The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (17 page)

Chapter Forty-Eight

While
Tarn awoke and cleaned his teeth with the sleeve of his shirt, the Thane of
Naeth, far to the north, hunted in the fields with his goshawk, Valierion.
Whenever vexed, he liked to get out from the castle and the city, and let his
bird spread its wings. He imagined he could fly as he watched it, wondering how
it would feel to have the wind streaming past a feathered body, the sure
knowledge of your own power and speed and nothing on your mind but the hunt and
the wind.

            Instead,
he was weighed down with the rigours of governance; lining his treasury with
taxes and other, secret funds from piracy and banditry, his own form of
taxation on the other Thanes, those that refused to grant him fealty. His men,
dressed as bandits, were a scourge on main roads throughout the land of Sturma.
He paid his soldiers handsomely, while leaving his peasants to starve. He let
them have barely enough to eat, and horded the grain for war. His soldiers
patrolled his borders, and he set up a guard who did not wear uniforms, but
reported directly to Savan Retrice, the mysterious captain of his secret guard,
more important even than the guards outside the palace.

            While
he could not wear the crown he had become obsessed with the thought of
revolution from within his own borders. He paid spies to watch the other Thanes,
should they grow restive, and guards without scruples to watch his own people.
There was nothing he did not know.

            But
for the boy.

            Man,
he mused. He must be of age by now. While his advisor assured him that there
was no sign of the boy, and that even if the boy lived there would be no threat
to the Thane, Hurth could not be mollified. He wanted the line dead. He wanted,
more than anything, to be the king of Sturma. If he could not be king, then he
would have to rule by force.

            He
knew from bloody experience what a civil war would do to the country.

            It
would not be long now.

            The
sleek bird flew from his arm, and swooped high, its form lost against the sky
in the brightness of the suns. Carious now in its highest phase, losing all
heat as it moved away from Rythe, seemed a giant in the sky, dwarfing its
brother.

*

Chapter Forty-Nine

Autumn
came with all its bluster, rustling the leaves and turning the long grasses
into rolling seas. The wind did not overly trouble Tarn, but the cold grew, and
he still had not found a place to winter. No woodsman roamed through the
harshest months. That was for fools and desperate brigands. During the winter
the people of Sturma were like bears – they horded their stores and waited for
the returning birds. The birds, Tarn’s father told him, sung because they knew
where paradise lay, and only came during summer to tell mankind their tales of
the beautiful land. But mankind could not hear, and could not follow, because
they had fallen to earth long ago when the world broke. Once, man soared in the
skies, and visited paradise like the birds. They had flown on the winds, and
knew how to sing, but Madal took their flight from them and forced them to roam
the earth instead.

            Their
affront to Madal had been great. They stole words from him, and set themselves
above other beasts. Never would the great god allow them to fly again. But some
still knew how to sing, and that was why troubadours sung of the past with
great regret and anguish in their song – the song remembered the days in the
sky, and why youthful voices were so much prettier than the old – they had not
yet the words to spoil the song.

            Tarn
thought much about his true father while he roamed. It felt strange to be
living in the woods again, adrift with no companion to spin him tales and tell
him stories. But he was past stories. It was time to make his own. His would
not be a sad tale, a song of lament, but one of glory and returning happiness,
like the spring.

            Unfortunately,
autumn and spring always brought rain. He would have to weather the harshness
of autumn and winter before he could smell the spring’s flowers again.

For
now, he had to take winter’s herald with its torrents and chilly downpours, and
just be thankful that it was not yet winter. The heavy rains poured stubbornly
from the sky, soaking through his skin. There and then he decided that he would
make himself some deerskin clothes as proof against the cold and damp and
sodden skies before the snows set in.             Clothing, for the woodsman,
was never a problem. But shelter would be.

            He
thought about the Culthorn mountains, the seemingly eternal barrier between
Sturma and the neighbouring Draymar in the west, but game would be rare, even
though caves and wood would be plentiful. The Fresh Woods seemed to be the only
place.

            Although
the region was called a wood, it was a vast forest, covering the mid-western
part of Sturma.

            Tarn
set about preparing for the winter and the journey north, and forgot about joy
and revenge for a while. He made himself a needle shaved from a thigh bone and
ten lengths of gut. Then he cured deerskin, and set about sewing. Within a week
he had deerskin trousers and boots. Setting the skins to cure, tied taut in an
unusual bout of sunshine and accompanying dry wind, took the longest time.
Scraping the fat from the hide made his fingers ache so that he could not
clench his hand for a day afterward.

            It
was hard work, making clothes from hide when you only had the basest of tools,
but in the end he had warm clothes and deemed the effort worth it. His new
finery was supple and warm. He also made himself a pair of deerskin bracers.
With his cloak of wolf furs and a pair of mittens he looked every inch the
accomplished woodsman, but for his blades and the silver bow, which set him
apart. He even made himself a quiver, which he slung across his back with the
bow. Should he need to roll in a fight he would be in trouble, and the
cumbersome amount of baggage he accumulated would mean that he would have
difficulty fighting in a pinch, but the skills of the woodsman were paramount
in his current situation, not those of the warrior, and a woodsman always went
prepared.

            Eventually,
Tarn deemed himself fit for winter. He turned himself north-west, and set out
for the Fresh Woods. If he could just survive the winter, he might just make it
through another year.

            Travelling
and working kept Tarn’s mind from despair. It had always been so. He walked all
day, pausing only to eat from his pack, or to hunt when his stores were low, or
when he saw a good spot for foraging. Some days on the journey he went without
meat, or plant, but never both.

