The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One

by Craig Saunders

  Tarn’s vision darkened as he spoke. He paused, and Roskel thought his king, his friend, dead. But the king’s eyes fluttered beneath his eyelids. Roskel stood back, and watched, and waited. Tarn was not yet dead, and Roskel knew that when he opened his eyes, he would have something lasting to say.

  His friend always did the right thing. This time would not be any different.

  *

  Chapter One Hundred-Thirteen

  In Tarn’s mind, cutting through the murk that seeped in, came a voice he never expected to hear again.

  Mist swirled before his eyes, obscuring a winding path. No other sounds came, or if they did, Tarn thought they were muffled by the mist. There was a susurration, a vagueness on the air. Death, he mused, made you deaf in the afterlife, which was sadness for a soul lost in this eerie fog. A memory of sound from the past life, or the echoes of voices lost in the tepid mist. He looked down at his hands. They were unblemished, youthful as in life. He was clothed, but in no clothes he had ever owned. His feet were unshod, and he could feel warmth in the path underfoot.

  He concentrated on the memory of sound. There, in the distance, a whispering, urgent voice. Calling him forward.

  He had nowhere else to go. As in life, he thought, there is nowhere to go but onward, forever, along a path with no end in sight, into the heart of insubstantiality. No matter the path you took, the impact was forgotten. In this other life – he thought there would be friends, family, even enemies with whom to share the memories of life – there was nothing but a cloud of amnesia, stealing memory and purpose.

  But there was a path, and a voice. That, simple as it was, would be his purpose. A man like Tarn could not float on that cloud, or drift off the path into the ether. One foot in front of the other. Concentration was paramount. He looked at his feet and strode forward.

  Whether time passed, or if every moment bled into one endless parody of time, Tarn could not tell. A shape formed within the mist. Gargantuan, larger than anything life could hold, like a mountain but flat, impenetrable, unassailable. It loomed, and on either side of the structure, two statues – no, not statues, beings. They shifted, and like the mountains themselves their movements would have been imperceptible in time, but this was outside of time. Normal rules had no place within the mist. They took hold of time, made a mockery of minutes, hours, days.

  The creatures moved, craning heads forward to see the speck approaching along the path. Tarn looked up, seeing heads formed of some grey material, but surely not rock. The mist parted to allow this vision. Nothing could obscure them. Tarn understood then, seeing the men made of living rock, standing upon the mist either side, as though they were weightless. The crack in the structure before him, a line, unbelievably fine. No hint of what lay beyond could be seen, but he knew there was something behind the structure. Madal’s realm, and these were his guardians. But how could he pass the gates? Surely only the guardians would be capable of shifting the mountainous mass.

  ‘That is a problem for later, Tarn. For now, we must speak. Time is shorter than you think.’

  He looked down at the voice, lost to the world, but strong and urgent here in this time out of time. He smiled – relieved to find that he still could. Tulathia stood, so dwarfed by the gates that she could have been standing on the borders of the night time air, but for the stars missing behind her.

  He tried out his voice, and found that it worked just as it always had done.

  ‘I have missed you, old mother.’

  ‘And I you, Tarn.’

  Even here, she was old. As old as a human could be, but never as old as the gates.

  ‘I have waited long for this moment.’

  Tarn laughed. ‘I have waited my whole life for this.’

  ‘You would have, had I told you what I knew.’

  ‘Did you know I was to die?’

  ‘All men die. But yes, I saw one possible future. I am saddened beyond words that I should meet you now, though. I had hoped I was wrong, that you would succeed, and live. But you succeeded, and you will die. Soon, Tarn, but we have this moment. You must listen.’

  ‘Speak on, old mother. I feel the pull of the gates, even now.’

  ‘Hold tight to your memories of life. Your work for Sturma – for Rythe – is not yet finished.’

  Tarn was silent for a moment, and held onto the thought of Rena. His one regret. His perfect, abandoned love. Sadness was almost overwhelming, but there was a warmth there, too. One day, when he passed these gates, she would come to him. But he hoped he would have long to wait. The world would be so much less beautiful without her in it.

  ‘I feel overwhelming sadness, old mother. My life has been for naught. I loved, I fought, but in the end I lost.’

  It was Tulathia’s turn to be silent, and in her stare Tarn saw only kindness. He felt himself grow uncomfortable in her gaze.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, boy. Your life has been more important than you can imagine. In you, the future burned at its brightest. You have brought hope to all those that come after you. Your life is the foundation for more than you can imagine. You have won a great victory. None of your love has been in vain.’

  ‘I hope so,’ he said, sadness heavy on his soul, in this place where there was no beating of the heart in his breast.

  ‘And I know so, boy, so don’t be a fool,’ said Tulathia, but not unkindly.

  Tarn, chastened, allowed her to speak.

  ‘Now listen. Sturma must remain strong. It must be a nation. Here, I can see further into the future, so far it would make your head spin. I cannot tell you everything I know, but you must ensure the crown is found, but not in ten years, nor one hundred. You will never know why, but a thousand years from now the crown will be needed. It will be worn again.

