Usurper: A King's Head, #1

CHAPTER 1

A HAND CLASPED a bare spur of rock, its owner hanging, chest heaving and damp, against the gaunt face of the mountain. Steadying his breathing with an almighty effort, he hauled himself painfully onto the narrow ledge and turned until he sat, head back, dragging fresh, keen air into his lungs. He remained there until the pounding in his chest diminished and he could cast around to renew his bearings. He remembered the ledge from his dream. It wound up the rock face and disappeared beyond a fold in the mountainside to his left. The steps should follow.

The land spread out below, folded and knotted, grey and black in the gloom, a rolling realm of tranquil farms and sweet woods, protected from their predatory, barbarian neighbours by this immense bastion of rock. The castle and city were down there, immeasurably far below, but he could detect no hint of their flickering lights. If their erasure were due to an intervening buttress, they would reappear on his return. If due to sorcery…

A freezing gust caught his hair, whirling it about his head. He was a young man, greater than middle height, but not tall. Supple of frame and evenly proportioned, Callin Vorst looked equally at home, if equally unremarkable, in court regalia and everyday clothing. His hair was shorter than shoulder length, straight and light brown in colour, his eyes grey and sharp. He wore a leather jerkin with matching breeches, a linen shirt and stout boots. He was armed, as was his custom when not on the training field, with a single dagger at his waist. His breathing steadied, he took a moment to stare at the embossed ring on the third finger of his left hand. The Seal of the Vorsts: a symbol of his power, true and potential. True in that he was a member of the Kingdom's second family; potential in that he was the least of them.

Five hundred years of Vandamm rule, he muttered bitterly, as if in prayer to the black heavens. If you exist at all, yield us our destiny this night.

Carefully, slowly, he pushed against the surface of the ledge and slid upwards into a standing position. There he stood, heart pounding, until his nerves steadied. Taking a firm grip with his left hand, he twisted round to face the mountain wall and began to creep the final part of the journey. The ledge tilted slightly upwards, which was curiously reassuring. At length, he reached the fold and crept round it into an inky crack between two vertical walls of rock.

He lumbered in, a hand on each wall. Overhead, the moon showed in a paler gap between the two blocks of impenetrable gloom.

He stumbled, grazing his knee. Reaching down to rub the soreness away, he felt along the edge of the stone. Instead of a jagged anarchy of cutting ridges, it was regular, sharp, straight and level. The rock beyond it was also smooth. It was a step. Exultation burst within him, for he knew at last that this perilous climb was almost over. Extending a toe, he found the next riser, then the next. The steps continued straight and true. With renewed energy flowing in his legs, he ascended the staircase.

A steely light burst around him as he emerged, tripping on the final riser and landing flat on his face. Several moments passed before the ache in his legs throbbed and then subsided. Cautiously, he hauled himself to his feet.

Ragged clouds flitted through the darkness overhead, dividing the rock into alternate bands of black and grey. Beyond its edge was an inky void. The wind howled distantly around the peaks and he could see patches of lofty eternal snow glowing purple in the moonlight. One summit towered higher than all the others: a slim, spike-like finger thrusting proudly to the heavens, coated on one side by a blueish mantle of snow, from which a shimmering veil of spindrift seemed to hang eternally: Ferullas, the Hag’s Roof.

Instead of shivering now that he was in the open, he discovered that this eyrie was far from cold. The mountain’s sheer face fell away, and the wind howled in icy shrieks all about, yet no breath of it touched him. He might have been on the seashore on a summer's evening instead of impossibly high in this eternal wasteland where winter never died.

Before him was the slab of stone that he recalled from his dream, raised like a table on its three pyramidal legs, glinting in the moonlight. Its surface was smooth and glassy, neither a ripple nor a crack. Beyond the table was the cave, a perfect circle in the smooth stone, and from it issued the soft, pale orange light. All was as his sleeping mind had revealed it.

A sudden pang of fear gripped his heart, giving him pause. Despite its familiarity, there was something about that cave that intimidated him. Alarm prickled at the back of his mind, warning him that this was irreversible once he crossed the threshold. Everything would change and it would be his doing. He gagged at the thought, for a moment even contemplating going back. Then, overcoming his weakness, he steeled his will with an admonition that he had come this far and must see it through.

Clenching his teeth and his fists, he rounded the table and strode in.

Reality receded.

