The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Page 14

  Tonight, when the man slept, as much as it would pain him to do so, he would brain the man with a handy branch and take what he had. The thief had a dagger, but was loath to get his hands dirty. Beside, murder was so common.

  So was mugging, but he was desperate.

  It was sad to be reduced to violence, but it was that or starvation.

  Once, he had lived by a code. True, he had always been a thief, but never a violent man. Still, needs must. One man alone he could take. Then when he was fed, he would move south. Perhaps, there, find a place he could call home. He would mend his ways, give up thieving, and philandering, and womanising.

  Just a rap to the skull. No murder involved. How hard could it be?

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Tarn walked all day. Then, carefully, so that no one would notice, he laid twigs around his camp, ate, and settled in for the night, allowing himself a fire.

  It would dazzle the attackers, if only for a moment. Tarn’s eyes would be closed, so his vision would not suffer. He curled up, one arm underneath him, and waited.

  The evening passed, and the fire grew dim as the cold grew bright. As Tarn struggled to keep slumber at bay, there came a soft crack from nearby. Alert, he waited.

  His attacker flew across the camp, and Tarn rolled, but only just in time. He felt the breeze at his unprotected head as a blow from a thick branch smashed into the earth where just a second before his head had lain. Rolling, he was beside the fire, and then on his feet before his attacker could come again.

  He faced his would be murderer. Before him stood a young man, perhaps a few years older than Tarn but not many, clothed in tattered frippery. The man shivered from the cold. He clutched a thick branch, and in his belt wore a short dagger more suited to paring nails than cold-blooded murder.

  Why hadn’t he tried to slit his throat? A robber with morals, perhaps.

  ‘An interesting scar, and an interesting blade. I shall relieve you of the one, but not the other. If you do as I say,’ said the desperate fop.

  ‘The blades may be purchased, but only with your blood,’ said Tarn, as he tried to pull his sword from the scabbard, but despite the oil it was frozen tight.

  The thief tutted.

  ‘I keep my dagger by my belly. A swordsman from the north would know to use fish oil on his scabbard. You must be a southerner, not used to the snow. Alas, the knowledge could have stood you in good stead, but I fear if you do not hand over your weapons you will not live to see another winter.’

  ‘My,’ said Tarn, flexing his fists, ‘But you are a wordy opponent.’

  In two steps Tarn was upon the thief and, ignoring the cudgel, thundered a right cross between the man’s eyes. His attacker dropped, and the branch fell softly onto the forest floor.

  Tarn finally managed to draw his dagger with his left hand, and bent over the thief. He waited for the thief to come around, and when he did, Tarn held the blade to his throat without a word. Tarn had no compunctions about killing an unarmed man. The thief saw this in Tarn’s eyes, and gave up the fight with a sigh of resignation, rather than fear.

  ‘I suppose it would be politic to introduce myself at this point. I am called Roskel Farinder,’ said the thief, and smiled disarmingly. It was the only weapon left in his arsenal.

  Tarn took the measure of him in that moment. He rose carefully, and stepped back. The man drew himself upright and dusted off his torn cloak, as though that would somehow make him more presentable. Tarn lowered his dagger.

  He would not kill a man who had surrendered, even if he had tried to brain him a moment before.

  ‘You are most gracious, and I am at your mercy,’ said the thief, bowing low. He drew his dagger cautiously, held between thumb and forefinger, and dropped it to the frozen earth. ‘Please forgive me, but I am not much good at waylaying travellers, and you seem more prepared than most.’

  ‘You fight like you dress,’ said Tarn, keeping hold of his own dagger.

  ‘I thank you for your mercy, but dressed as you are I would appreciate it if you would keep your sartorial comments to yourself.’

  Tarn laughed and sat by the low fire. ‘Well, I’ll do that. You must have fallen on hard times. Sit with me a while, and I’ll see if I can decide what to do with you.’

  ‘I do hope it doesn’t involve skinning. It seems you have a habit of making clothing from the things you meet in the woods.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry, stranger, your skin looks too thin to make a decent pair of boots.’

