The Usurper Read online

  She turned away to hide a bitter smile.

  'Mark this day, Dunstany,' Palatyne said. He never used the noble scholar's title. 'This is the dawn of a new era for Merofynia, for the Twin Isles.'

  Her mentor said nothing.

  'What? No fawning congratulations, Power-worker?' Palatyne prodded.

  'You will only get the truth from me, overlord,' Dunstany answered. 'Look to others for ass-licking, I don't offer false coin.'

  As Palatyne stiffened, Piro's heart did a double beat of terror.

  At that moment the gangplank rattled into place and sailors started shouting. Palatyne gestured to Piro, looking right through Dunstany. 'Bring her to the feast tonight. I want her decked in the finest Rolencian clothing.'

  'No kingsdaughter could look better, I promise,' Lord Dunstany said, with a shallow bow that did him more honour than the overlord. Only Piro could hear the mockery in his words.

  Palatyne turned and strode off. Eager to bask in the overlord's reflected glory, the Utlander hurried across the deck just as Palatyne went down the gangplank. The Power-worker scurried after him, having to take two steps to each of the overlord's.

  Piro smiled despite herself and caught Dunstany's eye. His lips twitched, one side of his mouth lifting. It reminded her of Byren's lop-sided grin, and fear for him diluted her happiness. It was days since she'd sent Seela into the mountains to find Byren.

  And there had been no word of Fyn. Palatyne had been furious when his body hadn't been discovered amidst the corpses in the abbey.

  She must take heart and trust to her brothers' quick wits to keep them alive, for it seemed the goddess had abandoned them.

  Dawn saw Byren packing the family's belongings onto the horses. Pots, pans and bed linen, all of which were needed up at camp. Leaving the horses ready in the barn, he returned to the farmhouse. It was a good size and had been prosperous, but the invasion had robbed it of its workers, leaving just the mother and two boys. How would they cope with the eldest boy now a cripple?

  Anger gnawed at Byren.

  Even the smell of honey-oat porridge failed to lighten his mood, but somehow he managed a smile. Vadik's mother, Esfira, greeted him warmly, indicating the place she had set in his honour at the table. Day-old bread, spicy sausage, warm beer and a bowl of hot porridge with honey.

  As Byren thanked her, he wondered how she could bear to have him at her table, when he was the reason her son had been crippled. If the Merofynians hadn't been searching for his camp, they wouldn't have come here and forced the boy to lead them into the mountains. Yet, she had been nothing but kind to him.

  Tikhon climbed up on the chair beside Byren. He was small for his age and his feet swung free, unable to touch the floor as he chattered on about one of the farm dogs which would have puppies soon. Meanwhile, Seela helped the mother rinse the cooking pot and pack the last of the kitchen implements.

  When it was all done, Esfira wiped her hands and hung her apron over the back of a chair, just as she must have done every day after breakfast.

  She gave an odd laugh. 'Here I am, thinking it's good the kitchen is tidy, and I'm about to leave the farm.' With the back of her hand she brushed tears from her cheeks. She was a small thing, plump with sun-kissed skin and the creases of easy laughter in the corner of her eyes.

  The dogs barked.

  They all stiffened.

  'Strangers?' Seela asked softly.

  'Aye. I know that bark,' Esfira whispered.

  Byren thrust his bowl aside, catching Seela's eye. 'Go out the back door, over to the barn. Lead the horses out the back way. I'll distract them. If you hear fighting, don't wait for me, head for the hills.'

  Byren slipped out the back of the farmhouse with them, but he went right, while the others went left to the barn.

  The dogs' barking led him past the farmhouse, down the slope and up over the rise. This was steep ground to farm, mostly suitable for sheep and long-haired goats. But the family had built terraces to plant grains and it was on one of these terraces that the dogs had three men pinned.

  Unarmed men, who carried travelling kits across their shoulders. Cold, hungry men, who hugged themselves and stamped their feet to keep warm.

  Byren whistled.

  The dogs broke off barking and sat, waiting for him. He'd always been good with animals. Had he been better with them since the ulfr pack adopted him?

  He put this unnerving thought aside to study the men. They had stiffened when he came into view. He was armed and a head taller than the average man, thanks to his father's blood.

