The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Page 3

  There was no ceremony. No introductions were needed. Both fighters fought for the pot and the honour of being champion of the fayre. Only a hundred bronze coins, perhaps, but it would keep the winner in food for the winter.

  There were rules to the bout. Boxing only, no wrestling, kicking or gouging. Head butting was allowed, but nobody ever head butted Anhar. He was liable to take offence.

  A giant even by Gard’s standards, Anhar had been reigning champion of the village fayre, and of the three outlying villages, for six years. Gard knew it could not last. Already a young fighter from Turnmarket, a distant village to the northwest that nestled in the bosom of the Culthorn mountains, had taken Anhar to three rounds. Nobody was invincible forever. A warrior would always meet better, even if it was only because they got old.

  Urthor threw the first punch, and Anhar stepped inside to hammer a blow into Urthor’s ribs. The challenger’s feet left the ground momentarily, but as he landed he crashed a heavy right into Anhar’s brow, followed by a left uppercut to the chin. Anhar rocked back but followed in with a wicked fist to Urthor’s teeth. A shard of a tooth flew across the ring, catching Gard’s eye as it twinkled. Urthor’s rage, apparent from across the square, drove him to let fly with a fast, tiring combination, opening a cut above Anhar’s eye. Anhar merely stepped back and wiped the blood from his eye. Both fighters circled again, having taken the measure of each other. Then Anhar charged in, ignoring a straight left to his face, and thundered a right cross into Urthor’s temple.

  The challenger crumpled.

  A cheer went up from the crowd, and Gard let his mind wander. The fight reminded him of when he had been village champion, but back then it had been no challenge at all. Gard held the ring for three years after he left the army, but a trained killer against farmers and farriers...it dishonoured him to fight against his friends when he knew he could not lose. He thought he could still best Anhar in a bout. He was old enough to know there was no need, though. Let the giant have his glory. He was strong and fought with heart. He deserved it.

  Gard sighed at the memory.

  But no more fighting for him. He’d had enough of blood and death to last him until the end of days. He was happy being a farmer. There was honour in farming, and little in dealing death. But there was a pang of regret underneath the thought. Watching the bout awakened the animal in Gard, just as it did every year. He turned from the ring and sat down again.

  Just as Gard settled in for a long wait for Tarn and the next bout, there came a cry from the north of the village. A boy, no more than six, came running into the square shouting, ‘Soldiers! Soldiers!’

  A startled cry rang out around the village. Soldiers, thought Gard. Here? Then he heard the thunder of hooves on the mud, coming closer.

  The villagers did not look concerned. Their Thane was a benevolent man, and none here feared him. Perhaps the soldiers came to join the festivities. Stranger things happened. Gard had seen the Thane’s men take part in the boxing competition before now.

  The big man closed his eyes, unworried. Tarn would come back soon, and soldiers in the Spar were no cause for concern.

  Then, when the sound of hooves came closer, he opened his eyes. What he saw made his heart suddenly race. The men on horseback were not the Thane of Spar’s men. The crest of the boar was emblazoned upon their cloaks. Even Gard, who spent most of his life on a farm, knew the crest. It was the old king’s crest. The crest of the Thane of Naeth, and he seen it recently. On three dead soldiers.

  They were here for the boy. Gard prayed Tarn would not come back. He prayed he would stay away, just a while longer.

  One of the men dismounted. He wore a short sword at his hip and a crossbow slung low across his back.

  The crowd, now a good-sized gathering, shrank back from the men. There was no love in the Spar for the Thane of Naeth’s men. They did not rule here, but all knew Naeth to be the true power in Sturma.

  Gard moved a little closer. Closer was better, should a fight come to crossbows.

  The leader called out.

  ‘Peasants, I am here for a boy,’ his voice carrying well.

  Peasants? thought Gard. He wasn’t doing himself any favours.

  ‘The boy has a scarred face. Has anyone seen such a boy?’

  No one called out. Gard sighed with relief. No one here would aid the Thane of Naeth’s men. Tarn was saved, for today. If he just stayed away.

