The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (23 page)
Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
The
soul swords were guardians. They kept undesirable beasts from havoc, holding
back pandemonium from worlds that could not defend themselves. To them,
everything was a beast, but to mortals they would seem as terrible creatures
themselves. They were giants, with strong, muscular arms, thick hands and tails
which were quite dextrous.
Fearsome
creatures though they might be, they did not rend the flesh from their
captives. Instead, they held them in stasis while the captives pondered their
sins and the reason for their punishment. Rather than a torture of the body, it
was torture of the mind. The Guardians were there to teach, more than to
imprison.
Caeus’
imprisonment was not as long as many, but then Kilarian, his jailor, thought
perhaps the wizard could have got out at any time. He could not escape, but he
was far from obtuse. If he had already learned his lesson, what was he waiting
for?
They
had fought nearly a thousand times, and Kilarian was not yet free.
He
pulled the sword from the wizard’s chest.
It
was time again.
*
Tarn
and Roskel followed the other members of their band at a distance, wary of them
still. The sun shone red through the leaves, sunset on its way. They would wait
by nightfall for the caravan to pass. The scouts reported when it came their
way, and they were far north of their usual hunting ground around Garveton.
Tarn
kicked at a fallen stump. ‘It is wrong. You should work for your food.’
‘Perhaps,’
said Roskel with a sly grin, ‘But perhaps you should let others work for their
food and live life to the full. That, my friend, is what the gods truly want –
happy people. Besides, I only ever re-appropriate goods from those that can
afford it.’
‘I
concede that you are not evil, but your profession exists on the borderlands.
How far over the line would you go? Would you kill a child to escape when
caught? Would you kill to keep your gains?’
‘Well,
lest you think badly of me – although I can’t figure out why that should bother
me, but it does – would you kill a child to save Rythe, should it be threatened
by, say, the gods?’
‘No,
I would not,’ said Tarn, annoyance in his voice. ‘Of course not, that would be
evil.’
‘So
you would let the world die.’
‘What
would the world be worth should it live through evil? Ancient priests on Salis,
an island far to the east of Sturma, used to sacrifice innocents to appease
their gods, and they were wiped out when the earth spewed fire. The gods do not
want it, and they are the highest power.’
‘Even
Madal?’
‘Even
him. So you would kill the child?’
‘I
would. For the greater good.’
‘Evil
in the name of good is still evil.’
‘But
it does not matter. I fear we have both taken the evil path.’
Roskel
and Tarn bickered under their breath each moment they had the energy to do so.
Fortunately, when they reached their destination, their philosophical debates
were not put to the test.
The
bandits were well practised. They leapt out from the undergrowth and startled
the horses, Brendall holding the lead horse, the other horses stopping as it
did. The threat of swords was all it took, and none of the bandits took
advantage of the lady in the carriage, nor were they overly rough with her
husband or their guard.
No
bloodshed. Tarn’s soul was still clean.
But
somewhere, deep inside, he felt tarnished. He had drawn his sword, and whether
blood was shed or not, he used his strength to sway the weak. The hawk’s path
beckoned, and the swan’s path was becoming a memory already.
He
recognised the necessities of his situation, and on the journey back did not
berate himself too harshly. He only hoped, when the time came, that he would be
able to find the swan’s heart within himself again.
*
The
Slain drove his people onto further feats of banditry. He amassed gold and
trinkets and whole wagons full of the fruits of their labour. People died – it
could not be avoided. Even predators can be hunted. Where soldiers accompanied
caravans there was resistance. Sometimes it proved fatal. Tarn tried to rise
above it, to keep his soul clean, but as Roskel was prone to reminding him, it
was drenched in blood as surely as if he struck the killing blows himself.
The
Slain took no prisoners, and for three blood-filled months, Tarn did nothing to
stop it but stay his own hand in battle. Where others used force, Tarn
disarmed, or threatened, or used guile. Only his raiding party, under the
guidance of Brendall and Tarn’s growing influence, avoided murder. It became
harder by the week.
It
was a long hard summer, the hardest Tarn had ever known.
He
was, he had to admit to himself, an accomplished bandit. The bandit king,
Roskel called him whenever there was no one else about. Roskel hadn't used his
sword, but joined the bandits when they emerged from the forest to wreak havoc
along the supply roads. Guards on caravans were increasingly common, but there
were never enough to keep the Slain’s bandits from taking what they wanted.
But
all the time Tarn knew it could not last. One day, a guard would be too
belligerent, or too fast with the blade, and Tarn would be forced to slay him.
The
Slain, when coherent, seemed to have no plan for the future of the outlaws, or
the settlement, which grew slowly but surely. The leader of the bandits urged
them into increasingly dangerous adventures, and was seen less and less.
Rumours among the lieutenants, and from what Tarn could drag from Brendall,
hinted at an increasing madness in the leader. Tarn thought it could signal the
end for the settlement if the Slain continued to make bad decisions. Soon, the
sporadic hunting parties that searched the forest would grow, and their
settlement would be found. They had made many enemies.
