The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One

by Craig Saunders

  ‘Then it is I who am grateful. My burden is as great as yours, for we are both responsible for each other's lives.’

  Kurin sat back, concern weighing heavily on his harsh features.

  ‘I do hope it does not come to that.’

  ‘So do I, Kurin. So do I,’ said Tarn kindly. It weighed heavily on his mind, too, to be responsible for another man’s life, but this was the lot of a king, was it not? To be responsible for the lives of all of those he led.

  *

  Chapter One Hundred-One

  Dusk came earlier now that it was autumn. Carious faded before the afternoon was out, Dow chased it to bed. A soft rain fell, obscuring the paths and streets, covering them in a molten shadow.

  Roskel found himself alone on the streets, evening’s lambent light fading swiftly. Within moments the last of the suns’ light was gone, only to be supplanted by the glow from windows high above the street, where the residents of the city moved come nightfall.

  The thief had money in his pocket, which was unusual for him. He was more accustomed to hiding jewels there. The only thing stolen this night would be candlelight, and time permitting, a young maiden’s virtue. No man could work all night, and without larceny to fuel the blood the way a warm woman would do.

  It would be all too easy, thought Roskel, to lose himself in the city. But he had tasks appointed, and finding the thieves’ covenant would take all his wiles. But should he stumble upon a virtuous lass during the course of the evening, he felt he would be remiss should he refuse the opportunity. After all, the ladies of Haven had been his last taste of flesh, and that experience had been far too earthy for his liking.

  He wore merchant’s clothing, which would not be out of place in most quarters of the city. He cut a fine figure, he thought. Perhaps he would have stretched as far as dashing. A man with much to be proud of (he still liked to think it was the handsome face a lady saw first, not the cut of his cloth) he preened as he walked, allowing himself a satisfied strut.

  By the time he made it to the first tavern of the evening, he’d convinced himself that several women flushed with his passing. He was satisfied that his time on the run hadn’t dampened the ladies’ ardour for him.

  He set such pursuits to one side, for the time, and made serious enquiries, as a man of means this time, rather than a talented thief.

  In the first bar he asked rather disingenuously where he could sell a fine ring, inlaid with some kind of red gem, the hook laid with further bait, a thin cover story that he had inherited it from his uncle, but that his aunt would want the ring for herself. He told a tale of woe quite perfectly, fabricating a persona for the woman, painting her as an unloved harridan, but a woman of means who sent a troupe of head breakers after him, intent on recovering the heirloom.

  A fine story, thought Roskel. Even so, he had no takers, although one man whistled, looking at the ring (a ring which Roskel had carried for many a year, made of poorly cast Moridium, a cheap metal alloy which glittered like gold, and some cut crystal. It was worth roughly one gold piece, for the workmanship of the folly alone. Roskel always kept five of them secreted in his purse, and from time to time he sold to gullible men in pubs for a decent mark up, always accompanied by a well-laid sob story).

  ‘That’s a pretty piece, to be sure. I could take it for you, find you a good price.’

  ‘I would rather deal direct, my good man,’ said Roskel, carefully.

  ‘I’m no bandit,’ said the man with a thin veneer of a smile.

  Roskel was a good judge of character. He was used to running scams and selling goods under the noses of guards. He could sense the threat in the conversation.

  ‘Bandits are thieves, too, but slightly less imaginative, squire,’ he said. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me,’ he said with as genuine a smile as he could muster, and left.

  Outside he waited for a minute in the darkness of a convenient alleyway. As the man passed, as Roskel knew he would, he thumped him without ceremony on the back of his head with a handy length of wood. It wouldn’t do at all to be dogged by this greedy fellow while he was searching for his target.

  He was no fighter, a fact of which he was all too painfully aware. As a consequence of his somewhat effeminately weak arms, he had taught himself early on to swing moderately heavy objects in the comfort of dark places. You can’t hit what you can’t see, and no man had eyes in the back of his head. Perhaps Tarn was an exception to that rule, but Roskel wouldn’t have dreamed of knocking out his friend. Not any more, anyway.

