Gard remembered Molly’s advice on the subject. ‘It’s not in the boy’s nature, Gard. Folly to teach a mule to dance, big man,’ she said.
He sighed and ruffled the boy’s hair as they reached the house.
‘Good work, Tarn,’ he said, more gruffly than he meant.
Tarn smiled in response. That, thought Gard, was more than good enough.
*
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tarn still saw Tulathia, Mia and Rena, spending more time with Rena, usually the whole day, on the seventh day of every week. He looked forward to the visits and found himself distracted through training. He received more than one black ear while wondering what it would be like to kiss her. He didn’t know why he thought of kissing Rena while Gard’s sword, or halberd, or axe thundered into him, but he could not get her from his mind.
Rena loomed large in his mind, then before he knew what had happened, he was in the mud again.
He looked up, dazed, and saw four suns then looked down to see his long sword still in his hand, and Gard standing over him holding the wooden axe in his hand. He relaxed and stood on shaky legs.
‘I wasn’t concentrating.’
‘No, you weren’t. You’ve been mooning over Rena more and more. I think we’ve done enough training for today. I have something else I want you to try. Come on, sword up.’
Tarn raised his sword in salute to Gard, and the big man did the same with the axe.
After putting their weapons away, Gard led Tarn into the woods.
‘Sit, boy. I have neglected the most important weapon of all.’
‘I’ve trained against all weapons but the mace and the flail. What else is there?’
‘Your mind, boy, your mind.’
Tarn was wise enough not to say anything. He had grown to trust Gard’s training methods. He was now a fair swordsman, and proficient against many weapons. He had mastered dagger work, and was a fair archer with a good eye and a steady arm. But he lacked concentration. More bruises were due to his mind wandering than bad weapon work.
‘Very well. What do you suggest?’
‘A trick to control your mind. Clear your mind of everything. Breathe as I have told you, count your breaths. When you reach one hundred, picture a carmillion blossom. Picture it opening, imagine the smell. Start now.’
Tarn cleared his mind, but found it wandering back to Rena. He counted, and lost count many times. Gard waited patiently, eyes closed, his back against a tree. Eventually, frustration mounting, Tarn said, ‘I can’t do it. I can’t even get as far as the flower.’
Gard opened his eyes and smiled at the boy. ‘Give it time. Try again tonight, and each night, until you can picture the flower, see it bloom, hear it bloom, smell its scent. It will come. It will stave off rage, and keep you calm. It is called meditation and with practise, you will be able to summon your flower even in the heat of battle and the depths of pain. All distractions will fade. You will be able to use what you learn to focus your mind on the present. Then, and only then, will you be the master of your own mind. The mind loses more battles than a weak sword arm.’
Tarn could see the sense in it. It was similar to what his father taught him, to help steady his arm with the bow. He resolved to practise each night.
*
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tulathia held Rena’s hand. Darkness came earlier and summer would soon pass.
‘Why have you never asked me to tell your future before?’
‘I never thought I needed to know, old mother,’ said Rena. ‘I have plans now, though, and would see them to their fruition.’
Tulathia laughed. ‘Plans are all well and good, child, but the future I see can be changed.’
‘What do you see of love in my life?’
‘You wish to know if you and the boy will marry?’
‘How did you know?’ asked Rena, shocked.
‘It is no secret, girl. Even Tarn must know how you feel about him now.’
‘Am I so obvious?’
‘To all but a badger.’
Mia hid her smile beneath her hand. She thought the boy a good match. In truth, she knew her daughter could wed no other. Her love was far from subtle. Each week they walked the woods together, or visited the village. They went together to the fair, in spring, and summer, and autumn. When the snows of winter were at their heaviest Tarn still managed to follow the trail to their hut in his cloak of wolves’ fur, made from the hides of three wolves, taken from a pack that had been killing Gard’s sheep. The boy and Gard tracked the pack through the woods and Tarn killed two with a bow, Gard one with a knife.
It was a fine cloak.
‘Very well, mother, Tulathia, have your fun, but let me know, will we wed? For such a boon the price must surely be small?’
‘Small? Maybe. Maybe. You ask the future, I will ask you for a favour.’
‘What favour?’
‘Telling first, Rena, favours later. You know that well enough.’
Rena looked down at her palm as if trying to read her own future. What she saw was fascinating enough, but not plain to her eyes. But then she did not have the talent and no mortal can know her own fate.
She thrust her hand at Tulathia with a girlish grin.
‘Do it, old mother!’
Tulathia shook her head. That the girl, a witch, should take such a matter so lightly saddened her for a moment, but she could no more change the nature of a girl in love than kiss the moon. She sighed and took the proffered hand with a heavy heart, but she kept her face warm. She peered at the signs that covered the girl’s hands. She hid her fear well. Nothing in Rena’s demeanour told her that the girl understood what Tulathia saw there.
‘Yes, girl. You will wed.’
‘Yes!’ cried Rena, jumping up and hitting her head on the low ceiling of the hut. She ignored the pain and twirled, ducking now.
‘Calm yourself, Rena!’ said Mia. ‘You’re not wed yet.’
