The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One

by Craig Saunders

  Tarn thought it odd that the old lady would be around for years, not weeks. But he did not ask her why. He thought she would not tell him, and he would have been right.

  ‘Did you know my mother?’

  ‘I was there when she gave birth to you. She was a fine woman, and she loved you and your father dearly. She was beyond my skills to save.

  ‘I tire now. Ask one last question of me, and then I will ask something of you.’

  ‘Who am I?’

  Tulathia laughed. ‘You are out of questions, boy, now, and to end with such a disappointing one. Who you are is for you to find out. It is not an answer anyone else can give you. Now it is my turn.’

  Tarn nodded. His head buzzed, alive with thoughts, and he tried to concentrate on the old lady. Mia still watched him, but said nothing.

  ‘We three have power together. We can do something I could not do for your father. We can hide you. Would you be hidden, to grow into a man? We can give your soul a chance.’

  Tarn knew the rules: always was there a price.

  ‘And what is the price?’

  Tulathia smiled at him. ‘I see your father taught you the lore.’

  ‘That he did.’

  ‘Then the price. I would have you do something for all three of us. When you are grown, I would have you kill a man. You will want to kill him. It is not an evil act. But you must not be afraid. No matter the cost, the man must die. You will know who, but you must tame your fear.’

  ‘I am never afraid. But it is wrong to kill a man, unless he does you wrong.’

  ‘Then the death I ask will be just, and will not stain your soul, but the price will be high. I can give you a life now, but in return you must take one for me. That is my price. But remember, I cannot know the future. I can only see the past, and a small part of what is to come. What you make of it from here is up to you. And perhaps, gods willing, the man will die and you will never have to pay my price. That is all life is. An endless procession of chances. Will you take this one?’

  ‘I will,’ said Tarn, after a long time. ‘I will do as you bid.’

  ‘It will be as you wish. I ask you to do no evil, for evil I am not. Give me a lock of your hair, and return to your farm. Be at peace and know that all is well. We will meet again.’

  Mia passed him a knife without a word. Tarn cut off a lock of his hair and gave it to the old woman.

  ‘I bid you well, Tarn.’

  Just at that moment, Rena came back.

  ‘Join us, Rena, we have work to do. Your walk with young Tarn will have to wait another day.’

  Rena hid her disappointment well but touched Tarn on the back of his hand when she said goodbye. Tarn left for the farmhouse, his mind alive with possibilities, hope for the future, and something else; a strange sense of foreboding he could not shake.

  *

  Chapter Eighteen

  That night everyone in the village of Wherry but Gothar and Asthar slept. The boy who bullied Rena and other children in the village had grown fat. His father, the tanner, thought him a good boy. But Gothar could not be changed. There was no reason for his manner with the other children, and even though he was polite to adults, when he thought he could get away with it he would push other children into the mud, or steal their food. If anyone fought back he was quick with his fists, and always remembered those children that hit him.

  He plotted long and hard on how to get back at the boy Tarn. A year of anger boiling. On the rare occasions he saw the boy in the village it was all he could do to hold his rage in check. He wanted true vengeance, and a punch in the face would not be good enough. Even though he was a wicked boy, he would never go against the will of the village and tell the soldiers where the boy hid. He did not want him dead.

  Gothar, fully dressed under his blankets, threw his covers back and snuck out of the house. The floorboards creaked unmercifully, but his father did not stir. The big lad, fat coddling his weighty bones, wasn’t worried about his mother waking. She was five years in the mud.

  Gently shutting the door behind him, Gothar ran to the edge of the woods, where his friends were waiting. Asthar was there first.

  ‘I thought you’d never come,’ said the youth, already showing signs of spots on his face.

  ‘I had to wait for father to start snoring, otherwise he’s a light sleeper,’ panted Gothar, a little out of breath.

  ‘The moons are already high. We better not wait for Bateman, he’s not coming.’

