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  THE BOOKS OF THE KINGDOMS

  THE USURPER

  Angus Wells

  In the Realm of the Dead

  From the sarcophagus there came a creaking as of ancient armor stirring, and something rose, slowly at first, as if brought from a long sleep. Kedryn stared at it. Of physical features there was no sign: It was as though the creature consisted of shadow, blackness where the flesh should be.

  It spoke, and its voice was as rusted armor, sending a waft of putrescence billowing across the strange chamber.

  “Living flesh.” It seemed a condemnation. “What business has living flesh here in the realm of the dead?”

  Kedryn felt the power of the creature as the blank casque faced him. He felt fear, and Wynett’s hand tight in his.

  “I have a duty to those still living, and my time is not yet done. I was blinded by one now dead, and would ask him for my eyes that I might dispense that duty. Wynett stands with me because I need her. Let us go by. I ask as hef-Alador.”

  Noxious laughter rang through the chamber and the thing said, “The one you slew is here. And many others. Perhaps some you would rather not face. I know you, hef-Alador, and I tell you—go back!”

  THE SECOND BOOK OF THE KINGDOMS:

  THE USURPER

  Angus Wells

  BANTAM BOOKS

  NEW YORK · TORONTO · LONDON · SYDNEY · AUCKLAND

  THE USURPER

  A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with

  Sphere Books Ltd.

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Sphere edition published 1989

  Bantam edition / August 1990

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1989 by Angus Wells.

  Cover art copyright © 1990 by Larry Elmore.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording, or by any information

  storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

  from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  ISBN 0-553-28566-1

  Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words ”Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Regis- trada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  OPM 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6

  For Nick Webb, who had faith.

  Contents

  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

  Prologue

  The taste of defeat was bitter, the more so for being both unknown and unexpected. The might of the Horde he had raised was broken against the stones of the Lozin Gate, the creature he had lifted up to lead it slain by a near-beardless youth, the creature he had sent to slay that youth himself destroyed, He could not understand it, for his master had promised victory and the promise of the god Ashar was as sure as the fires of his birthing; yet it had come: the Kingdoms stood intact.

  In bitterness he retreated into the forests, leaving the barbarians to their own devices, to sue for peace or flee, he no longer cared: the promises he had made them in the name of his master meant nothing, for they had failed him. And yet, even in the chagrin of his rout, he saw that a purpose still remained—the youth, the one called Kedryn Caitin, must be destroyed. He did not properly understand the significance of the young man, knowing only that Kedryn had somehow stood against the ensorcelled sword of Niloc Yarrum, had somehow escaped the berserk fury of Borsus, thus confirming the instinctive suspicion that he was, in some inexplicable way, a greater obstacle than all the armies mustered in defense of the Kingdoms. While he still lived Ashar’s purpose must stand in threat of thwarting, and while that menace should exist so must his own existence stand in danger. He must find a way to bring about his master's design.

  He moved steadily deeper into the woodlands, traversing paths untrod by man, moving with a speed greater than human form might attain, the beasts of the forest scattering from his way as they would scatter from the encroaching breath of fire, sensing in him that which he was able to hide from man. Deeper and ever deeper he moved, until he came to that place where first he had known this life given him by his master, where Ashar’s fires had first burned in the Beltrevan.

  It was a silent, sere place devoid of birdsong or animal life. The trees were not grown back where his birthing fire had scorched the ground, nor any undergrowth. Rather, it was a place that denied natural life, the earth still hidden beneath a thick layering of ash undisturbed by spoor or seeding, nubs of flame-scorched timber like rotted tooth stumps, the rock itself glass-smooth as cooled magma.

  Ashar was here. He could feel the presence of the god, and he felt a chill touch of dread.

  He shed the furs that had hid his frame from human sight and stood in unhuman nakedness, knowing what he must do yet fearing the wrath of his master, that fear stoking the hate he felt for Kedryn Caitin and the folk of the Kingdoms and the blue-robed followers of Ashar’s enemy. He nursed the hate, letting it kindle until it burned fiercer than the dread, and then his thin lips began to move, forming words impossible for human tongue to utter. He stretched out his arms, blue flame flickering about his taloned fingers, sparking and crackling, filling the stifled air with the sharp tang of ozone. The droning of his chant grew louder, and as it did the cold fire formed in his mouth, wreathing about his mantis-features as his cratered eyes blazed red as smoldering coals. Louder and higher he chanted until the silence of the burned woodland was filled with the sound, his arms raised high, his head craned back, his frame rigid. Then, abruptly, he dropped his arms, screaming a single word: “Ashar!”

  The blue fire spurted from mouth and fingertips, converging, striking ground that exploded into flame, a great column of incandescence blazing red against a darkening sky, tongues of fire filling the blackened clearing, washing over him so that he shuddered with the ecstasy of the heat. Up and up rose the column until it seemed to link earth and heavens, seemed to bum down into the earth, a corridor to the netherworld from which he summoned his master.

