The Usurper (5 page)

His arrow hit the Utlander's sails. Jakulos joined them with a bow. Fyn ran to get another arrow. By the time he'd taken aim, flames were leaping across the Utlanders' deck and the raiders raced about, shouting orders as they sought to save the ship.

A flashing spear of silver shot down from the Skirling Stone. A man screamed. Then another and another.

A cacophony of cries followed, quickly drowned out by the crashing waves, now that the
Wyvern's Whelp
was in the channel between the reefs.

Its crew's cries cloaked by the sea, the first Utlander ship burned. As Fyn watched a wave caught it, driving the ship against the base of a stone pillar and spinning it around so that it blocked the passage, trapping the second ship. Masts toppled, sending flaming sails onto a deck already seething under the Affinity beasts' attack, dropping sails onto the second as yet undamaged ship. The men stood no chance.

Fyn swallowed and turned away, not wanting to witness the manner of their deaths.

Bantam clapped him on the shoulder. 'Quick thinking, little monk.'

Two shiploads of men, dead. Fyn's stomach heaved. He ran to the side and threw up until his stomach was empty. Tears blurred his vision.

By the time he lifted his head, the
Wyvern's Whelp
rode the waves of the open sea. And Runt waited with a mug of watered wine.

Fyn accepted it gratefully, rinsed his mouth, spat and took a gulp. He turned around to see most of the crew watching, waiting. At Bantam's signal, they cheered.

Runt smiled up at Fyn.

And he'd been afraid he would not be accepted.

Still, if they only knew how he had failed the abbey and his family. He'd failed to realise that the seal on the message, supposedly from his father, was a fraud. By the time he had it was too late and the abbey's fighting monks had left, heading into an ambush. He'd failed to save the abbot, when the abbey was attacked. He'd failed to reach Rolenhold in time to save his family. Little Piro...

He mustn't think of Piro.

Feeling a fraud, he shrugged off the sea-hounds' praise, but they broke open a crate of fine Rolencian red wine, stolen from his homeland, and shared it out, insisting he take a drink.

As Fyn lifted the bottle, he met the captain's eye. Here he was, a captive, forced to rob the Merofynians who had plundered his homeland, forced to drink a toast to the survival of his captors.

Well aware of the nuances, Nefysto raised his bottle with an ironic grin.

In defiance, Fyn upended the bottle, gulping its contents. The rich red wine reminded him of evenings in his father's hall. King Rolen calling for stories and songs, his mother's fond smile. Little Piro dancing about, laughing, teasing the storyteller for tales of Queen Pirola the Fierce.

Argh.
He must not think of Piro.

He upended the bottle again, seeking oblivion.

Chapter Five

Byren tensed. The shouting came from his honour guard, who were in the next hollow, teaching the fittest of the loyalists the use of the longsword, and the tone was just a fraction too eager. Normally, Orrade would be with them, but he was out checking the sentries on the approach trails.

Byren blew his breath out in a snort of resignation. Judging by those shouts, someone was about to be knocked silly for the entertainment of the lads. And it was up to him to sort it out.

He skirted an outcropping of rock dusted with last night's snowfall, thinking he did not need trouble now.

After breakfast, Orrade had reported on their numbers - the old, the nursing mothers and children, and the able-bodied men. Then, with Dovecote's redoubtable cook, he had inspected their stores, trying to work out how long they could feed everyone before he'd have to make a trip into the rich Rolencian valley to forage for food. How was he going to pay for this? He didn't want to steal food from his own people.

Normally, the farmers would harvest two crops each summer, but when the Merofynians invaded they'd destroyed the abbey's hothouse-forced seedlings, so the farmers could only hope for one harvest and a lean one at that. Everyone in the valley would have to tighten their belts.

Unless Byren led a successful attack on Rolenhold, recaptured his father's castle, executed Cobalt and retook Rolencia before autumn, there would be deaths from starvation. He needed access to the castle's granary and the abbey's stores.

He needed a lot of things.

Coming around the bend, through the trees, he had a clear view into the hollow below, and paused to take in the tableau.

'Eh, Florin.' He cursed softly under his breath.

The tradepost keeper's daughter swung a staff. It was the traditional weapon of the farmers, who could not afford a sword and armour. She faced Winterfall and, from his expression, he meant to show her her place.

'Now this is why the farmers stay back and let the warriors lead the attack,' Winterfall said, coming in, swinging the sword. He turned the flat for the strike, but even so, Byren knew it would bruise and possibly break a rib.

A cry sprang to Byren's lips, ready to call a halt to the match, but Old Man Narrows stepped out of the trees and touched him lightly on the arm.

