The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (31 page)
Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
They
rode steadily north, for all appearances ragged merchants on their way to sell
their goods. Roskel, who had the most chance of passing himself off as a
merchant, rode in the lead wagon. After many miles passed on the way to Naeth,
with still many more to go, some of the men took to walking, preferring the
steady feel of earth underfoot to the rolling and bumping of the wagon. Only
when they were well on the north road did they stop for camp. They hobbled the
horses and entered a small copse of trees, coming back with arms laden with
deadwood. A fire made, the men gathered close for warmth.
‘A
fine display, Tarn,’ said Kurin, quietly in Tarn’s ear. ‘I am gladdened to see
that you are no barbarian.’
‘What
did you think? That we are murderers? We are no cutthroats, but men sorely used
by the Thane of Naeth.’
Kurin
said nothing in reply. He had been strangely quiet on the journey, and often
seemed lost in thought. He set himself apart from the other men, although on
the occasions he did speak, he proved himself to be thoughtful, well spoken and
unerringly polite, no matter what he might think of the rough men in whose
company he travelled.
‘Tarn,’
called Roskel. ‘Tell us of your journey.’
‘There
is not much to tell, my friend, but you all have the pleasure of looking upon a
married man.’
Roskel’s
laugh was hearty. ‘So you found your fine bride after all these years? Was she
as you remembered her?’
'Finer
than I ever imagined.’
‘I
hope you had a bath before your wedding night.’
‘I
had two!’ said Tarn, and the men dissolved into laughter. He was glad of their
merriment. The day’s success eased their hearts, for they all knew where they
were headed. They avoided talking about it, but Tarn thought that it was with
them every minute of the day. Such a task was always heavy on a man’s
shoulders.
Tarn
wanted to thank them all, embrace each man in love, but it would spoil their
evening.
Let
them have their fun. The going would be rougher from here, and the time for
enjoyment would be short.
One
of the men made up a short song, about a tavern wench and a one-eyed farmer,
which he sang badly over the fire. Tarn laughed dutifully, but the outcome had
been obvious. He laughed more to seem human to his men, and yes, his friends.
While
they were chatting like old men, he watched them interact. Urng seemed to get
on well with Ipsis and Kateral Boran, while Mert, Jungst, the wiry northerner,
and Orlane made a good team. Rean and Silvan got on well, but held themselves
aloof among the other men. They were good bowmen, and Tarn would see what he
could do with them, when the time came. Both were better with the bow over long
distance than Tarn could ever hope to be. He considered giving his bow to
Silvan, the best of the two, when they arrived at the Cathedral. He would be
able to disable anyone who sought to hinder them, without the wound being
fatal, although one could never tell when a sudden gust of wind, or bad
fletching, would pull an arrow off target.
Erin
was a good swordsman, and Tarn would take him further into the Cathedral.
Brendall was handy in a fight – Tarn knew that first hand, although the giant
was no match for him. Wexel had the respect of the men, he would hold outside
the Cathedral during the theft. Only Brendall, Erin and Roskel would he take
with him this afternoon, on a scouting mission. The rest of the men would be
better served elsewhere. But the Cathedral on the plain would be hard to creep
up on. He was relying on Roskel to take the crown.
He
did not know what to expect. He needed some pretext to enter the place, and see
where the crown was kept, to figure out a way around the guards, if there were
any, and how many guards there were, how many priests…the list was endless.
Soon
they would be there. The first stage of many, but if they could not find a way
to steal the crown then they would never succeed in all the tasks appointed to
them.
He
wasn’t sure how Kurin would take it. Looking over at the silent man, he was
granted a nod. He knows what is on my mind, thought Tarn. But he would not have
the man murdered. He could do so, and Kurin knew it also. The huntsman placed a
great deal of trust in Tarn, on faith alone. For some reason, Tarn did not want
to let him down. The men would not find out who he was from him.
‘Tell
us the tale of your birth again, Tarn,’ said Roskel, with a glint in his eye.
He knew Tarn did not like to boast of his origins, but to the men Tarn was
already a king. He had, after all defeated the Slain.
Still,
it would not hurt to have their awe. He would need to call on it before the
end.
Sitting
forward, his hands laid over his crossed legs, Tarn began.
‘My
father’s father was the king, and many years ago, he was murdered by the Thane
of Naeth…’
It
was a long tale, and although he was unused to telling it, he did not fumble,
and the men’s awe grew. He hated himself for it, but he knew it was needed. He
needed their unquestioning love.
Roskel
knew as much. That was why he had asked for the tale.
*
The
Thane of Naeth looked at the missive held in his hand. An old man’s hand,
thought the Thane ruefully. He read it again, while the messenger waited.
‘The
Thane of Spar thinks to summon me to his castle? What treachery is this?’
The
man visibly paled.
