The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (32 page)

Chapter Ninety-Seven

In
the great hall at Naeth castle, Hurth was unaware of the cacophony of sound in
the depths below. The air was torn asunder with guttural words, their utterance
a rarity since the flight of the old ones, but not forgotten by their children.

            Merilith
ensured that no one, not even the guard, patrolled the haphazard mass of
tunnels underneath the castle. The upper entrance, which led into the barracks,
was clear of men tonight. There would have been too many questions.

            The
words he spoke demanded venom. They could not be pronounced with thoughts of
love or compassion in the speaker’s mind, for that would mean failure most
abrupt, and perhaps even fatal. Merilith’s mind was a seething, writhing thing
full of snakes and spiders, dark beasts eating away at his soul while the spell
used him for its own purpose.

            But
the hole in the air widened, and for a moment, Merilith was granted a glimpse
of his home land, Lianthre, even though it was within a dark building. He felt
warmth at the thought, and instantly pain caressed his body. He convulsed,
spittle flying forth among the words of power, but controlled himself with pure
strength of will, to hold the portal open.

He
was rewarded in an instant. Ten fighters, armoured and armed, stepped from the
hole one by one, to line up within the wide space that Merilith had chosen, ten
creatures out of nightmare. For while the Hierarchs, like Merilith, preferred
guile and cunning to meet their desires, these creatures, the Tenthers of the
Protectorate, were cold, merciless warriors, born to taste blood and battle.
They were fearsome in appearance, and barely controlled rage seemed to course
beneath their features.

            There
was no turning back now. The Protectorate’s presence would raise questions, and
the glamour Merilith worked would not stave them off. They were too inhuman,
too full of wrath, to ever pass undetected.

            The
Thane’s advisor ceased his litany of hatred, and the wounded air slowly healed
itself. Even the darkest of words could not hold a portal open forever.
Artefacts from the old ones had the power, but they were rare. Instead, the
Hierarchs used their own mortality to fuel their magic, or where possible, the
mortality of others. Merilith did not have the luxury of raising power from a
sacrifice. No questions as to where the Protocrats came from could be allowed.

            They
must be accepted. It was time for more magic, but the Hierophant had allowed
the advisor one boon.

            He
turned to the assembled warriors, and the Pernant, the leader of their ten,
held out what he had been waiting for.

            The
heirloom of the old ones, a silvery ring, of some fine metal for which there
was no name. It did not come from Rythe, but from among the stars, and its
power was such that Merilith would be able to cover the Protectorate Tenthers
with a subtle glamour. To the observer, they would appear as hardened
mercenaries, disciplined and fearsome, but mortal in any eyes but his.

            Now,
to tell the Thane his new guards had arrived, and ensure they were there for
the Council of the Ten.

*

Chapter Ninety-Eight

In
the dead of night Tarn and Roskel strode purposefully across the plain, the
cathedral looming in the darkness before them. They did not speak. There was no
need. They had done their talking. They both knew what was expected of them.

            Tarn’s
plan had changed, but then he knew any good plan was fluid. He was no thief,
but since the afternoon in the cathedral he knew that Roskel would not be able
to take up the crown. It was reserved for him, the force attuned, perhaps, to
only his blood.

            They
reached the outer walls of the holy monument, silently creeping between the
monastery and the walls of the cathedral. The outer walls towered into the
night sky, reaching for the stars. It seemed impenetrable, the walls too solid
to ever breach or pass through. But that was Roskel’s problem, not Tarn’s. To
each man, his own task, thought Tarn, staring at the walls with trepidation.

            Roskel
caught Tarn’s eye and nodded to him. He made sure the rope was tight around his
body, and leapt like a cat at the wall of the monastery, pushing himself upward
off the wall with his feet to where his hands could grasp the tenuous purchase
of the slate roof. Gripping the edge of the roof tightly in his hands, Roskel
flicked himself over the edge. He was now standing a mere few feet from a ledge
which ran around the edge of the cathedral. He backed away, then took a short
running jump, landing on the ledge with perfect judgement, hands splayed
against the wall for support. He sidled across to a corner, where the supports
for the wall met the outside of the cathedral at a right angle, and then,
defying belief for the watching Tarn, began to scale the wall, using the angle
to support himself, and tiny hand holds in the mortar between the thick stone
blocks. Aberline granite, thought Tarn, absently.

Hauling
himself ever higher, Roskel reached a second ledge, pulled himself up and over,
and then was gone from sight.

            Tarn
heard no sound from the thief. He looked up and saw the length of rope come
tumbling down toward him. He reached up, tugged it as hard as he could, then
tried his weight on it. It held fast.

