The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (10 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Tarn spat blood onto the dirt.

            Gard's sword hit him hard enough to split his lip.

            Tarn had swung, from above his right shoulder to his
left hip, only to find that Gard had neatly stepped to the side and smashed his
short sword into Tarn's unprotected face.

            ‘Hells, Gard, I thought we were holding back!’ Tarn
complained, pushing himself up.

            ‘I am holding back. You move like that in a real fight
and someone will separate your head from your shoulders. Put your sword up.’

            Tarn circled warily. Blood still dripped from his
split lip but he was used to the pain. A cold wind whispered past his cut,
bringing with it fresh discomfort, but Tarn shrugged it off. Pain was good. He
was learning.

            Gard had taught him how to move his feet for the first
month, and trained him to fitness. Now he was faster than the old man, but Gard
somehow seemed to know where each thrust would come next and parried each blow
easily. He warned Tarn not to overextend himself, but Tarn couldn't help it. He
needed to be faster, he knew, but even more so, he needed to be wiser.

            The short sword was the first weapon Tarn picked up.
He knew the seven basic strikes, but he was sure Gard wasn't sticking to them.
Gard told him there were a traditional thirteen moves allowed in regulated
combat, for more advanced swordsmen, but refused to teach them to Tarn before
he mastered the basics. Tarn thought he could recognise five additional moves
so far. He was getting better at avoiding them, but instinct, rather than
training, still ruled Tarn's moves. He tended to lean away from the sword,
rather than moving his feet. This threw his balance off, and Gard took every
chance to remind him of it.

            Gard lunged and thrust his sword at Tarn's unprotected
throat before Tarn was ready. Tarn swung wildly and knocked the sword aside,
but Gard flowed in the direction of the block, spinning on his heel, and
thudded a resounding blow into Tarn's ear.

            ‘Keep calm, boy. Your anger makes you stupid and slow.
Anger is for berserkers, and has its place, but if you don't want to live your
life stitching your wounds, you'll think to your defence.’

            ‘What?’ mumbled Tarn, his ear ringing from the blow.
It would swell yet again. Tarn went to bed six nights out of seven with a
bruised face or bruised limbs, thankful for his leather padding.

            On the first day of swordsmanship Gard told him they
would hold back in training, but to never pull back in battle. Apart from
lunges, which should only be deep enough to pierce the heart, or slice the
throat or groin. There were so many rules Tarn struggled to remember them all,
but he was learning fast. Soon he would hit the old man. Already he had come
close. Well, he thought, on two occasions at least.

            Tarn looked up at Gard. Carious was already set.

            ‘
Swords up. That's it
for today.’

            It was time to move on to fists. Tarn was better with
his fists. There weren't so many rules. Gard didn't fight like a boxer.
Anything went. Tarn could use his imagination.

            Tarn put his sword up. Then, limping slightly from a
bruised thigh, he followed the big man into the barn.

            He was two months into his training, and while he
improved day by day, he had a long way to go before he could best the big man.
He seemed almost invincible. Tarn no longer believed Gard's story that he was
just a common soldier. To Tarn's untutored eyes he seemed like a sword master.

            For Gard's part, he thought the boy showed promise. He
was better already than many of the men Gard had trained in his former life.
The big man spent fifteen of his younger years in the army, from a common
soldier to a Dragon, to the weapons' master's understudy, taking over from the
old warrior when he died.

            Gard did not regret the day he left the army. The
constant fighting made him a surly man. He was a better man for the love he
shared with Molly, and now Tarn. He only hoped the boy did not follow the same
path he had. Gard had been forced into it, thrust from a farmer’s life to civil
war. Tarn had a choice. Gard wished the boy would follow the swan’s path, to
peace, but saw the warrior’s pride in the boy’s eyes when he fought. He would
be a warrior one day, and it was all the big man could do to give him the tools
Tarn would need to survive. 

            Gard
set thought aside and concentrated on Tarn. He raised his fists, as they did
before every bout, and stepped forward. Already the boy had landed several
punches on him. He was faster than Gard and a natural with his fists. The boy
could shake off a decent punch, too, a skill which any fighter needed. Someone
would always land a punch, no matter how good you were.

            They
fought for ten minutes, taking a break after five. The boy had Gard in a
headlock once, and knocked him down by taking his legs away from him. Gard
knocked the boy over three times, but to his credit Tarn always got back up
again. Gard knew Tarn would never be strong enough to best him fist to fist,
but Tarn knew that, too, and used his legs and elbows to great effect.

