The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (2 page)
Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
The
pennant over the Thane of Naeth’s castle hung limp. The pennant depicted a boar
against a shielded background. The boar on the Thane’s crest, taken from the
old king, twenty-two years ago. A simple beast for a simple king. The people
had known peace and love under the king after the War of Reconciliation. Peace
now, too. But love? No.
The
Thane and would-be usurper of the throne, Hurth to his mother but none other,
all but forgot the people that put food on his table.
No
other Thane could oppose him. Soon he would make himself king. The land already
forgot the passing of the true king.
Hurth
turned his attention from the chicken bone he had been gnawing clean, to the
soldier before him. The soldier stood, shaking only slightly, chainmail
encrusted with blood. The Thane bade him speak.
‘We
killed the old man in the Lare woods, where he was said to be hiding.’ The man,
quivering slightly as he spoke, continued, ‘He took six of my men with him. Me
and the three others were bringing the boy to the castle. But the boy escaped.
A great beast attacked us in the dark. I could not tell what. It killed all but
me.’ The man could be shivering from the cold in the hall, the Thane thought.
No fire burned in the great hearth. The Thane would not permit himself to be
warm. He did not want the warmth and weariness of his advancing years to creep
over him. Not with a kingdom at stake.
‘I
told you to kill anyone with the man. Now you risk a legend. Do you know the
power of a legend?’
‘Sire?’
‘No
matter. Why did you disobey me?’ The Thane’s voice held no satisfaction. So the
true king was no more: it meant nothing without the boy’s head, too.
‘He
was but a boy. But when the beast attacked, Gerrick struck the boy’s face wide
open to kill him. It was a mortal wound. He must have died. He must have. We
did all we could lord, under such attack’
The
soldier shrugged. A foolish, pointless gesture. ‘And he was but a lad.’
‘I
understand. I understand you did not mete out the death I required. I
understand that you failed me. And I have no compunctions about death. Justice
for all, I say. For the young and the old,’ the Thane said. He granted the
soldier a cold smile. ‘Have his hands removed. They are of no use to me.’
‘No!
We did as asked! We killed the old man!’
Two
guards came forward. They may have been deaf, for all the good the condemned
man’s pleading did. Between them they dragged the screaming soldier away.
The
Thane’s advisor watched with thinly veiled amusement. He slid up to the throne
that the Thane had taken for his own, even though he dared not wear the crown.
The crown would not yield to another. Not while the line still lived.
‘Sire,
the boy must be found,’ the advisor whispered in the Thane’s ear.
‘I
know that, you fool! We will search the Lare woods, and the bog. We will find
him, alive or dead.’
A
quiet hunt, all these years, to end in failure. But he could not risk
discovery. The other Thanes could not know the line lived.
‘I
hope so, my Lord. The trail is cold again.’
The
Thane looked thoughtfully at his strange advisor.
A
Hierarch, the man called himself. The Thane thought of him as a man. But this
man’s powers were nothing mortal. He came and went as if by magic, even though
the Thane knew there were no magicians left on Sturma.
The
Hierarch, tall and unnaturally thin, was physically weak but a wily campaigner.
With his help and guidance the other Thanes were all but subdued.
But
while the people may forget a king, the crown still remembered. While the line
of kings survived, the crown, warded against false monarchs, and thus the
kingdom, would never be his.
‘We
will find him,’ he told the Hierarch. ‘How far can the boy get? He is but a
boy. He probably pissed himself in fear and died in the woods. I will try the
crown again, but if it will not bear my head, men will still be hunting. I will
leave nothing to chance, Merilith.’
The
Thane picked up another chicken leg, and waved the Hierarch away. The boy would
die, and with him all hopes of a Sturma united under the old line.
‘As
you will, my Lord,’ said Merilith, and backed away.
The
Hierarch held his smile inside. He guarded his own emotions more carefully than
the Thane.
