The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One

by Craig Saunders

  ‘So you are not villains, but heroes?’ asked Roskel, hand resting uneasily upon his sword.

  ‘I make no such claim. But come, to the Slain’s tent.’

  Tarn and Roskel followed Brendall to a large wooden round house at the centre of the clearing. They ducked under a cloth hanging over the door to keep flies at bay, and found themselves in a luxuriously appointed hall, like a council chamber. A wiry man, about Tarn’s height, sprawled on what could only be described as a throne, even though it was made of wood. It was exquisitely carved – there must be some artisans around the camp as well as warriors – the arms in the shape of wings and the head into the likeness of a hawk. The man looked up from his current company and waved them away, rising.

  ‘Brendall! Fresh meat you have brought me, and I am grateful. Who are they?’ he asked, head cocked to one side. He had not even looked at his three visitors.

  ‘They come to join our ranks. The one with the scar is Tarn, and the one rudely resting his hand on his sword is Roskel, a thief.’ Brendall spoke with quiet respect and a sideways glance at Roskel.

  Roskel swiftly put his hand down by his side.

  Tarn stood proudly, and examined the leader of the outlaws. His bare chest was well muscled, and he boasted a great scar from his navel to his ribs, the scar tissue thick and gnarled, like a root running across his stomach.

  At his side he wore a long sword, obviously grand from the hilt adornments, worth far more than anything else there could be in this outpost.

  ‘And they would join our band, would they?’ The Slain turned his face to the beamed ceiling as he spoke.

  ‘They would, and I vouch for them.’

  The Slain obviously got his name when he had been run through. Perhaps he had been dead at some point. A wily intelligence lurked behind his eyes, but it galled to be ignored. Tarn reasoned he had time. He could wait to come to this man’s attention. Perhaps then he would be granted a place of his own.

  ‘Then we will watch them well, won’t we? For I see in the younger one something of myself. I will keep an eye on him for you. They may leave now.’

  Brendall motioned for them to leave. Not once had the Slain spoken to them. He seemed to be addressing his words to something only he could see.

  Once outside, Tarn turned to the bandit. ‘I would have thought a bandit leader would want to question any newcomers professing desires to join?’

  ‘He is a complicated man. He runs our village, Haven, with a strong hand. But then many of the men are violent. Challenges to his leadership are few, and by and large people are content under the Slain. He has guided us for two years now, and still Haven keeps growing, and growing stronger for it. We all respect him, and yes, we fear him too. Today is not a good day. He will not speak directly to anyone when he is with the spirits of the departed. People around here say he can talk to the souls of the dead since he died and passed Madal’s Gates. But he came back, and he is different now. Touched. That is his kind of madness. It surfaces on his bad days. On a good day he is a fine drinker. On any day he is a warrior bar none. I would not irritate him, if I were you.’

  Tarn smiled. ‘Well, I doubt I will have much to do with him.’

  ‘No, not much.’

  ‘How did he get the scar?’ asked Roskel.

  ‘Where I come from it is impolite to ask after a scar, except when offered. One day, perhaps, the Slain will share his story.’

  What else could fate have in store for them? Tarn fingered his own scar absentmindedly. Madmen, thieves and bandits…a strange path he found himself upon, and its footing seemed treacherous.

  Brendall led them to a camp fire, and they sat down to eat.

  *

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Far to the south of the Fresh Woods, where Tarn made new friends and moved along fate’s path, Tulathia’s road was ending.

  She was old enough, and wiser than even her great years, to know when death was at her door. For a year now, she’d hid the blood in her phlegm from Rena and Mia, but could hide the fact that she rotted from the inside no longer.

  She had little to be sad about. She had presided over hundreds of childbirths, held children in her arms as their newborn wails rent the air, sat in judgement over love disputes, cured ailments which should have been fatal in their severity. She was old beyond imagining, but even a witch could not hold back the tide of years. Her time had come.

