The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (19 page)

Chapter Fifty-Four

‘No,
the skin goes on the outside,’ said Tarn as Roskel squirmed.

            ‘But
then the nasty bit will be next to my skin!’

            ‘That’s
the softest part. If you won’t listen, how am I to make a woodsman of you?’

            ‘All
right. Fine. Turn around.’

            ‘Gladly.
I told you they would chafe.’

            ‘Well,
good for you. Nobody likes when people are right all the time.’

            Tarn
sighed and turned his attention to the woods. He really did not need a
companion who could not even dress himself.

            It
was a strange arrangement, but no stranger than being forced to flee from
terrible demons out of legend, or being the true heir to the throne of Sturma.
As odd companions went, Roskel was a relief. At least the thief had only tried
to kill him once.

            Once,
Tarn could forgive.

            Tarn
had slowly grown to like the young thief. He secretly resolved to help him as
best he could, for no other reason than that he enjoyed having some company at
last. It would not do to let Roskel know that, however. He kept his thoughts on
his new companion to himself, and tried to keep him at arm’s length – he’d lost
too many friends already, and he feared letting himself become too attached to
anyone else.

            Tarn
was now seventeen. Roskel, as he found out, was somewhere ‘in his twenties.’
For some reason the thief was reticent to speak on it further. Roskel, Tarn
discovered, was a poor huntsman, and a poor bandit. He could only hope as a
thief he fared better. Even Roskel admitted that he was primarily a lover, and
only a thief out of necessity. 

            Their
time was well spent, and they even shared a makeshift shelter, politely
ignoring each other’s snoring and nocturnal gases.

            The
end of winter was in sight. The harshest snow and the bitterest cold withstood,
their camp broken, they were on the move again.

            As
always, Tarn concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. But, he
mused, while it might seem a simple matter, it never was. You had to take care
you didn’t put your foot in anything dangerous, or slip on some woodland
creature’s leaving. You had to ensure nothing stalked you.

            Life
for the forester was all about foresight, and hindsight, and every other kind
of sight in between.

            Roskel
coughed and broke Tarn’s train of thought. He had managed to get his trousers
on the right way round at last.

            Tarn
sighed and hefted his pack, which was growing all the time.

            ‘That
is wolf fur, is it not?’ asked the thief, hefting his own pack, which Tarn had
made for him. They trudged deeper into the woods. Around them the Fresh Woods
thickened, the newer trees giving way to the old, wizened grand old men of the
forest that sucked light from the sky.

            ‘It
is,’ said Tarn. His feet ached from walking, grown soft during the winter, and
he was in no mood for conversation. It was difficult finding a balance between
keeping the thief around and pushing him away. He was torn between the instinct
to protect himself from further hurt, and the desire for friendship. Roskel
wasn’t easy to ignore, though. He was, Tarn discovered, insidious. Rather like
a charming new form of mould.

            They
walked on most of the day, Tarn trying to ignore the thief. For his part,
Roskel was too tired to talk much.

            As
dusk neared, Tarn stopped and dropped his pack.

            ‘At
last,’ said Roskel.

            ‘Tired?’

            ‘Yes.
And cold. And hungry. How do you not tire?’

            ‘I
tire. I’m just not a baby about it.’

            Roskel
laughed. ‘That first day I saw you, I thought you had the look of the wolf
about you. Now, I’ve waited all day to hear about your wolf cloak. Impressive,
no?’

            ‘No.
The ability to be quiet is not impressive.’

            ‘Gods,
man, you’re a hard nut. Come now, how did you come about the cloak?’

            ‘My
father and I killed a marauding pack of wolves.’

            ‘So
simply?’

            ‘It
was nothing.’

            ‘So,
you are a farmer’s son?’

            ‘I
am the son of two men, one a farmer, one a hunter, both warriors.’

            Tarn
never said he was the son of the king. He preferred anonymity.

            But
he could not keep his secrets forever. The thief was curious. He would have to
have a care.

            Roskel
said nothing further, and Tarn spotted what he searched for.

            ‘Here
will do for the day. Make yourself useful and make camp. I will hunt.’

