The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One

by Craig Saunders

  He noticed the crown begin to rotate in the air and stepped further back. Perhaps this was some sign that the king was near. He dared not reveal himself, even to the priests of the pantheon that lived here and cared for the building. He stepped further back. Whatever reaction for which he had been the catalyst ceased, and all atop the stone platform was still once more.

  His friends approached. He saw the priests milling around within the cathedral, quietly pursuing unnamed tasks. They paid the four men no attention.

  ‘Roskel, try to approach the crown.’

  ‘What, while the priests are present? That would be foolish, my friend. We must not tip our hand,’ said the thief under his breath.

  ‘Don’t worry. I don’t want you to steal it yet. I just want to see what will happen.’

  ‘Flaming demons will arise from the very stone, is what will happen,’ said Brendall, more than a little seriously.

  ‘As outlandish as it sounds, I think Brendall is right. We should not risk it, not while there are priest around us. Who knows what powers they have? It seems strange that with all these treasures there are no guards.’ Erin made the sign of Brindle’s horns as he spoke, as if to ward off evil.

  ‘Superstitious nonsense,’ said Tarn with more confidence than he felt. ‘And besides, we will be in and out before the priests know it, won’t we, Roskel?’

  ‘I don’t know, Tarn. It is no easy task you have appointed me.’

  ‘Well, there is enough time for worry later. For now do as I ask, and approach the platform.’

  Roskel’s concern was etched on his face, but he did as Tarn asked. Before he could get within two feet of the platform and the crown, his movements slowed and he struggled, as though pushing against a strong wind. Eventually, he could move no longer, but as soon as he turned away from the crown the force obviously lessened, for he walked back to his companions with no evident difficulty.

  ‘It seems we have a problem. I cannot get near it. There is some invisible force, almost like a solid wall of air, that pushes me back. Although how air can become solid, I do not know.’

  Tarn smiled at his friend. ‘I think this test may be beyond a thief. I think we need something else entirely.’

  ‘And what would that be? A bull?’

  ‘No, a king.’

  Brendall sighed. ‘It is still magic.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ replied Tarn. ‘But I may just have a little magic of my own. Roskel and I will return tonight, under cover of darkness. Then we will see if I am right.’

  ‘Or if there is more magic here than you know.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tarn. ‘I am sure there is. But there is only one spell we need worry about, and I have the measure of it.’

  ‘Tonight, then,’ sighed Roskel, a hint of resignation in his voice.

  ‘Don’t fret, my capricious friend. Tonight we will have the prize, and be well gone by dawn.’

  ‘Or dead,’ said Brendall, ever the voice of optimism.

  *

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  In the great hall at Naeth castle, Hurth was unaware of the cacophony of sound in the depths below. The air was torn asunder with guttural words, their utterance a rarity since the flight of the old ones, but not forgotten by their children.

  Merilith ensured that no one, not even the guard, patrolled the haphazard mass of tunnels underneath the castle. The upper entrance, which led into the barracks, was clear of men tonight. There would have been too many questions.

  The words he spoke demanded venom. They could not be pronounced with thoughts of love or compassion in the speaker’s mind, for that would mean failure most abrupt, and perhaps even fatal. Merilith’s mind was a seething, writhing thing full of snakes and spiders, dark beasts eating away at his soul while the spell used him for its own purpose.

  But the hole in the air widened, and for a moment, Merilith was granted a glimpse of his home land, Lianthre, even though it was within a dark building. He felt warmth at the thought, and instantly pain caressed his body. He convulsed, spittle flying forth among the words of power, but controlled himself with pure strength of will, to hold the portal open.

  He was rewarded in an instant. Ten fighters, armoured and armed, stepped from the hole one by one, to line up within the wide space that Merilith had chosen, ten creatures out of nightmare. For while the Hierarchs, like Merilith, preferred guile and cunning to meet their desires, these creatures, the Tenthers of the Protectorate, were cold, merciless warriors, born to taste blood and battle. They were fearsome in appearance, and barely controlled rage seemed to course beneath their features.