A faint, distant odour — incense burning — warmth, silence. His eyes opened into soft light. He was lying face down on a rock floor, smooth and glassy as the table outside. From the corner of his eye, he could just make out a wall of bare rough stone, which flickered subtly, shadows on its rugged surface dancing as if alive. A faint hiss reached his ears. Cautiously, he lifted his head. The light flickered again, a solitary flame disturbed by a breath of air. He tried to raise himself but could not. Nothing that he could see or feel held him, yet he was restrained, nonetheless.

A brand smouldered in a bracket, a tiny spark fluttering to the floor and dying. There was a further long silence before he heard the hiss again. This time he recognised it. It was an intake of breath.

You have come to me, beautiful boy. The voice was velvety.

Instantly he was released. He whirled around to a sitting position, reaching automatically for his dagger. His hand closed on the hilt, but the blade remained sheathed as he goggled in disbelief at the sight that met his eyes.

The owner of the velvety voice reclined on a massive bed, strewn with furs. He stared at her, his mind swimming, his mouth hanging open. She smiled at him knowingly, displaying perfect white teeth. Her gleaming raven hair cascaded over bare shoulders in tumbled ringlets. An exquisite hand smoothed an area of furs next to her flank. She was without age, without blemish, and yet he could also sense something ancient, something terrible, in the depths of her eyes. No man could have looked away. The fathomless emerald gaze held him fast, underpinning the fact that he was, for the first time in his life, confronted by a truly beautiful, naked woman.

Well, she purred, are you going to stand there and gape?

His mouth snapped shut involuntarily. He had forgotten why he had come. He had forgotten who he was. His mind was filled with flawless curves and those bottomless eyes.

She laughed softly, her nostrils flaring. What did you expect? Cobwebs and a hooked nose?

The spell relaxed. With a struggle, he stuttered, I… I’m looking for the Hag. Her eyes fondled him from head to toe, noting the growing presence in his breeches. Aware of his mounting embarrassment, he dropped his gaze to the floor.

Her head fell back, and clear, silken laughter cascaded from her splendid mouth. He felt the blush sweep through his neck and into his cheeks.

She rolled over, revealing a perfectly sculptured rump. Pulling the furs to one side, she slipped beneath them and settled herself comfortably. She then pulled the fur up to cover her nipples and regarded him coolly. Self-consciously, he tried to disguise his arousal by clasping his hands before him.

A perfect eyebrow arched. He thinks I do not know what a man has in his breeches. She spoke with an odd cadence, not of the Kingdom. Not all of my visitors are welcome, Callin Vorst.

His dream had been extraordinarily vivid. The compulsion, the towering conviction that the Vorst name was at stake, had been overwhelming. It was a summons.

She smoothed the furs beside her. She had left room for him. Come, she murmured, are you afraid?

He was, although no power he could understand could have forced him to admit it. Without regard for his will, his feet began to move. He sat at the foot of the bed, afraid to go further.

Her eyes followed him. Have you seen a woman before?

He blushed again, avoiding the question. I see hundreds of women every day. Her laughter stabbed him, and indignation flared. Is this it? You summoned me to mock me?

A pause. A pair of slim fingers stepped up his arm to his shoulder. That would depend.

On what?

He saw the slow glint glowing in the green depths of her eyes. On what you would have of me. And on what I would have of you.

All the vague resentments of the years suddenly resurfaced within him. Fighting down his nerves, he brought his eyes up to face her fully.

I came to see you.

The smile grew broader and yet more knowing. And you have.

He looked away, blushing again. To… talk to you, he corrected himself.

The fingers ceased their perambulation, pausing by his neck. Her dark eyes sank into him as a perfect nail caressed his Adam’s apple. The beautiful boy would be a man, she cooed. Her smile broadened wantonly. This night you will encounter destiny, Callin Vorst. Look inside your heart. What is your true desire?

Too quickly, he replied, My duty is to serve…

I did not summon you to debate duty, beautiful boy, she purred.

Ancient lore of honour and service vied with frustration and desire. At once her will overwhelmed him and he was helpless to resist as her dark thought flooded his mind, sapping his will and blinding his vision.

All right! he cried at last. The pressure eased. I want my family’s birthright.

An eyebrow arched. Your birthright? As she sat up, a fur fell away from her left breast, revealing its rose-tipped perfection. She left it uncovered, ignoring it. The Vandamms have ruled for five centuries. What birthright can you claim?

His face hardened. My family is of royal blood.

So, the boy would be king.