            Roskel
grumbled while Tarn took his bow from his shoulder and set off into the woods.
Tracks were easy to find this time of the year, as the snows left the ground
soft.

He
resolved to make Roskel into a man, one who could fend for himself. Tarn was
the first to admit that he would not fare well in a city, with all the strange
ways of the people that lived there, but they were not in a city now, and Tarn
would not have Roskel living off his own hard work any longer.

            It
took him an hour of following the tracks to their inevitable conclusion. A doe
snuffled just within sight, but Tarn was downwind and quiet. The deer did not
stir.

            Almost
without thinking, Tarn took the deer cleanly with one of his fine metal arrows.
He remembered his father telling him, ‘you must take a deer with one shot. They
are gods, tethered to this earth, and you must show them respect.’

            ‘How
do you know they are gods?’ asked the young boy.

            ‘That
is why the leap – they are trying to get back to the stars,’ his father told
him.

            Tarn
slung the deer across his shoulders and hiked back to camp.

            He
dumped the carcass before the fire (the makings of a fire one of the first
lessons he insisted Roskel learn), one hoof catching Roskel on a shin, newly
covered in deer skin boots which Tarn sewed for him.

            ‘Ouch!
Mind where you put that, Tarn. I’m not made of stone.’

            ‘No,
my friend. You are made of putty, and if you are to follow me on my travels any
further you will learn to pull your weight.’

            ‘What
do you mean?’

            ‘I
mean you must learn woodcraft. I can’t very well coddle you forever, and as you
don’t seem inclined to leave me now you’ve got to know me – and I am a charming
companion, I’ll grant you – you can continue learning to be useful.’

            Roskel
looked at Tarn sullenly. He knew the youngster was right, but he was already
reduced to wearing animal skins and hiding out in the woods. His station, he
thought, could not fall any lower. Now his barbaric friend wanted him to help.

            Inwardly,
Roskel cursed.

            ‘I
am a thief. Not a woodsman. I would not ask you to steal.’

            ‘And
what would we steal but nature’s bounty? There is nothing here for a man of
your talents. It is you that is out of place, not I. I cannot feed you
forever.’

            ‘One
day I will return to the towns and seek my fortune again. When interest in me
has died off.’

            ‘Well,
until you pluck up enough courage to do so, and while you camp with me, you
will do something useful,’ said Tarn, with an edge in his voice.

            Tarn
would not take no for an answer. Even though Roskel was loath to get his hands
dirty, he could see the sense behind what the young hunter said. Besides, he
had to admit, he gained a certain satisfaction from learning the skills the
young hunter had shown him so far, and on a positive note, he was still alive.

            He
hadn’t yet asked why a huntsman needed two fine blades, obviously designed for
fighting, not hunting. But then Tarn was kind enough not to ask why such an
obvious fop hid out in the woods and desperately stalked a man with superior
fighting skills.

            ‘Very
well, my uncouth saviour, what would you have me learn?’

            Tarn
smiled, pleased that Roskel agreed. ‘First things first. You can learn how to
dress a deer.’

            ‘It
seems perfectly happy in the skin the gods gave it.’

            ‘I
mean prepare it – gut it.’

            ‘Oh,
no.’

            Tarn
bound the deer’s hind legs together while Roskel watched in dread, knowing full
well what he had to do. He’d seen Tarn do it enough during the long winter.

            Tarn
hung it, with a grunt of effort, over a nearby branch.

            ‘Get
your knife out.’

            Roskel
rose warily, approaching the deer with his dagger in hand. ‘Now what?’

            ‘Stick
it in its belly.’

            Roskel
looked suspicious, but did as asked. He plunged the knife in – up to an inch.

            ‘No,
you plud, not like a dandy, thrust the knife in.’

            Tarn
showed him with his own dagger. ‘Like that. Deeper.’

            ‘My,
I feel like I did with my first ineffectual stabbings at a maiden’s virtue,’
said Roskel, finding it harder than he thought to pierce the beast’s hide. To
his credit, he sawed with grim determination on his green face.

