The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (8 page)
Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
Mia
passed him a knife without a word. Tarn cut off a lock of his hair and gave it
to the old woman.
‘I
bid you well, Tarn.’
Just
at that moment, Rena came back.
‘Join
us, Rena, we have work to do. Your walk with young Tarn will have to wait
another day.’
Rena
hid her disappointment well but touched Tarn on the back of his hand when she
said goodbye. Tarn left for the farmhouse, his mind alive with possibilities,
hope for the future, and something else; a strange sense of foreboding he could
not shake.
*
That
night everyone in the village of Wherry but Gothar and Asthar slept. The boy
who bullied Rena and other children in the village had grown fat. His father,
the tanner, thought him a good boy. But Gothar could not be changed. There was
no reason for his manner with the other children, and even though he was polite
to adults, when he thought he could get away with it he would push other
children into the mud, or steal their food. If anyone fought back he was quick
with his fists, and always remembered those children that hit him.
He
plotted long and hard on how to get back at the boy Tarn. A year of anger
boiling. On the rare occasions he saw the boy in the village it was all he
could do to hold his rage in check. He wanted true vengeance, and a punch in
the face would not be good enough. Even though he was a wicked boy, he would
never go against the will of the village and tell the soldiers where the boy
hid. He did not want him dead.
Gothar,
fully dressed under his blankets, threw his covers back and snuck out of the
house. The floorboards creaked unmercifully, but his father did not stir. The
big lad, fat coddling his weighty bones, wasn’t worried about his mother
waking. She was five years in the mud.
Gently
shutting the door behind him, Gothar ran to the edge of the woods, where his
friends were waiting. Asthar was there first.
‘I
thought you’d never come,’ said the youth, already showing signs of spots on
his face.
‘I
had to wait for father to start snoring, otherwise he’s a light sleeper,’
panted Gothar, a little out of breath.
‘The
moons are already high. We better not wait for Bateman, he’s not coming.’
‘Coward.
Very well then, let’s go.’
The
two boys set off through the woods, dark among the trees, even though Hren, the
larger moon, sat above Gern.
The
path was difficult in the dark. Gothar stumbled many times, and soon huffed
with the exertion. Asthar held back and waited for his big friend. Though he
thought this nighttime excursion a fool’s quest, he said nothing.
They
spoke little on the way, and though Gothar would not admit it, the night’s
noises frightened him. He heard the cries of many creatures in the woods, and
he did not know what they were. It increased his fear.
After
an hour of walking, Gothar wanted to go back. His fear and his weight were
making his legs tremble. Asthar saw his friend struggling, but carried on.
Gothar would be angry if he stopped and asked after him. The big lad would just
grumble and tell him to shut up. No, he could carry his own weight. After all,
this stupid trek was Gothar’s idea. Asthar thought it more sensible to just
fight the boy when next he came into the village. But no, Gothar had to have
his way. It was good being friends with the big lad, thought Asthar, but only
because it meant he wasn’t the one being picked on.
Suddenly,
there came a great roar from the woods. It sounded like a boar, but no boar was
that loud. It sounded close, too.
‘What
was that?’ asked Gothar, fear shaking his voice.
‘I
think it’s a boar.’
‘Is
it coming here?’
‘I
doubt it,’ said Asthar. ‘Boars don’t hunt people.’
‘Good.
That’s good. Let’s carry on then.’
‘But
it’s not unheard of that a boar will protect its territory. And we carry no
arms,’ said Asthar, seeing his chance to end the enterprise.
‘Really?’
said Gothar, his voice shaking. He stopped and looked around into the trees. He
could see nothing, but noticed since the roar that there were no other night
sounds. Then he heard a snuffling in the bushes just ahead. He stopped in his
tracks, fear etched on his face. ‘What was that?’
‘Probably
just a fox, or something,’ said Asthar, who knew little of the woodlands that
surrounded the Wherry, although on occasion he had gone hunting with his father
for deer, and once killed a fox with a sling. His father would not let him take
a bow into the woods unsupervised.
‘Right,
let’s get this over with. I’ll get him back.’
Not
for the first time, Asthar said, ‘Perhaps you should just give him a thump the
next time you see him.’
