The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One

by Craig Saunders

  He sighed.

  ‘I didn’t want to fight in the first war,’ he said, ‘But some things are worth fighting for. Still, we lost. There’s not many men can say they were proud to be a soldier, but I did my duty with pride.’

  ‘Did you kill a man?’

  ‘Many, Tarn. With no joy. Sometimes you have to kill for your freedom. I’d rather die than let the Spar fall under Hurth’s rule. If nothing else, the war granted the Spar a little freedom from Hurth’s yoke. He’s a wicked man.’

  Tarn’s head was now level with Gard’s shoulder. He would never be as tall as Gard, yet the work on the farm had filled his frame with hard muscle. He could work all day with the axe, and when the need arose dug for half a day with the big man. Gard’s strength was prodigious, and the boy could not yet match the old man, but within a few years…

  Gard was better with an axe, but he knew the boy’s father had been a swordsman, from the stories of him that Tarn told. No doubt he wanted to be like his father. Gard would not deny him that.

  ‘I’ll teach you, Tarn, as best I can. I’m no great swordsman, and there’s only so much I can teach you. But I’ll teach you what I know, and you’ll have someone to practise with. That’s all I can offer now. Perhaps when you reach your majority you can join the guard, where you can learn more.’

  ‘I don’t want to join the guard. There’s more chance I’ll be found. I don’t want to die just yet. Tulathia says I won’t always be a farmer, though, so I don’t know where I’ll be when I reach my majority. But my father always said every man should be able to defend himself.’

  ‘True advice, boy. Let’s get this job finished, and after lunch we’ll have some wood work to do. We’ve got to make some wooden swords, and Molly will have to make us some padded leather jerkins and helms.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Because I’ll be hitting you on a daily basis, and you’ll need your wits about you.’

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Tarn felt a fool, standing in the autumn light of the twin suns. Molly made him and Gard leather jerkins, helms, and wrist guards, a week’s worth of work with the needle and the knife. Though the helm was overly large, somehow the chinstrap managed to dig into the soft flesh under his chin.

  He and Gard spent the week chopping, shaping and chiselling. At the end of the week they had a set of beautifully crafted weapons, and doubles of everything. Gard never did anything by half.

  Halberds, spears, axes, daggers, short swords, long swords, double-handed swords and shields, all made from hard wood, hardened further by coating with butter, and being left up the chimney for the smoke from the fire. Tempered so, the wood had become like rock.

  Gard wrapped the handles in leather strips for a better grip. The weapons looked deadly enough to kill a man, whether wood or not.

  And Tarn had yet to pick one up.

  The weapons were arrayed in the barn. Gard stood before the boy with a stern look on his rough face. Tarn recognised the warrior in the big man for the first time, and wondered how he’d never seen it before.

  ‘I want you to forget everything you know about me. When we train, you are my student, not my son. You will do everything I ask of you without question. We start today. We will train each afternoon until sunset.’

  ‘At last,’ said Tarn.

  ‘It’s nice to see you’re so eager. You’ll wish we hadn’t started by the end of the day. Come on, we’re going for a run.’

  ‘A run? I thought I was to learn how to use a sword?’

  ‘And you will. But we do this my way or not at all. Any complaints?’

  Tarn looked sullenly, longingly, at the barn.

  He began unbuckling his helm.

  ‘What are you doing?’ growled Gard. ‘You will wear your armour always.’

  ‘But it’s heavy, and I’m not allowed to wear armour anyway. Only soldiers are allowed armour.’

  ‘You’ll do as I say. No questions. Follow.’

  Gard set off at a gentle lope. Tarn sighed, buckled his helm, and set off after him.

  After the first mile, Gard began to run a little faster. They were in the woods and Tarn found he needed to watch his feet as he ran, for fear of tripping over a root. Gard seemed to take it in his stride, and opened a gap between them. Tarn tried to close the gap but didn’t have the strength, or the breath. He stumbled more than once. Gard increased the pace again. Tarn marvelled at the man. He didn’t think it possible for such a big man to move so fast. And he knew that Gard never ran.

