The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Read online

  ‘Thank you, but I’d rather you'd kept the information to yourself. And Tarn, should we come across anyone else on our adventure, I would strongly advise you to keep your counsel. Not all men are as honest as I.’

  They huddled around the fire. Roskel passed Tarn the stolen flagon. Tarn struggled with his conscience for but a moment, then took a long pull of the fiery brew.

  He was silent for a moment, pondering his path, a wanted man with no crime to his name, to a wanted man for a thief. It was not, Tarn decided, too far a fall.

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Roskel, taking the flagon back.

  ‘Your paramour.’

  ‘The wild horses of the Draymar plains could not wrest it from me.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Oh, very well. My cuckold was the Thane of Gern’s Crest, my paramour his lady, Eleana, in the town of Ulbridge.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘Gods man, poets prattle of her beauty!’

  Tarn sniffed and took the flagon. ‘Never much call for poets on a farm.’

  ‘You are so uncouth.’

  ‘But never a rake.’

  ‘Your tongue burns me, young master.’

  A homely glow warmed Tarn from within. He was happy, and not a little drunk.

  Then he heard a crack in the woods, and too late he was on his feet. A man armed with a bow, arrow knocked, stood grinning down at the two outlaws.

  ‘Brindle’s goat,’ said Roskel with a heartfelt sigh. ‘This is turning out to be a poor night for thieves and gamblers.’

  *

  Chapter Sixty

  Slowly, the forest filled with men. Bandits, thought Tarn. He rose calmly and drew his sword, but one of the bandits merely tutted and gestured with the tip of his arrow at the ground.

  ‘Put your sword up, boy, or lose it.’

  Tarn took the measure of the man. He was at least as big as Gard, and broad in the shoulder. His face was grizzled from woodland living and the sun, but there were no scars on his face. The bandit had the upper hand with the bow, no mistake, and would not be foolish enough to risk swords against an unknown man, even though there were only Tarn and Roskel at the campfire.

  He took a moment to rue his decision to have a drink tonight.

  The speaker looked on impatiently.

  Tarn was loath to give up the sword, so he sheathed it and crossed his arms. Roskel looked more than a little afraid, but to his credit he did not shake as he stood. The thief’s hand did not stray near his newly acquired blade, for which Tarn was glad. Should Tarn be forced to fight for his life, he would rather his friend stay out of the way.

  ‘Our camp is small,’ said Roskel, ‘but you are more than welcome to share our provisions, my good man.’

  ‘What language do you speak, man?’ said the spokesman of the bandits. Good, thought Tarn. If Roskel could keep the man talking, he might be able to come up with a plan.

  ‘’Tis the language of kings, my good sir. I am called Roskel, and this is my companion, Tarn. We are pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘I’ll be pleased if you just hand me your weapons, and perhaps you might get out of this alive. You annoy me with any more of your banter and I’ll cut your hearts out before I roast them over yonder fire.’

  Seeing Tarn’s expression darken the speaker added, ‘You’d be wise not to try it, boy. They are fine weapons, and no mistake, but I’ll gut you gladly before you make it to me.’

  ‘Would you like to make that a wager, friend?’ said Tarn, coolly.

  The man holding the bow laughed. ‘Your sword against my bow? I hardly think that fair. Still, I do not have to make wagers to get what I want. I merely take what I need. I have six men, and were you to best me they would still end your life today. No, I think not.’

  ‘Then I will gamble my life. Your men against me, sword to sword.’ Tarn knew even against experienced swordsmen, only three could come at once for fear of cutting allies in the heat of the battle. It cut the odds down to three against one, instead of six against one. He also had two blades, whereas the bandits had only three swords between them, and daggers.

  He was not sure, being untested against more than one opponent, but he thought he could make a fair go at it. His life would be forfeit anyway. At least this way the bandits would put their bows down.

  ‘Now, let us not be hasty, gentlemen. Perhaps we can come to some other arrangement?’ interjected Roskel.

