Usurper

by David Waine

  A diffident looking sentry stood at the door of the tent, saluting nervously.

  “What is it?” asked Kubelik gruffly.

  “Begging your pardon, Highness,” the man replied, “but the search party is back.”

  “Aha!” Kubelik sprang to his feet. “Send their commander in.”

  The sentry stood to one side and his place was taken by a dishevelled cavalry officer, muddy from much fast riding through drenched terrain. He carried his helmet under his arm and his eyes were downcast.

  “Well,” cried Kubelik, “did you find her?”

  The man could not meet his prince’s blistering stare. “We found the coach, Your Highness. We outnumbered them heavily and cut off their retreat. Once we ran them to a halt, however, they slew themselves,” he said quietly. “The last guard alive set the coach on fire before falling on his sword. It all happened so quickly it must have been agreed.”

  “That tells you something, My Prince,” remarked Trulik casually. “She would rather take her own life than be taken by you. I think we can safely assume that the offer of marriage would have been refused.”

  Kubelik shot him a look of white fury. “You brought her body?”

  The man shook his head, shaking. “By the time we reached the coach, it was blazing so fiercely that we could not approach it. We did not have the supply of water it would have taken to put a fire like that out. Then we saw Sutherland cavalry bearing down on us from the south-east and were forced to withdraw here. But we brought the horses”

  Kubelik’s eyes flicked sideways to where a groom held three filthy ponies outside the tent. “Three horses?”

  “Yes, sir. The other one must have bolted.”

  The prince said nothing. He took two paces forward and thrust his dagger into the officer’s vitals. The man died to the sound of Trulik’s slow handclaps.

  “Now they will never bring us any bad news, for fear of the consequences,” he smiled.

  “He should have brought me proof,” hissed the prince. “I would have ravished her carcase,” he snarled.

  *

  It was the true invasion fleet: twenty barges, containing five hundred men apiece. They had sailed from Foll, only lightly escorted, believing the seas to have been swept clear ahead of them. Now that they had arrived and seen for themselves that the Sutherland was not overwhelmed, they became suddenly aware of their vulnerability. They were grouped tightly together for maximum convenience and thus prey to fire ships.

  Just then one of Killian’s ships went up in flames. His Gulal squadron was being hard-pressed by Flenn’s rearguard, which outnumbered them by around two to one, as far as their officers could make out through the smoke. An exultant cheer rose from the massed ranks of soldiers in the transports.

  Killian watched their approach, calculating frantically in his head. Corulak was still holding in for Graan. The bulk of Flenn’s fleet chased him, believing the city to be in Draal hands again. As he watched, a second of Corulak’s ships burst into flames, bringing his total losses to three. Time was running out. Killian knew that he needed to inflict serious losses on his foe, without sustaining yet more of his own, if he was to have any chance of carrying the day.

  Raising his speaking trumpet to his ear, he hailed the support ship. “Captain Kupornik, destroy that fleet of transports, if you please!”

  Kupornik required no further clarification. Nor did his crews. Immediately the support ship and associated hulks put about and headed straight for the transports. Too late the approaching fleet saw them emerge from the smoke and close the gap. Frantic orders were yelled to and fro. Barges hauled to and attempted to disperse in smart order but, more often than not, merely succeeded in getting in each other’s way. Spars fouled spars and ships blocked one another in the confusion, grinding together with sickening crunches.

  The three hulks, tillers lashed, burst into flames when the gap had closed to a hundred paces, and their crews leapt overboard. The Draal support vessels wore ship to intercept, but all too late and to no avail.

  As the first fire ship struck, huge bolts of flame leapt in all directions, igniting the transports to either side. The Draal crews made desperate attempts to douse the fires but, being so heavily laden with soldiers, rather than capable seamen, the principal result of all their effort was confusion, and the fires spread unhindered.

