At that moment Erin and Wexel, with seven men left, for they had also battled their way through, rounded the corner and set about the men from behind.
The human guard folded under such overwhelming numbers, but the two alien warriors fought back to back, covering the door and Merilith, who stood behind them in an alcove leading to the door. Their swords snaked out whenever one of Tarn’s men came close enough, dealing out injuries while taking none of their own. Brendall fell with a bloody wound to his face. Before Brendall could rise, Wexel roared and swung his sword with abandon. The power of the stroke from the two-handed sword smashed through one of the Protectorate’s swords, slicing through his breastplate as though it were leather. Erin leapt forward, sensing the moment, and thrust his long sword into the second Protocrat’s groin.
Tarn strode forward to the Hierarch. Merilith grinned, a strange expression for one so exposed.
‘And so, the king comes. Are you prepared to meet your death?’
‘You have it the wrong way round, I think, Hierarch.’
‘Ah, so Y’thixil told you more than was prudent. I should have guessed.’
Tarn did not need to hear whatever the creature had to say. He drew his sword back, and thrust it at his neck.
The sword rebounded as though met by solid stone.
The Hierarch laughed.
‘You have survived Hurth, and a thousand soldiers sent to harness you, boy. You have vexed even the Guryon, and that is no mean feat. And now it falls to me to kill you. A noble death. One, I fear, you do not deserve. How base, for one of royal blood to descend into banditry.’
‘What magic is this?’ spat Tarn in frustration.
‘I cannot be harmed by mortal weapons, king,’ Merilith said the last word with distaste. ‘But you, I can kill.’ And within his impenetrable shell, the wizard began to chant. The air became suddenly heavy. Tarn smiled at the wizard, who looked perplexed for a moment. The chant faltered, the wizard suddenly unsure of himself. The king showed no fear of him.
Tarn stepped aside, and through a cordon of men, Merilith saw a bowman with a bow of some shimmering silver metal. Before he could finish the words to his incantation, the Thane’s advisor found he could no longer form sounds. His mouth moved, but there was no sign of the words he was building into the spell. He raised his hand to his throat, and felt the shaft jutting there.
The spell failed, and the shield fell. Tarn stepped forward, and drove his sword, a plain weapon, a gift from so long ago, not magical in the slightest, through Merilith’s dark heart.
Stooping, he withdrew the silver arrow and gave it back to Silvan. He knew there was a reason Gard had given him the bow. Even now, with Hurth just a door away, Gard saved his life. The skills the big man gave him had kept him alive for this long. He only hoped they would carry through the day, and find revenge, and with it, peace at last.
He kicked open the door, and stepped inside.
*
Chapter One Hundred-Eleven
Hurth was nothing like Tarn imagined. He was not unnaturally preserved. For a man who had killed the king so long ago, he had aged naturally. He was an old man, perhaps of eighty.
He seemed vigorous enough. He pulled a sword from beside his chair, and stood, unafraid. Tarn walked to the edge of the table. Around the table sat the nine Thanes. All were unarmed. Around the edges of the table were eight of the strange guard.
Hurth smiled. ‘Kill them.’
The Protectorates needed no more encouragement. They drew their swords leisurely and held them loosely in their hands. Tarn reached behind his back and pulled the crown from his sack.
‘When I kill you, old man, know this. It will not be murder, but execution.’
Tarn put the crown on his head, and the Protectorate attacked.
It was the wrong moment to wear the crown for the first time. Suddenly, Tarn was lost, his head swimming with visions. He could see his men, thirteen who were left, spread either side of him and engage the warriors. Wexel slew one immediately, and then there were seven. Another warrior lunged as his comrade fell, sword thrusting at arm’s length before him, and caught Wexel above the hip. He could not bring his sword to bear soon enough, and a slashing cut from the Protectorate opened his belly, the razor sharp sword easily passing through Wexel’s leather armour.
The first king overtook Tarn’s vision.
There had been no castle then, and fewer people. He came from a great boat, more immense than anything Tarn had ever seen. It was like an island. The king wore the crown Tarn now wore. He descended long steps, and was the first to step onto this land. He claimed the land for his own.
