by Kal Spriggs
Wrath of the Usurper
By Kal Spriggs
Published by Sutek Press
Copyright 2014 Sutek Press
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Books by Kal Spriggs
The Shadow Space Chronicles
The Fallen Race
The Shattered Empire
The Prodigal Emperor (Forthcoming)
The Eoriel Saga
Echo of the High Kings
Wrath of the Usurper
Fate of the Tyrant (Forthcoming)
The Renegades
Renegades: Origins
Renegades: Out of the Cold (Forthcoming)
Fenris
Fenris Unchained
Acknowledgments
I'd like to first off thank my friends and family for their help reading, rereading, and helping to make this story that much better. I couldn't have done it without you all. Next, I'd like to give special thanks to TJ Price for his help in getting this ready for print. You came in at the last minute and the book is far better for your help.
Lastly, I'd like to thank my amazing wife for her patience as I wrote this book. I know I can get a little (lot!) cranky as I struggle with scenes, characters, and sometimes just getting the words on the page. Thanks for putting up with me and not making me sleep outside!
Table of Contents
Diagrams
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Appendix
About the Author
Author's Website
More Books By Kal Spriggs
Diagrams
Prologue
Warlord Tarjak Rusk
Seige of Boirton
15th of Pargan, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Tarjak pushed the slave girl to the side and snarled, “Food, drink, now!”
As the young woman crawled away, Tarjak smiled. She was a soft, southern thing, one of their nobles that his men had captured or so she had said. He, of course, had claimed her and it had not taken long to break her to his will. It had given him a unique feeling of power to take a proud and arrogant woman and make her into an abject slave. It was something he rather enjoyed.
“Tarjak,” a soft voice spoke nearby, “Hard at work, I see.”
Tarjak whipped to his feet with the speed and grace which had made him his clan's chieftain. His sword in hand, he confronted the shadowy figure who stood at the end of his fur bedrolls. His blade lowered, though, as he recognized the hooded figure who clutched at a staff. “Oh,” Tarjak grunted, “It's you... my Lord.” It grated on him to say the last, but he knew better than to deny the wizard his due. Tarjak knew well that he owed much of his own position and power to the other man.
Xavien gave Tarjak a smile, “If you are busy, I could always come back.” The softness of his voice didn't fool Tarjak. It was as much a rebuke as if he had slapped Tarjak in the face.
Tarjak knelt, “My apologies, I am fully at your command, my Lord.” He felt sweat break out on his forehead and his back tingled in anticipation of pain. Xavien's favorite tools were fear and pain, Tarjak knew. It was part of why he was so effective at gaining the loyalty of his fellow Semat Armen... those were some of the only techniques they respected.
“Good,” Xavien's dark eyes went to the slave girl, “I don't mind that you find ways to pass the time here in the south... but the time has come to end this siege, before it costs you too much.”
“What?” Tarjak asked. “But we've taken so much loot, so many slaves, and many stockpiles of food. Why withdraw now?” Even as he said it, he realized his mistake.
Green energy lanced out and Tarjak dropped to the ground, his teeth clenched on a scream. As an Armen warrior he knew pain, both how to give it and how to take it. As the chieftain of his clan, he knew that his survival required he not show any sign of weakness... and shrieking like a girl as the green energy seared his flesh was not something that would make him appear strong.
“Tarjak...” Xavien shook his head and ceased his torment. “My main complaint about your people is that you don't have any tact... I fear I will have to break you to get you to show courtesy... and then you would be of no more use than the girl there.” Xavien chuckled a bit, “Though I'll admit, I'd find you more attractive than her. At least you've some muscle on you.”
Tarjak tasted blood from where his teeth had torn the inside of his lips. He also smelled singed hair and had little doubt that his skin would show the effects of Xavien's attack in broad scorches and pain that would last for weeks. He rose to his knees again, though, and waited silently, either for more punishment or for his master to speak. To do otherwise would just bring worse.
“However, since you clearly didn't understand me and no doubt you'll have to argue down your tribesmen, I'll tell you why.” Xavien leaned on his staff and Tarjak could see that the wizard actually looked tired. Which means something wore him down, Tarjak realized with shock. Over the years that he had known Xavien, Tarjak had seen at least a dozen shamans challenge the wizard only to die, often in painful or embarrassing fashions. None of them, to include the most powerful shamans of the Semat, had been able to give him pause. If something had worn him, tired him... it must be a terrible foe indeed. Tarjak wasn't quite certain whether to hope the foe had defeated his master or been defeated. While my fate is tied to his... I hate him enough to hope for his death, he thought, and I would go to the spirits a happy man to know he had been brought low.
“The Duchy of Boir has begun to re-consolidate,” Xavien said. “Their army garrisons aren't individually enough to face your entire army, as yet, but they're coordinating and moving into position. Their fleet, as well, has recovered and it is only a matter of time before they come to lift your blockade. Your blow here has embarrassed them and shamed their military. Better for you to withdraw before they have some opportunity to gain even a minor victory against your men to give them hope.” Xavien paused and Tarjak nodded slightly to show that he understood. “Then, too, I've another task for my Noric allies and a very important task for some of your warriors when you reach the Lonely Isle... that is Nasar Ind as your people call it.”
