The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One

by Craig Saunders

  The tunnel came into focus, and in the incandescent, fleeting light of the receding torch ahead, he made out the backs of his friends in front of him. In all the time he had known the men, he had come to love them. The emotion surprised him, for many of the men had harsh features and an unforgiving nature. Yet they were quick to face adversity, and even quicker to laugh, despite the grim task appointed them.

  Brendall, his broad shoulders blocking the torchlight, was leading the way. His immense strength, his indomitable will, reminded Tarn sometimes of Gard, his surrogate father. His time with Gard seemed somehow distant. Tarn hoped that if Gard could see him now, the big man would approve of his actions. Even though Tarn had followed the hawk’s path for much of his short life, he cared for people, and felt keenly the hopes and fears in their hearts. The fate of the nation did not trouble him, it was the future of his people, the vagabonds and scoundrels that he had adopted through chance more than design, to whom his thoughts turned. Surely Gard would have thought kindly of him. He strove to defend those who could not live in the villages and towns, those that had been used without kindness or compassion by the Thane of Naeth’s men, on the Thane’s orders.

  There would be a reckoning tonight. No longer would Tarn allow good people to suffer the life he himself had known for so long-- to be hunted without respite, to know no home but the woods and the sanctuary of the forest. It was time to end it.

  Now the end was in sight, and his heart pounded, but strangely, he felt relief. For so long, not able to show his face without fear, he had been a shadow, hiding from civilisation, shunning people without realising what he did. These men did not care what the Thane wanted. They would stand by him, no matter what. Had he been a murderer, they would have still taken him in, but he knew that they would not have followed him this far, possibly to their deaths, if they did not believe in him.

  Roskel, for whom he felt a kinship, with whom there was a bond stronger than mere shared experience, followed, even though he had no skill as a warrior, even though he could barely hold the short sword he carried with an invented swagger. Until now, it had been enough to wear it, and bluff his way through trouble. But his hands were not calloused, he did not have the width of shoulder to be a swordsman. Tarn would protect him as best he could, for he owed the man as much as that, if not more. Without his friendship Tarn would never have left the woods, he would have faded into obscurity. Roskel had been the voice of reason throughout his adventures, and that was worth more than gold.

  The other men were in sight of the entrance, waiting for Tarn to catch up. He had to duck to reach it. Twenty-one men, crouched low and silent, watched him with a glint in their eye. Tor, Selana’s man, pointed at the bars that led to the tunnels under the castle. He was a head breaker, more brawn than sense, but he would die to protect Tarn. Those were his orders, and Tarn trusted him. For some unknown reason he trusted the Queen of Thieves, too. He did not doubt that she had her own motives for helping him, but he sensed no treachery in her; at least, as far as he was concerned. He was sure she had sent enough men to their deaths in the past, but had she wanted him dead he would not have known about it. It would have been a swift blade in the depths of the night, not at the end of a dark tunnel, not on the throne, should he ever attain it.

  Tarn nodded to his men, and for the final time that night clasped hands with each of them, his grip firm, his palm sweaty. Lastly, he took Roskel in a firm embrace. Roskel smiled at him and indicated with a flick of his head that Tarn should be the first through the opening.

  Tarn took the lead, and pushing the grate up, entered the underbelly of the castle.

  *

  Chapter One Hundred-Eight

  The leaves were thick on the ground along the King’s Boulevard. Redalane looked out from the high window from his chamber, sadness and fury competing for his heart.

  Shortly, he would meet Hurth and the other thanes, for the last time. He was prepared. None of the thanes would be armed tonight, but concealed in his belt buckle was a short dagger, perfectly sharp, honed fine. It was narrow, and made of bone. When he plunged it into Hurth’s neck, he intended to snap the blade, so there would be no chance to withdraw it. It was coated with a fine residue of capsibellum, a powerful poison for which there was no known antidote. It would flow through his tormentor’s blood, paralysing his muscles, then his lungs. He would suffocate, his heart slowing, his head bursting with the need for oxygen. He wanted to kill the Thane with his bare hands, choke the life from him and watch the light fade from his eyes as his soul fled, but this way was more certain. He wished he had magic, so that he could steal the man’s soul and hold it in torment for eternity, torture it with unimaginable agony. But there was no magic in the world, just that of witches, and that was only good for healing. He wanted to rend, and tear, and maim. But he would not get the chance for a leisurely death.

