The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One

by Craig Saunders

  It was a wide open space, with two doors aside from the entrance where Tarn stood. One, he presumed, would lead to the cellars, the other, to the upper levels. He knew from his scouting earlier that the tavern boasted three floors, not the usual two, and a capacious back room. He assumed he would eventually be led there, and that was where the shadier deals of this district were arranged.

  For now, he saw nothing untoward or out of place. Everything was as he expected it. At the bar, Wexel and Brendall studiously ignored them. The two men did not look out of place. Just strangers in for a warming ale.

  They did not even look up from their mugs, two sots intent only on leaving their mutual sorrows behind. Some of the other patrons looked up, but none were overly curious.

  The moment passed, and Tarn stepped into the tavern, Roskel and Kurin following behind.

  Almost hidden, a man with an improbably wide moustache and a bright red cloak sat alone at a dark table, shrouded in darkness. The light from the fire did not reach him, and there were no candles set in the walls in the corner where he sat. Tarn indicated the man with a flick of his head, and he saw Kurin peel himself away from them and turn to the table.

  Kurin sat by the man and introduced himself. Tarn ordered four mugs of ale from a pale skinned barman. Sharing the load, he and Roskel followed Kurin to the corner table. The man, Garenhill, Tarn presumed, sat with his back to the wall, facing the clientele of the Dragon. Tarn would be forced to sit with his back to the tavern, a situation he’d hoped to avoid. He preferred to face danger head on, but sometimes it was unavoidable. He had turned his back on danger more than once before. Now, as he sat, making sure his sword lay over the bench, he felt that old familiar sensation of peril making the hairs on his neck rise.

  Kurin sat next to the man. Now Tarn had to rely on Kurin to watch his back for him. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the thought, but je supposed it was time to test his trust in the huntsman.

  Giving his safety over to his self appointed bodyguard, he made room on the bench for Roskel, who sat next to the wall.

  ‘You would be Garenhill?’

  ‘I am. And who, may I ask, am I addressing?’ said the man, with a warm smile. Tarn didn’t think for a minute he actually felt anything approaching warmth for them, just as he was sure the man was as dangerous as any he had met in his short life. As Tarn had men in the bar, this man surely had his guardians. Tarn wanted to avoid a bloodbath, if he could.

  Regardless of his feelings, Tarn would be more than civil. He needed the man, and the contacts he claimed.

  ‘I am Tarn. I hope it will be a pleasure.’

  ‘Oh, from what your men told me, I’m sure it will be.’ He clasped hands with Tarn over the table, and Tarn noted his grip. Firm, but not showily so. Sometimes men of a dubious nature made a point with their handshake, as they did with their words. There was no competition there. A good sign, perhaps.

  From the size of the man’s shoulders, Tarn guessed he would be able to hold his own in a brawl. Garenhill kept his left hand under the table while they shook. But then, so did Tarn.

  ‘I hope you are as well connected as you claim.’

  ‘I make no false claims. So then, to business, is it?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Tarn, with an apologetic smile, ‘It is already late, and our offer only stands tonight. If you have to leave and make enquiries, I would leave you time to do so.’

  ‘We’ll see, shall we? I believe it is your turn to lay your cards on the table.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Tarn, ready to take the risk. After all, the rewards were so great, they would never gain them without large risks. ‘I have gold, and plenty of it, for information. I seek a contract with the Thieves’ Covenant. I wish to purchase a route into the castle. If you are the man to see, then we will do business. If not, I will take my money somewhere else.’

  ‘Such a contract would entail great risk for the provider, you must understand.’

  ‘The greater risk would be mine. Can you be of assistance, or shall we leave and take our chances elsewhere?’

  The man appeared to mull this over for a time.

  ‘I would see your gold. You understand such a request comes with great cost.’

  ‘I will deliver the gold to you when I have an entrance.’

  ‘I must inform you of the cost. It would cost one thousand gold.’

  Tarn blanched. He had nowhere near so much gold as that. Keeping his face straight and untroubled, he said, ‘I will pay one hundred, no more.’

