The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One

by Craig Saunders

  ‘Unless you hadn’t noticed, I am not much of a woodsman.’

  ‘I had noticed. You are a poor woodsman and a worse fop.’

  ‘Well, it is so hard to maintain standards in the forest.’

  ‘Why were you on the road anyway?’

  Ah, at last, thought Roskel, we come to it. A man could go mad with a companion who did little but brood during a long winter. Perhaps this would be a good time to get to know a little about his unlikely benefactor. Unlikely, because given the chance he would have brained Tarn as he slept. He would have regretted his action, and was more than grateful for how things turned out, but he would have bludgeoned him just the same, and hoped that he would not die.

  Well, maybe I would have bruised him, thought Roskel ruefully.

  ‘Alas, I did fall for the wrong lady’s charms, and I have been falling ever since. I like to think I was worthy of her husband’s ire.’

  ‘You are a boastful man.’

  ‘While you, my friend, are taciturn in the extreme and a dreadful bore.’

  ‘That’s only because you don’t know me well enough.’

  ‘I can’t wait to find your hidden depths.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go plumbing my depths.’

  ‘I see you may just have the makings of a jester, too. Is there nothing you can’t turn your hand to?’

  ‘I was always a terrible darner.’

  The moment passed, and for the time being both thought it wise to leave their curiosity to grow for a while.

  Tarn smiled as the thief sawed at the deer. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to set aside his fears and take him partway, at least, into his confidence. It was one thing spending the winter in close proximity, but if this went on any longer he would have no choice but to come up with a feasible explanation as to why he would not venture into a town.

  Beside, the thief was amusing.

  Would he miss the thief if he decided to make his own way, now that winter ended?

  He decided he would. Company was something Tarn missed. It was time to let himself thaw. No man could hold winter in his heart when spring began to sing.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Spring came slower than usual as they chased the winter north, but come it did, and with it the promise of a new year and new friendships. Roskel could still no more dress a deer than shoot one, but he was fast and had nimble hands. He took to making traps from woven twigs, and could catch fish in the numerous streams with his hands.

  Tarn knew he could not stay in the woods forever. One day over snout fish and bramble mash, Roskel broached the subject Tarn had been putting off ever since spring’s arrival.

  ‘We can’t stay here forever.’

  ‘I thought you were on the run.’

  ‘Yes, my friend, and so are you, but we can’t very well dally in the forest for the rest of our lives. That would be too many years, and no doubt all this fresh air would jade my looks.’

  ‘I’m not sure…I don’t know if it’s safe for me yet.’

  Roskel looked at Tarn. ‘Whatever you did, people will forget. I’m sure people will forget my misdeeds in time to come, too.’

  It had become an unspoken agreement that neither man would speak of their transgressions. Tarn wanted to confide in Roskel. He was beginning to think he could trust him, though perhaps not far enough to put his life in the thief’s hands.

  ‘Then we would go together?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Roskel. ‘Perhaps together we would be less conspicuous.’

  Tarn sat quietly for a time, deciding. Eventually he sprang to his feet.

  ‘Then we will start out small. There is a village to the north of the Fresh Woods, Garveton, where we can get a warm meal and perhaps a bed for the night.’

  ‘Ah, a bed. Now that would be divine.’

  ‘But any nonsense and we run. If we see the Thane of Naeth’s crest on any man, I would thank you to keep quiet and follow my lead.’

  The Thane of Naeth, wondered the thief. What had his young companion done to arouse the interest of such a powerful man? If Hurth’s men were hunting Tarn, all bets were off. Roskel’s troubles were enough, but at least they were localised.

  ‘So it is agreed then? We go to Garveton?’

  ‘It is agreed. We go together.’ Tarn spat on his palm and held his hand out.

  Roskel merely turned his nose up in disdain.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Roskel and Tarn walked side by side down the wide streets. Garveton was a large trading town, a way point for the middle lands. It had a standing guard, as most towns had since the war, the local barons paid to keep a guard which were at the beck and call of the Thanes in times of war. The guard was largely a sorry affair. It tended to draw bullies and braggarts and the two young men wanted nothing to do with them.

