The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One

by Craig Saunders

  *

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  Moving twenty armed men north through the forest was easy. They hunted, and stocked what provisions they could.

  Twenty armed men on the plains, through the middle lands of Sturma, was another matter entirely.

  The men approached the edge of the woods, the place of sanctuary, carefully. A mile or so in the distance they found what they were looking for - a merchant’s caravan, heading east to west along the Trellham road.

  It was a small crime, but a necessary one. It would not be their last crime, and the men were not afraid of rousing the merchant’s ire. Where they were going, there was little hope for redemption. Some had families back within the Fresh Woods, some had friends. They were hoping for a new start for them, a future with hope. If they had to kill along the way, then so be it.

  But they would not kill without reason. They would not start out as tyrants on the road. They all knew their mission. It was one of good, of pure intentions, and they started out as they meant to go along.

  The men streamed from the tree line as one, ten men rushing to the east of the wagons, ten rushing to the west. Tarn was in the lead group. He would head off the wagon. The second group would advance from behind, preventing any escape.

  The caravan guards saw the danger and drew swords, wheeling their horses to attack. There were only ten guards, but a man fighting from a horse has considerable advantage over a man on foot. They charged the rear group at full gallop, swords held before them.

  They were too slow. While a horseman has a great advantage over a swordsman, the bowman's arrow was faster than both. The bandits stood their ground and drew their bows, just as Tarn’s group reached the wagons and forced them to stop.

  The guards recognised the futility of charging into an arrow, and drew rein. Brendall, with the lead group, called out to them. ‘Dismount and return to your charges. No one will be hurt today.’

  It always pays to let people know that no one will be harmed. They are less inclined to want to fight to the death. The guards had little choice in the matter, but to trust that the bandits would not slaughter them all. They led their horses back to the wagons, their backs covered by ten men with bows. They looked rather aggrieved, thought Tarn. His hand was on the lead wagon’s horse team, the head horse’s flank under his palm. He sheathed his sword.

  ‘My good man,’ said Roskel, at Tarn’s side. ‘I am afraid we have fallen on hard times, and needs must. We would appreciate a loan of your horses, and your wagon.’

  ‘It seems, young man,’ said the merchant, ‘That I am at your disposal. You just can’t buy any worthwhile guards these days.’

  Tarn granted the man a smile, which he hoped would put him at his ease and prevent him from doing anything rash. ‘Do not be overly harsh on them. They are just outnumbered. Further resistance would be merely foolish. Fear not, my good merchant, we will set you on your way with provisions. Perhaps you can hitch a ride with the next wagon to come along.’

  ‘That may take days.’

  ‘That is my sincere hope, for by then we will be long gone. Now, if you would be so kind as to tell me what you carry?’ Tarn continued smiling. No sense in frightening anyone.

  ‘Bolts of cloth for Trellham, spices from Kertrich.’

  ‘A fine haul for us then. Tell me, when you have such a valuable cargo, why you stinted on the hiring of your guards?’

  ‘There have been no attacks throughout the summer. I thought perhaps the Thane of Spar had dealt with brigands.’

  ‘I am not merely a brigand, good sir,’ said Roskel, sounding aggrieved. ‘Although I may seem rather harsh in appearance, I am a gentleman of the highest order.’

  ‘As you say, sir,’ said the merchant warily. It was not wise to irritate bandits, but this one did seem well spoken for a rogue.

  ‘I would like you to step down now,’ Tarn told him.

  The merchant complied, carefully keeping his hand hidden among the folds of his cloak.

  ‘You may merely be keeping your hand warm, but I would advise against you taking your hand out of your cloak until we pass. It would be most impolite, don’t you think?’

  Roskel laughed. ‘Tarn, you may be trying to set him at his ease, but men expect their bandits to be rough. Erudition is far more frightening, I think.’

  The merchant stepped down and took his hand from his cloak, empty.

  ‘Now, if you would all be so kind as to walk away fifty paces.’

