Usurper

by David Waine

*

  “Their activity has increased hugely, my Lord.”

  Baron Coreth received Keriak’s report gravely, nodding once at the end. “And your conclusion?”

  Keriak sighed and rubbed his chin. “The state visit is but a few weeks off. If we are correct, war is imminent.”

  Coreth clenched his fists and stared stonily at the table. From his position by the window, Keriak scrutinised first the baron, a man perhaps only ten years his senior, and then the admiral. A long moment passed before Coreth looked up again. The grimness was gone from his face. Instead the light of decision shone in his eyes.

  “Gentlemen, I have decided,” he said. “Admiral Killian, you will proceed immediately to sea and carry out our plan as devised. Sir Keriak, we must not allow Grelk’s hordes to fall upon our walls. Instead we must divide them up and engage them in the open — and we must do it immediately.”

  A firm knock at the door attracted the attention of everyone at the table.

  It opened and a sentry entered, saluting smartly.

  “Siege towers in sight, sir.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Deliver this letter to Captain Surinak,” Dorcan yelled to Keck over the din of the storm, sealing it with his ring. “All forces to muster and march on Brond without delay! Leave only necessary basic defence in Nassinor.”

  Keck, in his new Brond Academy livery — a parting gift from his master, Sir Callin — saluted smartly and made for his mount.

  Dorcan turned his attention to the coach, still bogged down in the mud. The wind and rain had risen steadily ever since they left Brond and had now developed into a lashing gale that stung their faces and drenched them with sudden squalls. No fewer than eight soldiers fought to free its wheels from the clinging slime.

  He turned to the small group of shivering women huddled together under the only available tree. “I have sent ahead, Your Highness. The summons should still get through in time and we will have your carriage out of the mud presently.”

  Avalind smiled. “We are grateful for your efforts, Count Vorst, and those of your men.”

  Mirial and Angma also smiled their thanks. Avalind had also insisted on taking Mussa and her new baby out of compassion, as well as another servant and her baby. Lissian Dumarrick was absent, having gone missing at the requisite time. Finally, after much heaving and sweating — plus more than a few muttered curses — the carriage was torn from its muddy bed, with a low rending noise, and rolled shakily onto firmer ground. At once the door was opened and the women ushered inside. Almost immediately, the vehicle jerked and recommenced its journey southwards, pausing only for the servants’ wagon to skirt around the muddy spot.

  *

  The scouts were in from the heights. The vanguard of Siriak’s force had been spotted climbing the tortuous road to the pass.

  “How long?” rasped Vlaan.

  “Two hours, sir,” gasped the scout.

  Vlaan sprang to his feet. “The waiting is over. Deploy the defence. Sir Simian! It is time for you and your sappers to begin climbing.”

  *

  The council chamber of Castle Brond was a grim scene as night fell. The rain still lashed the windows and plastered straggling leaves against the glass. The fire guttered in its grate, at times roaring up the chimney with the suction of the passing gale; at others all but extinguished by the press of freezing air blowing directly down the flue.

  The message from the Border Force that Siriak’s vanguard was sighted had just been delivered. Rhomic read it gravely, then passed it to the other council members who remained around the table: Callin and Generals Gallen, Treasor and Ferian.

  “So it begins,” he muttered. “You were correct in your surmise, General Treasor.”

  “I take no pride in it, My Liege,” said the old soldier.

  “Given the time that it would take that message to be delivered, should not combat be joined by now?” asked Callin.

  Gallen shook his head. “Unlikely. Siriak will want to move his troops up in strength and only so many can march abreast along a road. My surmise is that he will keep his forces back from the border, out of range of our archers, until he can attack in strength at dawn.”

  “I would concur with that,” nodded Treasor. Ferian simply nodded.

  *

  Light glowed along the horizon beyond Gulal, but this was not the invigorating light of day. This was the flickering orange glow of blazing ships, out of sight themselves but sending their choleric reflections to the clouds and out to sea.

  Killian took in the sight, his hand involuntarily gripping the taffrail.