  Gard spoke before anyone else could. They would take his lead. He was well respected. ‘There is no boy of that description here in the Wherry. All our boys are hale and well accounted for.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said the soldier. ‘No one here has seen a boy with a scarred face?’

  ‘No,’ said a rotund man. The baker. ‘No mistaking such a boy, eh?’

  ‘Very well. If anyone sees the boy, they are to send a runner to your Thane. He knows of our orders. We want the boy. No one will be harmed for harbouring him, as long as they give him up in good time.’ The soldier said this with a warm smile that did not touch his eyes.

  ‘What are the boy’s crimes?’ asked someone in the crowd. Quite a crowd. This was better entertainment than the boxing.

  ‘A murderer. He is dangerous. If you should see him, don’t approach him. Send a runner. The guard will take him in.’

  ‘If we see him, we will. No reason for him to come to the Wherry, though...still, if we see him,’ said the butcher who sold Gard and Tarn a hunk of ham earlier that morning.

  ‘Very well,’ said the soldier, and mounted his horse. His horse paced the ground, eager to be off. ‘Remember, he is a dangerous criminal. Be wary of him.’

  Gard watched them go. After the soldiers left the crowd looked to Gard. Even those who had not seen the boy knew something was going on. While there was no love lost between the people of the Spar and the Thane of Naeth’s men, he must still tread carefully. They would stick with Gard, but Gard couldn’t be too sure of their resolve when they had time to think.

  ‘The boy is no murderer,’ he called out, once the soldiers were long gone. ‘I’ll vouch for the boy. If anyone doubts me, I’ll meet him in the ring and fight for the boy. Who would stand against me?’

  No one came forward. ‘You know no one would stand against you, big man,’ called out the baker’s wife. ‘We trust your word. Most of us here have known you many years.’

  ‘I for one wouldn’t go against you, Gard,’ called out one of the old men sitting outside the tavern. His voice slurred. The crowd laughed. The tension broke.

  ‘We believe you, Gard,’ said Tuth Morain, a pig farmer who came to the village, like Gard, to enjoy the company before the winter. ‘Have a care though. They were the Thane of Naeth’s men. They must not see the boy.’

  Gard thought he could rely on the village, small as it was. He knew everyone there, at least in passing. He was a popular man, too, and came to town often enough to hear the gossip.

  ‘They’ll not find him,’ replied the big man. ‘He will be staying with me, and as you know I rarely come to the village. I’ll take responsibility for the boy.’

  ‘You are dear to us, big man. We will keep your secret.’ This from a rotund mother carting a fat baby on her hip. Gard knew her well enough to pass the time of day, but could not remember her name.

  Gard smiled, turning round to face the crowd.

  ‘The boy’s name is Tarn. I hope you’ll come to know him as I do. As always, you are all welcome at my door.’

  Tarn chose that moment to come back into town. He saw the crowd turn to face him, even the boys who bullied Rena. To their credit, they hadn’t spoken to the soldiers. They would not go against the will of the village.

  Tarn thought momentarily about running away from their gazes. Before he could sprint back into the woods, Gard called to him.

  One look at Gard’s face and the chill of fear he felt was banished. In that moment he decided he needed to trust someone and judged Gard worthy of his trust.

  The young often make
mistakes about who to trust until they’ve been bitten a time or two, but Tarn was no ordinary boy. Gard, for his part, understood this from the first night the boy had fallen into his arms on his doorstep.

  ‘Tarn, these people have welcomed you into their arms. You are one of us. What do you say?’

  Instinct screamed run. Hide, blend in when you must, but never, never draw attention. But Gard’s warm eyes lent him strength. He stood proud. If Gard trusted these people, then so would he.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, loudly enough for his voice to carry throughout the village. Even Gothar did not say anything. The village resounded with words of welcome, and for a while Tarn disappeared among the crowd gathering to introduce themselves. Only Gothar hung back sullenly.

  Gard smiled to himself, while the villagers came forward to greet Tarn. Perhaps the boy would stay a while yet.

