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

  That said Tulathia lay down on her side, and within minutes snored loudly.

  Mia took the old woman’s cup and sighed to herself. Life was about to get interesting.

  *

  Chapter Fifteen

  The nine hundred and seventy-first year of Caeus’ imprisonment ended as every year that came before.

  In a stone room,lit only by torches flickering in the walls, Caeus stood immobile. A sword, thrust through his red robe, through his chest, out the back, held him immobile. It was a soul sword, made of darkness and light, of the fabric that held the universe together. It could not hold back love and hatred, but it could hold the soul in stasis. It was the soul sword of Kilarian.

  He looked at Caeus with an expression on his alien features that bordered on compassion.

  To free Caeus would mean the breaking of the sword, and Kilarian’s death, for he was tied to the sword. Yet he wanted the creature before him to be free. Kilarian knew Caeus should never have been held, but there were rules. The universe held back the tide of chaos with rules. Life could only exist through rules. To break those rules would mean the end of everything.

  No one, not even Caeus, could be freed without years of toil.

  Kilarian reached for the sword. The strange beast that knew no home but the planes grasped his soul sword firmly and pulled it free. There was no blood, just a mist that seeped from the blade of the sword into the wound, filling it and leaving no mark.

  The Lu stood back and watched the light fill Caeus’ blood red eyes. He blinked and smiled as recognition dawned. It took most captives some time to come around, even the greatest of beasts, but consciousness in Caeus was near instantaneous.

  ‘Kilarian. It is time again?’

  Kilarian nodded sadly. ‘It does my heart good to see the light of life in your eyes again, Caeus. The time is now. Are you ready for the test?’

  ‘I am ready, my friend. How many years has it been now?’

  ‘Nine hundred and seventy-one.’

  Caeus smiled at his captor. ‘Are you ready to give up yet?’

  Kilarian laughed and shook his massive head. ‘Choose your weapon.’

  ‘I will never best your sword. I will never best your magic. I must confess, I do not know what else to try.’

  ‘I cannot help you. It is your choice.’

  The red wizard smiled sadly at the Soul Sword, creature and weapon both as one. ‘Always my choice. I do so tire of making choices. Life is too full of them.’

  ‘That is the burden those with a soul must bear.’

  ‘And for my soul I would bear it gladly. Will you not give it back?’

  ‘First you must best me.’

  ‘Then I choose that which brought me here. I choose love.’

  ‘You cannot fight with love.’

  ‘Of that I am aware. But I do not want to fight you. I want to best you, and I do not believe, after all these years, that fighting is the way.’

  ‘Then we will begin.’

  Caeus allowed himself to feel. Feelings for one of his race did not come naturally, they were absorbed from others, but Caeus was different. He trained his soul and his heart to feel. He was rather proud of the achievement.

  He poured out all the love he held inside, for Rythe, for the race of man, even for the bastard children of the old ones, the Hierarchs.

  He saved the humans of Rythe through love, once, long ago, and it was that love that had ultimately caged him. If only the Soul Sword could see his motives for betraying his own kind, perhaps he would be free.

  Caeus concentrated his whole being on the feeling. It flowed from him like smoke into the sword the giant Lu held double-handed before him. The sword glowed for a moment, incandescent, with a blinding white light. Then, as it faded, Caeus knew another year was lost.

  Caeus was not disappointed though. For while he played the unfathomable game with the soul sword, his powers had been returning. Kilarian did not know this. It was a secret Caeus held onto for the last fifty or so years, since he healed the hurt he suffered in the battle against the old ones. He would hold onto it until he was free.

  Looking at his captor’s eyes, Caeus knew that moment would come soon. Years meant nothing to Caeus. He could wait.

  In truth, he was rather enjoying himself. Kilarian was good company, even if only in short bursts.

  ‘Never fear, Caeus, there is more time. There is always more time.’

  ‘For you, perhaps, but not for Rythe,’ said Caeus.

  The creature nodded sadly. ‘But you are not ready to save her yet. Perhaps next year your powers will be returned, and you will learn.’