  After three miles Tarn sensed they were heading back to the farm. He found new energy and tried to close the gap on Gard, but the big man picked up the pace again. Tarn’s breath came in irregular gasps, and his legs burned. He could barely keep Gard’s back in sight, and when he broke the cover of the trees, Gard put more distance between them, his legs working with easy rhythm while Tarn could only just put one foot in front of the other.

  When he finally made it back to the farm, Gard stood calmly in front of the barn, his breathing heavy but regular. Tarn felt as though there was a fire in his legs, and he stood panting, with his hands on his knees.

  ‘Stand up straight!’

  Tarn forced himself to stand, and held his sides.

  ‘First lesson. Breathing is important. Breathe out when you exert yourself. Keep your breathing regular when you are training. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Breathe out just before you get hit and you won’t get winded. Remember that?’

  Tarn managed to nod.

  ‘Fights are never long, but prepare for each fight as though it lasts a week. In battle you will need to be fit to survive. That is what we train for.’

  Tarn was too out of breath to say anything.

  ‘Next – keep supple. Follow my lead.’

  Tarn followed as Gard showed him a series of stretching exercises. Tarn found he could not manage some of the exercises shown to him. At the end of it his muscles were shaking.

  ‘Now strength.’

  Gard got down on the floor and performed a push up.

  ‘Copy me. Let’s see how many you can do.’

  Tarn did so. He managed fifteen. Gard followed him, and managed fifty, before stopping. He seemed as though he could have done more.

  ‘In a month I want you to be able to do fifty. That will do for push ups.’

  Then they did chin ups on the barn door frame. Gard could do twenty five. Tarn managed six.

  ‘Aim for twenty five the first month. You are not as strong as me, but you must be as strong as your frame will allow.’

  ‘Are we going to fight today?’ asked Tarn, panting.

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘No questions.’

  ‘Right. When I want you to ask questions, I will tell you. Remember your questions, and ask when I give you permission.’

  Tarn said nothing.

  ‘You’re not breathing like I told you.’

  Tarn started breathing as Gard instructed and found he caught his breath more quickly.

  ‘Go and get some water. Water is important. You have one minute to bring me a jug, and make sure you don’t spill any.’

  Tarn ran to the farmhouse, filled a jug with water from the water barrel, and ran back to Gard.

  Gard nodded.

  ‘Drink,’ he said.

  Tarn drank gratefully. Then, without warning, Gard punched Tarn in the face, knocking Tarn and the jug into the dirt. Tarn sat up, dazed and shocked. He had never been hit before, and couldn’t understand why Gard had struck him. He rubbed his chin.

  ‘Good. No questions. I hit you so you understand what it’s like to be hit. It hurts, but it won’t kill you. Now you know the worst that can happen, do not be afraid of getting hit.’

  Tarn rubbed his chin once more and pushed himself up.

  ‘Now we work.’

  Tarn made for the barn, smiling.

  ‘No. Here.’

  By sunset, Tarn shook with fatigue. When Cario
us finally slipped over the horizon, Tarn could barely stand and Gard had hardly broken a sweat. By the end of the week, Tarn had yet to pick up a weapon, but he no longer shook. By the second week, Gard made things harder. By the third week, Gard had Tarn practising steps, lifting, leaping, and shuffling his feet.

  He didn’t ask questions, though.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  From his towering minaret above the citadel the Hierophant watched as the humans, tiny below him, built their homes and their businesses, and watched those homes crumble like the beings that built them. His favourite site was the graveyard. It was the one area of the town that kept on growing. He did not know why the humans bothered burying their dead, or why the living returned to place flowers on the graves. The Hierarchs burned their dead. A body was a shell, no more. Buried, it just took up space.

  The citadel must have seemed eternal to those squabbling animals below. The citadel had been there for hundreds of years. No human structure could match the longevity of his kind.

  They warred on each other, even though they were of the same race, and the continent was constantly in turmoil. While they strove to raise themselves above the filth, someone else made sure they were beaten down. The Hierophant did nothing to stop them. The wars kept the population down.