  In Mia’s hut she lay on the ground, Mia wiping her brow but staying silent, for which Tulathia was grateful. Even Rena, growing into a beautiful young woman, was quiet, gently sobbing, her eyes large and full of painful compassion. Tulathia knew she was lucky to be mourned in her death, but the sobbing grated, despite its sincerity. She did not want the last sound she heard to be one of sadness.

  ‘Now, child,’ croaked Tulathia, trying to keep her breath shallow to avoid coughing up more blood and hastening the end, ‘No more tears, child. I ask you as the granddaughter I never had, please cry no more for me.’

  Rena wiped her eyes, and tried a smile for the old mother. It was strained, but Tulathia granted her a smile in return.

  ‘Mia, my time is near. I thank you.’

  Mia did not need to ask for what.

  ‘I thank you too, old mother. I will not mourn your passing, but rejoice in new life given.’

  ‘As it should be,’ said Tulathia, and reached round to squeeze Mia’s firm hand with her arthritic one.

  ‘Rena, you asked me many times to discern the future. Before I pass, I would give you one last gift, for I know it is what you wanted.’

  ‘It has been a gift just knowing you old mother. I ask nothing of you this day.’

  ‘Then as a friend, accept this. You will see your love again. Make the most of it when you do, for that is my gift to you. Caeus watches over him now and no seer can discern his thread, but think wisely when the time comes, for he will always be hunted by men, even while he is hidden from those with magical eyes. Think wisely, for the sake of your children. That is all that is in my power to give.’

  Rena smiled. ‘Thank you, old mother. It is all I have wished for since he left.’

  ‘Then know that he is still safe, and he will come again. Remember that all love is a gift. Cherish it while you can.’

  ‘I will, Tulathia, I will.’ Rena wanted to ask more, but sensed the end was close.

  Tulathia closed her eyes. Mia and Rena kept vigil.

  With the last of her power, Tulathia made a wish of her own; that Tarn would hear her prayer and come home, even though she knew he would not be able to stay. It was her wish that Rena would be able to hold him again. She placed her wish on a soft breeze that entered the hut, and bade it travel north. It was all she could do. She had to trust her power to the wind.

  Then, with a smile on her face, Tulathia passed.

  *

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Tarn and Roskel sat by the fire. They talked long and rested. Both men were tired from the journey and it was pleasant to find respite. Tarn took a pull on a jug as Roskel asked, ‘So what is she like? This love of yours?’

  ‘She has the most beautiful blue eyes and blonde hair; she is warm and kind and loving,’ said Tarn wistfully.

  ‘You, my friend, are no poet.’

  ‘True beauty needs no gushing words.’

  ‘That’s what you think. I’ll thank you to keep your advice about women to yourself. I may not be a warrior, or a woodsman, but that is one area where I can safely say my expertise exceeds yours.’

  ‘As you will.’

  Roskel turned in his bedroll, and stared up at the stars for a time before speaking again.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Tarn.’

  Tarn considered this. To himself, he conceded that he did not. But Roskel needed to hear the words.

  ‘It may not be perfect, but it is necessary. We will tread carefully.’

  Roskel grunted. ‘Not exactly the answer I hoped for, but it will have to suffice.’ With tha
t Roskel turned in his bedroll and closed his eyes. He eventually went to sleep with the warmth of the fire guiding him into gentle dreams.

  Tarn sat for a while longer, staring into the haze of the fire, thinking hard about the days and weeks to come. He was less sure of this new path than he let on to his friend, but, he felt, he had little choice in the matter. To a certain degree, he knew he needed to watch his own soul, but sometimes opportunities came along and there was no chance to follow the swan’s road. He was a victim of fate. He was trying to ride its back, and not stumble into the future with his eyes shut and his hands out to steady him. He was keeping his balance, and for now, that would have to be enough.

