The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One

  ©Craig Saunders 2015

  All rights pertaining to this work belong to Craig Saunders and Craig R. Saunders Publications. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Editor: Faith Kauwe

  3rd Edition.

  The Outlaw King

  The Line of Kings Trilogy:

  Book One

  by

  Craig Saunders

  (inc. Glossary, bonus short story 'The Witch's Cauldron' and sample of The Line of Kings Book Two, 'The Thief King')

  Table of Contents

  Dedication.

  Prologue

  I.

  The Child King

  II.

  The King of Swords

  III.

  The Bandit King

  IV.

  The Cathedral on the Plain

  V.

  The Queen and the Crown

  VI.

  The Outlaw King

  Epilogue

  Bonus Material: The Island Archives

  Bonus Material: A Short Story: The Witch’s Cauldron

  Bonus Material: The Thief King (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two)

  About the Author

  Also by Craig Saunders

  Dedication.

  For Sim, with all my love, even when the sun is shining.

  And a note to you, the reader,

  Thank you for reading - this book is for me, but also for each reader who has stuck with me over the last few years. Thank you.

  It's the first professionally edited version of The Outlaw King, too. Thank you, Faith. Any mistakes remain my own.

  I hope you enjoyed this tale well enough to come back for more. The Line of Kings Trilogy continues with Book Two, 'The Thief King', and, if you haven't already read them, you might like the tales set out in the Rythe Quadrilogy, concluding soon with 'Beneath Rythe'. Oh, and look out for a new, stand-alone story set on Rythe - The Warrior's Soul.

  Craig

  The Shed

  2015

  Prologue

  The old warrior turned his face to the rain.

  He’d seen enough death to know his own was upon him. He’d done his bleeding.

  The sky unleashed its fury but he could not feel the rain. Ulrane’s passion and rage had not been enough to see him through. His son, the last of the line of Sturman kings, had still been taken from him.

  The boy would have grown to be fine man. He fought the Thane of Naeth’s men just as hard as his father. Young though he was, he had found blood this day.

  Ulrane could only hope that the Thane would not use the boy badly. That he would kill him quickly. Had Ulrane been a lesser man, he would have despaired. But he was proud of his son. He held onto that pride as death embraced him. These last moments were too precious, these last memories too sweet, to give over to useless tears.

  There should have been trumpets. There should have been a year of mourning, but there would be no rites to mark the passing of the line of kings, and none but the Thane would ever know of his son. Would that the boy could have lived.

  But no regrets. A man could not pass Madal’s Gates that way.

  Regret was not for kings.

  He would take the love of his wife, his father, his only son, and hold them to him like jewels as he passed the Gate. A rich man in love and life; perhaps such treasures could survive death.

  Ulrane wondered why they hadn’t murdered the boy, when he had fought so hard. Why they stayed their hand.

  Maybe there was hope yet, even in this dark hour.

  The last gentle patter of rain fell. Hren, the larger of Rythe’s two moons, came out from behind a dark cloud.

  ‘Tulathia, look over him if you will, grant him swift death if you won’t.’

  His final prayer, spoken with his dying breath, hung on the air.

  And so it was that the king died, with only a solitary moon to bear witness.

  *

  I.

  The Child King

  Chapter One

  The wood cracked, loud on the still air. The split round fell, half left, half right, with the piles already there.

  In the Spar, winters were always hard.

  Gard placed another log on the stump. His sweat cooled in the frosty air. A big man, thick across the shoulder, with a firm paunch, his hands dwarfed the axe handle. His muscles were not for show.

  His hair ran to grey. His nose had been broken in his youth, and never set right. It lay flat against a broad, pleasant face. It was a face his wife had grown to love in their thirty years of marriage; years in which he forgot the hardships of his youth.

  The big man, as his wife called him, stood shirtless. For a moment he did not move, just listened. He always stood still when listening hard. This time he heard soft footsteps carried to him with no wind to bring them. He swung the axe with just enough strength to embed the head in the stump.

  ‘I’ve not finished yet, boy,’ he called out, turning round.

  ‘I thought you could use a warm drink. Your old bones aren’t made to withstand the chill.’

  ‘These old bones have known more harsh winters than you’ve lived, and mind your cheek, Tarn.’

  Tarn, a wiry thirteen year old, put the brewed juice on the stump, next to the axe.

  ‘My apologies, Big Man,’ Tarn said politely. ‘Perhaps I could take a turn at the axe. Give you a rest, after all your years of toil.’

  ‘I’m still young enough to give you a black ear.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. I’m still nimble enough to get away.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  Tarn eyed the big man, with his taut muscles and noticed the glint in his grey eyes.

  ‘Hm. Maybe...not.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Gard. ‘And maybe you’re not as daft as you look.’

  Tarn had come to the farm one month ago, bloodied and alone. Gard’s woman, Molly, took him in and gave him food. Not a word would the boy speak on where he got his wound. Even now the scar on his face stood livid in the frigid air. It would not fade with age, Gard knew from experience, but thicken and mark the boy for a warrior or a victim.