The
kingdom would be in the hands of the Hierarchs. No Hierarch blood needed to be
shed, and the line that would oppose the Hierarchy come the return of the old
ones would end. His true masters would reward him.
Just
the death of a boy. How hard could it be?
*
The
air grew colder over the Spar. On their small farm, miles from the nearest
village, Gard and his wife spoke of matters that they did not really
understand. Tarn slept dreamlessly after a hard day's work. The big man
listened to Tarn crying out in his sleep. He understood enough to work the boy
hard. It was the only way to grant reprieve from his demons.
‘Tarn’s
been working the farm for near on a month now. His wound has healed. I’m taking
him to the village for the winter fayre. It’ll be the last time the boy gets to
be around people ‘til spring,’ said Gard.
‘I
don’t know, big man. I worry about him. He should sleep the sleep of youth, not
the troubled rest of an old man. I think whatever hurt he suffered has yet to
heal. Perhaps he should stay here until that time comes.’
‘We
can no more force him to stay here than we can cast out his demons. Meeting
other children his age will be good for him. You’ll see.’
Molly
smiled at her man. Strong, and even though age crept up on him, he was still
wise enough and sound of mind. He would fight ageing like he’d fought all his
life. Even in his sleep her husband did not rest, tossing, turning, from dusk
‘til dawn. When the time came, she imagined that he would not truly die, but
turn to rock.
‘Then
do it. Take him to the village and let him wander. He works hard. He could do
with a drink.’
‘He’s
but thirteen!’
‘Don’t
try and tell me you weren’t in your cups half his age,’ she spoke quietly, for
fear of waking Tarn.
‘A
different age, back then. I took over our farm from my father when he died. My
sisters worked with me. The boy doesn’t have to work as hard.’
‘He’s
not the boy. He’s Tarn.’
Gard
sighed. ‘I know. I just can’t bring myself to think of him as any other. I’m
scared he’ll leave.’
Molly
rose and went to her husband’s side.
‘I
feel the same way. Like he’s a gift from which we could be parted any day.
We’ve been so lucky we’ve not thought to question where he came from.’
‘I
question it every day.’ Gard took his wife’s hand, and held it with a
gentleness that belied his strength.
Molly's
eyebrows rose.
'Ah,
hells,' said Gard.
‘Tell
me what you know,’ said Molly, but kindly, without a trace of smugness or anger
at catching Gard in falsehood.
If
it came to it, Gard would not lie to his wife. He’d not done so in the thirty
years of marriage and he didn’t intend to start now. Omission was one thing. An
outright lie would be an insult to the woman he loved.
‘I
think,’ he began, ‘I think someone’s hunting him. You remember I left you with
him when he arrived?’ His wife nodded. ‘I didn’t go to Mia’s hut. I tracked him
and found signs of a fight. What I found has troubled me since. I did not speak
of it to you as I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘Tell
me what you found,’ said his wife, concern on her face.
‘I
found three dead men. They were mauled by a beast. One got away. I think one of
the men, soldiers all, escaped unharmed.’
‘You
think it was they who had Tarn?’
‘I
think they meant to take him alive, but when the beast attacked they sought to
kill him rather than let him escape.’
‘They
failed.’
‘But
they won’t fail twice. I don’t know why they want the boy, but I fear the
soldiers will return.’
Molly
put her hands around her husband. ‘Then we must send him away.’
Tears
rode her voice.
Gard
stroked his wife’s hair. ‘We will wait awhile. The boy is too young to fend for
himself. He must stay until he is old enough.’
‘We
must hide him away. He can’t go to the fayre, Gard.’
‘We
cannot hide him. He must grow as all other boys would. I will take him to the
fayre.’
Molly
shook her head against her husband’s chest.
‘But
if they find him?’
‘They
will not. I’ll make sure of it.’
‘I
trust you, big man.’
‘I
know, wife.’
Through
it all, Tarn slept soundly.