  His kind, above it all, literally and metaphorically.

  Wars made for great entertainment. As yet none of the humans thought to rise against the otherworldly creatures that lorded over them. The Hierarchy kept its more sadistic urges secret from the population at large, and magic kept the humans in line. Even with their numbers, they could not face the Hierarchy. But the Hierophant knew one day they would surge in numbers. Then the humans could be a force to be reckoned with. But for now they were pointless, no more dangerous to the Hierophant’s designs than mice, or dung.

  Yet hope was a powerful force, embodied in the line that could oppose him, come the return of the old ones, the Sun Destroyers, the forebears of the Heirarchy.

  The royal line was the greatest danger the Heirophant could see in the future. The kings of Sturma. Such an insignificant country, plagued by civil war and incursion from its aggressive larger neighbour. And yet the sole threat to the might of the Hierarchy.

  The Hierophant was patient, though. He had lived more than ten human lifetimes, and would live for much longer. The long view was all that concerned him. But if one death today made it easier for the return to happen – and so much could go wrong, he understood that – then the boy would have to die.

  But Jenin could no longer see the boy. He was hidden from magical eyes. A hole where the boy’s fate should show bright to a seer’s eyes. The Hierophant was no seer, but he understood what had happened.

  Someone other than the Hierarchy could practice magic.

  Magic was almost unheard of among humankind, but the Hierophant knew there where gifted women, who used all manner of parlour tricks like entertainers, called witches. It amused him, that the witches needed tools to create magic. It was not in their blood. It was weak magic.

  Still, strong enough to perturb Jenin.

  The spell, however, weakened. Jenin caught glimpses of the boy again. There remained a haze around him, but he could now be seen. And his future was changing. Once, his death had been assured. But as time passed, and the boy grew older, his death became a thing of chance.

  He would be a man soon, and no man could be hidden from a seer’s eyes for long. Fate could always see the man, once a child had been pushed into fate's path inexorably, and a seer could see fate. But fate was fickle. The slightest nudge could alter the future, and now there were others playing a game the Hierophant thought his alone.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Tarn spat blood onto the dirt.

  Gard's sword hit him hard enough to split his lip.

  Tarn had swung, from above his right shoulder to his left hip, only to find that Gard had neatly stepped to the side and smashed his short sword into Tarn's unprotected face.

  ‘Hells, Gard, I thought we were holding back!’ Tarn complained, pushing himself up.

  ‘I am holding back. You move like that in a real fight and someone will separate your head from your shoulders. Put your sword up.’

  Tarn circled warily. Blood still dripped from his split lip but he was used to the pain. A cold wind whispered past his cut, bringing with it fresh discomfort, but Tarn shrugged it off. Pain was good. He was learning.

  Gard had taught him how to move his feet for the first month, and trained him to fitness. Now he was faster than the old man, but Gard somehow seemed to know where each thrust would come next and parried each blow easily. He warned Tarn not to overextend himself, but Tarn couldn't help it. He needed to be faster, he knew, but even more so, he needed to be wiser.

  The short sword was the first weapon Tarn picked up. He knew the seven basic strikes, but he was sure Gard wasn't sticking to them. Gard told him there were a traditional thirteen moves allowed in regulated combat, for more advanced swordsmen, but refused to teach them to Tarn before he mastered the basics. Tarn thought he could recognise five additional moves so far. He was getting better at avoiding them, but instinct, rather than training, still ruled Tarn's moves. He tended to lean away from the sword, rather than moving his feet. This threw his balance off, and Gard took every chance to remind him of it.

  Gard lunged and thrust his sword at Tarn's unprotected throat before Tarn was ready. Tarn swung wildly and knocked the sword aside, but Gard flowed in the direction of the block, spinning on his heel, and thudded a resounding blow into Tarn's ear.

  ‘Keep calm, boy. Your anger makes you stupid and slow. Anger is for berserkers, and has its place, but if you don't want to live your life stitching your wounds, you'll think to your defence.’