  Gard could only imagine what the boy had done to arouse such hatred in an attacker, for surely it was meant to be a mortal cut.

  The scar ran down the right side of Tarn’s smooth face, from eye to chin. He was lucky to have both eyes. Hell, he was lucky to have a face. The wound still bled when Tarn turned up at the farm, pale from loss of blood. Gard found out later just how far the boy had walked.

  Molly stitched the wound as best she could and saved the worst of the scarring with a hot poultice, changed every day.

  He would still be a fine man. Thick dark hair, fierce eyes and good bones. Clearly Sturman, but somehow Gard knew he was not from the Spar. His accent, for one thing. He spoke clearly with no accent to speak of, like he came from everywhere at once. The boy’s speech, too. He seemed far better educated than any boy Gard knew. And many adults, for that matter.

  The night the boy turned up on their doorstep Gard traced the boy’s tracks. He had travelled for miles, leaving the boy with Molly. Told Molly he was going to find the witch, Mia. What he found he never told his wife, but lied and said the witch was away with a birthing.

  Three men’s corpses, he found, slaughtered where they stood. From the crest on their cloaks, Gard knew only too well who they were. The Thane of Naeth’s stolen crest, the boar rampant, on their cloaks.

  Powerful enemies indeed.

  The marks on the soldiers were the marks of a beast, like something had gored their chests and legs. But the wound on the boy was without doubt that of a sword. T
he three men bore swords. One, unsheathed, had lain blooded beside a torn body.

  It could only have been the boy’s blood – the beast escaped unharmed. A wounded man also escaped. Tracks and blood did not lie.

  He knew the boy would not be staying. If one enemy lived, they all knew the boy lived, too. They would come for him.

  What hatred must those men have harboured to so disfigure this young, pleasant boy? To want him dead? Gard did not spend too long pondering the problem. What would be, would be. Now he and Molly had a child around the house. A dream they thought would never come true. Though blessed with love, love sometimes is not enough.

  For now, Tarn being there was enough. Gard was wise enough to accept small gifts, no matter how soon the sheen faded.

  ‘What’s my woman doing?’ Gard asked.

  ‘Molly is baking,’ Tarn said. Unconsciously he fingered the scar. The boy did it whenever he was thoughtful.

  ‘What’s on your mind, boy?’

  Gard thought he saw sadness on the boy’s face. It passed in an instant, though. Gard only ever saw the boy’s sadness in glimpses. Something troubled him, but Tarn guarded his secrets closely.

  Gard knew when to speak and when to hold his council. Tarn would speak in his own time or not at all.

  ‘Nothing, just cold, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I’ve just the thing to warm you up,’ said Gard, picking up his brew and pointing to the axe. ‘Make yourself useful.’

  Tarn smiled. ‘I thought you weren’t too old.’

  ‘I’m not, but I’ll have no lazy boys under my roof.’

  ‘But I am just a boy, after all,’ said Tarn craftily.

  ‘I was chopping wood at seven. You could do worse. It’ll put some muscle on that scrawny frame of yours.’

  Tarn sighed and pulled the axe free with ease. Scrawny, true, but he had muscles on his frame. More than most boys his age. From a hard life, that much was obvious.

  ‘I suppose someone needs to take up the slack.’

  An hour later, Gard marvelled again at the stamina of the boy. He was as strong as an ox, even though he looked thin and underfed.

  He wondered for the last time that day where the boy came from. Then he put it to one side.

  If the gods meant him to know, he would, in time.

  *

  Chapter Two

  The pennant over the Thane of Naeth’s castle hung limp. The pennant depicted a boar against a shielded background. The boar on the Thane’s crest, taken from the old king, twenty-two years ago. A simple beast for a simple king. The people had known peace and love under the king after the War of Reconciliation. Peace now, too. But love? No.

  The Thane and would-be usurper of the throne, Hurth to his mother but none other, all but forgot the people that put food on his table.

  No other Thane could oppose him. Soon he would make himself king. The land already forgot the passing of the true king.

  Hurth turned his attention from the chicken bone he had been gnawing clean, to the soldier before him. The soldier stood, shaking only slightly, chainmail encrusted with blood. The Thane bade him speak.

  ‘We killed the old man in the Lare woods, where he was said to be hiding.’ The man, quivering slightly as he spoke, continued, ‘He took six of my men with him. Me and the three others were bringing the boy to the castle. But the boy escaped. A great beast attacked us in the dark. I could not tell what. It killed all but me.’ The man could be shivering from the cold in the hall, the Thane thought. No fire burned in the great hearth. The Thane would not permit himself to be warm. He did not want the warmth and weariness of his advancing years to creep over him. Not with a kingdom at stake.

  ‘I told you to kill anyone with the man. Now you risk a legend. Do you know the power of a legend?’

  ‘Sire?’

  ‘No matter. Why did you disobey me?’ The Thane’s voice held no satisfaction. So the true king was no more: it meant nothing without the boy’s head, too.

  ‘He was but a boy. But when the beast attacked, Gerrick struck the boy’s face wide open to kill him. It was a mortal wound. He must have died. He must have. We did all we could lord, under such attack’

  The soldier shrugged. A foolish, pointless gesture. ‘And he was but a lad.’