  Knocked insensible, and the threat passed, Roskel dragged the man into the alleyway and went about his business, secure in the comfort of knowing he wouldn’t have to be looking over his shoulders all night.

  He spent his time afterward usefully, trawling the bars and taverns on the seedier side of town. He spun various versions of his tale in countless taverns, bars and flophouses, but thieves in the city proved elusive. He visited the Cusp of Hren, wandered to the port side where he purchased a flagon of ale and some interesting titbits of information at the Dockers, took a short break at Magret’s Baths (where he was relieved of his tension by a very friendly young woman for a few coin, and counted his night a success on at least one front).

  Despite his adventures outside the first bar, and finding that he was still a lover of some import (if only in his own eyes – Roskel could not be faulted for believing in his own prowess) he was no closer to the Thieves’ Covenant.

  The Thieves’ Covenant was a contract of a sort. It was not, however, written on parchment, or vellum, or even carved in stone. It was a covenant remembered, and broken only in death. It had enforcers, too, should any thief forget its import. It would not be easy, but then Roskel was inured to hardship.

  The thief took a short break from his work and found solace in his third flagon at the Speckled Hare. It was not an entirely wasted evening, but, he sensed, he would get no further. There was always the following night.

  At the last, feeling the faint nausea that accompanied a night of solitary excess, he sauntered into Well’s Footman. To get in he needed his finery. He was glad of his new shirt, trousers and boots. But while the tavern was a haunt for nobles who wished to experience the reality of the city, outside of their cloistered lives, they still had in attendance numerous bodyguards. He had no luck chatting to anyone there.

  Not a rumour to be had, he made his way back to the merchant’s quarter. He looked every inch the gentleman in his cups as he swaggered to the Wayward Inn. It rained on him, a thin drizzle that seeped to the skin, but he did not feel the cold.

  Alone, dressed like a man of means, and in Naeth as the night drew to a close, was inviting a dagger between the ribs. Thankfully, he made it back to the inn unscathed, his purse intact, if the price of a few ales lighter.

  He had none of the excitement of the early evening, and not one hint of thievery in all the taverns he visited.

  He knocked on Tarn’s door just a few hours before sunrise.

  He found his friend wide awake.

  ‘Come in, shut the door.’

  Swaying gently as he walked into the room, he counted Wexel, Brendall, Kurin and Tarn present.

  ‘I’ve had a beggar’s luck tonight,’ he told them.

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Wexel gruffly. ‘You smell like a drunk, too.’

  ‘All for colour, friend. Just to blend, you understand.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Tarn, sighing. ‘We have had some degree of success. How successful, remains to be seen. Rean and Silvan have earlier this evening returned with heartening news. We are to meet someone tomorrow, a man named Garenhill, at the Bearded Dragon, on Huckle Street, after sundown.’

  ‘A fine time for larceny, I might be inclined to believe.’

  ‘We must take this seriously, Roskel. Rean and Silvan got some sense of the man, and said he seemed honest enough. After the usual dance, they told him their benefactor would be interested in arranging some business with the thieves of this city.
We will no doubt be in considerable danger. Garenhill will be recognisable by his red cloak, and his wide moustache.’

  ‘A fetching look.’

  ‘You will be coming with me, Roskel,’ Tarn told him.

  The thief put his head in his hands to hide the fact that his face felt suddenly drained of colour. ‘I thought you might say that.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Brendall. ‘You’ll be well protected. There’s no way either of you are walking in blind. Men will be outside, watching your backs, and some of us will come in with you, to watch for treachery inside.’

  ‘I don’t know, Tarn. It sounds like a trap to me,’ said Roskel.

  ‘And to me. But we have no choice. Time is running on regardless of our wishes. If we do not find assistance soon, I fear we will never get inside in time for the Council of Ten. We must take the risk, but we will make it as narrow as we can.’