  ‘Coward. Very well then, let’s go.’

  The two boys set off through the woods, dark among the trees, even though Hren, the larger moon, sat above Gern.

  The path was difficult in the dark. Gothar stumbled many times, and soon huffed with the exertion. Asthar held back and waited for his big friend. Though he thought this nighttime excursion a fool’s quest, he said nothing.

  They spoke little on the way, and though Gothar would not admit it, the night’s noises frightened him. He heard the cries of many creatures in the woods, and he did not know what they were. It increased his fear.

  After an hour of walking, Gothar wanted to go back. His fear and his weight were making his legs tremble. Asthar saw his friend struggling, but carried on. Gothar would be angry if he stopped and asked after him. The big lad would just grumble and tell him to shut up. No, he could carry his own weight. After all, this stupid trek was Gothar’s idea. Asthar thought it more sensible to just fight the boy when next he came into the village. But no, Gothar had to have his way. It was good being friends with the big lad, thought Asthar, but only because it meant he wasn’t the one being picked on.

  Suddenly, there came a great roar from the woods. It sounded like a boar, but no boar was that loud. It sounded close, too.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Gothar, fear shaking his voice.

  ‘I think it’s a boar.’

  ‘Is it coming here?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Asthar. ‘Boars don’t hunt people.’

  ‘Good. That’s good. Let’s carry on then.’

  ‘But it’s not unheard of that a boar will protect its territory. And we carry no arms,’ said Asthar, seeing his chance to end the enterprise.

  ‘Really?’ said Gothar, his voice shaking. He stopped and looked around into the trees. He could see nothing, but noticed since the roar that there were no other night sounds. Then he heard a snuffling in the bushes just ahead. He stopped in his tracks, fear etched on his face. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Probably just a fox, or something,’ said Asthar, who knew little of the woodlands that surrounded the Wherry, although on occasion he had gone hunting with his father for deer, and once killed a fox with a sling. His father would not let him take a bow into the woods unsupervised.

  ‘Right, let’s get this over with. I’ll get him back.’

  Not for the first time, Asthar said, ‘Perhaps you should just give him a thump the next time you see him.’

  Gothar wouldn’t admit that he was afraid of the boy, for in truth Gothar was ruled by fear. Instead he said, ‘Come on. I told you what we’re going to do. Don’t back out now.’

  Asthar sighed. ‘Alright…’ He never got a chance to finish speaking. Ahead, on the trail, a giant boar stood, the exact same as that which appeared on the Thane of Naeth's crest, and before that, the crest of the Kings of Sturma, the king's protector.

  Its hide was purest black. The light glinted off tusks which were like two curved blades.

  Asthar didn’t waste any time. He ran. Gothar stood, rooted in fear. The boar charged and the spell broke. He too ran for his life.

  Sometimes boys have to face fear to become men. Gothar knew fear in that moment, and he ran. In some ways, he would run for the rest of his life.

  One thing was certain. He would never go into the woods again.

  *

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hurth eased his aching back, rearranging the cushion at the base of his spine. The fresh air did him good, though he hated it.

&nb
sp; Merilith, the Thane’s strange advisor, entered the courtyard from the southern door. He padded to where the Thane waited. The Thane bade him speak as he neared. The bustle of the city outside was muffled by the great walls of the castle, but Merilith was still forced to speak more loudly than he liked.

  ‘My lord, I have bad news.’

  Hurth sighed. There had been indications of dissent from some of the outlying Thanedoms, and he did not yet have the forces necessary to commit on more than three fronts. He could guess at the news.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The Thane of Spar refuses to pay the tithe, my lord. He is verging on claiming independence. If we do not send a message now, matters will get worse.’

  It was expected, but still rankled. ‘The Thane of Spar has a larger standing army than most. It is there that the brunt of Draymar incursions is felt most keenly. We cannot challenge him directly.’