Again, the frustration of the years boiled up within him. He rounded on her. No! My father should rule in Brond! The Vandamms seized power during the Quested Wars. They have no ancient claim…

Neither have the Vorsts, she said firmly. Do not let your eyes deceive you, young fellow. The Hag’s memory is long. It was the Vandamms who broke away from their motherland because they were quicker to seize the opportunity than your forebears.

His eyes bored back. Where would they be without our support?

She held his gaze for a long time, her wanton smile still playing on her lips. Where indeed?

He wrenched his gaze away from her, directing his eyes to the floor, and banishing the image of that exposed breast with a huge effort.

The fur slipped further, exposing her other breast. Why talk of your family?

Suddenly the confusion in his mind receded. He became aware of an unbidden sharpness as it began to focus itself despite his will. The mocking smile was gone. Instead, her face was solemn as her eyes bored into him. Your father will never rule in the Kingdom.

He was appalled. Then why…?

Her fingers brushed his lips softly, silencing him. Be not hasty, she whispered. I said nothing of his heir. Of his true heir.

Callin’s eyes widened. I have two elder brothers… he began, but she silenced him again with a shake of her head. The implication sank in. Himself as king? How could this be? Six people stood between him and the throne, including three members of his own family.

I look into your soul and see you need little of my help, Callin Vorst. He stiffened. Yet I can grant you strength and protection.

He rose, astonished that she had allowed him to move.

What do you mean?

A long, slim flank emerged from beneath the furs. This time he was less easily unnerved by the sight of her. You are a bright boy, Callin. You could make yourself king without my help.

I don’t want to be king.

You do. And you will.

For the first time since she had taken control of his mind and pinpointed his vague resentments, she focused them absolutely and he finally glimpsed his destiny. A feeling of horrified sickness filled his stomach. I will do no murder for you, he gasped.

She nestled back, her leering smile returning. I can make you strong, she whispered, and I can grant you a charmed life.

He blinked. How charmed?

Instantly he was flat on his back. She straddled him, breasts jutting inches from his nose, talon-like fingernails cutting into the soft flesh beneath his chin, her heavy scent overpowering him and dulling his mind. She cooed like an older sister teasing a child.

I will show you what power really is. Her deft fingers moved from his neck down over his chest. The thongs of his leather jerkin loosened themselves as her hands passed over and the linen shirt beneath ripped itself asunder. One hand slid under the supple leather, stroking his budding chest hair, while the other descended past his navel in search of the catch on his breeches. If I grant you a charmed life, no man will be able to defeat you for as long as I command it.

Straining, he summoned his courage with a huge effort. How long will you command it?

She paused, her hand withdrawing from his pants. He saw the change and knew that for the first time he had said something that she respected. In a single movement, she rose to her feet and returned to the bed.

Very well, Callin, she said decisively, you will be invincible until you reject me.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he responded, Why should I ever do that if you would do this for me?

She smiled again, this time sadly. You will, and then I will withdraw my charm. But first, you must satisfy my conditions.

He sat up fully now, astonished to discover that his nerves had disappeared entirely. No longer was he too shy to admire her curves, and no longer was he concerned that she knew it. His body tingled with anticipation, the fatigue of his long, exhausting climb having left him altogether, replaced by a sudden surge of fire, such as he had never known. And they are?

She adopted the pose in which he had first seen her, a light fingertip tracing a gently swooping line from the point of her chin to her dark, central core. I want you to please me. Now. He sat up, his arousal returning. I will wait for the second.

He stood. "Which is?

Again, she moved the furs aside and slipped beneath them. Again, she left room for him. You must leave me an offering outside my cave when you can acquire it, although I will grant you strength and protection immediately.

What offering?

The smile broadened into a leer. A king’s head.

CHAPTER 2

ICY WATER SLAPPED his face, stinging like a sudden onslaught of wasps and reverberating in his head. He sat up abruptly, rubbing his eyes, body prickling with straw. Dorcan squatted before him, grinning broadly. He was two years older than Callin, taller, broader: a natural soldier.

Father is calling for your blood, he laughed, pulling a wayward wisp of straw from his younger brother’s locks.

Callin blinked, Why? He looked up at the grinning figure beside his brother, a groom in his father’s household, Keck. He carried a wooden bucket in his left hand, the inside still wet, but it was Dorcan who replied, Because you spent the night in a barn.

The gate was locked, mumbled Callin.

His brother helped him up. The Hunt starts in an hour.