            Their
fighting styles were vastly different, and the bouts always a challenge. Gard
had to admit to himself that despite his fears for the boy’s future, the fights
were enjoyable.

            When
Dow sat on the horizon, Gard called a halt.

            ‘That’s
it for today, Tarn. Tomorrow we will begin on advanced swordsmanship. I will
teach you the intermediate moves with the short sword. They will stand you in
good stead when we move on to practise with the long sword. You are progressing
well.’

            Tarn
beamed at the praise. There was precious little of it from the big man.

            ‘Thank
you, Gard. I have fewer bruises tonight, but I will still sleep on my back.’

            Gard
laughed. ‘All too soon, boy, you’ll have no bruises at all and it will be me
sleeping on my back.’

            ‘I
doubt that, big man. You seem invincible, for an old man.’

            ‘No
man is invincible, Tarn. Remember that. Any man that breathes can be killed.
Now, let’s go see Molly. I’m ravenous.’

            ‘I
am, too. I could eat a horse.’

            ‘I
wouldn’t recommend it. Stringy beasts at best.’

            Tarn
walked silently beside the big man back to the house. Gard left him to his
thoughts, but the big man could imagine well enough. The boy pushed himself
harder and harder, driving toward his blades and his manhood. It saddened him
to see the boy rush toward the future and the trials it would bring. Gard
flicked a sideways glance at the boy beside him. Broad in the shoulder, still
narrow of chest, but while his body remained youthful, his face bore that angry
scar. His eyes were darker than a boy’s eyes should be, but they had seen dark
sights in his young years. Gard was not fool enough to think a boy or a man
could outgrow his past. He just wished the boy would smile more, fool more.

            Gard
remembered Molly’s advice on the subject. ‘It’s not in the boy’s nature, Gard.
Folly to teach a mule to dance, big man,’ she said.

            He
sighed and ruffled the boy’s hair as they reached the house.

            ‘Good
work, Tarn,’ he said, more gruffly than he meant.

            Tarn
smiled in response. That, thought Gard, was more than good enough.

*

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Tarn still saw Tulathia, Mia and Rena, spending more time with
Rena, usually the whole day, on the seventh day of every week. He looked
forward to the visits and found himself distracted through training. He
received more than one black ear while wondering what it would be like to kiss
her. He didn’t know why he thought of kissing Rena while Gard’s sword, or
halberd, or axe thundered into him, but he could not get her from his mind.

            Rena loomed large in his mind, then before he knew
what had happened, he was in the mud again.

            He looked up, dazed, and saw four suns then
looked down to see his long sword
still in his hand, and Gard standing over him holding the wooden axe in his
hand. He relaxed and stood on shaky legs.

            ‘I
wasn’t concentrating.’

            ‘No,
you weren’t. You’ve been mooning over Rena more and more. I think we’ve done
enough training for today. I have something else I want you to try. Come on,
sword up.’

            Tarn
raised his sword in salute to Gard, and the big man did the same with the axe.

            After
putting their weapons away, Gard led Tarn into the woods.

            ‘Sit,
boy. I have neglected the most important weapon of all.’

            ‘I’ve
trained against all weapons but the mace and the flail. What else is there?’

            ‘Your
mind, boy, your mind.’

            Tarn
was wise enough not to say anything. He had grown to trust Gard’s training
methods. He was now a fair swordsman, and proficient against many weapons. He
had mastered dagger work, and was a fair archer with a good eye and a steady arm.
But he lacked concentration. More bruises were due to his mind wandering than
bad weapon work.

            ‘Very
well. What do you suggest?’

            ‘A
trick to control your mind. Clear your mind of everything. Breathe as I have
told you, count your breaths. When you reach one hundred, picture a carmillion
blossom. Picture it opening, imagine the smell. Start now.’

            Tarn
cleared his mind, but found it wandering back to Rena. He counted, and lost
count many times. Gard waited patiently, eyes closed, his back against a tree.
Eventually, frustration mounting, Tarn said, ‘I can’t do it. I can’t even get
as far as the flower.’

            Gard
opened his eyes and smiled at the boy. ‘Give it time. Try again tonight, and
each night, until you can picture the flower, see it bloom,
hear
it bloom,
smell its scent. It will come. It will stave off rage, and keep you calm. It is
called meditation and with practise, you will be able to summon your flower
even in the heat of battle and the depths of pain. All distractions will fade.
You will be able to use what you learn to focus your mind on the present. Then,
and only then, will you be the master of your own mind. The mind loses more
battles than a weak sword arm.’

            Tarn
could see the sense in it. It was similar to what his father taught him, to help
steady his arm with the bow. He resolved to practise each night.