“War with Hall Prakka?” Tarjak asked eagerly. While fighting the soldiers of Boir was enjoyable enough, the mercenaries and soldiers of Hall Prakka were more likely to fight in close combat and be less reliant upon their magic devices or deception. It felt more pure, somehow, to engage in that manner of war. Plus, he liked the mixed blooded women of Nasar Ind. They had spine and stubbornness. He had once captured a powerful priestess there... and he still remembered with pleasure how long it had taken his shamans to break her... and how he had used her body in that time.
“That is coming, yes. For now, I just want some of your more eager and disposable warriors,” Xavien said. “Men who will throw themselves at the enemy because they think themselves invincible,
Tarjak smiled, “You want fodder.” He thought of the young, eager warriors who always caused him problems and were most likely to challenge his authority. “I can give you those, my Lord.”
“Good,” Xavien said. “They will a
ct as your rear guard... and I suspect they'll take the highest of your casualties. I want you to take your finest warriors with you in the first movements. Leave the Norics to me... and make certain that your most reckless and bloodthirsty warriors are at the back.”
Tarjak nodded, even as he thought of how that would affect his people. They had always sent the most reckless warriors into combat first, to thin their numbers and to give the survivors combat experience. It also let more experienced warriors survive to face the enemy feeling well-rested and ready. This would be no different, save that his best and most loyal tribes would be the first to leave. They would be able to take most of the supplies from the raid camps at Nasar Ind. The other tribes, when they reached there, would have to forage or raid for supplies to make the final voyage to their homeland in the north. Also, as summer departed, the northern seas would grow more and more dangerous. Whatever forces trailed the furthest back would not only lose more warriors to the enemy... they'd lose many men to the seas.
Probably lose the iron ships, too, he thought darkly. He had been forced to leave those ships in the hands of the tribes who had seized them... for now. He'd had one as well, but the southerners had recaptured it. It embarrassed him that his sloop, once the largest among the Semat Armen was now tiny in comparison to the three iron ships that some of the other chieftains held. Still, they had taken terrible casualties in capturing those ships. If those tribes lost the iron ships on the rough seas, at least the southerners wouldn't have them. “I'll see to it all, my Lord.”
Xavien gave him a final nod, “Good.” The wizard turned away, headed for the tent door. Over his shoulder, he spoke, his voice soft, “Soon the time will come when your people will claim these lands.”
Tarjak nodded, though in reality he didn't want his tribe to live in these soft lands. The had already become sluggish and soft in the siege. He looked over as the slave girl brought him a tray with a glass of southern wine and slices of meat. Tarjak gave her a friendly smile as he took the tray. He reached out a hand and brought her to her feet.
Tarjak could feel the rapid, nervous beats of her heart, as fear worked through her veins. Tarjak's smile turned ugly as he brought his sword up, under her ribs. The woman let out a gurgling shriek and Tarjak felt hot blood gush over his arms. He smiled as she sagged, a look of shock and terror on her face. “Why...” she gasped.
“You were a good slave,” Tarjak said. “But you saw too much. Besides, you are too soft to bear my seed... and I know you are pregnant. I'll not see my blood diluted with the weaklings of the south.” He wiped his blade on part of her ruined silks and let her fall to the floor. He watched as she crawled away, leaving a vast trail of blood across the furs and carpets of his tent. Tarjak might enjoy the softness of the south, but he did not need it. Harshness and hardness had shaped him and his people... at the command of Hall Armath, the Dark Warrior.
Whatever the wizard thought, they would follow the Dark Warrior's commands. They would be his people: savage, vicious, and harder than the stone of the mountains.
***
Commander Kerrel Flamehair
City of Longhaven, Duchy of Masov
15th of Pargan, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Commander Kerrel Flamehair led Nightwhisper slowly down the ramp and onto the solid stone pier. Though the war horse did so with slow, calm steps, Kerrel didn't miss the chuff of relief from her stallion as all four of his hooves stood again on dry, stable land.
She gave a snort and patted the stallion on one broad shoulder, “You getting worried in your old age, Nightwhisper? Maybe I should trade you out for a younger, braver horse that's not afraid of a little water or too feeble to swim if the ship goes down?”
The stallion turned his head and bared his teeth at her and Kerrel laughed and patted his shoulder, “Okay, maybe you're not that old and feeble.”
“He's not the only one to be glad to be ashore,” Baran's gruff voice spoke from behind her. “And begging our newly promoted Commander's pardon, but if she'd be gracious enough to move her younger backside out of the way there's others that would like to be getting on with the gratitude of being ashore.”
Kerrel rolled her eyes at that and led Nightwhisper out of the way while her second in command led his own horse down off the transport ship. Kerrel gave him a stern expression as he came down the ramp, followed by Jonal and his horse. “It's a good thing I'm such a calm and patient sort, Baran. If I had any kind of temper then such language might draw penalties, especially were I given to letting my new promotion go to my head.” She tossed her head and her red hair swung over her shoulder. Normally she kept it tied back, but it had come loose during the unloading.