Gothar
wouldn’t admit that he was afraid of the boy, for in truth Gothar was ruled by
fear. Instead he said, ‘Come on. I told you what we’re going to do. Don’t back
out now.’
Asthar
sighed. ‘Alright…’ He never got a chance to finish speaking. Ahead, on the
trail, a giant boar stood, the exact same as that which appeared on the Thane
of Naeth's crest, and before that, the crest of the Kings of Sturma, the king's
protector.
Its
hide was purest black. The light glinted off tusks which were like two curved
blades.
Asthar
didn’t waste any time. He ran. Gothar stood, rooted in fear. The boar charged
and the spell broke. He too ran for his life.
Sometimes
boys have to face fear to become men. Gothar knew fear in that moment, and he
ran. In some ways, he would run for the rest of his life.
One
thing was certain. He would never go into the woods again.
*
Hurth
eased his aching back, rearranging the cushion at the base of his spine. The
fresh air did him good, though he hated it.
Merilith,
the Thane’s strange advisor, entered the courtyard from the southern door. He
padded to where the Thane waited. The Thane bade him speak as he neared. The
bustle of the city outside was muffled by the great walls of the castle, but
Merilith was still forced to speak more loudly than he liked.
‘My
lord, I have bad news.’
Hurth
sighed. There had been indications of dissent from some of the outlying
Thanedoms, and he did not yet have the forces necessary to commit on more than
three fronts. He could guess at the news.
‘Tell
me.’
‘The
Thane of Spar refuses to pay the tithe, my lord. He is verging on claiming
independence. If we do not send a message now, matters will get worse.’
It
was expected, but still rankled. ‘The Thane of Spar has a larger standing army
than most. It is there that the brunt of Draymar incursions is felt most
keenly. We cannot challenge him directly.’
‘But
we must send a message. If one Thanedom falls, others will follow suit.’
‘I
am aware of the politics, Merilith.’
‘Of
course, my lord.’
‘He
has a son, does he not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then
bring the boy here. We will hold him ransom. See to it. You have my orders. How
you carry them out is up to you.’
Merilith
bowed low and backed away two steps from Hurth before turning. He did this not
out of respect, but out of healthy caution. More than one of the Thane’s close
advisors had suffered the inconvenience of a dagger in the back.
Merilith
thought of a way to capture the Thane of Spar’s son, and as he entered the
castle’s lower halls decided on who should carry out the task. He would ensure
that the Thane retained his position. Constantly, Merilith was reminded that
they had not yet captured the king’s son. Soon, he would have to take special
measures. For now, he had to keep the Thane of Naeth on the throne. A puppet
was more useful than an enemy.
*
Chapter
Twenty
The
happiest year of Tarn’s young life passed in nothing but shades of light. At
times he felt ashamed for his happiness. He felt he played false with the
memory of his father. And yet, the year passed, he grew and laughed and smiled,
and not even sorrow can hold a child back for long.
Tarn
visited Rena, and grew to know Tulathia and Mia almost as well as he knew his
own mother and father, as he came to call Gard and Molly. He felt, finally, at
peace. But Tulathia’s words tainted his joy at being wanted, and the pleasure
of the love that surrounded him.
‘You
will not always be a farmer, Tarn. Your path leads to a great destiny.’ A great
destiny sounded like a fine thing - to many young men, at least. Tarn knew
better. It was a curse. Tulathia’s words bore heavy on his mind in everything
he did.
He
did not laugh and play like the boys from the village, save when in the company
of Rena, or Gard and Molly. Rena was his first and only friend. Slowly, as he
neared his fifteenth year, Tarn changed, and as he did, his feelings toward
Rena changed. He spoke about it with Gard, but the big man just smiled and told
Tarn to trust his feelings.
‘She’s
a fine girl, Tarn. What did you think would happen? She marked you from the
first day she saw you. You didn’t stand a chance.’
Tarn
puzzled over the strange change in Rena, too. She took to holding his hand when
they were out in the woods, and grew angry if he so much as talked to other
girls on rare visits to the village. Rena confused him, but he didn’t ask Gard
about it again.
Molly
always called her his girl anyway. He knew where Molly stood without asking
her, and he didn’t want any more of the wisdom of women. He felt as though he
was suffocated by them.
