Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (29 page)
In
the world outside the world, the soul sword slid free from Caeus’ chest, and
the wound, and the rent in his red robes, filled in instantly, mist seeping
from the tip of the sword into the holes.
Light
filled Caeus’ eyes, and he blinked.
‘Welcome,
Kilarion. It is a pleasure to see you.’
‘Caeus.
It is time.’
‘My
friend. You have been teaching me all these years,’ said Caeus, ‘But I
understand now for the very first time what I must do to gain my freedom. I
have not been here to gain my freedom, but to grant you yours.’
Kilarion
was silent.
‘But
I must ask you a small favour.’
‘What
is that?’
‘Keep
me for a while longer. This time, I will call you. I may be forced to break
your rules, but no matter, I will pay the penance. Until then do with me what
you will. And I will set you free.’
‘You
do not wish the contest?’
‘That
is the favour that I ask. Can you bear to wait a little longer?’
‘What
is a year in eternity? Do you not want your freedom?’ As Kilarion asked this,
his thick tail quivered. Caeus could see the desire in him, but felt he was
cheating the creature. The need for him to be free was so obvious now, but he
could not grant it yet. It was not yet time.
‘I
must decline. When the time comes we will both end this charade. Then, I will
have something to do before I am put in my next prison.’
Kilarion’s
confusion was evident. ‘There is no next prison. Once you are free, you can
return.’
‘The
world cannot bear me. I must wait until the time is right for my return. Even
now I am making preparations.’
‘I
must confess, Caeus, I do not understand you.’
‘No,
but I understand you. Bear my company a short while, then I will free you.’
‘This
is my calling.’
‘But
you hate it, do you not? You will be free soon, my friend. Put me under.’ He
paused for a moment, and Kilarion saw a flicker of light pass through his
prisoner’s eyes. It passed so swiftly Kilarion thought that perhaps his eyes
were deceiving him. But he was right. The wizard said, ‘My preparations are
complete.’
Kilarion
felt reluctance, and the wizard’s smile was disconcerting, but he thrust his
sword in just the same.
Something
beyond the immortal’s experience was happening, and he was powerless to stop
it. No mortal could escape the Castle out of time, but for some reason he
thought Caeus had, just for a moment. Some part of the wizard had left, if only
for a moment.
What
could the wizard possibly achieve in those seconds? It was perplexing.
Kilarion
sat opposite the wizard’s frozen form, hands on his knees, and contemplated the
problem. There was no rush. He had a year alone with his thoughts. A year was
nothing, but a strange feeling passed over the soul guardian, and it was
uncomfortable and frightening. It was, he realised, after much quiet
contemplation, impatience.
*
Tarn
stood before his horse. It had been saddled for him. His weapons hung from his
hips, and his cloak shrouded his shoulders against the cold air of this early
spring night.
He
still could not believe his luck.
The
Thane had agreed. He had furnished Tarn with funds to pay for support when he
reached the capital. Tarn knew he would need it. And he was free. Free to kill
the Thane of Naeth. That part of his fate was inescapable.
The
plan was in place. Tarn would have but one chance. The Thane of Spar assured
him that he would have all the Thanes assembled come the start of winter. The
day was set.
Tarn
rode out into the night, his pack with him, and his weapons regained. But he
had gained one other piece of baggage.
Kurin,
the Thane’s huntsmaster, rode along beside him. The man said little, but eyed
Tarn warily. He kept his distance, as carefully as a spearman of a boar. There
was no rancour left in Tarn. He bore no grudge against the man for capturing
him, he even respected his skills. He could have moved faster without the man,
but it had been the one stipulation the Thane of Spar laid on him. He could not
have refused. He could try to lose the man, but he had found Tarn once before.
He conceded, if only to himself, that the huntsmaster’s skills outweighed his
own. He could try to beat him, and leave him for dead, but that seemed unfair.
The man had been honourable in his dealings with Tarn so far.
He
would have to bear the company, for now.
In
the dungeons, there was nothing to show that Tarn had ever been a guest of the
Thane of Spar, but for the one thing he had left behind - the cold dead husk of
Y'thixil.
It
had seemed only just, in the end, to repay the creature's favour.
*
Chapter
Eighty-Seven
Spring
was in full flow by the time Tarn arrived at the southern edge of the Fresh
Woods. He sold the horses gifted to them by the Thane of Spar, and he and Kurin
made their way steadily through the lighter woods of the outlying areas.
Kurin
proved to be a stoic companion. Two days previously, before they sold their
horses at the last village they passed, Tarn had tried to engage the taciturn
huntsmaster in conversation.
‘You
realise my men will try to kill you when they know who you are,’ said Tarn.
The
man merely brushed something imaginary from his travelling cloak.
‘You’re
going to have to talk to me at some point.’
‘Let’s
get things straight,’ said Kurin with a sigh, ‘I don’t want to be here. I am a
tracker, and once you were my prey. You are a bandit, a man of low character. I
have no desire to be your friend, but I will travel with you, I will protect
you, and if you fail to try your very best to succeed in the task you have
appointed yourself, I will strive to kill you…’
Tarn
laughed, ‘You caught me unawares once, huntsman, it will not be so easy again.’
‘Perhaps
not. I have yet to see you use that sword of yours, but my blade is hard to
resist.’
Tarn
looked at the man’s sword. The scabbard was of worn leather, but it had been
greased many times over the years. The man obviously took great care of his
possessions. A careful man, thought Tarn, and not one to take lightly.
