The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One

by Craig Saunders

  ‘You think it was they who had Tarn?’

  ‘I think they meant to take him alive, but when the beast attacked they sought to kill him rather than let him escape.’

  ‘They failed.’

  ‘But they won’t fail twice. I don’t know why they want the boy, but I fear the soldiers will return.’

  Molly put her hands around her husband. ‘Then we must send him away.’

  Tears rode her voice.

  Gard stroked his wife’s hair. ‘We will wait awhile. The boy is too young to fend for himself. He must stay until he is old enough.’

  ‘We must hide him away. He can’t go to the fayre, Gard.’

  ‘We cannot hide him. He must grow as all other boys would. I will take him to the fayre.’

  Molly shook her head against her husband’s chest.

  ‘But if they find him?’

  ‘They will not. I’ll make sure of it.’

  ‘I trust you, big man.’

  ‘I know, wife.’

  Through it all, Tarn slept soundly.

  *

  Chapter Four

  Far across the great seas of the world of Rythe, thousands of miles from a small, insignificant country known as Sturma, the first continent sprawled. That great, sprawling land was called Lianthre.

  Nothing but shadowy remnants of the old ones’ might remained. Few even remembered their names. Too few knew of the progeny left behind after the banishment, and the desires they harboured.

  Mankind’s needs were simple. They could not afford to plan for the future. Each day was challenge enough. The old ones’ dark children, though, had the luxury of a future. They controlled Lianthre. Before the old ones returned, they would control Rythe itself.

  The children of the old ones called themselves the Hierarchy, and they knew mankind’s ascendancy could not last. Not without a vision of the future and longer plans than their meagre lifespan would allow. The Hierarchy had long plans. They were long lived.

  They were patient.

  In the first continent’s capital, named for the continent itself, the Hierarchy’s impossibly tall towers overlooked the petty human lives played out below. High above the stench of humanity, they watched the humans’ sad, short lives play out.

  In the tallest of the towers, the ancient Hierophant thought on the future laid out before him.

  Not since Caeus left had the world been so close to the brink.

  Caeus won a great victory over the old ones, banished them from Rythe, and only their bastard sons, the Hierarchy, remained. The Hierarchy were diminished then, but their number did not matter. The humans could not hold them back, because humanity did not have magic in them. They were plain creatures, ugly and without purpose, and what little magic a few possessed was pitiful. They did not have the talents required to oppose the Hierarchy. They would fall, given time.

  The Hierophant saw the outcome. The old ones would return, and they would be pleased to see the power their children held.

  The ruler of the Hierarchy for the last century and more looked up, away from his toy, a mewling, tongueless human baby, and beckoned his servant closer with a crooked finger.

  Turille approached and cowered.

  ‘I tire of it, Turille. Remove the creature.’

  ‘At once, master,’ said Turille, bowing low.

  ‘Wait. Send in Jenin. I would know how our plans progress.’

  ‘Master,’ said the servant.

  Turille put the horrible creature out of its misery before going to call Jenin. In its death throes it defecated explosively, and in doing so soiled the hem of Turille’s robes.

  He threw the body down the long stairwell in disgust.

  Turille was unusual for a Hierarch, ruled by fear as he was. It would not do to keep either Jenin or the Hierophant waiting. He feared Jenin almost as much as his master. A change of clothes would have to wait.

  Jenin could crush Turille’s skull between his hands, had he the energy to do so. Turille’s one hope was that Jenin would not stoop so low as to dirty his hands. Perhaps the scent wafting from his robes would serve as protection.

  Mostly, the giant Hierarch, the most practiced of foretellers, sat in his room smoking Seer’s grass, a weed imported from Kun.

  Turille scuttled down the gilded stairway to the seer’s chambers, where he knocked, tentatively.

  ‘Master,’ he called out, barely able to hide his trembling in the flickering glow of the torches burning down the hall. ‘The Hierophant awaits your pleasure.’