  To attack the Thane of Naeth in front of his guards would be to invite death. He had one chance, and one chance only. When Tarn attacked the castle, he would use the moment to strike Hurth down. His guards would be in disarray, and Redalane’s own men, an accompaniment of thirty – all that was allowed – would storm the cells and free his son. It was the best plan he had been able to devise. His men would escape the same way Tarn would enter. He had no doubt that Tarn would succeed in getting into the castle. He had petitioned Selana for her aid, and she had come to him in a dream. She promised Redalane that Tarn would penetrate the castle.

  Redalane rested his hopes on one young man. But there was something about the young man, a solidity he could not define, a quality within that shone through his eyes. He believed in him, although he did not know why. It was a slim chance that he would succeed this night, but it was all Redalane had. Even if Tarn failed in the task appointed him, Redalane would still kill Hurth. Should his son die, they would be together beyond Madal’s gate. He had no wife alive, no other children. To live out his life alone, in the cold halls of his castle, was no future he could bear.

  Tonight, he would strike, and let the gods decide his fate.

  He pulled his cloak tighter about his broad shoulders, and turned from the window. A light rain began to fall, and the moon was obscured from view. The air was heavy with expectation. There would be a hard rain tonight.

  A knock at the door came, and Redalane prepared to meet the enemy.

  *

  Chapter One Hundred-Nine

  The Protectorate tenthers knew no magic. They were entirely reliant upon Merilith to be their eyes, to divine threats to them, but even should they have no foresight, they were more than capable of defending the Council of Ten from all mortal threats.

  Merilith bustled into the chamber, where the ten Thanes, the most powerful men of Sturma, sat in quiet discussions. His human master would lead the talks, and at the end the other Thanes would be chastised, and controlled. Hurth would rule unopposed. Merilith thought that the Thane of Spar would be a problem. He saw in his fugue state, where he received his visions, that Redalane planned treachery. But with the Protectorate to guard Hurth, there could be little doubt of the outcome, should Redalane attempt anything. The castle guard were alert tonight. Any dereliction of duty would be harshly punished. But the guard were paid well, from the Thane’s own coffers. They were loyal, in as far as loyalty could be bought.

  Merilith was not worried about treachery from within the room, but a sense of something wrong. There was a gap in his sense. Where he would ordinarily be able to foresee threats to the Thane, as he had on occasion when assassins breached the defences of the castle, there was a wavering, as if there were a mist throughout the castle. Something tickled his senses, like a spell being cast in a distant room, or the pull of full moons. He was concerned, but not overly worried. No assassin could breach this room. There were eight Protectorates within, two outside guarding the doors. They were warriors of exceptional skill. No human would be a match for them unless they were to outnumber them two to one, and even then the outcome of such an engag
ement was far from certain.

  To bring a force large enough to challenge the Protectorate guards, and gain access to the rooms through the castle, where double the normal guard patrolled, would be a feat of magic unheard of. The attackers would have to use a portal directly into the room, and get at least sixteen men through that narrow aperture before they were cut down.

  It was all well and good, but Merilith was still concerned. He took the Pernant of the tenthers to one side and voiced his concerns, quietly enough that the Council of Ten would not be disturbed. Even on this occasion, Hurth exerting his influence not too subtly over his guests, it would not do to interrupt. It would be unseemly.

  The Pernant nodded his acknowledgement. He relayed his orders to his soldiers, and sent one man outside to warn the guard on the door. Merilith had a gnawing concern that the soldier would not return, or that his head would roll into the room, but he came back unscathed and took up a position inside the door.

