Usurper

by David Waine

  The bombardment intensified. The Kingdom’s archers now had to simply sit it out, pressed against their walls for fear of being hit by either rock or arrow. Callin crouched where he was, flattened against his own personal piece of wall. Would they never run out of arrows or rocks? Had he known the truth, he might well have despaired. So well was the Draal army supplied with weaponry, as opposed to food, that they had scarcely begun to dent their stock. The bombardment was now continuous and punctuated with massive thuds as more and more huge boulders crashed into the walls, each one rocking the guards back. All the while Callin knew that Trulik would be watching carefully to see where the first split would occur. Then he would mount his attack.

  The next boulder struck directly below where Callin was crouched. Again he felt its shock penetrate the massive stonework as he was thrown backwards and rolled instinctively to avoid the immediate hail of arrows and stones. Then there was another sound, a deep, rending rumble as part of the wall succumbed to its hammering, slipped and fell, in a rising plume of dust, creating a ragged gap in the battlements.

  Instantly the bombardment stopped and a terrible roar rose from beyond the catapults. Callin was too busy trying to pull clear comrades who had fallen into the gap to pay much attention to the noise. One after the other, he handed them out, where those who were uninjured were immediately despatched off to new points to defend, and those who were hurt were carried straight to Ferian’s hospital.

  Huge siege towers, fully the height of the castle walls, rumbled forward, each packed to the brim with screaming troops brandishing their weapons. Beyond them followed a seething mass, countless bodies and blades rushing on to deal death on the defenders.

  “Archers!” yelled Rhomic.

  Hail after hail of flaming arrows rained down on the siege towers, without doing significant damage. They were simply too big. On they came, their grinding wheels filling the night with their triumphant rumble.

  “Oil crews ready!” yelled Soth.

  Crews detailed to mind huge cauldrons of boiling oil manned their windlasses and cranked the spouts round so that the decanted oil would run into the selected gutters to target the oncoming siege towers.

  “Ballistae, fire!” yelled Gallen.

  Huge flaming bolts shot from the turrets, slamming into the towers and showering sparks everywhere. Others landed among onrushing troops, scattering them momentarily, only for them to regroup and on they came.

  “Again!” yelled Gallen.

  Another volley of flaming bolts shot forth. At least seven hit the foremost tower, sending it up in flames. Its progress was checked as the blaze engulfed its interior. Men with tabards ablaze leaped from its window holes, but many more were trapped inside as it collapsed in upon itself.

  Callin scrambled back to his embrasure, now much more exposed thanks to the partial collapse of the adjacent wall. He felt the presence of Soth to one side and Gallen to the other.

  “This is where the fighting will be thickest, Count Vorst,” pointed out Gallen needlessly. “Time to put all that training I gave you into effect.”

  “Do not fear for me!” shouted Callin in return, gripping his sword tightly. “Where’s the king?”

  “He has retired to the inner bailey, to direct operations,” replied Soth. “We will all be there soon.”

  “Not if I can help it!” growled the young Count. Gallen shot him a rare smile and Soth clapped a comradely hand on his shoulder.

  The destroyed siege tower lay in a smouldering heap across one of the passageways and several more were burning, but on they came regardless. The ballistae in the uppermost turrets were no longer firing. The range was too short and there was a severe danger that they would hit their own men. Instead, their crews were swivelling them and altering their pitch to make them fire almost straight down, should the Draals succeed in driving the defenders from the wall.

  On they came, rumbling a triumphant hymn of carnage, a huge dark mass of chanting killers tramping in their wake. The closest tower was peppered with arrows, many of them burning, so its shutters were down, but on touching they would fly open and an army would pour forth across the wall. As fast as they issued from the top, they would be replaced from below. The defences would be breached and his own people hopelessly outnumbered. The same scenario would be repeated at a dozen points along the wall, which would, within minutes, be in Draal possession.

  “Oil crews, prepare to tilt!” yelled Soth.