  The guards kept their eyes on the bowmen, fearful that they would be cut down once they were clear of the road, but Tarn merely ordered his men to mount up, and the rest to sit in the back of the wagon. The bandits kept their bows trained on the men until they were out of sight, then put them down and tipped some of the provisions from the back of the wagon, and a cask of ale onto the road.

  ‘For the trouble!’ called back Roskel, and Tarn kneed the lead horse, riding hard until they were out of sight.

  *

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  They rode steadily north, for all appearances ragged merchants on their way to sell their goods. Roskel, who had the most chance of passing himself off as a merchant, rode in the lead wagon. After many miles passed on the way to Naeth, with still many more to go, some of the men took to walking, preferring the steady feel of earth underfoot to the rolling and bumping of the wagon. Only when they were well on the north road did they stop for camp. They hobbled the horses and entered a small copse of trees, coming back with arms laden with deadwood. A fire made, the men gathered close for warmth.

  ‘A fine display, Tarn,’ said Kurin, quietly in Tarn’s ear. ‘I am gladdened to see that you are no barbarian.’

  ‘What did you think? That we are murderers? We are no cutthroats, but men sorely used by the Thane of Naeth.’

  Kurin said nothing in reply. He had been strangely quiet on the journey, and often seemed lost in thought. He set himself apart from the other men, although on the occasions he did speak, he proved himself to be thoughtful, well spoken and unerringly polite, no matter what he might think of the rough men in whose company he travelled.

  ‘Tarn,’ called Roskel. ‘Tell us of your journey.’

  ‘There is not much to tell, my friend, but you all have the pleasure of looking upon a married man.’

  Roskel’s laugh was hearty. ‘So you found your fine bride after all these years? Was she as you remembered her?’

  'Finer than I ever imagined.’

  ‘I hope you had a bath before your wedding night.’

  ‘I had two!’ said Tarn, and the men dissolved into laughter. He was glad of their merriment. The day’s success eased their hearts, for they all knew where they were headed. They avoided talking about it, but Tarn thought that it was with them every minute of the day. Such a task was always heavy on a man’s shoulders.

  Tarn wanted to thank them all, embrace each man in love, but it would spoil their evening.

  Let them have their fun. The going would be rougher from here, and the time for enjoyment would be short.

  One of the men made up a short song, about a tavern wench and a one-eyed farmer, which he sang badly over the fire. Tarn laughed dutifully, but the outcome had been obvious. He laughed more to seem human to his men, and yes, his friends.

  While they were chatting like old men, he watched them interact. Urng seemed to get on well with Ipsis and Kateral Boran, while Mert, Jungst, the wiry northerner, and Orlane made a good team. Rean and Silvan got on well, but held themselves aloof among the other men. They were good bowmen, and Tarn would see what he could do with them, when the time came. Both were better with the bow over long distance than Tarn could ever hope to be. He considered giving his bow to Silvan, the best of the two, when they arrived at the Cathedral. He would be able to disable anyone who sought to hinder them, without the wound being fatal, although one could never tell when a sudden gust of wind, or bad fletching, would pull an arrow off target.

  Erin was a good swordsman, and
Tarn would take him further into the Cathedral. Brendall was handy in a fight – Tarn knew that first hand, although the giant was no match for him. Wexel had the respect of the men, he would hold outside the Cathedral during the theft. Only Brendall, Erin and Roskel would he take with him this afternoon, on a scouting mission. The rest of the men would be better served elsewhere. But the Cathedral on the plain would be hard to creep up on. He was relying on Roskel to take the crown.

  He did not know what to expect. He needed some pretext to enter the place, and see where the crown was kept, to figure out a way around the guards, if there were any, and how many guards there were, how many priests…the list was endless.

  Soon they would be there. The first stage of many, but if they could not find a way to steal the crown then they would never succeed in all the tasks appointed to them.

