. The proposal of marriage is as necessary as it is fatuous. He knows we will try to shorten his window of opportunity. I suggest that all this is pre-planned and that he is preparing a winter campaign.”

  A long silence, eventually broken by Baron Coreth, greeted this suggestion.

  “Surely that would be suicide.”

  “Not necessarily,” countered Master Treasor. “If he can establish a bridgehead on this side of the pass, he could strike at Brond while our poor roads prevent us from calling in reinforcements from Nassinor and Yelkin in time. The Brond garrison would have to face the invasion alone.”

  “They would have to get past the Border Force first,” ventured General Vlaan.

  “True,” replied Master Treasor, “but you are but three thousand men, and each that dies is one less. Sulinan would lose many, many men in the battle, but he has those men and we do not.”

  “We move too fast!” said the king. “First we need evidence that he does, indeed, intend a winter war.”

  “He is building roads,” admitted General Vlaan. “Three stone roads are under construction and all lead to the Pass. One is from Zinal, of course, another from some place further west, I suspect Corrugal — he has a big military base there — and one from Graan.”

  “It doesn’t come from Graan,” corrected Baron Coreth, “it deviates a league short of the city and goes to his army base on the other side of the river.”

  “I stand corrected,” said General Vlaan, but he is improving the road on his side of the pass. He is also cutting down a great number of trees to build sheds over the most exposed areas.”