  *

  As the first fingers of light streaked the eastern sky, the first clue that Mussa’s cottage was still inhabited manifested itself. The simple cloth that the girl had hung over the window moved slightly and, had anyone taken the trouble to look, they would have seen an eye peeping out. None did, however, because every stomach was churning at the thought of how the coming days might end, and kept rigidly in check by a thin veneer of discipline.

  Lissian Dumarrick stepped back from the window. Everyone had forgotten her. Avalind had departed along with that little slut and her brat, so no one even considered this tumbledown hovel. It was the perfect hiding place.

  Sitting back on Mussa’s straw bed — quite the most uncomfortable mattress she had ever slept on — she began to string her bow and went over the Hag’s instructions in her head for the hundredth time.

  *

  At dawn, Keriak stood on the topmost battlement of Castle Graan, scanning the scene of increasing horror below him. The Draals had thrown makeshift bridges across the river during the night, using a flat sandy island midstream as a central support, and moved onto the Graan side with alarming rapidity. Even now the siege towers were approaching the outer ditches.

  The outermost ditch was finished and staked. The second had its stakes but the third was barely begun when the advance began. Two thousand Graan infantry stood in ranks before the walls. Within the citadel, Coreth’s entire force of seven hundred archers commanded every landward approach. The cavalry were divided into two equal sections, one for each of them, and kept out of sight at present.

  “So they come,” said a voice at his shoulder. Baron Coreth stood there in full armour. “Is Engineer Terriok at the reservoir?”

  Keriak nodded. “He is, my Lord, with his team of sappers. He will open the sluice gates as Grelk’s cavalry cross the outer ditch. He assures me that both ditches will flood quickly enough to cut them off for a short time.”

  “That is all we have. Drive a wedge between Grelk’s wing and his main force. Turn on them and drive them over the cliff. Meanwhile, I will engage his stranded cavalry.”

  “And the centre?” Keriak sounded dubious.

  Coreth shrugged. “There are two thousand men down there. They must hold fast until we can repair to the citadel.”

  *

  Dawn brought a towering pall of smoke on the horizon. Killian could smell the burning wood even from this range, but there was another scent mixed in with it: a smell reminiscent of mealtimes and happier days. It was the smell of roasting meat. Today it sickened him. The fire ship was the most potent of all naval weapons, capable of wreaking destruction through an enemy fleet on a massive scale. As the smell of burning flesh grew stronger, it became apparent that many had been trapped below decks.

  “Support ship approaching, sir!”

  Killian’s eyes flicked sideways in the direction indicated. The sail was clear, emerging from the smoke on the horizon.

  “Masthead! Any sign of pursuit?”

  “None, sir!”

  *

  It had been a cruel climb through the blinding blizzard. The rainstorm that lashed the northern half of the Kingdom at ground level was a stinging snowstorm at this altitude.

  At last Simian held up his hand to stop. They had climbed above the worst of the storm and could see a huge white mound growing from the black ridges ahead.

  “There i
s our destination, gentlemen,” he announced through chattering teeth.

  The first green hints of dawn stole over the jagged peaks to the east and rapidly developed into a gold and purple aura along the entire horizon.

  “Daybreak,” he remarked. “Siriak will be commencing his attack now.”

  It transpired, however, that for once in his life Simian was mistaken. As the first rays of light flooded into the pass, he saw that battle was already engaged. Siriak’s vanguard had pushed forward and was fighting, hand to hand, with the massed ranks of Border Force. Their own men stood in four rows, the man behind stepping into the gap whenever a comrade fell so that the enemy constantly faced a solid wall of shields. They were inflicting a terrible price on the invaders and had not yet surrendered so much as a step of Kingdom territory. Further damage was being exacted by strategically placed archers on either side of the pass, who rained hail upon hail of arrows down upon the enemy’s rear, leaving a trail of corpses and wounded littering the road and hampering the following troops’ progress.

  “Vlaan’s holding them,” he announced to a grim cheer from behind, “but that can’t last. Their vanguard is too big.”