            ‘How
did you ever survive this long?’

            ‘Unless
you hadn’t noticed, I am not much of a woodsman.’

            ‘I
had noticed. You are a poor woodsman and a worse fop.’

            ‘Well,
it is so hard to maintain standards in the forest.’

            ‘Why
were you on the road anyway?’

            Ah,
at last, thought Roskel, we come to it. A man could go mad with a companion who
did little but brood during a long winter. Perhaps this would be a good time to
get to know a little about his unlikely benefactor. Unlikely, because given the
chance he would have brained Tarn as he slept. He would have regretted his
action, and was more than grateful for how things turned out, but he would have
bludgeoned him just the same, and hoped that he would not die.

            Well,
maybe I would have bruised him, thought Roskel ruefully.

            ‘Alas,
I did fall for the wrong lady’s charms, and I have been falling ever since. I
like to think I was worthy of her husband’s ire.’

            ‘You
are a boastful man.’

            ‘While
you, my friend, are taciturn in the extreme and a dreadful bore.’

            ‘That’s
only because you don’t know me well enough.’

            ‘I
can’t wait to find your hidden depths.’

            ‘I’d
appreciate it if you didn’t go plumbing my depths.’

            ‘I
see you may just have the makings of a jester, too. Is there nothing you can’t
turn your hand to?’

            ‘I
was always a terrible darner.’

            The
moment passed, and for the time being both thought it wise to leave their
curiosity to grow for a while.

            Tarn
smiled as the thief sawed at the deer. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to set
aside his fears and take him partway, at least, into his confidence. It was one
thing spending the winter in close proximity, but if this went on any longer he
would have no choice but to come up with a feasible explanation as to why he
would not venture into a town.

            Beside,
the thief was amusing.

            Would
he miss the thief if he decided to make his own way, now that winter ended?

            He
decided he would. Company was something Tarn missed. It was time to let himself
thaw. No man could hold winter in his heart when spring began to sing.

*

Chapter Fifty-Five

Spring
came slower than usual as they chased the winter north, but come it did, and
with it the promise of a new year and new friendships. Roskel could still no
more dress a deer than shoot one, but he was fast and had nimble hands. He took
to making traps from woven twigs, and could catch fish in the numerous streams
with his hands.

            Tarn
knew he could not stay in the woods forever. One day over snout fish and
bramble mash, Roskel broached the subject Tarn had been putting off ever since
spring’s arrival.

            ‘We
can’t stay here forever.’

            ‘I
thought you were on the run.’

            ‘Yes,
my friend, and so are you, but we can’t very well dally in the forest for the
rest of our lives. That would be too many years, and no doubt all this fresh
air would jade my looks.’

            ‘I’m
not sure…I don’t know if it’s safe for me yet.’

            Roskel
looked at Tarn. ‘Whatever you did, people will forget. I’m sure people will forget
my misdeeds in time to come, too.’

            It
had become an unspoken agreement that neither man would speak of their
transgressions. Tarn wanted to confide in Roskel. He was beginning to think he
could trust him, though perhaps not far enough to put his life in the thief’s
hands.

            ‘Then
we would go together?’

            ‘Yes,’
replied Roskel. ‘Perhaps together we would be less conspicuous.’

            Tarn
sat quietly for a time, deciding. Eventually he sprang to his feet.

            ‘Then
we will start out small. There is a village to the north of the Fresh Woods,
Garveton, where we can get a warm meal and perhaps a bed for the night.’

            ‘Ah,
a bed. Now that would be divine.’

            ‘But
any nonsense and we run. If we see the Thane of Naeth’s crest on any man, I
would thank you to keep quiet and follow my lead.’

            The
Thane of Naeth, wondered the thief. What had his young companion done to arouse
the interest of such a powerful man? If Hurth’s men were hunting Tarn, all bets
were off. Roskel’s troubles were enough, but at least they were localised.

            ‘So
it is agreed then? We go to Garveton?’

            ‘It
is agreed. We go together.’ Tarn spat on his palm and held his hand out.

            Roskel
merely turned his nose up in disdain.

*