Still,
until the Thane of Naeth, or one of the three bordering Thanedoms elected to
send a troop of soldiers hunting for them in the woods, they were safe enough.
Soldiers were different from guards. A guard was a deterrent, but not prepared
to die. A soldier took greater risks, had better training, armour and arms.
The
Slain was taking them down a path to Madal’s Gates. There were enough grieving
widows already, and they were not at war.
It
would not be long until the Thanes decided to do something more permanent about
the outlaws. Tarn wanted more than a bloody end by pike. He was beginning to
have thoughts, and Tarn was a man who acted on his thoughts. He could not wait
much longer. If he did, he might as well flee at the moment and take his
chances in the wilds, alone but for his weapons and his wits. But that was how
his father lived, and in the end, it availed him nothing. Tarn did not wish
such a fate.
*
The
leaves were falling and heavy autumn rain helped strip the trees bare. Roskel
and Tarn acquitted themselves well and were relaxing after a successful
excursion against a force half their size. Brendall commanded the group, grown
to thirteen men, and Tarn was now Brendall’s second in command.
Brendall
returned from an audience with the Slain, a rare hint of anger on his bearded
face. His eyes simmered.
‘There
is a caravan of soldiers one hundred strong headed along the old King’s Road.’
‘And?’
‘And
we plan to take their cargo in force. We suspect it holds gold for the Thane of
Naeth. It will be a fine rout,’ said Brendall.
Tarn
was not sure who he meant would be routed.
‘You
plan to take on armoured soldiers?’
‘And
you will be with us!’ Brendall clapped Tarn on the shoulder. ‘Never fear, we
will follow the Slain.’
Roskel
snorted. Brendall ignored him.
‘You
don’t sound too sure, my friend. Have we enough men to take on a hundred
soldiers?’ asked Tarn, gauging Brendall’s willingness to speak out against the
Slain.
The
bearded giant sighed. He shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘What I believe
matters little. I follow the Slain. I have lived this long. I’ll live a while
longer yet.’
‘Then
there will be bloodshed.’
‘None
that is unnecessary. You wait and see. I trust him, Tarn.’
Tarn
thought he saw more than a hint of doubt on Brendall’s face, but he did not
wish to push him. Not yet.
‘We
will see,’ he said noncommittally.
‘We
need every man. The Slain will lead us.’
‘You
have more faith in him than I have. It is unusual for him to accompany us on a
raid, is it not?’
‘I
have seen him fight. In a sword fight, he is worth ten men.’
Roskel
was not so circumspect in his words. ‘He is insane, you know. You would do well
to listen to sense. We cannot take on soldiers without many deaths.’
‘Watch
your words around here, Roskel.’ Brendall patted the thief on the shoulder to
show there were no bad feelings. He grinned, showing teeth almost as dark as
his beard.
‘The
rewards will be worth it,’ he said.
‘What
good is gold to the dead?’ asked Roskel, and turned back to the sputtering
fire, pulling his cloak around him against the early chill.
Throughout
the summer Tarn had grown fond of many of the men, but that they were willing
to lay down their lives for one man was plain stupidity. Not a one of them was
capable of original thought, and none would challenge the Slain’s orders.
He
thought, with cunning, that they might be able to take on a hundred soldiers,
but there were not that many bandits, and the Slain was a straightforward man.
Perhaps
the time for action would come sooner than he expected.
*
The
bandits waited in the trees at the side of the road.
Roskel
remained at camp, crying off that he was ill, but Tarn knew he pretended his
illness.
‘I
saw a black tarn today, my friend. The bird is an ill omen.’
‘I
do not believe in omens, or fate. I believe in what a man makes of himself,’
Tarn told him, more shortly than he intended.
‘I
beg you not to go.’
‘I
must. I have an obligation to these people. They need me there today.’
‘There
will be blood,’ Roskel said, as Tarn turned to go.
Tarn
chose to ignore him.
‘And
I am not sure whose…’ Roskel added quietly. But Tarn did not hear that either.
His mind was set.
Now,
secluded at the edge of the forest, he feared there was no other way. He knew
the Slain would attack. Tarn was committed to a course of action he did not
believe in. It would be a bloody battle, but for Tarn there was no way out.
For
the plans that he had laid during the long summer months, for his future and
that of these people, he had to see the day through.
If
only there was another way, but try as he might, he could not see one.
Rain
dripped from the branches, running down his collar. Rain made for mistakes.
Feet slipped in mud, grips faltered. He knew as much from his training with
Gard. Those days seemed like a distant memory.
He
hoped, deep in his heart, that Gard’s teaching had not been for nought. He
hoped Gard could see into his heart, and look beyond the actions to come.
‘They
come,’ whispered Brendall.
Gan
raised his bow.
‘Not
yet, save your arms,’ Brendall told him.
Tarn
could hear the soldiers approaching, the tell-tale clatter of iron shod boots,
audible even on the muddy road.
He
could not see the Slain on the other side of the road, but Tarn knew the madman
was there, listening to the voices that only he could hear.
The
troop of soldiers came into sight.
