The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (11 page)
Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
Winter
passed, and with it, Tarn’s sixteenth birthday.
Summer
was high when Tarn stood in the afternoon sunlight, stripped to the waist. In
his hands he held a dagger and a long sword, both carved of wood. He chose his
own weapons, and sharpened them to a fine point. Gard stood before him,
wielding a double-handed axe, thick muscles relaxed but still defined.
Tarn’s
held himself at ease. His was the body of a swordsman. Finely tapered, wide at
the shoulders, he stood proud. The boy had grown into a man, although he could
not yet be called as such, and already he sported a short beard, dark like his
hair, bare where his scar ran down his face. The scar lost its redness, and was
pure white where the rest of his skin held a tan.
His
breath came steady. The suns were large in the sky, their warmth seeping into Tarn’s
muscles. The boy that was raised his weapons in salute to his master, his
father and his friend. The time for practise was over. This was real. Blood
would be drawn, and Tarn would finish his training.
‘To
first blood,’ said Gard, raising his weapon. They circled.
Tarn
pictured his flower, the carmillion. Peace settled around him and he saw every
detail of the master before him. A life as a farmer could not detract from the
skill the old man showed. Tarn could not take him lightly. Over a year had they
trained, both mind and body. In that time Gard’s skills had returned as Tarn’s
had grown.
It
was for his sword and his right to be a man that Tarn fought. Gard fought for
his love. Were the boy to fail he would never get his sword, and he would remain
on the farm, to take it over when Gard died and Tarn married.
Tarn’s
mind also tuned to thoughts of Rena and marriage and his concentration wavered.
Gard saw it in his eyes and in that moment the big man attacked.
The
axe whirred through the air toward Tarn’s head. He blocked wildly, at the last
moment. The top of his long sword sheared off, and Tarn was suddenly back in
the fight. His eyes saw everything with startling clarity. Gard spun on his
heel and put his weight on the front foot. Tarn saw the danger. The big man
would shoulder him back, into range for his giant axe. Tarn rolled aside from
the shoulder charge instead, and drew his dagger hard against Gard’s ribs. Gard
sucked his chest in, but ignored the pain and no blood came. He reversed a cut
at Tarn’s shoulder, but Tarn parried the blow with his broken sword and it
passed over his head. He recognised his chance, and thrust his dagger toward
Gard’s chin. Gard tucked his chin in and elbowed Tarn. Tarn fell back, blocking
a vicious down swipe from the axe, and there was space between them again.
Gard
gave Tarn no quarter. He charged, faking an overheard slash only to turn the
blade at the last moment toward Tarn’s shoulder. Tarn saw the opening, but
could not take it for he would be hit in the same instant. Instead he rolled
underneath the slashing blow and jabbed his broken long sword into Gard’s
unprotected armpit. He knew with a real blade slicing there the big man would
have lost the use of one arm, but he did not have a real blade, just a blade of
wood. He would have to work with the tools he had been given.
Tarn
flicked to his feet, spun and aimed a cut at the back of Gard’s head. Gard
ducked and swung in return, as though he had eyes in the back of his head. Tarn
barely managed to deflect the blow overhead with his dagger, a risky move and
one he wouldn’t have attempted with real weapons.
The
two fighters circled once more. The suns had not moved, even though to Tarn the
fight seemed to have lasted a lifetime. Still, he was calm.
Time
to attack. Spinning his sword in his hand he thundered a massive blow toward
Gard’s head, forcing Gard to block with his axe. The long sword slid from the
rounded blade of the axe onto Gard’s shoulder – still no blood – and Tarn
thrust his dagger as hard as he could into Gard’s stomach. He felt something
rip, and he looked down to see his dagger sticking from Gard’s gut.
Gard
backed away, pulling the wooden blade from Tarn’s unresisting hand, and put his
blade up in respect before he allowed himself to wince.
The
big man pulled the wooden blade out. It had only gone in an inch, but it would
need stitches.
‘Gods,
man, that hurts.’
‘I’m
sorry, Gard. I only meant to slice you.’
‘Well,
it’s my own fault. With real blades you’d have bloodied me long before. You
fought well. It’s not easy fighting a man with an axe.’
‘Thank
you,’ said Tarn, concern, rather than pleasure, evident in his voice. ‘Perhaps
we should get you to Molly.’
‘I
can stitch myself perfectly well. Now stop fussing, it’s just a flesh wound.
Come on, I have something for you.’
Tarn
followed Gard into the barn and the younger man laid his broken sword down
softly, almost reverentially, because he knew he would never wield a wooden
sword again.
Manhood
was upon him.