*

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Tulathia
held Rena’s hand. Darkness came earlier and summer would soon pass.

            ‘Why
have you never asked me to tell your future before?’

            ‘I
never thought I needed to know, old mother,’ said Rena. ‘I have plans now,
though, and would see them to their fruition.’

            Tulathia
laughed. ‘Plans are all well and good, child, but the future I see can be
changed.’

            ‘What
do you see of love in my life?’

            ‘You
wish to know if you and the boy will marry?’

            ‘How
did you know?’ asked Rena, shocked.

            ‘It
is no secret, girl. Even Tarn must know how you feel about him now.’

            ‘Am
I so obvious?’

            ‘To
all but a badger.’

            Mia
hid her smile beneath her hand. She thought the boy a good match. In truth, she
knew her daughter could wed no other. Her love was far from subtle. Each week
they walked the woods together, or visited the village. They went together to
the fair, in spring, and summer, and autumn. When the snows of winter were at their
heaviest Tarn still managed to follow the trail to their hut in his cloak of
wolves’ fur, made from the hides of three wolves, taken from a pack that had
been killing Gard’s sheep. The boy and Gard tracked the pack through the woods
and Tarn killed two with a bow, Gard one with a knife.

            It
was a fine cloak.

            ‘Very
well, mother, Tulathia, have your fun, but let me know, will we wed? For such a
boon the price must surely be small?’

            ‘Small?
Maybe. Maybe. You ask the future, I will ask you for a favour.’

            ‘What
favour?’

            ‘Telling
first, Rena, favours later. You know that well enough.’

            Rena
looked down at her palm as if trying to read her own future. What she saw was
fascinating enough, but not plain to her eyes. But then she did not have the
talent and no mortal can know her own fate.

            She
thrust her hand at Tulathia with a girlish grin.

            ‘Do
it, old mother!’

            Tulathia
shook her head. That the girl, a witch, should take such a matter so lightly
saddened her for a moment, but she could no more change the nature of a girl in
love than kiss the moon. She sighed and took the proffered hand with a heavy
heart, but she kept her face warm. She peered at the signs that covered the
girl’s hands. She hid her fear well. Nothing in Rena’s demeanour told her that
the girl understood what Tulathia saw there.

            ‘Yes,
girl. You will wed.’

            ‘Yes!’
cried Rena, jumping up and hitting her head on the low ceiling of the hut. She
ignored the pain and twirled, ducking now.

            ‘Calm
yourself, Rena!’ said Mia. ‘You’re not wed yet.’

            ‘Oh,
but one day I will be, and I shall be the happiest bride in the whole of
Wherry.’

            ‘And
I shall be a happy mother, but you are still young. Don’t go getting excited
just yet. And don’t tell Tarn, or he’ll never marry you. Men like to think they
make the decisions.’

            ‘Yes,
mother,’ said Rena, sitting down by the young fire. ‘Thank you old mother, for
reading my fortune.’

            ‘For
you I would do anything,’ said Tulathia, but her face was serious.

            She
held her fear inside, and told not a soul of what she had seen. She had enough
worries for the present. The future would have to take care of itself.

            For
now, her spell was weakening. She could not hide the man, for a man was a
creature of fate more than a mere child, even the child of a king. Soon,
northern eyes would turn again to the south, and the boy would have to run.
There was nothing she could do about it. But Rena did not need to know.

            The
boy could not stay.

            ‘Name
the price, then, old mother,’ said Rena, who was still young enough to trust
Tulathia, once a house guest and now close enough for family. But Tulathia
never had a family. She could never do ill, or see hurt, but in this she had no
choice but to ask the price.

The
old witch kept her eyes neutral.

            ‘A
day will come when you will be asked to risk that which is most dear to you.
Take not this lightly. You cannot imagine, now, but one day you will know what
is truly precious in this world. When you are bid, you must obey, girl, though
your heart cries against it. This is not the price, for I ask no favour of you,
child. This is the foretelling. Bide me well, when the time comes, remember
these words.’

            Rena
was enough of the woman she would become to merely nod. She shivered, for
suddenly the day, once bright, seemed to darken.

            ‘I
will remember,’ she said.

            Tulathia’s
heart broke for the girl, but she did not say as much, just patted her hand and
let it fall back to the girl’s lap.

            There
was nothing she could do to ease the girl’s burden, but there was still
something she could do for the boy.

            She
needed someone with preternatural skill to protect the line of kings.

            She
needed Caeus. But Caeus was a terrible master, and for his ear there would need
to be blood and sorrow.

*