The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (26 page)

Chapter Seventy-Five

Winter
drew near. The feast of Ronoth, the god of autumn, was underway. The bandits
were just as in touch with the seasons as any farmer. They gave thanks for the
year, and bade it a grateful farewell.

            Any
year they survived was deemed a good one.

            Women
in long flowing skirts twirled around the centre fire, the flames licking the
darkening sky, and children danced in uneven jerks, still far from the fluidity
they would reach when they were older. The boys would drink, the girls would
dance, but all children, even the boys, loved the rhythm. It was only in
adulthood that men forgot the joys of dancing.

            Ale
was consumed in huge quantities, even by the players by the fire. The music had
not yet suffered. After so many nights of planning and strategizing, the music
was a balm to Tarn’s tired ears. It seemed he had heard nothing for the last
two weeks but battle preparations, and stories of increasing hardship and
injustice from the Thane of Naeth’s men, their reach grown long, even into the
south lands. The southern Thanes could not stand up for their people, and were
forced to tax beyond most peoples’ means, just to keep the Thane of Naeth from
taking their lives in a war which none could afford. It seemed no one could
stand up to him.

            Tarn
put matters of a heavier nature aside and took a proffered jug of ale being
passed around with his thanks.

            Many
of his bandits – and he had come to think of them as such – were well into
their cups. It was a sight to gladden his heart. He had not thought they would
ever relax again, and after this night they would be back to planning for the
ever constant threat of war.

            It
was such a pleasant sight that Tarn found himself forgetting his worries for a
time and taking longer over the jug of ale than he intended. He passed it to
one side.

            Roskel
alone among all the men danced with the women. Tarn laughed. The other bandits
thought him a fop, too, but with his quick sense of humour and unabashed charm
he was popular with the men, despite their differences. Roskel was a different
man today than the one Tarn met so long ago in the woods. He hoped he was a
better man. Sometimes it seemed that Roskel was Tarn’s conscience.

            A
strange turn of events, he thought, when it took a thief and a cad to keep the
wild man at bay.

            Tarn
was just about to stand, when he sensed something amiss. He made a quick head
count and noticed that two sentries he ordered to relieve the southern sentries
at dusk, so everyone could join the festivities, had not left. He rose and
walked over to the men, who were sitting slightly askance on a fallen log, and
stood before them.

            They
were obviously drunk.

            ‘Durn,
Red hand, as much as I enjoy seeing you drunk, don’t you have duties to attend
to?’

            ‘We’ve
already been. We couldn’t find Ren and Sam. We’re waiting for them to come
back.’

            ‘What
do you mean you couldn’t find them?’

            ‘We
thought they’d abandoned their post.’

            That
sounded wrong. All of these men knew not to abandon their duties, it was too
important to remain vigilant. Tarn surveyed the woods. Something felt wrong, a
sense of something out of place. He should feel relaxed, but he realised he had
worn his sword for a purpose. He felt on edge. He only then recognised the feeling
for what it was.

            ‘Durn,
get two men together, go scout the perimeter. Red Hand, take two men and scout
south. If there is nothing there come back to the fire. Go now.’

            Both
men grumbled but rose.

            Then
a scream arose, and everyone scrabbled for weapons.

            An
arrow flew from the woods and took Durn in the arm. Arrows flew thick and fast,
but the bandits were used to thinking on their feet. Those that wore weapons
still ran toward their attackers, weaving as they went. Anyone not armed ran
swiftly to tents and bedrolls, taking up what they could. No one bothered with
bows. They knew they were at a disadvantage, standing in the light trying to
shoot into the dark. Whoever the attackers were, they planned well.

            Tarn
spared a moment to wonder how they got close enough to the camp to attack, and
then he too ran to the edge of the trees.

            He
saw a man drawing a bow, the arrow pointed straight at his chest. The arrow
flew and without thought Tarn’s sword swept up, knocking the arrow aside. He
was on the bowman in an instant. At close quarters the bow was useless. Tarn
skewered the man.

            Looking
back into the light he saw the attackers had given up their advantage and were
swarming through the camp. The Thane of Naeth’s men were foolhardy, it seemed.             They
could have picked off most of the bandits from the woods.

            Tarn
ran to join the fray.