Wexel stumbled, bleeding heavily. As he fell he thrust his sword forward, the tip piercing the fearsome warrior’s thigh. Roskel, unbelievably, stepped forward and as the opponent’s sword was engaged, struck the man hard in the shoulder. Blood sprayed, for an instant covering his friend’s face.
A round hut, with a thatched roof. Swooping, Tarn entered past a wooden door. Within sat a council, warriors all, making plans. He heard the echo of their words through the ages, through the crown. The Draymar come. We must defend this land. And then, a vast battle on the plains, against mounted men, barbarians by the look of them, men with scarred faces and an assortment of rough weapons. The Sturmen fought with long swords of bright steel, and even though they were fewer than the enemy, their weapons were sturdier. They were winning the battle, if only at great loss to their number.
Wexel lived still, two attackers fallen on his side. Tarn looked to his left, where Brendall, Erin and Urng fought. Two men had already fallen. They were being pressed back toward the door.
He spared a moment to look at the Thanes. Most were rooted in fear. Redalane and Cardon had risen from their chairs, and unseen, unexpectedly, they surged forward and caught the last enemy on Tarn’s right in a vicelike grip. Only one to go, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Urng fall, blood covering his hand, which he held against his throat. From the floor, blood gushing, he slammed his hand axe into the foot of the Protectorate that had felled him. Brendall crashed a blow into the distracted warrior. He died instantly. Tarn tried to move, but
Stone by stone, a great castle was laid. The foundations were deeper than the castle itself. Nobody could burrow underneath. Ships sailed from the port of the town that had risen near the beginnings of the great castle. Suddenly, Tarn was travelling underneath, and he saw tunnels being formed, deep underground, a warren that travelled the length and breadth of what would one day become a city.
Finally, he broke free of the visions and stepped forward. Wexel bled heavily, maybe dying, but there were only two warriors left on his side. Tarn stepped forward and joined the fray.
Ducking underneath a swinging blow from Wexel, who fought on regardless of his bleeding gut, Tarn slid his sword into the enemy’s groin. In his death throes, the warrior opened Brendall’s throat, who had stepped in to help. He went down. Tarn stepped forward and slid his sword into the throat of the creature Cardon and Redalane held, as Hurth stepped forward and drove his sword into Cardon’s unprotected back.
Now there was no one between Tarn and Hurth but Redalane. Behind him, Tarn knew Silvan waited, bow drawn, covering their rear. Silvan faced one way, Rean the other. They would slow any more guards that would surely come rushing to the upper reaches of the castle. Tarn wished he had brought one of the archers inside. Then Hurth would already be dead.
Unseen, Erin battled the last two protocrats. Roskel stood behind Tarn, a wound to his face flapping, where skin hung down.
Tarn stepped forward as Hurth’s sword – fast for an old man, perhaps some enchantment held here – lashed out at Redalane. Redalane’s chest blossomed with blood, but Tarn stepped in before Hurth could finish him. Redalane drew something from his belt, and as he fell to the floor threw it with waning strength at Hurth. Somehow, Hurth’s sword rose and struck the projectile. It bounced from the flat of the sword, and Tarn felt it nick his shoulder.
&n
bsp; He heard a scream from behind him – all the fighters had been eerily silent before – and his sword darted unbidden at the Thane of Naeth’s throat. Hurth’s sword rose, and as it did so, Tarn changed his strike mid-air, slashing down on Hurth’s unprotected wrist.
The sword clattered to the ground along with Hurth's hand. Behind Tarn, the sounds of battle ceased as suddenly as they had begun.
The room stilled. Hurth knelt, holding his severed wrist. He looked at Tarn with blind hatred in his eyes.
‘I spit on your name, boy. I hope you die in agony.’
Tarn was unmoved. At the end, with Hurth kneeling before him, he looked within himself, but found no rage, no loathing, or spite. He found merely sadness, that all he had fought for, all the years he roamed the wilderness, were for nothing but to kill a petty man. Hurth was smaller than he imagined. In his mind’s eye, the Thane of Naeth had towered, shadowing his every move, taking those that loved him one by one. A powerful nemesis possessed of unnatural powers.
