The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Page 19

  ‘No one will remember you,’ he said. ‘You will have no sons to mourn you. We will be ash. If you would not follow me, then follow the Slain. Here is your leader. Follow him to your death. If you want him, follow him, and I will leave. Or we will fight and I will lead. Choose now.’

  There was silence for a time, the Slain muttering to himself. The people of Haven were not used to being given choices.

  They were prosperous under the Slain, but frightened of the new battle that was coming. The Slain had overstepped the mark, and not given thought to what his people wanted. It could be a fatal mistake.

  The cry came out slowly. The call for the Slain to fight.

  Tarn stopped them. ‘There is no need for bloodshed. If the Slain will stand down, we will lead ourselves. I will show you a better way, but I will not murder a man who today does not even know of what we speak. Do not call for blood. He has led bravely for two years, but he is no longer of sound mind. I would let him stay at the camp. What say you, Slain? Will you follow me?’

  The Slain’s eyes took on a distant look, and Tarn was certain that he did not understand anything that was happening this morning.

  ‘I will fight you. Tonight we will fight.’

  He was suddenly lucid.

  ‘People, I will show you my strength. Tonight I will fight this young man, and kill him, and you will trust me. We will defeat the Thane’s men when they come.’

  But it was too little too late. The people were afraid of the Thane, and were on Tarn’s side. Come evening the two men would fight, and Tarn knew if he won the people would look to him. Then he would have the chance he dreamed of. It would still be hard, but there was hope.

  If he lived.

  *

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Night crept over the woods, but there was still enough of Dow’s light left to illuminate the two fighters in a ring marked out with stones.

  Tarn wondered what his father would have thought about what he was going to do. He was afraid that had Gard been alive, he would have turned his back on him.

  Tarn drove his sword into the dirt and cracked his knuckles. The Slain faced him across the circle, his long sword already quivering in the ground.

  Both men were shirtless. The Slain’s muscles were well defined, honed from years of sword work. He would have stamina, speed and experience on his side.

  Tarn, too, was shirtless. He had wounds from the attack against the Thane’s soldiers, a slice across his shoulder, a shallow cut to his forearm and a deeper cut in his chest where a sword pierced his leather jerkin, but all were healing, scabbed and tight. None of the wounds bothered him. What did bother him was that the Slain bore no marks of war upon his slick body, even though he fought like a berserker. It didn’t inspire Tarn’s confidence, and perhaps, as the bandits' children thought, he truly was invincible and could only be killed by a golden arrow.

  The fight was to the death. The Slain insisted. Tarn understood. No weakness could be shown when leading men such as these.

  All of Haven came to watch the fight. It was more than fascination with gore – the villagers had seen enough of it to last a lifetime - their futures hung on the winner.

  Perhaps fate meant for Tarn to die today. He could not tell. He had seen no omens, and neither had Roskel, who set great store in such things. His friend watched along with everyone else. None of the observers wore weapons – if anyone tried to interfere they would be dealt with harshly.

  The sun glinted off the two swords jutting from the earth. The warriors waited for the signal to begin.

  The Slain did not smile. He did not waste any energy on words. He merely stood ready, relaxed and oppressive like a winter storm. Leaves rested on the ground. Tarn hoped he would not slip on them.

  Brendall held his arm up in the centre of the circle.

  ‘To the death. A clean death. On your honour.’ He looked at each man, towering over both. His arm was rock steady. Tarn kept his eye on the Slain.

  Then the hand fell. Tarn stepped forward and took his sword up, but before he could bring it to bear the Slain was upon him, faster than Tarn could believe. He leant back out of range of the sword, sliding his front foot back, and aimed a cut at the Slain’s stomach, which the bandit leader easily blocked.

  Air rushed by Tarn’s ear as the Slain’s reverse cut missed him by inches. Tarn’s calm wavered. He could see everyone looking on, the concern on Roskel’s face, but he could not see the Slain’s sword. It was a blur. Only by instinct did he manage to block, following shoulder movements rather than the path of the blade, guessing where the blade would be and letting his unconscious mind take over.