'Leave her be. If she's bitten off more than she can chew, it's better she discovers it now, rather than on the battlefield.'

Byren frowned. It seemed a harsh attitude for Florin's father to take, but honest. Female warriors were few and far between. They just didn't have the strength that men had. Queen Pirola had led Rolencia's warriors, but that was different. She'd had to protect her kingdom. Besides, she was safely relegated to history.

Florin was here now, confronting his honour guard. Banning her from these practice sessions would ease the tension, but her father was right, Florin deserved the chance to prove herself, or fail.

He hoped she didn't fail... or did he? He didn't want her risking her life on the battlefield.

'She's her mother all over again,' Narrows muttered. 'I considered myself lucky to win that mountain girl.'

When Byren looked back, Florin was already moving, watching her opponent closely. Winterfall's sword was almost as tall as him. The length meant once he was committed to the attack, if he did not strike home, he had to follow through, adjust his stance and bring the sword around for another strike.

Florin avoided the first blow and took the opportunity to step in. She brought the top of the staff over, clipping him lightly on the head. It was only a tap but the message was there. She could have knocked him out.

Perched on a fallen tree, Leif cheered. Byren's honour guard and the other would-be-warriors were ominously silent.

Florin's concentration didn't lapse.

Winterfall shook his head and gripped the sword more securely, obviously adjusting his attitude as he eyed her warily. He stood half a head shorter than Florin, but with twice the breadth of shoulders, and Byren knew he would hate being bested by her.

Florin waited for his strike, which seemed to infuriate Winterfall, for he glared and took a swing at her that would have knocked her off her feet, if it had connected.

She darted back, brought the end of her staff up, point-on, and thrust so that it darted in, striking him in the chest. If she'd delivered it full strength it would have been enough to wind him. As it was it only angered him.

Byren recognised the signs. Florin thought ahead, while Winterfall was reacting. This was not going to end well for him.

'Perhaps I should call a stop,' Narrows muttered.

Byren touched his arm, giving a slight shake of his head. 'It'll be hard for court-raised warriors to accept a female in their ranks. This isn't the uncivilised spars where women fight alongside their men -'

'Half the time, they have no choice,' Narrows said.

Byren conceded the point. 'But Florin chose this. If she wants their respect she has to earn it. And Winterfall's a good lad. He's big enough to take this.' Byren only hoped he was right.

While they were speaking, Winterfall had attacked again. Florin side-stepped and, in the same fluid movement, swung the end of her staff down hard on his forearm. Byren could hear the impact as Winterfall's sword fell from his numbed hand.

Then she used the staff to sweep his legs out from under him. Winterfall fell back onto compacted snow, the air leaving his lungs in a grunt of surprise. Florin rotated the staff in her hands, bringing the point to his throat.

Then she lowered the point, grinned and offered Winterfall her hand.

The watchers held their breath. Byren knew this was the real test. His honour guard respected Winterfall, so they would follow his lead.

The youth sucked in greedy breaths, face flushed with exertion and anger. Florin's place in Byren's loyalists hung in the balance. Then Winterfall's expression lightened and he lifted his hand.

Florin hauled him upright, clapping him on the back. But he brushed her hand aside and stalked back to his companions, leaving her alone on that side of the clearing.

As Byren sucked in his breath, he realised Old Man Narrows was doing the same. Winterfall's bruises were not only physical.

Byren tapped Old Man Narrows on the shoulder. 'Here, give me your staff.'

Grabbing the staff, he trotted down the slope to enter the clearing. 'My turn. Let's see if I can get the hang of this weapon.'

Florin turned to him, clever eyes troubled. Clearly, she realised he was trying to smooth things over. Next thing he knew, her prickly pride would make her refuse his suggestion.

Byren weighed the staff in his hands, addressing the lads behind her. 'A man never knows when he's going to be caught without his sword. If he can pick up a lump of wood and turn it into a weapon, he's always armed.' He met Florin's eyes. 'Come on.'

She smiled, dropping into a bent-kneed, loose-limbed stance.

His honour guard edged back to give them room, shouting advice. Some of it ribald, as one staff reminded them of another. Old Man Narrows came down from the tree line, stepping into view. The bawdy comments ceased.

Byren circled Florin, feeling the length and weight of the staff. As the king's second son, he'd trained with noble weapons such as the sword and shield. A staff was a farmer's weapon, but he was familiar with it, which was just as well because he intended to make a good fight of it... before letting Florin win. His father had always said a good leader leads by example. If Byren Kingsheir could lose to a girl without being belittled, then so could his men.

Florin grinned, her white teeth flashing, long plait swaying as she moved lightly from foot to foot. He knew she would not hold back, would disarm him if she could.

