The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (30 page)
Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
Fire
crackled, throwing the gathered faces into relief. Brendall, big and gruff, sat
to Tarn’s left. Roskel and Kurin sat beside each other. Roskel tried in vain to
get the huntsman to open up, but all Kurin would grant in response to Roskel’s
endless questions was that he bore a grudge against the Thane of Naeth, and was
committed to Tarn’s cause. Roskel expressed concerns about including the man in
their council, but Tarn allayed his friend’s fears as best as he could. He
promised the thief that he would tell him more when the chance arose.
Mar,
Rilon and Wexel sat opposite Tarn, silently waiting for their orders.
‘My
friends, I am grateful for all that you have done with the camp. I am pleased
that you have made it through the winter unscathed. I have something to tell
you, and I think you may be shocked, but hear me out.’
The
men were silent but attentive.
‘I
have met the Thane of Spar. He has declared that he will grant each and every
one of us pardon for past crimes against him, if I perform one service. He
knows that we have killed none of his citizens. The attack against the Thane of
Naeth’s men was conveniently not mentioned. I believe that Redalane has as much
cause to hate the Thane of Naeth as we do. But, if I do this service, the
Thane’s pardon will be redundant. Follow me, and we can be free.’
Wexel
passed Rilon a wineskin and spoke. ‘Do you plan to kill the Thane of Naeth,
Tarn?’
‘That
I do,’ he said with a confident smile – confidence he did not feel. ‘My plan is
audacious in its scope, but bear with me, while I outline it.’
And
Tarn told them what he planned. They discussed the plans in the night, and
while others retired to their tents, and other fires burned low to their
embers, they plotted and kept the fire high against the chill. The plan
changed, and grew, and became something infinitely more refined than Tarn had
ever dreamed possible.
The
men he would leave behind to run the camp in his absence were not happy, but
those he singled out to accompany him on his journey were those he trusted
deeply, and those he could rely on should he need skilled men at arms. Most of
all, he chose those that had a love of life. They would fight that much harder
to succeed.
Roskel
was among those he chose to take. But he could do no other. He would need a
thief. He just hoped his friend was half the thief he boasted.
*
While
Tarn’s fire burned high, the Thane of Spar warded off the chill of the spring
night in his great hall. Durmont, his secretary, sat at his right hand.
‘There
is always the threat of war, my lord,’ said Durmont carefully.
‘I
believe we can stave it off. Send word to the Thane of Naeth, and all the other
Thanes, that we would like a council of the ten. I believe the Thane cannot
refuse to grant the request. And he will want it where he can control the
meeting. It will be at Naeth.’ The Thane of Spar leant back in his throne and
watched his secretary; but the man had no comeback. If he thought the Thane
foolish, trusting to the one man throughout Sturma who would want him dead, he
was circumspect in his criticism. The only sign that he disagreed with the
order was a minute twinge at the corner of his lips.
‘It
will be as you order, my lord. I will send word today.’
‘Thank
you, Durmont, you are indeed a faithful servant.’
Durmont
bowed and left the room. As he closed the door, he allowed himself to wonder.
What was the Thane planning? For he was sure he saw a glint in his eye as he
ordered the summons to go out. Perhaps, thought the secretary, he has plans to
get his son back. But such thoughts were beyond his station. He went into his
office, and without further thought, drafted nine letters in line with his
orders. By morning, the work was done.
Redalane
smiled to himself in his chambers that night. Things were underway. His plan
was in place. There was much to go wrong, but he felt good for the first time
in years. Meeting Tarn had invigorated him.
It
was a shame the boy had killed the spy in his cell. He had wanted the man to
suffer. But then perhaps the boy really was the king. No matter. If he could
get his son back, he could forgive a little mercy.
*
Across
the great sea on the land of Lianthre, the world’s overseers were restless with
concern. To make himself feel better the Hierophant drove his nails
into the human’s eyes, which burst with a satisfying, sludgy plop.
