The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (4 page)

Chapter Eight

Gard
sat by the tree for an hour. The first fight was about to begin, and there was
no sign of the boy.

            The
cooling steel of the clouds overhead cleared, releasing the splendour of
Carious and Dow’s light, Rythe’s twin suns. Gard turned his face upward. His
back, firm against the tree, groaned. He was getting old. He remembered his
youth – timekeeping had been something maids and old men knew, not boys. He
relaxed and enjoyed the sensation of the suns on his face. This close to winter
Carious was low in its cycle, with little warmth in the air, but Gard was
determined to make the most of it before the long harsh winter with its bounty
of snow graced Sturma’s shores.

            Two
fighters entered the ring. Gard pushed himself up to watch.

            The
village champion, Anhar, and a challenger from a neighbouring village, Urthor,
raised their fists to each other.

            The
crowds round the ring didn’t obscure the view. The ground around the tree was
high, and Gard was taller than most.

            There
was no ceremony. No introductions were needed. Both fighters fought for the pot
and the honour of being champion of the fayre. Only a hundred bronze coins,
perhaps, but it would keep the winner in food for the winter.

            There
were rules to the bout. Boxing only, no wrestling, kicking or gouging. Head
butting was allowed, but nobody ever head butted Anhar. He was liable to take
offence.

A
giant even by Gard’s standards, Anhar had been reigning champion of the village
fayre, and of the three outlying villages, for six years. Gard knew it could
not last. Already a young fighter from Turnmarket, a distant village to the
northwest that nestled in the bosom of the Culthorn mountains, had taken Anhar
to three rounds. Nobody was invincible forever. A warrior would always meet
better, even if it was only because they got old.

            Urthor
threw the first punch, and Anhar stepped inside to hammer a blow into Urthor’s
ribs. The challenger’s feet left the ground momentarily, but as he landed he
crashed a heavy right into Anhar’s brow, followed by a left uppercut to the
chin. Anhar rocked back but followed in with a wicked fist to Urthor’s teeth. A
shard of a tooth flew across the ring, catching Gard’s eye as it twinkled.
Urthor’s rage, apparent from across the square, drove him to let fly with a
fast, tiring combination, opening a cut above Anhar’s eye. Anhar merely stepped
back and wiped the blood from his eye. Both fighters circled again, having
taken the measure of each other. Then Anhar charged in, ignoring a straight
left to his face, and thundered a right cross into Urthor’s temple.

            The
challenger crumpled.

            A
cheer went up from the crowd, and Gard let his mind wander. The fight reminded
him of when he had been village champion, but back then it had been no
challenge at all. Gard held the ring for three years after he left the army,
but a trained killer against farmers and farriers...it dishonoured him to fight
against his friends when he knew he could not lose. He thought he could still
best Anhar in a bout. He was old enough to know there was no need, though. Let
the giant have his glory. He was strong and fought with heart. He deserved it.

            Gard
sighed at the memory.

            But
no more fighting for him. He’d had enough of blood and death to last him until
the end of days. He was happy being a farmer. There was honour in farming, and
little in dealing death. But there was a pang of regret underneath the thought.
Watching the bout awakened the animal in Gard, just as it did every year. He
turned from the ring and sat down again.

            Just
as Gard settled in for a long wait for Tarn and the next bout, there came a cry
from the north of the village. A boy, no more than six, came running into the
square shouting, ‘Soldiers! Soldiers!’

            A
startled cry rang out around the village.
Soldiers,
thought Gard.
Here?
Then he heard the thunder of hooves on the mud, coming closer.

            The
villagers did not look concerned. Their Thane was a benevolent man, and none
here feared him. Perhaps the soldiers came to join the festivities. Stranger
things happened.             Gard had seen the Thane’s men take part in the
boxing competition before now.

            The
big man closed his eyes, unworried. Tarn would come back soon, and soldiers in
the Spar were no cause for concern.

            Then,
when the sound of hooves came closer, he opened his eyes. What he saw made his
heart suddenly race. The men on horseback were not the Thane of Spar’s men. The
crest of the boar was emblazoned upon their cloaks. Even Gard, who spent most
of his life on a farm, knew the crest. It was the old king’s crest. The crest
of the Thane of Naeth, and he seen it recently. On three dead soldiers.

            They
were here for the boy. Gard prayed Tarn would not come back. He prayed he would
stay away, just a while longer.

            One
of the men dismounted. He wore a short sword at his hip and a crossbow slung
low across his back.

            The
crowd, now a good-sized gathering, shrank back from the men. There was no love
in the Spar for the Thane of Naeth’s men. They did not rule here, but all knew
Naeth to be the true power in Sturma.

            Gard
moved a little closer. Closer was better, should a fight come to crossbows.

            The
leader called out.

            ‘Peasants,
I am here for a boy,’ his voice carrying well.

            Peasants?
thought Gard. He wasn’t doing himself any favours.

            ‘The
boy has a scarred face. Has anyone seen such a boy?’

            No
one called out. Gard sighed with relief. No one here would aid the Thane of
Naeth’s men. Tarn was saved, for today. If he just stayed away.

            Gard
spoke before anyone else could. They would take his lead. He was well
respected. ‘There is no boy of that description here in the Wherry. All our
boys are hale and well accounted for.’

            ‘Is
that so?’ said the soldier. ‘No one here has seen a boy with a scarred face?’

            ‘No,’
said a rotund man. The baker. ‘No mistaking such a boy, eh?’

            ‘Very
well. If anyone sees the boy, they are to send a runner to your Thane. He knows
of our orders. We want the boy. No one will be harmed for harbouring him, as
long as they give him up in good time.’ The soldier said this with a warm smile
that did not touch his eyes.