  The first tower touched with a grinding crump. At once the shutters flew open and a squall of arrows shot forth to cover the assault. Then a bridge was thrown across the wall and warriors began to stream over it.

  “Tilt!”

  They strained at their levers immediately. The vast cauldron groaned and tilted, its bubbling load brimming on the lip. Both Callin and Gallen were now side by side repelling the invaders as they swept across the bridge. As yet, their numbers were not great and it was within the capabilities of both men, aided by their guards, to block the route onto the battlements and send their foes screaming into the darkness below.

  “Now!” screamed Soth.

  The cauldrons spewed their load into the gutters. The steaming, bubbly mass ran along, fluid at this temperature, to the exit points and sprayed out all over the tower. Immediately a hundred flaming arrows thudded into its woodwork, setting the oil ablaze. The tower was on fire, but not terminally. Internal fire crews were at work damping down the blaze, although burning oil made their task much greater. Even so, the flow of men from the top scarcely abated. Callin, Gallen and Soth fought shoulder to shoulder, dealing terrible retribution to those who dared scale Brond’s walls but, even so, they were forced back step by step as more of the enemy came over.

  “To your left, Callin!”

  Callin swung in the direction indicated, but he was too late. The man was already in full swing. His blow did not land, however. An arrow took him in the throat and felled him backwards to lie against the embrasure.

  Lissian Dumarrick lowered her bow and moved silently to another arrow slit. From her position in the inner bailey, she could see perfectly well what was happening on the walls. A second tower had touched and a third was about to. Although the defenders were handing out far greater damage than they received, the enormous weight of the Draal advance was taking its toll and steadily, step by step, the wall was being ceded to them. Atop the second tower, she could see a commander urging his men forward onto the walls. They came past him in a steady stream. Continuously calculating distance and wind strength in her head, she nocked an arrow from her Draal quiver into her bow. She carried a second, stocked with Kingdom arrows, which she had used to fell the man attacking Callin. Gallen had not exaggerated when he praised her aim. It was as true as ever and her arrow took this man in the throat as well. He collapsed, pole axed, to the dismay of his fellows, who recognised the black fletching. That gave them pause, but a moment later they surged forward, pressed on by their fellows beneath.

  Lissian moved back to her original arrow slit. She would not have much time. Within minutes, this corridor would be swarming with archers as the outer bailey was overrun. A deep, grinding boom reached her ears. The Draals were at work with their battering ram. The gate would not take many such blows. If she was to fulfil her destiny, as the Hag had promised, it was now or never.

  “For the seat of Nassinor — and the crown,” she muttered to herself. Strictly speaking, the Hag had only promised her Nassinor but she reasoned that if Callin was to be king, she should, naturally, be his consort.

  Her target stood squarely in view, wielding his weapon like the hero he was. Selecting a mail-piercing Draal bodkin arrow, and fitting it into her bow, she took careful aim.

  Soth fought like a man possessed. Twenty-eight Draals he had despatched into the eternal void, flanked as he was by the Kingdom’s greatest general and the academy’s star pupil, each of whom had done almost as well himself. Even so, their efforts were becoming increasingly fruitless. The stream of e
nemies over the wall was now developing into a flood. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that the same was happening elsewhere. The splintering crump of the battering ram on the gate also told him that the ground within the outer bailey was about to fall and that they would have to pull back to its inner counterpart.

  “One more effort! Drive them back!” he wheezed between thrusts. As one man, he, Callin and Gallen drove forward into their foes. Taken by surprise, the Draals were forced momentarily onto the back foot before the weight of advancing troops behind them impelled them forwards again.

  The three of them worked as a team, slashing right and left in unison. They checked the Draal advance a second time and again pressed it back. If nothing else, it would open an escape route to the inner bailey via a nearby turret.

  A grinding splinter reached their ears, followed by a rumbling crump. The gate had gone. With triumphant cries, Draal horsemen charged into the outer bailey. They were met by hail upon hail of arrows from the archers stationed above, then ballistae fired bolts straight down from above — but on they came, mounting the heaps of their dead with careless disdain, victory burning in their eyes.