He laughed.

Florin's staff flashed in, testing him.

He met it. The wooden staves clacked, and then slid past each other. She was fast.

They circled each other.

He made a swipe at her legs. She blocked, lifting her staff's end and forcing his up and around so that he was open. He only just managed to duck the head strike that had tricked Winterfall earlier. She was good.

Old Man Narrows chuckled.

Before he could avoid it, she tapped Byren's knuckles. If she'd struck any harder he would have lost the staff. Byren realised he was not going to have to work hard to make his loss look convincing. He glanced up, noting the slope of the gully was crowded with onlookers. Everyone had come to watch their match. Great.

Byren eased his shoulders. It was no good tensing up during a fight. You needed to relax and let your body respond intuitively.

His boot slipped on an exposed rock, his balance wavered and, in that instant, Florin struck. She darted inside his guard, using the force of her rush to disarm him and shoulder him to the ground.

He went down on his back, rolled up onto his shoulders, arched his back and flipped to his feet like an acrobat. It was a trick he had learnt in his early teens. His men cheered.

Florin was surprised to find him facing her and inside her guard. Before she could spring back, he caught her in a bear hug, lifting her off the ground. Since he was half a head taller than her and heavily muscled, it was easy. With her arms and the staff pinned to her side there wasn't much she could do.

But she could kick his shins. He grunted in pain.

She glared at him, eyes laughing. 'You're lucky I don't head-butt your pretty face!'

Byren laughed. Fyn was the pretty one, Lence the handsome one. His mother used to say he had a winning smile. He had no illusions. He tightened his hold. 'You're lucky I don't crush your ribs.'

His men cheered. Byren let her drop to the ground and she sprang away, light as a cat, staff at the ready.

He laughed. 'No, the match is yours. I pity the Merofynian who comes up against you!'

His men cheered again.

Florin's eyes widened in surprise. Then she sent him a quick, wry smile of acknowledgement. No doubt about it, she was sharp. Maybe as clever as Orrade.

Byren laughed and tugged on her plait, just as the cook rattled the lunch ladle. Everyone headed back up to the camp.

But Old Man Narrows caught his arm. 'Eh, Byren? A word.'

'Sure.'

'You've five, no, six maimed men,' Narrows said. 'More will follow.'

'I know. And there's not a thing I can do about it.'

'Don't blame yourself, lad. You didn't give the Merofynians their orders.'

'No, but it's me they're after.'

'So, hand yourself in.'

Byren glared, then snorted. 'You've made your point.'

Old Man Narrows grinned, a flash of white teeth in a dark beard. 'Give the maimed ones to me. I'll train them. I'll give them back their self-respect.'

'How?'

'By not treating them like cripples.'

Byren let out his breath. 'Now I know why Florin is the way she is.'

'And how is she?'

Byren lifted a hand to deflect the father's belligerence. 'Don't get me wrong. She thinks she's the equal of any man. And she may just be right.'

Narrows hesitated. 'She's a good girl, lad. Hurt her and I'll come after you, king or no king.'

Byren shook his head. 'It's not like that. I don't use women like...' he broke off. He'd nearly said 'like Lence.' He started again. 'I gave my heart to Orrade's sister. And she died in my arms. I have no heart. When I marry, it will be to cement Rolencia's alliances.'

'Good, because it's hard for a woman to tell her king no.'

Byren flushed. He was not like Lence.

Fyn's head thumped in time to the beat of his heart, his mouth felt like the inside of the captain's bird cage and the midday sun made his eyes hurt. He uttered a silent vow never to drink again.

But Fyn was not alone. The only person on board the
Wyvern's Whelp
who wasn't hungover was little Runt. He went about whistling.

Jakulos winced. 'Eh, lad. Keep it down.'

The cabin boy laughed and came to a stop in front of Fyn. 'Captain wants to see you.'

With a groan, Fyn pulled himself to his feet. He paused halfway across the mid-deck, to swallow a beaker of water.

In the cabin, he blinked and tried to concentrate as he recognised the map spread across Nefysto's desk. The captain was plotting a course for Ostron Isle.

'That was too close a call,' Nefysto muttered, head bent over the map. 'I'm taking her into port to have her hull scraped.'

Fyn said nothing, not sure what was required of him.

Nefysto lifted his head. 'We owe our lives to you. You saw the opportunity to make the Affinity beasts' natural instincts serve us.' He rolled up the map and sat back in his chair, long legs stretched out. 'I know you want to return to Rolencia and I'd like to oblige you, but I have my orders. When we get to port, unless you give me your word of honour to remain with the
Wyvern's Whelp
, I'll have you placed under arrest.'