            He
turned aside a skilled thrust from a dark clad attacker, and slipped his sword
through the man’s throat. He ran to the centre of the camp where fighting was
fiercest and set to with vigour. He slew two men before he looked round and saw
the weasel Uxthorn at the edge of the woods, pointing two of the attackers
toward him, his hands waving them on with urgency.

            Even
at this distance Tarn could tell what it meant. His heart sank as he watched
his men fight. They had been betrayed.

            He
wondered how such a large force had made it unseen past the sentries, and found
their camp. They had been told how to do it; undone by a jealous groat.

            But
all was not lost. He had given word to his lieutenants of what they must do, as
they had planned for, they would meet throughout the woods, at designated
meeting places, and use the new signs Tarn has given them in case of treachery.
They knew him. He had no doubt.

            What
a fool he had been, to think no one would betray him.

            He
slew a man almost absentmindedly, his thoughts on his plans and not on the
battle at hand…would they know what to do? Could he trust them, even when they
faced soldiers in the night? Would his men trust in him again?

            He
could only hope, and wish. Now was not the time for doubts.

            He
saw that the bandits could not win. Flight was the only option. He resolved to
kill Uxthorn when he had the chance, but for now he had to flee. The Thane’s
men were nearly upon him.

            ‘Men!
Freedom’s Gate!’ cried Tarn. All those who needed to know would recognise the
words. They would disperse, as though they were fleeing, and hide out in the
woods in small bands for the winter, until they would meet again at the Walking
Lake in the centre of the forest when the trees began to bud.

            The
cry went up around the camp, and the clash of steel on steel subsided. He saw
men and women and children running into the woods, leaving behind their
possessions which they could not take. Tarn ran too, sad that he would have to
leave his bow behind. It was a good hunting bow. He would need it in the forest
to survive.

            He
rammed one soldier with his shoulder and made it into the edge of the forest.

            Tarn
looked for Roskel, and hoped he would make it. The thief had been unhappy these
months, despite assignations with many of the camp’s women. But he knew what to
do, and would stick with Brendall. Silently, he wished his friend luck. 

            With
the sounds of battle fading behind him as the sound of pursuit grew, Tarn
slipped into the darkness of the woods and broke into a steady run.

            After
two hours he doubled back in a huge circle, and took his bow from among the
bodies of the fallen. Before his pursuers could find him, he slung the bow and
its quiver over his shoulder and headed into the woods once again.

            He
sighed. It seemed no great fate lay in store for the heir to the throne, but
endless flight.

            But
the tables were turned. He tracked relentlessly, the hunters now hunted. The
moons were bright, and the light good. He followed the best tracks he could
find, knowing what he did about Uxthorn, it was a simple matter for a born
woodsman.

            The
moons’ light was fleeing by the time he sighted his prey.

            He
knocked a silver arrow and with the smoothness of a lover’s caress let it fly
through the trees.

            He
did not need to see if it struck true.

            He
rubbed out the lopsided tracks with a toe, turned and ran. He had not broken
his promise to himself. He still had not slain a man with the bow, but a
mongrel. The gift was unsullied.

            Uxthorn’s
last look was confusion. There was silver in his chest, but he thought he had
gold. He checked his purse. Still there. No one had short-changed him. For a
moment, he panicked. But the Thane had given him gold, not silver. Everything
was alright.

            He
always knew his luck would change for the better.

            He
fell to the ground. There was a soft chink, but for Uxthorn, nothing more.

*

Chapter Seventy-Six

Winter
came with all the bluster of a wordy drunk, spilling snow and sleet instead of
vitriol and ale. Once again Tarn fell into the rhythm of the woods.

            For
two weeks the Thane’s men tracked him through the woods, until the snows came
and obliterated Tarn’s back trail.

            Tarn,
older and wiser now, knew that there were no demons hunting him. He had been
free of that fear since finding Roskel that freezing night. It seemed like an
age ago. All he had to worry about now was being discovered by the Thane’s trackers,
but as more time passed the chance of discovery faded. They did not know where
he headed. They were hunting blind. For them, it would be like trying to shoot
down a bird with an arrow. There were many paths available to the bird, but
only one for the arrow.

            The
bandit camp had never been home to Tarn, and he did not miss it. He thought of
the people often, but felt no particular attachment to the place. People should
always be more important than possessions or locations.