  ‘I suppose I live at your sufferance, but really…what’s wrong with my skin?’

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The cold also grew in the far north.

  A great fire roared in the common room of Naeth Castle, and Hurth stood before it. To the observing Thanes it seemed that the Lord of Naeth was surrounded by flames, granting their liege the appearance of a demon spawned in the lower hells.

  ‘There have been some hints of dissent from among the southern Thanes,’ Hurth told them in a stern voice. ‘It seems that our hold over those errant nobles is somewhat lacking. I may not be king, but Sturma needs a ruler, and by the gods, I am it. We meet here today to decide what to do with them.’

  All the Thanes paid tithes to the Thane of Naeth, yet the southern Thanes, far removed from the northern seat of power, were exercising as much control as they were able over the north. They paid the tithes, for they were afraid of civil war with their more powerful northern counterparts, but they heavily taxed traders visiting from the north in a punitive measure, perhaps designed to irk the Thane of Naeth.

  It was galling, but he did not often allow himself to feel powerless.

  Somewhere, lurking underneath his thoughts, though, the nagging suspicion remained that he would never be king, no matter his actions on this day or any other. He trampled the thought down to where it came from and turned his mind back to the matter at hand.

  Then there would be no room for disagreement. His rule would be absolute.

  ‘The Thane of Spar pays his taxes, as do the other Thanes, but still he blocks our plans at every turn. By now the south should be totally in our control,’ said Cardon, the Thane of Carmille, a small Thanedom to the west of Naeth. Carmille had little to boast but wheat and farmers. Their army, such as it was, could barely man the walls of Naeth castle.

  Hurth had no time for Cardon. He waited to see what Orvane Wense would have to say. Orvane, Thane of Kar, had yet to speak. Hurth knew him to be a petty man, but one who would seize power from Hurth in a moment, should Hurth show any weakness. The Thane of Kar would happily go to war with the southern thanes, and the north would win, but the cost of such a campaign would be prohibitive.

  Hurth desired power, even more so than wealth, but would not squander wealth if there were any other way.

  ‘The Thane of Spar is in my pocket. But were we to go to war with the south I think even he would join the war, no matter what he stands to lose,’ said Hurth. None of the other nobles thought to question what the Thane of Spar had lost. Rumours were rife, and they all had families.

  ‘Assassination?’ inquired Orvane.

  ‘I have mused on the possibilities, Orvane, but I am loath to take any action that could precipitate a war,’ said Hurth, not to belittle his only true rival, but purely because he could see the drawbacks of such a course of action.

  ‘Then control. We cut off the south from all northern trade. They need our wheat…’

  ‘But we need their fish, and beef, and the forests are good hunting ground and provide us with timber, where we only have stone. The masons would be up in arms, and building would suffer. The guild of traders could cause problems should they take umbrage at any plan we implement.’ Fanador, Thane of Mardon, swung his jug as he made this point. Artisans were plentiful in his Thanedom, and he was only looking out for his own wealth.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Hurth, ‘We have a slight problem. None of you seems willing to take action, but
all agree that something needs to be done to punish the southern thanes, short of war. As always, that leaves it up to me to take measures, and I have decided.’

  ‘And what is your decision?’ asked Orvane, with just a hint of disrespect in his voice.

  ‘Soldiers will accompany all trade caravans. Any demand of payment for passage to the south will be dealt with as banditry. They will desist, for they are afraid of a war they could not win. We will call their bluff, and show them where the true power on Sturma rests. What do you say to that, Merilith?’ Hurth spoke without looking.

  His reedy advisor blanched, but Hurth could not see him. ‘A wise plan, my lord.’

  ‘You see, Merilith? I am capable of making a decision on my own.’

  Merilith smiled for the benefit of the on-looking Thanes. ‘As I have always said, Lord, you are the wisest master.’

  Hurth smiled at the assembly. ‘And don’t you forget it,’ he said, for Merilith’s ears as much as the thanes.