  ‘And I will be coming, too,’ added Kurin.

  A look of surprise passed Tarn’s face, but he said nothing.

  ‘Just the three of us, then, into the dragon’s den. A fine start to a tale.’

  ‘Or an end,’ said Brendall, seriously.

  *

  Chapter One Hundred-Two

  The day passed swiftly, and for Tarn, almost as if in a dream. For so long he had fought for his life, fleeing when the time was right, fighting only when he was left no choice. Now the end was in sight. He might have been putting the wolf among the sheep to feel so optimistic, but it felt as though he was nearing the end of his journey. There was some indefinable sense of rightness about the evening’s meeting-- that all would go well, that the Thieves’ Covenant would ensure his safety. No man would murder him tonight. They would see the sense in what he proposed, he would meet the true council of Naeth, its cutthroats and cutpurses, its beggars and thieves, conmen and head breakers, and they would see that under a just king they would prosper, that their rules would be respected. He would even pardon those that helped him on his way. And he could prove his claims. The crown would grease more palms than gold.

  There was honour among thieves, Tarn knew. He had seen it in the bandit’s camp. It was a writ, signed in blood, by all men of the night. Assassins, he mused, were outside that law, and held themselves to their own twisted honour. But he was no assassin.

  He was king.

  Stupidly, perhaps, Tarn fell into a bout of wishful thinking that left him sick at heart and destroyed all his good humour. He imagined a kingdom with Rena as his queen, ruling side by side over a just nation, free from the ever present threat of civil war, free from oppression, and poverty. But half way through his dream, an old man’s face intruded into the picture, his head massive, a louring visage out of his nightmares. The Thane of Naeth. Suddenly, he found himself longing to plunge his sword through the man’s evil eyes, with all the force he could bring to bear, and skewer him against the throne he so coveted.

  Shaking, he turned his attention to his remaining men. The rest had already left with dusk, to take up prearranged positions around the tavern. Only Brendall, Roskel, Kurin and Wexel remained. Urng and Erin were within the bar already, drinking carefully and slowly. Hopefully they would seem merely men in their cups. Rean and Silvan would take up positions on rooftops, clambering between alleyways, using the nearness of the walls as though scaling a cliff. They would not be outlined in the dark.

  The rest of his men would patrol the streets, looking out for other watchers. If this man, Garenhill, was truly in contact with the thieves’ council, he would be protected. It could just as easily be a trap, and Tarn wanted to be prepared. He had thought of everything he could, and when he ran dry of ideas, Brendall, or Wexel, and even Kurin filled the gaps. The men wandered the area around the Bearded Dragon, the streets and alleys of the docks, and the jetties themselves, where they were able. They spent the rest of the day discussing and sharing what they discovered. Even in the daylight, the docks were full of danger. At night, it was sordid, and damp with well-travelled brine, but there was no avoiding their fate. They would take the risk.

  Tarn knew they were playing with fire. He just hoped when he met the thieves that they would see sense.

  But there had been enough talking. It was time. There was nothing left to do now, but enter the Dragon’s lair.

  *

  Chapter One Hundred-Three

  Cardon, Thane of Carmille, a small thanedom to the west of Naeth, which butted up against two mighty neighbours, the Culthorn mountains and Hurth’s region, sat despondent in his stately rooms. The room was well appointed, and his servants had quarters adjacent to his. He knew the other Thanes would be afforded similar accommodation. He wasn’t unhappy with his quarters, but the location. For twenty years now he had allied himself with his neighbours, Orvane Wense, Thane of Kar, an evil man, and Fanador, the Thane of Mardon, who thought nothing of stepping over decency as though it were a dirty puddle, a man who would stoop to any means to further his desire, which was to be as wealthy as possible.