  On the way back to the farm, Tarn tried to remember their names. But only one name could he remember, large in his mind. Rena, his first friend since birth.

  On the walk back Gard told him of the men that were hunting him. ‘Do you still want to stay? You are welcome, both here and in our home. If you would stay it will become your home.’

  ‘I will stay,’ he said, and took the big man’s hand in both of his. ‘I would stay with you and Molly.’

  ‘Then you must tell me why those men are hunting you,’ said Gard.

  Tarn took a deep breath, and in his face Gard saw a hint of the man he would become.

  ‘I will. Perhaps you can make sense of it.’

  ‘When we get back,’ said Gard.

  ‘Not yet, Big Man. I ask only that you wait until I am ready.’

  Gard saw the look in the boy’s eyes, eyes old beyond their years, and nodded reluctantly. He would have to wait a while longer. But Gard was not a curious man.

  *

  Chapter Nine

  The wind carried the old king’s dying prayer far to the north, for a witch to hear. That witch’s name was Tulathia.

  Her tears came swiftly, for she loved the old man with all her heart. She cried for him. She cried for Sturma. But there was still a chance at redemption.

  She took her hope and hid it in her heart. While the old king was dead, the new still lived. But hope was a fragile thing, to be guarded at all costs.

  She packed what little she would need for the journey and prepared to leave. With her help, perhaps the son would remain alive for long enough.

  She knew, even if Ulrane did not, that wishes were not hers to grant. All she had was hope, and with luck, the ear of a god.

  She could feel the child-king's heart beating, for as surely as he was linked to the people, she was linked to the land. She felt his heart and it felt warm. For that she was glad. It brought joy to her wrinkled face. Still, she had a long way to travel yet, and the future was ever changing.

  For her line to live, his must. For witches to live, the king must be returned to the throne. The boy king was her only hope, and an old witch was his, and Caeus’ will would rule above all.

  *

  Chapter Ten

  There was a castle so deeply rooted in time, that time spread and flowed around it like a stream flows around a pebble. On some planes it appeared as a castle, on some a fencement, in others a watery grave, a bog or a prison.

  Wherever the creatures of that plane placed their unwanted souls.

  On this plane, the mooring upon which Rythe was tethered to the universe, it was the most perfect castle, beautiful in its barbarity, stretching further than the eye could see in all directions at once.

  On every level of the castle, so immense it could never be guarded, beings of all manner slumbered. Mostly they were men or hierarchs. There were other creatures boasting different levels of sentience, but each and every being had one thing in common: they had sinned too greatly to ever pass Madal’s gates.

  There would be no peace in death for them, only the chance of peace. Once a year that chance was granted. Few achieved it.

  There were rules, but the game the gatekeepers played forbade those rules ever being spoken. Only by luck, logic, the power of discernment, or by sheer dogged determination could those rules ever be fathomed. Even then some of the creatures held would never understand, and so would never be free.

  For their keepers, never held little meaning. They were eternal.

  One prisoner among them was entirely unique. Not a hierarch, yet of their blood. Not a human, nor could he be mistaken for such. He was something else. Something else entirely.

  The Soul Swords, the guardians of the jail, held him against their better judgement.

  They held creatures no mortal could kill. They held creatures that ate their own societies, beings of such power that they were nearly mythical, like the Hath’ku’atch, the Kurmigon and lizards of great girth that fed on their own kind, known in some realms as dragons.

  The most powerful among their prisoners, however, made even the Lu distinctly uncomfortable. He was the only one that could destroy suns.

  Soon, as each year before, his chance at redemption would be granted.

  He showed signs of learning.

  Kilarian, his jailor and tutor, was pleased. He did not think the creature deserved to be here. He wanted him to succeed. But he wasn’t allowed to tell him the rules. When the time came to awaken him, the prisoner would have to figure out the rules for himself.

  Then, should the being be wise enough, gods help the world of Rythe. They thought beings of power such as the Sun Destroyers had left for good.