  ‘I will see you next month.’ And with that, the thanes were dismissed.

  Crown or no crown, not one of them, even Orvane, was stupid enough to ever challenge their leader openly. They were dogs, and with a standing army of nearly ten thousand men, Hurth held their leads.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  ‘No, the skin goes on the outside,’ said Tarn as Roskel squirmed.

  ‘But then the nasty bit will be next to my skin!’

  ‘That’s the softest part. If you won’t listen, how am I to make a woodsman of you?’

  ‘All right. Fine. Turn around.’

  ‘Gladly. I told you they would chafe.’

  ‘Well, good for you. Nobody likes when people are right all the time.’

  Tarn sighed and turned his attention to the woods. He really did not need a companion who could not even dress himself.

  It was a strange arrangement, but no stranger than being forced to flee from terrible demons out of legend, or being the true heir to the throne of Sturma. As odd companions went, Roskel was a relief. At least the thief had only tried to kill him once.

  Once, Tarn could forgive.

  Tarn had slowly grown to like the young thief. He secretly resolved to help him as best he could, for no other reason than that he enjoyed having some company at last. It would not do to let Roskel know that, however. He kept his thoughts on his new companion to himself, and tried to keep him at arm’s length – he’d lost too many friends already, and he feared letting himself become too attached to anyone else.

  Tarn was now seventeen. Roskel, as he found out, was somewhere ‘in his twenties.’ For some reason the thief was reticent to speak on it further. Roskel, Tarn discovered, was a poor huntsman, and a poor bandit. He could only hope as a thief he fared better. Even Roskel admitted that he was primarily a lover, and only a thief out of necessity.

  Their time was well spent, and they even shared a makeshift shelter, politely ignoring each other’s snoring and nocturnal gases.

  The end of winter was in sight. The harshest snow and the bitterest cold withstood, their camp broken, they were on the move again.

  As always, Tarn concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. But, he mused, while it might seem a simple matter, it never was. You had to take care you didn’t put your foot in anything dangerous, or slip on some woodland creature’s leaving. You had to ensure nothing stalked you.

  Life for the forester was all about foresight, and hindsight, and every other kind of sight in between.

  Roskel coughed and broke Tarn’s train of thought. He had managed to get his trousers on the right way round at last.

  Tarn sighed and hefted his pack, which was growing all the time.

  ‘That is wolf fur, is it not?’ asked the thief, hefting his own pack, which Tarn had made for him. They trudged deeper into the woods. Around them the Fresh Woods thickened, the newer trees giving way to the old, wizened grand old men of the forest that sucked light from the sky.

  ‘It is,’ said Tarn. His feet ached from walking, grown soft during the winter, and he was in no mood for conversation. It was difficult finding a balance between keeping the thief around and pushing him away. He was torn between the instinct to protect himself from further hurt, and the desire for friendship. Roskel wasn’t easy to ignore, though. He was, Tarn discovered, insidious. Rather like a charming new form of mould.

  They walked on most of the day, Tarn trying to ignore the thief. For his part, Roskel was too tired to talk much.

  As dusk neared, Tarn stopped and dropped his pack.

  ‘At last,’ said Roskel.

  ‘Tired?’

  ‘Yes. And cold. And hungry. How do you not tire?’

  ‘I tire. I’m just not a baby about it.’

  Roskel laughed. ‘That first day I saw you, I thought you had the look of the wolf about you. Now, I’ve waited all day to hear about your wolf cloak. Impressive, no?’

  ‘No. The ability to be quiet is not impressive.’

  ‘Gods, man, you’re a hard nut. Come now, how did you come about the cloak?’

  ‘My father and I killed a marauding pack of wolves.’

  ‘So simply?’

  ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘So, you are a farmer’s son?’

  ‘I am the son of two men, one a farmer, one a hunter, both warriors.’

  Tarn never said he was the son of the king. He preferred anonymity.

  But he could not keep his secrets forever. The thief was curious. He would have to have a care.