‘I
could kill you and disappear once more into the woods.’
‘Do
not make threats lightly, boy. I have not slept since we left the castle, and
even when I do sleep I sleep lightly.’
Tarn
wondered if that were true. The man must have slept in the last five days. He
would be dead on his feet. But apart from dark circles under his hooded, tawny
eyes, there was no sign of fatigue.
‘Perhaps
we can try for some happy compromise. I will not try to kill you, and you will
be polite to me. I trust your Thane has told you who I am.’
‘He
has, and I have yet to see anything that would make me think you are anything
but a bandit king.’
‘Well,
then I shall have to try to make you change your mind.’
Kurin
made no reply.
That
exchange had been two days ago, and the huntsmaster had proved a useful, if
silent, companion. They had provisions, but there was still camp to make. The
two men shared the burden equally, as they shared the weight of their packs
once the horses were sold. They travelled only by day, neither man tiring, or
talking unnecessarily. At night the campfire was barren of conversation, and
Tarn found himself thinking of his wife, alone and wondering at his fate, and
Roskel, hopefully waiting somewhere in the woods for him.
At
their third camp since entering the woods, Tarn tried to make conversation once
more.
‘What
would you have me tell my men? That you are the Thane of Spar’s huntsman? How
long do you think you would live?’
‘Will
you tell them?’
Tarn
did not reply for a moment, hopefully giving the huntsman call for concern, but
there was no discernable sign of emotion on his weathered face.
‘I
do not think that I will.’
‘Then
perhaps we will both live longer.’
Tarn
lay awake that night, waiting for the sound of his companion’s breathing to
change and deepen. He fell asleep before it did.
*
Roskel
felt as though he had been waiting forever. During the winter the errant thief
had made the most of the companionship granted by his group of bandits,
weathering each storm under shelters made from twigs and branches woven
together to make rough bolt holes from the worst of the snows. His band, seven
men including him, made him welcome. Even though he was next to useless despite
all that he’d learned with Tarn, they looked after him, perhaps because of his
closeness to their leader.
No
one spoke ill of Tarn. Even though it had been under Tarn’s leadership that the
attack at Haven took place, no one seemed to blame him. There was no talk of
what would have happened under the Slain. The people of Haven moved on, as
though they always knew their home was transient.
Spring
came swiftly that year, and they left their hunting grounds to travel to the
Walking Lake. It was there that they met with the other fugitives from Haven,
none having any possessions to speak of but that which were necessary. There were
women and children among their number, and many fighting men. But they had no
leader.
They
all made camp and settled into a semblance of the life they’d led before.
Waiting. Days passed and days turned to weeks, but still with no sign of Tarn.
Roskel
watched the boundaries of the lake for sign of Tarn every day. He did not even
know if Tarn lived, but the camp seemed to be waiting patiently. They had trust
in him.
And
that trust was well placed, he saw, and finally permitted himself his first
tentative laugh of the new year.
Gods,
it felt good to let it out.
From
across the lake, one bright morning, Roskel called to the camp that travellers
were approaching. His eyesight was fine, and even past the glare of the sun
upon the water, Roskel could make out the glint of Tarn’s silvery bow over his
shoulder. It could be no one else.
A
buzz travelled round the camp and everyone turned out to meet him.
By
the time Tarn arrived at the camp he was astonished. There were more people
than he remembered, and they were all smiling, waiting for his return.
Roskel
and Brendall were at the forefront of the camp, and they shouted a greeting to
him as he and Kurin approached.
‘Ho
there bandit king!’ cried out Roskel.
‘Ho
there, king of thieves!’ replied Tarn, and ran forward to embrace his friend.
‘Now
don’t get all misty eyed, but you are a sight for sore eyes,’ said Roskel. ‘I
thought you would never come.’
‘Don’t
worry old friend, I won’t be shedding any tears today, although I am glad to
see you.’
Brendall
stepped forward. ‘Welcome back, Tarn. We have been waiting long.’
‘I
was detained, I am afraid, but I will tell you all about it when we have the
time.’
Those
among the crowd that he knew well came and greeted him, but there was a
distance there for most of them, none of the warmth that Brendall and Roskel
had shown him. But it was to be expected. These people had set him above
themselves, and were used to leaders like the Slain, who demanded and expected
instant obedience.
Tarn
set his pack down by his foot and clasped hands with the remainder of his
lieutenants, all of whom had survived the raid on Haven and the winter
unscathed.
‘We
will meet tonight, my friends. At our own fire. We have much to discuss. This
is my bodyguard, Kurin. He will be with us. Please show him the same courtesy
you would me.’
Kurin
raised his eyebrow at Tarn, but stayed silent.
‘You
are welcome, of course. You must tell us how you met, over the fire tonight.
But first we will break our fast,’ said Roskel. If he was confused as to the
provenance of Tarn’s new companion, he was wise enough to keep his council.
Tarn
was looking forward to Kurin’s tale of how they met. He didn’t imagine Kurin
was imaginative enough to spin a yarn for Roskel and the others. He caught the
taciturn huntsman looking at him under one raised eyebrow, and sighed. Perhaps
it would be he that would spin the yarn, instead.
Tarn
gratefully sat next to a fire, smiling greeting at all the curious faces around
the camp. He would speak to them before he left, but for now he was tired from
the journey and ready to drop. But his road was long, and he knew his time at
camp was short.
*