  Byren jumped from the upper terrace to the one where they waited.

  'We don't want any trouble,' the eldest said. He looked about thirty and had the kind of too-ready smile that Byren distrusted. With him were two much younger men. They looked to be about Fyn's age, maybe sixteen. One was short and skinny, the other a little taller and solid with a thick neck. They were both weary, grey-faced and angry. They hugged themselves as though cold to the bone and did not meet Byren's eyes. No... it was not anger, but fear.

  'We're just passing through,' the first said.

  'To where? Nothing lies above this farm but steep foothills and, above that, even steeper mountains.' Byren pointed to the west. 'Foenix Pass lies that way.'

  As the man glanced over his right shoulder he swayed slightly. They were all exhausted and they had no business here unless they were looking for the loyalist camp. But what was there to stop the Merofynians sending one of their own disguised as a loyalist? He'd only have to speak Rolencian to blend in.

  Byren waited.

  The first man summoned a weary smile. 'We've come a long way and run out of food. You wouldn't have a bite to eat you could spare us?'

  Byren thought of his half-eaten breakfast. This would give him a chance to judge the men's veracity for himself. 'Come this way.'

  At his whistle the dogs followed. He put his hands on the thigh-high stonework and swung his weight up to the next terrace, then turned to offer his hand to the closest man.

  It was the skinny, short one. As he went to take Byren's hand with his left arm, Byren spotted the bloody stump of his right arm held against his chest.

  With a curse, he hauled the youth up. In fact, he pulled so hard, the youth stumbled and Byren had to set him on his feet again.

  'What happened to you?' Byren asked, afraid he knew the answer.

  'The same thing that happened to all of us,' the smiler said. He wasn't smiling now. He'd managed the climb and had paused to help the solid one, who was struggling. For him the terrace was waist-high.

  'Here.' Byren stepped in and hauled the other youth up. Three men, all missing their right hands. 'It was the Merofynians, wasn't it?'

  'They're searching the valley for Byren Kingsheir. Every house they come to, they drag out the man of the house and ask for directions. If he can't help them, they chop off his right hand. They figure a man without his right hand is one less swordsman to worry about.' The smiler gestured with his stump. 'I was a player. No more juggling for me.'

  'And you?' Byren asked the solid youth.

  'A butcher. Just finished my apprenticeship. M'master died so I married his daughter and took over. Now who'll look after the shop?'

  Byren looked to the skinny one, the youngest who, on closer inspection, couldn't be more than fifteen.

  'I'm a scribe.' He gulped. 'At least I was. What good is a scribe who can't write?'

  Anger made Byren's breakfast an indigestible lump in his belly. Unless the Merofynians had crippled one of their own men so he could blend in, Byren could trust these three. 'Come on. You can share my breakfast.'

  They followed him up over the rise. From here they could see the farmhouse in the hollow.

  'I told you we shoulda kept walking last night,' the butcher complained.

  'Eh, just as well you didn't,' Byren told them. 'Last night six mounted Merofynians arrived here. Chopped off the right hand of the man of the house. He was all of thirteen. Then t
hey tied a chain around his neck and told him to lead them to Byren Kingsheir, or they'd do worse to his mam and little brother.'

  The butcher swore softly.

  'What is Rolencia coming to?' the scribe muttered. 'Where's King Byren when we need him?'

  'But, how did you escape? I don't -' The player broke off, staring at Byren with suspicion. 'You're no farmer. You're too well spoken. Where are these Merofynians? Where were you when the boy was taken?'

  'He's safe. The Merofynians are all dead. Couldn't have them running off and leading others back to -'

  'You're Byren Kingsheir. I mean King Byren!' the player said, then remembered his manners and made a passable bow, proving he must have performed for nobles.

  The other two would have followed suit but Byren stopped them. 'Here, none of that. Come down and eat. Then we have to leave.'

  Before long they had rearranged the family's belongings and were mounted up on the spare horses, with the scribe and butcher both looking as uncomfortable as Seela had the night before. The dogs barked, eager to get going. Tomorrow, Byren would send men down to the farm to wring the chickens' necks and walk the cows up to the camp. No sense in leaving anything for Merofynians to loot.