            It
was a shame to lose such a fortune in gold, and to lose the weapons and armour
that the bandits hoarded over the years – they would have been useful – but
they were gone and there was nothing Tarn could do about it. He had lost the
means to fight a war, but he still had the people. But for now, before the time
to meet at the Walking Lake, he intended to do something he promised himself,
and another, such a long time ago.

            He
would wed Rena. She would be his wife, if only in name. He knew all too well
that there was little or no chance of them having a future together. He fully
expected to die when he met the Thane. But if he did not make the attempt, then
there would never be even a chance to live with the woman he loved. Maybe, if
the gods were on his side, he would slay the Thane in his throne room like a
dread assassin and be gone before the deed was even known. But that was just
dreaming. The colder, rational part of him understood that he could not beard
the Thane in his den alone, like some mythical hero. He would need funds, and
support. He needed to know the whereabouts of the Thane, his movements, the
changing of his guard, a way into the castle, diversions…above all he needed
friends. His men, men who would be loyal to him and had as much invested in the
death of the Thane as himself, but not the backing. He hoped that a solution
would present itself.

            For
now, he needed to see Mia, and obtain her blessing, and bind wrists with his
woman. If he wed, he could face any hardship. He was born to hardship, but the
promise of a future could grant hope, and that was all Tarn had to rely upon.

            For
a little over a month, Tarn walked steadily south. The heavy snows made
travelling across fields problematic, but there were plenty of tricks he knew
to make the going easier. Many a time he had been forced to travel in the
winter with his father, and his father had shown him the way.

            He
bound twigs in a loose shoe around his feet and could walk upon the snow,
without having to wade through it. Some snow drifts were as high as his hips,
and he avoided those with practised ease.

            The
snow fell constantly on his journey, but he had his winter cloak of grey wolf
skin, and his deerskin clothes. His bow had been worth the risk, as it allowed
him to hunt with greater range and freedom.

            He
did not stop often to hunt. He had months to make the journey, but he wanted to
spend time with Rena, and get to know her again before he was forced to leave.
He made short camps, and did not stop for a midday meal. The weight fell off
him. He had no energy for his exercises, but he still retained enough strength
to draw the bow.

            A
horse would have been a fine investment, yet Tarn was loath to risk towns and
villages he came across. He did not know how far the Thane’s reach extended,
and the price, his life was too high. He could not afford to make mistakes.

            After
a month’s hard travel, Tarn found himself on the outskirts of Wherry-- his aim,
as always, unerring.

            He
set off around the outskirts of the town to Mia’s cottage, and hoped Rena, and
even Tulathia, would be waiting there. He longed for a familiar face.

            Bone
tired from the walk, Tarn couldn’t risk just arriving at Mia’s hut.

            Instead
of just running into Rena’s arms, and Mia’s home cooked stew, he scouted the
village, and made sure that no one had followed him. He was careful, and
scouted for two miles in every direction. Since the snows were lifting he took
the time to erase his trail. Eventually, satisfied and weary, he approached
Mia’s hut from the south, Dow’s last light fading in the western sky.

            A
soft glow came from the firelight slipping out through the cracks in the
shutters. He marvelled at the change in the hut since he first visited, so many
years ago, following a younger Rena. The hut then had been a one-storey affair,
sprawled haphazardly across the clearing. Now there was a small herb garden,
and a pile of logs stacked against one wall. The hut had a small loft,
converted to a bedroom for Rena, an addition since Tulathia’s arrival. A young
woman could not be expected to share her room with an old crone.

            So
many changes had been forced on Tarn. Back then he had been unaware of the path
he would be forced to travel. But even then, he knew there was something
different about him. Who in their right mind would want the fate of the last
king?

            He
knocked quietly, hoping to find all three witches at home. It was not often
they were called out to cure some ailment in person or animal in the night, but
it happened.

            Tarn
found himself nervous, as sounds of people stirring came from within. What if
Rena no longer recognised him, or had found another love? It had been a long
time, after all.

After
what seemed an age, the door opened and Tarn’s fears were laid to rest. He did
not even have time to look on Rena’s face before she flew at him and locked him
in a tight embrace, almost knocking him from his feet.

            ‘Oh
Tarn, old mother said you would come! I have been waiting for the day,’ she
cried into his ear, and kissed him on the only bare part of his face.