*
Far
across the great seas of the world of Rythe, thousands of miles from a small,
insignificant country known as Sturma, the first continent sprawled. That
great, sprawling land was called Lianthre.
Nothing
but shadowy remnants of the old ones’ might remained. Few even remembered their
names. Too few knew of the progeny left behind after the banishment, and the
desires they harboured.
Mankind’s
needs were simple. They could not afford to plan for the future. Each day was
challenge enough. The old ones’ dark children, though, had the luxury of a
future. They controlled Lianthre. Before the old ones returned, they would
control Rythe itself.
The
children of the old ones called themselves the Hierarchy, and they knew
mankind’s ascendancy could not last. Not without a vision of the future and
longer plans than their meagre lifespan would allow. The Hierarchy had long
plans. They were long lived.
They
were patient.
In
the first continent’s capital, named for the continent itself, the Hierarchy’s
impossibly tall towers overlooked the petty human lives played out below. High
above the stench of humanity, they watched the humans’ sad, short lives play
out.
In
the tallest of the towers, the ancient Hierophant thought on the future laid
out before him.
Not
since Caeus left had the world been so close to the brink.
Caeus
won a great victory over the old ones, banished them from Rythe, and only their
bastard sons, the Hierarchy, remained. The Hierarchy were diminished then, but
their number did not matter. The humans could not hold them back, because
humanity did not have magic in them. They were plain creatures, ugly and
without purpose, and what little magic a few possessed was pitiful. They did
not have the talents required to oppose the Hierarchy. They would fall, given
time.
The
Hierophant saw the outcome. The old ones would return, and they would be
pleased to see the power their children held.
The
ruler of the Hierarchy for the last century and more looked up, away from his
toy, a mewling, tongueless human baby, and beckoned his servant closer with a
crooked finger.
Turille
approached and cowered.
‘I
tire of it, Turille. Remove the creature.’
‘At
once, master,’ said Turille, bowing low.
‘Wait.
Send in Jenin. I would know how our plans progress.’
‘Master,’
said the servant.
Turille
put the horrible creature out of its misery before going to call Jenin. In its
death throes it defecated explosively, and in doing so soiled the hem of
Turille’s robes.
He
threw the body down the long stairwell in disgust.
Turille
was unusual for a Hierarch, ruled by fear as he was. It would not do to keep
either Jenin or the Hierophant waiting. He feared Jenin almost as much as his
master. A change of clothes would have to wait.
Jenin
could crush Turille’s skull between his hands, had he the energy to do so.
Turille’s one hope was that Jenin would not stoop so low as to dirty his hands.
Perhaps the scent wafting from his robes would serve as protection.
Mostly,
the giant Hierarch, the most practiced of foretellers, sat in his room smoking
Seer’s grass, a weed imported from Kun.
Turille
scuttled down the gilded stairway to the seer’s chambers, where he knocked,
tentatively.
‘Master,’
he called out, barely able to hide his trembling in the flickering glow of the
torches burning down the hall. ‘The Hierophant awaits your pleasure.’
The
door opened after a long time. Jenin stood before Turille, a full seven feet
tall in black robes.
Turille’s
eyes watered from the smoke that curled through the doorway and he hated
himself for his weakness.
‘I
will find my own way,’ growled Jenin.
‘As
you will,’ Turille said, a hint of gratitude in his voice, and turned on his
heel. He did not wish to be around Jenin any longer than necessary, just in
case the crazed Hierarch decided he wanted Turille's head.
Jenin
stretched, sniffed the air after the departing worm and wondered if he soiled
himself in fear. Placing his hands on hips, Jenin bent to one side, eliciting a
loud crack from his back.
His
head brimmed with a future unwritten.
What
he had seen could mean the end of the Hierarchy; an end to the return of the
old ones. He saw billions of humans, laying waste to the land, spawning more
each time they bred.
In
his visions he saw no sign of his kind. In his visions, Rythe shook.
The
line of kings was unbroken.
*