  Tarn remained lost in thought for a long time, until he felt a sudden warm breeze on his face. With it came the scent of home, and Rena’s freshly washed hair, full of the capium’s sweet fragrance. For some reason, thinking of Rena made him remember Tulathia. He smiled at the memory of the old mother, and wished her well, wherever she was.

  One day, he vowed, he would return to see them all.

  *

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  The soul swords were guardians. They kept undesirable beasts from havoc, holding back pandemonium from worlds that could not defend themselves. To them, everything was a beast, but to mortals they would seem as terrible creatures themselves. They were giants, with strong, muscular arms, thick hands and tails which were quite dextrous.

  Fearsome creatures though they might be, they did not rend the flesh from their captives. Instead, they held them in stasis while the captives pondered their sins and the reason for their punishment. Rather than a torture of the body, it was torture of the mind. The Guardians were there to teach, more than to imprison.

  Caeus’ imprisonment was not as long as many, but then Kilarian, his jailor, thought perhaps the wizard could have got out at any time. He could not escape, but he was far from obtuse. If he had already learned his lesson, what was he waiting for?

  They had fought nearly a thousand times, and Kilarian was not yet free.

  He pulled the sword from the wizard’s chest.

  It was time again.

  *

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Tarn and Roskel followed the other members of their band at a distance, wary of them still. The sun shone red through the leaves, sunset on its way. They would wait by nightfall for the caravan to pass. The scouts reported when it came their way, and they were far north of their usual hunting ground around Garveton.

  Tarn kicked at a fallen stump. ‘It is wrong. You should work for your food.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Roskel with a sly grin, ‘But perhaps you should let others work for their food and live life to the full. That, my friend, is what the gods truly want – happy people. Besides, I only ever re-appropriate goods from those that can afford it.’

  ‘I concede that you are not evil, but your profession exists on the borderlands. How far over the line would you go? Would you kill a child to escape when caught? Would you kill to keep your gains?’

  ‘Well, lest you think badly of me – although I can’t figure out why that should bother me, but it does – would you kill a child to save Rythe, should it be threatened by, say, the gods?’

  ‘No, I would not,’ said Tarn, annoyance in his voice. ‘Of course not, that would be evil.’

  ‘So you would let the world die.’

  ‘What would the world be worth should it live through evil? Ancient priests on Salis, an island far to the east of Sturma, used to sacrifice innocents to appease their gods, and they were wiped out when the earth spewed fire. The gods do not want it, and they are the highest power.’

  ‘Even Madal?’

  ‘Even him. So you would kill the child?’

  ‘I would. For the greater good.’

  ‘Evil in the name of good is still evil.’

  ‘But it does not matter. I fear we have both taken the evil path.’

  Roskel and Tarn bickered under their breath each moment they had the energy to do so. Fortunately, when they reached their destination, their philosophical debates were not put to the test.

  The bandits were well practised. They leapt out from the undergrowth and startled the horses, Brendall holding the lead horse, the other horses stopping as it did. The threat of swords was all it took, and none of the bandits took advantage of the lady in the carriage, nor were they overly rough with her husband or their guard.

  No bloodshed. Tarn’s soul was still clean.

  But somewhere, deep inside, he felt tarnished. He had drawn his sword, and whether blood was shed or not, he used his strength to sway the weak. The hawk’s path beckoned, and the swan’s path was becoming a memory already.

  He recognised the necessities of his situation, and on the journey back did not berate himself too harshly. He only hoped, when the time came, that he would be able to find the swan’s heart within himself again.

  *

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  The Slain drove his people onto further feats of banditry. He amassed gold and trinkets and whole wagons full of the fruits of their labour. People died – it could not be avoided. Even predators can be hunted. Where soldiers accompanied caravans there was resistance. Sometimes it proved fatal. Tarn tried to rise above it, to keep his soul clean, but as Roskel was prone to reminding him, it was drenched in blood as surely as if he struck the killing blows himself.