‘Oh, but one day I will be, and I shall be the happiest bride in the whole of Wherry.’
‘And I shall be a happy mother, but you are still young. Don’t go getting excited just yet. And don’t tell Tarn, or he’ll never marry you. Men like to think they make the decisions.’
‘Yes, mother,’ said Rena, sitting down by the young fire. ‘Thank you old mother, for reading my fortune.’
‘For you I would do anything,’ said Tulathia, but her face was serious.
She held her fear inside, and told not a soul of what she had seen. She had enough worries for the present. The future would have to take care of itself.
For now, her spell was weakening. She could not hide the man, for a man was a creature of fate more than a mere child, even the child of a king. Soon, northern eyes would turn again to the south, and the boy would have to run. There was nothing she could do about it. But Rena did not need to know.
The boy could not stay.
‘Name the price, then, old mother,’ said Rena, who was still young enough to trust Tulathia, once a house guest and now close enough for family. But Tulathia never had a family. She could never do ill, or see hurt, but in this she had no choice but to ask the price.
The old witch kept her eyes neutral.
‘A day will come when you will be asked to risk that which is most dear to you. Take not this lightly. You cannot imagine, now, but one day you will know what is truly precious in this world. When you are bid, you must obey, girl, though your heart cries against it. This is not the price, for I ask no favour of you, child. This is the foretelling. Bide me well, when the time comes, remember these words.’
Rena was enough of the woman she would become to merely nod. She shivered, for suddenly the day, once bright, seemed to darken.
‘I will remember,’ she said.
Tulathia’s heart broke for the girl, but she did not say as much, just patted her hand and let it fall back to the girl’s lap.
There was nothing she could do to ease the girl’s burden, but there was stil
l something she could do for the boy.
She needed someone with preternatural skill to protect the line of kings.
She needed Caeus. But Caeus was a terrible master, and for his ear there would need to be blood and sorrow.
*
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Winter passed, and with it, Tarn’s sixteenth birthday.
Summer was high when Tarn stood in the afternoon sunlight, stripped to the waist. In his hands he held a dagger and a long sword, both carved of wood. He chose his own weapons, and sharpened them to a fine point. Gard stood before him, wielding a double-handed axe, thick muscles relaxed but still defined.
Tarn’s held himself at ease. His was the body of a swordsman. Finely tapered, wide at the shoulders, he stood proud. The boy had grown into a man, although he could not yet be called as such, and already he sported a short beard, dark like his hair, bare where his scar ran down his face. The scar lost its redness, and was pure white where the rest of his skin held a tan.
His breath came steady. The suns were large in the sky, their warmth seeping into Tarn’s muscles. The boy that was raised his weapons in salute to his master, his father and his friend. The time for practise was over. This was real. Blood would be drawn, and Tarn would finish his training.
‘To first blood,’ said Gard, raising his weapon. They circled.
Tarn pictured his flower, the carmillion. Peace settled around him and he saw every detail of the master before him. A life as a farmer could not detract from the skill the old man showed. Tarn could not take him lightly. Over a year had they trained, both mind and body. In that time Gard’s skills had returned as Tarn’s had grown.
It was for his sword and his right to be a man that Tarn fought. Gard fought for his love. Were the boy to fail he would never get his sword, and he would remain on the farm, to take it over when Gard died and Tarn married.
Tarn’s mind also tuned to thoughts of Rena and marriage and his concentration wavered. Gard saw it in his eyes and in that moment the big man attacked.
The axe whirred through the air toward Tarn’s head. He blocked wildly, at the last moment. The top of his long sword sheared off, and Tarn was suddenly back in the fight. His eyes saw everything with startling clarity. Gard spun on his heel and put his weight on the front foot. Tarn saw the danger. The big man would shoulder him back, into range for his giant axe. Tarn rolled aside from the shoulder charge instead, and drew his dagger hard against Gard’s ribs. Gard sucked his chest in, but ignored the pain and no blood came. He reversed a cut at Tarn’s shoulder, but Tarn parried the blow with his broken sword and it passed over his head. He recognised his chance, and thrust his dagger toward Gard’s chin. Gard tucked his chin in and elbowed Tarn. Tarn fell back, blocking a vicious down swipe from the axe, and there was space between them again.
Gard gave Tarn no quarter. He charged, faking an overheard slash only to turn the blade at the last moment toward Tarn’s shoulder. Tarn saw the opening, but could not take it for he would be hit in the same instant. Instead he rolled underneath the slashing blow and jabbed his broken long sword into Gard’s unprotected armpit. He knew with a real blade slicing there the big man would have lost the use of one arm, but he did not have a real blade, just a blade of wood. He would have to work with the tools he had been given.
Tarn flicked to his feet, spun and aimed a cut at the back of Gard’s head. Gard ducked and swung in return, as though he had eyes in the back of his head. Tarn barely managed to deflect the blow overhead with his dagger, a risky move and one he wouldn’t have attempted with real weapons.
The two fighters circled once more. The suns had not moved, even though to Tarn the fight seemed to have lasted a lifetime. Still, he was calm.
