The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One

by Craig Saunders

  ‘My other orders are in place?’

  ‘Yes. Those that need to, know,’ said Mar.

  ‘Anything else I need to know?’

  ‘New men came in today. Uxthorn returned with them.’

  ‘That weasel? I thought he left for good.’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose,’ said Brendall. Wexel, quiet, as usual.

  ‘Very well. At the feast of spring we will make the announcement. Be prepared. Thank you.’

  All men nodded and took their leave.

  ‘We have too many scoundrels, my friend,’ said Tarn to Roskel when the other men left.

  ‘I suppose when you are the bandit king you have to make do with what you are given.’

  ‘Don’t call me that, Roskel. It makes me uncomfortable.’

  ‘But it is what you are. Perhaps it is your blood that calls people to you.’

  ‘They are just desperate.’

  ‘So were we, once.’

  ‘You are right, I suppose,’ said Tarn. ‘Do you think we can pull it off?’

  ‘What? Destroy the Thane of Naeth with nothing but a hundred trusted men? No, I think it stupidity at worst, folly at best.’

  ‘Thank you for your honesty,’ said Tarn wryly.

  ‘I just say what I see, Tarn.’

  ‘Hmm. Still, we have little choice.’

  ‘We could flee. Leave these bandits behind and become anonymous in the southlands again.’ More than a hint of hope surfaced in the thief’s words.

  Tarn shook his head sadly. Part of him wanted to agree with Roskel, but his path was set. Perhaps, he mused, it always had been.

  ‘I will never be anonymous. Too many are looking for me. Enough. We will stick to the plan and think on other things.’

  ‘As you please.’ Roskel rose to leave. ‘I will see you tonight, then.’

  Tarn left too, to see the new arrivals, as he always did, and hear their stories.

  At the southern edge of the forest, unseen by the scouts, the Thane of Spar’s best men melted into the edge of the woods, and followed the marks upon the trees, just as Uxthorn told them. One hundred men who knew how to travel quietly crept, and would keep on creeping until they came upon the camp.

  *

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Winter drew near. The feast of Ronoth, the god of autumn, was underway. The bandits were just as in touch with the seasons as any farmer. They gave thanks for the year, and bade it a grateful farewell.

  Any year they survived was deemed a good one.

  Women in long flowing skirts twirled around the centre fire, the flames licking the darkening sky, and children danced in uneven jerks, still far from the fluidity they would reach when they were older. The boys would drink, the girls would dance, but all children, even the boys, loved the rhythm. It was only in adulthood that men forgot the joys of dancing.

  Ale was consumed in huge quantities, even by the players by the fire. The music had not yet suffered. After so many nights of planning and strategizing, the music was a balm to Tarn’s tired ears. It seemed he had heard nothing for the last two weeks but battle preparations, and stories of increasing hardship and injustice from the Thane of Naeth’s men, their reach grown long, even into the south lands. The southern Thanes could not stand up for their people, and were forced to tax beyond most peoples’ means, just to keep the Thane of Naeth from taking their lives in a war which none could afford. It seemed no one could stand up to him.

  Tarn put matters of a heavier nature aside and took a proffered jug of ale being passed around with his thanks.

  Many of his bandits – and he had come to think of them as such – were well into their cups. It was a sight to gladden his heart. He had not thought they would ever relax again, and after this night they would be back to planning for the ever constant threat of war.

  It was such a pleasant sight that Tarn found himself forgetting his worries for a time and taking longer over the jug of ale than he intended. He passed it to one side.

  Roskel alone among all the men danced with the women. Tarn laughed. The other bandits thought him a fop, too, but with his quick sense of humour and unabashed charm he was popular with the men, despite their differences. Roskel was a different man today than the one Tarn met so long ago in the woods. He hoped he was a better man. Sometimes it seemed that Roskel was Tarn’s conscience.

  A strange turn of events, he thought, when it took a thief and a cad to keep the wild man at bay.