  There was no time to attack. He saw no opening. The Slain’s sword was a whirlwind, creating a cutting arc around the man. It was as if there were three blades at once. A cut opened on Tarn’s cheek. He was only aware of it when he felt blood dripping onto his bare chest. The Slain’s blade was razor sharp.

  Surely a man could not move any faster. All Tarn could do was to hold him at bay. Tarn knew he would slip up before the Slain tired. It must have been minutes since the fight began, but still there was no sign from the leader that he tired. Already Tarn’s muscles ached. He exercised every day, but there was no substitute for reality.

  He felt a stinging cut at his side. His bloom faded in and out. He could not concentrate on anything but the feeling of fear which took the place of his flower. It ate at him, and he knew he slowed because of it. The man was unbeatable. So fast, so fierce.

  Another cut opened up. It was deep, and he felt the strength leeching out of his arm almost immediately. Half heartedly he made a lunge at the Slain, but his blade was turned aside easily and Tarn only just blocked the Slain’s vicious riposte. Then, if anything, the blows became more powerful, overhead strikes intended to cleave Tarn’s skull in two, ringing on his sword, vibrations running up Tarn’s weakening arm. He added his left hand to the battle and fought on two handed, but still his strength was not enough. Fear made him weak.

  But the Slain’s attacks slowed, too. He was not superhuman. Even a man driven by madness was at the mercy of his own flesh.

  Tarn’s hand slipped, blood mingling with sweat, loosening his grip on the soft leather. If he was to live, he had to finish this quickly.

  He dropped his guard on his right, feigning greater weakness than he was suffering, opening himself to attack. The Slain obliged, seeing a way to end the contest. Tarn weakly defended two blows, and waited for the switch from left to right that he knew would come. Then, as the attack came, he swung the sword left handed against the Slain’s head, grabbing the Slain’s sword arm with his right hand.

  His blade struck, and he was sure it was a death blow. But the Slain kicked him away, and shook his head. Blood poured from the head wound, but still he came on.

  Tarn’s fear rose again. Surely his skull was split, but he was as fast as ever.

  Tarn retreated - the only thing to do. He was aware of nothing, but the edge of the circle and the attacking demon. Forced to fight left handed, his weakest hand, he could not stave off the fatal blow much longer.

  Desperate, he tried his unarmed moves, where his strength lay. Warding off a powerful two-handed blow from the blood drenched madman, he swung his foot and connected with the Slain’s knee. His balance upset, the Slain stumbled for a moment, and Tarn’s sword speared his side, deep enough to pierce the heart.

  The madman only renewed his attack with a terrifying roar, but the blows were slower. Tarn did not relax, and finally, panting, the Slain dropped his sword to his side. Tarn stepped out of range of the broadsword, in case it was a feint.

  ‘Finally, peace,’ smiled the Slain as blood coursed from his wounds, and slumped onto his face.

  Tarn joined him on the ground, and passed into blackness before the cheers arose.

  *

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  ‘I am cross, Merilith, and when I am cross I make people pay.’

  Hurth stood looking out ove
r the city of Naeth from the ramparts of his castle. The city, a sore, a pustule, that grew around the castle, spoiling its harsh beauty with its sprawling humanity. The Thane loathed it, and all its scurrying inhabitants, not one of them grateful for what he was attempting to do – unite the nation.

  ‘Of course, my lord. But the Thane of Spar is already in your pocket. It is these bandits.’ Merilith spoke the word bandits with evident distaste. ‘A punitive expedition against them may be advisable, to show that our influence extends beyond our borders. A show of strength will stand you in good stead when you take the crown.’

  ‘No, my wily advisor. I disagree. Am I able to disagree with you?’

  Merilith was still alive for many reasons, and his uncanny ability to seem to agree with the Thane in all things was paramount among them. ‘I bow to your wisdom in all things, my lord.’