  There was no turning back now. The Protectorate’s presence would raise questions, and the glamour Merilith worked would not stave them off. They were too inhuman, too full of wrath, to ever pass undetected.

  The Thane’s advisor ceased his litany of hatred, and the wounded air slowly healed itself. Even the darkest of words could not hold a portal open forever. Artefacts from the old ones had the power, but they were rare. Instead, the Hierarchs used their own mortality to fuel their magic, or where possible, the mortality of others. Merilith did not have the luxury of raising power from a sacrifice. No questions as to where the Protocrats came from could be allowed.

  They must be accepted. It was time for more magic, but the Hierophant had allowed the advisor one boon.

  He turned to the assembled warriors, and the Pernant, the leader of their ten, held out what he had been waiting for.

  The heirloom of the old ones, a silvery ring, of some fine metal for which there was no name. It did not come from Rythe, but from among the stars, and its power was such that Merilith would be able to cover the Protectorate Tenthers with a subtle glamour. To the observer, they would appear as hardened mercenaries, disciplined and fearsome, but mortal in any eyes but his.

  Now, to tell the Thane his new guards had arrived, and ensure they were there for the Council of the Ten.

  *

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  In the dead of night Tarn and Roskel strode purposefully across the plain, the cathedral looming in the darkness before them. They did not speak. There was no need. They had done their talking. They both knew what was expected of them.

  Tarn’s plan had changed, but then he knew any good plan was fluid. He was no thief, but since the afternoon in the cathedral he knew that Roskel would not be able to take up the crown. It was reserved for him, the force attuned, perhaps, to only his blood.

  They reached the outer walls of the holy monument, silently creeping between the monastery and the walls of the cathedral. The outer walls towered into the night sky, reaching for the stars. It seemed impenetrable, the walls too solid to ever breach or pass through. But that was Roskel’s problem, not Tarn’s. To each man, his own task, thought Tarn, staring at the walls with trepidation.

  Roskel caught Tarn’s eye and nodded to him. He made sure the rope was tight around his body, and leapt like a cat at the wall of the monastery, pushing himself upward off the wall with his feet to where his hands could grasp the tenuous purchase of the slate roof. Gripping the edge of the roof tightly in his hands, Roskel flicked himself over the edge. He was now standing a mere few feet from a ledge which ran around the edge of the cathedral. He backed away, then took a short running jump, landing on the ledge with perfect judgement, hands splayed against the wall for support. He sidled across to a corner, where the supports for the wall met the outside of the cathedral at a right angle, and then, defying belief for the watching Tarn, began to scale the wall, using the angle to support himself, and tiny hand holds in the mortar between the thick stone blocks. Aberline granite, thought Tarn, absently.

  Hauling himself ever higher, Roskel reached a second ledge, pulled himself up and over, and then was gone from sight.

  Tarn heard no sound from the thief. He looked up and saw the length of rope come tumbling down toward him. He reached up, tugged it as hard as he could, then tried his weight on it. It held fast.

  Swiftly, one hand
over the other, Tarn climbed the rope, until he reached the second ledge and Roskel’s hand came out of the darkness. He took the hand, and found himself on a wide ledge, which ran between abutments.

  There was only starlight to work by, Hren and Gern, Rythe's twin moons, hidden behind a tower of ominous cloud outlined in relief, the twin moons’ light shining on the cloud from behind. The light was sufficient to see that Roskel had been right. There was a small window right in front of them, with a pillar running through the centre, to which Roskel had secured the rope.

  Wordlessly, Roskel pulled up the rope, then dropped it to the other side, granting Tarn a smug smile which was somehow lent a fearsome aspect in the moody light. The moon came out and revealed the smile for what it was, merely an indication of happiness at a job well done on the thief’s part. For a moment, in the darkness, Tarn saw the cat’s wickedness within his friend, brought out by the proximity to danger.