  Roskel said nothing further, and Tarn spotted what he searched for.

  ‘Here will do for the day. Make yourself useful and make camp. I will hunt.’

  Roskel grumbled while Tarn took his bow from his shoulder and set off into the woods. Tracks were easy to find this time of the year, as the snows left the ground soft.

  He resolved to make Roskel into a man, one who could fend for himself. Tarn was the first to admit that he would not fare well in a city, with all the strange ways of the people that lived there, but they were not in a city now, and Tarn would not have Roskel living off his own hard work any longer.

  It took him an hour of following the tracks to their inevitable conclusion. A doe snuffled just within sight, but Tarn was downwind and quiet. The deer did not stir.

  Almost without thinking, Tarn took the deer cleanly with one of his fine metal arrows. He remembered his father telling him, ‘you must take a deer with one shot. They are gods, tethered to this earth, and you must show them respect.’

  ‘How do you know they are gods?’ asked the young boy.

  ‘That is why the leap – they are trying to get back to the stars,’ his father told him.

  Tarn slung the deer across his shoulders and hiked back to camp.

  He dumped the carcass before the fire (the makings of a fire one of the first lessons he insisted Roskel learn), one hoof catching Roskel on a shin, newly covered in deer skin boots which Tarn sewed for him.

  ‘Ouch! Mind where you put that, Tarn. I’m not made of stone.’

  ‘No, my friend. You are made of putty, and if you are to follow me on my travels any further you will learn to pull your weight.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you must learn woodcraft. I can’t very well coddle you forever, and as you don’t seem inclined to leave me now you’ve got to know me – and I am a charming companion, I’ll grant you – you can continue learning to be useful.’

  Roskel looked at Tarn sullenly. He knew the youngster was right, but he was already reduced to wearing animal skins and hiding out in the woods. His station, he thought, could not fall any lower. Now his barbaric friend wanted him to help.

  Inwardly, Roskel cursed.

  ‘I am a thief. Not a woodsman. I would not ask you to steal.’

  ‘And what would we steal but nature’s bounty? There is nothing here for a man of your talents. It is you that is out of place, not I. I cannot feed you forever.’

 
; ‘One day I will return to the towns and seek my fortune again. When interest in me has died off.’

  ‘Well, until you pluck up enough courage to do so, and while you camp with me, you will do something useful,’ said Tarn, with an edge in his voice.

  Tarn would not take no for an answer. Even though Roskel was loath to get his hands dirty, he could see the sense behind what the young hunter said. Besides, he had to admit, he gained a certain satisfaction from learning the skills the young hunter had shown him so far, and on a positive note, he was still alive.

  He hadn’t yet asked why a huntsman needed two fine blades, obviously designed for fighting, not hunting. But then Tarn was kind enough not to ask why such an obvious fop hid out in the woods and desperately stalked a man with superior fighting skills.

  ‘Very well, my uncouth saviour, what would you have me learn?’

  Tarn smiled, pleased that Roskel agreed. ‘First things first. You can learn how to dress a deer.’

  ‘It seems perfectly happy in the skin the gods gave it.’

  ‘I mean prepare it – gut it.’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  Tarn bound the deer’s hind legs together while Roskel watched in dread, knowing full well what he had to do. He’d seen Tarn do it enough during the long winter.

  Tarn hung it, with a grunt of effort, over a nearby branch.

  ‘Get your knife out.’

  Roskel rose warily, approaching the deer with his dagger in hand. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Stick it in its belly.’

  Roskel looked suspicious, but did as asked. He plunged the knife in – up to an inch.

  ‘No, you plud, not like a dandy, thrust the knife in.’

  Tarn showed him with his own dagger. ‘Like that. Deeper.’

  ‘My, I feel like I did with my first ineffectual stabbings at a maiden’s virtue,’ said Roskel, finding it harder than he thought to pierce the beast’s hide. To his credit, he sawed with grim determination on his green face.

  ‘How did you ever survive this long?’