  Tarn was just about to stand, when he sensed something amiss. He made a quick head count and noticed that two sentries he ordered to relieve the southern sentries at dusk, so everyone could join the festivities, had not left. He rose and walked over to the men, who were sitting slightly askance on a fallen log, and stood before them.

  They were obviously drunk.

  ‘Durn, Red hand, as much as I enjoy seeing you drunk, don’t you have duties to attend to?’

  ‘We’ve already been. We couldn’t find Ren and Sam. We’re waiting for them to come back.’

  ‘What do you mean you couldn’t find them?’

  ‘We thought they’d abandoned their post.’

  That sounded wrong. All of these men knew not to abandon their duties, it was too important to remain vigilant. Tarn surveyed the woods. Something felt wrong, a sense of something out of place. He should feel relaxed, but he realised he had worn his sword for a purpose. He felt on edge. He only then recognised the feeling for what it was.

  ‘Durn, get two men together, go scout the perimeter. Red Hand, take two men and scout south. If there is nothing there come back to the fire. Go now.’

  Both men grumbled but rose.

  Then a scream arose, and everyone scrabbled for weapons.

  An arrow flew from the woods and took Durn in the arm. Arrows flew thick and fast, but the bandits were used to thinking on their feet. Those that wore weapons still ran toward their attackers, weaving as they went. Anyone not armed ran swiftly to tents and bedrolls, taking up what they could. No one bothered with bows. They knew they were at a disadvantage, standing in the light trying to shoot into the dark. Whoever the attackers were, they planned well.

  Tarn spared a moment to wonder how they got close enough to the camp to attack, and then he too ran to the edge of the trees.

  He saw a man drawing a bow, the arrow pointed straight at his chest. The arrow flew and without thought Tarn’s sword swept up, knocking the arrow aside. He was on the bowman in an instant. At close quarters the bow was useless. Tarn skewered the man.

  Looking back into the light he saw the attackers had given up their advantage and were swarming through the camp. The Thane of Naeth’s men were foolhardy, it seemed. They could have picked off most of the bandits from the woods.

  Tarn ran to join the fray.

  He turned aside a skilled thrust from a dark clad attacker, and slipped his sword through the man’s throat. He ran to the centre of the camp where fighting was fiercest and set to with vigour. He slew two men before he looked round and saw the weasel Uxthorn at the edge of the woods, pointing two of the attackers toward him, his hands waving them on with urgency.

  Even at this distance Tarn could tell what it meant. His heart sank as he watched his men fight. They had been betrayed.

  He wondered how such a large force had made it unseen past the sentries, and found their camp. They had been told how to do it; undone by a jealous groat.

  But all was not lost. He had given word to his lieutenants of what they must do, as they had planned for, they would meet throughout the woods, at designated meeting places, and use the new signs Tarn has given them in case of treachery. They knew him. He had no doubt.

  What a fool he had been, to think no one would betray him.

  He slew a man almost absentmindedly, his thoughts on his plans and not on the battle at hand…would they know what to do? Could he trust them, even when they faced soldiers in the night? Would his men trust in him again?

  He could only hope, an
d wish. Now was not the time for doubts.

  He saw that the bandits could not win. Flight was the only option. He resolved to kill Uxthorn when he had the chance, but for now he had to flee. The Thane’s men were nearly upon him.

  ‘Men! Freedom’s Gate!’ cried Tarn. All those who needed to know would recognise the words. They would disperse, as though they were fleeing, and hide out in the woods in small bands for the winter, until they would meet again at the Walking Lake in the centre of the forest when the trees began to bud.

  The cry went up around the camp, and the clash of steel on steel subsided. He saw men and women and children running into the woods, leaving behind their possessions which they could not take. Tarn ran too, sad that he would have to leave his bow behind. It was a good hunting bow. He would need it in the forest to survive.