  No wonder he was a thief, thought Tarn. He felt it too, the quickening of blood, the sudden clarity of sense. It was like the fight, forbidden but enthralling just the same. On this side of the fence, where darkness lay, Tarn could see the allure of the night and its bounty.

  He grinned back, and squeezed through the opening.

  They both dropped to the floor. The wealth of the nation was before them. Statuettes, too big to haul off, tapestries worth a small fortune, ceremonial daggers upon display cushions from a long forgotten past. Books open on pages full of colour that seemed to be glittering in the dim light, caught by the shafts of moonlight sneaking through the high windows. Even the light within the cathedral seemed somehow richer for its scarcity, more valuable within such holy ground.

  They could fund a war with the profits from such a place. Tarn had no compunctions about angering the gods. He reasoned they were already angry with him. He felt no allegiance to any deity. They could go hang, as far as he was concerned.

  But danger lurked in the cathedral, too. They knew not what kind of wards the priests of this place had erected around their artefacts. The buckles, broaches, necklaces of ancient Sturmen would fetch a great price, but it would be of no use to two captives. Tarn had spent long enough being captive, and not found it to his liking.

  Slowly, he touched Roskel on the shoulder and shook his head, just preventing the thief from taking an ancient ring for his own collection.

  Roskel looked aggrieved, but acceded to Tarn’s wishes, and followed his lead to the crown’s resting place.

  As before, the crown was suspended in some magical matter above a wooden platform, the blue-burning braziers shedding enough light to see around it, but the light seemed drawn to the crown, not away from it. It glinted as though within a globe of light, not brightening the room around it, but attracting what little light there was toward it, feeding off the light. It was an aspect of the crown, no doubt laden with magic itself, that had not been evident during the day.

  Tarn felt a familiar tug upon his soul, telling him to take up his heritage, that he should reach out for it and rest it on his head. It was his right. Only he could take the crown. Some part of him knew it was dangerous to think so, but the need was powerful and urgent.

  Roskel laid a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him toward the dais.

  It would have been so easy, then, to follow the relentless desire for the glory of his birth, for all that was his by right, to step onto the wooden boards, reach into the swirling force that surrounded the crown, and lay it on his head. But some part of Tarn, his caution, his sense, knew that it was not right. That way lay danger. He would be stuck within the invisible force, crown upon his head, lost in the memories of a kingdom for a day, a week or more.

  He took the sack he brought with him from his shoulder, and loosened the drawstring. Only then did he take his first tentative step forward, onto the raised platform. He felt a subtle force give way to him, bowing before the king. It parted, like the seas before a wizard, brushing his arms, his legs, curling round him with feline grace. It accepted him, and warily he strode forward with purpose. The need to wear the crown right now asserted itself with force, but he fought it with all his might. He would not wear the crown now, for its allure would be too strong for him.

  Instead, he reached out with the bag, and caught the twirling crown from the air, and drew the drawstring tight. Only then did its call subside.

  He turned and walked off the dais, with no more difficulty than walking through a light wind. Roskel’s teeth gleamed in the moonlight. He bowed, somehow conveying sarcasm in such a simple gesture, indicating that Tarn should go first.

  Tarn did not know how long he had been under the sway of the crown, but a sudden desire to be free of the cathedral urged him to hurry.

  Together, Tarn leading, they both made it back to the rope hanging beneath the window.

  Tarn breathed a sigh of relief, and at Roskel’s behest clambered up to the window, hand over hand, supporting his weight with hooked feet. Almost there.

  But before they could make their escape, a shriek rent the air, and Tarn’s blood turned instantly cold. He risked a look down. Roskel climbed as if the demons of blackness itself were on his heels.

  All attempt at stealth abandoned, Roskel shouted, ‘Climb, man! Ghosts are coming!’

  And, as if leant weight by Roskel’s words, Tarn saw shadows peel themselves from the walls, and float, howling toward them.

  He turned from the sight and pulled himself upward as fast as he could. He could hear footsteps rushing on the flagstones under him, coming from the priests’ quarters.