  The door opened after a long time. Jenin stood before Turille, a full seven feet tall in black robes.

  Turille’s eyes watered from the smoke that curled through the doorway and he hated himself for his weakness.

  ‘I will find my own way,’ growled Jenin.

  ‘As you will,’ Turille said, a hint of gratitude in his voice, and turned on his heel. He did not wish to be around Jenin any longer than necessary, just in case the crazed Hierarch decided he wanted Turille's head.

  Jenin stretched, sniffed the air after the departing worm and wondered if he soiled himself in fear. Placing his hands on hips, Jenin bent to one side, eliciting a loud crack from his back.

  His head brimmed with a future unwritten.

  What he had seen could mean the end of the Hierarchy; an end to the return of the old ones. He saw billions of humans, laying waste to the land, spawning more each time they bred.

  In his visions he saw no sign of his kind. In his visions, Rythe shook.

  The line of kings was unbroken.

  *

  Chapter Five

  The day broke. Tarn woke and stretched noisily after a blessedly dreamless night. Hard work seemed to ward off the dreams. He felt the pain of his father’s passing, like any normal child and oftentimes in his dreams.

  In many ways, he never had time to be a child. Life was too hard for childish flights of fancy. Too hard for laziness. Too hard for mourning. Unimaginative in many ways, maybe, but he understood well enough that had he been raised differently - foolishness could have meant his death.

  Even at his age Tarn knew his tears would not bring his father back. More importantly, the Thane of Naeth’s soldiers wanted him dead. Tarn might lack imagination, but not intellect.

  They would return for him.

  He knew, too, that he should leave. That had been his father’s way, to avoid staying in one place.

  Gard and Molly, however, gave him something he hadn’t realised he needed.

  He pulled on his clothes and his cloak. The snow would not be long. Already the air hung still, waiting for the first flurry.

  ‘Tarn! Get up boy, we must leave,’ called Gard impatiently through the door.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Surprise. Come on.’

  ‘I’m ready,’ Tarn said, emerging from his room. ‘But what about breakfast?’

  Molly smiled. She liked to see a man eat.

  ‘We’ll eat when we get there,’ shouted Gard, ignoring Molly’s frown. ‘Come on!’

  Tarn had arrived with nothing but his clothes, but Molly sewed him a leather pack, in which he kept all manner of things. Bird bones and feathers he found, a horseshoe, and a small knife Gard gifted the boy. The pack was slung across his shoulders.

  ‘Here, Tarn,’ said Molly, giving him some small coins. ‘See if there’s anything you want to buy.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘Oh, Gard...’

  ‘Alright, woman. The fayre, Tarn. The fayre. Now come on!’

  ‘The fayre?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Gard, grinning. ‘You coming or not?’

  ‘Coming. Thank you, Molly.’ Tarn reached up and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Let’s go then, time’s wasting,’ growled Gard.

  Molly put her hand to her face as if to hold the kiss there and watched them go.

  *

  Chapter Six

  Gard and Tarn set a fast pace for an hour and a half. They did not speak
on their journey. They just put one foot in front of the other.

  Finally the village, the Wherry, came in sight. Tarn’s heart warmed. The sight always made him glad. The smoke curling from chimney stacks, the cosy feel of the houses bunched together around a thin stream. It reminded him of all the times he and his father emerged from the woods, where just the two of them hunted, to find people and the love and joy they shared. Sure, there were wicked people among them, but with his father at his side Tarn could never be harmed.

  The thought reminded him of the pain. He looked to his side, where Gard strode, and held on to that thought. Still protected. Still safe, with the big man, the warm-hearted giant.

  He had needed someone to take him in and care for his wounds, and he had found two people who loved him without question. He knew luck well enough when he saw it.

  They neared the village, resting in a dip between the fields. As Gard and Tarn approached they saw the bunting draped between the one and two storey houses. There were a few stores in the centre of town, around a rough square dominated by a towering oak. Not as large as some of the places he had seen, but enough to see after a long time spent in the company of just two people.