  The leader ignored Roskel totally, weighing up the gamble. He wanted to fight. He’d let no young pup best him, even if the youngster did have the look of the hawk about him.

  ‘I accept. If you live, you keep your blades,’ and with that the leader sprang forward with more speed than Tarn imagined such a big man could possess, but then he’d been trained by Gard. He should have known better.

  Tarn turned aside the downward stroke of the blade with the flat of his hand and thrust the edge of the same hand into the leader’s throat, felling the big man. The bandits’ leader struggled for breath while an unkempt, rat-like man leapt forward, and another bandit drew his sword. Tarn’s sword, suddenly in his hand, slashed inside the rat man’s knife arm, causing him to drop his weapon. His blade circled and he caught the third bandit’s head with the flat of his blade. Two more attackers drew their blades and advanced, but the last took up his bow and knocked an arrow swiftly, pulling the string taut. Before Tarn could react or roll aside, there came a roar, and the bowman turned aside to face the new threat. It sounded like a large boar, or a cross between a pig-like snort and the roar of a landra, a fierce woodland predator. Tarn saw his opportunity. Drawing his dagger, he crouched swiftly beside their fallen leader and placed the point against his throat.

  Distracted, the remainder of the bandits found themselves trapped between the desire for booty, and loyalty to their leader. At least, Tarn hoped for loyalty.

  The woods fell silent but for the tortured breath of the bandit leader.

  ‘One more step and he wheezes through two holes. Put your weapons up. There need be no more bloodshed today.’

  The motley band seemed unsure what to do. Obviously their leader did their thinking for them.

  Against the point of his dagger Tarn felt the leader’s throat move, as the big man swallowed. Tarn eased off.

  ‘Put your weapons up, fools. He means what he says,’ gurgled the captive bandit.

  Reluctantly, the remainder of the rogues put their weapons up. The rat faced man held his bleeding bicep, and Tarn’s other attacker, a tall man wearing a cloak of faded green, lay unconscious on the forest carpet. Roskel looked on with wonder at the speed his companion.

  ‘I had no idea, my friend,’ said Roskel. ‘That was a sight faster than most of my conquests.’ His voice cracked.

  Tarn hoped his friend would not crumble, not yet. The situation was not fully played out.

  ‘Time for chatter later. For now, what do we do with these men?’

  ‘We seem to have somewhat of a stand off. Should you kill their leader they will no doubt attack.’ At this the bandits murmured. ‘A promise to do no more evil, will, I fear, be worthless…’

  ‘I may have a solution, if only to cease your prattling,’ said the leader, his voice returning to normal.

  ‘What would that be?’ asked Tarn, warily eyeing the bandits.

  ‘We are but a small party. But my leader, The Slain, could use good fighting men.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Banditry, of course!’

  ‘And your men won’t attack?’

  ‘If I can’t best you I’m not sure they could. You won’t attack, will you, men?’

  His men seemed unsure as to what to do, but muttered their agreement, no doubt with a thought to what they would do when Tarn put up his dagger.

  ‘There, you have my word. Now take that dagger from my neck and let me stand up. It is embarrassing enough to be bested by a boy.’

  Tarn stepped back and the leader of the band
its stood up, brushed himself off and collected his fallen sword. He backed away to stand with his men.

  ‘Either way, you have earned your right of passage. But I cannot vouch for The Slain. If you are with me you will be safe, but even if we pass tonight I cannot guarantee that no other will waylay you. It could be a tiring journey for you through these woods.’

  Tarn weighed his options. The bandit leader seemed as honourable as a ruffian could be, and true to his word neither he nor his band made a move to break their agreement. They all seemed expectant. No doubt they could use someone handy with a sword.

  What would his father say? What would Gard have said? He knew exactly what they would say, but with a cold heart he told himself that they weren’t there. His father had been in his position once, and he ran. Tarn would not. He could see fate spinning this night, making a tangled thread. Sometimes, he knew, a man had to go with that thread and see where the end lay.