  ‘Then our business is concluded.’

  Roskel held his hand over Garenhill’s restraining him. ‘There would be greater gold to be had at a later date. One hundred now, with an option for more later.’

  ‘Are you thieves? You cannot operate in this city unless under the Thieves’ Covenant. Surely you are aware of this?’

  ‘We are no thieves.’

  ‘Then you are assassins, and there are plenty of those in the city. They have their own rules, and you will not survive the city. Outsiders are not welcome among their number.’

  ‘We are no assassins.’

  ‘Then you are the Thane’s men, and I was only speaking hypothetically,’ said Garenhill with a dangerously light smile.

  Tarn laughed, ‘You could not be further from the truth.’

  ‘Then we will see. I will take you to someone who can tell you what you wish to know. Then we will we see the colour of your gold. If you follow me.’

  Tarn nodded, and stood at the same time as Garenhill. As he stood, Garenhill drew a knife and placed it at Kurin’s throat, so swiftly that the man had no time to respond. He could not throw himself backwards as he was up against the wall.

  Tarn’s own sword was at Garenhill’s throat in the next instant.

  ‘I am afraid you will have to put your sword down. I cannot take you all, but my men can.’ With a flick of his free hand, the remainder of the men in the bar rose and in moments Wexel, Brendall, Erin and Urng were at sword point.

  Tarn realised, too late, that every man but his own was under the Thieves’ Covenant. He had stepped into their midst, as foolishly as a badger into a trap. Within seconds his security fled. The tide was turned against him, and he was surrounded by potential enemies. He hoped none of his men would do anything rash.

  He motioned for his men to give in. The outcome, should they decide to fight, was not in contention. He was left no choice, but to give in and put his life in the hands of the thieves. If they truly wished him harm, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

  ‘We will take your weapons, now,’ said Garenhill, politely, considering he still had a dagger at Kurin’s throat. There was no anger there. He was totally emotionless.

  ‘I go nowhere unarmed.’

  ‘Then take it on faith that you will not be harmed. If the lady believes your story, you and your men will have your bargain. If not, none of you will ever see the light of day again. Have faith in yourself. Now, if you would be so kind?’

  Garenhill sheathed his dagger, and with a sword point at his back, Tarn was relieved of his weapons.

  Under duress, and now unarmed, Tarn was taken, along with Roskel and Kurin, to the back door. He risked a glance at his men in the bar. He spared a thought for his men outside…he hoped they had fared better. Should they come in and see the situation, things could turn ugly in an instant. But there was nothing he could do about it, and he didn’t want to let Garenhill know he had men outside if he was not already aware of the fact.

  ‘Let’s hope, for your sake, that you make it back this way again,’ said the man, and without a further word led them into the darkness beyond the door.

  *

  Chapter One Hundred-Five

  Eventually, the blackness gave way to a gloomy shade of grey, and Tarn made out stairs in the distance, heading down.

  Garenhill accompanied them alone as they headed farther down. They had been thoroughly, but not roughly searched. Tarn had kept his drawstring bag wi
th him all the time, claiming that this was his price. It was heavy enough to be gold, and Tarn had shown only a portion of what was within. With the promise of more gold flowing into the thieves’ pockets, he was not relieved of it. Tarn was painfully aware that should he fail to convince the mysterious lady of his heritage, and his intentions, he would not be able to fight his way out of this den. He’d walked right into a trap. Now he relied on the honour of thieves for his life. But then, hadn’t he always? Ever since he found Roskel in the woods, his life had been ruled by thieves and bandits.

  Garenhill indicated that they should descend. Tarn went first. Garenhill brought up the rear. He carried only his knife, and Tarn could have killed him easily, but why would he? He would never make it out alive, his men’s lives would be forfeit, and he would never meet the Lady. He found himself strangely curious, and for no reason he could discern, hopeful.

  The steps went on forever. There were candles burning in sconces in the walls, wax creating eerie faces as it dripped down the walls. The wax accumulated over many years, it seemed, until it was as much a part of the walls as the plain brick, or the mortar.