  He rammed one soldier with his shoulder and made it into the edge of the forest.

  Tarn looked for Roskel, and hoped he would make it. The thief had been unhappy these months, despite assignations with many of the camp’s women. But he knew what to do, and would stick with Brendall. Silently, he wished his friend luck.

  With the sounds of battle fading behind him as the sound of pursuit grew, Tarn slipped into the darkness of the woods and broke into a steady run.

  After two hours he doubled back in a huge circle, and took his bow from among the bodies of the fallen. Before his pursuers could find him, he slung the bow and its quiver over his shoulder and headed into the woods once again.

  He sighed. It seemed no great fate lay in store for the heir to the throne, but endless flight.

  But the tables were turned. He tracked relentlessly, the hunters now hunted. The moons were bright, and the light good. He followed the best tracks he could find, knowing what he did about Uxthorn, it was a simple matter for a born woodsman.

  The moons’ light was fleeing by the time he sighted his prey.

  He knocked a silver arrow and with the smoothness of a lover’s caress let it fly through the trees.

  He did not need to see if it struck true.

  He rubbed out the lopsided tracks with a toe, turned and ran. He had not broken his promise to himself. He still had not slain a man with the bow, but a mongrel. The gift was unsullied.

  Uxthorn’s last look was confusion. There was silver in his chest, but he thought he had gold. He checked his purse. Still there. No one had short-changed him. For a moment, he panicked. But the Thane had given him gold, not silver. Everything was alright.

  He always knew his luck would change for the better.

  He fell to the ground. There was a soft chink, but for Uxthorn, nothing more.

  *

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Winter came with all the bluster of a wordy drunk, spilling snow and sleet instead of vitriol and ale. Once again Tarn fell into the rhythm of the woods.

  For two weeks the Thane’s men tracked him through the woods, until the snows came and obliterated Tarn’s back trail.

  Tarn, older and wiser now, knew that there were no demons hunting him. He had been free of that fear since finding Roskel that freezing night. It seemed like an age ago. All he had to worry about now was being discovered by the Thane’s trackers, but as more time passed the chance of discovery faded. They did not know where he headed. They were hunting blind. For them, it would be like trying to shoot down a bird with an arrow. There were many paths available to the bird, but only one for the arrow.

  The bandit camp had never been home to Tarn, and he did not miss it. He thought of the people often, but felt no particular attachment to the place. People should always be more important than possessions or locations.

  It was a shame to lose such a fortune in gold, and to lose the weapons and armour that the bandits hoarded over the years – they would have been useful – but they were gone and there was nothing Tarn could do about it. He had lost the means to fight a war, but he still had the people. But for now, before the time to meet at the Walking Lake, he intended to do something he promised himself, and another, such a long time ago.

  He would wed Rena. She would be his wife, if only in name. He knew all too well that there was little or no chance of them having a future together. He fully expected to die when he met the Thane. But if he did not make the attempt, then there would never be even a chance to live with the woman he loved. Maybe, if the gods were on his side, he would slay the Thane in his throne room like a dread assassin and be gone before the deed was even known. But that was just dreaming. The colder, rational part of him understood that he could not beard the Thane in his den alone, like some mythical hero. He would need funds, and support. He needed to know the whereabouts of the Thane, his movements, the changing of his guard, a way into the castle, diversions…above all he needed friends. His men, men who would be loyal to him and had as much invested in the death of the Thane as himself, but not the backing. He hoped that a solution would present itself.

  For now, he needed to see Mia, and obtain her blessing, and bind wrists with his woman. If he wed, he could face any hardship. He was born to hardship, but the promise of a future could grant hope, and that was all Tarn had to rely upon.

  For a little over a month, Tarn walked steadily south. The heavy snows made travelling across fields problematic, but there were plenty of tricks he knew to make the going easier. Many a time he had been forced to travel in the winter with his father, and his father had shown him the way.

