*
Chapter Eighty-Six
Tarn stood before his horse. It had been saddled for him. His weapons hung from his hips, and his cloak shrouded his shoulders against the cold air of this early spring night.
He still could not believe his luck.
The Thane had agreed. He had furnished Tarn with funds to pay for support when he reached the capital. Tarn knew he would need it. And he was free. Free to kill the Thane of Naeth. That part of his fate was inescapable.
The plan was in place. Tarn would have but one chance. The Thane of Spar assured him that he would have all the Thanes assembled come the start of winter. The day was set.
Tarn rode out into the night, his pack with him, and his weapons regained. But he had gained one other piece of baggage.
Kurin, the Thane’s huntsmaster, rode along beside him. The man said little, but eyed Tarn warily. He kept his distance, as carefully as a spearman of a boar. There was no rancour left in Tarn. He bore no grudge against the man for capturing him, he even respected his skills. He could have moved faster without the man, but it had been the one stipulation the Thane of Spar laid on him. He could not have refused. He could try to lose the man, but he had found Tarn once before. He conceded, if only to himself, that the huntsmaster’s skills outweighed his own. He could try to beat him, and leave him for dead, but that seemed unfair. The man had been honourable in his dealings with Tarn so far.
He would have to bear the company, for now.
In the dungeons, there was nothing to show that Tarn had ever been a guest of the Thane of Spar, but for the one thing he had left behind - the cold dead husk of Y'thixil.
It had seemed only just, in the end, to repay the creature's favour.
*
IV.
The Cathedral on the Plain
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Spring was in full flow by the time Tarn arrived at the southern edge of the Fresh Woods. He sold the horses gifted to them by the Thane of Spar, and he and Kurin made their way steadily through the lighter woods of the outlying areas.
Kurin proved to be a stoic companion. Two days previously, before they sold their horses at the last village they passed, Tarn had tried to engage the taciturn huntsmaster in conversation.
‘You realise my men will try to kill you when they know who you are,’ said Tarn.
The man merely brushed something imaginary from his travelling cloak.
‘You’re going to have to talk to me at some point.’
‘Let’s get things straight,’ said Kurin with a sigh, ‘I don’t want to be here. I am a tracker, and once you were my prey. You are a bandit, a man of low character. I have no desire to be your friend, but I will travel with you, I will protect you, and if you fail to try your very best to succeed in the task you have appointed yourself, I will strive to kill you…’
Tarn laughed, ‘You caught me unawares once, huntsman, it will not be so easy again.’
‘Perhaps not. I have yet to see you use that sword of yours, but my blade is hard to resist.’
Tarn looked at the man’s sword. The scabbard was of worn leather, but it had been greased many times over the years. The man obviously took great care of his possessions. A careful man, thought Tarn, and not one to take lightly.
‘I could kill you and disappear once more into the woods.’
‘Do not make threats lightly, boy. I have not slept since we left the castle, and even when I do sleep I sleep lightly.’
Tarn wondered if that were true. The man must have slept in the last five days. He would be dead on his feet. But apart from dark circles under his hooded, tawny eyes, there was no sign of fatigue.
‘Perhaps we can try for some happy compromise. I will not try to kill you, and you will be polite to me. I trust your Thane has told you who I am.’
‘He has, and I have yet to see anything that would make me think you are anything but a bandit king.’
‘Well, then I shall have to try to make you change your mind.’
Kurin made no reply.
That exchange had been two days ago, and the huntsmaster had proved a useful, if silent, companion. They had provisions, but there was still camp to make. The two men shared the burden equally, as they shared the weight of their packs once the horses were sold. They travelled only by day, neither man tiring, or talking unnecessarily. At night the campfire was barren of conversation, and Tarn found himself thinking of his wife, alone and wondering at his fate, and Roskel, hopefully waiting somewhere in the woods for him.
At their third camp since entering the woods, Tarn tried to make conversation once more.
‘What would you have me tell my men? That you are the Thane of Spar’s huntsman? How long do you think you would live?’
‘Will you tell them?’
Tarn did not reply for a moment, hopefully giving the huntsman call for concern, but there was no discernable sign of emotion on his weathered face.
‘I do not think that I will.’
‘Then perhaps we will both live longer.’
Tarn lay awake that night, waiting for the sound of his companion’s breathing to change and deepen. He fell asleep before it did.
*
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Roskel felt as though he had been waiting forever. During the winter the errant thief had made the most of the companionship granted by his group of bandits, weathering each storm under shelters made from twigs and branches woven together to make rough bolt holes from the worst of the snows. His band, seven men including him, made him welcome. Even though he was next to useless despite all that he’d learned with Tarn, they looked after him, perhaps because of his closeness to their leader.
No one spoke ill of Tarn. Even though it had been under Tarn’s leadership that the attack at Haven took place, no one seemed to blame him. There was no talk of what would have happened under the Slain. The people of Haven moved on, as though they always knew their home was transient.