  ‘But we must send a message. If one Thanedom falls, others will follow suit.’

  ‘I am aware of the politics, Merilith.’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’

  ‘He has a son, does he not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then bring the boy here. We will hold him ransom. See to it. You have my orders. How you carry them out is up to you.’

  Merilith bowed low and backed away two steps from Hurth before turning. He did this not out of respect, but out of healthy caution. More than one of the Thane’s close advisors had suffered the inconvenience of a dagger in the back.

  Merilith thought of a way to capture the Thane of Spar’s son, and as he entered the castle’s lower halls decided on who should carry out the task. He would ensure that the Thane retained his position. Constantly, Merilith was reminded that they had not yet captured the king’s son. Soon, he would have to take special measures. For now, he had to keep the Thane of Naeth on the throne. A puppet was more useful than an enemy.

  *

  II.

  The King of Swords

  Chapter Twenty

  The happiest year of Tarn’s young life passed in nothing but shades of light. At times he felt ashamed for his happiness. He felt he played false with the memory of his father. And yet, the year passed, he grew and laughed and smiled, and not even sorrow can hold a child back for long.

  Tarn visited Rena, and grew to know Tulathia and Mia almost as well as he knew his own mother and father, as he came to call Gard and Molly. He felt, finally, at peace. But Tulathia’s words tainted his joy at being wanted, and the pleasure of the love that surrounded him.

  ‘You will not always be a farmer, Tarn. Your path leads to a great destiny.’ A great destiny sounded like a fine thing - to many young men, at least. Tarn knew better. It was a curse. Tulathia’s words bore heavy on his mind in everything he did.

  He did not laugh and play like the boys from the village, save when in the company of Rena, or Gard and Molly. Rena was his first and only friend. Slowly, as he neared his fifteenth year, Tarn changed, and as he did, his feelings toward Rena changed. He spoke about it with Gard, but the big man just smiled and told Tarn to trust his feelings.

  ‘She’s a fine girl, Tarn. What did you think would happen? She marked you from the first day she saw you. You didn’t stand a chance.’

  Tarn puzzled over the strange change in Rena, too. She took to holding his hand when they were out in the woods, and grew angry if he so much as talked to other girls on rare visits to the village. Rena confused him, but he didn’t ask Gard about it again.

  Molly always called her his girl anyway. He knew where Molly stood without asking her, and he didn’t want any more of the wisdom of women. He felt as though he was suffocated by them.

  He was not troubled by the Thane’s soldiers, and did not see the bounty on his head. The serious business of growing into a man was all that concerned him.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-One

  While one boy grew into a man, another was deprived of that most basic of rights – childhood. The Thane of Spar’s son, Kuin, was taken captive while on a morning ride, with no fanfare, no bloodshed. He was not blindfolded. His captors were quite happy for him to see his fate. It was no kindness to see the countryside for one last time, knowing where he was going. His gaolers were not given to acts of kindness.

  Journey’s end for Kuin was an underground dungeon. There was no daylight, but he was fed. For him the years would be dark and full of despair. His eyes watered when he was given a candle, a small torture he could not resist. In a year, he would be almost blind should he ever be under the gaze of the suns again.

  There was no succour, apart from that which all men find inside. Inside him, he found calm. Outside he dribbled, picked lice from his fledgling beard and scratched at sores on his naked body. The Thane of Naeth all but forgot he was there.

  For Kuin, the Thane of Spar’s son, death would have been kinder.

  The Thane of Spar had no choice but to pay his tithes, and plot the return of his son. Rythe moved on, and the Thane of Naeth grew impatient at the lack of progress. Months turned, winter came and went.

  Kuin and Tarn both passed their fifteenth birthday, one forgotten by all but his father, one not forgotten at all.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Merelith offered a bounty on the scared boy’s head, but heard nothing. Three boys with unfortunate scars were executed, but the crown still refused to be worn. It was as if the boy had vanished from Sturma.

