The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One

by Craig Saunders

  That man was the Thane of Kar. He argued with the Thane of Mardon across the great table that Roskel had ordered built in the throne room.

  Wexel, one of the three joint Stewards of the Crown, caught Roskel's eye across the crowded room and rolled his eyes. The childish move from the large man made him smile. Like him, Wexel was not born to the business of running a country. While Roskel Farinder was a born thief, Wexel was a born warrior, more at home wielding his great sword than the quill he was so often forced to wield these days.

  Roskel allowed the argument to fade into the background and let his eyes drift around the room. The adornments of battles past, some not so long ago, hung from the walls. Tapestries he had ordered, after the fashion of the south, covered the spaces in between. He was not so ensconced in his position that he could flout centuries of tradition and hide the castle’s history away, but he could at least bring some beauty to a room that remembered only death. It had been his hope that this room could in future be a place of contemplation, that the tapestries would show the fate of the last warrior king and perhaps shed some light on the follies of violence. He feared these men at the table only saw glory in the death.

  Maces and great swords, chainmail hung on carved figures, shields emblazoned with the boar’s crest of the kings, the great axe of the barbarian king the Red Slayer, scourge of the Draymar, a strangely hafted spear, the haft fashioned from some black wood unknown to any he had asked, runic symbols carved. In alcoves stood statues of past kings, each wearing their armour of state. War, reminders of war, the illusion of glamour and honour fought for and won in battle. The warrior kings were respected.

  But what had it availed any of them? Roskel had studied the Sturman Archives, housed in Naeth Castle's great library, beneath the throne room. Only three of the kings of the past had died peacefully, in a written history of the kings that was over a thousand years old. Would that he could change the habit of a lifetime. What was the life expectancy of a Steward of the Crown? Here he sat at the head of the state table, arguing lords surrounding him, some holding barely concealed malice for others of power who disagreed with them.

  The Thane of Kar would have his head were it not for open support for the new regime from the Thane of Spar. Without Redalane, the Thane of Spar, the council of Thanes would have already descended into open warfare. He was the Stewards of the Crown’s greatest ally. Grievously wounded in the battle to wrest the country from the machinations of the Thane of Naeth (a position as yet unfilled) he had been instrumental in bringing the country back from the brink of civil war to some semblance of normality and a thin sense of sanity.

  The Thane of Spar was, Roskel thought, one of the strongest men he had ever known. Redalane had endured years under the yoke under Hurth, the deposed Thane of Naeth. His son had been held captive for many years, until Tarn, Roskel’s friend and the author of Roskel's current misfortune, had rescued the boy and executed Hurth.

  It should have been a time of rejoicing. Tarn, rightful heir to the throne of Sturma, had returned. But he had died shortly afterwards from a poison of the body. A sad day. Once more, the futility of violence demonstrated in death.

  ‘Roskel? Roskel? What say you?’

  ‘What?’ said Roskel. He turned his attention back to the affairs of state, if only until he could cry off and sneak into the city for some much needed ribaldry and loving among the seedier courtesans.

  ‘Kar. Should the western legions be brought under the rule of Kar?’

  ‘I say no. Kar has more than enough men at arms to hold the northern pass, should the Draymar arise from their slumber. The western legion stands ready to march on a moment's notice and could be in place in no more than four days time, cavalry in half that if riding hard. No. There is no need.’

  ‘Then the Stewards are united, the Council of Thanes is split. Precedent is clear,’ said Durmont, who had taken to running the Castle since the last Councillor, Merelith, an alien being who had twisted Hurth’s ambition for its own unfathomable means, had been killed. ‘In the event that the council of Thanes is split, the Stewards vote decides, and the Stewards stand united against the proposal. I have Steward Rohir’s declaration before me,’ he showed the scroll to the council. Let there be no dissent from this day forward.’

  Muttering from the northern lords, Roskel’s bane, were silenced by Durmont’s rapping of the gavel.