  Together, the four northern Thanes were the most powerful men on Sturma. The six southern Thanes could not stand against their might, but for many years now Cardon wished his circumstances had been different. All his resources went on the defence of the border, and with too few men to guard the expanse he had been reduced to relying upon the Thane of Naeth’s men. His neighbour’s army was formidable. He alone had enough men to man the forts at the northern passes. It should have been Cardon’s responsibility, but he was wise enough to know pride would have been his downfall. Even though there had not been an incursion from the Draymar for near to forty years, he was old enough to remember what the days had been like before the forts were built and manned. They would remain for many years. Eventually, supposed Cardon, they would be made of stone, and Carmille would become entirely the vassal of Naeth. He had no choice but to ally himself to Hurth’s cause.

  But the south remained proud. They had fought bravely during the War of Reconciliation, when Cardon had been but a boy, and they were still proud. It was like the southerners were of a different country. That gulf had widened since the death of the last king of Sturma.

  Cardon also knew that if the Thane of Naeth ever took the crown, as was his obvious desire, it would be a dark reign for Sturmen, wherever they lived. He could imagine the country being plunged once more into civil war. The south may live under Hurth’s rule already, reluctant to throw of the yoke for fear of dire consequences, but should he become a king they would surely fight.

  Perhaps, when the southern Thanes joined them, they could find some common ground. Maybe war could be avoided. But he held out little hope. And so, hemmed in by an inescapable position, stuck between the wish for peace and the necessity of Hurth’s soldiers on his doorstep, he was an unhappy man.

  In two days time, the last of the southern Thanes would be present. The Thane of Spar, with the furthest to travel, was due soon. Then they would see where the old kingdom of Sturma lay, and its fate, which lay in the hands of ten men, each of them guilty of hubris in their own way.

  He wished there was still a king. A king would be able to hold the kingdom together, before it degenerated from a once great nation into warring thanedoms. Should that happen Cardon would be on the winning side, all the while wishing he had been born to a lower station, so that he would not have to oversee the destruction of all he once held dear, back so many years ago when he still had the ideals and hopes of a highborn youth.

  Sadness overwhelmed him. The finery of the room was lost on him. He only wished to return home. The Council of Ten, he was sure, would be the beginning of the end.

  *

  Chapter One Hundred-Four

  It seemed darker in the docks after sunset than in the rest of the city. There were not as many residences in the quarter, and it was mainly warehouses and flophouses for exhausted sailors and stevedores. No light shone from under their doors, unless there was a rare night delivery, or a ship set to sail in the early light of morning.

&nbs
p; The moons were hidden, too. A thin covering of high cloud drifted across the sky, shimmering like silk. Stars peered through periodically, winking conspiratorially at the bandits in the street. There was a chill in the breeze, gentle that night but insistent enough to worm its way under the skin.

  Each and every one of Tarn’s men went armed. Should the guard catch them with concealed weapons under their cloaks the weapons would have been confiscated, and the men might have spent a spell under lock and key. But the docks were an unfrequented area for most guards. In the docks, as the slums, it was each to his own. Murders were commonplace, but the docks and the slums had their own brand of justice. It was best not to ask questions, and keep your hand beside your sword when walking in the darkness there.

  There were a few drunken sailors walking the streets, passing toward the trio. No one else was on the street by the front entrance to the tavern. Tarn was not concerned that he could not immediately see his men. He had told them to conceal themselves wherever possible. He resisted the urge to look up at the roof opposite the door, where Rean no doubt stood. He did not want to draw attention to the archer, should anyone be watching him from the shadowy streets.

  Tarn nodded to his companions, took a deep breath, and pushed the heavy door aside.

  Light blinded him for a moment. Blinking, he looked around warily before stepping inside. He only had a moment to make his decision, before entering. To pause too long at the threshold would invite attention.

  He assessed the situation. He saw Urng and Erin seated at a table far in the back of the tavern. There were roughly thirty men – he did not see any women, but then that was not unusual for a docker’s tavern. Most wore cloaks, but that was not unusual either. Many of the men would have concealed daggers, or even swords, under the cloth, but to be without a weapon in the darkness of the dockside streets was to invite disaster.