Usurper

by David Waine

  “Baron Coreth died heroically without issue,” he announced. “Your victory at sea, combined with your exemplary record of service, qualifies you to be his natural successor. It would please me greatly if you would accept the barony.”

  Killian, who had been half expecting such an honour, bowed humbly. “Majesty.”

  Callin placed the chain around the sailor’s neck and hugged him to general cheering. The newly ennobled Baron Killian then took his place, somewhat flushed, alongside his fellow baron, Dumarrick, who promptly shook his hand and hugged him in turn. Callin then turned his attention to Simian and Keriak.

  “What can I give to two of the academy’s greatest ever graduates? Sir Simian of Treponic, victor of the Battle of the Cross, who assumed command on the tragic death of General Vlaan and carried the war into Draal, I appoint you General Sir Simian of Treponic, Commander of the Border Force.”

  Simian bowed low to deafening applause.

  “Sir Keriak of Rulik, victor of the Battle of Graan, who assumed command on the tragic death of Baron Coreth, turned the shore batteries on Flenn’s approaching fleet and then destroyed the odious Grelk and his army, I appoint you General Sir Keriak of Rulik, Commander of the Graan Garrison, under the authority of Baron Killian.”

  A flushing Keriak also bowed low.

  “Generals Ferian, Treasor and Gallen approach!”

  The three elders of the armed forces stood before their young king, two of them old enough to be his grandfather, the third his father at least, and saluted.

  “Kneel.”

  Drawing his sword, the same one that had incinerated Kubelik Furak, he tapped each of them on the shoulder lightly.

  “By the power invested in me by Almighty God, and before these witnesses here present, I dub you Sir Griffon of Ferian, Sir Palamor of Treasor and Sir Robald of Gallen. Stand and be recognised.”

  They did so to deafening applause.

  “In addition to your military ranks,” continued Callin, “I gladly dub you knights of the Kingdom. In further recognition of your long and faithful service to my predecessors, I would grant you additional gifts. Is there anything that you would like, Sir Griffon?”

  The old man smiled in reply. “Only an honourable retirement, sire. I feel my years and would spend my remaining time in more tranquil contemplation.”

  “So be it,” smiled Callin, although we will need to appoint a successor before we can release you from your duties altogether. In times of darkness, however, I should like to know that I can still rely on your counsel.”

  “Gladly, sire,” replied the old man. “My poor brain is ever at your disposal.”

  Callin turned to Treasor. “Sir Palamor?”

  “My request is the same as Sir Griffon’s, sire. I, too, feel the weight of many years and this campaign has taken its toll.”

  Callin nodded, smiling. “Then my reply is the same. Enjoy a long and happy retirement, my good knights, but remember that I may yet need you.”

  The two elderly knights withdrew, bowing, leaving the newly dubbed Sir Robald of Gallen alone.

  “Sir Robald, before asking what you would have of me,” went on Callin, “I have a commission that I wish to offer you, as the youngest of our three overdue knights. The seat of Nassinor has always been the stronghold of the Vorsts. Now, with my family gone and myself installed in Brond, there is no one to govern the province. I offer you stewardship of Nassinor, with full authority, no currently unborn Vorst succeeding while you live. How say you?”

  Gallen was dumbstruck. “Sire, I am not worthy…”

  “I am a judge of your worth, Sir Robald, and I say that you are.”

  Gallen drew himself up to attention. “Then I accept, sire. Thank you.”

  More cheering. “And what would you have of me?”

  Gallen thought. His entire life had been turned upside down within seconds. Suddenly he had the opportunity to realise the dream that had grown vaguely, and unrecognised in truth, for months past.

  “Sire,” he said respectfully, “with your permission, I should like to marry.”

  Callin’s eyebrows rose in surprise but the eyes beneath them smiled. He squeezed the hand of his own betrothed and received a glowing smile in return. “Whom do you wish to marry?”