Tarn
saw the livery of the boar, the Thane of Naeth’s stolen crest, and suddenly all
past injustices came bubbling to the fore. He wished he had brought his bow,
which he had sworn not to use to kill men. He found himself wishing to get
amongst the soldiers, and set to with his sword and dagger. He drew, ready for
the order to attack.
The
soldiers slowly drew level, until half the troop passed. They looked wary. At
the centre of the procession rolled a heavy wagon, no doubt carrying the
Thane’s gold. From where, Tarn could not guess.
Then,
as the caravan reached midway between the bandit forces, the Slain let out a
terrific battle cry and charged the men, alone. Bare to the waist, his muscles
slick with rain, he was half-naked against armoured men. In the rain he looked
like a demon, mud splashed around his feet as he charged, whirling his sword.
His scar stood out livid against his tanned stomach, a red badge of honour. And
insanity, thought Tarn. But it was an inspiration. Mere seconds passed before a
volley of arrows flew toward the soldiers from both sides. The bandits of Haven
were fine shots, and all were good enough with the bow to hit what they aimed
at. Within moments at least twenty of the soldiers were motionless on the
ground, others crippled from wounds to their thighs and calves.
Chainmail
afforded little protection against piercing blows.
Bandits
swarmed from the trees to the road, mud splashing their leggings as they ran.
The rain seemed to get heavier. Tarn saw more than a few men slip and fall to
the sodden ground.
The
soldiers stood firm and met the charge. Tarn could wait no longer. He had a
lust for this battle, and all thoughts of honour, and the swan’s path, were
forgotten in an instant.
Before
he knew it he was in the thick of the fight.
Almost
sightless, it seemed like the colour red misted his eyes, but it did not
matter. Fighting was ingrained in his hands, and his blades whirled, dealing
death to any who challenged him.
A
sword strike was turned aside, another caught on the hilt of his sword. He
twisted away from a vicious lunge, driving his dagger into the unprotected neck
of a soldier.
He
pulled his dagger free and turned on the second attacker. He parried a clumsy
blow, recognising the lower level skills of the swordsman, and slashed his
blade across the hand wielding the sword. The sword fell loose and the man
backed away, holding his hands up in surrender. Tarn turned but saw the man
reach behind him to pull a dagger from his belt. He lunged and drove the point
of his sword into the man’s groin without a second thought, then turned to find
someone else to battle.
The
fight elsewhere was not going as planned.
Few
of the bandits were armoured – armour being forbidden to all but nobles and
soldiers. Some wore pillaged chain, but most were only protected by thick
leather jerkins. The jerkins turned aside glancing blows, but many men fell in
the melee to thrusts.
The
remaining soldiers regained their formation, and fought with a trained unit’s
discipline. They were in a strong defensive position, swords facing out, and
even the Slain could not break their defence. The madman hacked and slashed
wildly, and no soldier could get within his guard to attack him without taking
a serious wound themselves. His whirring sword was almost as good as armour.
Tarn
saw the tide of the battle turning as the soldiers regrouped, and took his
chance to change the outcome. If it came down to his friends dying, or the
soldiers of Naeth, he saw no choice.
He
ran, hamstringing a lone soldier on the way, and thoughtlessly screamed.
Nothing ran through his mind, but the need to kill his enemies.
He
fell on the defenders with such fury that a gap opened up in their defences,
and the bandits, their number greatly diminished, fell upon them with renewed
vigour.
The
battle lasted a while longer, but eventually, the remaining soldiers, realising
that there was no hope, put down their swords.
The
soldiers still remained proud in defeat, and Tarn found some grudging respect
for them. Now that the fight was over, he felt his usual calm descend upon him.
He felt no guilt. These men were his nemeses, and he knew without a doubt that
had they come upon him and recognised his scarred face, they would spare him no
mercy but instead grant him swift death on the end of their blades.
As
his blood rage cleared, he stood back and made room for the Slain to approach
the wounded and weary soldiers. The Slain, bloodied and hoarse from screaming,
walked slowly toward the men and demanded their captain step forward. It seemed
eerily quiet in the woods and his words carried with force in the stillness.
There
were no more than fifty bandits left standing, and fewer than thirty soldiers.
‘He
has fallen,’ one of the soldiers replied to the Slain’s demand.
Tarn
watched in silence. Brendall stood next to him, a deep gash in his shoulder
bleeding heavily.
‘Then
who is next in command?’ barked the Slain.
‘I
am,’ said a stocky man with a flap of his scalp hanging down to his face.
‘Step
forward.’
The
man stepped toward the Slain, and the Slain thrust his sword through the man’s
stomach with no warning. The shriek of metal grating against mail echoed in
Tarn’s ears as the man fell.
The
remaining soldiers obviously considered picking up their weapons, but the
Slain, seeing this, shouted ‘Any who want to die, pick up their weapons. Those
that live, flee back to your master. I am the Slain, and I rule this forest.
Your master holds no sway. Tell him he is a dog, and should he come against me
I will leash him myself. Now run.’
The
soldiers needed no further encouragement. Routed, they fled.
How
much longer, Tarn thought, before he too was murdering unarmed men?
*