  ‘The Council of Ten is adjourned for the next two months. The festival of Telling begins in three days time. The lords' suggestions have been passed. From this year forth, minor crimes may be pardoned at the lords' discretion. I declare this meeting over. Gentlemen, until next we meet.’

  Durmont was a true godsend. It was he who had reasoned out this new method of mutual governance, and so far it was working.

  Roskel rose, turning to glance at the empty throne left behind him. He had left it as a reminder for those present at the table. Roskel, Wexel and Rohir were stewards and nothing more. At some point there would be a king again. In a year’s time, in ten or a hundred, Sturma would be united under a monarch once more. When one came who could wear the crown.

  He shook hands with the Thane of Mardon, made vague assurances that he would visit the western Thanedom in the next month, and came next to Wexel.

  ‘Wexel, what is wrong with Rohir?’

  ‘I had a message from his squire after the noon break. He has taken to his bed...well, his garderobe, mainly. He had something bad to eat.'

  ‘I hope his day has been a more fruitful experience than ours. I doubt the stench could be worse.’

  The Thanes left, talking amongst themselves. Durmont approached the two stewards as they laughed over Rohir’s discomfort.

  ‘My lords, I will have the notices of the moot posted throughout the city. There is one urgent matter which I did not feel appropriate for general discussion in the council. Hurth's old spy master is still at large, and your, ah, contacts…have failed to find the man. He still has friends in the city, which is troubling, though I have heard rumours of a meeting between Lord Kar and a man of ill repute that fits his description...have a care, my Lord.’

  ‘There is little we can do that we are not already doing. If the Thieves’ Covenant cannot find the man, then there is no hope.’

  ‘As you say, my lord,’ Durmont replied. ‘I will post warrant posters again, but I doubt it will do any good.’

  'Me, either,’ said Roskel. ‘Please excuse me, Durmont, I think I’d better go and tell Rohir to 'ware the Thane of Kar, he is looking to cause trouble yet again, and peace is fragile at best. I wish Tarn were here. He’d make sense of all this nonsense.’

  ‘Unfortunately governance is a tricky business, my lord, if I may be so bold as to suggest?'

  ‘What is it, Durmont?’

  ‘I would have your allies watch the Thane of Kar’s movements. I do not think him content. I believe the Thieves' Covenant has contacts in other guilds, in other cities?’

  ‘They do, and I have already requested such assistance, but I thought it best to keep it to myself.’

  ‘You could have told me,' said Wexel.

  ‘I could, but you worry more than a mother hen over a chick.’

  A discreet grin surfaced on Durmont’s face, but he hid it well beneath his usual guarded demeanour.

  ‘If you will excuse me, I will perform my duties.’

  ‘As you see fit,’ said Wexel.

  Durmont left, and Roskel said to Wexel, 'I’m going to see Rohir. Can I leave the country in your capable hands?'

  ‘If you don’t mind me raiding the coffers for money for a whore.'

  ‘Courtesans, now, my friend. We have to think like one befitting our station.'

  Wexel grunted. 'Give Rohir my regards.'

  'If I can get past the stink.'

  *

  Chapter Two

  Roskel left Wexel and headed down the hall alone. He was greeted by a barrage of servants and minor functionaries all wishing him a good afternoon. When he first a
ccepted Tarn’s duties he had revelled in the attentions of the castle’s denizens, enjoyed being a man of sudden power, and his sway over the many cute serving girls and cleaners of the castle. Now he wished for the freedom of the cities rooftops, the freedom to break into a house and steal a gem or bauble and the rush of running from the guard. Now his treasury outweighed the value of any thousand necklaces he could steal, and the guard would not chase him because he was their boss.

  He swore, then apologised to a serving maid, who in turn apologised to him for intruding.

  Bloody hell, he thought to himself. I can’t even swear without getting told what’s what. He longed for a conquest, some anonymity, and a pair of stealthy boots instead of these ridiculous sequined boots he wore after the latest fashions. He did look the dandy in his frilled shirt, but he’d still swap it all for a jig and a chase across the rooftops and down the back alleys.