  In their furs they looked to be hunters. Tarn’s wolf skin cloak covered his blades. Roskel still insisted on wearing his dagger next to his belly, but now in a sheath which Tarn fashioned from leather.

  It was the day after the town’s spring festival. Ordinary traders from all across the region would have been present, but now hardly any could be seen. People were still in fine spirits, though, and it wasn’t difficult to get a room.

  The two outlaws walked down a wide street, passing rows of houses, from the outskirts into the town centre.

  Garveton was larger than most villages Tarn had visited in his childhood, his father more inclined to risk smaller places and larger than the village of Wherry, where he knew most everyone.

  ‘It is a fine town,’ said Roskel, ‘But not as fine as some of the cities I have seen.’

  ‘You can’t have seen many. There’s only three cities I know of, and my geography is pretty good.’

  ‘I think officially there are seven, and I have worked in each of them.’

  ‘Would that be in the bed or in the jewel rooms?’

  ‘A little of both. I like to think I am a multifaceted little jewel of a man myself.’

  ‘With a large head.’

  ‘It is no boast to take pride in one’s accomplishments.’

  ‘Where did you study? Don’t give me all your ‘one’s’ and ‘thee’s’.’

  ‘I cannot help the way I talk.’

  ‘You sound like a court troubadour.’

  ‘I sound like I need to. That is where the wealth lies, so I speak so that I would not be out of place in courtly homes.’

  ‘In case you get pinched, you mean.’

  ‘Yes, my friend, that is exactly why.’ Roskel grinned toothily. ‘So, do you know where we’re going?’

  ‘Not exactly, but most towns are the same. Inn’s are often on the outskirts or in the centre of town. We’ve not passed one on the way in from the forest, but then there would be no need to have an inn beside the forest. We will walk to the centre of town.’

  ‘We should be there by now.’

  ‘We are; we passed the baker, and one tavern.’

  Roskel sighed to himself. A true one horse town. No place for a man of his talents. ‘I think I see a sign up ahead.’

  And he did. Tarn read the sign as they came closer. It depicted a roaring Jemandril, a mythical creature with healing blood, with a furred head, a flowing mane like that of a horse, and heavy paws with thick claws. The sign read ‘Jemandril’s Tail’. There was an old folk story of a farmer who caught a Jemandril, and tied its tail to his fence, where he bled it and sold the blood to his friends. One day a man grew jealous of his neighbour’s new found wealth and sawed the tail off, freeing the Jemandril, but arousing its anger. The Jemandril mauled the man with its razor sharp claws. The captor saved the jealous man with some of the creature’s blood. It was a story synonymous with charity. Tarn took it as a good sign.

  Tarn was sure there was more than one moral to the story, but he did not know what it was. It seemed it was fine to be cruel to beasts, but not to free them. The human aspects of the story, Tarn cou
ld understand, but they seemed merely a subtext. Nobody considered the Jemandril’s feeling throughout the whole tale. It was a stupid story and he never understood why his father told it to him.

  They entered the inn, only to find it empty but for the barman.

  ‘Lonely night, my good man,’ said Roskel by way of introduction.

  ‘Indeed. Day after the festival. Everyone’s already nursing sore heads, and the sots go to Hasket’s Bar down the road. I’ve even given the serving girl a free night.’

  And I wonder where she beds down, thought the thief.

  ‘I take it, then, you have rooms to spare?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘We’d like a room for the night.’

  ‘Very well. There’s two made up. One above the kitchens, it keeps nice and warm.’

  ‘Sounds grand,’ said Tarn. ‘To start with though, have you any food?’

  ‘No hot food tonight, but I could manage some cheese and bread.’

  ‘That would be fine.’ And the oven wasn’t burning tonight, thought Tarn, so no nice warm room.