            Swiftly,
one hand over the other, Tarn climbed the rope, until he reached the second
ledge and Roskel’s hand came out of the darkness. He took the hand, and found
himself on a wide ledge, which ran between abutments.

            There
was only starlight to work by, Hren and Gern, Rythe's twin moons, hidden behind
a tower of ominous cloud outlined in relief, the twin moons’ light shining on
the cloud from behind. The light was sufficient to see that Roskel had been
right. There was a small window right in front of them, with a pillar running
through the centre, to which Roskel had secured the rope.

            Wordlessly,
Roskel pulled up the rope, then dropped it to the other side, granting Tarn a
smug smile which was somehow lent a fearsome aspect in the moody light. The
moon came out and revealed the smile for what it was, merely an indication of
happiness at a job well done on the thief’s part. For a moment, in the
darkness, Tarn saw the cat’s wickedness within his friend, brought out by the
proximity to danger.

            No
wonder he was a thief, thought Tarn. He felt it too, the quickening of blood,
the sudden clarity of sense. It was like the fight, forbidden but enthralling
just the same. On this side of the fence, where darkness lay, Tarn could see
the allure of the night and its bounty.

            He
grinned back, and squeezed through the opening.

            They
both dropped to the floor. The wealth of the nation was before them.
Statuettes, too big to haul off, tapestries worth a small fortune, ceremonial
daggers upon display cushions from a long forgotten past. Books open on pages
full of colour that seemed to be glittering in the dim light, caught by the
shafts of moonlight sneaking through the high windows. Even the light within
the cathedral seemed somehow richer for its scarcity, more valuable within such
holy ground.

            They
could fund a war with the profits from such a place. Tarn had no compunctions
about angering the gods. He reasoned they were already angry with him. He felt
no allegiance to any deity. They could go hang, as far as he was concerned.

            But
danger lurked in the cathedral, too. They knew not what kind of wards the
priests of this place had erected around their artefacts. The buckles,
broaches, necklaces of ancient Sturmen would fetch a great price, but it would
be of no use to two captives. Tarn had spent long enough being captive, and not
found it to his liking.

            Slowly,
he touched Roskel on the shoulder and shook his head, just preventing the thief
from taking an ancient ring for his own collection.

            Roskel
looked aggrieved, but acceded to Tarn’s wishes, and followed his lead to the
crown’s resting place.

            As
before, the crown was suspended in some magical matter above a wooden platform,
the blue-burning braziers shedding enough light to see around it, but the light
seemed drawn to the crown, not away from it. It glinted as though within a
globe of light, not brightening the room around it, but attracting what little
light there was toward it, feeding off the light. It was an aspect of the
crown, no doubt laden with magic itself, that had not been evident during the
day. 

            Tarn
felt a familiar tug upon his soul, telling him to take up his heritage, that he
should reach out for it and rest it on his head. It was his right. Only he
could take the crown. Some part of him knew it was dangerous to think so, but
the need was powerful and urgent.

            Roskel
laid a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him toward the dais.

            It
would have been so easy, then, to follow the relentless desire for the glory of
his birth, for all that was his by right, to step onto the wooden boards, reach
into the swirling force that surrounded the crown, and lay it on his head. But
some part of Tarn, his caution, his sense, knew that it was not right. That way
lay danger. He would be stuck within the invisible force, crown upon his head,
lost in the memories of a kingdom for a day, a week or more.

            He
took the sack he brought with him from his shoulder, and loosened the
drawstring. Only then did he take his first tentative step forward, onto the
raised platform. He felt a subtle force give way to him, bowing before the
king. It parted, like the seas before a wizard, brushing his arms, his legs,
curling round him with feline grace. It accepted him, and warily he strode
forward with purpose. The need to wear the crown right now asserted itself with
force, but he fought it with all his might. He would not wear the crown now,
for its allure would be too strong for him.

            Instead,
he reached out with the bag, and caught the twirling crown from the air, and
drew the drawstring tight. Only then did its call subside.

            He
turned and walked off the dais, with no more difficulty than walking through a light
wind. Roskel’s teeth gleamed in the moonlight. He bowed, somehow conveying
sarcasm in such a simple gesture, indicating that Tarn should go first.

            Tarn
did not know how long he had been under the sway of the crown, but a sudden
desire to be free of the cathedral urged him to hurry.

            Together,
Tarn leading, they both made it back to the rope hanging beneath the window.

            Tarn
breathed a sigh of relief, and at Roskel’s behest clambered up to the window,
hand over hand, supporting his weight with hooked feet. Almost there.