  “Do we have enough time?” asked the sergeant.

  “Their attack grows stronger by the minute. We must be above that mound within the hour, gentlemen.”

  A scout returned from above. “The main force is further down the road. They should reach the pass in an hour.”

  “How many?”

  “Thirty thousand at least, but no siege towers or catapults that we could see.”

  Simian nodded. That confirmed his assessment. Sulinan was sending a large force through to neutralise the Border Force, but this was not to be the main assault on Brond. “Very well, we have an hour to deal the enemy a crippling blow. The trick is not to be on top of the mound when it starts moving,” he grinned.

  *

  Admiral Killian and his officers were still at breakfast when the captain of the support ship was ushered into the great cabin. He looked devastated.

  “A successful mission, Captain Kupornik?”

  Kupornik raised himself to his full height and saluted. “We completed our mission, sir.”

  Killian dropped his dripping chicken wing back onto his trencher and leaned back in his chair. “Your full report, if you please.”

  Kupornik looked unbearably weary, far more tired than a mere night’s work should ever have made him. He began to sway on his feet. At once Killian was out of his chair and helping the younger man to sit down. He sent for chilled wine, which arrived within moments.

  The younger man shook himself. “It was murder, sir. We went in an hour after midnight. We sent the fire ships in with lashed tillers, as ordered. The last thing we did was recover the crews. This we achieved without loss.”

  Killian nodded. “Go on.”

  Kupornik gulped. “Every transport was destroyed.”

  Killian took this in and nodded slowly. “There is more?” he asked.

  Kupornik nodded nervously and gulped his wine. “Yes, sir.” He appeared close to tears. “We saw men jumping from the target ships to safety, but only a few. From within the hulls came a dreadful pounding, then desperate, terrified cries. Thousands of them. It went on and on. Only when the blaze had reached its peak did they dwindle and finally die out altogether.”

  Killian had gone pale. “The men you saw jumping to safety?”

  “Officers, apparently. They had locked their soldiers below decks and abandoned them to their fate.”

  Killian sat back on his table, assimilating the information, a feeling of dread growing in his breast. “And their warships?” he asked finally.

  Kupornik shook his head. “Gone before we arrived.”

  The Admiral thumped the table in frustration. He prowled about his cabin, face white with fury, coming to rest finally staring straight out of his stern window. The silence in the room was absolute.

  “Put about and make sail for Graan. All possible speed!”

  They all felt the slight lurch as the ship twisted on her mooring and the great anchor was run in. Killian turned to the seated officer.

  “Captain Kupornik, you are no murderer. The true culprit is Admiral Flenn of the Imperial Draal Navy.” Turning his attention to the remaining officers, he continued. “Gentlemen, we have been duped. Those transports we destroyed last night were not the invasion fleet.”

  “But we witnessed them being loaded with troops,” pointed out another officer.

  “Did we?” asked Admiral Killian. “Or did we witness them loading thousands of men in Draal uniforms? It was nothing more than an elaborate decoy. If we were to examine the prisons of Zinal and Gulal this morning, I expect we would find them empty. The real invasion fleet lies elsewhere, gentlemen. Pray God it has not sailed already.”

  “The warships?” This from the other officer.

  “What sort of admiral leaves a fleet of transports unprotected?” went on Killian. “We have handed them an overwhelming advantage. Our fleet off Graan is severely reduced. Four ships here, three away with Prince Soth on his wild goose chase. The Graan squadron is facing odds of more than two to one!”

  *

  The roar of the rain was beginning to dwindle. The storm, the most violent she had known in years, was finally beginning to blow itself out. The lurching of the carriage was also reducing and the rumble from the wheels was developing a more regular note, suggesting that they were now on a better paved section of road than they had been for many leagues. Opposite her, Mirial and Angma were painfully stirring back into consciousness, stretching tortured joints and rubbing stiffness out of their legs. She smiled and bade them good morning. Their replies carried a civility that the looks in their eyes did not mirror. She smiled again and said nothing.