  Roskel was already at his feet, the faster climber, but stuck below Tarn. Tarn risked a look up and nearly screamed as a skeletal, misty face swooped down on him from above. It was just a ghost, he thought, as it came flying toward his face. Then it passed, and he cried out once more as the clawed hands of the apparition tore at his face. He felt blood run, and renewed his effort to make the last ten feet to the window.

  The priests ran toward them now, nearly below the rope. Lights flickered and chants began. What the priests were calling forth Tarn did not know, nor did he want to. Nails tore at his sleeves, drawing blood, but he made it to the top of the window. More ghosts swooped from the depths of the shadows into the shaft of light and Tarn drew his dagger, slashing at them as they came close. The blade passed through, with no effect, but Roskel had already reached his resting place. He pulled up the rope as swiftly as he could, hand over hand, and threw it out into the night. This time Roskel went first. He wrapped his arms around the rope, and threw himself off the ledge, using his shirt to prevent burns and his feet to slow his descent.

  Tarn, seeing that the spectral attackers could not breach the barrier of the window, still felt the need to be away. Whatever the priests were summoning, it would be here soon. He followed Roskel’s example and plunged downward, his arms burning from the rope, his boots growing warm. He hit the ground and rolled, saw Roskel’s receding back and ran as fast as he could.

  Neither man had the breath for words, so they just ran across the plains with their legs pumping and their blood pounding. Roskel’s face, too, bore the marks of claws, and bloody flecks flew from his face as he ran. Tarn could only imagine what he looked like. His wounds burned, but there was no time to tend them. He was not bleeding badly. He had bled worse than this before.

  As they neared the trees Tarn called out to the men waiting there, ‘Ride! Ride!’ and the men burst from the woods where they waited, the caravan coming out from underneath a canopy of branches which had been used to cover it from prying eyes. The men leapt onto saddled horses, and the wagons started forward, with painful lethargy.

  Tarn and Roskel jumped onto the waiting wagons, and gradually they began to pick up speed. The horses, under whips, pulled for all they were worth.

  ‘Well, did you get it?’ demanded Brendall.

  Tarn noticed a strange look pass Kurin’s face. Avarice, thought Tarn, wrongly. There was something about the man. Perhaps he was just so
rry he was wrong.

  ‘We did,’ replied Roskel, breathlessly, ‘But at what price, I do not know. But this little bauble should make it worthwhile,’ he said with a grin, and pulled a priceless torc from beneath his shirt.

  Tarn flew at him and punched him hard in the face. The torc flew from the thief’s grasp and landed in the back of the wagon. ‘You fool!’ shouted Tarn. ‘That is what they are after!’

  Roskel looked hurt, rubbing his jaw, and Tarn leaned over him and threw the torc out into the night.

  Only then did he sit back and let loose a sigh of relief.

  The wagons and horses ate up the distance, until Roskel said, ‘That was my spoils, you know.’

  ‘That would have been the end of you, you fool,’ said Tarn, with little rancour. He did not have the energy. Instead of arguing, he pointed behind them. ‘Look, look what you would have brought down on us.’

  There, painted stark against the ivory glow of the moons, a massive dragon, black as the pits, flapped hard to rise into the night. Even at this distance, the glint of the gold torc could be seen, clutched in its claws. It rose with terrible majesty and returned to the cathedral.

  ‘Some things are not meant to see the light of day, my friend,’ said Tarn.

  Roskel wasn’t prone to bearing grudges. ‘At least we have one little treasure. Show it to the men.’

  Those that were in the lead wagon with them leaned forward eagerly.

  ‘Not tonight,’ he said wearily. ‘We have all seen enough gold for one night.’

  Kurin lay back in the wagon, and eyed Tarn, who couldn’t even begin to guess what the huntsman was thinking.

  But dog-tired, and satisfied with his success, Tarn lay back, and within moments he drifted into sleep. He dreamed of a fat lady, jumping up and down on him.