  His feeling of fear and being exposed again briefly surfaced, and he fingered the scar on his right cheek, but changed the gesture midway, running a hand through his unruly dark hair.

  ‘There aren’t many people,’ Tarn remarked.

  ‘Well, there won’t be yet,’ replied Gard. ‘It’s still early. Wait ‘til this afternoon, though. There’ll be plenty of people by then.’

  Tarn's stomach growled.

  ‘Let’s get something to warm our bellies,’ said Gard, smiling.

  There was a boxing ring near the food stalls. It was common for fist-fights to be included in fayres, and Tarn secretly enjoyed the bouts, even though his father refused to watch them, calling them barbaric. Ulrane had been a big man, but never competed. Violence in its place, he said, and not for entertainment.

  Tarn felt sad until his stomach told him there was ham on offer.

  He nodded as Gard indicated the butcher’s stall. Gard paid, and the two of them savoured the warmth of a chunk of roast ham, with their backs against the meeting tree in the centre of the village. Other visitors were sitting there, and Gard occasionally greeted them, or other people who passed by.

  The big man seemed to know everyone in the village. Even the children greeted him.

  The two wandered the stalls. By mid-morning there were many more people milling about. The children ran and played, and there were mothers with babies in their arms or in slings around their chests. There were a few old men sitting outside the two-storey tavern, drinking already and laughing soft laughs full of phlegm.

  They made a few purchases, but bought nothing large, as their packs would not take it and the walk back to the farm would mean aching backs by the time they got there. The day was supposed to be a day free from toil.

  ‘Big man, would you mind if I wandered alone for a time?’ said Tarn after his lunch, somewhat tentatively. He almost hoped Gard would say no. ‘I won’t go too far.’

  The big man thought about it for a while, but without acknowledging his fears for the boy, he couldn’t very well deny him. Besides, it wasn’t like he was the boy’s father. The boy would do what he wanted to do. Although Gard was secretly pleased Tarn asked permission.

  ‘Of course. I’ll see you by the meeting tree in about an hour. We’ll watch the fights together.’

  ‘I’ll see you then, big man. Are you going to fight?’

  ‘No, boy, I’m too old for the ring. When I was younger, perhaps, but not now.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose your old head would take the punishment nowadays,’ said Tarn, smiling.

  ‘Mind yourself, or I’ll put you in with the youngsters.’

  ‘No, my father forbade me to fight for entertainment.’ It was the first time the boy had spoken of his family.

  Gard didn’t think it was time to ask him more. He merely said, ‘Sounds about right. See you in a while, then. Don’t get into any trouble.’

  Tarn waved him goodbye.

  *

  Chapter Seven

  Tarn wandered for a time, always keeping Gard in sight. Tarn knew the big man kept an eye on him. He smiled. The big man and his wife were good people.

  After a while he wandered further, out of Gard’s line of sight.

  As he passed the farrier’s on the edge of the village, a smart wooden building, he heard a commotion out near a copse of trees, and to his surprise they spat out a young girl in a pretty dress. She was crying.

  Tarn stopped for a moment, unsure as to what to do. He had never been confronted with a tearful girl before. Crying girls weren’t part of his education.

  Before he could move, a group of large boys emerged from the woods, taunting the girl. Tarn could not make out what they were saying, as the boys all spoke at once. The girl ran away from them and toward Tarn. She made it a few steps when one boy, the largest, shoved her hard. She landed in the mud, ruining what Tarn could only imagine was her best dress.

  He knew nothing about crying girls, but he knew about this.

  Instantly incensed, he clenched his fists so hard his knuckles cracked.

  His father raised him up to protect the weak.

  Even if it meant putting himself in danger of death or discovery, his father had never stepped down when someone needed help.

  Tarn wouldn’t tarnish his father’s memory by standing idle.

