The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (22 page)
Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
‘I
fell from grace a long time ago, but I understand you well, my friend. I will
be vigilant for myself and you as well.’
Tarn
only hoped that he could keep his promise on the path that he knew he must
travel.
*
Sunlight
streamed through the thick canopy of lud, oak and ash, awash with bright greens
and yellows, the colour of freshly budded spring. Deer leapt playfully out of
reach, unafraid of the dangerous men wandering through their forest. Man had
not yet covered the face of Rythe, and there were still creatures that roamed,
blissfully unaware of their place in the scheme of things, as food and a source
for bones and hide and all the bounty animals provided the wise hunter.
The
strange beast from the previous night made no noise, obviously having fled man,
wiser, perhaps, than most creatures that populated the woods. But Tarn’s mind
was not on hunting as he walked to meet Brendall’s leader, the Slain. It was on
the beauty of spring, and the joy of travelling through such unspoiled lands.
The
wild flowers were in full bloom, and where the ground was moist fungi grew on
the dark side of the trees. He knew how to make stew from the grey mushrooms,
and how the red spotted funnel that was poisonous to eat, but brewed and made
into a paste eased pain when rubbed on deeper cuts. There were ferns that
helped with wet back rash, the lanemot to bring sleep, and the sweet smell of
honey flower to relax a bound stomach. The forest’s gifts to the knowledgeable
traveller were endless.
Roskel’s
mind wandered as his feet. He thought on the more mundane matters of whether
their current companions would stab him in the back, whether he had secreted
his newfound wealth about his person with sufficient cunning, and if Tarn had
lost his mind. It was all well and good joining the bandits, they would have
plentiful food, and there was, perhaps, safety in numbers, but that adage only
worked where bandits were not involved in the equation. He had never thought he
would end up waving a steel sword at ladies travelling in caravans. His area of
expertise lay in the wielding of another type of sword altogether. Roskel
sighed and reasoned it would be good to get to know his new benefactors. He was
a charming man, and he thought, less likely to get stabbed in the night if his
new friends got to know him.
‘So,
Brendall, how much further must we travel? I’m damnably hot in this new
weather. Carious must be brushing the shores for it to be so temperate.’
‘It’s
a fine spring morning, Roskel. I would have thought you would be appreciating
it. From what Tarn said you have weathered the winter without a camp to call
your own.’
‘We
have, I admit, been somewhat itinerant in nature these last few months.’
‘If
you talk like that around the Slain he’ll gut you rather than try to figure out
your meaning.’
‘Perhaps
I could adopt a more earthy cadence in honour of our surroundings.’
‘That
would be wise.’
Tarn
caught up with them before Roskel could curtail his verbosity. ‘I smell a cook
fire up ahead. Are we there?’
‘We
are indeed,’ said Brendall. ‘Look!’
Ahead
lay a great camp, with many fires burning. Tents were strung from trees, but
the central area, the size of a large village, had been cleared and wooden huts
erected. The colours were all drab, but there was a certain rough splendour
about the settlement.
To
Tarn’s surprise, there were women, and children. He did not fail to see
sentries posted in roughly a circle around the camp, or that the women, too,
wore short swords or daggers. Tarn did not think they were merely for show.
They had the look of people used to a hard life. He wondered why a group of
bandits would have such a large camp, where it could be found, or attacked.
There was a sense of permanence about the place.
Hogs
roasted over open fires, and clay baked mirs poked from embers of fires burned
low. It was midday and there was a feast. It was plain to see that the bandits
caught their own food and did not rely on caravans for their provisions.
Tarn
did a rough count, and made fifty including women and children. Some men would
no doubt be about their work on the numerous roads around the Fresh Woods, so
the final tally that called this camp home could be any number. He resolved to
ask Brendall later.
‘It
is passing strange that there are women and children present at camp,’ remarked
Tarn.
‘They
have fled the Thane’s yoke. All present here disagree strongly enough with the
stranglehold the Thane of Naeth has put on the countryside. It is not an easy
life, and there are many perils for those of us on this side of the law, but it
is not a bad side to be on. We make do.’