            But
before they could make their escape, a shriek rent the air, and Tarn’s blood
turned instantly cold. He risked a look down. Roskel climbed as if the demons
of blackness itself were on his heels.

            All
attempt at stealth abandoned, Roskel shouted, ‘Climb, man! Ghosts are coming!’

            And,
as if leant weight by Roskel’s words, Tarn saw shadows peel themselves from the
walls, and float, howling toward them.

            He
turned from the sight and pulled himself upward as fast as he could. He could
hear footsteps rushing on the flagstones under him, coming from the priests’
quarters.

            Roskel
was already at his feet, the faster climber, but stuck below Tarn. Tarn risked
a look up and nearly screamed as a skeletal, misty face swooped down on him from
above. It was just a ghost, he thought, as it came flying toward his face. Then
it passed, and he cried out once more as the clawed hands of the apparition
tore at his face. He felt blood run, and renewed his effort to make the last
ten feet to the window.

            The
priests ran toward them now, nearly below the rope. Lights flickered and chants
began. What the priests were calling forth Tarn did not know, nor did he want
to. Nails tore at his sleeves, drawing blood, but he made it to the top of the
window. More ghosts swooped from the depths of the shadows into the shaft of
light and Tarn drew his dagger, slashing at them as they came close. The blade
passed through, with no effect, but Roskel had already reached his resting
place. He pulled up the rope as swiftly as he could, hand over hand, and threw
it out into the night. This time Roskel went first. He wrapped his arms around
the rope, and threw himself off the ledge, using his shirt to prevent burns and
his feet to slow his descent.

            Tarn,
seeing that the spectral attackers could not breach the barrier of the window,
still felt the need to be away. Whatever the priests were summoning, it would
be here soon. He followed Roskel’s example and plunged downward, his arms
burning from the rope, his boots growing warm. He hit the ground and rolled,
saw Roskel’s receding back and ran as fast as he could.

            Neither
man had the breath for words, so they just ran across the plains with their
legs pumping and their blood pounding. Roskel’s face, too, bore the marks of
claws, and bloody flecks flew from his face as he ran. Tarn could only imagine
what he looked like. His wounds burned, but there was no time to tend them. He
was not bleeding badly. He had bled worse than this before.

            As
they neared the trees Tarn called out to the men waiting there, ‘Ride! Ride!’
and the men burst from the woods where they waited, the caravan coming out from
underneath a canopy of branches which had been used to cover it from prying
eyes. The men leapt onto saddled horses, and the wagons started forward, with
painful lethargy.

            Tarn
and Roskel jumped onto the waiting wagons, and gradually they began to pick up
speed. The horses, under whips, pulled for all they were worth.

            ‘Well,
did you get it?’ demanded Brendall.

            Tarn
noticed a strange look pass Kurin’s face. Avarice, thought Tarn, wrongly. There
was something about the man. Perhaps he was just sorry he was wrong.

            ‘We
did,’ replied Roskel, breathlessly, ‘But at what price, I do not know. But this
little bauble should make it worthwhile,’ he said with a grin, and pulled a
priceless torc from beneath his shirt.

            Tarn
flew at him and punched him hard in the face. The torc flew from the thief’s
grasp and landed in the back of the wagon. ‘You fool!’ shouted Tarn. ‘That is
what they are after!’

            Roskel
looked hurt, rubbing his jaw, and Tarn leaned over him and threw the torc out
into the night.

            Only
then did he sit back and let loose a sigh of relief.

            The
wagons and horses ate up the distance, until Roskel said, ‘That was my spoils,
you know.’

            ‘That
would have been the end of you, you fool,’ said Tarn, with little rancour. He
did not have the energy. Instead of arguing, he pointed behind them. ‘Look,
look what you would have brought down on us.’

            There,
painted stark against the ivory glow of the moons, a massive dragon, black as
the pits, flapped hard to rise into the night. Even at this distance, the glint
of the gold torc could be seen, clutched in its claws. It rose with terrible
majesty and returned to the cathedral.

            ‘Some
things are not meant to see the light of day, my friend,’ said Tarn.

            Roskel
wasn’t prone to bearing grudges. ‘At least we have one little treasure. Show it
to the men.’

            Those
that were in the lead wagon with them leaned forward eagerly.

            ‘Not
tonight,’ he said wearily. ‘We have all seen enough gold for one night.’

            Kurin
lay back in the wagon, and eyed Tarn, who couldn’t even begin to guess what the
huntsman was thinking.

            But
dog-tired, and satisfied with his success, Tarn lay back, and within moments he
drifted into sleep. He dreamed of a fat lady, jumping up and down on him.

            When
he awoke he would be sore as though from just such a ride.

*