Spring came swiftly that year, and they left their hunting grounds to travel to the Walking Lake. It was there that they met with the other fugitives from Haven, none having any possessions to speak of but that which were necessary. There were women and children among their number, and many fighting men. But they had no leader.
They all made camp and settled into a semblance of the life they’d led before. Waiting. Days passed and days turned to weeks, but still with no sign of Tarn.
Roskel watched the boundaries of the lake for sign of Tarn every day. He did not even know if Tarn lived, but the camp seemed to be waiting patiently. They had trust in him.
And that trust was well placed, he saw, and finally permitted himself his first tentative laugh of the new year.
Gods, it felt good to let it out.
From across the lake, one bright morning, Roskel called to the camp that travellers were approaching. His eyesight was fine, and even past the glare of the sun upon the water, Roskel could make out the glint of Tarn’s silvery bow over his shoulder. It could be no one else.
A buzz travelled round the camp and everyone turned out to meet him.
By the time Tarn arrived at the camp he was astonished. There were more people than he remembered, and they were all smiling, waiting for his return.
Roskel and Brendall were at the forefront of the camp, and they shouted a greeting to him as he and Kurin approached.
‘Ho there bandit king!’ cried out Roskel.
‘Ho there, king of thieves!’ replied Tarn, and ran forward to embrace his friend.
‘Now don’t get all misty eyed, but you are a sight for sore eyes,’ said Roskel. ‘I thought you would never come.’
‘Don’t worry old friend, I won’t be shedding any tears today, although I am glad to see you.’
Brendall stepped forward. ‘Welcome back, Tarn. We have been waiting long.’
‘I was detained, I am afraid, but I will tell you all about it when we have the time.’
Those among the crowd that he knew we
ll came and greeted him, but there was a distance there for most of them, none of the warmth that Brendall and Roskel had shown him. But it was to be expected. These people had set him above themselves, and were used to leaders like the Slain, who demanded and expected instant obedience.
Tarn set his pack down by his foot and clasped hands with the remainder of his lieutenants, all of whom had survived the raid on Haven and the winter unscathed.
‘We will meet tonight, my friends. At our own fire. We have much to discuss. This is my bodyguard, Kurin. He will be with us. Please show him the same courtesy you would me.’
Kurin raised his eyebrow at Tarn, but stayed silent.
‘You are welcome, of course. You must tell us how you met, over the fire tonight. But first we will break our fast,’ said Roskel. If he was confused as to the provenance of Tarn’s new companion, he was wise enough to keep his council.
Tarn was looking forward to Kurin’s tale of how they met. He didn’t imagine Kurin was imaginative enough to spin a yarn for Roskel and the others. He caught the taciturn huntsman looking at him under one raised eyebrow, and sighed. Perhaps it would be he that would spin the yarn, instead.
Tarn gratefully sat next to a fire, smiling greeting at all the curious faces around the camp. He would speak to them before he left, but for now he was tired from the journey and ready to drop. But his road was long, and he knew his time at camp was short.
*
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Fire crackled, throwing the gathered faces into relief. Brendall, big and gruff, sat to Tarn’s left. Roskel and Kurin sat beside each other. Roskel tried in vain to get the huntsman to open up, but all Kurin would grant in response to Roskel’s endless questions was that he bore a grudge against the Thane of Naeth, and was committed to Tarn’s cause. Roskel expressed concerns about including the man in their council, but Tarn allayed his friend’s fears as best as he could. He promised the thief that he would tell him more when the chance arose.
Mar, Rilon and Wexel sat opposite Tarn, silently waiting for their orders.
‘My friends, I am grateful for all that you have done with the camp. I am pleased that you have made it through the winter unscathed. I have something to tell you, and I think you may be shocked, but hear me out.’
The men were silent but attentive.
‘I have met the Thane of Spar. He has declared that he will grant each and every one of us pardon for past crimes against him, if I perform one service. He knows that we have killed none of his citizens. The attack against the Thane of Naeth’s men was conveniently not mentioned. I believe that Redalane has as much cause to hate the Thane of Naeth as we do. But, if I do this service, the Thane’s pardon will be redundant. Follow me, and we can be free.’
Wexel passed Rilon a wineskin and spoke. ‘Do you plan to kill the Thane of Naeth, Tarn?’
‘That I do,’ he said with a confident smile – confidence he did not feel. ‘My plan is audacious in its scope, but bear with me, while I outline it.’
And Tarn told them what he planned. They discussed the plans in the night, and while others retired to their tents, and other fires burned low to their embers, they plotted and kept the fire high against the chill. The plan changed, and grew, and became something infinitely more refined than Tarn had ever dreamed possible.
The men he would leave behind to run the camp in his absence were not happy, but those he singled out to accompany him on his journey were those he trusted deeply, and those he could rely on should he need skilled men at arms. Most of all, he chose those that had a love of life. They would fight that much harder to succeed.
Roskel was among those he chose to take. But he could do no other. He would need a thief. He just hoped his friend was half the thief he boasted.