  ‘And two jugs of ale,’ added Roskel, eyeing the bar with candid disdain. It was not to his high standards, but then, thought Tarn, all men are ultimately destined to fall.

  ‘Who’s paying for this then?’ asked Tarn.

  ‘I seem to be a bit short on funds.’

  ‘I thought so. Perhaps we can seek work.’

  ‘Work?!’ blurted Roskel. ‘What about my hands? They are the key to my fortune. You have already tarnished them.’ To emphasise his point Roskel showed Tarn his calloused hands.

  ‘You call those calluses?’ Tarn showed him his.

  ‘You win,’ said Roskel with a smile. ‘Shall we compare blades next?’

  ‘I believe the contest is over for tonight,’ said Tarn swiftly, as the innkeeper returned and placed a wooden plate laden with cheese and bread, then placed two jugs of ale on the counter. Tarn paid without further complaint, although he saw that his coin was fast diminishing. Roskel had the good grace to thank him as heartily as he ate.

  They bantered back and forth like old maids, until Roskel, after a few jugs of ale – his tolerance seemed to have suffered since his exile in the forest – rose and declared that he was going to make some money.

  ‘And how do you propose to do that?’

  ‘I have means. I am a master of games of chance.’

  ‘Please yourself. I’m going to bed. Don’t get into any trouble.’

  It was like waving a red flag to a bull. ‘You may seem like a maid, but it does not become you.’

  Roskel left for the evening, and Tarn retired to their room, the bed spinning one way and the ceiling the other. The innkeeper’s promise of a warm room was slightly overstated, as Tarn suspected. It made no difference. There was a bed, and that was enough. He fell asleep fully clothed with a satisfied grin.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  While Roskel plied his trade in the town of Garveton, the Thane of Spar paced the floor in his bed chambers. He wished that his wife was still alive to give him council, but he had to figure out the problem on his own. He wanted, no, needed his son back.

  It had been too many years now, with the Thane of Naeth holding his son ransom, and Redalane felt emasculated. There was nothing he could do. Every night, since his son had been taken, he thought of ways to get him back. He tried bribery, offering ransom for the boy, but Hurth wanted to keep him to make Redalane pay his taxes each year. It worked. Redalane had become just one more lackey in Hurth’s pocket, but he wished fervently that it could be another way.

  He could not go to war – his son would die if he did. He paid an advisor to hire assassins for him, but the assassins never succeeded. They all died horribly within Hurth’s towering castle. He needed a better class of assassin.

  He thought about paying tribute to the Draymar, and getting a war party to attack the castle, but they would never make it across the country. If Naeth were a border castle it would have been better, but it was nearer the coast than the mountains of Culthorn which separated Sturma from Draymar.

  He would wait, and bide his time. He had the support of the southern thanes, and if Hurth pushed them any further they might even risk war.

  Redalane wanted the other Thane dead. But, he told himself yet again, he must be patient. A chance would come, and when it did, he resolved to be ready for it.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Tarn murmured and turned over in his sleep, but the wolf would not let go of his hand, and drew blood, its teeth sharp and spiteful.

  Then he felt the slap across his face and was instantly awake, hand creeping to his dagger. Roskel leapt backward and knocked a low candle off a packing crate that served as a table.

  ‘Peace, friend, it is only me. It is good you are dressed. I think we best leave immediately.’

  Tarn rubbed the sleep from his eyes, turning his mind from dreams of wolves, but something in Roskel’s voice pulled him from sleep quicker than a face full of chill water, as Gard had done on more than one occasion.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We are undone. One of the guards spotted me, and I barely made it back here in time to wake you. They are looking for me now. Time is of the essence, my friend. Come on.’

  ‘Right, we’ll go out the window, back to the outskirts and into the forest. It’s the best way to go.’

  ‘Right you are, into the forest. We can worry about everything else later.’