  Now Hurth blamed Merilith. The Hierarch’s position became tenuous, all because of one errant child.

  But no longer.

  The Hierophant forbade the use of magic, but Merelith needed the boy dead. So much hinged on this one little death, so much more than the good graces of the Thane of Naeth. Others could be made puppets, but there was only one true heir to crown and throne.

  The wiry Hierarch opened the door and crossed his room to a table with fruit and an assortment of dried meat laid out for his return from a most dissatisfactory audience with the Thane. His servants were nowhere to be seen. They knew better than to disturb him when he was in his apartments. He would be ravenous later but left the food for now. His knees creaked as he knelt upon the stone floor. He was older than he looked.

  Making a circle around himself with his hands, Merilith intoned an ancient litany. A simple incantation, proven throughout the ages, it was one of the first spells fledgling mages within the ranks of the Hierarchy were taught. Communication was paramount for a race that spanned continents.

  Merilith’s words burned the air, and a shimmering haze grew up before him. He blinked and concentrated. The haze coalesced until it became a picture beyond the artistry of any painter working today, for it was real. If Merilith wanted, he could reach out and touched the sleeping man before him. But despite the years since their last meeting, Merilith knew better than to touch the slumbering man. It would mean his death. Instead, the incantation complete, the Thane’s advisor called out, softly.

  The man in the picture awoke instantly, and looked around. He smiled in recognition.

  ‘Merilith, you worm. You have failed and you want my help.’

  It galled Merilith that he was so transparent. He had no way to save face. Already he was supplicant before his master.

  ‘Yes, Jenin. I failed. Without recourse to magic I fear I will not find the boy. It seems he leads a charmed life.’

  ‘And with recourse to magic you will not find him either. I cannot see him. Someone has cast a cloaking spell upon the boy. I fear you will have to be patient.’

  ‘But if the boy becomes an adult…’

  ‘I know the risk. You are on your own and I cannot help. Now I will forget we ever had this conversation. You are a dog. Use your nose. The humans have dogs, too. Trackers, I believe they are called.’

  ‘There is no trail to follow.’

  ‘Then find another way. Use the humans. That is what they are there for. Magic is not the only answer.’

  Jenin waved his hand
and the picture became nothing more than smoke drifting on still air.

  Merilith stood up, sweat beading his narrow brow.

  A tracker, then. Every tracker in the country, maybe. He resolved to suggest it, gently, to the Thane in the morning.

  He set about eating. Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down and chased it with some foul fruit. He would have to abide by the rules a little longer.

  The fruit was sustenance, but he looked forward to the day he could eat the boy’s heart and make him watch.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Gard knew the boy was right. He wouldn’t always work on a farm. And it was a rough world.

  ‘All right. When you’re sixteen.’

  ‘Sixteen! Come on, big man.’

  ‘I’ll buy you a sword when you’re sixteen.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tarn, sullen.

  ‘But I’ll start training you now,’ said Gard with a smile.

  ‘But you’re a farmer. I need someone who knows how to swing a sword.’

  ‘I wasn’t always a farmer, boy, and if you think swordwork is all about swinging, you really do need a lesson or two. You’ll end up cutting off your own head.’

  ‘You know how to fight? With a sword?’

  ‘I fought in the civil war, Tarn. I know how to fight with more than just a sword,’ said Gard. He smiled, but his heart was heavy. Even so, he knew from the light in the boy’s eyes that this was his true path. He was never destined to be a farmer.

  He’d known it since the first night.

  ‘You were a soldier?’

  ‘I fought for the Thane of Spar. The Spar would be under the rule of the Thane of Naeth if it hadn’t been for men like me. Then the Thane of Naeth killed the old king. The War of Reconciliation was pointless, in the end, but then that is the ultimate fate of all wars. Nobody could stomach more years of fighting. We just gave in, and the rumours of the old King’s murder eventually died.’