  He wasn’t sure how Kurin would take it. Looking over at the silent man, he was granted a nod. He knows what is on my mind, thought Tarn. But he would not have the man murdered. He could do so, and Kurin knew it also. The huntsman placed a great deal of trust in Tarn, on faith alone. For some reason, Tarn did not want to let him down. The men would not find out who he was from him.

  ‘Tell us the tale of your birth again, Tarn,’ said Roskel, with a glint in his eye. He knew Tarn did not like to boast of his origins, but to the men Tarn was already a king. He had, after all defeated the Slain.

  Still, it would not hurt to have their awe. He would need to call on it before the end.

  Sitting forward, his hands laid over his crossed legs, Tarn began.

  ‘My father’s father was the king, and many years ago, he was murdered by the Thane of Naeth…’

  It was a long tale, and although he was unused to telling it, he did not fumble, and the men’s awe grew. He hated himself for it, but he knew it was needed. He needed their unquestioning love.

  Roskel knew as much. That was why he had asked for the tale.

  *

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  The Thane of Naeth looked at the missive held in his hand. An old man’s hand, thought the Thane ruefully. He read it again, while the messenger waited.

  ‘The Thane of Spar thinks to summon me to his castle? What treachery is this?’

  The man visibly paled.

  ‘I was given to understand that the place would be of your choosing, my lord. Of course.’

  The Thane regarded him with cruel eyes.

  Merilith watched the Thane. ‘Perhaps you should go, my lord. The country air might do you some good.’

  ‘Do not try to tell me my own mind, Merilith,’ Hurth told him without looking round behind him, where his advisor hovered beside his shoulder.

  The man in front of him was a little unsteady on his legs. He knew the Thane of Naeth only by reputation, but Durmont had warned him to show only the utmost respect. In retrospect, the messenger wished Durmont had told him nothing at all, for now all he knew was fear of making some grave error, one of which he would not be aware of until too late.

  ‘Leave me, man, your quivering is upsetting me. Talk to my guard on the way out, he will point you to lodgings. Wait until I have a message for your Thane,’ he said this with distaste, ‘Then you can run away with your tail between your legs.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said the man, gratefully, and backed out of the throne room. He almost collapsed from fear once he got outside, and the guard laughed at him.

  ‘I am told to find quarters and await a reply to my message.’

  The guard gave him directions and he left on shaky legs, to wait for his reply.

  When he had gone, Hurth turned to Merilith. ‘What do you make of this, advisor?’

  Merilith took the letter. ‘I believe it is an excellent opportunity to impose your will on all your enemies. But it would be safest, by far, to hold the council of ten here.’

  ‘Then that is what I will do. Draft the letter, and have it with the messenger before morning. Then you may retire.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  Merilith bowed to Hurth’s back and left the throne room by the side door. Communion had been denied him for some time now. Even so, he was too tired to seek Jenin’s wisdom on the subject, and Jenin would kill him for troubling him again, so shortly after the last time.

  Years may have passed, but for a Hierarch it was the same as moments to a human.

  What will this year bring? thought Merilith. It was never dull, trying to steer the fate of a nation. Perhaps it would be a good time to persuade the Thane to kill all the other Thanes while they were under one roof. He would have to ponder the wisdom of such a course of action alone.

  *

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Tarn, Erin, Brendall and Roskel tethered their horses by the monastery, which was attached to the cathedral but in its own grounds. A monk took the horses and Tarn made a donation to ensure that they were fed and watered. He did not plan on staying long.

  The rest of his men waited in a small wood two miles distant, out of sight of curious eyes. The huge cathedral at such a distance seemed carved from a mountain, or some giant beast that slumbered on the plains, its mass squashing the countryside around it as it spun around to get comfortable, the monastery its tail, curled to one side in sleep.