“Yes,” Jonal said gravely. “A very detached and calm individual, our fearless leader; never one to hold a grudge, or get emotional.”
Kerrel leveled a green-eyed gaze on the shorter, red-haired man, “You should be glad for that temper of mine, cousin, else you might still be spending your days a prisoner to the Vendakar... or worse!”
Baran grunted, “She's got a point, lad.”
“She might,” Jonal admitted after a moment.
“Captain, uh, that is, Commander,” a voice spoke from nearby. Kerrel recognized one of the new recruits by his accent, the Duchy of Asador burr still harsh and strong and not yet worn down from dealing with men of the other Duchies. “Sergeant Lamar asked me to take care of your horses, said that you probably need to get to see him about some of the logistics.”
Kerrel grimaced. She had enjoyed a bit of respite from Lamar while operating under Lord Hector's Northern Army. They had an entire logistics company to deal with paperwork and the actual movement of supplies and equipment. Sergeant Lamar knew his job and knew it well... but he had a tendency to take an unholy joy in drowning her and Baran in paperwork, all of it vital, but still dreary.
“I guess I should let her Commander-ship get to her duties then,” Baran said gravely.
“Begging your respects, sir,” the new trooper said, “but Sergeant Lamar specifically said that he wanted you and young master Jonal to come as well.”
Kerrel laughed at Baran's grimace. The old soldier hated such meetings. Which wasn't to say he didn't understand their importance. “Very well,” Kerrel said, laughter still light on her voice, “we will all meet with him. Where has he set up?”
“He's set up a temporary headquarters for you, Commander, at the Black Oar Inn,” the younger man said. “He said he's warm food since you'll have had nothing but ship food over the past few days.”
“True enough,” Baran grunted. “And old grumble-belly always finds the best food in town.”
“Thank you, trooper...” Kerrel paused and cocked her head, “are you one of Stanis's boys?”
The younger man's eyes went wide with surprise, “Yes, milady, uh, that is Commander. I'm Jurgan, his second son.”
“Glad to see you here, Jurgan. Mind the dark one, Nightwhisper has a wicked temper and likes to bite,” Kerrel said. She heard her horse chuff in disappointment behind her, but she ignored that. Her regular troops knew the horse's ways, but someone like Jurgan would need the warning. She passed over the reigns and waved for Baran and Jonal to join her. A glance around the docks showed that the bustling port had taken no more notice of them. The traffic of mercenaries into the Duchy of Masov, called by the Usurper Duke's offers of coin had become common here. Southern mercenaries took the bridge across the Ryft at the Ryftguard, but most mercenaries from Boir and Asador came in through the ports, and Longshaven was the largest port in the Duchy of Masov.
“You know the way?” Baran asked.
“I do,” Jonal said quickly. He flushed as Kerrel raised an eyebrow at him. “They, uh, have the best vintages in town.”
“Do tell,” Kerrel said.
He shrugged self-consciously, “They don't serve any Vendakar wines, trust me.”
“Oh, I'll trust you on that, all right,” Baran grunted. The Vendakar who had kidnapped Jonal and then framed
him for the assassination attempt against Duke Hector had used drugged Vendakar wine, Kerrel remembered. That they had used his own enjoyment of fine food and drink against him had embarrassed him. That they had killed off the patrol he was supposed to ride with and then nearly killed Kerrel herself in the assassination attempt clearly still left him angry.
Not that anything of Vendakar make was in high demand anywhere in the Duchy of Masov, just now. When Kerrel had uncovered the full measure of the Vendakar treachery, they had betrayed Lord Hector mid-battle. Kerrel had led five companies of heavy cavalry against the traitorous Vendakar mercenaries to bring back the tide of victory. If their treachery had succeeded, they and the Armen they had sided with would have wiped out the Lord Hector's Northern Army. The Armen raiders that Duke Hector fought would have come south and raided the rest of the Duchy and presumably the traitorous Vendakar mercenaries would have taken their own measure of loot and slaves.
As unpopular as the Usurper Duke might be, particularly in the south, no one had any complaints about his victory. Indeed, when word had gone out that it was open season on Vendakar merchants and mercenaries tied to the Houses who had plotted that betrayal, the popular reaction had been extremely violent. Since the Vendakar slavers had something of an infamous reputation and there wasn't a single Vendakar merchant who didn't deal in slaves on the side... well, there were a lot of dead Vendakar within a few weeks of Duke Hector's proclamation.
And anyone who had dealings with them is keeping low, she thought, even going as far as to destroy any of their goods they have rather than try to sell them. Which would probably lead to some economic issues as the trade dried up, she thought. The only people who did more trade than the Vendakar were the people of Boir, but relations with the Grand Duchy of Boir were tense. That tends to happen when you take power by killing off your uncle and his entire family, Kerrel thought sourly. She had seen much of Hector's ruthlessness, but it still shocked her to think of just how willing he was to kill if he saw it as the best course of action. She knew the murder of his relatives weighed upon him, but he seemed to view it as his only course of action. Just as he views sending me south to make peace as his only option, she thought.