‘I
was given to understand that the place would be of your choosing, my lord. Of
course.’
The
Thane regarded him with cruel eyes.
Merilith
watched the Thane. ‘Perhaps you should go, my lord. The country air might do
you some good.’
‘Do
not try to tell me my own mind, Merilith,’ Hurth told him without looking round
behind him, where his advisor hovered beside his shoulder.
The
man in front of him was a little unsteady on his legs. He knew the Thane of
Naeth only by reputation, but Durmont had warned him to show only the utmost
respect. In retrospect, the messenger wished Durmont had told him nothing at
all, for now all he knew was fear of making some grave error, one of which he
would not be aware of until too late.
‘Leave
me, man, your quivering is upsetting me. Talk to my guard on the way out, he
will point you to lodgings. Wait until I have a message for your Thane,’ he
said this with distaste, ‘Then you can run away with your tail between your
legs.’
‘Yes,
my lord,’ said the man, gratefully, and backed out of the throne room. He
almost collapsed from fear once he got outside, and the guard laughed at him.
‘I
am told to find quarters and await a reply to my message.’
The
guard gave him directions and he left on shaky legs, to wait for his reply.
When
he had gone, Hurth turned to Merilith. ‘What do you make of this, advisor?’
Merilith
took the letter. ‘I believe it is an excellent opportunity to impose your will
on all your enemies. But it would be safest, by far, to hold the council of ten
here.’
‘Then
that is what I will do. Draft the letter, and have it with the messenger before
morning. Then you may retire.’
‘Thank
you, my lord.’
Merilith
bowed to Hurth’s back and left the throne room by the side door. Communion had
been denied him for some time now. Even so, he was too tired to seek Jenin’s
wisdom on the subject, and Jenin would kill him for troubling him again, so
shortly after the last time.
Years
may have passed, but for a Hierarch it was the same as moments to a human.
What
will this year bring? thought Merilith. It was never dull, trying to steer the
fate of a nation. Perhaps it would be a good time to persuade the Thane to kill
all the other Thanes while they were under one roof. He would have to ponder
the wisdom of such a course of action alone.
*
Tarn,
Erin, Brendall and Roskel tethered their horses by the monastery, which was
attached to the cathedral but in its own grounds. A monk took the horses and
Tarn made a donation to ensure that they were fed and watered. He did not plan
on staying long.
The
rest of his men waited in a small wood two miles distant, out of sight of
curious eyes. The huge cathedral at such a distance seemed carved from a
mountain, or some giant beast that slumbered on the plains, its mass squashing
the countryside around it as it spun around to get comfortable, the monastery
its tail, curled to one side in sleep.
The
four chosen to scout the cathedral walked across a well-tended path, carmillion
blossoms on either side of them, well aware of the men watching from the
obscurity of the trees. Unlike their fellow bandits, their robes hid only
daggers. To bring heavy weapons would only run the risk of exposure as robbers,
and men of violence. To the monks they needed to seem like mere travellers, and
told them a fabrication that they were merchants from the far south, stopping
off to wonder at the marvel of the cathedral. The monk did not say anything,
but then they never did. They could not tell if the monk believed their lies.
The carved exterior of the cathedral was far more expressive than his face.
There
were no guards visible as they approached the main doors. A polite monk said
nothing but pointed to the door, then walked away.
The
great doors of the cathedral were closed, but within that mass of giant oak was
a smaller door, which had been left open. The four men stepped through into a
surprisingly bright cavern. The cathedral itself had been built hundreds of
years previously, and nobody knew which king had ordered its construction. If
there had been an original purpose, it was lost in time.
Coronations
for kings always took place within the vast edifice, with no little mystery
surrounding the crowning of the king.
Perhaps,
thought Tarn as he gazed upon the tapestries, I could be crowned king today,
and there would be no need to go to Naeth. But he was unsure. Even with the
crown, his life would still be in the hands of the Thane of Naeth.
As
he dreamed lazy dreams of rewriting fate, changing the path set out for him so
long ago, he forgot why he had come to the cathedral on the plain in the first
place.
It
was an easy place in which to forget oneself, surrounded by greatness as they
undoubtedly were.
The
dome of the cathedral stretched far above their heads, and painted in relief
against the backdrop of blue skies and white, rolling clouds, were depictions
of all manner of gods. Some, like Brindle, the god of goats and rogues, were
easily recognised. Others, he thought he could name. There was Terase, the god
of childbirth (she was obvious, fully gravid as she was), and over them all, by
far the largest, was Dematron, the king of gods.
There
was no belief system in Sturma. People worshipped whatever god suited the
purpose or the time. They did not believe that the gods were jealous, merely
that they were playful, toying with human lives on occasion, but never
maliciously. As a consequence no one thought it strange that such a vast
cathedral was devoted to every god.