  By the candlelight, Tarn could just make out a door at the bottom of the stairs. They had steadily headed lower for what seemed like hours, but in reality was probably only minutes.

  When they reached the door, Garenhill said, ‘Go on, it is open.’

  Tarn pushed it gently, not wishing to rush through.

  Inside was a chamber with tunnels leading off in four directions. ‘Take the left,’ said Garenhill, his voice reverberant in the deep chamber.

  They walked for some time, turning left and right as Garenhill indicated, until Tarn was perfectly lost. Wherever they were heading, he would never be able to find his way again. There was no need to blindfold most visitors. There was always the chance that someone could remember their way through the warren under Naeth, but it was highly unlikely. Tarn had no idea that under the city there was another city, perhaps just as vast, and only known about by a select few.

  Roskel and Kurin were silent, both content, it seemed, to follow Tarn’s lead. They made no complaint. All the men were prepared for the worst, even Roskel. They knew that ever since they arrived at Naeth they walked the precipice every day.

  Garenhill stopped them, and rapped upon a door concealed in the wall. Tarn had almost walked by, lost in a dream of drips and cavernous echoes as he walked.

  The door opened without a creak. It looked as though it were made from stone and they stepped inside warily.

  Within was a generous lady’s chamber. Soft drapes of fine cloth hung from the stone walls. A bed dominated the rear of the room, partitioned from the front of the room and veiled. A red and gold couch sat in the centre of the room, and there were ornaments set all about on fine furniture, the craftsmanship of which Tarn could only marvel at. Some pieces were built into the very walls of the chamber. No expense had been spared in the room.

  And there, in front of them, stood the Lady. She could be no one else. She put the room to shame.

  Her eyes alighted on Tarn first. He found himself instantly infatuated. She was beautiful beyond compare. Even Rena was momentarily forgotten. Tarn only wished to please the lady, as though a spell had been cast over him. He faintly heard Roskel’s breath beside him, expelled as if his friend had taken a punch in the stomach. She obviously had the same effect on every man in the room.

  Her hair was the colour of autumn oak, and her hips were full and inviting, swaying lustily as she walked across the room toward them. Tarn gulped, and Roskel found himself in the grip of the deepest lust he had ever known.

  Tarn could not tear his eyes away. Were she a spider – and Tarn had no doubt she was as dangerous – she would have already ensnared her prey. Tarn was helpless, and she wasn’t even armed.

  Kurin spoke, and for a second Tarn’s senses returned. He remembered Rena with shame. He felt like he had committed some sin against her, even though it had only been in thought.

  ‘Lady, we are honoured. The Thane of Spar sends his regards, and would have you know that he holds no ill will over the failure to regain his son.’

  The woman took her eyes from Tarn, and looked at Kurin.

  ‘Kind words, huntsmaster. It is strange that he would send you here. Are you on Redalane’s business?’

  ‘I am, Lady Selana, in a fashion. I now, however, serve a greater master.’

  So the Lady knew of Kurin, and his former master? A strange turn of events, but one Tarn could not put a finger on while his head was so befuddled.

  The ladShe regarded Kurin carefully. Roskel hadn’t even heard the exchange. He was as bewitched as Tarn, a moment earlier.

  Selana, the Queen of Thieves, granted Roskel a lascivious grin. Roskel winked.

  In a second she was on him, her wicked nails gentle against his throat, but the meaning clear enough. She was lightning fast; like a spider when it sprints across its web. The warrens and her beauty were the Lady’s web, and they were stuck fast.

  ‘I can play rough, too, my pretty,’ said Roskel carefully.

  The queen gave him a nick on the throat. ‘A little something to remember me by, wordsmith.’

  ‘And I shall cherish it, among my other battle scars.’

  ‘One so pretty as you surely has no battle scars,’ she said, stepping away.

  ‘None where you can see.’

  She smiled, taking Tarn’s breath away, but not his senses this time. ‘I do not believe I wish to know.’

  ‘You break my heart, Lady.’