  ‘Hey!’ Tarn called, rushing to the girl’s side. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  There were four boys, all of them larger than Tarn.

  ‘Get lost, midget. We’re playing with the witch and it’s none of your business,’ said the largest boy.

  Tarn drew close to the boy, making him back off. ‘There’s nothing wrong with witches, as you should well know. Who birthed you, lummox?’

  ‘My mother, titch. Now go away.’

  ‘Your mother and a witch. Leave the girl alone.’

  The girl picked herself up out of the mud. ‘It’s all right. I can look after myself.’

  ‘What are you going to do, cast a spell on us?’ There was a round of sniggers. Tarn felt his face flush and he took his anger and held it in his fist.

  The boy made to push the girl in the mud again, but Tarn, too quick for him, hit first. There was a wet crack and then a splash as the largest boy hit the mud. His friends stood dumb, not believing what they saw.

  Tarn shook his wrist. That had hurt.

  ‘The next one of you to lay a hand on her also gets a broken nose,’ said Tarn, menacingly. He looked like a wild animal. His father had taught him controlled rage had its place in a good fight, and in avoiding a bad one. Tarn didn’t think he could take all three remaining boys, but they didn’t look all that brave. Perhaps he could bluff it.

  ‘Now get lost, or I’ll lose my temper.’

  The boys looked at one another, pulled up the largest boy and made to go.

  ‘I’ll remember you,’ said the largest boy, his voice slurred with blood and snot. ‘I am Gothar, and you have made an enemy today.’

  Tarn turned his back on the boys, taking the shaking girl’s arm and leading her away. He studiously ignored the boys stalking off behind him. All it would take was for them to band together, but they only muttered, leaving him alone.

  ‘Are you going to the fayre?’ he asked the girl, kindly.

  ‘I was. But now look at my dress. I’ll have to go home.’

  ‘Well, let me walk you.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I insist,’ said Tarn.

  She really was quite pretty. Long blonde hair with soft curls, and a pout. Her hair was muddied, but Tarn could tell it was pretty hair. She had a flower in it.

  ‘My name’s Tarn. What’s yours?’

  ‘Rena,’ the girl said. ‘You can let go of my arm now.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ Tarn
blurted and dropped her arm sharply. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘About a mile away. It won’t take long. And thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘What happened to your face?’

  ‘I got hit by a sword.’ Tarn felt his explanation somewhat lacking. ‘A big sword,’ he added.

  ‘Oh,’ said the girl, quite directly. Guile would come later. Rena thought the boy fair, despite the scar. In fact, it made him look quite handsome. She noticed his dark blue eyes, but somehow they seemed to twinkle with light. Her mother told her that much could be gleaned from a simple look in the eyes, if you knew how to look. But she was still young, and to her, his eyes were merely intriguing-- of a colour she had not seen before. She looked on unabashed, but he merely smiled at her. She blushed and looked away.

  He walked beside the girl, slowly being drawn into conversation as they headed into the deeper woods. He forgot all about his meeting with Gard.

  *

  Chapter Eight

  Gard sat by the tree for an hour. The first fight was about to begin, and there was no sign of the boy.

  The cooling steel of the clouds overhead cleared, releasing the splendour of Carious and Dow’s light, Rythe’s twin suns. Gard turned his face upward. His back, firm against the tree, groaned. He was getting old. He remembered his youth – timekeeping had been something maids and old men knew, not boys. He relaxed and enjoyed the sensation of the suns on his face. This close to winter Carious was low in its cycle, with little warmth in the air, but Gard was determined to make the most of it before the long harsh winter with its bounty of snow graced Sturma’s shores.

  Two fighters entered the ring. Gard pushed himself up to watch.

  The village champion, Anhar, and a challenger from a neighbouring village, Urthor, raised their fists to each other.

  The crowds round the ring didn’t obscure the view. The ground around the tree was high, and Gard was taller than most.