The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (20 page)
Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
Roskel
and Tarn walked side by side down the wide streets. Garveton was a large
trading town, a way point for the middle lands. It had a standing guard, as
most towns had since the war, the local barons paid to keep a guard which were
at the beck and call of the Thanes in times of war. The guard was largely a sorry
affair. It tended to draw bullies and braggarts and the two young men wanted
nothing to do with them.
In
their furs they looked to be hunters. Tarn’s wolf skin cloak covered his
blades. Roskel still insisted on wearing his dagger next to his belly, but now
in a sheath which Tarn fashioned from leather.
It
was the day after the town’s spring festival. Ordinary traders from all across
the region would have been present, but now hardly any could be seen. People
were still in fine spirits, though, and it wasn’t difficult to get a room.
The
two outlaws walked down a wide street, passing rows of houses, from the
outskirts into the town centre.
Garveton
was larger than most villages Tarn had visited in his childhood, his father
more inclined to risk smaller places and larger than the village of Wherry,
where he knew most everyone.
‘It
is a fine town,’ said Roskel, ‘But not as fine as some of the cities I have
seen.’
‘You
can’t have seen many. There’s only three cities I know of, and my geography is
pretty good.’
‘I
think officially there are seven, and I have worked in each of them.’
‘Would
that be in the bed or in the jewel rooms?’
‘A
little of both. I like to think I am a multifaceted little jewel of a man
myself.’
‘With
a large head.’
‘It
is no boast to take pride in one’s accomplishments.’
‘Where
did you study? Don’t give me all your ‘one’s’ and ‘thee’s’.’
‘I
cannot help the way I talk.’
‘You
sound like a court troubadour.’
‘I
sound like I need to. That is where the wealth lies, so I speak so that I would
not be out of place in courtly homes.’
‘In
case you get pinched, you mean.’
‘Yes,
my friend, that is exactly why.’ Roskel grinned toothily. ‘So, do you know
where we’re going?’
‘Not
exactly, but most towns are the same. Inn’s are often on the outskirts or in
the centre of town. We’ve not passed one on the way in from the forest, but
then there would be no need to have an inn beside the forest. We will walk to
the centre of town.’
‘We
should be there by now.’
‘We
are; we passed the baker, and one tavern.’
Roskel
sighed to himself. A true one horse town. No place for a man of his talents. ‘I
think I see a sign up ahead.’
And
he did. Tarn read the sign as they came closer. It depicted a roaring
Jemandril, a mythical creature with healing blood, with a furred head, a
flowing mane like that of a horse, and heavy paws with thick claws. The sign
read ‘Jemandril’s Tail’. There was an old folk story of a farmer who caught a
Jemandril, and tied its tail to his fence, where he bled it and sold the blood
to his friends. One day a man grew jealous of his neighbour’s new found wealth
and sawed the tail off, freeing the Jemandril, but arousing its anger. The
Jemandril mauled the man with its razor sharp claws. The captor saved the
jealous man with some of the creature’s blood. It was a story synonymous with
charity. Tarn took it as a good sign.
Tarn
was sure there was more than one moral to the story, but he did not know what
it was. It seemed it was fine to be cruel to beasts, but not to free them. The
human aspects of the story, Tarn could understand, but they seemed merely a
subtext. Nobody considered the Jemandril’s feeling throughout the whole tale.
It was a stupid story and he never understood why his father told it to him.
They
entered the inn, only to find it empty but for the barman.
‘Lonely
night, my good man,’ said Roskel by way of introduction.
‘Indeed.
Day after the festival. Everyone’s already nursing sore heads, and the sots go
to Hasket’s Bar down the road. I’ve even given the serving girl a free night.’
And
I wonder where she beds down,
thought the thief.
‘I
take it, then, you have rooms to spare?’
‘Indeed.’
‘We’d
like a room for the night.’
‘Very
well. There’s two made up. One above the kitchens, it keeps nice and warm.’
‘Sounds
grand,’ said Tarn. ‘To start with though, have you any food?’
‘No
hot food tonight, but I could manage some cheese and bread.’
‘That
would be fine.’ And the oven wasn’t burning tonight, thought Tarn, so no nice
warm room.
‘And
two jugs of ale,’ added Roskel, eyeing the bar with candid disdain. It was not
to his high standards, but then, thought Tarn, all men are ultimately destined
to fall.
‘Who’s
paying for this then?’ asked Tarn.
‘I
seem to be a bit short on funds.’
‘I
thought so. Perhaps we can seek work.’
‘Work?!’
blurted Roskel. ‘What about my hands? They are the key to my fortune. You have
already tarnished them.’ To emphasise his point Roskel showed Tarn his
calloused hands.
‘You
call those calluses?’ Tarn showed him his.
‘You
win,’ said Roskel with a smile. ‘Shall we compare blades next?’
‘I
believe the contest is over for tonight,’ said Tarn swiftly, as the innkeeper
returned and placed a wooden plate laden with cheese and bread, then placed two
jugs of ale on the counter. Tarn paid without further complaint, although he
saw that his coin was fast diminishing. Roskel had the good grace to thank him
as heartily as he ate.
They
bantered back and forth like old maids, until Roskel, after a few jugs of ale –
his tolerance seemed to have suffered since his exile in the forest – rose and
declared that he was going to make some money.
‘And
how do you propose to do that?’