  Tarn pulled on his sword belt and took his pack. He slung his cloak around his shoulders and then heaved the window upward. The air was brisk enough to bring tears to his eyes.

  He wasted no time. Slinging his leg over the window, he leapt into the dark and fell into the back yard with a crash. His sword hilt dug into his hip.

  Roskel followed with slightly more grace.

  As they ran through the town, Tarn heard the call of the guard from ahead of them.

  ‘Ho, there! Stand fast!’

  The cry of foolish guards the country over, Roskel recognised it well. They ignored the guard and ran. At this distance, in the dark, there was little possibility of the guard being able to furnish a description of them to their captain.

  Roskel’s panting quickly began to grate Tarn’s nerves.

  ‘Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, keep in rhythm with your footfalls. And run faster!’

  Tarn and Roskel turned a corner – Roskel slowing – but the guards were encumbered with chainmail and could not keep up. Shortly, the two fugitives increased the distance. The forest rose up from the darkness before them. The guard, Tarn saw, looking over his shoulder, had given up the chase. Chances are they did not even know why they gave chase in the first place. It was in a guard’s nature to chase a running man.

  As they passed into the forest once more, Tarn noticed a short sword on a worn belt which fitted snugly on his companion’s hip, a flagon clutched in one hand, and a jingle when he walked.

  ‘What is that?’ asked Tarn, barely masking his annoyance. He could guess, but he wanted the thief to confess. ‘I wondered why we were chased so soundly. Perhaps you can explain.’

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ said Roskel, whispering despite their distance from the town.

  ‘And what do I think?’

  ‘That I stole it.’

  ‘That is exactly what I think.’

  ‘Well, then, you are wrong. I won it in a game of runes in a fine establishment called the Hasket’s Tavern.’

  ‘You won it.’

  ‘Fair and square.’

  ‘Fair and square,’ repeated Tarn, glaring at the thief.

  ‘Well, nearly. I might have been caught cheating, but I wasn’t cheating when I won the sword.’

  And suddenly, Roskel was looking up at a nice tree, feeling around his gums with his tongue for the taste of blood.

  ‘We’re supposed to be lying low! I can’t afford to have any guard on the look-out
for me!’

  ‘Well, there’s no need to take it like that, my friend. I have won us some coin, too. I was thinking of our funds. It was the least I could do, as you paid for the room.’

  ‘Don’t do me any favours,’ said Tarn, pulling his friend up. ‘Have a little sense.’

  ‘A good night’s work, I feel,’ said Roskel sullenly, rubbing his jaw as he stood.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  They made camp for the night, within the bosom of the forest. Each man entertained thoughts of capture, but Roskel tended to voice his thoughts, whether they were wanted or not.

  ‘I was at a beheading once. The axe man missed. He took the top of the man’s head off. His body stood up and screamed. No, not for me, beheading. I’ll not be caught,’ said Roskel, as he rolled up in his cloak.

  ‘I am a wanted man, too. I am the king.’ Why not? Thought Tarn. I might as well be hung for one crime as another.

  ‘No need to make light of my predicament. You could just call me a cad and a dandy, as you usually do. I do not appreciate your sarcasm.’

  Tarn sighed. He thought making a clean breast of things to his friend would have been easier. ‘No, really. The Thane of Naeth killed the king, and my father, his son. I am the last of the line, and have been hunted by the Thane of Naeth since I was a boy. He found me, and I have been on the run ever since.’ Tarn felt it time that Roskel understood the gravity of his situation, should they continue to travel together. It was only fair. Perhaps it would stop the thief from getting them into any more trouble. Tarn was loath to admit it, but he didn’t want to travel all the way to Naeth on his own. He would need friends, and despite the thief’s manner Tarn found himself liking the man.

  Roskel looked hard at Tarn and saw that he did not joke, his face dreadfully serious.

  ‘Oh, no, it seems I have jumped from the pot to the fire. You could have told me sooner.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure how much I liked you. Besides, you are a wanted man, too. What would you do with the knowledge?’