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

  ‘The rewards will be worth it,’ he said.

  ‘What good is gold to the dead?’ asked Roskel, and turned back to the sputtering fire, pulling his cloak around him against the early chill.

  Throughout the summer Tarn had grown fond of many of the men, but that they were willing to lay down their lives for one man was plain stupidity. Not a one of them was capable of original thought, and none would challenge the Slain’s orders.

  He thought, with cunning, that they might be able to take on a hundred soldiers, but there were not that many bandits, and the Slain was a straightforward man.

  Perhaps the time for action would come sooner than he expected.

  *

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  The bandits waited in the trees at the side of the road.

  Roskel remained at camp, crying off that he was ill, but Tarn knew he pretended his illness.

  ‘I saw a black tarn today, my friend. The bird is an ill omen.’

  ‘I do not believe in omens, or fate. I believe in what a man makes of himself,’ Tarn told him, more shortly than he intended.

  ‘I beg you not to go.’

  ‘I must. I have an obligation to these people. They need me there today.’

  ‘There will be blood,’ Roskel said, as Tarn turned to go.

  Tarn chose to ignore him.

  ‘And I am not sure whose…’ Roskel added quietly. But Tarn did not hear that either. His mind was set.

  Now, secluded at the edge of the forest, he feared there was no other way. He knew the Slain would attack. Tarn was committed to a course of action he did not believe in. It would be a bloody battle, but for Tarn there was no way out.

  For the plans that he had laid during the long summer months, for his future and that of these people, he had to see the day through.

  If only there was another way, but try as he might, he could not see one.

  Rain dripped from the branches, running down his collar. Rain made for mistakes. Feet slipped in mud, grips faltered. He knew as much from his training with Gard. Those days seemed like a distant memory.

  He hoped, deep in his heart, that Gard’s teaching had not been for nought. He hoped Gard could see into his heart, and look beyond the actions to come.

  ‘They come,’ whispered Brendall.

  Gan raised his bow.

  ‘Not yet, save your arms,’ Brendall told him.

  Tarn could hear the soldiers approaching, the tell-tale clatter of iron shod boots, audible even on the muddy road.

  He could not see the Slain on the other side of the road, but Tarn knew the madman was there, listening to the voices that only he could hear.

  The troop of soldiers came into sight.

  Tarn saw the livery of the boar, the Thane of Naeth’s stolen crest, and suddenly all past injustices came bubbling to the fore. He wished he had brought his bow, which he had sworn not to use to kill men. He found himself wishing to get amongst the soldiers, and set to with his sword and dagger. He drew, ready for the order to attack.

  The soldiers slowly drew level, until half the troop passed. They looked wary. At the centre of the procession rolled a heavy wagon, no doubt carrying the Thane’s gold. From where, Tarn could not guess.

  Then, as the caravan reached midway between the bandit forces, the Slain let out a terrific battle cry and charged the men, alone. Bare to the waist, his muscles slick with rain, he was half-naked against armoured men. In the rain he looked like a demon, mud splashed around his feet as he charged, whirling his sword. His scar stood out livid against his tanned stomach, a red badge of honour. And insanity, thought Tarn. But it was an inspiration. Mere seconds passed before a volley of arrows flew toward the soldiers from both sides. The bandits of Haven were fine shots, and all were good enough with the bow to hit what they aimed at. Within moments at least twenty of the soldiers were motionless on the ground, others crippled from wounds to their thighs and calves.

  Chainmail afforded little protection against piercing blows.

  Bandits swarmed from the trees to the road, mud splashing their leggings as they ran. The rain seemed to get heavier. Tarn saw more than a few men slip and fall to the sodden ground.

  The soldiers stood firm and met the charge. Tarn could wait no longer. He had a lust for this battle, and all thoughts of honour, and the swan’s path, were forgotten in an instant.

  Before he knew it he was in the thick of the fight.

  Almost sightless, it seemed like the colour red misted his eyes, but it did not matter. Fighting was ingrained in his hands, and his blades whirled, dealing death to any who challenged him.