  He bound twigs in a loose shoe around his feet and could walk upon the snow, without having to wade through it. Some snow drifts were as high as his hips, and he avoided those with practised ease.

  The snow fell constantly on his journey, but he had his winter cloak of grey wolf skin, and his deerskin clothes. His bow had been worth the risk, as it allowed him to hunt with greater range and freedom.

  He did not stop often to hunt. He had months to make the journey, but he wanted to spend time with Rena, and get to know her again before he was forced to leave. He made short camps, and did not stop for a midday meal. The weight fell off him. He had no energy for his exercises, but he still retained enough strength to draw the bow.

  A horse would have been a fine investment, yet Tarn was loath to risk towns and villages he came across. He did not know how far the Thane’s reach extended, and the price, his life was too high. He could not afford to make mistakes.

  After a month’s hard travel, Tarn found himself on the outskirts of Wherry-- his aim, as always, unerring.

  He set off around the outskirts of the town to Mia’s cottage, and hoped Rena, and even Tulathia, would be waiting there. He longed for a familiar face.

  Bone tired from the walk, Tarn couldn’t risk just arriving at Mia’s hut.

  Instead of just running into Rena’s arms, and Mia’s home cooked stew, he scouted the village, and made sure that no one had followed him. He was careful, and scouted for two miles in every direction. Since the snows were lifting he took the time to erase his trail. Eventually, satisfied and weary, he approached Mia’s hut from the south, Dow’s last light fading in the western sky.

  A soft glow came from the firelight slipping out through the cracks in the shutters. He marvelled at the change in the hut since he first visited, so many years ago, following a younger Rena. The hut then had been a one-storey affair, sprawled haphazardly across the clearing. Now there was a small herb garden, and a pile of logs stacked against one wall. The hut had a small loft, converted to a bedroom for Rena, an addition since Tulathia’s arrival. A young woman could not be expected to share her room with an old crone.

  So many changes had been forced on Tarn. Back then he had been unaware of the path he would be forced to travel. But even then, he knew there was something different about him. Who in their right mind would want the fate of the last king?

  He knocked quietly, hoping to find all three witches at home. It was not often they were called out to cure some ailment in person or animal in the night, but it happened.

  Tarn found hims
elf nervous, as sounds of people stirring came from within. What if Rena no longer recognised him, or had found another love? It had been a long time, after all.

  After what seemed an age, the door opened and Tarn’s fears were laid to rest. He did not even have time to look on Rena’s face before she flew at him and locked him in a tight embrace, almost knocking him from his feet.

  ‘Oh Tarn, old mother said you would come! I have been waiting for the day,’ she cried into his ear, and kissed him on the only bare part of his face.

  He had been a fool to worry. He felt his fears torn away in the strength of her arms.

  ‘I have missed you so much,’ he told her, and held her close.

  Taking him by the hand and leading him into the hut Rena beamed at her mother, who waited by the fire. Mia stood and embraced Tarn.

  ‘Welcome home, Tarn. I have brewed some chait and there is rabbit stew by the fire. Come, you must be weary. Rest and eat, there will be time for talk later.’

  ‘But I want to know everything,’ Rena told him with mock sternness. ‘Don’t you fill your belly and fall asleep.’

  ‘I will not sleep all night now that I have made it back,’ said Tarn with a smile, barely visible under his shaggy beard. ‘I have much to tell.’

  ‘Sit, take off your cloak,’ Mia ordered him, and together the two witches led him to the fire. Tarn took off his cloak, laid his weapons to one side, and sat down with a satisfied sigh.

  ‘Where is the old mother?’ asked Tarn as Mia handed him a cup of steaming chait.

  ‘I had hoped to hold off telling you, at least until you were settled, but she passed beyond the gate shortly after you left us. I am sorry Tarn, I know she was dear to you.’

  ‘She was dear to all of us,’ said Tarn sadly. ‘I will miss her kindness, and her wisdom.’