  And Ashar came, the knowledge of the god’s presence sending him to his knees, head bowed lest he gaze upon that which even he feared to observe directly.

  “ You have failed me.”

  The words were thunder and lightning that blasted the surrounding pines, setting them to swaying, flame dancing over their limbs.

  He groveled, prostrating himself, his mouth against the ash, his answer—his plea—spoken into the cinders.

  “I did my best. I did as you bade me.”

  “You say the fault is mine?"

  “No, Master! Never yours; but ...”

  “Excuses! Do you plead for your miserable existence? That which I have given, I can take away."

  “I plead to continue your work, Master! Only that. I know these creatures better now. I know that Kyrie stands with them.”

  “Kyrie!" The trees growing about the great blackened patch of forest burst into flame as the central column gouted outward, f
ire roaring until it seemed all the Beltrevan must blaze. uYou affront me with that cursed name!"

  “Her power is great there.” He spoke quickly, spitting ash and hatred with each word, momentarily aware that the burning that was his god could so easily reach out to take him. “And one there is who stands in our way—Kedryn Caitin. He withstood the magic of the sword and I believe he is favored of her. ”

  “Kedryn Caitin " The thunder rumbled a fraction softer, almost ruminative. “You killed him?"

  “I tried, Master, but I could not. There is power in him; enough that three times he escaped me. He lives still.”

  “He should not " roared the god, “and as he does, why should 1 not destroy you?"

  “I can serve you still, Master.” His clawed hands dug into the ashy soil, his malformed shape tensing in anticipation of dreadful anger. “I know them better now and if you send me amongst them again I believe I may achieve your will—so long as I destroy this one.”

  “What is he?" demanded Ashar, the fulguration of his voice lessened. “A priest? Does she take men under her skirts now?"

  “A warrior. A youth. A princeling of Tamur, I believe; not a priest—she still calls women to her service. But she affords him her protection. He it was thwarted our purpose.”

  uThen he must be destroyed!" Lightning stalked the ground about the prostrate figure. “This time you must not fail me"

  He drew deep, ashy breath as he recognized clemency and promised, “No, Master. This time I shall not fail you.”

  “You have thought on this? You have a design?"

  “I have. I must go amongst them. Not the forest folk this time, but the people of the Kingdoms. Where might has failed us, subtlety may prevail. I shall seek to destroy from within, not overwhelm with swordmight but seduce.”

  “How so?" Ashar demanded, the question a rolling peal of thunder.

  “There are three kingdoms, Master,” came the answer, “and a lord to each. A king above them in the city they call Andurel; elected. Men are ambitious and lords lust for kingship. Should their king die . .

  “An ambitious man might be bent to my will”

  “Aye, Master. And were that man made king the youth Kedryn must obey his commands and thus fall into my hands.”

  “If they know you, you are lost. / cannot protect you where that bitch holds sway. ”

  “I shall guise myself,” he promised, a little more confident now. “They will not know me until it is too late. I shall bring down Kedryn Caitin and all the blue-robed whores. I swear it.”

  Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed from the incandescent core of the fire, then Ashar said, “Go, Taws, and fulfill that promise. Give me the Kingdoms.”

  He sensed the departure of the god, not daring to raise his head until the last rumblings of the thunder had long died, and then cautiously, his deep-set eyes hooded, furtive as he peered about. Flame still candled where he had created it, but now only as a fireball, no longer that column reaching into the nowhere of the otherworld. He rose, more confident now, and stalked to the center of that flame, basking in it, renewing his strength and his hope in the aftermath of Ashar’s presence.

  Through the final waning of the light and all the hours of darkness he remained there, until the sun rose again, shedding brightness over the looming shadows of the deep timber. Then he gestured and the flame died. He clad himself again in the furs that hid his frame and went once more from that place, about Ashar’s business.

  In time, as he moved steadily southward toward the Kingdoms, he encountered barbarians, scattered groups mostly, the first to flee the scene of battle, their bearded features sullen in defeat. He avoided them, unsure of the reception he might receive and unwilling to expend energy on defense, knowing that he would need all his strength for what lay ahead. Only when he had come close to the pass through the Lozins where the two forts stood did he reveal himself.

  There was a solitary Caroc separated, he presumed, by dint of wounds from his tribesmen. The warrior limped, leaning heavily on the shaft of his broken spear, stained bandages about one leg, his beard blood-crusted from a savage cut across his cheek. Shield and ax were slung on his back and in his eyes was the disillusion of a belief gone down in ruin. Taws stepped from the shelter of the trees to confront him and the tribesman mouthed a curse, shaping his left hand in the three-fingered gesture of warding even as he leveled the broken spear.

  “You know me,” Taws said, his voice soft as a serpent’s hiss.

  “Taws the sorcerer!” The Caroc spat the words like a curse. “Taws the betrayer! Where did you run, mage? Where were you when the hef-Ulan fell? When Balandir died? Where are your promises now, mage?”