  He took his time over the stairs, and for fun snuck past a maid and hid in the shadows of a stairwell as a scribe passed, unaware of the Steward of the country playing the thief as he walked about his duties, no doubt wishing he was in the guard and could attract the ladies.

  It was good to keep in practice. He melded with the shadows and drew his dagger, as if waiting for the next mark to come past.

  Durmont came up the stairs. Roskel stilled his breath.

  Durmont looked straight at him.

  'Really, Lord Farinder, I would have thought such games beneath one of your station.’

  Roskel put his blade away with a sheepish grin and a shake of the head. 'Every time, Durmont. How do you do it?'

  'That would be telling, my Lord.’ Durmont walked off, the picture of deportment, although Roskel thought he might be hiding a smile behind his hand.

  ‘Bloody man, spoils my fun every time.’

  Good job he’d never tried stealing from Durmont back in his thieving days, or he’d have been in some untidy dungeon whiling the hours away.

  He finished climbing the stairs and walked for a minute along cold hallways. He wished for summer, but autumn was just beginning and there was no hope of respite from the unrelenting cold of the castle. At least his own rooms were warm with hangings and fur.

  Roskel came before Rohir’s apartments.

  He knocked.

  ‘Come in,’ called the gruff warrior.

  Roskel pushed open the door.

  ‘I heard you were indisposed.’

  ‘Come a little closer.’

  The shades were pulled. Something seemed ajar to Roskel.

  As he approached Rohir leapt from the bed and the man’s ever present sword was in his hands. His own jewelled dagger was in his hand in a blink of an eye. It was a ridiculous thing, far too heavy in the hilt for dirty work, but the blade was sharp.

  'Rohir, what are you doing?!'

  Rohir’s reply was a frightening growl.

  'Stop this madness at once!'

  The big warrior’s sword did Rohir’s talking for him. Roskel nimbly jumped aside. He wasn’t so jaded a thief that he couldn’t see murder in a man’s eyes. If he had any doubt that his friend had gone insane it was soon dispelled. The heavy blade sliced the front of his shirt.

  Roskel feinted to the left and slashed to the right, his own dagger slicing deep. Rohir stumbled for a moment, blood flowing freely.

  Rohir’s face began to change, his features becoming longer, his hair growing, and his shoulders shrinking.

  ‘What sorcery is this?’ Roskel whispered. ‘What are you, creature?’

  The creature snarled and attacked once more, but there was no more hesitation in Roskel’s mind. He had held back while he thought his attacker was his friend, somehow gone insane, but no longer. As the impostor threw itself toward him he dropped to one knee, below a clumsy slash, and drove his dagger into the thing’s heart.

  The glamour that had surrounded the creature faded completely.

  The thing’s body grew in stature, thinning until nearly gaunt, but underneath the jerkin it wore there was strength in the long muscles. It was creature Roskel knew only too well. He had fought them before, and despised everything they stood for.

  'Brindle's horn!' he swore. The creature was hierarch, and no man.

  They were back, and they were in the castle.

  He dashed to the door, fear lending him urgency he had felt until this moment. If there was one there could be others, and they could be wearing any face they chose.

  ‘Guards!’ he called, and as soon as he heard footsteps pounding along the corridor he ducked back into the apartment.

  ‘Rohir!’ He called. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. If the thing had taken Rohir’s countenance, surely it would also have taken his life.

  He searched in the garderobe and found Rohir bleeding but alive, sprawled before his toilet.

  Roskel wasted no time. He swiftly cut the shirt from his friend with his dagger, which he still had drawn, just as a soldier barged through, sword held at the ready.

  ‘Oh... My lord Steward, what has happened?’

  Roskel pushed his hands against the wound in his friend's chest. Rohir groaned but otherwise did not stir.

  ‘Alert the guard, Drake, there may be more of those things in the bedrooms. They could look like anybody. They have powers of sorcery unheard of in all but tall tales. Tell the men to watch for anything suspicious.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘They are called Hierarchs. I do not know where they come from, but they are a deadly enemy. Capture one if you can, but do not risk yourselves. And call a priest.’