  The blank patch troubled him, still. Outside, a storm brewed. Rain ran in rivulets on the windows. He could not hear the sound of it above the chattering of the council, but soon, he knew, there would be thunder. It was an ill omen.

  He made sure his dagger was in place, and strode out through the door. He would wait outside. If anyone made it as far as the door, he would have to risk using magic openly. It was a last resort – he could not have the Council suspect the Thane of Naeth’s advisor of using magic, but tonight, he felt, it might be necessary.

  Thunder boomed, and Merilith found himself sweating. From inside the castle, there was no sound. By now he should have heard the patrol in the corridor. He looked at the two Protectorates on either side of the door, and began an incantation, softly, the words drifting on the heavy air.

  A small ball of mist sprang into life before his eyes. He sent it forth, to seek out what he could not see with his mind’s eye. His vision glazed, and the eye roved, supplanting the sight of one corridor for the next. The eye gathered speed, and underneath his eyelids, Merilith’s eye flickered backward and forward, searching around corners, and in dark corridors, for the threat he knew was there.

  *

  Chapter One Hundred-Ten

  Tarn wiped the blade of his dagger on the sleeve of the man lying on the stone floor. The corridor was dim, but sound carried. He lowered the man gently, lest his chainmail clinking on the stone brought someone to investigate. The band of twenty one moved swiftly through the corridors, before the dead guards they left in their wake could be missed.

  As Tarn stood, footfalls sounded. He padded on soft feet to the corner, Erin standing beside him. The corridor was dark enough to hide in, and they wore dark clothing, too. If they were lucky, the next pair of guards to find them would not spot their forms against the wall until too late.

  The sound of footsteps came nearer, and Tarn risked a glance round the corridor. The next corridor was long, and they were on the third floor of the castle already. Soon, they would be nearing the council chambers. The time for stealth would be past, and there would be a pitched battle. Tarn wanted to avoid that for as long as he could.

  He saw the guards turn their backs to walk back up the corridor. They had to take them now. There was no way Tarn and Erin could make it to them before they raised the alarm, and no way past them. He motioned Rean and Silvan forward. Silvan held Tarn’s silvery bow in his hand, an arrow already knocked. Smoothly, the two bowmen stepped from the comfort of the shadows and drew in one fluid motion. The arrows flew straight and true, finding their mark.

  Tarn flicked his hand forward and the men followed into the brightly lit corridor. They moved as fast as they could and as quietly as possible.

  They were expecting a battle tonight, and all wore thick leather armour. It was well greased and did not creak. They placed higher value on stealth than protection, knowing that they could not fight their way through, but that they would have to sneak and confuse, like thieves and assassins. When it came time to fight, they would be at a disadvantage, but then they always were.

  They passed the two guards, stiff in death with arrows jutting from the base of their unprotected necks, and reached a doorway with stairs leading up.

  They ran up the stairs, with as much haste as they could risk without sacrificing stealth, and emerged at the top within moments. The stairway opened out into a hall.

  They found themselves face-to-face with ten guards.

  The time for stealth was over. Tarn yelled, and ran at them.

  The men cried, ‘Intruders!’ but not for long. Tarn was upon them. He felled one with a backhanded blow before the guard could draw his sword, then engaged another with a blistering attack. He saw Wexel crash an overhand axe blow into a soldier’s guard, splitting the man’s sword and caving in his skull. Silvan killed two guards with two metallic arrows, both dead within seconds, before they could even join the fight.

  Roskel ran at one man, slashing his short sword from right to left, only to have his thrust turned away. The soldier raised his sword to strike the thief down, but Urng threw a hand axe which knocked the soldier cold, hitting him with the blunt side. Unhindered and unremorseful, Roskel thrust his sword into the unconscious man’s throat.

  Tarn looked for Kurin, and saw him finish a soldier with a powerful sword strike that passed through the man’s chainmail.

  Moments passed, and the short battle was over. Tarn took stock. Only one man was wounded, a brave young fighter called Orthenwade, from a deep stomach wound. He clutched at the wound. Tarn told him to sit down and wait the fight out. They would come back and stitch the wound, should they be successful.