Time to attack. Spinning his sword in his hand he thundered a massive blow toward Gard’s head, forcing Gard to block with his axe. The long sword slid from the rounded blade of the axe onto Gard’s shoulder – still no blood – and Tarn thrust his dagger as hard as he could into Gard’s stomach. He felt something rip, and he looked down to see his dagger sticking from Gard’s gut.
Gard backed away, pulling the wooden blade from Tarn’s unresisting hand, and put his blade up in respect before he allowed himself to wince.
The big man pulled the wooden blade out. It had only gone in an inch, but it would need stitches.
‘Gods, man, that hurts.’
‘I’m sorry, Gard. I only meant to slice you.’
‘Well, it’s my own fault. With real blades you’d have bloodied me long before. You fought well. It’s not easy fighting a man with an axe.’
‘Thank you,’ said Tarn, concern, rather than pleasure, evident in his voice. ‘Perhaps we should get you to Molly.’
‘I can stitch myself perfectly well. Now stop fussing, it’s just a flesh wound. Come on, I have something for you.’
Tarn followed Gard into the barn and the younger man laid his broken sword down softly, almost reverentially, because he knew he would never wield a wooden sword again.
Manhood was upon him.
Gard smiled at the boy, and Tarn smiled back. He could see blood flowing through the fingers that Gard pressed to the wound, but said nothing. If it wasn’t bothering the big man it wasn’t for him to say anything.
Pulling back some cloth covering the bench where the weapons lay, Gard reached underneath the shelving and came back with two long packages, wrapped in more cloth.
‘Here. As much as it saddens me to see you take the hawk’s path, you have earned these thrice over. I give these to you in love, and pray that you will use them wisely, and never for evil. I trust that you have a good heart. Remember your heart, always.’
Gard passed the packages to Tarn, who unwrapped the smaller first, seeing a fine sheath of black leather, and pulled out the dagger within. It was a plain dagger, heavy in the blade, with a bone handle wrapped in leather so it fitted his grip perfectly. The blade was about twelve inches long, both sides sharp. Tarn slid it back home and unwrapped the larger package.
Within was a long sword, also of plain steel, the handle wrapped in leather. The sheath was of the same black leather as that of the dagger, and oiled so that it gleamed. Tarn drew the sword and held it up to the light. The edge sparkled in the afternoon light, and he tested the blade with a nail. It cut through the nail with no resistance. He sheathed the sword and put both down on the shelf, then, with no hint of the reserved boy he had been, took Gard in his arms and hugged him tightly to his chest.
‘Thank you big man, they are beautiful weapons and I will wear them well. I’ll not dishonour you.’
‘I know you won’t, son. Even when it is the hardest option, I trust you to do the right thing.’
‘Always,’ said Tarn with a grateful smile. ‘Now, your blood’s probably thin from all the exertion. I think we should get you stitched up.’
‘Don’t gloat, it doesn’t become you.’
‘Gloat? Me? I am merely happy.’
‘And I’m bleeding, so wipe that smile off your face.’
*
Chapter Thirty
Hurn Urillion, the tracker for the Thane of Naeth, got on his knees and bowed his head to the block. For two years he sought a boy with a scar on one half of his face. Through his efforts six boys died, and still the Thane could not wear the crown.
In death he would take no regrets to bear him down at Madal’s Gate. He was a tracker of men, not boys, and while the weight of their deaths should bear heavily on him, the tracker’s soul was his own. He lived by his own rules, and death strengthened him rather than lessening him.
He knew boys grew into men, and other men’s souls were not his to protect. He had done all he could for pay, finding boys when no other could. It had not been good enough and he would die for it.
He heard a loud wet thud and felt sudden, unexpected warmth on his face. He found himself looking up at a sky tinged with red. He blinked, once, and his sight cleared. It was a beautiful, clear day. All thoughts of failure fled.
It was good day for tracking. He imagined himself hunting a great boar he’d seen once in the woods around a small village far to the south in the Spar. The Wherry? He misremembered now.
He found no sign of a boy with a scar, instead happening upon the largest boar he’d ever seen. Tusks as long as daggers, sharp and glinting in the moons’ eerie glow. He wished he’d killed it, but it ignored his serrated spear in its side, as though it was a gnat trying to pierce its hide. The beast had charged and gored the tracker’s thigh. It had been all he could do to stitch the wound and limp back to the Thane’s side with his disappointing news.
Now the block. He waited for the axe to fall.
Had it already fallen?
If only he could have killed the boar. It had been a beast worth dying for.
The light of the suns faded, as though night closed, even though it was still Carious and Dow that filled his vision.
And then, it came for him. He could not run and he had no spear.
Hurn Urillion’s last sight was of a magnificent boar charging, and with it came darkness.
*
Chapter Thirty-One
On Tarn’s first visit to the village since being named a man, his blades were at his hips, and Rena was by his side. He couldn’t have been more proud.
Emotions swirled through his heart, but his training as a warrior allowed him to take each and dissect it with a firm mind. He only let himself feel those that were warm. Rena made him feel like that-- calm and surrounded by the warmth of her depth of feeling for him.
The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Page 8