  The second fire ship struck two cables to the left and the third two cables to the right, each causing equally catastrophic damage. Within moments, the bulk of the fleet was engulfed by a towering wall of flame. The sea was filled with flailing arms and heads as troops leaped for their lives, only to discover that a heavy mail suit was a serious handicap in deep water.

  Snorting satisfaction that the threat from astern was dealt with for the moment, Killian turned his attention back to the main battle, where victory was far from assured and, indeed, looking less likely by the minute. They had inflicted appalling damage on the enemy fleet, but Draal’s firing was improving steadily and his own losses were mounting up as well. From a total of nineteen ships, they were now down to thirteen, as yet another vessel erupted in a glowing orange incandescence.

  Corulak scanned the approaching dock desperately. The ballistae were all in position, ready to fire, but no sign of any crews could he see. In fact, he could see no one at all. The dock was deserted. The Draal ships were almost on them. Five minutes more and they would be within boarding range. Their fire was growing steadily more deadly. Another sail burst into flames, hastily pulled down and ditched overboard by his crew. He had seen the approach of the invasion fleet to Killian’s rear but now could see nothing through the dense pall of smoke, which seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon.

  Cries from aft. “Activity on the dock, sir!”

  Craning his eyes astern, he saw the dock suddenly swarming with men. Bolts were ignited on the batteries and a murderous volley of flame leapt into the air, clear over their masts, to land full on the pressing Draal squadron. They still held Graan!

  *

  Keriak had ordered the colours to half-mast when he returned from the field, bearing Coreth’s body before him. He carried the dead baron personally up the winding cobbled street to the citadel, past crowds of silent citizens, who doffed their caps or lowered their eyes as he passed. The air was heavy with grief.

  Pausing on the citadel steps, he turned to face the gathering, silent crowd. With a quick look down at the limp form in his arms, he marvelled at the sheer peace on the baron’s face, peace born of a sure knowledge that he had died a hero’s death, fighting for a true cause.

  “Today,” he said quietly, “let us reflect on the terrible price we have paid to preserve our freedom, though it last but one more day.”

  Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode onto the citadel to lay Baron Coreth’s body out in state before the high altar in the cathedral.

  He stood over the still bleeding corpse, his own personal grief flooding in on him, mingled with the dread responsibility that he now held the lives and liberty of all those who called this city home in his hands. Thousands looked to him for their deliverance. Coreth had carried such accountability with ease, a man born to command, yet a man to whom compassion and merciful justice were as natural as breathing. Did he have the wisdom to replace him? He was convinced that he had none. All he had achieved was a temporary check on the enemy’s advance. Even now they would be digging their siege machinery out of the mud and they could look forward to a night of bombardment followed by an all out assault on the walls in the morning. Could he even fight again? Did he have the wit to turn the enemy’s fury back upon itself? How he missed Simian and Callin. They would know what to do. Why had he concentrated his mind on achieving physical prowess when there was so much else to achieve in leadership? What was he to do now? In his moment of ascendancy, he was certain only of his inadequacy.

  A light touch on his arm. Coreth’s personal doctor stood at his side with a party of grave attendants.

&nb
sp; “If you will excuse us, sir, we will bind up his wounds and lay him out fittingly.”

  Keriak took a moment to assimilate what the man had just said to him, then nodded once and turned on his heel. As he heard the door softly close behind him, a feeling of relief began to penetrate his veins. His sense of despair and inadequacy was beginning to leave him.

  *

  All night the bombardment continued. With their re-established catapults in position, the Draals hurled rock after rock at the stout Graan walls, smashing a crack here, demolishing a turret there. Essentially, however, the defences stood.

  Unable to do anything but grit their teeth and hold out against the constant barrage, few, if any defenders, managed to snatch much sleep that night.

  In the council chamber Keriak sat alone, a table strewn with maps before him. For the hundredth time he scanned the charts, unable to figure out any means to use the terrain to his advantage against the foe. As each distant crash and rumble penetrated, he knew that defeat and hideous death had moved closer.