  He betrayed his brethren. That was his sin. A sin against his own kind. That the Soul Swords thought this a good thing would not stay their hand. They were creatures of duty. The prisoner, though, knew nothing of duty. He was a traitor to his blood.

  The prisoner’s name was Caeus, and his time on Rythe was not yet over.

  *

  Chapter Eleven

  A harsh north wind blew across the Spar, bringing with it a flurry of snow that would drift and make it impossible to exit from the first floor of the farmhouse. Soon Gard, Molly and Tarn would have to make use of the winter door, on the second floor.

  On his water runs, Tarn had to drop the water bucket down the well, rather than lowering it, just to break the thick ice that formed on the water.

  Each morning he and Gard would clear what snow they could and feed the animals in the barn. Work did not stop for winter. Molly would make porridge to send them on their way. Tarn ate everything put in front of him, and began to show signs of growth in his wiry limbs and through the chest and shoulders.

  At night, he would drink Stum. It burned on the way down, but induced sleep.

  He was thankful for the thick blankets that Molly brought, and all the wood he helped chop. But nightfall remained Tarn’s least favourite time. He grew to hate the darkness, not because of the dark, but of the dreams it would bring.

  On many cold nights, ice crusting the washbowl, Tarn cried himself to sleep, dreaming of his father and the mother he never knew. When the pain of loss was most bitter, he would think of Rena, his only friend, and give thanks for Gard and Molly, without whom he would most likely be dead.

  If he was exhausted the dreams stayed away, so he worked as hard as he could.

  Frost became a permanent fixture on his windows. Sometimes he drew the beast that saved him from the soldiers the night his father was murdered. To him it had looked like a boar. But with tusks like razors which cut through his bonds, freeing him to run.

  Gard told him one soldier survived.

  He would never be truly free of the fear of capture, but it paled into insignificance compared to the fear of sleep.

  Gard saw the drawings, but never said a word. Maybe he thought he could make the boy’s demons go away, if only he refused to believe in them.

  Throughout the winter, the boy spoke of his life, and gradually Gard came to understand what drove the boy. Everyone had demons, Gard knew. His own were fierce enough. Even so, no child s
hould have such a beast snapping at his heels.

  The old farmer and his wife talked about this, when Tarn fell into his troubled sleep each night. They knew, deep down, that the gift given them would not stay.

  But stay he did.

  Winter was long and hard, and over the course of many nights, the boy opened his heart to the big man and his wife. The telling was hard, and the trusting harder still.

  Each night, over Stum before the boy slept, he told a little more, until one night, as the fire in the hearth burned low and the wind howled against the shutters, Gard would let him stall no longer.

  ‘Tarn, you promised me a tale. You have yet to tell it. Tonight we will listen, and you will talk. I will take no argument.’

  Tarn looked hurt, and a little afraid, but he did not disagree with the big man.

  ‘We will hear it, whatever it is, Tarn. All of you is welcome under this roof,’ said Molly.

  He knew he had no choice.

  ‘I will tell you what I can.’

  ‘That is all we ask, boy.’

  Tarn took a drink, to steel himself for what he knew would be a painful tale, rather than for the warmth.

  He took a deep breath and began.

  ‘I was born when my father was an older man. My mother was a farmer’s wife before she was my father’s wife. She was widowed as a young woman but kept her farm, working it alone and with hired help when it was needed. My father met her one day, coming out of the woods carrying a lamb that strayed.

  ‘She took him to be her husband, and the life of a lone hunter, all my father knew for most of his life, changed, but without regret. This my father told me. He told me he loved my mother, but I cannot remember her. He said she was a fine woman, full of love. She bore me late in life, and to the local witch’s surprise, I was a healthy boy.’

  ‘Many children born so late in life are not so fortunate.’

  The boy nodded, and Gard watched him closely. He was used to Tarn’s way with words. He seemed more mature than a boy of his years should be, but Gard guessed he’d lived more than most in his short years. The big man watched closely, and kept his council, as Tarn’s eyes drifted for a moment; the only sign of pain he showed at the recounting of his life.