  The man knew his chances were slim. He clasped hands with Tarn, but they could waste no time. Orthenwade’s best chance was for them to kill the Thane. Only then, with Tarn crowned in front of the remaining Thanes, would the guard not strike them down. Tarn hoped that would be the case, anyway. He had much riding on an assumption. If the rest of the Thanes decided they did not want a king, his day would be short indeed.

  Thunder pealed outside the castle, echoing through the hall.

  Tarn turned his back on the wounded man, who sat back in a corner holding his torn stomach, and ran through the door that Tor indicated, onward, before the remainder of the wandering guard could find them.

  The band of intruders split. Erin and Wexel led the second team of eleven men. Where Tarn exited through the west door, Erin and Wexel led east.

  Tarn felt no joy at homecoming. This was his ancestral home. He felt as though he should have some affinity for it, perhaps some inherited knowledge of its halls and corridors, but each turn was a mystery to him, as were the wall hangings, and the weapons that adorned sporadic alcoves. He should have known who had wielded those weapons, but the history of the castle and its treasures were lost to him. He took little notice, anyway. His feet pounded on the ancient stone, carrying him further along the path set out for him from birth. Left and right, through an endless success of corridors – the castle was vast – they ran, knowing that each moment they spent running toward the council chamber, men would be amassing, ready to hold the doors. But they were lucky. The guard in the corridor was light.

  As they rounded a corner, not far from the council chambers, Tarn saw a disturbance on the torch lit air in front of him. He had no time to wonder what it was. He ran through it, and the thing parted like mist before him. In the distance he heard a cry, followed immediately by iron-shod footfalls on the stone, rushing toward them.

  He cried out himself. The end was near. He could feel the proximity of the Thane of Naeth, some evil that pervaded the air. He imagined when he finally met the man, corruption would coruscate through his eyes.

  Tarn and Tor rounded a corner, and they found themselves confronted by more than twenty men in chainmail, holding the narrow corridor. Behind them, where the corridor widened, stood a creature like Y’thixil, a Hierarch, and two warriors that looked like him.

  A problem for later. If the creature knew magic they mig
ht not even make it as far as the council chamber.

  A guard rammed a halberd at Tor. It was a bad weapon for close quarters, more for show than practicality. Tor batted it aside with a forearm, and smashed the soldier’s skull with his iron bound club.

  Tarn saw the man crumple, and then he stepped into the fight.

  There was only room for two men to fight at one time. Tarn took the lead, with Tor by his side. Rean and Silvan stood back, looking for an opening, but there were too many men obscuring their view. Behind them, unseen by Tarn as he thrust and slashed at the armoured men, opening a cheek or a throat, as Tor bashed his way forward, his bulk carrying the soldiers backward, Rean knelt on hands and knees.

  Silvan climbed atop his comrade’s back, and fired, hands blurring, into the rear rank of the defenders. Two fell and the men at the back stumbled over them as they retreated from Tarn and Tor’s ferocious attack. With blistering speed, the fight was nearly over. Only a handful of the defenders remained, when a lucky thrust from a short sword caught Tor between the ribs. His heart pierced, he immediately slumped to the floor. Brendall stepped over the fallen thief and took his place beside Tarn. Brendall was fresh, while Tarn’s shoulder ached.

  The soldiers were forced back into the opening before the council chambers, and Tarn’s men spread wider to engage them. Then the guards at the door, otherworldly, their balance perfect, stepped into the fray. Suddenly the tide turned, and the bandits were forced back. A lightning fast blow from one of the Protectorates snuck under Tarn’s guard. Before the sword reached soft flesh, Kurin’s short blade was there, knocking it aside. But the huntsmaster was too slow. His sword out of place, and facing a faster opponent, there was nothing he could do to fend off the riposte that slashed across his throat. Without a sound, he dropped to the floor. Tarn stepped over him, and engaged the alien swordsman. He had already mourned all the men accompanying him. He had known there would be no time in the heat of the battle.