He was nothing but a selfish man, bent on ruling, thinking nothing of the people he trod on along the way.
At the end, there was nothing to say. No vengeful words, or hateful barbs, to send the man on his way. It did not matter now.
Wordlessly, with a grimace of distaste across his lips, Tarn put his sword against the Thane’s eye, and pushed.
*
Chapter One Hundred-Twelve
Tarn sat on the throne, his plain, pitted sword on his knees.
It was the day of his crowning.
About him, his bloodied men stood, proud in their pain. They had won the day. There was nothing left for them to do. It was the pinnacle of achievement. There was some part of them that felt regret, for their greatest moment had come. Everything from this day forward would feel shallow, a mere shade of the great day. They would take the memory of it to their graves.
The walk to the throne had been hard. Tarn found himself overcome with weariness. His legs were leaden. All he wanted to do was sleep, sleep through his reign, if it came to that. He found, as he sat on the throne, that he had no desire to be king.
The remaining Thanes, Redalane among them, holding his chest wound together, watched Tarn take the throne, and took a knee.
‘Rise. No man need bow to me. But take my hand, in friendship, and follow me, your king. Show me your allegiance.’
One by one, the Thanes, even those reluctant to, stepped forward and kissed Tarn’s hand.
Soldiers, formerly men of the Thane of Naeth, stood outside the door. All bowed when Tarn passed, wearing the crown. Word would soon spread. There would be no need for more bloodshed. Enough men died for Tarn to sit on the throne. It was a hollow victory. He felt no joy, just dogged tiredness, seeping through his limbs. His arms were heavy, but then that was to be expected. It had been the fight of his life.
The Thane of Spar’s face was pale from blood loss as he came before Tarn. A surgeon was on the way from the hospital. Minor wounds had been stitched already, but the wound in Redalane’s chest was beyond stitches. He would need a skilled healer, for Hurth’s sword had struck deep enough to gash ribs. He had worn no armour to lessen the blow.
‘I owe you my life, and the life of my son. I am your man, from now and forever. You can count on the Spar’s support in all things. I was right to trust you. I hope you can forgive the way I treated you once. I did not know.’
Tarn held out his hand to the Thane, who kissed it. He noticed it shook.
‘There is no need for apologies, Thane of Spar. You are a good man, abused by an evil that thankfully is no longer present in this castle. There are still those that were loyal to the Thane of Naeth. Our work is not yet done, and I will count on your strong heart in the days to come.’
‘My heart is yours, as are my men.’
‘Then I thank you.’
As Redalane stepped back, he noticed a trickle of blood running down Tarn’s arm, a small stream, but he mentioned it anyway. Even small wounds could fester, and the king’s life was too important to risk for such a minor injury.
‘You are wounded, my king, your shoulder is bleeding.’
‘It is nothing, Redalane. Your dagger grazed my shoulder.’ Tarn grinned. ‘It is my only wound. Luck was on my side today.’
Redalane’s jaw dropped, and suddenly a tear came to his eye. ‘I have killed you, my king, with my loathing for Hurth. That dagger was poisoned.’
Tarn saw only truth in the man’s eyes. So that was why he felt such lethargy, despite a great battle. He was dying.
He shook his head, and laughed ruefully. So it came to this. He laughed again, but a tear fell from his eye. He had so much to lose, and all of what he was, what he fought to return to, no doubt lay sleeping in the distant village of Wherry.
That was worth his tears, but he wiped his eye anyway. He would not cry in front of his men, not on this day, this day of glory. It was theirs as much as his.
‘It was not your doing, Redalane. It was you who brought me here, who gave me the chance to come to the end of my path. I think that, somehow, I have done what I was destined to do. The gods, it seems, have no more use for me.’
As he said this, he felt no anger toward the gods. What would be the point? He had asked for the chance to avenge his family, his father, his grandfather, Gard and Molly. He had been given it. To ask more, to wish that he could live out his life with Rena as his queen, bringing justice to the land, installing pride again in a once proud nation, well, that was just fancy.