  ‘Men will fight for it, if it is left where it can be found. It must be well hidden. In time, one will come again, one who can wield its power. It contains the past, and when the time of the return comes, the past must be known. It could save Rythe, even though the chance is slim.’

  ‘What is the return?’

  ‘A time of pure darkness. The future is bleak, indeed. One day, even the land beyond these gates may be dark and bereft of souls. I would not see that happen, and between you and I we have enough power to fire an arrow into that darkness. Perhaps we can halt it for a little while, but there will be others, when the time comes. Heroes will rise, gods will walk the face of Rythe, monsters will howl in the night, and it will be nothing compared to the evil that lives among the stars, waiting to return into the light and corrupt it. Listen to me, now. Prepare the way. Hide the crown. Choose your lieutenants carefully, for they must see Sturma through not only the near future, but ensure its survival into the distance. Without Sturma, there will be no future souls.’

  ‘You paint a bleak picture, Tulathia.’

  ‘Heed my words, Tarn. Now return. My time here is done. I will see you in the next life.’

  Tarn felt a familiar tug, like the pull of the waking world in sleep. He waved farewell to Tulathia, and saw that his hand, once solid, was translucent. It disappeared from vision, and the mists cleared.

  *

  Chapter One Hundred-Fourteen

  Kilarion did not believe his own senses. He rose and walked around the wizard. The light burned through the soul sword, and impossibly, it withdrew from the wizard’s chest with no assistance from Kilarion.

  The Lu stood back, dumbfounded, staring in wonderment at the phenomenon unfolding before him.

  The sword fell on the floor with a dull thud – the floor was not made of stone, and the sword was not made of steel.

  Light burned in Caeus’ eyes, and he winked at the soul guardian.

  ‘Forgive the intrusion, Kilarion. I fear my early awakening is somewhat impolite, considering all the time you have given me, but my time has come. I must leave you.’

  ‘How did you do that?’ said Kilarion in astonishment.

  ‘I have been thinking, regaining my powers. I would not be
so strong if it wasn’t for you, but to regain my full strength I must rest a little while longer. My last battle left me diminished, but far from helpless. My plans are complete, and for that I have you to thank. I am not immortal. Without my imprisonment I would have been dead by now. Admittedly, I still have many years in me, but not a millennium. I fear I have as long to wait again, but not here. Not now. I must leave you.’

  ‘You may be able to awaken, Caeus, but you cannot leave without besting me.’

  ‘I would not dream of leaving you here to suffer. We will have the contest, and I will leave.’

  Kilarion, his heart as stone, impassionate and resolute, nonetheless felt warmth in the wizard’s words. His marble skin blushed…he had not dreamed there could ever be freedom from eternity. If any creature could grant an immortal rest, he believed Caeus could do it. He had power beyond imagining. He had already broken one rule. Perhaps he could break another.

  ‘I will fight you with compassion,’ said Caeus with a grin. 'I hope you have been learning, as I have, or my time here is a failure.’ The wizard spoke like his imprisonment was a choice. Perhaps it was, mused the soul guardian.

  ‘I concede your point, wizard. Then begin.’

  Caeus concentrated for a moment – emotion as unnatural for him as flying to a fish – and in his hand a mighty sword coalesced from the air. It was the equal in size to the sword in Kilarion’s gnarled hands. It shimmered with light, and the chamber was so brightly lit that Caeus could see eternity beyond.

  With all his strength, Caeus struck.

  The swords met, resounding with a deafening peal, like the bells of time which still sound throughout the universe.

  Light flared, impossibly bright, then dimmed to a ball in the air. Both swords ceased to exist the moment they clashed.

  ‘It is over,’ said the Lu with unbridled joy. Freedom, at last! ‘You have learned well.’

  ‘As have you, my friend. I hope you enjoy your freedom.’

  ‘Then you understand?’

  ‘I do, Kilarion. You die with the sword. I am not sorry to see you go. I know you have wished for an end forever. The time is now.’

  The ball of light was growing all the time, until it was as large as a man. It stood between Caeus and Kilarion, but they could see each other through it.

  ‘It is time for you to go.’

  ‘I know,’ said Caeus. ‘I am glad you will know freedom. I go to my next prison.’

  ‘Why? You are free.’

  ‘I am not free until I have fulfilled my life’s purpose. And the time is not yet here. I must be patient until then. I need to martial my strength. Even then I fear it is not enough. But these are mortal fears, my friend. Go, and go with peace.’

  Contentment passed the soul guardians face, as Caeus diminished within the sphere of light, and blinked from eternity, back into the realms of time.

  As he died, Kilarion wished him well.

  Caeus blinked and in an instant found himself standing precisely where he wanted to be. He was before a mighty creature, a gargantuan beast out of time, out of place, deep within the belly of a volcano, beyond Thaxamalan's Saw in the frozen north.

  Before him the revenant howled in its chains, but it had enough freedom to grasp the wizard, pull him toward its maw, and swallow him whole.

  And within a revenant of godless times, Caeus disappeared.