‘I
have means. I am a master of games of chance.’
‘Please
yourself. I’m going to bed. Don’t get into any trouble.’
It
was like waving a red flag to a bull. ‘You may seem like a maid, but it does
not become you.’
Roskel
left for the evening, and Tarn retired to their room, the bed spinning one way
and the ceiling the other. The innkeeper’s promise of a warm room was slightly
overstated, as Tarn suspected. It made no difference. There was a bed, and that
was enough. He fell asleep fully clothed with a satisfied grin.
*
While
Roskel plied his trade in the town of Garveton, the Thane of Spar paced the floor
in his bed chambers. He wished that his wife was still alive to give him
council, but he had to figure out the problem on his own. He wanted, no, needed
his son back.
It
had been too many years now, with the Thane of Naeth holding his son ransom,
and Redalane felt emasculated. There was nothing he could do. Every night,
since his son had been taken, he thought of ways to get him back. He tried
bribery, offering ransom for the boy, but Hurth wanted to keep him to make
Redalane pay his taxes each year. It worked. Redalane had become just one more
lackey in Hurth’s pocket, but he wished fervently that it could be another way.
He
could not go to war – his son would die if he did. He paid an advisor to hire
assassins for him, but the assassins never succeeded. They all died horribly
within Hurth’s towering castle. He needed a better class of assassin.
He
thought about paying tribute to the Draymar, and getting a war party to attack
the castle, but they would never make it across the country. If Naeth were a
border castle it would have been better, but it was nearer the coast than the
mountains of Culthorn which separated Sturma from Draymar.
He
would wait, and bide his time. He had the support of the southern thanes, and
if Hurth pushed them any further they might even risk war.
Redalane
wanted the other Thane dead. But, he told himself yet again, he must be
patient. A chance would come, and when it did, he resolved to be ready for it.
*
Tarn
murmured and turned over in his sleep, but the wolf would not let go of his
hand, and drew blood, its teeth sharp and spiteful.
Then
he felt the slap across his face and was instantly awake, hand creeping to his
dagger. Roskel leapt backward and knocked a low candle off a packing crate that
served as a table.
‘Peace,
friend, it is only me. It is good you are dressed. I think we best leave
immediately.’
Tarn
rubbed the sleep from his eyes, turning his mind from dreams of wolves, but
something in Roskel’s voice pulled him from sleep quicker than a face full of
chill water, as Gard had done on more than one occasion.
‘What
is it?’
‘We
are undone. One of the guards spotted me, and I barely made it back here in
time to wake you. They are looking for me now. Time is of the essence, my
friend. Come on.’
‘Right,
we’ll go out the window, back to the outskirts and into the forest. It’s the
best way to go.’
‘Right
you are, into the forest. We can worry about everything else later.’
Tarn
pulled on his sword belt and took his pack. He slung his cloak around his
shoulders and then heaved the window upward. The air was brisk enough to bring
tears to his eyes.
He
wasted no time. Slinging his leg over the window, he leapt into the dark and
fell into the back yard with a crash. His sword hilt dug into his hip.
Roskel
followed with slightly more grace.
As
they ran through the town, Tarn heard the call of the guard from ahead of them.
‘Ho,
there! Stand fast!’
The
cry of foolish guards the country over, Roskel recognised it well. They ignored
the guard and ran. At this distance, in the dark, there was little possibility
of the guard being able to furnish a description of them to their captain.
Roskel’s
panting quickly began to grate Tarn’s nerves.
‘Breathe
in through your nose, out through your mouth, keep in rhythm with your
footfalls. And run faster!’
Tarn
and Roskel turned a corner – Roskel slowing – but the guards were encumbered
with chainmail and could not keep up. Shortly, the two fugitives increased the
distance. The forest rose up from the darkness before them. The guard, Tarn
saw, looking over his shoulder, had given up the chase. Chances are they did
not even know why they gave chase in the first place. It was in a guard’s
nature to chase a running man.
As
they passed into the forest once more, Tarn noticed a short sword on a worn
belt which fitted snugly on his companion’s hip, a flagon clutched in one hand,
and a jingle when he walked.
‘What
is that?’ asked Tarn, barely masking his annoyance. He could guess, but he
wanted the thief to confess. ‘I wondered why we were chased so soundly. Perhaps
you can explain.’
‘It’s
not what you think,’ said Roskel, whispering despite their distance from the
town.
‘And
what do I think?’
‘That
I stole it.’
‘That
is exactly what I think.’
‘Well,
then, you are wrong. I won it in a game of runes in a fine establishment called
the Hasket’s Tavern.’
‘You
won it.’
‘Fair
and square.’
‘Fair
and square,’ repeated Tarn, glaring at the thief.
‘Well,
nearly. I might have been caught cheating, but I wasn’t cheating when I won the
sword.’
And
suddenly, Roskel was looking up at a nice tree, feeling around his gums with
his tongue for the taste of blood.
‘We’re
supposed to be lying low! I can’t afford to have any guard on the look-out for
me!’
‘Well,
there’s no need to take it like that, my friend. I have won us some coin, too.
I was thinking of our funds. It was the least I could do, as you paid for the
room.’
‘Don’t
do me any favours,’ said Tarn, pulling his friend up. ‘Have a little sense.’
‘A
good night’s work, I feel,’ said Roskel sullenly, rubbing his jaw as he stood.
*