  A sword strike was turned aside, another caught on the hilt of his sword. He twisted away from a vicious lunge, driving his dagger into the unprotected neck of a soldier.

  He pulled his dagger free and turned on the second attacker. He parried a clumsy blow, recognising the lower level skills of the swordsman, and slashed his blade across the hand wielding the sword. The sword fell loose and the man backed away, holding his hands up in surrender. Tarn turned but saw the man reach behind him to pull a dagger from his belt. He lunged and drove the point of his sword into the man’s groin without a second thought, then turned to find someone else to battle.

  The fight elsewhere was not going as planned.

  Few of the bandits were armoured – armour being forbidden to all but nobles and soldiers. Some wore pillaged chain, but most were only protected by thick leather jerkins. The jerkins turned aside glancing blows, but many men fell in the melee to thrusts.

  The remaining soldiers regained their formation, and fought with a trained unit’s discipline. They were in a strong defensive position, swords facing out, and even the Slain could not break their defence. The madman hacked and slashed wildly, and no soldier could get within his guard to attack him without taking a serious wound themselves. His whirring sword was almost as good as armour.

  Tarn saw the tide of the battle turning as the soldiers regrouped, and took his chance to change the outcome. If it came down to his friends dying, or the soldiers of Naeth, he saw no choice.

  He ran, hamstringing a lone soldier on the way, and thoughtlessly screamed. Nothing ran through his mind, but the need to kill his enemies.

  He fell on the defenders with such fury that a gap opened up in their defences, and the bandits, their number greatly diminished, fell upon them with renewed vigour.

  The battle lasted a while longer, but eventually, the remaining soldiers, realising that there was no hope, put down their swords.

  The soldiers still remained proud in defeat, and Tarn found some grudging respect for them. Now that the fight was over, he felt his usual calm descend upon him. He felt no guilt. These men were his nemeses, and he knew without a doubt that had they come upon him and recognised his scarred face, they would spare him no mercy but instead grant him swift death on the end of their blades.

  As his blood rage cleared, he stood back and made room for the Slain to approach the wounded and weary soldiers. The Slain, bloodied and hoarse from screaming, walked slowly toward the men and demanded their captain step forward. It seemed eerily quiet in the woods and his words carried with force in the stillness.

  There were no more than fifty bandits left standing, and fewer than thirty soldiers.

  ‘He has fallen,’ one of the soldiers replied to the Slain’s demand.

  Tarn watched in silence. Brendall stood next to him, a deep gash in his shoulder bleeding heavily.

  ‘Then who is next in command?’ barked the Slain.

  ‘I am,’ said a stocky man with a flap of his scalp hanging down to his face.

  ‘Step forward.’

  The man stepped toward the Slain, and the Slain thrust his sword through the man’s stomach with no warning. The shriek of metal grating against mail echoed in Tarn’s ears as the man fell.

  The remaining soldiers obviously considered picking up their weapons, but the Slain, seeing this, shouted ‘Any who want to die, pick up their weapons.
Those that live, flee back to your master. I am the Slain, and I rule this forest. Your master holds no sway. Tell him he is a dog, and should he come against me I will leash him myself. Now run.’

  The soldiers needed no further encouragement. Routed, they fled.

  How much longer, Tarn thought, before he too was murdering unarmed men?

  *

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Tarn knew he must do the right thing. The Slain’s murder of the soldier, after he surrendered, sat heavily on Tarn’s young shoulders. Upon returning victorious to the encampment, Tarn immediately sought out Roskel.

  ‘I will challenge for leadership,’ Tarn whispered to Roskel, beside the evening fire. The other men toasted each other, but Tarn and Roskel sat apart. Tarn was the hero of the day, but he had taken his praise and removed himself.

  ‘You speak a fool’s words, but I know you are not a fool.’