  Thought ceased, his heartbeat slowed, and finally stilled. Held in stasis once more, he prepared to wait. He had no choice. He did not choose the time of the return. While he slept, the blood of the revenant coursed around him. The beast was unaware of the wizard feeding off its blood.

  While he slept, the wizard’s strength would grow. In time, he would need it. If all went well. His plans were in place, but no mortal could know the future with certainty. There was so much chance involved. One wrong move, and he would sleep forever. His mind still worked. It would be easy, in this next millennium, to succumb to fear, to descend into madness, but he would not let himself. He held his demons at bay, and determined to sleep, to feed.

  He fell into sleep, and dreamed of the future.

  Fear gnawed at the edges of his sleep, but he held it tight to his chest, a cherished, rare emotion. He stored it all within his still heart, with hope, compassion, and pity for those who must stand in the way, come the return of the old ones...the return of the Sun Destroyers.

  *

  Chapter One Hundred-Fifteen

  The light of life was fading fast. Tarn looked around his throne room for the last time. His friends were dimming. But with the last of his effort, he motioned Roskel to his side.

  ‘There is something you must do for me, Roskel,’ he said, his voice fading with his life. The pull of the gates was strong now.

  He spoke in a whisper.

  With tears in his eyes, Roskel nodded. ‘It will be done,’ he told the king.

  But Tarn did not hear him. He passed from life, and looking down on his body one last time, he saw a smile on the young man seated there, sword resting in his hands, and friends by his side.

  It was a better end than most, he thought, and passed through the gates, to his friends waiting there, and their loving arms.

  *

  Epilogue

  Stars shone bright in the sky outside the hut. Two moons bore witness to the coming winter, and the passing of sorrow.

  A scream hung on the air, full of sadness, touched with joy. It passed slowly.

  Under Hren and Gern’s ageless gaze, a small hut stood in a clearing among the trees, its roof white in their glare, as though covered in snows. The snows would come soon enough, but for now, autumn held sway over the trees.

  Within the hut, another scream came, and this one bore tears. Breaths came in stuttering gasps, cries of pain interspersed, an ancient language, but one that only women knew. It was the language of childbirth, and the reply came, a soft wailing at first, then loud enough to bring joy.

  The sorrow of her lover’s passing, which she felt immediately, passed, not forgotten, but put to one side, if only for a moment. The air stilled, and in the firelight Mia’s smile was bright. She passed the baby to her mother, with nothing but love in her eyes.

  Rena held her baby to her breast.

  As long as she had something of his to remember him by, she knew she could survive. She took the most precious thing in all the world in her arms. The future could look after itself.

  * End *

  Bonus Material: The Island Archives

  The Sturman Kings

  (From the War of Reconciliation onwards)

  Cast

  Major

  Gard – Tarn’s surrogate father. The Big Man (in a special way to his loving wife Molly, but in an entirely decent way, to his adopted son). Trained Tarn in the skills of the warrior, and more importantly, the skills of a man. Was once weapons’ master to the Thane of Spar’s army, in a bygone era. A veteran of the Reconciliation wars.

  Rena – Tarn’s love, the bearer of his only child, and, almost incidentally, a witch of unknown power. With curling golden hair, a full smile and passion for torn men, this fine filly is sure to turn heads.

  Roskel Farinder – Thief of ill-repute, but only among cuckolds. An eye for trinkets and ladies of dubious virtue, Roskel is Tarn’s truest friend, his conscience, and his successor to the blood drenched throne of Sturma.

  PS. Has a predilection for equanimity and a propensity for profundity often mistaken for being mere erudition, but which belies a nature both…

  ‘Gerroff! ‘ere, mam, he’s talking boll…’

  ‘Oi! None of that! And Gerald, give your brother back his pencil! Right now, I said! And stop reading those bloody books. Gives you ideas, they does…’

  Tarn – The last king to wear the Sturman crown, scarred from a young age and moulded by cruel fate into a fighter of great renown. Once a farmer, a hunter, and even a bandit king, this upstanding man would have rocked worlds had he lived. As it is, he must look on from behind Mad
al’s unbreachable gates as the future unfolds as sadly, he is no longer with us. May he rest in peace.

  Tulathia – Old witch. Not meant, of course, in any derogatory sense, but as a mere statement of fact. Far seeing, long suffering, and full of compassion for those that know less, and envy for those very same people, blissful in their ignorance.

  Author’s note: Had gout, but it seems to have cleared up.

  Minor

  Anhar – Village champion at fisticuffs.

  Asthar – One of Gothar’s friends.

  Bateman – One of Gothar’s friends.

  Brocain – Commander of the western legion.

  Caeus – Wizard of great renown, worshipped by some, potential destroyer of suns. Has power unchallenged since the exile, but come the return…well, who can say?

  Cardon – Thane of Carmille, reluctant ally of the Thane of Naeth.

  Durmont – The Thane of Spar’s faithful secretary.

  Durn – Lazy bandit.

  Fanador – The Thane of Mardon.

  Gan – A bandit from Haven, part of the crew that waylaid Tarn and changed his life forever, although from the part he played it in you wouldn’t think he was in anyway pivotal in the development of the plot.