His
rage abated, he told Jenin to leave him.
Y’thixil,
their forgotten advisor, has finally died, but the future had changed around
the time of his death.
The
Hierophant was disturbed. Things were moving at a pace entirely of the human’s
making. He could see Y’thixil’s hand in some of the matters, but he did not
understand why the disgraced Hierarch would deal with the humans.
Perhaps
at his behest, perhaps not, the Thane of Naeth would hold a council of the ten,
as a meeting of the Thanes was called. It would take place on the cusp of
winter. This much Jenin had foreseen. But Merilith would be unable to persuade
the Thane otherwise. It reeked of a plot against their puppet. Danger was
apparent. Even with no gift of foresight the Hierophant could see the future
hanging by a thread.
Something
felt wrong. He believed Jenin when told that the future wavered every time he
looked upon it.
There
was only one thing left to do. Hurth was surrounded by his own men, but that
was no proof against treachery. No, it would not be enough. There would not be
the level of certainty that the Hierophant required in all his plans.
Heavy
handed though it may be, the Protocrats, the hierarch's military, could deal
with it. There was a place for his enforcers, and it was at the heart of
battle. Their loyalty was absolute, and to the Hierophant, not to any human
master. Should there be treachery, they would crush it. They would stamp out
even a hint of rebellion. Their presence alone would ensure that any
conspirators had second thoughts. They were an imposing enemy.
He
didn’t like it, but the time had come to take a hand in matters. Personally.
While
the Thanes of that kingdom, in the crux of fate, schemed and plotted, the
Hierophant needed strong hands to ensure the right outcome. Something felt
wrong about it. But no matter what it was, the Protectorate would seal the fate
of that kingdom. When he was finished, only Hurth would remain, and the kingdom
would be his until the Return.
He
was sure of it.
The
Protectorate would prepare, and when the time came, they would be there. If
there was any treachery, they would bring a tide of blood.
*
Tarn
looked at the men gathered round him. There were twenty in all, including
himself. He did not want an army, but a band. It seemed fitting somehow. He
would enter the halls of his grandfather a bandit, and exit a king. These men
would not all be there. They knew that. They were told what to expect, only
this morning. Tarn had picked them himself. Wexel and Brendall were with him,
but Rilon and Mar he left behind to tend the camp. Armed shepherds, armed
against the night.
His
men were all hunters. They were not afraid of death, but instead railed against
it. They would fend it off until the last moment with all their might.
Wexel,
with his huge sword, Brendall with his strength, Urng, with his handaxe, pitted
and scarred like its wielder. Most carried bows and all knew how to use them.
But there would be little use for bows once they were inside the castle. Then
it would be swords, and fists and feet-- and above all blood.
Legends
were in the making. Not all of these men would be remembered.
He,
though, would remember them through Madal’s Gates, and if there was any justice
in the world he would meet them again, and tell tall tales of their deeds in
the castle, and the day they slew the king’s murderer.
There
was much riding on chance. But then Tarn’s life had been like flotsam on a sea
of luck.
They
set out, with the hopes of the fugitives of Haven resting on their shoulders,
and although no one knew it, the future of Sturma resting in their palms.
They
set out north, and for their first destination; the Cathedral on the Plain.
He
knew they must travel with care and guile, for each and every one of them was a
wanted man, and when they had the Crown of Kings, then the hunt would truly
begin.
*
Moving
twenty armed men north through the forest was easy. They hunted, and stocked
what provisions they could.
Twenty
armed men on the plains, through the middle lands of Sturma, was another matter
entirely.
The
men approached the edge of the woods, the place of sanctuary, carefully. A mile
or so in the distance they found what they were looking for - a merchant’s
caravan, heading east to west along the Trellham road.
It
was a small crime, but a necessary one. It would not be their last crime, and
the men were not afraid of rousing the merchant’s ire. Where they were going,
there was little hope for redemption. Some had families back within the Fresh
Woods, some had friends. They were hoping for a new start for them, a future
with hope. If they had to kill along the way, then so be it.