  He caught the freshening scent of the sea in his nostrils. Dawn was approaching. For the first time in his life, Keriak found himself envious of a dead man. Coreth was laid out in state before the altar of the cathedral, his body draped in the banners of Graan and the Kingdom. For him the war over, his life concluded in glorious combat. He was a hero. When the citadel was inevitably overrun within the next few hours, he would be torn apart like the rest of them, but at least he had had his moment of veneration.

  A door opened and a dusty lieutenant hurried in, skidding to a halt before his new commander and saluting him. “Message from the mountain, sir. Sails sighted on the eastern horizon.”

  Keriak’s brow furrowed. “Ours or theirs?”

  The man shook his head. “Too distant to be sure for the moment, sir.”

  Keriak considered briefly. Logically the sails should be those of Corulak and the inshore squadron but, with the fleet dangerously depleted with squadrons despatched to Gulal and Dragotar, there was every possibility that Corulak had been overwhelmed and that those sails belonged to Flenn, now bearing down on the city to take it from the sea. As he pondered the likelihood of either, a ray of light suddenly opened up in his brain.

  “Arm the batteries, then clear the dock,” he said calmly. “If it is Corulak, we will welcome him fittingly. If it is Flenn, we will lure him in and give him a welcome he will never forget. Maintain some archery against Grelk. We don’t want him thinking we have surrendered.”

  The gathering dawn spread over the sea from the east, with its smudge of white on the horizon, flooding over the city onto the Draal host without, who immediately renewed their assault. Tens of thousands of arrows poured over the walls, striking down any in their path. Graan’s archers responded as best they could, but the sheer force of the onslaught soon had them clinging to their embrasures for their lives.

  Keriak took all this in. The troops were in position to spring to the defences as soon as the volleys ceased and the towers and ladders moved up.

  The stream of arrows stopped almost immediately.

  Moments later the first ladder was thrown up. The defenders threw it down again, complete with its complement of climbing soldiers. Another replaced it. And another. They, too, were thrown down, but more were coming in their wake. Moreover the siege towers were now dangerously close to the walls. It would not be long before Grelk’s men started pouring onto his battlements in serious numbers.

  “Sir Keriak!” A messenger came running, skidding to a panting halt beside the young commander. “Message from the mountain, sir.”

  Keriak took the parchment and scanned the hurriedly scribbled lines. The ships that had been sighted previously were now confirmed as Rear Admiral Corulak’s squadron, heavily damaged and sorely pressed by a following fleet flying Draal colours.

  “Man the batteries!” roared Keriak.

  He would do what he could for Corulak while the city still stood.

  The fire from the shore batteries was devastating. Being land-based, the ballistae were at least twice the size of those carried aboard ship and their range and effect correspondingly greater. Flenn watched in dismay as four of his vanguard went up in flames before his eyes. Did these Sutherlanders never know when they were beaten? Either way, he could no longer bombard the Sutherland fleet, protected as it was, and he no longer possessed the potency to take the city from the sea. His only option was to destroy the threat from aft and form a barrier to prevent the Sutherlanders from breaking out to waylay the invasion fleet. He gave orders for his remaining ships to haul their wind and converge on Killian’s three ships, now isolated on the seaward side.

  Killian saw them coming and gave orders for his remaining ships to concentrate their fire on Flenn’s flagship. He had reduced the invasion threat significantly, but at a terrible cost. The Kingdom’s fleet was now less than half the size that it had been the previous day, and all the surviving ships were heavily battered. Some of them might never sail again.

  His ships loosed off a final volley and commenced their turn. His hope was to draw the Draal fleet away from the shore and out to sea. He knew that his own vessels would sail sufficiently distanced to minimise the threat from enemy ballistae, but also sufficiently close to concentrate their fire. He hoped that Flenn’s pursuing vessels would straggle, some being more dilapidated than others, so that he could pick them off one by one and nullify the threat.

  “Form up!” bellowed Killian, “Make sail!”