  He could see no way forward but to go along with the bandits. For the time being. He would not be drawn into murder, for that would go against his teachings and his own heart, but he sorely needed direction. The offer seemed fortuitous, and honest. A life on the run in the woods got him no closer to his ultimate goal. Perhaps it was time to take a chance and trust to fate’s whims.

  He was glad Tulathia was not around to hear his thoughts. She would have his ears for leaving anything to fate. But maybe he could make his own...

  It was, thought Tarn, as good an offer as any.

  Their leader waited, his eyes watching Tarn carefully. Tarn still had his sword in hand and swiftly sheathed it. He smiled inwardly. What was his life coming to, placing his trust in thieves and bandits?

  ‘And what of your leader, this Slain? What manner of man is he?’

  ‘He is hard but fair. He will honour the agreement of one of his lieutenants ‘

  ‘What is your name?’ asked Tarn, decided. He held out his hand.

  ‘I am called Brendall.’ The giant shook with Tarn. ‘Brendall Dale. These are my men. This is our little corner of the forest, on the outskirts of the town. The guard fear the woods, and we are safe enough. Good pickings, this close to a town. Prime spot, you could say. All sorts of waifs and strays around these parts.’ Brendall smiled and showed a mouthful of stained teeth.

  He wasn’t pretty, but Tarn had good sense about him when it came to people. Brendall was a man of his word, even if a thug.

  ‘Should you join us, you would have to gain the approval and permission of the Slain, but you would be my man. What say you? Will you meet our leader?’

  ‘I will, but I will not say yea or nay until I have discerned his nature. I am no murderer.’

  ‘Nor I, although times are des3perate. The Thane of Naeth demands higher tithes from all the lands hereabouts, even though they are not his lands. He has designs to be a king, I do not doubt. The taxes are so high there are scant pickings. People are just too poor to have spare.’

  ‘Have you murdered a man?’

  ‘Murdered? No. Killed? Who has not, my friend? Times are hard, and desperate measures must be taken. I have never killed in cold blood, and I always give my marks a fair chance. Sometimes people’s pride is their downfall. Until I met you, that is. That was some fine blade work.’

  ‘I take no pride in it, but these weapons were a gift. Otherwise I would not be foolish enough to fight a band of armed men.’

  ‘Nonetheless, you bested me. Now, what do you say? I doubt you’ll get a better offer this side of the Uller.’

  He made up his mind. ‘Very well. Camp is made. Share it tonight. We will move on in the morning light.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Roskel. ‘Don’t I get a say in this?’

  The bandit lieutenant took a seat on a fallen log, and his men took his lead and sat also.

  Tarn smiled at his friend. ‘The way I see it, we need benefactors, and in the short term banditry is little different to thievery. You should fit right in.’

  ‘I am no killer of men.’

  ‘There is little killing involved, if it eases your conscience,’ said Brendall.

  ‘Even a little, I fear, is too much.’

  ‘If you’re a baby about it, don’t come,’ said the rat-faced man, who Tarn would later learn to call Gan. He still tried to stem the flow of blood, but Tarn sensed he would not hold a grudge. He already seemed relaxed, and not overly confrontational.

  ‘I’m no virgin to be coddled, my good man, yet I do have sensibilities. Like avoiding being seen.’

  ‘Then you can wear a mask, like Hirander the Good,’ said Brendall with a smirk.

  Tarn offered the flagon, and one of the bandits rose and went into the woods and came back shortly with a pack of food, which they shared out willingly before Roskel spoke again.

  ‘I have reservations about this new direction, Tarn.’ Roskel sat next to Tarn and tried to keep his voice low, never taking his eyes from the bandits. It was some feat, managing to watch them all at once. For their part the bandits seemed perfectly at ease. Now the threat of violence was past, they merely sat and drank. They did not waste words.

  ‘As have I, Roskel, but our time is wasted in the forest. I have plans, and this could be a good opportunity. I would ask that you trust me.’

  Roskel fell silent again for a long time, but eventually he said, ‘Then trust you I will. Do not steer us wrong, Tarn. I would not travel the hawk’s road with you, should you fall from grace.’