He
was not troubled by the Thane’s soldiers, and did not see the bounty on his
head. The serious business of growing into a man was all that concerned him.
*
While
one boy grew into a man, another was deprived of that most basic of rights –
childhood. The Thane of Spar’s son, Kuin, was taken captive while on a morning
ride, with no fanfare, no bloodshed. He was not blindfolded. His captors were
quite happy for him to see his fate. It was no kindness to see the countryside
for one last time, knowing where he was going. His gaolers were not given to
acts of kindness.
Journey’s
end for Kuin was an underground dungeon. There was no daylight, but he was fed.
For him the years would be dark and full of despair. His eyes watered when he
was given a candle, a small torture he could not resist. In a year, he would be
almost blind should he ever be under the gaze of the suns again.
There
was no succour, apart from that which all men find inside. Inside him, he found
calm. Outside he dribbled, picked lice from his fledgling beard and scratched
at sores on his naked body. The Thane of Naeth all but forgot he was there.
For
Kuin, the Thane of Spar’s son, death would have been kinder.
The
Thane of Spar had no choice but to pay his tithes, and plot the return of his
son. Rythe moved on, and the Thane of Naeth grew impatient at the lack of
progress. Months turned, winter came and went.
Kuin
and Tarn both passed their fifteenth birthday, one forgotten by all but his
father, one not forgotten at all.
*
Merelith
offered a bounty on the scared boy’s head, but heard nothing. Three boys with
unfortunate scars were executed, but the crown still refused to be worn. It was
as if the boy had vanished from Sturma.
Now
Hurth blamed Merilith. The Hierarch’s position became tenuous, all because of
one errant child.
But
no longer.
The
Hierophant forbade the use of magic, but Merelith needed the boy dead. So much
hinged on this one little death, so much more than the good graces of the Thane
of Naeth. Others could be made puppets, but there was only one true heir to
crown and throne.
The
wiry Hierarch opened the door and crossed his room to a table with fruit and an
assortment of dried meat laid out for his return from a most dissatisfactory
audience with the Thane. His servants were nowhere to be seen. They knew better
than to disturb him when he was in his apartments. He would be ravenous later
but left the food for now. His knees creaked as he knelt upon the stone floor.
He was older than he looked.
Making
a circle around himself with his hands, Merilith intoned an ancient litany. A
simple incantation, proven throughout the ages, it was one of the first spells
fledgling mages within the ranks of the Hierarchy were taught. Communication
was paramount for a race that spanned continents.
Merilith’s
words burned the air, and a shimmering haze grew up before him. He blinked and
concentrated. The haze coalesced until it became a picture beyond the artistry
of any painter working today, for it was real. If Merilith wanted, he could
reach out and touched the sleeping man before him. But despite the years since
their last meeting, Merilith knew better than to touch the slumbering man. It
would mean his death. Instead, the incantation complete, the Thane’s advisor
called out, softly.
The
man in the picture awoke instantly, and looked around. He smiled in
recognition.
‘Merilith,
you worm. You have failed and you want my help.’
It
galled Merilith that he was so transparent. He had no way to save face. Already
he was supplicant before his master.
‘Yes,
Jenin. I failed. Without recourse to magic I fear I will not find the boy. It
seems he leads a charmed life.’
‘And
with recourse to magic you will not find him either. I cannot see him. Someone
has cast a cloaking spell upon the boy. I fear you will have to be patient.’
‘But
if the boy becomes an adult…’
‘I
know the risk. You are on your own and I cannot help. Now I will forget we ever
had this conversation. You are a dog. Use your nose. The humans have dogs, too.
Trackers, I believe they are called.’
‘There
is no trail to follow.’
‘Then
find another way. Use the humans. That is what they are there for. Magic is not
the only answer.’
Jenin
waved his hand and the picture became nothing more than smoke drifting on still
air.
Merilith
stood up, sweat beading his narrow brow.
A
tracker, then. Every tracker in the country, maybe. He resolved to suggest it,
gently, to the Thane in the morning.
He
set about eating. Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down and chased
it with some foul fruit. He would have to abide by the rules a little longer.
The
fruit was sustenance, but he looked forward to the day he could eat the boy’s
heart and make him watch.
*