  The four chosen to scout the cathedral walked across a well-tended path, carmillion blossoms on either side of them, well aware of the men watching from the obscurity of the trees. Unlike their fellow bandits, their robes hid only daggers. To bring heavy weapons would only run the risk of exposure as robbers, and men of violence. To the monks they needed to seem like mere travellers, and told them a fabrication that they were merchants from the far south, stopping off to wonder at the marvel of the cathedral. The monk did not say anything, but then they never did. They could not tell if the monk believed their lies. The carved exterior of the cathedral was far more expressive than his face.

  There were no guards visible as they approached the main doors. A polite monk said nothing but pointed to the door, then walked away.

  The great doors of the cathedral were closed, but within that mass of giant oak was a smaller door, which had been left open. The four men stepped through into a surprisingly bright cavern. The cathedral itself had been built hundreds of years previously, and nobody knew which king had ordered its construction. If there had been an original purpose, it was lost in time.

  Coronations for kings always took place within the vast edifice, with no little mystery surrounding the crowning of the king.

  Perhaps, thought Tarn as he gazed upon the tapestries, I could be crowned king today, and there would be no need to go to Naeth. But he was unsure. Even with the crown, his life would still be in the hands of the Thane of Naeth.

  As he dreamed lazy dreams of rewriting fate, changing the path set out for him so long ago, he forgot why he had come to the cathedral on the plain in the first place.

  It was an easy place in which to forget oneself, surrounded by greatness as they undoubtedly were.

  The dome of the cathedral stretched far above their heads, and painted in relief against the backdrop of blue skies and white, rolling clouds, were depictions of all manner of gods. Some, like Brindle, the god of goats and rogues, were easily recognised. Others, he thought he could name. There was Terase, the god of childbirth (she was obvious, fully gravid as she was), and over them all, by far the largest, was Dematron, the king of gods.

  There was no belief system in Sturma. People worshipped whatever god suited the purpose or the time. They did not believe that the gods were jealous, merely that they were playful, toying with human lives on occasion, but never maliciously. As a consequence no one thought it strange that such a vast cathedral was devoted to every god.

  Tarn worshipped no god. He had enough to worry about, without having to stop and give thanks every time he made a fire, or bathed in a stream.

  Erin nudged Tarn and pointed with glee to a large tapestry showing various women in stages of undress, with Miskal, the god
of mischief and love, urging them on, his manhood proud under his ever red robes. Tarn looked away. Cavorting women held no fascination for him. He had seen only one woman naked, and felt no need to compare, although he noted all the women were large chested, three handfuls bigger than Rena.

  He shook his head and concentrated on the business at hand. He saw Roskel from the corner of his eye, and saw that Roskel didn’t look at the tapestry. He faced straight ahead, but his eyes roamed; picking out entrances and exits, dark corners and stairs, corridors and the whereabouts of doors.

  Tarn tried to imagine what Roskel would want to know. It was down to all of them to remember as much of the layout as possible. Four heads were better than one.

  Tarn noted a small corridor leading to the upper balcony, and wondered what was up there. It was gated, and there was a heavy lock on it. He didn’t know if Roskel could break the lock, but he noted it anyway.

  The cathedral was massive, and they only progressed about a quarter of the way in, when Tarn noticed what they came to see. Floating in the distance, surely on a string, or rope, was a plain gold circlet. He left the others staring at the artistry of the building, its cornices and statuettes, its tapestries and painting, and walked forward alone. He walked as if mesmerised. He felt some primal pull urging him to approach, and as he neared the crown he felt a sea of memory tugging at his mind, threatening to overwhelm him.

  He knew, without the need for experimentation, that should he take up the crown and place it on his head, he would know the thoughts, fears, trials, loves, successes and failures of all the kings to wear the crown before him. Saddened at the thought that he would never know his father in such a way, he turned his attention, with no small effort, to the area surrounding the crown.

  There were four small braziers at each corner of the raised platform that supported the crown. The braziers burned with a shy blue flame, but as he neared the platform to see what was burning within he felt a force pulling him forward. He stepped back from the platform and the urge to head recklessly forward passed. There was some magic at work there.