  His orders were carried out to the letter, but more slowly than ideal. He had lost many men and no longer had the hands to sail his ship at maximum efficiency. With natural concern, he noted that his two fellow warships were similarly hampered but, was relieved to note that they were managing the manoeuvre as capably as his own.

  Still Flenn bore down on them, his better-preserved ships massing to either side, ballistae at the ready. Killian checked his turn. The manoeuvre was progressing too slowly. Unless they could fill their sails very quickly, Flenn would be on them and he could expect no mercy. Raising his speaking trumpet, he bellowed, “Drag anchors!”

  At once all three ships threw out their heavy anchors and slewed to a halt in a line directly athwart the oncoming Flenn. The other captains anticipated his order and slewed their for’ard and aft ballistae to fire alongside the central one. Thus the oncoming ships would face nine bolts at once instead of the expected three. It was a very risky manoeuvre because it laid his squadron open to the enemy’s rams. With his superior bombardment crews, however, he could possibly loose off three volleys to Flenn’s one, delivering some twenty-seven bolts at close range, while receiving, perhaps, four in return. If that checked the Draal advance, he could yet complete his turn and draw them out into the open sea. If not, he was in severe trouble.

  “Support vessel signalling, sir!”

  Killian directed his attention astern. Kupornik was pointing further aft. Seven barges had managed to extract themselves from the blazing conflagration that formed the invasion fleet, more or less undamaged, and move seawards, where they blocked his escape route.

  Seven barges. Three and a half thousand men. More than enough to board his ships and carry the day.

  “They are no threat to us yet,” roared Killian. “Three volleys, quick fire!”

  The first volley went off with a whoosh and a shower of sparks. All nine bolts landed full on the enemy vessels, setting sails ablaze and splintering a foremast.

  “Again!”

  Another nine bolts leapt into the air. This volley coincided with Draal’s own more ragged fire, which still took its toll nevertheless. The ship to his right took the brunt of the volley and healed listlessly over.

  “Again!”

  The ballistae were not yet fully reloaded. Crews strained at the bolts and the release mechanisms; sweat pouring down their backs. Flenn’s flagship was almost on them, its deadly ram rippling the surface scarcely two paces ahead of its bow.

  “Again I sa
y!”

  This time the volley went off with its customary whoosh.

  Again all nine bolts struck home and a straggling cheer broke out in the Kingdom line. Another nine bolts had also struck home.

  Clear of the point, three tall ships stood proud in the water, already reloading their ballistae.

  “It’s the Dragotar squadron, sir!” cried a voice.

  “Not before time,” growled Killian, hope glowing in his heart. Three undamaged ships with full crews and munitions lockers! He could yet win this battle.

  Hit by no less than six of the eighteen bolts, Flenn’s flagship slewed crazily, sails and masts aflame, fouling its nearest neighbour and setting its rigging ablaze. Killian watched bemused as Draal crews, no more than fifty paces distant, forgot about making war and set to with axes to cut the burning debris free before it destroyed their ships.

  Another volley, if you please. Fire at their decks.”

  But the bolts remained where they were as the Kingdom crews gaped in sheer astonishment. The Draal fleet was moving faster than physically possible. Flenn’s vessel swept past, smashed masts and all at a speed that defied belief. It was followed by another, and another — and the speed increased.

  From nowhere came the shriek of a gale, rising to a wail that stung the ears — yet no kingdom ship was touched by so much as a breath of it. Chaos broke out aboard the enemy fleet, now whirling higher and higher in a maelstrom that span them and them alone. A towering column of water, crowned by broken and battered ships, rose deck high, head high and on to masthead high. The shriek increased still further, drowning out all other noise. Killian clapped his hands over his ears to keep out the worst of the din, but even that failed to erase the unbelievable, unmistakable sound of high-pitched, demonic feminine laughter that suddenly fell on them from the heavens.

  Killian stared straight ahead at the colossal, swirling mass of water, so close that he could almost touch it. He could see bodies hurled from decks far above, plunging into the maelstrom and being sucked under immediately.