            At
some point on the journey he even decided that he was fit enough, and had
reserves of energy, to resume his training.

            In
the dark of the evening when he found a spot to camp he would spend half an
hour or so practising with his sword, or with his knife. His skills, he
decided, should be honed, for one day, perhaps many years from now, he would
once again think of revenge, and following it, should he do it right, a return
to all that he loved and the life he had grown to like.

            But
as much as he would have liked to have a plan, none presented itself to him. He
could just not see a way in which one man could storm a castle and kill a
Thane.

            Such
problems, Tarn decided, were not for the present. The winter first, then when
he was strong enough he would leave the Fresh Woods, and head north.
Opportunity favoured the brave. He would find a way.

            He
put one foot in front of the other, occasionally pausing to heft his pack on
his back, or rearrange his blades at his hips, but ever moving forward.

            He
found a way station at a road he crossed leading to Orioth, one of the larger
towns in Gern’s Crest, to the east and the coast. He was well out of the Spar
and into the region of the Fresh Woods. The Fresh Woods had no Thane, no
soldiers patrolling the main routes, and so were rife with bandits.

            The
way station had seven guards, all armed with short swords. He sold pelts there
and moved on with some money in his pocket at last.

            He
crossed from the Spar, across Ulbridge, into the farm lands that surrounded the
fertile lands north of the river, Lare Bog to the west, between him and the
mountains, and Gern’s Crest to the east.

            One
day, the clearings, the woods, and the roads that he had seen on his journey
thus far were no longer there. Trees were older, of greater girth and heavier
in the bough. He reached the edge of the Fresh Woods.

            Winter
was just beginning.

            The
first snows fluttered through the darkening air when Tarn happened upon an inn
set in a clearing in the woods, with one dirt road running past its door, and
with stables set in a ‘U’ shape at the rear. The hanging sign out front read
‘The Drunken Bear’.

            Tarn
wondered why such a place would be out in the thick of the woods, about five
miles in by his reckoning. It could only be a haven for bandits and thieves. He
thought of passing by, but the call of civilisation was too strong, the thought
of danger secondary to the hopes of a home cooked stew. Tarn longed for warmth.
Perhaps this would be the last chance before the cold void of winter.

            He
stepped inside, slinging his pack and the wrapped bow from his back (he wrapped
the bow before stepping into the inn – it would mark him out as a rube, and he
had no illusions about his chances of leaving such a place with a fine bow, or
his life should he show signs of wealth), leaving his right hand free. His scar
was not too obvious in the dark, but he could not afford to take any
unneccesary chances.

            Tarn
looked around the tavern. Candles burned in bottles set on thick wooden tables
casting dancing shadows around the bar. A fierce fire roared in a giant stone
hearth, spitting as damp logs burned bright. It was not busy – too few
travellers were abroad with the snows moving in from the sea.

            Crushed
between the Culthorn mountains to the west, and the endless sea to the east,
snow had nowhere else to fall and so blanketed Sturma’s fields and forests for
a rest from the burning skies. Tarn knew this, as his father told him why it
snowed. The snow needed to rest each year away from the suns, which were their
bitter enemy. Tarn did not begrudge the snow a rest once a year. The suns held
court for the rest of the year.

            Those
few that were in the inn were obviously a rough sort. They sported scars, and
blades. They lived by their wits, and only risked losing them in a place of
safety. Tarn understood this without thinking about it. This place was a haven
for all robbers and men of low character – they were drinking quietly, and many
were drunk. He would be safe enough. No man would attack him and risk losing
face in this home away from home.

            Outside,
though, was another matter. It would not do to lose his wits.

            Tarn
did not look out of place, like a fresh-faced youth. He looked older than his
years. His beard was thick, his dark hair long and curling about his scarred
face. The others wore cloaks of wool, and fine, warm trousers. Some were
stripped to their shirts, sitting around the fire where the heat was at its
best. Tarn’s blades set him apart as a warrior. Many, he knew, would have
swords or daggers, but few both.

            Leaving
his belongings by an empty table to mark it his, but keeping an eye on his pack
just the same, Tarn approached a burly barman and ordered an ale and some stew.
He sat alone at his table far removed from the other drinkers while he waited
for his food.

With
the bitter taste of ale on his tongue he considered his options.

            He
could stay the night, or move on before the snows became too thick. From the
smell of the air the snow would not be heavy tonight. There was no reason to
stay. Besides, one bed was as good as any other, and in Tarn’s experience,
sleeping at the feet of the stars was one of life’s grandest reasons to forgo
the comforts of civilisation. No, he would have an ale – maybe two – and be on
his way.

            When
the stew came it was accompanied by a small hunk of hard bread. He broke this
up and soaked it in the stew. Passable fare at best, but hot and filling.

            When
he eventually stepped out into the snow, later than he planned, there was still
a dusky light in the western sky. The inn’s light seeped from the cracks in the
shutters and reflected off the falling snowflakes. Tarn shouldered his pack,
and set out.

            The
four ales he drank were warming him, but Tarn knew the warmth was dangerous. He
would allow himself an hour’s walk, to be sure the inn was well behind him,
then he would make camp.

            Tarn’s
footfalls crunched the snow underfoot, and the sound made him smile. Or perhaps
it was the ale.

            As
Tarn walked smiling in the snow, a figure detached itself from the shadows
under the eaves of The Drunken Bear, and followed in his footsteps.

*