  ‘I have thought long on it. I have been blind all this time, and forgotten my path. It is time to set out on the road I was meant to travel. I have an opportunity here, and the Slain will lead these men to destruction. There must be a better way.’

  ‘Do you ever wonder where we come from?’

  Tarn was confused at the change of topic, but answered as best he could, after giving a moments thought.

  ‘There came from the east, from far beyond the great sea, a ship made from glass, with a thousand people upon it. The land was called Starion, and was as far from us as the clouds. Our ancestors drove the Draymar across the mountains, which is why they have always hated us. The thousand called the land Sturma, named for the strong men who were our sires.’

  ‘Pure nonsense,’ said Roskel with disgust. ‘We are the same kin as the Draymar. Underneath our skins we are all the same. No, we came from the stars.’

  ‘Brindle’s goat man, now who’s talking nonsense?’

  ‘It is more poetic, is it not?’

  ‘Poets and kettles, you dandy, both spout hot air. What is your point?’

  ‘Very well. If you challenge and die, who will continue your quest? However you believe we came about, I do not think we were put here to die, but to live. While you live there is a chance. They will cut you down before we get within ten feet of the Slain.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Well, you. I’ll keep your woman warm while you are in your grave.’

  ‘Watch your tongue, man.’

  ‘A mere slip of the tongue is often all it takes.’

  ‘Are you trying to make me angry?’

  ‘Actually, yes. I’d rather you attack me. At least that way you might live, and forget this folly.’

  Tarn reigned in his anger. He saw what Roskel was trying to do, but he knew his own mind. He was decided. ‘Too late, my friend. Talking to you has only firmed my mind.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I believe we came here to be strong men. A king lives for the people. He has a duty to do. I cannot go back to my love without that duty fulfilled.’

  ‘You are a stupid man, and your reasoning is full of misplaced pride.’

  ‘Enough. In the morning I will challenge. Now go to sleep.’

  ‘Fool.’

  ‘Fop.’

  Roskel saw the determination in his friend’s dark blue eyes. Wisely, he decided that further argument would be to no avail. He grunted and turned his back on Tarn, who laid on his back and thought heavy thoughts. He felt strangely burdened with guilt and doubt, and not a little fear, but at last, he knew he was once again on the right path.

  *

  Chapter Seventy

  The uncrowned king rose with Carious’ first light. Roskel slept soundly. Tarn stretched and drew his blades around him, shedding his cloak so he stood in his shirt and trousers. He pulled his boots on and turned his face to the sun. Dow was yet to rise, but Carious rolled across the horizon. The early glow illuminated the camp. Only the children had risen, the younger ones playing quietly, the older starting their chores to free the rest of the day.

  Roskel’s gentle snore abruptly stopped as Tarn kicked him in the ribs.

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Not so eloquent first thing in the morning, are you?’

  ‘What are you doing? Dow’s still rolling out of bed. It is too early. Leave me to sleep.’ Roskel tried to turn over again. Tarn nudged him with his toe.

  ‘Come on, dandy. You’ll want to see this. I am going to challenge the Slain. You might well see me get carved up today.’

  ‘You’ve already been carved like a side of pork. Don’t be foolish. Stop this now, Tarn, before you get killed. The Slain’s men are just as likely to cut you down as the Slain himself,’ Roskel said as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He had never been an early riser.

  ‘It is a gamble, but one I must take. For the good of these people.’

  ‘Lie to yourself but not to me, my friend. It is for your gain if you pursue this course of action.’

  Others around the camp were beginning to stir now, so Tarn lowered his voice even further.

  ‘Regardless, I am going. Are you coming or not?’

  Roskel rose without further complaint. Both men squared their shoulders and headed toward the central hall.

  Tarn noted how many places were empty around the camp, and how often a woman had her arm thrown out to hold onto a lover, lest they flee in their sleep. But there were no lovers there and the women cradled empty air. The people of Haven were sorely diminished, and now the Thane of Naeth was their enemy. Tarn could see that the end for these people would come soon.