  The Slain took no prisoners, and for three blood-filled months, Tarn did nothing to stop it but stay his own hand in battle. Where others used force, Tarn disarmed, or threatened, or used guile. Only his raiding party, under the guidance of Brendall and Tarn’s growing influence, avoided murder. It became harder by the week.

  It was a long hard summer, the hardest Tarn had ever known.

  He was, he had to admit to himself, an accomplished bandit. The bandit king, Roskel called him whenever there was no one else about. Roskel hadn't used his sword, but joined the bandits when they emerged from the forest to wreak havoc along the supply roads. Guards on caravans were increasingly common, but there were never enough to keep the Slain’s bandits from taking what they wanted.

  But all the time Tarn knew it could not last. One day, a guard would be too belligerent, or too fast with the blade, and Tarn would be forced to slay him.

  The Slain, when coherent, seemed to have no plan for the future of the outlaws, or the settlement, which grew slowly but surely. The leader of the bandits urged them into increasingly dangerous adventures, and was seen less and less. Rumours among the lieutenants, and from what Tarn could drag from Brendall, hinted at an increasing madness in the leader. Tarn thought it could signal the end for the settlement if the Slain continued to make bad decisions. Soon, the sporadic hunting parties that searched the forest would grow, and their settlement would be found. They had made many enemies.

  Still, until the Thane of Naeth, or one of the three bordering Thanedoms elected to send a troop of soldiers hunting for them in the woods, they were safe enough. Soldiers were different from guards. A guard was a deterrent, but not prepared to die. A soldier took greater risks, had better training, armour and arms.

  The Slain was taking them down a path to Madal’s Gates. There were enough grieving widows already, and they were not at war.

  It would not be long until the Thanes decided to do something more permanent about the outlaws. Tarn wanted more than a bloody end by pike. He was beginning to have thoughts, and Tarn was a man who acted on his thoughts. He could not wait much longer. If he did, he might as well flee at the moment and take his chances in the wilds, alone but for his weapons and his wits. But that was how his father lived, and in the end, it availed him nothing. Tarn did not wish such a fate.

  *

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  The leaves were falling and heavy autumn rain helped strip the trees bare. Roskel and Tarn acquitted themselves well and were relaxing after a successful excursion against a force half their size. Brendall commanded the group, grown to thirteen men
, and Tarn was now Brendall’s second in command.

  Brendall returned from an audience with the Slain, a rare hint of anger on his bearded face. His eyes simmered.

  ‘There is a caravan of soldiers one hundred strong headed along the old King’s Road.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we plan to take their cargo in force. We suspect it holds gold for the Thane of Naeth. It will be a fine rout,’ said Brendall.

  Tarn was not sure who he meant would be routed.

  ‘You plan to take on armoured soldiers?’

  ‘And you will be with us!’ Brendall clapped Tarn on the shoulder. ‘Never fear, we will follow the Slain.’

  Roskel snorted. Brendall ignored him.

  ‘You don’t sound too sure, my friend. Have we enough men to take on a hundred soldiers?’ asked Tarn, gauging Brendall’s willingness to speak out against the Slain.

  The bearded giant sighed. He shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘What I believe matters little. I follow the Slain. I have lived this long. I’ll live a while longer yet.’

  ‘Then there will be bloodshed.’

  ‘None that is unnecessary. You wait and see. I trust him, Tarn.’

  Tarn thought he saw more than a hint of doubt on Brendall’s face, but he did not wish to push him. Not yet.

  ‘We will see,’ he said noncommittally.

  ‘We need every man. The Slain will lead us.’

  ‘You have more faith in him than I have. It is unusual for him to accompany us on a raid, is it not?’

  ‘I have seen him fight. In a sword fight, he is worth ten men.’

  Roskel was not so circumspect in his words. ‘He is insane, you know. You would do well to listen to sense. We cannot take on soldiers without many deaths.’

  ‘Watch your words around here, Roskel.’ Brendall patted the thief on the shoulder to show there were no bad feelings. He grinned, showing teeth almost as dark as his beard.