‘So
you are not villains, but heroes?’ asked Roskel, hand resting uneasily upon his
sword.
‘I
make no such claim. But come, to the Slain’s tent.’
Tarn
and Roskel followed Brendall to a large wooden round house at the centre of the
clearing. They ducked under a cloth hanging over the door to keep flies at bay,
and found themselves in a luxuriously appointed hall, like a council chamber. A
wiry man, about Tarn’s height, sprawled on what could only be described as a
throne, even though it was made of wood. It was exquisitely carved – there must
be some artisans around the camp as well as warriors – the arms in the shape of
wings and the head into the likeness of a hawk. The man looked up from his
current company and waved them away, rising.
‘Brendall!
Fresh meat you have brought me, and I am grateful. Who are they?’ he asked,
head cocked to one side. He had not even looked at his three visitors.
‘They
come to join our ranks. The one with the scar is Tarn, and the one rudely
resting his hand on his sword is Roskel, a thief.’ Brendall spoke with quiet
respect and a sideways glance at Roskel.
Roskel
swiftly put his hand down by his side.
Tarn
stood proudly, and examined the leader of the outlaws. His bare chest was well
muscled, and he boasted a great scar from his navel to his ribs, the scar
tissue thick and gnarled, like a root running across his stomach.
At
his side he wore a long sword, obviously grand from the hilt adornments, worth
far more than anything else there could be in this outpost.
‘And
they would join our band, would they?’ The Slain turned his face to the beamed
ceiling as he spoke.
‘They
would, and I vouch for them.’
The
Slain obviously got his name when he had been run through. Perhaps he had been
dead at some point. A wily intelligence lurked behind his eyes, but it galled
to be ignored. Tarn reasoned he had time. He could wait to come to
this man’s attention. Perhaps then he would be granted a place of his own.
‘Then
we will watch them well, won’t we? For I see in the younger one something of
myself. I will keep an eye on him for you. They may leave now.’
Brendall
motioned for them to leave. Not once had the Slain spoken to them. He seemed to
be addressing his words to something only he could see.
Once
outside, Tarn turned to the bandit. ‘I would have thought a bandit leader would
want to question any newcomers professing desires to join?’
‘He
is a complicated man. He runs our village, Haven, with a strong hand. But then
many of the men are violent. Challenges to his leadership are few, and by and
large people are content under the Slain. He has guided us for two years now,
and still Haven keeps growing, and growing stronger for it. We all respect him,
and yes, we fear him too. Today is not a good day. He will not speak directly
to anyone when he is with the spirits of the departed. People around here say
he can talk to the souls of the dead since he died and passed Madal’s Gates.
But he came back, and he is different now. Touched. That is his kind of madness.
It surfaces on his bad days. On a good day he is a fine drinker. On any day he
is a warrior bar none. I would not irritate him, if I were you.’
Tarn
smiled. ‘Well, I doubt I will have much to do with him.’
‘No,
not much.’
‘How
did he get the scar?’ asked Roskel.
‘Where
I come from it is impolite to ask after a scar, except when offered. One day,
perhaps, the Slain will share his story.’
What
else could fate have in store for them? Tarn fingered his own scar
absentmindedly. Madmen, thieves and bandits…a strange path he found himself
upon, and its footing seemed treacherous.
Brendall
led them to a camp fire, and they sat down to eat.
*
Far
to the south of the Fresh Woods, where Tarn made new friends and moved along
fate’s path, Tulathia’s road was ending.
She
was old enough, and wiser than even her great years, to know when death was at
her door. For a year now, she’d hid the blood in her phlegm from Rena and Mia,
but could hide the fact that she rotted from the inside no longer.
She
had little to be sad about. She had presided over hundreds of childbirths, held
children in her arms as their newborn wails rent the air, sat in judgement over
love disputes, cured ailments which should have been fatal in their severity.
She was old beyond imagining, but even a witch could not hold back the tide of
years. Her time had come.
In
Mia’s hut she lay on the ground, Mia wiping her brow but staying silent, for
which Tulathia was grateful. Even Rena, growing into a beautiful young woman,
was quiet, gently sobbing, her eyes large and full of painful compassion.