Gard
smiled at the boy, and Tarn smiled back. He could see blood flowing through the
fingers that Gard pressed to the wound, but said nothing. If it wasn’t
bothering the big man it wasn’t for him to say anything.
Pulling
back some cloth covering the bench where the weapons lay, Gard reached
underneath the shelving and came back with two long packages, wrapped in more
cloth.
‘Here.
As much as it saddens me to see you take the hawk’s path, you have earned these
thrice over. I give these to you in love, and pray that you will use them
wisely, and never for evil. I trust that you have a good heart. Remember your
heart, always.’
Gard
passed the packages to Tarn, who unwrapped the smaller first, seeing a fine
sheath of black leather, and pulled out the dagger within. It was a plain
dagger, heavy in the blade, with a bone handle wrapped in leather so it fitted
his grip perfectly. The blade was about twelve inches long, both sides sharp.
Tarn slid it back home and unwrapped the larger package.
Within
was a long sword, also of plain steel, the handle wrapped in leather. The
sheath was of the same black leather as that of the dagger, and oiled so that
it gleamed. Tarn drew the sword and held it up to the light. The edge sparkled
in the afternoon light, and he tested the blade with a nail. It cut through the
nail with no resistance. He sheathed the sword and put both down on the shelf,
then, with no hint of the reserved boy he had been, took Gard in his arms and
hugged him tightly to his chest.
‘Thank
you big man, they are beautiful weapons and I will wear them well. I’ll not
dishonour you.’
‘I
know you won’t, son. Even when it is the hardest option, I trust you to do the
right thing.’
‘Always,’
said Tarn with a grateful smile. ‘Now, your blood’s probably thin from all the
exertion. I think we should get you stitched up.’
‘Don’t
gloat, it doesn’t become you.’
‘Gloat?
Me? I am merely happy.’
‘And
I’m bleeding, so wipe that smile off your face.’
*
Hurn
Urillion, the tracker for the Thane of Naeth, got on his knees and bowed his
head to the block. For two years he sought a boy with a scar on one half of his
face. Through his efforts six boys died, and still the Thane could not wear the
crown.
In
death he would take no regrets to bear him down at Madal’s Gate. He was a
tracker of men, not boys, and while the weight of their deaths should bear
heavily on him, the tracker’s soul was his own. He lived by his own rules, and
death strengthened him rather than lessening him.
He
knew boys grew into men, and other men’s souls were not his to protect. He had
done all he could for pay, finding boys when no other could. It had not been
good enough and he would die for it.
He
heard a loud wet thud and felt sudden, unexpected warmth on his face. He found
himself looking up at a sky tinged with red. He blinked, once, and his sight
cleared. It was a beautiful, clear day. All thoughts of failure fled.
It
was good day for tracking. He imagined himself hunting a great boar he’d seen
once in the woods around a small village far to the south in the Spar. The
Wherry? He misremembered now.
He
found no sign of a boy with a scar, instead happening upon the largest boar
he’d ever seen. Tusks as long as daggers, sharp and glinting in the moons’
eerie glow. He wished he’d killed it, but it ignored his serrated spear in its
side, as though it was a gnat trying to pierce its hide. The beast had charged
and gored the tracker’s thigh. It had been all he could do to stitch the wound
and limp back to the Thane’s side with his disappointing news.
Now
the block. He waited for the axe to fall.
Had
it already fallen?
If
only he could have killed the boar. It had been a beast worth dying for.
The
light of the suns faded, as though night closed, even though it was still
Carious and Dow that filled his vision.
And
then, it came for him. He could not run and he had no spear.
Hurn
Urillion’s last sight was of a magnificent boar charging, and with it came
darkness.
*
On
Tarn’s first visit to the village since being named a man, his blades were at
his hips, and Rena was by his side. He couldn’t have been more proud.
Emotions
swirled through his heart, but his training as a warrior allowed him to take
each and dissect it with a firm mind. He only let himself feel those that were
warm. Rena made him feel like that-- calm and surrounded by the warmth of her
depth of feeling for him.
The
other young men in the village all looked with undisguised desire at Tarn’s
love, for she had been called woman by her mother and Tulathia. Tarn did not
mind at all. He was wise enough to take it as a compliment, and none of the
other youths were stupid enough to challenge him.
‘It
feels strange, walking as man and woman. Nothing is different, but it is like
every step we take is new.’
Tarn
kept his stride short and slow, to keep beside Rena. In the space of a week she
had gone from being his girl to his woman.
When
he finally lay with her she would be his first and his last.
‘I,
too, feel different. There is a new quality to the air. It is more defined, and
I can smell each scent. The colours are brighter when I am with you.’
‘Where
did you get such a honeyed tongue?’