  ‘I fell from grace a long time ago, but I understand you well, my friend. I will be vigilant for myself and you as well.’

  Tarn only hoped that he could keep his promise on the path that he knew he must travel.

  *

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Sunlight streamed through the thick canopy of lud, oak and ash, awash with bright greens and yellows, the colour of freshly budded spring. Deer leapt playfully out of reach, unafraid of the dangerous men wandering through their forest. Man had not yet covered the face of Rythe, and there were still creatures that roamed, blissfully unaware of their place in the scheme of things, as food and a source for bones and hide and all the bounty animals provided the wise hunter.

  The strange beast from the previous night made no noise, obviously having fled man, wiser, perhaps, than most creatures that populated the woods. But Tarn’s mind was not on hunting as he walked to meet Brendall’s leader, the Slain. It was on the beauty of spring, and the joy of travelling through such unspoiled lands.

  The wild flowers were in full bloom, and where the ground was moist fungi grew on the dark side of the trees. He knew how to make stew from the grey mushrooms, and how the red spotted funnel that was poisonous to eat, but brewed and made into a paste eased pain when rubbed on deeper cuts. There were ferns that helped with wet back rash, the lanemot to bring sleep, and the sweet smell of honey flower to relax a bound stomach. The forest’s gifts to the knowledgeable traveller were endless.

  Roskel’s mind wandered as his feet. He thought on the more mundane matters of whether their current companions would stab him in the back, whether he had secreted his newfound wealth about his person with sufficient cunning, and if Tarn had lost his mind. It was all well and good joining the bandits, they would have plentiful food, and there was, perhaps, safety in numbers, but that adage only worked where bandits were not involved in the equation. He had never thought he would end up waving a steel sword at ladies travelling in caravans. His area of expertise lay in the wielding of another type of sword altogether. Roskel sighed and reasoned it would be good to get to know his new benefactors. He was a charming man, and he thought, less likely to get stabbed in the night if his new friends got to know him.

  ‘So, Brendall, how much further must we travel? I’m damnably hot in this new weather. Carious must be brushing the shores for it to be so temperate.’

  ‘It’s a fine spring morning, Roskel. I would have thought you would be appreciating it. From what Tarn said you have weathered the winter without a camp to call your own
.’

  ‘We have, I admit, been somewhat itinerant in nature these last few months.’

  ‘If you talk like that around the Slain he’ll gut you rather than try to figure out your meaning.’

  ‘Perhaps I could adopt a more earthy cadence in honour of our surroundings.’

  ‘That would be wise.’

  Tarn caught up with them before Roskel could curtail his verbosity. ‘I smell a cook fire up ahead. Are we there?’

  ‘We are indeed,’ said Brendall. ‘Look!’

  Ahead lay a great camp, with many fires burning. Tents were strung from trees, but the central area, the size of a large village, had been cleared and wooden huts erected. The colours were all drab, but there was a certain rough splendour about the settlement.

  To Tarn’s surprise, there were women, and children. He did not fail to see sentries posted in roughly a circle around the camp, or that the women, too, wore short swords or daggers. Tarn did not think they were merely for show. They had the look of people used to a hard life. He wondered why a group of bandits would have such a large camp, where it could be found, or attacked. There was a sense of permanence about the place.

  Hogs roasted over open fires, and clay baked mirs poked from embers of fires burned low. It was midday and there was a feast. It was plain to see that the bandits caught their own food and did not rely on caravans for their provisions.

  Tarn did a rough count, and made fifty including women and children. Some men would no doubt be about their work on the numerous roads around the Fresh Woods, so the final tally that called this camp home could be any number. He resolved to ask Brendall later.

  ‘It is passing strange that there are women and children present at camp,’ remarked Tarn.

  ‘They have fled the Thane’s yoke. All present here disagree strongly enough with the stranglehold the Thane of Naeth has put on the countryside. It is not an easy life, and there are many perils for those of us on this side of the law, but it is not a bad side to be on. We make do.’