  ‘There will come a time, without me, that there will be nowhere for me to return to.’

  ‘I cannot verify the truth behind your statement. I am only concerned with your soul. Do not make this any harder on yourself. Worry over your own lessons, Caeus. That is how you can save Rythe.’

  ‘You know I will be free.’

  Kilarian did not reply, but raised the soul sword. ‘Are you ready?’

  Caeus sighed. ‘Ever a creature of duty.’

  Kilarian crinkled his eyes in what could have been compassion. Then he thrust the sword into Caeus’ chest without further thought. He knew that the wizard spoke true, yet he could not free him. He could not free him without the test first being passed.

  He realised he felt sad.

  Caeus would feel nothing, not for another year. But while he was freed, however briefly from the sword, he had been busy. He saw the king’s death, and his son’s flight. He knew Tulathia and Rena for what they were. He knew the Hierarchy would rise again.

  But there was still time.

  Nothing but time, outside the world, a thousand years of it. Time enough to heal. Time enough to plan. Time enough for salvation?

  Maybe not for him, but maybe for Rythe.

  *

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dow shone through the slats across the window in Tarn’s room and the birdsong rose. He stirred reluctantly and swung his legs from the pallet, yawning loudly. He had no memory of bad dreams – he’d drunk a little too much Stum the night before. A good night, he thought, groggily.

  He crossed the room on rubbery legs and splashed some water on his face from the washbowl, puffing out air from his cheeks as the cool water finally woke him up. The birdsong that accompanied Dow’s rising quieted just as Tarn pulled his legging and his tunic on; which were getting shorter by the day-- his wrists and ankles hanging out.He opened the door into the kitchen. Gard and Molly were already up, talking quietly.

  ‘Morning, Tarn. Little too much to drink last night? Carious has been in the sky for the last hour.’

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘We’ve been talking. Have a sit down and we’ll tell you about it,’ said Molly with a smile. She got up and went to the stove, where porridge gently bubbled. She put two ladlefuls in a thick wooden bowl and stirred in some honey.

  ‘Here, get some food in you. I’ll make a brew.’

  Tarn sat at the kitchen table, made from a cross section of a massive oak felled to build the farmhouse. The cross beams in the house were all made from oak, the panelling made from ash, the flooring made from lud. The best woods were used throughout the house and it would stand for many years to come. Even the roof tiles were wood.

  ‘What have you been talking about then?’

  ‘You’ve never asked, but we thought you could do with a day free each week.’

  ‘Really?’ said Tarn.

  ‘Don’t you want a day off? We thought you could go and spend some time with that nice girl, what’s her name?’

  ‘Rena.’ Tarn smiled. ‘I’d love a day off. Will you manage without me, big man?’

  ‘I managed just fine before, little man,’ barked Gard, with a laugh. ‘You go off with your girl.’

  Tarn let that one slide. If they wanted to think they were holding hands and kissing, fine with him.

  ‘How’s today sound?’ said Molly.
>
  ‘That would be wonderful!’ Tarn thought for a moment. ‘But I don’t know if she’s in.’

  ‘Well, you won’t know unless you get over there and find out.’

  ‘True,’ said Tarn sheepishly. ‘Well...I’ll be going then...’

  ‘Not before you’ve finished your porridge, you’re not!’

  Tarn wolfed down the rest of his porridge with his surrogate parents watching over him, then, with a quick goodbye and a kiss on the cheek for Molly, he dashed out the door and ran into the woods.

  *

  Chapter Seventeen

  Smoke drifted from the hole in the sod roof of Rena’s hut as Tarn approached. Moss surrounded the makeshift building instead of grass, and it felt good underfoot. Tarn only wore boots in the winter, as did most people outside of towns and cities. A good pair of boots wasn’t to be wasted when not needed.

  Feeling a little apprehensive, he knocked. Normally, Tarn felt stupid being clean. He didn’t like the feel of his skin when he’d had a bath. It was unnatural. Now he was conscious of his smell like he’d never been before.