  Gallen turned towards Lissian. “Before I was merely a soldier and a teacher who sought no more than he had. Now I am a nobleman with the authority of the late Counts Amerish and Dorcan. With your permission, sire, and that of her father, not to mention her own, I would ask The Lady Lissian Dumarrick, whom I have had the privilege of training, and who has distinguished herself in this war, to be my bride.”

  Lissian was thunderstruck. This grizzled old man, older even than her own father, wanted to marry her. Her flesh crept at the thought. The vision in the mirror swept back into her mind: herself fit, slender, naked and aroused astride a muscular male body. But the body was not the young king’s, it was Gallen’s. Far from exciting her, the image now conveyed revulsion. On the other hand, he was in charge of Nassinor and had not the Hag promised her that title?”

  “How say you, Madam,” asked Gallen, “will you be The Lady of Nassinor?”

  She hesitated.

  Fearing the worst — well aware that he was far from the most eligible of bachelors — he moved close and murmured in her ear so that no others could hear. “Think about it, My Lady. We can be a potent partnership, you and I. I won’t trouble you greatly in a personal way, and you won’t find me the jealous sort of husband. Besides, I want to continue developing your skills.” She looked at him sharply. “If you missed out on your heart’s desire, then I offer myself as a poor second best — and who is to say what the future holds?”

  Did he know? Was he offering her a chance to buy his silence? Could she endure lying on her back while he conquered her in a rigid, martial sort of way, rutting by numbers? Well, Stewardess of Nassinor may not be queen, but it made her one of the most powerful women in the Kingdom and was a marked improvement on having no meaningful title at all.

  “Lady Lissian,” put in Callin, relieved at the thought that she had at least been offered something, “bearing in mind the difference in your ages, should you survive Sir Robald, you would receive the title of Dowager Countess with full rights.”

  Lissian’s face cleared slowly. After a suitable hesitation, she smiled, took Gallen’s hand and bobbed her consent, already planning the improvements she would make to that draughty old heap and all the handsome young lovers she would take.

  Gallen kissed her hand in a manner that could only be described as courtly and Callin heaved a sigh of relief. There only remained his final decree.

  “In conclusion,” he announced, “I decree that a week shall be set aside for mourning those who fell in this action. No celebration of our victory, or my accession, shall be enacted until our dead have been fittingly venerated.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The nobles dispersed back to their strongholds, the Dumarricks to Yelkin — Xunin and Lissian to plan their respective weddings — Gallen to Nassinor, along with Surinak and their forces, taking Dorcan’s body with them. The entire court reconvened at the old Vorst stronghold a week later for the formal funeral.

  He decided to delay his coronation until the following spring. Much rebuilding and repair work remained to be done.

  Now that the border had been moved north to the river, the old crossing on the pass was redundant. There were to be two recognised crossing places: one outside of Graan, which would be secured by Keriak and his troops, and one a few leagues north of the pass, guarded by the Border Force. There was also the question of Draals now living under Kingdom rule between the mountains and the river. His concern was to convert as many as possible to Kingdom loyalty, rather than expelling them by the boatload across the river. Rhomic’s similar policy in Graan had worked well and he saw no reason to alter it. The residents of the area were to be treated with respect and kindness, and those who had lost family members to the
war received them back for burial with full military honours.

  There remained only one task for Callin to perform — a secret task — and he carried it out on the coldest Michaelmas in living memory.

  Rhomic’s mausoleum was a squat, rectangular stone affair with a great iron door at the back of the cathedral. At present, it was entirely plain and unrelieved, it being Callin’s intention to set stonemasons to work on it after the reconstruction to stand as a fitting memorial to the Kingdom’s greatest king, who had set up no monuments to himself during his life. The tomb had four occupants: Rhomic himself, the skeleton of his late wife, Queen Usalla, newly transferred from her original tomb, Soth and the charred remains of what Gledden assumed to be Avalind, because the body was the right size. It was guarded round the clock by a sentry at each corner and two on the door. The vigil would be kept until Callin was formally crowned, a Kingdom tradition.