            He
had been a fool to worry. He felt his fears torn away in the strength of her
arms.

            ‘I
have missed you so much,’ he told her, and held her close.

            Taking
him by the hand and leading him into the hut Rena beamed at her mother, who
waited by the fire. Mia stood and embraced Tarn.

            ‘Welcome
home, Tarn. I have brewed some chait and there is rabbit stew by the fire.
Come, you must be weary. Rest and eat, there will be time for talk later.’

            ‘But
I want to know everything,’ Rena told him with mock sternness. ‘Don’t you fill
your belly and fall asleep.’

            ‘I
will not sleep all night now that I have made it back,’ said Tarn with a smile,
barely visible under his shaggy beard. ‘I have much to tell.’

            ‘Sit,
take off your cloak,’ Mia ordered him, and together the two witches led him to
the fire. Tarn took off his cloak, laid his weapons to one side, and sat down
with a satisfied sigh.

            ‘Where
is the old mother?’ asked Tarn as Mia handed him a cup of steaming chait.

            ‘I
had hoped to hold off telling you, at least until you were settled, but she
passed beyond the gate shortly after you left us. I am sorry Tarn, I know she
was dear to you.’

            ‘She
was dear to all of us,’ said Tarn sadly. ‘I will miss her kindness, and her
wisdom.’

            ‘I
fear it is a great loss. We, too, miss her warmth, but callow as it sounds we
also need her counsel in the days to come.’

            ‘Too
true,’ agreed Tarn, taking a long pull of his chait like it was fine ale.

            Mia
put the stew in the fire, and Rena sat contentedly beside Tarn, her delicate
hand curled inside his, which was calloused and grimy and rough as bark. They
all sat quietly while the stew cooked, lost in their own thoughts for a moment,
honouring Tulathia’s spirit with thoughts and prayers.

            The
stew started bubbling, and Mia withdrew it from the fire. After she ladled out
the stew she passed it to Tarn, and watched him eat.

            Tarn,
ravenous, devoured the first bowl in minutes. Mia served him again with, and
Rena finally broke the comfortable silence.

            ‘My
heart, I can wait no more. Tell me where you have been.’

            Tarn
proceeded to tell them. He told them everything, of his flight, and meeting
Roskel, and lately, his alliance, then leadership, with the bandit camp at
Haven, to the attack and his return.

            ‘I
fear I cannot stay forever. I must meet the bandits again, come spring. I only
have a month, at most, before I must make my way to the meeting place.’

            ‘You
don’t have to worry,’ said Rena with a smile. ‘You don’t have to run anymore.
Tulathia told us before she passed that her god has cast a powerful spell, one that
cannot be breached. You cannot be found by magical means any longer.’

            ‘But
I will always be hunted.’

            ‘We
can go away. No one will find us if we don’t want to be found.’ Rena voice was
plaintive.

            ‘I
fear it is not so simple, love. People will hunt me, and if we have children,
they will be hunted too. Perhaps our line can outlive that of the Thane’s,
perhaps not, but I have a chance to end it here.’

            ‘What
are you talking about?’

            ‘I
have allies now, men who will trust me. I will take the fight to the Thane, and
kill him if I can.’

            ‘You
will be killed yourself, you stubborn man!’ shouted Rena, thumping him on the
arm.

            ‘Peace,
daughter, let him speak,’ said Mia softly.

            ‘Let
us just live together, and take what time we have. Forget revenge,’ pleaded
Rena.

            ‘It
is not revenge, Rena, but survival. But I promise you, I will think on it,’
said Tarn kindly to Rena. ‘But for now, we have time together. Let us cherish
that.’

            ‘I
think that is wise.’

            ‘Mia,
forgive me, but I am tired. Perhaps I could sleep now?’

            ‘Of
course. You can sleep in with Rena.’

            ‘I
would love that. Rena, shall we?’ asked Tarn, taking her hand gently in his.

            Rena,
somewhat mollified but by no means finished, rose with him and led him up the
ladder to the loft. Tarn bade Mia goodnight.

            Once
Tarn lay down, Rena snuggled tight against him.

            ‘I
am glad you are back,’ she said.

            ‘And
I am glad to be here. I have missed you.’

            ‘And
I too. But I won’t give you up so easily. We will talk more on this tomorrow.’

            But
Tarn had already fallen asleep.

*