  ‘Then I will leave it up to the Thane of Spar to recover my gold.’

  ‘A wise decision, my lord,’ said Merilith, with a slight shrug. Truth be told, he did not desire an expensive war of attrition against a mere group of bandits. Merilith recognised the futility of searching for them in the vast expanse of the Fresh Woods. He wanted nothing to do with the malodorous cretins. Furthermore, it would look weak for the Thane to lead the expedition. However, it would send the right message should the Thane of Spar be forced to take matters in hand, that to fail the Thane of Naeth was to incur his wrath. He would need to be strong when he took the crown.

  Well, strong enough to rule. The fates already decreed that whatever the outcome the Thane’s line would not last. But at least the Hierarchy would have a line of subservient puppets.

  Merelith shook himself. There remained just one problem. If the true king lived, and his line prospered, all their plans would crumble to dust.

  ‘Then send a messenger on my fastest horse. Let the Thane of Spar know that he is to recover my gold, or replace it, or I will be forced to take measures.’

  ‘It will be done my lord.’ Merilith folded his arms and joined his lord in watching the pathetic lives of the mortals below.

  ‘Now, Merilith. Now.’

  Merilith hastily unfolded his arms. ‘Of course, my lord.’

  Not once did the discussion of the king come up. Merilith was sincerely hoping the king would just die on his own. If they could not find him, perhaps he had gone to ground. The best magic available on Rythe had been turned to the problem, to no avail and it seemed there was not much else they could do.

  The crown might not rest on Hurth’s head, but given time, people would accept him; even if he had to take the land of Sturma by force. Through Hurth, the Hierarchy would rule.

  None of it mattered to Merilith. If they could not find the king the Hierarchy’s plans would not matter. Still, the lad would probably die in obscurity.

  How old must he be now? Sixteen? Had he even reached his majority? Had he already spawned an heir?

  Merelith shivered. It did not bear thinking about…that the line had already grown stronger.

  He left the ramparts, and fervently hoped that the king would die alone and forgotten.

  He turned his mind to the problem of the bandits as he strode through the dark corridors of the castle. Disgusting creatures, but human society was rife with lawlessness. It was, it seemed, inherent in the beasts, this desire to fight control.

  In time, they would follow the Hierarchy, just like errant sheep, looking for a shepherd to guide them to the slaughter.

  *

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  A horse drew up to the castle at Karnell, the Castle of Light, the Thane of Spar’s home and the home of his ancestors.

  A ragged man dismounted before the drawbridge. The great bridge was down, but soldiers covered the entrance.

  The Spar was the closest Thanedom to the Fresh Woods, and the man had ridden hard to get here, from a town on the outskirts of the forest, where he purchased a horse. He had ridden hard, and foam covered the horse's flanks. The man saw it merely as an investment. Besides, since his leg had been broken and poorly set, he had no choice but to ride.

  He had been beset by bad luck all his life, but that was about to change.

  A man in the livery of the Spar, a swan against a blood-red background, stepped forward and addressed the man.

  ‘You may not come before the Thane looking like a waif. Go to the town and get yourself clean before you come back, then you can petition for an audience to see the Thane on the third day, like everyone else. In short, go away.’

  The speaker was a thin man, but held himself tall and had a steely look about him. He had no time for those who mistreated their mounts.

  ‘I have news of the greatest importance for the Thane. He will deal harshly with anyone that keeps the news from him.'

  ‘And what news would that be?’

  ‘I need my reward first.’

  The guard laughed, rolling an eye to his companion. ‘Tell me, and I will decide whether the information warrants it.’

  ‘I have found the scarred man from the posters that have been up these last five years.’

  That caught his attention. ‘The one the Thane of Naeth wants?’

  ‘Yes, you agree such a man would be of value to the Thane of Spar? Now, my reward.’

  ‘Wait at Oribeth’s Tavern, and I will send word to you. Clean yourself up first.’

  The man made to leave.

  ‘Your name, before you leave?’