  For now, Byren saw his old nurse off with a stern warning to watch her back. She travelled on foot, disguised as a wise-woman selling simple remedies. Wise-women were welcomed in every village. They helped with anything from treating bad teeth to delivering babies. It was the perfect way to spread word of the loyalist camp, the Leogryf's Lair.

  Seela nodded to the three maimed men, who waited further up the path with Esfira and Tikhon. 'If those three are anything to go by, I'll have no trouble convincing others to join you.'

  'And all of them maimed. I'll lead an army of cripples!'

  'Take that attitude and you deserve to lose,' Seela told him, tapping his chest with her finger, as if he was ten, not twenty. 'After a bit of training, a man can do wonders with his left hand.'

  He laughed and kissed her forehead. 'I'll miss you, Seela. Take care.'

  'Don't worry about me. All they'll see is a weak old woman.'

  Byren had to be satisfied with that. He let her go and returned to the others, leading Tikhon's horse.

  'Will I see Vadik soon?' Tikhon asked.

  'Soon,' Byren said, hoping the big brother had not been brought low by his fever. And he plunged up the path, leading the horse with the others following.

  Fyn blinked gritty, tired eyes. He'd hardly slept, kept awake by the juddering of the ship's timbers as the Wyvern's Whelp tried to outrun the Utland raiders. At the crest of each wave she paused almost as if she'd keep rising. Then she slid down the other side, cutting deep into the upward slope of the next - spray leaping left and right - before clawing her way up the wave's rise.

  It was just as well he had his sea legs, for the ship ran before the wind with every concertina-sail fully extended. He looked up, seeing the mid-morning sun gleam through the canvas, the sail's thin wooden ribs illuminated from behind.

  They'd been prepared to do battle since last night. A brazier stood nearby, the coals hot, ready for the stack of tar-dipped arrows.

  Fire on a ship at sea? The thought horrified him. If the ship burned to the waterline, they'd drown out here, far from land.

  The quarter-master prodded him in the ribs as he passed by. 'Go help Jaku.'

  Jakulos sat at the spinning whetstone, sharpening the crews' weapons.

  Fyn went over to the big man, who greeted him with a grin. 'Thought so, Bantam can't abide seeing a man idle.'

  He spoke the Ostronite trading dialect with the accent of Merofynia, but Fyn knew he had no love for his homeland. He'd been press-ganged to serve the Merofynian navy. With the big man's shirt off, Fyn could see the many criss-crossing scars stretched across the meaty muscles of his back. The blemishes glistened in the sun, silver and slick with sweat. Here, in the lea of the fore-deck, it was surprisingly warm.

  Jakulos selected a sword from the pile waiting to be sharpened. The singing of the sword on the whetstone made it impossible to speak.

  As there didn't seem to be anything Fyn could do, he looked around. Everyone had a role, everyone knew their place, except him. Even the ten-year-old cabin boy knew more than him and, at nearly seventeen, that rankled.

  Back at Halcyon Abbey, he'd completed ten years' training as an acolyte, and been due to get his final scalp tattoo and shave off his top-knot this spring cusp. Now, he suspected he'd never become a monk. To disguise himself, he'd cut the betraying top-knot and his hair was growing out, obscuring his abbey tattoos.

  The Wyvern's Whelp reminded him of the abbey in some ways. Everyone had a task, from the ship's carpenter who kept her sea-worthy, to the helmsman who handled the wheel, to the navigator, a true artist who read the sea's subtle signs and took the readings to work out their position relative to the sun. They all worked like the clock in the guildhall bell tower, cogs fitting into other cogs to create a greater whole. And, right now, that whole was intent on escaping the Utland raiders.

  Jakulos lifted the blade to study it. Satisfied, he placed it on the sharpened pile.

  'We're making good time,' Fyn said. 'I don't think they've gained since we put up all our canvas.'

  Jakulos sent him a weighing look, then selected a pouch of knives from the table at his side. He ran his finger over each to test their edge, speaking softly. 'They're Utland raiders. We're sea-hounds, their sworn enemies. We've protected merchant convoys. We've hunted down, attacked and sunk more Utland ships than you've had hot dinners. Nothing is going to put them off the chase.' He lifted his head and glanced out to sea. 'And we're too far from Ostron Isle to make it to port. Barring a convenient storm or mist, they'll catch us. Here, take these down to the ship's surgeon.' Jakulos rolled up the leather pouch and handed it to Fyn. 'We're lucky the cap'n believes in keeping a healthy crew. We've a real, Ostron Isle-trained surgeon, nothing like the butchering carpenter who doubled as a surgeon on my last ship.'