*
Chapter Ninety
While Tarn’s fire burned high, the Thane of Spar warded off the chill of the spring night in his great hall. Durmont, his secretary, sat at his right hand.
‘There is always the threat of war, my lord,’ said Durmont carefully.
‘I believe we can stave it off. Send word to the Thane of Naeth, and all the other Thanes, that we would like a council of the ten. I believe the Thane cannot refuse to grant the request. And he will want it where he can control the meeting. It will be at Naeth.’ The Thane of Spar leant back in his throne and watched his secretary; but the man had no comeback. If he thought the Thane foolish, trusting to the one man throughout Sturma who would want him dead, he was circumspect in his criticism. The only sign that he disagreed with the order was a minute twinge at the corner of his lips.
‘It will be as you order, my lord. I will send word today.’
‘Thank you, Durmont, you are indeed a faithful servant.’
Durmont bowed and left the room. As he closed the door, he allowed himself to wonder. What was the Thane planning? For he was sure he saw a glint in his eye as he ordered the summons to go out. Perhaps, thought the secretary, he has plans to get his son back. But such thoughts were beyond his station. He went into his office, and without further thought, drafted nine letters in line with his orders. By morning, the work was done.
Redalane smiled to himself in his chambers that night. Things were underway. His plan was in place. There was much to go wrong, but he felt good for the first time in years. Meeting Tarn had invigorated him.
It was a shame the boy had killed the spy in his cell. He had wanted the man to suffer. But then perhaps the boy really was the king. No matter. If he could get his son back, he could forgive a little mercy.
*
Chapter Ninety-One
Across the great sea on the land of Lianthre, the world’s overseers were restless with concern. To make himself feel better the Hierophant drove his nails into the human’s eyes, which burst with a satisfying, sludgy plop.
His rage abated, he told Jenin to leave him.
Y’thixil, their forgotten advisor, has finally died, but the future had changed around the time of his death.
The Hierophant was disturbed. Things were moving at a pace entirely of the human’s making. He could see Y’thixil’s hand in some of the matters, but he did not understand why the disgraced Hierarch would deal with the humans.
Perhaps at his behest, perhaps not, the Thane of Naeth would hold a council of the ten, as a meeting of the Thanes was called. It would take place on the cusp of winter. This much Jenin had foreseen. But Merilith would be unable to persuade the Thane otherwise. It reeked of a plot against their puppet. Danger was apparent. Even with no gift of foresight the Hierophant could see the future hanging by a thread.
Something felt wrong. He believed Jenin when told that the future wavered every time he looked upon it.
There was only one thing left to do. Hurth was surrounded by his own men, but that was no proof against treachery. No, it would not be enough. There would not be the level of certainty that the Hierophant required in all his plans.
Heavy handed though it may be, the Protocrats, the hierarch's military, could deal with it. There was a place for his enforcers, and it was at the heart of battle. Their loyalty was absolute, and to the Hierophant, not to any human master. Should there be treachery, they would crush it. They would stamp out even a hint of rebellion. Their presence alone would ensure that any conspirators had second thoughts. They were an imposing enemy.
He didn’t like it, but the time had come to take a hand in matters. Personally.
While the Thanes of that kingdom, in the crux of fate, schemed and plotted, the Hierophant needed strong hands to ensure the right outcome. Something felt wrong about it. But no matter what it was, the Protectorate would seal the fate of that kingdom. When he was finished, only Hurth would remain, and the kingdom would be his until the Return.
He was sure of it.
The Protectorate would prepare, and when the time came, they would be there. If there was any treachery, they would bring a tide of blood.
*
Chapter Ninety-Two
&nb
sp; Tarn looked at the men gathered round him. There were twenty in all, including himself. He did not want an army, but a band. It seemed fitting somehow. He would enter the halls of his grandfather a bandit, and exit a king. These men would not all be there. They knew that. They were told what to expect, only this morning. Tarn had picked them himself. Wexel and Brendall were with him, but Rilon and Mar he left behind to tend the camp. Armed shepherds, armed against the night.
His men were all hunters. They were not afraid of death, but instead railed against it. They would fend it off until the last moment with all their might.
Wexel, with his huge sword, Brendall with his strength, Urng, with his handaxe, pitted and scarred like its wielder. Most carried bows and all knew how to use them. But there would be little use for bows once they were inside the castle. Then it would be swords, and fists and feet-- and above all blood.
Legends were in the making. Not all of these men would be remembered.
He, though, would remember them through Madal’s Gates, and if there was any justice in the world he would meet them again, and tell tall tales of their deeds in the castle, and the day they slew the king’s murderer.
There was much riding on chance. But then Tarn’s life had been like flotsam on a sea of luck.
They set out, with the hopes of the fugitives of Haven resting on their shoulders, and although no one knew it, the future of Sturma resting in their palms.
They set out north, and for their first destination; the Cathedral on the Plain.
He knew they must travel with care and guile, for each and every one of them was a wanted man, and when they had the Crown of Kings, then the hunt would truly begin.
The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Page 23
