Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (37 page)
Tarn
wiped the blade of his dagger on the sleeve of the man lying on the stone
floor. The corridor was dim, but sound carried. He lowered the man gently, lest
his chainmail clinking on the stone brought someone to investigate. The band of
twenty one moved swiftly through the corridors, before the dead guards they
left in their wake could be missed.
As
Tarn stood, footfalls sounded. He padded on soft feet to the corner, Erin
standing beside him. The corridor was dark enough to hide in, and they wore
dark clothing, too. If they were lucky, the next pair of guards to find them
would not spot their forms against the wall until too late.
The
sound of footsteps came nearer, and Tarn risked a glance round the corridor.
The next corridor was long, and they were on the third floor of the castle
already. Soon, they would be nearing the council chambers. The time for stealth
would be past, and there would be a pitched battle. Tarn wanted to avoid that
for as long as he could.
He
saw the guards turn their backs to walk back up the corridor. They had to take
them now. There was no way Tarn and Erin could make it to them before they
raised the alarm, and no way past them. He motioned Rean and Silvan forward.
Silvan held Tarn’s silvery bow in his hand, an arrow already knocked. Smoothly,
the two bowmen stepped from the comfort of the shadows and drew in one fluid
motion. The arrows flew straight and true, finding their mark.
Tarn
flicked his hand forward and the men followed into the brightly lit corridor.
They moved as fast as they could and as quietly as possible.
They
were expecting a battle tonight, and all wore thick leather armour. It was well
greased and did not creak. They placed higher value on stealth than protection,
knowing that they could not fight their way through, but that they would have
to sneak and confuse, like thieves and assassins. When it came time to fight,
they would be at a disadvantage, but then they always were.
They
passed the two guards, stiff in death with arrows jutting from the base of
their unprotected necks, and reached a doorway with stairs leading up.
They
ran up the stairs, with as much haste as they could risk without sacrificing
stealth, and emerged at the top within moments. The stairway opened out into a
hall.
They
found themselves face-to-face with ten guards.
The
time for stealth was over. Tarn yelled, and ran at them.
The
men cried, ‘Intruders!’ but not for long. Tarn was upon them. He felled one
with a backhanded blow before the guard could draw his sword, then engaged
another with a blistering attack. He saw Wexel crash an overhand axe blow into
a soldier’s guard, splitting the man’s sword and caving in his skull. Silvan
killed two guards with two metallic arrows, both dead within seconds, before
they could even join the fight.
Roskel
ran at one man, slashing his short sword from right to left, only to have his
thrust turned away. The soldier raised his sword to strike the thief down, but
Urng threw a hand axe which knocked the soldier cold, hitting him with the
blunt side. Unhindered and unremorseful, Roskel thrust his sword into the
unconscious man’s throat.
Tarn
looked for Kurin, and saw him finish a soldier with a powerful sword strike
that passed through the man’s chainmail.
Moments
passed, and the short battle was over. Tarn took stock. Only one man was
wounded, a brave young fighter called Orthenwade, from a deep stomach wound. He
clutched at the wound. Tarn told him to sit down and wait the fight out. They
would come back and stitch the wound, should they be successful.
The
man knew his chances were slim. He clasped hands with Tarn, but they could
waste no time. Orthenwade’s best chance was for them to kill the Thane. Only
then, with Tarn crowned in front of the remaining Thanes, would the guard not
strike them down. Tarn hoped that would be the case, anyway. He had much riding
on an assumption. If the rest of the Thanes decided they did not want a king,
his day would be short indeed.
Thunder
pealed outside the castle, echoing through the hall.
Tarn
turned his back on the wounded man, who sat back in a corner holding his torn
stomach, and ran through the door that Tor indicated, onward, before the
remainder of the wandering guard could find them.
The
band of intruders split. Erin and Wexel led the second team of eleven men.
Where Tarn exited through the west door, Erin and Wexel led east.
Tarn
felt no joy at homecoming. This was his ancestral home. He felt as though he
should have some affinity for it, perhaps some inherited knowledge of its halls
and corridors, but each turn was a mystery to him, as were the wall hangings,
and the weapons that adorned sporadic alcoves. He should have known who had
wielded those weapons, but the history of the castle and its treasures were
lost to him. He took little notice, anyway. His feet pounded on the ancient
stone, carrying him further along the path set out for him from birth. Left and
right, through an endless success of corridors – the castle was vast – they
ran, knowing that each moment they spent running toward the council chamber,
men would be amassing, ready to hold the doors. But they were lucky. The guard
in the corridor was light.
As
they rounded a corner, not far from the council chambers, Tarn saw a
disturbance on the torch lit air in front of him. He had no time to wonder what
it was. He ran through it, and the thing parted like mist before him. In the
distance he heard a cry, followed immediately by iron-shod footfalls on the
stone, rushing toward them.
He
cried out himself. The end was near. He could feel the proximity of the Thane
of Naeth, some evil that pervaded the air. He imagined when he finally met the
man, corruption would coruscate through his eyes.
Tarn
and Tor rounded a corner, and they found themselves confronted by more than
twenty men in chainmail, holding the narrow corridor. Behind them, where the
corridor widened, stood a creature like Y’thixil, a Hierarch, and two warriors
that looked like him.
A
problem for later. If the creature knew magic they might not even make it as
far as the council chamber.
A
guard rammed a halberd at Tor. It was a bad weapon for close quarters, more for
show than practicality. Tor batted it aside with a forearm, and smashed the
soldier’s skull with his iron bound club.
Tarn
saw the man crumple, and then he stepped into the fight.
There
was only room for two men to fight at one time. Tarn took the lead, with Tor by
his side. Rean and Silvan stood back, looking for an opening, but there were
too many men obscuring their view. Behind them, unseen by Tarn as he thrust and
slashed at the armoured men, opening a cheek or a throat, as Tor bashed his way
forward, his bulk carrying the soldiers backward, Rean knelt on hands and
knees.
Silvan
climbed atop his comrade’s back, and fired, hands blurring, into the rear rank
of the defenders. Two fell and the men at the back stumbled over them as they
retreated from Tarn and Tor’s ferocious attack. With blistering speed, the
fight was nearly over. Only a handful of the defenders remained, when a lucky
thrust from a short sword caught Tor between the ribs. His heart pierced, he
immediately slumped to the floor. Brendall stepped over the fallen thief and
took his place beside Tarn. Brendall was fresh, while Tarn’s shoulder ached.
The
soldiers were forced back into the opening before the council chambers, and
Tarn’s men spread wider to engage them. Then the guards at the door,
otherworldly, their balance perfect, stepped into the fray. Suddenly the tide
turned, and the bandits were forced back. A lightning fast blow from one of the
Protectorates snuck under Tarn’s guard. Before the sword reached soft flesh,
Kurin’s short blade was there, knocking it aside. But the huntsmaster was too
slow. His sword out of place, and facing a faster opponent, there was nothing
he could do to fend off the riposte that slashed across his throat. Without a
sound, he dropped to the floor. Tarn stepped over him, and engaged the alien
swordsman. He had already mourned all the men accompanying him. He had known
there would be no time in the heat of the battle.
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.
*
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.
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.
*