            ‘What
are the boy’s crimes?’ asked someone in the crowd. Quite a crowd. This was
better entertainment than the boxing.

            ‘A
murderer. He is dangerous. If you should see him, don’t approach him. Send a
runner. The guard will take him in.’

            ‘If
we see him, we will. No reason for him to come to the Wherry, though...still,
if we see him,’ said the butcher who sold Gard and Tarn a hunk of ham earlier
that morning.

            ‘Very
well,’ said the soldier, and mounted his horse. His horse paced the ground,
eager to be off. ‘Remember, he is a dangerous criminal. Be wary of him.’

            Gard
watched them go. After the soldiers left the crowd looked to Gard. Even those
who had not seen the boy knew something was going on. While there was no love
lost between the people of the Spar and the Thane of Naeth’s men, he must still
tread carefully. They would stick with Gard, but Gard couldn’t be too sure of
their resolve when they had time to think.

            ‘The
boy is no murderer,’ he called out, once the soldiers were long gone. ‘I’ll
vouch for the boy. If anyone doubts me, I’ll meet him in the ring and fight for
the boy. Who would stand against me?’

            No
one came forward. ‘You know no one would stand against you, big man,’ called
out the baker’s wife. ‘We trust your word. Most of us here have known you many
years.’

            ‘I
for one wouldn’t go against you, Gard,’ called out one of the old men sitting
outside the tavern. His voice slurred. The crowd laughed. The tension broke.

            ‘We
believe you, Gard,’ said Tuth Morain, a pig farmer who came to the village,
like Gard, to enjoy the company before the winter. ‘Have a care though. They
were the Thane of Naeth’s men. They must not see the boy.’

            Gard
thought he could rely on the village, small as it was. He knew everyone there,
at least in passing. He was a popular man, too, and came to town often enough
to hear the gossip.

            ‘They’ll
not find him,’ replied the big man. ‘He will be staying with me, and as you
know I rarely come to the village. I’ll take responsibility for the boy.’

            ‘You
are dear to us, big man. We will keep your secret.’ This from a rotund mother
carting a fat baby on her hip. Gard knew her well enough to pass the time of
day, but could not remember her name.

            Gard
smiled, turning round to face the crowd.

            ‘The
boy’s name is Tarn. I hope you’ll come to know him as I do. As always, you are
all welcome at my door.’

            Tarn
chose that moment to come back into town. He saw the crowd turn to face him,
even the boys who bullied Rena. To their credit, they hadn’t spoken to the
soldiers. They would not go against the will of the village.

            Tarn
thought momentarily about running away from their gazes. Before he could sprint
back into the woods, Gard called to him.

            One
look at Gard’s face and the chill of fear he felt was banished. In that moment
he decided he needed to trust someone and judged Gard worthy of his trust.

            The
young often make mistakes about who to trust until they’ve been bitten a time
or two, but Tarn was no ordinary boy. Gard, for his part, understood this from
the first night the boy had fallen into his arms on his doorstep.

            ‘Tarn,
these people have welcomed you into their arms. You are one of us. What do you
say?’

            Instinct
screamed run.
Hide, blend in when you must, but never, never draw attention.
But Gard’s warm eyes lent him strength. He stood proud. If Gard trusted these
people, then so would he.

            ‘Thank
you,’ he said, loudly enough for his voice to carry throughout the village.
Even Gothar did not say anything. The village resounded with words of welcome,
and for a while Tarn disappeared among the crowd gathering to introduce
themselves. Only Gothar hung back sullenly.

            Gard
smiled to himself, while the villagers came forward to greet Tarn. Perhaps the
boy would stay a while yet.

            On
the way back to the farm, Tarn tried to remember their names. But only one name
could he remember, large in his mind. Rena, his first friend since birth.

            On
the walk back Gard told him of the men that were hunting him. ‘Do you still
want to stay? You are welcome, both here and in our home. If you would stay it
will become your home.’

            ‘I
will stay,’ he said, and took the big man’s hand in both of his. ‘I would stay
with you and Molly.’

            ‘Then
you must tell me why those men are hunting you,’ said Gard.

            Tarn
took a deep breath, and in his face Gard saw a hint of the man he would become.

            ‘I
will. Perhaps you can make sense of it.’

            ‘When
we get back,’ said Gard.

            ‘Not
yet, Big Man. I ask only that you wait until I am ready.’

            Gard
saw the look in the boy’s eyes, eyes old beyond their years, and nodded
reluctantly. He would have to wait a while longer. But Gard was not a curious
man.

*

Chapter Nine

The
wind carried the old king’s dying prayer far to the north, for a witch to hear.
That witch’s name was Tulathia.

            Her
tears came swiftly, for she loved the old man with all her heart. She cried for
him. She cried for Sturma. But there was still a chance at redemption.

            She
took her hope and hid it in her heart. While the old king was dead, the new
still lived. But hope was a fragile thing, to be guarded at all costs. 

            She
packed what little she would need for the journey and prepared to leave. With
her help, perhaps the son would remain alive for long enough.

            She
knew, even if Ulrane did not, that wishes were not hers to grant. All she had
was hope, and with luck, the ear of a god.

            She
could feel the child-king's heart beating, for as surely as he was linked to
the people, she was linked to the land. She felt his heart and it felt warm.
For that she was glad. It brought joy to her wrinkled face. Still, she had a
long way to travel yet, and the future was ever changing.

            For
her line to live, his must. For witches to live, the king must be returned to
the throne. The boy king was her only hope, and an old witch was his, and
Caeus’ will would rule above all.

*