  Lightning flashed closer, followed by another rumble of thunder some seconds later.

  “It must be now!” yelled Soth.

  With a desperate summoning of their last shreds of will, the three and their guards thrust forward into their foe once more. Suddenly a grinding creak broke out ahead of them and flames shot to the sky. The fire crews had failed to quell the work of the boiling oil and burning arrows and the tower went up in flames, collapsing before their eyes with hundreds of oncoming troops still inside.

  Those already on the wall turned in dismay. Suddenly they were outnumbered and their retreat was cut off. They turned in confusion, their manic courage failing them. At once Soth, Callin, Gallen and the guards fell upon them, routing them in their disarray. Within moments, not a single Draal was left alive on that part of the wall.

  Despite their small victory, it was too late to save the bailey. The gate was down, the courtyard was heaving with enemy troops and they were still pouring over the wall at a dozen other points.

  Soth yelled the order for the general withdrawal and turned to go himself. The arrow took him between the shoulder blades, severing his spinal cord and penetrating his heart, killing him instantly. Callin and Gallen stared at one another, aghast, and then at the direction from where the arrow had come. It was black-fletched and had pierced straight through his hauberk — a Draal bodkin arrow — but it had been loosed from somewhere on the inner bailey wall.

  “They can’t be in there already,” gasped Gallen.

  Lissian lowered her bow. She saw Callin and Gallen turn and look straight at her, but knew that all they could see would be a black slit in a blank wall. She kept absolutely still as their eyes searched the surface and felt a glow of triumph as they turned away. She watched as the two of them dragged Soth’s body to safety and then turned her attention to her own escape. Already she could hear the tramp of many feet as the wall’s corridors were filled with archers. She must not be found with a quiver of Draal arrows on her person. Unhitching it from her shoulder, she held it out through the slit and let it fall to the seething mass of invaders below. Then she melted away into the darkness. Her single act of treason committed, she would now fight fearlessly for the Kingdom.

  *

  Rhomic sat on his throne, agony etched on every grey line of his face. Before him lay the body of his son, struck down in his moment of personal victory. Beyond stood two blood-bespattered men, Callin Vorst and General Gallen, both tattered and filthy, the elder sporting a brand new bleeding slash on his forehead that would, when healed, add to his stock of highly visible scars. Treasor, Ferian and Gledden were also in attendance. From this deeply protected haven, the sounds of the battle without were muted.

  “How long can we hold them in the outer bailey?” Rhomic’s voice was an expressionless monotone.

  “Indefinitely, sire,” replied Treasor. “The design does not permit them to bring any heavy machinery against the inner walls. Unless they demolish the outer wall first, they will have to use ladders. All the entrances are small, so cannot admit many troops at once, while we pour all manner of material down on them from above.”

  “Any weaknesses?”

  “Just one. Should they attack us from two sides at once, we will find our resources under strain very quickly.”

  Rhomic nodded, his face bleak. “Then I have time to grieve a little,” he murmured.

  Gallen turned to Gledden urgently. “Any news from Nassinor or Yelkin?”

  The chamberlain shook his head sadly. “I regret that it seems we are alone,” he said softly.

  “Yet we must cling to hope,” put in Gallen. “We must give them time.”

  Rhomic shook his head slowly. “Cursed is the man who outlives his children. You remind me that I am father to this entire nation and that too many of them are lost already. We must rally their hearts.” He spoke as if he had no heart left to rally.

  A messenger arrived at the door with a scrap of paper in his hand. He paused, looking aghast at Soth’s body before passing the note to the nearest commander: Treasor.

  “Our worst fears are realised, Your Majesty. Enemy troops have been spotted massing on the edge of the forest. They have siege towers struck down in kits, and are assembling them as we speak.”

  “Approach, soldier!”

  The messenger stood to attention before his commander in chief and saluted smartly. The king eyed him compassionately. He could not have been more than seventeen years old.