  ‘Uxthorn.’

  The guard nodded, his gaze fixing the man’s distasteful face in his mind, should he need to give a description of him. ‘I will send word.’

  Uxthorn left reluctantly. He had expected to be paid immediately. He fumbled in his purse as he rode away, at a more sedate pace. He cursed when he was out of earshot. It galled him to have to spend his own coin to give them what they wanted.

  He consoled himself with the thought that he would soon be rich beyond imagining.

  A short ride and he arrived at the village that had settled near the security of the castle. He found the tavern, and with the last of his coin took a room, a meal, and a bath.

  It was not until the evening that he heard the Thane’s soldiers asking for him in the tavern, while he was nursing a beer paid for with a copper piece left over from what he had taken from the Slain’s hoard.

  He was glad that bastard was dead. All that gold, and none of it had ever graced his hands.

  ‘Over here,’ he told the soldiers. When they approached, he asked, ‘Have you word for me?’

  ‘You are to come with us,’ said one of the soldiers.

  He followed, a smile on his face. He would make more money than he could carry with this news.

  He was not disappointed. After an hour, he was on the road again, his pockets heavy.

  The location of the bandit camp was worth ten gold pieces, a fortune to a man with nothing but greed between his ears. He was worth it. All the gold they had stolen for the Slain, all the gold he had stolen under Tarn as one of Brendall’s men…if they had been more forthcoming, he told himself, he would never have sold them out. But all along they had treated him like a fool, never taking him into their trust, guarding their gold, like he was a common thief, turning him away when he asked for his just share.

  Well, he had showed them. Now he had his own gold, and he hadn’t needed to rob anyone to get it. It was practically honest work.

  And he knew the value of gold. He would spend it, not hoard it like the fabled dragons, but spend it on ale and women, like people were supposed to.

  *

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Tarn sat in the central hut for the last time. He would not take the Slain’s home. The funeral had been a grand affair, the pyre stacked high with wood, burning all night while the bandits and their women drank stolen wine. The Slain would have been proud, thought Tarn.

  People were coming in all the time. Men who left when Tarn took control returned, hearing tales of his leadership. Trust had been
hard to come by, but after a month and with no further loses, only an improvement on the situation of the Haveners, people grew to believe in his leadership. It would be a long time before he could get what he wanted, but he had time. If he could just keep these people alive for long enough to help him get his revenge, perhaps they would have a chance at a better life, with or without him at their head.

  His preparations were in place. When the Thane of Naeth’s men breached the edge of the woods, he would know.

  ‘What are you thinking, Tarn?’ asked Roskel, at his side.

  ‘We have been here for a month now, but I am sure there is something I am missing. These people are relying on me. I hope I do right by them. We are now at war, thanks to the Slain, and I am their best chance at survival. It will be a shame to leave Haven behind. It has a certain charm.’

  ‘You have done the best any man could.’

  ‘Call my lieutenants to me. I would speak with them.’

  Roskel got up. ‘It shall be as you command, my king.’

  Tarn ignored him and sat back on the wooden throne. It was not to his liking, having people rely on him. He thought he would make a poor king. There was so much to think of, and he had no kingdom, just one big colony of bandits.

  Brendall entered first, as his right as first lieutenant. The others, Rilon, Wexel and Mar followed, each man forced to duck under the lintel of the door. They were all armed. Some kings made their men disarm when they were in his presence. Tarn would not. He would show no fear of them, but that he trusted them.

  Time would tell whether he was being foolish or wise.

  Wexel removed his greatsword from the scabbard which he wore across his back and laid it to one side. Tarn showed no sign of concern.

  ‘Greetings, friends. How go the preparations?’

  ‘We are ready, Tarn. Should they come against us, our patrols will see them. There are sections of the woods where men could pass unseen – we have not enough men to cover the entire borders of the Fresh Woods, but it would be a slight chance of men getting in. To find us the force would have to be large. We would see them,’ Brendall told him.