  ‘At once.’

  ‘And Drake?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Breath a word of where you found him and I’ll post you in Pulhuth watching for Feewar ships.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Drake was had a good head on his shoulders. It was a good job, because Roskel couldn’t take his hand from the grievous wound in his friend's chest. The blood was covering the floor now, and his hands were slick with it.

  Rohir coughed and opened his eyes.

  ‘Stay still, my friend. You bleed badly.’

  Rohir just nodded and sunk his head back to the flagstones.

  ‘Bloody creatures,' groaned Rohir. 'I thought we’d seen the last of them.’

  ‘Not by a long shot,’ said Roskel. ‘Now shut up and stay still.’

  He felt like crying. The blood was slowing. He didn’t think the bleeding was slowing because of anything he was doing. It was more that most of it was already out.

  ‘Priest! I need you!’

  A man dressed in robes dashed into the bedroom and barged through into the toilet.

  ‘Come, move aside. Let me work.’

  In an instant a soft glow encased the priest’s hand – Roskel saw he was no older than himself – and the priest laid his hand over the wound.

  ‘Will he live?’ asked Roskel.

  But the priest was silent.

  *

  Chapter Three

  The rest of the day passed in a haze for Roskel. He hated himself that it had come to this. Tarn had warned him with his dying words and he had not listened. He had been too bloody happy playing the lord and forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.

  He turned his face to the ceiling and cracked his spine over the back of the chair.

  Wexel paced in the outer rooms, the warrior unable to sit still for more than five minutes. The constant pacing was driving Roskel mad, but he recognised that Wexel needed to work off his nervousness in his own way.

  They were together, but each was bound up in his own private grief, in his own guilt.

  Roskel thumped the arm of the chair in an unexpected bout of dramatics. He wasn’t given to introspection, but to action. This galled him. He still didn’t know if his friend lived or died, or how he fared at all. The priests had barred them from entering the bedrooms where they worked. He could hear their chants from his perch, sometimes high, sometimes low, but constant. There was no break.
He could discern different voices. It must be bad. There were three priests in there, and they obviously thought Rohir needed the Gods’ constant attention. If they were silent for just a minute the big man would fall silent too, perhaps forever.

  There were no cries of pain. Roskel wished he would cry out, just once, just so that he could know his friend was alive.

  ‘We’ve been foolish, Roskel. We should have planned for this. Did we think we would live forever?’

  ‘Don’t talk like that, Wexel,’ the thief said. ‘He’s not going to die.’

  ‘I hope not. Gods, I hope not. But if he does…we will be two…and we have many enemies.’

  ‘Then we will make plans. But not tonight.’

  Wexel seemed deflated. ‘No. Not tonight.’

  He cocked an ear toward the door, and Roskel followed suit.

  The chanting had stopped.

  ‘God, don’t let him be…’

  The door to the bedrooms opened and the young priest stepped out. He seemed older. Sweat stood out on his brow and his wavy, dark hair was plastered to his forehead. He was pale, and his shoulders shook from the effort he had expended.

  Roskel held Wexel’s arm. It would not do to get angry with this priest. He could see the man had done all he could.

  ‘He lives.’ He said. For a moment the sadness and tiredness on the young priest's face didn’t equate with such momentous news and tears came unbidden to Roskel’s eyes. Then he finally took in the words.

  ‘He lives?’

  ‘Aye. He is weak and cannot be disturbed. Leave him rest. He will need his sleep and much rest for perhaps a month. His lung was pierced. I think he will be as good as new.’

  ‘We must see him!’

  ‘No,’ the priest said, and the firmness in his voice held command beyond his years. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, his tone softer. ‘That will be soon enough.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Wexel, and took the man’s arm. ‘Come, we will get you some ale and meat. You must be exhausted.’

  ‘I am, but I have no need of ale or meat. I will sleep, though, I think…if I may?’ ‘Good gods man,’ said Wexel gruffly. ‘You don’t need to ask our permission to sleep. We’re not kings, and priests are above the law.’