  “How long before they will be ready to attack?”

  “According to Captain Krenn, sire, given the time it took them to erect their towers on the east side, they should be able to attack within the hour.”

  Rhomic settled back on his throne, tapping his fingertips together under his chin in his old, familiar gesture of thought. “What is your name?” he asked kindly.

  “Yolta Krelman, sire, under Captain Krenn’s command.”

  Rhomic noted the name mentally and smiled bleakly. “Then I thank you, Yolta Krelman,” he answered softly. “You have clarified the mind of a king befuddled with overwhelming odds.” The man looked nonplussed. Rhomic explained his meaning to him. “Thanks to you, I now know what to do. Return to your post with my gratitude.”

  Relieved, Krelman saluted and left. Listening acutely to Rhomic’s words, both Treasor and Gallen stepped forward.

  “You have a strategy in mind, sire?” asked Treasor.

  “I have,” replied Rhomic, rising from his throne and standing over the body of his son. “Count Vorst!” Callin stepped forward smartly. “By right of succession, my own children not surviving me, the throne will pass to you on my death. I hereby name you as my heir and commission Gledden to proclaim it publicly. See to it, Master Gledden.”

  The chamberlain bowed low and left the room to prepare the proclamation. Callin was speechless. It had actually come to pass, his rejection of the Hag notwithstanding. A cold numbness came over him. This was bizarre. Now that it had happened, he felt nothing at all.

  Rhomic took one last, long, loving look at his son and addressed the three remaining men in his most formal tone.

  “Gentlemen, let two royal banners be removed from store. I will take one and Count Vorst will take possession of the other, furled for the moment. I will take direct command of a detachment of our finest cavalry and disperse this new threat to our western flank before they can organise themselves for a proper assault.”

  Treasor object strenuously. “sire, this is madness!”

  “I am aware of that, General.”

  “But it is suicide. What chance do you have of surviving such a venture — especially when carrying your own banner?” That was Gallen.

  Rhomic smiled placidly. “I am also aware of that, General. I do not expect to survive it, nor do I wish to. The Vandamm Dynasty is at an end. The Vorst is abo
ut to begin.” Moving to Callin, he clasped him in a fatherly hug by the shoulders. “Young Vorst — Callin,” he said, “we are both the last of our kind, having lost our kin as no man should. My breeding days are over. Fate has selected the House of Vandamm for extinction, while you have been chosen for greatness, even at the expense of your own family. Win this war and you will inherit my land with all its riches and diversity, and you will be free to choose a bride who will be as fertile for you as Usalla was for me. Take my hand, Callin.”

  Callin grasped the huge, hairy paw, a blush of shame at his own unworthiness flushing his face.

  “I don’t know what to say, sire.” His answer felt totally inadequate.

  Rhomic nodded, understanding and recollection showing in his face. “I was the same when my father, Reckna Vandamm, handed over the reins of power to me in this very room. His final command was to order my banner hoisted the very instant that his heart stopped. I so order now. There must be no interregnum. Take command, Callin. Take our armies and rout these invaders from our soil. Rout them as no Vandamm ever achieved. They have concentrated their forces on our outer bailey and are waiting for the attack on the western wall to stretch us. I will remove that threat and you can come at them when they are bottled up and vulnerable. May you be fruitful in your succession, wise in your judgement and noble in your rule. I give you my Kingdom, Callin. Take it, cherish it and lead it as a great king should.”

  Callin felt a slow burning start in his chest, matched by a sharp smarting at the back of his eyes. He returned the hug of his king, now the nearest thing to a father that he had — soon to be as much of a memory as his real father was. His words came as a choked sob. “I will do it, my king.”

  Gallen, Treasor and Ferian all bowed. Ferian spoke for them all. “We pledge our obedience, my king, to you and your heir.” He then turned and gave orders for the Archbishop to be fetched without delay.

  “Now, gentlemen,” continued Rhomic, his spirits momentarily lighter having made his decision, “how many companies of cavalry do we have within the castle?”