Tarn
worshipped no god. He had enough to worry about, without having to stop and
give thanks every time he made a fire, or bathed in a stream.
Erin
nudged Tarn and pointed with glee to a large tapestry showing various women in
stages of undress, with Miskal, the god of mischief and love, urging them on,
his manhood proud under his ever red robes. Tarn looked away. Cavorting women
held no fascination for him. He had seen only one woman naked, and felt no need
to compare, although he noted all the women were large chested, three handfuls
bigger than Rena.
He
shook his head and concentrated on the business at hand. He saw Roskel from the
corner of his eye, and saw that Roskel didn’t look at the tapestry. He faced
straight ahead, but his eyes roamed; picking out entrances and exits, dark
corners and stairs, corridors and the whereabouts of doors.
Tarn
tried to imagine what Roskel would want to know. It was down to all of them to
remember as much of the layout as possible. Four heads were better than one.
Tarn
noted a small corridor leading to the upper balcony, and wondered what was up
there. It was gated, and there was a heavy lock on it. He didn’t know if Roskel
could break the lock, but he noted it anyway.
The
cathedral was massive, and they only progressed about a quarter of the way in,
when Tarn noticed what they came to see. Floating in the distance, surely on a
string, or rope, was a plain gold circlet. He left the others staring at the
artistry of the building, its cornices and statuettes, its tapestries and
painting, and walked forward alone. He walked as if mesmerised. He felt some
primal pull urging him to approach, and as he neared the crown he felt a sea of
memory tugging at his mind, threatening to overwhelm him.
He
knew, without the need for experimentation, that should he take up the crown
and place it on his head, he would know the thoughts, fears, trials, loves,
successes and failures of all the kings to wear the crown before him. Saddened
at the thought that he would never know his father in such a way, he turned his
attention, with no small effort, to the area surrounding the crown.
There
were four small braziers at each corner of the raised platform that supported
the crown. The braziers burned with a shy blue flame, but as he neared the
platform to see what was burning within he felt a force pulling him forward. He
stepped back from the platform and the urge to head recklessly forward passed.
There was some magic at work there.
He
noticed the crown begin to rotate in the air and stepped further back. Perhaps
this was some sign that the king was near. He dared not reveal himself, even to
the priests of the pantheon that lived here and cared for the building. He
stepped further back. Whatever reaction for which he had been the catalyst
ceased, and all atop the stone platform was still once more.
His
friends approached. He saw the priests milling around within the cathedral,
quietly pursuing unnamed tasks. They paid the four men no attention.
‘Roskel,
try to approach the crown.’
‘What,
while the priests are present? That would be foolish, my friend. We must not
tip our hand,’ said the thief under his breath.
‘Don’t
worry. I don’t want you to steal it yet. I just want to see what will happen.’
‘Flaming
demons will arise from the very stone, is what will happen,’ said Brendall,
more than a little seriously.
‘As
outlandish as it sounds, I think Brendall is right. We should not risk it, not
while there are priest around us. Who knows what powers they have? It seems strange
that with all these treasures there are no guards.’ Erin made the sign of
Brindle’s horns as he spoke, as if to ward off evil.
‘Superstitious
nonsense,’ said Tarn with more confidence than he felt. ‘And besides, we will
be in and out before the priests know it, won’t we, Roskel?’
‘I
don’t know, Tarn. It is no easy task you have appointed me.’
‘Well,
there is enough time for worry later. For now do as I ask, and approach the
platform.’
Roskel’s
concern was etched on his face, but he did as Tarn asked. Before he could get
within two feet of the platform and the crown, his movements slowed and he
struggled, as though pushing against a strong wind. Eventually, he could move
no longer, but as soon as he turned away from the crown the force obviously lessened,
for he walked back to his companions with no evident difficulty.
‘It
seems we have a problem. I cannot get near it. There is some invisible force,
almost like a solid wall of air, that pushes me back. Although how air can
become solid, I do not know.’
Tarn
smiled at his friend. ‘I think this test may be beyond a thief. I think we need
something else entirely.’
‘And
what would that be? A bull?’
‘No,
a king.’
Brendall
sighed. ‘It is still magic.’
‘Ah,
yes,’ replied Tarn. ‘But I may just have a little magic of my own. Roskel and I
will return tonight, under cover of darkness. Then we will see if I am right.’
‘Or
if there is more magic here than you know.’
‘Oh,’
said Tarn. ‘I am sure there is. But there is only one spell we need worry
about, and I have the measure of it.’
‘Tonight,
then,’ sighed Roskel, a hint of resignation in his voice.
‘Don’t
fret, my capricious friend. Tonight we will have the prize, and be well gone by
dawn.’
‘Or
dead,’ said Brendall, ever the voice of optimism.
*