  He could hear voices inside, but nobody came to the door. He knocked again and someone – Mia, he thought – called out.

  ‘Come in, Tarn!’

  The door creaked as he pushed it, and poked his head through the opening without stepping inside. Inside was smoky and dingy, the light of the fire in the centre of the hut caught by the smoke and thrown around. He could barely make out three shapes in the middle of the round room.

  ‘Rena?’

  ‘Tarn,’ called Rena, leaping to her feet. ‘I’m glad you came,’ she said, coming to the door and taking Tarn’s hand. She led him into the centre of the room, and bade him sit down. He coughed from the smoke. It wasn’t wood smoke, he knew. They were seeking the future.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ said someone Tarn hadn’t seen before. Tarn knew Rena lived with her mother, Mia, but he did not know the third figure. She put out a hand through the fire and Tarn cried out, but the fire didn’t burn her. She touched him and he saw that her hand was wrinkled and spotted. The touch lasted an instant, but he felt something in that moment, almost like regret, or nostalgia (although he didn’t know what nostalgia was. It was a word for old people in taverns, not fourteen-year old boys). The feeling was uncomfortable and Tarn pulled his hand back. The woman laughed and let him go, drawing her hand back through the blue fire to her lap. She was hunched and wore a cloak, despite the warmth inside the hut.

  ‘I’m glad you came to me.’ Her voice cracked. She sounded ancient.

  ‘Tarn, I want you to meet our visitor,’ said Rena. ‘This is Tulathia. She’s come to live with us.’

  ‘Is she your grandmother?’ enquired Tarn politely.

  The old woman laughed. ‘I’m nobody’s grandmother. You may call me Tulathia, or old mother. As it suits you.’

  Mia smiled through the smoke at Tarn. She sat beside her daughter and Tulathia. Three witches, thought Tarn. His father had told him all about witches and he wasn’t afraid of them. They used the power of nature to help others. But three, his father told him, couldn’t help but meddle in affairs too powerful for one to contain. One was fine, two a rarity. Three, he knew, played with fate.

  Suddenly, he knew with whose fate they intended to play. He kept his thoughts to himself, though.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you, old mother. Mia, could I take Rena out for a walk?’

  ‘Not yet, Tarn. Make yourself comfortable. Tulathia would have words with you. I think you have much to talk about. You will be surprised.’

  Tarn nodded, reluctantly. This boded. Nothing that boded ever boded well.

  Mia put some moss on the fire and the smoke rose in swirls, making the hut even more dim. He could see the faces of the three witches – Rena looking at him with a smile that was distorted in the clouds of smoke to look like a leer.

  The old lady had only a few teeth and more wrinkles than Tarn had hair.

  Mia was beautiful, but in the murk of the hut she looked like he’d imagined Haritha the Black would have looked like, a witch in a story his father told him. The story of the dark witch who boiled babies for her medicine and once fooled a king. It gave Tarn nightmares. He wondered what they could possibly want with him. He just wanted to go for a walk.

  He swallowed and decided he should speak. They were all looking at him.

  ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ His voice broke slightly.

  Tulathia cackled. ‘What are you afraid of? A boy such as you should have no fear of three women.’

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ said Tarn, his voice cracking again, marking him for a liar.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Tarn,’ said Mia kindly. At least her voice sounded smooth, a voice to match her looks. ‘Tulathia would speak with you, nothing more.’

  ‘What would you ask, old mother?’ said Tarn, as politely as he could, willing his voice not to tremble.

  ‘First, Rena, would you gather me some cat’s foot, for tonight’s stew? I am old and cannot do it myself.’

  ‘But I want to walk with Tarn!’

  ‘There will be time for that later. Now, girl, to your chores.’

  Rena huffed, but got up and left Tarn with Mia and Tulathia. Tarn even more concerned now that he did not have Rena with him.

  Tulathia weighed the boy up, sensing how far she should go in this first meeting. She watched him through the smoke as she spoke.