  He reached the door to the hut. He pulled the covering aside, saw the Slain on his throne. Tarn did not enter. Sometimes, he thought, things need to be seen.

  ‘Slain, I, Tarn, challenge you for the right of leadership. Come forth, and let us settle this with swords.’

  Tarn spoke loudly enough for the whole camp to hear. People sat up rubbing eyes, and Tarn could see a few men buckling sword belts and coming toward him. He saw the giant form of Brendall, towering over most others, running, and three other lieutenants of the Slain’s ragtag army. If this didn’t go well they would slaughter him. Tarn had no illusions about his chances of beating the four lieutenants. He had seen them in fights and all were confident swordsmen. Not his match alone, but more than enough to dismember him should they attack together. Tarn hoped his challenge would bring forth the Slain. The madman could, of course, order his men to cut Tarn down, but then he would lose face amongst his people. A leader needed the respect of his people.

  Tarn had earned that respect at yesterday’s battle.

  Slain had earned it over years.

  Not for the first time he wondered about the sense of challenging the Slain. He had convinced himself that it was to save these people, that he cared for them, but he held no grudge against the Slain. Even though the madman had murdered a man yesterday, so had Tarn. Who was better than whom?

  Tarn summoned the carmillion blossom in his mind after a moment, worrying that he had lost the ability. The flower bloomed, and with its scent, washed the fear and doubts away.

  The Slain walked toward him. He did not hold his sword. Tarn was grateful for that much. Tarn stepped outside as the Slain stepped forward.

  As always the Slain was bare to the waist.

  Tarn dared not take his eyes from the bandit leader. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the four lieutenants, ready to cut him down should the Slain so order it. He could not see Roskel, but he knew he was behind him. Always behind him.

  ‘He wants to fight? Yes, I see him. He wants my blade. Perhaps if he were dead too, he could take my place.’ The Slain nodded as he spoke.

  ‘I seek not battle, but will cross swords to first blood, should our leader force me too. I would have him stand down, for as you can see he is not fit to lead. Yesterday saw the loss of many of our brave men, and a direct challenge to the Thane of Naeth. I have a better way, if you will trust me to lead.’ Tarn spoke to the assembled Haveners, stepping back to give h
imself room should the Slain not observe protocol. Challenges in the camp were fought during last light, the day given to preparation. The Slain himself had instigated the rule to stop pointless fights to the death, which often spilled over and caught innocent bystanders up in the violence. It was a good way to keep the men in check. There had not been a murder outside the circle in two years.

  Brendall stepped forward. ‘You could have ruled your own section, Tarn, but this is too much. We want the Slain to lead us, not you.’

  Tarn feared this. The Slain merely smiled, but did not look at Tarn.

  ‘I will save you from the Thane. If you will but trust me. If you stay here, under the Slain, you will all be slaughtered when the Thane’s men come in force, and come they will. You must trust me, for your own sakes.’

  He saw a few of the women begin to look unsure. They wanted no fighting where they made their homes. The men would welcome a stand up fight, but Tarn had to make them understand it was not the way.

  ‘If you follow this man, soldiers will come to your door. If you follow me, most of you will live. We cannot win a war, we are too few. The Thane has ten thousand men at arms. We are fewer than a hundred. You know I speak the truth.’

  Brendall stepped back. ‘I don’t know Tarn. Perhaps the Slain is wrong,’ at this he looked warily at the Slain, who did not seem to care one way or another – it was probably good for Tarn that their leader was showing them all his insanity, but he felt bad, taking advantage of the man when he could not speak for himself – ‘But we have always followed him.We have gold. We could hire mercenaries to defend us.’

  ‘There are not enough mercenaries in the whole of Sturma. Believe me, my friend, you will be wiped from these lands.’ Tarn spoke directly to Brendall. The other lieutenants would take their lead from him. The Slain watched with dark eyes, no hint of his designs, but there was a small smile on his lips. That smile worried Tarn more than any words could.

  He concentrated on the immediate problem – staying alive long enough to fight a duel.