  ‘Keep it up, and I’ll skewer it.’

  Such harsh words douse my passions, Roskel thought better of saying, and kept silent instead, his silence perhaps precipitated by Tarn’s swift kick on his shin.

  She turned her attention to Tarn.

  ‘I would teach you to be a man, young warrior,’ she said softly, revealing a shoulder under her cloak with a careless gesture.

  ‘I believe a man stands by his woman, and I am wed,’ said Tarn, and knew these moments would seal his fate. She could kill them all in an instant, should she wish. Their bodies would never again see the light of day, and she didn’t even need her men to do it. As though granted a vision, Tarn saw her slicing their unprotected throats one by one, which they bared for her willingly. He didn’t know where the vision came from, but there was a clarity there he hadn’t experienced since stepping into the chamber.

  ‘I could make you stand by me,’ she said with a mischievous glint.

  ‘I’ve no doubt you could, but beckon me to your bed and I would no longer be the man you desire.’

  Selana pulled her cloak back, covering her freckled shoulder.

  ‘Wise, as well as handsome. I will try to cover my disappointment.’ She turned her back on him.

  ‘Speak your piece, warrior,’ she said, without looking at him.

  ‘I need to enter the castle on the night of the Council of the Ten. I intend to kill the Thane of Naeth. You should also know…’

  ‘That you are the king. I know.’

  Another moment of clarity hit Tarn. He realised she was a witch, but one of an entirely different sort to Tulathia, Mia and even Rena. There was a darkness in her which shrouded her intentions, but he saw her for what she was, just as she saw him.

  ‘Then I need no proof?’

  ‘You carry the crown over your shoulder. I can sense its presence as I can tell you when you are to die. It would be all too easy. But each man must find his own fate, even the king.’

  ‘I will pardon all those that help me,’ Tarn said.

  Selana laughed, her shoulders rippling under the cloak.

  ‘I need no pardon, for I have committed no crime. Go with Garenhill. He will make the arrangements. Gather your people to you, King. You only have two days to make your preparations. I have already made mine, for I have known you would come for some time. I have to confess I was curious to see if you were as handsome in person as in my visions. I have to tell you, the sc
ar makes you alluring.’

  Tarn did not know what to say. He merely said, ‘Thank you, Lady.’ He straightened his back, although he did not know why he felt the need to impress her. But she was mesmerizing.

  ‘You may go now. Go with my blessing. Tor will go with you tomorrow. He will see it through to the end. Goodbye,’ she said, and with painful finality.

  ‘My lady,’ said Tarn, and bowed even though Selana could not see him. He closed the door softly behind him.

  *

  Chapter One Hundred-Six

  Outside, Tarn found he could breathe again. Of course Selana needed no pardon. She answered to no man. It was no wonder the thieves of this city were as numerous and as difficult to find as they were. She pulled the strings of all. Once again he was given to think of a spider, catching flies with practised ease.

  ‘Come, let us return to the bar. We may go as friends, now. Forgive the inconvenience, please. We all answer to a higher order,’ said Garenhill.

  ‘No apologies necessary, my good man,’ said Roskel, who found his tongue again, and seemed pleased that it was still in his head.

  ‘When we reach the surface, we will meet Tor, and I will tell you of our plans to breach the castle. We have been planning long. I hope you don’t mind. I’m sure it comes as something as a shock.’

  ‘Where the Lady is concerned, Garenhill, I don’t think anything will ever be a shock again.’

  ‘She does seem to affect people in the strangest ways,’ agreed Garenhill, his face hidden in the murk.

  They walked in respectful silence, following Garenhill through the winding passageways. Tarn made no attempt to remember the journey. He had no wish to ever lay eyes on the Queen of Thieves again.

  *

  VI.

  The Outlaw King

  Chapter One Hundred-Seven

  Tarn’s sense of anticipation rose and rose until his head pounded with blood and his vision blurred. It took all his concentration to summon the carmillion blossom into his throbbing mind. Gradually, the flower asserted itself over visions of Hurth and the encroaching blackness at the edge of sight.