  ‘What?’ mumbled Tarn, his ear ringing from the blow. It would swell yet again. Tarn went to bed six nights out of seven with a bruised face or bruised limbs, thankful for his leather padding.

  On the first day of swordsmanship Gard told him they would hold back in training, but to never pull back in battle. Apart from lunges, which should only be deep enough to pierce the heart, or slice the throat or groin. There were so many rules Tarn struggled to remember them all, but he was learning fast. Soon he would hit the old man. Already he had come close. Well, he thought, on two occasions at least.

  Tarn looked up at Gard. Carious was already set.

  ‘Swords up. That's it for today.’

  It was time to move on to fists. Tarn was better with his fists. There weren't so many rules. Gard didn't fight like a boxer. Anything went. Tarn could use his imagination.

  Tarn put his sword up. Then, limping slightly from a bruised thigh, he followed the big man into the barn.

  He was two months into his training, and while he improved day by day, he had a long way to go before he could best the big man. He seemed almost invincible. Tarn no longer believed Gard's story that he was just a common soldier. To Tarn's untutored eyes he seemed like a sword master.

  For Gard's part, he thought the boy showed promise. He was better already than many of the men Gard had trained in his former life. The big man spent fifteen of his younger years in the army, from a common soldier to a Dragon, to the weapons' master's understudy, taking over from the old warrior when he died.

  Gard did not regret the day he left the army. The constant fighting made him a surly man. He was a better man for the love he shared with Molly, and now Tarn. He only hoped the boy did not follow the same path he had. Gard had been forced into it, thrust from a farmer’s life to civil war. Tarn had a choice. Gard wished the boy would follow the swan’s path, to peace, but saw the warrior’s pride in the boy’s eyes when he fought. He would be a warrior one day, and it was all the big man could do to give him the tools Tarn would need to survive.

  Gard set thought aside and concentrated on Tarn. He raised his fists, as they did before every bout, and stepped forward. Already the boy had land
ed several punches on him. He was faster than Gard and a natural with his fists. The boy could shake off a decent punch, too, a skill which any fighter needed. Someone would always land a punch, no matter how good you were.

  They fought for ten minutes, taking a break after five. The boy had Gard in a headlock once, and knocked him down by taking his legs away from him. Gard knocked the boy over three times, but to his credit Tarn always got back up again. Gard knew Tarn would never be strong enough to best him fist to fist, but Tarn knew that, too, and used his legs and elbows to great effect.

  Their fighting styles were vastly different, and the bouts always a challenge. Gard had to admit to himself that despite his fears for the boy’s future, the fights were enjoyable.

  When Dow sat on the horizon, Gard called a halt.

  ‘That’s it for today, Tarn. Tomorrow we will begin on advanced swordsmanship. I will teach you the intermediate moves with the short sword. They will stand you in good stead when we move on to practise with the long sword. You are progressing well.’

  Tarn beamed at the praise. There was precious little of it from the big man.

  ‘Thank you, Gard. I have fewer bruises tonight, but I will still sleep on my back.’

  Gard laughed. ‘All too soon, boy, you’ll have no bruises at all and it will be me sleeping on my back.’

  ‘I doubt that, big man. You seem invincible, for an old man.’

  ‘No man is invincible, Tarn. Remember that. Any man that breathes can be killed. Now, let’s go see Molly. I’m ravenous.’

  ‘I am, too. I could eat a horse.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend it. Stringy beasts at best.’

  Tarn walked silently beside the big man back to the house. Gard left him to his thoughts, but the big man could imagine well enough. The boy pushed himself harder and harder, driving toward his blades and his manhood. It saddened him to see the boy rush toward the future and the trials it would bring. Gard flicked a sideways glance at the boy beside him. Broad in the shoulder, still narrow of chest, but while his body remained youthful, his face bore that angry scar. His eyes were darker than a boy’s eyes should be, but they had seen dark sights in his young years. Gard was not fool enough to think a boy or a man could outgrow his past. He just wished the boy would smile more, fool more.