  Heavily wrapped in a thick cloak against the bitter January cold, he approached the guards and addressed them. “You may stand down for half an hour. I would learn the art of Kingship from one of its greatest masters. I will keep the vigil. Return after thirty minutes.”

  The guards looked confused but saluted and marched out in good order, closing the massive door of the cathedral behind them. Callin was alone. Reaching for the great iron key hanging by the door, he fitted it into the lock. Being new, it turned easily and the heavy iron door swung open silently. The chill from within kept the worst of the smell of decay at bay. Wrapping a muffler round his face, he raised his lantern and ventured inside.

  When the guards returned thirty minutes later, they found him on guard at the door, as they had left him.

  Outside Keck was waiting with his horse ready.

  “Thank you, Keck,” he said, mounting, carefully. “You may retire now. I will return by morning.”

  “Master Gledden ain’t too pleased,” responded the groom, already enrolled in the academy but still earning his keep in the stables.

  “Chamberlain Gledden will do as he is told,” said Callin quietly.

  The chamberlain in question then appeared. “Your Majesty,” he announced stiffly, “I really must protest that it is folly for you to venture forth alone on such a night.”

  “Protest noted, Master Gledden,” replied Callin coldly, “now stand aside.”

  “But your Kingdom, sire. Think what the consequences would be should anything untoward befall…”

  Callin cut him off. “The very worst that could happen is that Baron Dumarrick would inherit the throne. Be at your ease, Chamberlain. My business is crucial and I am not at all threatened. I give you a strict order that I am not to be followed and you have my personal guarantee that I will return before morning.”

  *

  Callin Vorst, undisputed ruler of the Kingdom, sat on the ledge, waiting for his breathing to settle, and reflected on how much had happened since he had last been in this very spot a mere eighteen months previously. Sulinan had dashed his final hope by staying away from the fighting. Although he had seen him in Zinal, and could have finished the old degenerate there, Rhomic was already dead, slain by a Draal hand that had been as much Hag-directed as his own when he murdered Simack.

  Gathering his wits, he turned to face the rock wall, edging along the ledge to the staircase.

  As before, the plateau defied the elements and was warm, bathed in milky moonlight. The table still grew from the solid rock, smooth and glassy, and the mouth of the cave still yawned, faintly orange beyond. Heart again pounding at his ribs, he believed himself alone to address the demon one final time, but he was mistaken, for another had been secretly summoned to witness the event: a watcher hidden in the tangled jumble of rocks at the far side of the plateau.

  He reached into his cloak and produced the heavy bundle, still in its bag, which he deposited on the table.

  Standing back, he addressed the cave openly. “You demanded a king’s head, Hag. I have paid your price. Now I am free of you and your charm. You would have me a puppet in the guise of a conquering hero. You would rule the Kingdom through me. Did I murder my own brother for you? Was it your design that those who died should be closest to my heart?”

  He paused for a moment. All was still.

  “I will defeat you, Hag. I reject you now and forever. I lose my protection and my strength will be no more than any other man’s, but it will be my strength. If I fall to my doom from these heights, I deserve no better. Should I be spared to rule the Kingdom, I shall do so with wisdom and justice for every day that God grants me, if only to spite you. My soul is damned, yet I will not shrink to redeem it. You will never rule in the Kingdom, for I will be your slave no longer. I so swear!”

  A soft hiss reached his ears, the kiss of a sigh. Then he heard her velvety voice.

  “Goodnight, beautiful boy.”

  Without another word, Callin turned on his heal and strode off down the stone staircase, back to Brond.

  Had he turned to look back, he might have just seen the moonlight catch on two bright blue sparks of fire in the rage of crumbled rocks beyond the plateau. The light reflected from the eyes of the silent onlooker, who now stole from hiding and stood before the altar. Tears coursing down her face, she picked up the bundle, gasping slightly at its unexpected weight, and turned to face the way the young king had just gone.

  The cold blue light of the moon shone back steadily from the streaming eyes of Avalind Vandamm.

  THE END

  The story will continue in Part Two, ‘A Sovereign's Honour’

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