The Hunt had been held every year on the anniversary of King Rhomic’s accession to the throne nearly a quarter of a century previously. As head of the second family, Callin’s father, Count Amerish, was invited automatically. For four years his heir, Simack, had accompanied him. Dorcan had attended the last two. This was Callin’s first. He stretched. Where’s Simack?

In father’s shadow. Headache.

Callin struggled into his jerkin. Hasn’t he taken his palliative salts?

Together, the pair of them made their way from the barn, leaving Keck to muck out the stables. Having only arrived in Brond the day before, Callin had been astonished to discover that the capital was hardly any bigger than his home city of Nassinor in the far south of the country. Barely bigger, but far grander. Whereas most of Nassinor’s roofs were thatched, and few of its windows glazed, Brond’s graceful buildings were kept dry by steeply pitched slates and almost every casement shone in the sun.

The city nestled before its mighty citadel, Castle Brond, itself dominated by towering mountains to the north and Ferullas’s defiant spike above all. Once a humble fort, it had been enlarged and extended over the centuries into a formidable fortress. Despite its outwardly forbidding appearance, the current incumbent had civilised the interior so that it resembled more a palace than a military installation insofar as the staterooms and private apartments were concerned. For all that, however, its defences were still massive, and its garrison still slept in plain barracks.

Callin and Dorcan hurried through the crowded, jovial streets, the entire population having turned out to share in the festival, arriving finally at the same postern that had been locked when the younger of the two returned the previous night. The guard admitted them with a nod.

Amerish Vorst, Count of Nassinor, flared his nostrils as his two younger sons rushed into the outer bailey, buckling their hunting gear about them. Where have you been? he snarled.

The big city can’t contain him, father, answered Dorcan, chuckling.

I have a cell in Nassinor that will contain him ideally, came the barked reply. On your horses!

Callin now noticed the pale, ascetic figure in his father’s shadow. Morning, Simack, he called.

I have a headache, mumbled Simack.

Almost at once trumpets rang out and a hush fell on the crowd. With a rumble, the portcullis to the inner bailey was raised and a small procession issued forth. Cheers erupted everywhere at the sight, hats were flung in the air and hunting horns were lifted to a hundred mouths.

King Rhomic Vandamm, a huge bear of a man, sat astride an even vaster white stallion, which snorted petulantly and stamped its forehoof. His outfit was richly designed, flecked with gilded studs, crimson in contrast to the more usual green of these occasions. About his brow was the single golden circlet of state.

Behind the king rode his two offspring. Soth was a solemn young man, straight of back and dark of hair, and worthy, if sober, of countenance. Beside him rode the Jewel of The Kingdom: Avalind, an elfin figure who breathed beauty and joy in every pore, tresses tumbling over both shoulders in a carmine cascade that captured the sun in its flaring strands and flashed as if cowled in rubies. Unlike her brother, she wore a blue hunting outfit, and hers was cut more tightly to favour her feminine form. She bore a hunting horn but no weapon. She enjoyed the chase but often contrived to be elsewhere when the beast was killed, which had caused her father and brother considerable worry over the years. For all her other accomplishments — and there were many — she was an indifferent rider. Never had Callin seen such beauty in a mortal. Even the Hag’s allure had been of an earthier sort. She had stirred his loins. Avalind stirred his soul.

Is that Avalind? he asked softly.

Who else? replied Dorcan.

King Rhomic sat squarely on his mount and surveyed the scene with pleasure. His steed stamped impatiently on the cobbles as its master turned to exchange an observation with his son and daughter. It must have been jocular, so amused was the fit of delighted giggles that consumed her, and a smile even swam across Soth’s face. King Rhomic was a monarch renowned for his good humour and fairness.

He had inherited a poor land, weak from centuries of Draal incursions from across the mountains. Despite that, he had transformed his realm into a power second only to that same Draal that constantly coveted its fruitful farms and villages, yearning to dominate them again.

During his youth, their massive neighbour had twice tried to overrun its former province, first near the end of his father’s reign and again in his early days of his. The Kingdom had triumphed both times, despite being heavily outnumbered, and it was following the second victory that he had forced the Draal king, Sulinan, to cede his southern port of Graan. That one achievement gave his landlocked country access to the sea, thus increasing its commercial wealth hugely. That was the rock on which he had built his realm’s stability and strength. This was a great ruler.

A grinding rumble announced the opening of the outer gate. King Rhomic spurred his horse, the prince and princess fell in behind and the others behind them. Prime among these was the second family.

Behind rode the gross third lord of the Kingdom: Baron Loda Dumarrick and his retinue, followed by a host of lesser nobles. Here and there occasional ladies proved that they would not allow Avalind to be the only female.