  Fyn accepted the pouch. Down below deck he found the surgeon's assistant scrubbing the work-table with lye. Its sharp scent stung Fyn's eyes. Meanwhile the surgeon checked his supplies, which were stored in bags or glass jars, labelled in faded, spidery writing.

  'Master Jakulos sends your pouch,' Fyn said. The old surgeon took it with an absent-minded nod. Fyn registered no Affinity from him. Nothing to hasten healing. The least of the abbey's healers had Affinity to hasten healing or ease pain or fight festering. Each trained to hone their gift, then worked as a team to save lives. Very different from here.

  'What are you staring at?' the surgeon's apprentice asked.

  As Fyn opened his mouth to reply, a cry from above cut him off.

  'Utlanders to starboard.'

  Weren't they to port? For a heartbeat he didn't understand.

  Then the surgeon cursed. 'Another scavenger. Just what we need.'

  There were two Utland raiders on their tail? Fyn ran up on deck, hurrying up the steps to the rear deck where Captain Nefysto held the farseer to his eye. The wind flung the captain's long black hair over his shoulder.

  The younger son of one of the great families of Ostron Isle, Nefysto wore onyx stones threaded through his hair and these glinted in the sunlight. Their countries had never been more than trading partners, but Fyn had more in common with the captain than anyone else. They were both educated men on a ship of scoundrels.

  The captain swore softly under his breath, slamming the farseer closed.

  'Can we outrun them?' Fyn asked, joining him to watch the converging sails.

  'We would stand a better chance if we dumped our cargo over the side. But that would rather defeat the purpose.' He grinned at Fyn. Even on ship, while fleeing Utlanders, Nefysto dressed like the Ostronite noble he was. Velvet knee-length coat, black lace at his throat and boots, when everyone else aboard went barefoot. The light in his dark eyes, however, was anything but civilised.

  Nefysto might enjoy the challenge, b
ut Fyn just wanted to survive long enough to get home and find Byren.

  Chapter Three

  For Piro the day passed in a blur. As a noble from an old family, Dunstany's mansion was built in a prime position overlooking the Landlocked Sea, not far from the king's palace.

  His servants prepared a bath scented with rose oil, then led her to a chamber fit for a queen. Chests lay open, heaped with glittering clothes. There were dresses embroidered with gold thread and inset with jewels, wraps of the finest silk from Ostron Isle, slippers of exquisite wyvern skin and bolts of delicate Rolencian lace.

  Judging from all this, Dunstany's wealth easily equalled her father's, and the scholar was only a noble of Merofynia. Piro's mother had never said anything, but her old nurse had often complained about the way they lived in Rolenhold, saying they were little better than barbarian spar warlords. Now Piro saw the truth in this.

  Servants dressed her in a gown of dark red velvet. It was laced down her back, the bodice embroidered in gold thread. A gold-trimmed cap was pinned to her head and matching slippers tied around her ankles. All too soon she was ready. She sat and waited, gnawing her bottom lip.

  A tray of fruit and sweet wine was sent to Piro's room, but she was too nervous to eat or drink. What was Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter like? Would she make Piro's life unbearable?

  At last the servants came to say Lord Dunstany was waiting in the entrance foyer. Piro paused at the top of the stairs.

  The noble scholar looked up and smiled, the corners of his wispy moustache lifting. 'You look every bit a kingsdaughter, Seelon. I suppose I should call you Seela, now that you have resumed your true gender.'

  As she glided down the steps, grateful for her mother's interminable lessons in court etiquette, Piro noted that Dunstany had changed out of his usual woollen scholarly attire. For the feast, he wore indigo silk, so dark it was almost black. His robes touched the floor and his iron-grey hair glinted loose on his shoulders. A single pendant, a star-within-a-circle - the Dunstany noble symbol - hung on his chest. She guessed the amber pendant was under his robe, and once again her resentment surfaced.