Tarn
laughed. ‘It is your beauty. It brings out the poet in me.’
‘I
would love you even were you a farmer, not a warrior.’
‘I
am still a farmer.’
Rena’s
expression darkened imperceptibly. ‘And one day you will no longer be a
farmer.’
Tarn
failed to notice her change of mood. ‘That is Tulathia’s reading of the future.
One day we will be wed, and the future will see to itself, as it always does.
We cannot change what is written, but I for one do not believe her.’
‘But
you have prepared for the future as if you do.’
‘I
am prepared for everything, but you.’
Rena
gave in. ‘You are a sweet talker.’
‘I
mean every word I say.’
‘Tell
me you will never leave me.’
‘Whatever
the future may hold, you will always be with me.’
Rena
smiled and touched Tarn’s arm, as if to reassure herself that he was real. Tarn
felt the warmth of her touch and felt more like a man in that instant than when
he won his sword.
Tarn
took Rena’s hand and she smiled at him, her hair falling across her face. She
brushed it back and Tarn thought for the thousandth time how beautiful she was,
and how blessed he had been to find her that day, in the mud. As he thought
back to that day, and tried to remember when it was he fell in love with her,
Gothar crossed the street ahead of him, with his only friend, Asthar.
Gothar
had grown into a big man; near to six and a half feet tall, with broad round
shoulders. Tarn knew he never exercised those great muscles in all his short
life. He felt no fear of him. Tarn had never been scared of bullies even when
he’d been a whelp.
Gard
promised him he would know fear, and how he dealt with it would decide the kind
of man he would be, but all he felt now, seeing the slug like form of Gothar
slopping across the street, was pity.
The
childhood bully glared at Tarn. He had never gotten over the humiliation Tarn
meted out when he was but a boy. Tarn thought it high time it finished. It
irked him that someone would spoil his visit to the village, especially with
Rena on his arm. He would take no slight, but nor would he disrespect himself
by becoming a bully in front of Rena. He would not demean himself with
violence.
He
thought hard while he walked and they neared the two young men. He could not
challenge him – even without weapons Tarn would beat Gothar soundly, without
breaking a sweat. And Gard would be ashamed of him, as would Rena. He realised,
without having to plumb the depths of his own youthful morality, that to do
violence to Gothar again would shame him, also.
He
could see no other way. He would take the swan’s road. Even if his heart was
that of a warrior, he knew he could only be as pure as his thoughts. He let his
head rule him.
‘Gothar,
how goes it today?’
The
big boy looked confused for a second. Then he growled, ‘Why do you talk to me?’
To Asthar he said, ‘Why does he talk to me?’
Tarn
held his anger in check. Slights should mean nothing to him. ‘I would like to
apologise.’
The
shock on Gothar’s face was apparent, but then it was replaced with his usual
mindless anger.
‘Let’s
just go our way, Tarn,’ said Rena, seeing the big youth’s face.
‘In
a while Rena, I must first apologise. I would that everyone in this village
knew friendship, and I offer you mine.’
Asthar
nudged the giant, and the look of anger in Gothar’s eyes wavered for a second.
‘Is
this some sort of trick? Do you intend to do me violence?’
‘No.
Since we were youths you have done no other violence. You have changed since
then, and I would hold out my hand in friendship to you. I sense no evil in
you.’
Gothar
smirked. ‘How do you know my heart?’
Rena
tugged on Tarn’s arm. ‘In a while,’ said Tarn, gently.
‘I
think I would accept your friendship,’ said Asthar. Gothar glared at him.
The
bigger man’s shoulders were bunched, as if for a fight. He would not let go of
his grudges so easily, and he would see Asthar as a traitor until he had time
to ponder this new development. After all, he’d held onto his anger since he
was a boy, even after the night he met the boar.
A
man who did not let go of his childhood anger could never know peace. It was never
easy to let go of childish whims, thought Tarn. Gods knew, he still wished his
father had not been taken from him. He wished he knew his true mother, despite
the love Gard and Molly gave him.
Each
man had to find his own path to adulthood. Tarn could only show Gothar the same
chance Gard and Molly had given him. With peace, a way for the bully to gain a
little respect for himself.
‘I
will leave you now. But know I hold no anger toward you, and would be a friend
as I would to all men. Think on it. Come, Rena, let’s walk.’
Tarn
and Rena walked on, and left Gothar staring, Asthar looking thoughtful, and the
muddy street behind.
Tarn
smiled. Rena smiled at her man with warmth in her eyes, and Tarn felt good. It
was as Gard said. It was always better to show love, until no other choice
remained. Given time, Tarn would know the difference – when to take the swan’s
road, and when to draw steel and show the talons of the hawk.
*