  ‘When you were scarred so, what beast did you see?’

  Tarn tried to cover his shock. The old woman was a witch after all. They saw things no ordinary woman could. ‘How do you know about that, old mother? Were you there? Why didn’t you help me?’

  ‘Peace boy, just answer my questions. I see much, but not everything. I cannot undo the past.’

  Tarn weighed his options and breathed deeply, calming himself as his father taught him to do when shooting in the woods. He imagined himself sighting a stag, tracking its movement as it strode, majestic, through the trees. He did not know if he could trust these witches, or what they had in mind, but he had a feeling they already knew too much.

  ‘Before I tell you more – you already know much about me – did you see my father die?’

  ‘Aye, boy, I did. I heard his last words. They were for me and me alone, before you ask. Now what beast did you see?’

  There was nothing for it. Gard and Molly wouldn’t understand, it was beyond their imagining, but perhaps this old lady would know something that could shed light on that last night with his father.

  ‘I saw a boar.’

  This seemed to please the old woman. ‘It is as it should be. The boar is a wily animal, fierce and proud. I thought as much, but I needed to hear it from your lips. Do you know why the boar came to your aid?’

  ‘No, I do not. Do you know?’

  ‘Aye, I do.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘That, as so many other things, is part of your passage to manhood. Your father understood. He would have seen the boar, too, but only as a child. For now the boar is your protector. Do nothing to anger it, or it will leave you. When you become a man, as your father taught you, you will need it no longer.’

  Tarn sat silently for a while. Mia watched him, and he looked away from her gaze. He wanted his thoughts to be his own.

  Three witches, two he trusted, but thought, perhaps, that the old witch was too powerful to trust. He could feel the power in the old woman, and it troubled him. He closed his eyes as he spoke. He did not want her peering into his soul. The old woman said nothing, nor moved. She just watched him.

  ‘Did you know my father?’

  ‘Man and boy, young Tarn. As I knew his father before him, and as I will know you. You and I will be friends, Tarn, for I need you as much as you need me.’

  ‘How could you need me?’

  ‘You will be a powerful man, and one day you will understand. Know this, though. There is much I cannot tell you, for you are not yet that man, and a
ll children must grow without knowing the future. If you knew your future, you would become a pale man. You would not live and grow, you would merely follow one path, and that path is fraught with danger for a soul. A soul must be given room to grow. It must be given choices. That is your quest, none other. Grow and become a man without my interference. But I can give you one gift now, and that is why I brought you here. But first, ask your questions, and I will answer those which will not harm you.’

  ‘You knew my father’s father?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Where did they come from?’

  ‘They came from Naeth, but you already knew that. Choose your questions more carefully, boy. You are not stupid.’

  Tarn nodded. Taught to respect his elders, he took no offence when chided.

  ‘Why was my father hunted? Was he a criminal?’ Tarn watched her, hoping to learn what he could from her expression, if her answer should prove false.

  Tulathia smiled then, and when she smiled Tarn knew there was no evil in her. Finally, he relaxed a little. He was still afraid, but now he was afraid of what she might tell him, not of the woman before him. But he knew fear. It was beguiling, sent by Madal to test the race of man. He would not be swayed by its charms, ever.

  Tulathia countered with a question of her own.

  ‘Do you think him a criminal?’

  ‘He was a good father. I always thought he was hunted for a mistake. Perhaps he killed someone by accident. A noble, maybe. It must have been somebody with power, for father to run so long.’

  ‘You should be at peace with your father’s memory. I would not have you doubt him. He was a great man, like his father before him. There are many kinds of criminal, depending on who makes the crime. Your father killed many men, but he was no murderer. When you understand who you are, you will understand your father’s crime. Then, perhaps, you will be a man. But I cannot make you a man. Only you can do that.’

  ‘That is no answer,’ said Tarn, with a hint of irritation.

  ‘No, boy. But it is the only answer I have to give. Ask me again when you reach manhood, if you feel the need by then.’