  ‘I understand. I understand you did not mete out the death I required. I understand that you failed me. And I have no compunctions about death. Justice for all, I say. For the young and the old,’ the Thane said. He granted the soldier a cold smile. ‘Have his hands removed. They are of no use to me.’

  ‘No! We did as asked! We killed the old man!’

  Two guards came forward. They may have been deaf, for all the good the condemned man’s pleading did. Between them they dragged the screaming soldier away.

  The Thane’s advisor watched with thinly veiled amusement. He slid up to the throne that the Thane had taken for his own, even though he dared not wear the crown. The crown would not yield to another. Not while the line still lived.

  ‘Sire, the boy must be found,’ the advisor whispered in the Thane’s ear.

  ‘I know that, you fool! We will search the Lare woods, and the bog. We will find him, alive or dead.’

  A quiet hunt, all these years, to end in failure. But he could not risk discovery. The other Thanes could not know the line lived.

  ‘I hope so, my Lord. The trail is cold again.’

  The Thane looked thoughtfully at his strange advisor.

  A Hierarch, the man called himself. The Thane thought of him as a man. But this man’s powers were nothing mortal. He came and went as if by magic, even though the Thane knew there were no magicians left on Sturma.

  The Hierarch, tall and unnaturally thin, was physically weak but a wily campaigner. With his help and guidance the other Thanes were all but subdued.

  But while the people may forget a king, the crown still remembered. While the line of kings survived, the crown, warded against false monarchs, and thus the kingdom, would never be his.

  ‘We will find him,’ he told the Hierarch. ‘How far can the boy get? He is but a boy. He probably pissed himself in fear and died in the woods. I will try the crown again, but if it will not bear my head, men will still be hunting. I will leave nothing to chance, Merilith.’

  The Thane picked up another chicken leg, and waved the Hierarch away. The boy would die, and with him all hopes of a Sturma united under the old line.

  ‘As you will, my Lord,’ said Merilith, and backed away.

  The Hierarch held his smile inside. He guarded his own emotions more carefully than the Thane.

  The kingdom would be in the hands of the Hierarchs. No Hierarch blood needed to be shed, and the line that would oppose the Hierarchy come the return of the old ones would end. His true masters would reward him.

  Just the death of a boy. How hard could it be?

  *

  Chapter Three

  The air grew colder over the Spar. On their small farm, miles from the nearest village, Gard and his wife spoke of matters that they did not really understand. Tarn slept dreamlessly after a hard day's work. The big man listened to Tarn crying out in his sleep. He understood enough to work the boy hard. It was the only way to grant reprieve from his demons.

  ‘Tarn’s been working the farm for near on a month now. His wound has healed. I’m taking him to the village for the winter fayre. It’ll be the last time the boy gets to be around people ‘til spring,’ said Gard.

  ‘I don’t know, big man. I worry about him. He should sleep the sleep of youth, not the troubled rest of an old man. I think whatever hurt he suffered has yet to heal. Perhaps he should stay here until that time comes.’

  ‘We can no more force him to stay here than we can cast out his demons. Meeting other children his age will be good for him. You’ll see.’

  Molly smiled at her man. Strong, and even though age crept up on him, he was still wise enough and sound of mind. He would fight ageing like he’d fought all his life. Even in his sleep
her husband did not rest, tossing, turning, from dusk ‘til dawn. When the time came, she imagined that he would not truly die, but turn to rock.

  ‘Then do it. Take him to the village and let him wander. He works hard. He could do with a drink.’

  ‘He’s but thirteen!’

  ‘Don’t try and tell me you weren’t in your cups half his age,’ she spoke quietly, for fear of waking Tarn.

  ‘A different age, back then. I took over our farm from my father when he died. My sisters worked with me. The boy doesn’t have to work as hard.’

  ‘He’s not the boy. He’s Tarn.’

  Gard sighed. ‘I know. I just can’t bring myself to think of him as any other. I’m scared he’ll leave.’

  Molly rose and went to her husband’s side.

  ‘I feel the same way. Like he’s a gift from which we could be parted any day. We’ve been so lucky we’ve not thought to question where he came from.’

  ‘I question it every day.’ Gard took his wife’s hand, and held it with a gentleness that belied his strength.

  Molly's eyebrows rose.

  'Ah, hells,' said Gard.

  ‘Tell me what you know,’ said Molly, but kindly, without a trace of smugness or anger at catching Gard in falsehood.

  If it came to it, Gard would not lie to his wife. He’d not done so in the thirty years of marriage and he didn’t intend to start now. Omission was one thing. An outright lie would be an insult to the woman he loved.

  ‘I think,’ he began, ‘I think someone’s hunting him. You remember I left you with him when he arrived?’ His wife nodded. ‘I didn’t go to Mia’s hut. I tracked him and found signs of a fight. What I found has troubled me since. I did not speak of it to you as I didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘Tell me what you found,’ said his wife, concern on her face.

  ‘I found three dead men. They were mauled by a beast. One got away. I think one of the men, soldiers all, escaped unharmed.’