Tulathia knew she was lucky to be mourned in her death, but the sobbing grated,
despite its sincerity. She did not want the last sound she heard to be one of
sadness.
‘Now,
child,’ croaked Tulathia, trying to keep her breath shallow to avoid coughing
up more blood and hastening the end, ‘No more tears, child. I ask you as the
granddaughter I never had, please cry no more for me.’
Rena
wiped her eyes, and tried a smile for the old mother. It was strained, but
Tulathia granted her a smile in return.
‘Mia,
my time is near. I thank you.’
Mia
did not need to ask for what.
‘I
thank you too, old mother. I will not mourn your passing, but rejoice in new
life given.’
‘As
it should be,’ said Tulathia, and reached round to squeeze Mia’s firm hand with
her arthritic one.
‘Rena,
you asked me many times to discern the future. Before I pass, I would give you
one last gift, for I know it is what you wanted.’
‘It
has been a gift just knowing you old mother. I ask nothing of you this day.’
‘Then
as a friend, accept this. You will see your love again. Make the most of it
when you do, for that is my gift to you. Caeus watches over him now and no seer
can discern his thread, but think wisely when the time comes, for he will
always be hunted by men, even while he is hidden from those with magical eyes.
Think wisely, for the sake of your children. That is all that is in my power to
give.’
Rena
smiled. ‘Thank you, old mother. It is all I have wished for since he left.’
‘Then
know that he is still safe, and he will come again. Remember that all love is a
gift. Cherish it while you can.’
‘I
will, Tulathia, I will.’ Rena wanted to ask more, but sensed the end was close.
Tulathia
closed her eyes. Mia and Rena kept vigil.
With
the last of her power, Tulathia made a wish of her own; that Tarn would hear
her prayer and come home, even though she knew he would not be able to stay. It
was her wish that Rena would be able to hold him again. She placed her wish on
a soft breeze that entered the hut, and bade it travel north. It was all she
could do. She had to trust her power to the wind.
Then,
with a smile on her face, Tulathia passed.
*
Tarn
and Roskel sat by the fire. They talked long and rested. Both men were tired
from the journey and it was pleasant to find respite. Tarn took a pull on a jug
as Roskel asked, ‘So what is she like? This love of yours?’
‘She
has the most beautiful blue eyes and blonde hair; she is warm and kind and loving,’
said Tarn wistfully.
‘You,
my friend, are no poet.’
‘True
beauty needs no gushing words.’
‘That’s
what you think. I’ll thank you to keep your advice about women to yourself. I
may not be a warrior, or a woodsman, but that is one area where I can safely
say my expertise exceeds yours.’
‘As
you will.’
Roskel
turned in his bedroll, and stared up at the stars for a time before speaking
again.
‘I
hope you know what you’re doing, Tarn.’
Tarn
considered this. To himself, he conceded that he did not. But Roskel needed to
hear the words.
‘It
may not be perfect, but it is necessary. We will tread carefully.’
Roskel
grunted. ‘Not exactly the answer I hoped for, but it will have to suffice.’
With that Roskel turned in his bedroll and closed his eyes. He eventually went
to sleep with the warmth of the fire guiding him into gentle dreams.
Tarn
sat for a while longer, staring into the haze of the fire, thinking hard about
the days and weeks to come. He was less sure of this new path than he let on to
his friend, but, he felt, he had little choice in the matter. To a certain
degree, he knew he needed to watch his own soul, but sometimes opportunities
came along and there was no chance to follow the swan’s road. He was a victim
of fate. He was trying to ride its back, and not stumble into the future with
his eyes shut and his hands out to steady him. He was keeping his balance, and
for now, that would have to be enough.
Tarn
remained lost in thought for a long time, until he felt a sudden warm breeze on
his face. With it came the scent of home, and Rena’s freshly washed hair, full
of the capium’s sweet fragrance. For some reason, thinking of Rena made him
remember Tulathia. He smiled at the memory of the old mother, and wished her
well, wherever she was.
One
day, he vowed, he would return to see them all.
*