Usurper

by David Waine

  A KING’S HEAD

  PART ONE

  USURPER

  by

  David Waine

  All rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Copyright © David Waine 2011

  www.davidwaine.net

  David Waine has asserted his moral rights

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events and places are fictitious, and any resemblance to any real person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  By David Waine:

  ‘A King’s Head’ Trilogy

  Part One: Usurper

  Part Two: A Sovereign’s Honour

  Part Three: A New Queen Rises

  Rutter Books

  Chained in Time

  Rutter’s Reunion

  Other Works

  The Planning Officers

  Cover artwork by Paul Waine

  Dedication

  To my wife, Helen, and our sons, Michael and Paul.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A hand clasped a bare spur of rock, its owner hanging, chest heaving and damp against the gaunt, cold 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, gasping until the pounding in his chest diminished and he could cast around to renew his bearings. The ledge was as he remembered it 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 see 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 having 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 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 for heart-pounding moments 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 his breast 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 tired 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 first 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 strange, 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, that he could not retreat once he crossed the threshold. Everything would change and it would be his doing. He gagged at the thought, for a moment he 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 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 seen.”

  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 chance 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 TWO

  Icy water slapped his face, stinging like a sudden onslaught of bees 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.