His father told him long ago that wishes were for fools. He led by example, making the most of the life allowed him every day. Not once did he see regret, or anger, upon his father’s face. Tarn would not let him down, even in these final moments.
There were more important things on which to expend his last breath. His talking was not yet done.
He motioned for Redalane to leave him, which he did, with a heavy sadness in his eyes. If he lived, thought Tarn, he would have a great burden to bear. But then, he would have his son back. Perhaps then he would have the strength all Tarn’s friends needed in the coming days, and years.
Silence descended the throne room. Redalane’s whisper had been overheard by some, and outrage swept the remainder of Tarn’s men.
Tarn held up his hand for quiet.
The finery of the king’s throne room, usurped by the Thane of Naeth for so long, faded into the background, the once garish colours of ancient tapestries and painting long faded. The glory of the kingdom had dulled. But, he thought, looking past the aged splendour of the room and all its trappings, the nation could be great again.
Instead of wasting time on things, he thought of his men. He looked around at the once-bandits that remained. Them, he could see clearly. They all bore their wounds silently. Proud, brave men, of stout heart and solid of mind. He would need them, this final day. He nodded to each in turn, his heart warming from the presence of them, blood coursing just a little faster. Hastening the end, he thought. But there would be enough time. There always was, for a wise man.
Wexel still stood, although he had a huge wound running up through his guts. Should he live he would be a stalwart supporter of the new leader.
Erin, a canny swordsman, had suffered only minor wounds. His skills would be needed. He would be the new leader’s bodyguard. His skills were only second to Tarn’s.
Brendall was dead and the thought saddened Tarn. But there were enough unbending men left and it provided him small comfort that he would soon see his friend beyond Madal’s gates.
The new council would be one of war.
Warriors were going to be important in the years to come. There would be threats from within, and without – Tarn had not forgotten the Draymar. His father had told him they were like a weed. They rose, and fell, but always they came again, and always they were unwanted. Sturma needed to be strong on all fronts.
Other men lived, and they would all be soldiers in the new era. It would be a brave age. Tarn would not be ther
e to see it, but he had one last chance to make an impact. With a push in the right direction, perhaps Sturma would survive, and be stronger for it.
Even Roskel had proved to be made of sterner stuff than Tarn gave him credit for. The thief held one hand to a flap of skin on his forehead where a foreign blade had sliced him. He had been lucky. The thief had always been lucky. It was a good trait.
Tarn had been lucky in his own way. He had evaded capture for so long, known love and happiness, if fleeting, and met many dear to his heart. There were not many people who could boast as much in such a short span. Only nineteen years, he thought with a sad smile. And so much left to see.
But that was not his task. His line ended today. Now, he thought, to see to the future of the kingdom.
His men would follow Roskel. Only Roskel was wily enough, smart enough, to lead the country, in lieu of a king. The other Thanes, among their number men of ambition equal to the former Thane of Naeth, would work against him at every turn. For Sturma to survive the upheaval, to avoid another civil war, his friend would need all the help he could get, but it was not a post for a fighting man. A leader had others to fight his battles for him. Roskel would recognise that, and his men would respect his intelligence.
It would be hard, frustrating, and sometimes all but impossible, but he knew his friend could succeed at the task. There would be no king.
‘I am killed,’ he said to the assembled men, without rancour. ‘You fought bravely, men, and you will be rewarded. Roskel, step forward.’
His friend stepped forward, and unbidden hugged Tarn tightly against him.
‘Enough, my friend,’ Tarn told him kindly. ‘We have no time for remorse. I can already feel my heart slowing. Listen to me, all of you. Roskel will be the guardian of Sturma. He will lead, not as a king, but as a Protector of the Kingdom, and all of you, Thanes included, will be the stewards of a new age. I charge you all to ensure peace in this land, and make it as strong a nation as it once was. My men will be a council for peace, but sometimes even peace has to be fought for. Men, times ahead will be hard, but this is my plea to you; be strong, for Sturma.’
The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Page 30