  Hoof beats sounded from outside. The carriage stopped. She heard cries, voices raised, thankfully in greeting, not in challenge. There followed a hurried debate from outside, in which she recognised Count Vorst’s voice but could not distinguish what he was saying, for he spoke in a most uncharacteristic mutter.

  She thrust the grille open and looked out. Count Vorst and a couple of lieutenants were in hushed discussion with a muddy scout, who had just ridden in. She opened her mouth to speak, but a gust of breeze brought her alarming tidings of its own. It carried the acrid scent of burning.

  Turning away from his scout, Dorcan rode up. He did not wait for her to speak.

  “We must leave the road, My Lady. An army bars our path. God only knows how they got there, but they did. Glast and its neighbouring villages are overrun and razed to the ground. The road is choked with refugees.”

  Avalind’s hand crept to her mouth in horror. “Then I have brought my ladies into even greater peril by trying to take them to safety. May God forgive me.”

  Dorcan steadied his mount and smiled grimly. “Ask no forgiveness, Lady. This is Sulinan’s devilry.” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “We may have to abandon the coach and wagon altogether to travel cross country. We will use lanes and tracks wherever possible.”

  Her face was grave. “Tell me, Count Vorst, for the sake of my ladies, do we have a chance of reaching Nassinor?”

  The smiled hardened into a set, grim face. “A chance, yes. Our chief advantage is that they do not yet know we are here. As they press forward, however, they will discover that and send out parties to waylay us.”

  *

  Callin gripped the stone embrasure and gazed desperately northwards towards the mountains. The cloud base was lifting to reveal more of the forested lower slopes. Simian was up there, facing who knew what and trying to bring down a mountain of snow on top of it. Elsewhere Keriak was facing overwhelming odds. As for Dorcan and Avalind…

  A hand on his shoulder caused him to start.

  “Pre-battle nerves, Sir Callin,” said Rhomic gently. “I know them well. All your training has brought you to this moment. All your theory now becomes practice and, when next you rai
se your sword, it will be against a true foe.”

  Callin faced him. “I was never trained to endure this.”

  Rhomic nodded. “I have already been through two wars,” he said. “Once when I was about your age, I fought beside my father, Reckna Vandamm. Then there was the last Draal invasion, twenty years ago, when I was already king. This is the worst time, believe me, when the enemy is out of sight. Invisible, he appears almighty and invincible. When you see him, however, then you can fight him.”

  *

  Grelk’s vanguard reached the first ditch, moving slowly and cautiously. Engineers rushed out from their ranks, carrying makeshift bridges to throw across.

  “It is time, Sir Keriak,” announced Baron Coreth, a grim smile on his face. “May God go with you.”

  Keriak saluted smartly and turned on his heal. At once Coreth raised his hand and a trumpet rang out from the uttermost tower. High on the mountainside above the city, Engineer Terriok watched his liege lord make his way through the main gate, riding purposefully with his detachment to a spot beneath the cliff on which he stood. As Coreth vanished from his sight, he gave the order for his sappers to begin winching the sluices open on the reservoir.

  *

  The sun was well clear of the horizon when Simian’s party of saboteurs reached the upper edge of the mound. They could see the storm retreating to the south and the pass, itself, was now bathed in golden light. The battle still raged below them, vivid in this clear air but silent from this distance. Draal’s losses were appalling; bodies lay in heaps everywhere, yet still Vlaan had not ceded so much as a step of Kingdom territory. His own forces had suffered as well, though. Their number was reduced by half, and they formed two determined ranks. They were tiring as well; gaps would begin to develop very soon now and Siriak’s main force was within minutes of braving the pass.

  Simian took this in, calculating furiously in his head. He knew that he had minutes only to turn the tide of this battle before the main force rolled over the remnants of Vlaan's defenders and swept down on Brond, but minutes were all that he needed.

  “One line of men, each one hundred paces apart!” barked Simian. “At my signal, drive your stakes as deep into the snow as they will go. The deeper the better!”