But
they would not kill without reason. They would not start out as tyrants on the
road. They all knew their mission. It was one of good, of pure intentions, and
they started out as they meant to go along.
The
men streamed from the tree line as one, ten men rushing to the east of the
wagons, ten rushing to the west. Tarn was in the lead group. He would head off
the wagon. The second group would advance from behind, preventing any escape.
The
caravan guards saw the danger and drew swords, wheeling their horses to attack.
There were only ten guards, but a man fighting from a horse has considerable
advantage over a man on foot. They charged the rear group at full gallop,
swords held before them.
They
were too slow. While a horseman has a great advantage over a swordsman, the
bowman's arrow was faster than both. The bandits stood their ground and drew
their bows, just as Tarn’s group reached the wagons and forced them to stop.
The
guards recognised the futility of charging into an arrow, and drew rein.
Brendall, with the lead group, called out to them. ‘Dismount and return to your
charges. No one will be hurt today.’
It
always pays to let people know that no one will be harmed. They are less
inclined to want to fight to the death. The guards had little choice in the
matter, but to trust that the bandits would not slaughter them all. They led
their horses back to the wagons, their backs covered by ten men with bows. They
looked rather aggrieved, thought Tarn. His hand was on the lead wagon’s horse
team, the head horse’s flank under his palm. He sheathed his sword.
‘My
good man,’ said Roskel, at Tarn’s side. ‘I am afraid we have fallen on hard
times, and needs must. We would appreciate a loan of your horses, and your
wagon.’
‘It
seems, young man,’ said the merchant, ‘That I am at your disposal. You just
can’t buy any worthwhile guards these days.’
Tarn
granted the man a smile, which he hoped would put him at his ease and prevent
him from doing anything rash. ‘Do not be overly harsh on them. They are just
outnumbered. Further resistance would be merely foolish. Fear not, my good
merchant, we will set you on your way with provisions. Perhaps you can hitch a
ride with the next wagon to come along.’
‘That
may take days.’
‘That
is my sincere hope, for by then we will be long gone. Now, if you would be so
kind as to tell me what you carry?’ Tarn continued smiling. No sense in
frightening anyone.
‘Bolts
of cloth for Trellham, spices from Kertrich.’
‘A
fine haul for us then. Tell me, when you have such a valuable cargo, why you
stinted on the hiring of your guards?’
‘There
have been no attacks throughout the summer. I thought perhaps the Thane of Spar
had dealt with brigands.’
‘I
am not merely a brigand, good sir,’ said Roskel, sounding aggrieved. ‘Although
I may seem rather harsh in appearance, I am a gentleman of the highest order.’
‘As
you say, sir,’ said the merchant warily. It was not wise to irritate bandits,
but this one did seem well spoken for a rogue.
‘I
would like you to step down now,’ Tarn told him.
The
merchant complied, carefully keeping his hand hidden among the folds of his cloak.
‘You
may merely be keeping your hand warm, but I would advise against you taking
your hand out of your cloak until we pass. It would be most impolite, don’t you
think?’
Roskel
laughed. ‘Tarn, you may be trying to set him at his ease, but men expect their
bandits to be rough. Erudition is far more frightening, I think.’
The
merchant stepped down and took his hand from his cloak, empty.
‘Now,
if you would all be so kind as to walk away fifty paces.’
The
guards kept their eyes on the bowmen, fearful that they would be cut down once
they were clear of the road, but Tarn merely ordered his men to mount up, and
the rest to sit in the back of the wagon. The bandits kept their bows trained
on the men until they were out of sight, then put them down and tipped some of
the provisions from the back of the wagon, and a cask of ale onto the road.
‘For
the trouble!’ called back Roskel, and Tarn kneed the lead horse, riding hard
until they were out of sight.
*