  “With Ashar my master,” Taws responded. “Where ever they were.”

  “Ashar has deserted us,” said the warrior bluntly. “Now stand aside or test your magic against my blade.”

  Taws’s eyes burned red at this sally, glowing as might coals set in the pit of a furnace. He made a small gesture and the Caroc’s spear shaft burst into flame, eliciting a cry of alarm from the man, who threw the burning wood from him and reached awkwardly for the ax shaft jutting above his right shoulder.

  His hand froze upon the leather bindings as Taws’s gaze transfixed him, and he stood, rooted in the moment, his lips slackening as the mage drew closer. Taws set narrow hands upon the brawny shoulders and stared deep into the warrior’s eyes. “What happened?” he demanded. “After Niloc Yarrum fell and Ymrath died, what happened then?”

  “Balandir led us,” murmured the Caroc, his voice dreamy, “but the Horde was divided. The Drott and the Yath resented him and the Vistral went back to the forest with Ymrath’s death. Tamur, Kesh and Ust-Galich came against us and they were too many, for we argued too long amongst ourselves. Had you been there to announce Balandir hef-Ulan we might have prevailed, but you were not and the armies of the Kingdoms rode out from High Fort to defeat us. Balandir was slain and we were lost. The Kingdoms offered peace and Vran of the Yath spoke for that. He persuaded the rest. We were allowed to remove our dead and return to the Beltrevan.”

  Taws nodded. “And now?”

  “Now the Kingdoms celebrate their victory and rebuild their fort. I know no more than that.”

  “It is enough,” Taws murmured.

  And drew the warrior close, bending to drop his head, ash- white lips descending upon the man’s as the ruby eyes sparked an unholy fire. Panic flared for an instant in the warrior’s eyes, then faded as the orbs dulled and the limbs fell slack. Taws released his grip and the corpse slumped to the ground, drained of more than life. The mage sighed his satisfaction and commenced his southward journey.

  Within a matter of days he came in sight of High Fort. The walls stood jagged where the catapults of the Horde had battered the stone and the rumble of the Idre was augmented by the hammers of stonemasons as they carved fresh blocks from the Lozin walls. The wreckage of the catapults was gone, though the memory of the Horde remained in the devastation of the timber and the scorched grass of a myriad cookfires. There were soldiers present, escorting the civilian masons, Tamurin archers and Galichian pikemen, patrols of mounted Keshi forcing the mage to hide as he awaited the opportunity he sought with growing impatience.

  It came with the first snow of the encroaching winter. All day Taws had hidden within a circle of rocks close to the Beltrevan road, his furs drawn close about his angular frame as he awaited his opportunity. He watched the masons carve their blocks and manhandle them onto carts that rumbled ponderously toward the fort; the archers and pikemen huddle under winter cloaks, the bowmen holding their weapons close against them for fear the snow might slacken strings; the horsemen canter past on the treacherous surface. Dusk approached, deceptive behind the steady curtaining of snow. He saw the masons stow their tools and start back under the watchful eyes of the guards, and heard before he saw the clatter of a returning Keshi patrol.

  The riders were swathed in snow-dusted black, each cape emblazoned with the
horsehead emblem of their kingdom, sabers on their belts and lances upright in their hands. They appeared less concerned with the danger of barbarian treaty-breakers than with a swift return to the warmth of High Fort, where food and a measure of evshan would stave off the growing chill. Taws did not know whether it was sheer good fortune or the will of his master, still strong here in the last reaches of the Beltrevan, that afforded him his chance, but when it came he took it with alacrity.

  A shod hoof slipped on the churned roadway and a horse went down with a scream of alarm. The rider sprang nimbly from the saddle, tossing his lance to a companion as he urged his mount to its feet, then cursed as the animal raised a sprained foreleg. Taws could not yet understand the language of the Keshi cavalrymen, but the conversation explained itself as the troop moved off into the dusk, leaving their comrade to walk his horse in.

  Taws came out from his hiding place then, the snow that clung to his furs rendering him near-invisible until he was almost on the Keshi. The horse nickered nervously and the man turned, a hand dropping to his sword hilt as he saw the tall, white-maned figure approaching. His mouth opened to shout a warning that failed to materialize because Taws’s hand fastened about his wrist and the mage’s eyes burned redly into his, quelling the cry stillborn. The horse shrilled and tore free of the slack-fingered grip, running as best its injury allowed into the shrouding snow. Taws loomed above the bowlegged rider, his rubescent gaze probing deep into the fear-filled eyes. For long moments he stood facing the man, then nodded, murmuring a name: “Hattim Sethiyan.” Then, as he had done with the wounded Caroc, he stooped to kiss the Keshi, that awful caress draining the light from the man’s eyes, the tension from his limbs, so that when the mage released him he crumpled slack to the ground, his body seeming deflated, emptied.