Once through the gate, the hunting party wheeled right and made its way along Brond’s broadest street, which led clear to the edge of the town. Unusually, the city had no defensive walls. Being relatively small, there was plenty of room within the castle to protect the entire population and their belongings should it ever come under attack. Rhomic had contingency plans to build walls eventually, but the funds and materials to do so were not yet available, having been diverted for years to enrich Graan, thereby ensuring its loyalty.

The party paused before the cathedral, where the king reined in to receive the Blessing from Archbishop Cloor. Then they were on their way out onto a short, grassy plain, facing the forest, a vast arc of greenery that flanked the city on its two lowland sides and stretched, league after league, over the rolling countryside that led first to Glast, and then Yelkin and Nassinor.

Here Rhomic held up his hand. Before the royal steed knelt a small, ragged beater.

Rhomic smiled benignly. Well, young Tetcher?

The young man rose, twisting a small cap in his hands, his official headgear. Never better, sire, he ventured, I reckon we got a boar or two.

So be it! roared Rhomic, rearing his mount. Horns blared immediately from a dozen throats, one of them Dorcan’s. Callin’s steed was jostled as the charge commenced.

The royal party issued forth in a whirlwind of colour and noise across the wide expanse of long, dusty grass that led clear to the dark fringe of Brond Forest. Not sixty paces ahead a grassy clump stirred, then exploded with rage. A black, hairy snout, adorned by long curling tushes, appeared. Whether it understood its peril or not, it disapproved mightily, issued a defiant challenge and bolted.

The king made after the fleeing pig. As one body, his court thundered after him. Beaters scattered in all directions. Tetcher threw himself to the ground, plaiting his fingers behind his head and curling his knees up to his chin. Barely a hand's breadth away the royal stallion ground its hoof into the earth in full gallop. Horse after horse flew past or over him, showering his already grubby tunic with clods of earth and torn grass.

The trampling passed and the violent drumming of the earth faded as the cavalcade vanished beneath the nearest eaves. The beater raised his head cautiously. The world was a golden haze of dancing dust motes. To either side, he saw his fellow beaters emerging from the flattened grass and dusting themselves down. Slapping the earth from his tunic with irritation, he stared after the disappearing horde and spat. Thank you, you old goat. You might have let me get out of the way first.

Is that any way to talk about your liege lord? The voice, clear and well spoken, came from behind him.

Tetcher whirled round. The speaker, a young man, well dressed, sat on a horse not five paces away. The animal wheeled, eager to be off, running with its fellows, but the young rider brought it about. You called your sovereign liege, Rhomic Vandamm, an old goat. Would you like to repeat that to him personally?

Tetcher turned ashen and fell to his knees, babbling on about how he had only just inherited the job from his father and how he had a wife and young family.

Do you know who I am? A shake of the head. I imagine you will have heard of my father, Count Vorst.

Tetcher, if anything, turned grey.

I am Master Callin Vorst.

Leaning back, he cocked his leg over the horse’s neck and slid to the ground, handing the reins to Tetcher, who took them automatically. Walk with me.

Together they followed the other beaters. Idly Callin plucked a stalk of grass from a tall clump and sucked on it. You are the head beater?

Yes, sir.

Do you like the job?

Yes, sir.

How much do they pay you?

The man was becoming more at ease now that he supposed that he was not to be reported after all. Oh, not much, sir. It’s only casual work when there’s a hunt on.

I see, Callin stopped and faced the beater. Tetcher, would you like to do some casual work for me?

***

LEAGUES AWAY, HIGH in the mountains, an old soldier with a grizzled face and too much flesh around his midriff paused to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his eyes. The sheep track wound ever upwards towards a wall of rock that soared seemingly to the sky, where it was crowned by a tiara of jagged, fang-like pinnacles, in which lay patches of snow and ice even in summer.

Trulik, he grumbled, I don’t take kindly to being dragged where even my horse cannot tread. I did not come to admire the view.

Not much further, Siriak, replied his companion, of almost equal age, but who wore his years more easily. Look ahead.

They had been climbing since dawn, with no more refreshment than the meagre rations in their packs. Trulik had warned Siriak off consuming any ale. Instead, he had to refresh himself from the many springs and waterfalls they had passed on the way up — enough to satisfy the thirst of many, many men.

Wheezing hideously, the older man rounded the final fold in the rock wall, where the path suddenly petered out altogether. Ahead of them lay a