The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (36 page)

Chapter One Hundred-Six

Outside,
Tarn found he could breathe again. Of course Selana needed no pardon. She
answered to no man. It was no wonder the thieves of this city were as numerous
and as difficult to find as they were. She pulled the strings of all. Once
again he was given to think of a spider, catching flies with practised ease.

            ‘Come,
let us return to the bar. We may go as friends, now. Forgive the inconvenience,
please. We all answer to a higher order,’ said Garenhill.

            ‘No
apologies necessary, my good man,’ said Roskel, who found his tongue again, and
seemed pleased that it was still in his head.

            ‘When
we reach the surface, we will meet Tor, and I will tell you of our plans to
breach the castle. We have been planning long. I hope you don’t mind. I’m sure
it comes as something as a shock.’

            ‘Where
the Lady is concerned, Garenhill, I don’t think anything will ever be a shock
again.’

            ‘She
does seem to affect people in the strangest ways,’ agreed Garenhill, his face
hidden in the murk.

            They
walked in respectful silence, following Garenhill through the winding
passageways. Tarn made no attempt to remember the journey. He had no wish to
ever lay eyes on the Queen of Thieves again.

*

VI.

The Outlaw King

Chapter
One Hundred-Seven

Tarn’s
sense of anticipation rose and rose until his head pounded with blood and his
vision blurred. It took all his concentration to summon the carmillion blossom
into his throbbing mind. Gradually, the flower asserted itself over visions of
Hurth and the encroaching blackness at the edge of sight.

            The
tunnel came into focus, and in the incandescent, fleeting light of the receding
torch ahead, he made out the backs of his friends in front of him. In all the
time he had known the men, he had come to love them. The emotion surprised him,
for many of the men had harsh features and an unforgiving nature. Yet they were
quick to face adversity, and even quicker to laugh, despite the grim task
appointed them.

            Brendall,
his broad shoulders blocking the torchlight, was leading the way. His immense
strength, his indomitable will, reminded Tarn sometimes of Gard, his surrogate
father. His time with Gard seemed somehow distant. Tarn hoped that if Gard
could see him now, the big man would approve of his actions. Even though Tarn
had followed the hawk’s path for much of his short life, he cared for people,
and felt keenly the hopes and fears in their hearts. The fate of the nation did
not trouble him, it was the future of his people, the vagabonds and scoundrels that
he had adopted through chance more than design, to whom his thoughts turned.
Surely Gard would have thought kindly of him. He strove to defend those who
could not live in the villages and towns, those that had been used without
kindness or compassion by the Thane of Naeth’s men, on the Thane’s orders.

            There
would be a reckoning tonight. No longer would Tarn allow good people to suffer
the life he himself had known for so long-- to be hunted without respite, to
know no home but the woods and the sanctuary of the forest. It was time to end
it.

            Now
the end was in sight, and his heart pounded, but strangely, he felt relief. For
so long, not able to show his face without fear, he had been a shadow, hiding
from civilisation, shunning people without realising what he did. These men did
not care what the Thane wanted. They would stand by him, no matter what. Had he
been a murderer, they would have still taken him in, but he knew that they
would not have followed him this far, possibly to their deaths, if they did not
believe in him.

            Roskel,
for whom he felt a kinship, with whom there was a bond stronger than mere
shared experience, followed, even though he had no skill as a warrior, even
though he could barely hold the short sword he carried with an invented swagger.
Until now, it had been enough to wear it, and bluff his way through trouble.
But his hands were not calloused, he did not have the width of shoulder to be a
swordsman. Tarn would protect him as best he could, for he owed the man as much
as that, if not more. Without his friendship Tarn would never have left the
woods, he would have faded into obscurity. Roskel had been the voice of reason
throughout his adventures, and that was worth more than gold.

            The
other men were in sight of the entrance, waiting for Tarn to catch up. He had
to duck to reach it. Twenty-one men, crouched low and silent, watched him with
a glint in their eye. Tor, Selana’s man, pointed at the bars that led to the
tunnels under the castle. He was a head breaker, more brawn than sense, but he
would die to protect Tarn. Those were his orders, and Tarn trusted him. For
some unknown reason he trusted the Queen of Thieves, too.   He did not doubt
that she had her own motives for helping him, but he sensed no treachery in
her; at least, as far as he was concerned. He was sure she had sent enough men
to their deaths in the past, but had she wanted him dead he would not have
known about it. It would have been a swift blade in the depths of the night,
not at the end of a dark tunnel, not on the throne, should he ever attain it.

            Tarn
nodded to his men, and for the final time that night clasped hands with each of
them, his grip firm, his palm sweaty. Lastly, he took Roskel in a firm embrace.
Roskel smiled at him and indicated with a flick of his head that Tarn should be
the first through the opening.

Tarn
took the lead, and pushing the grate up, entered the underbelly of the castle.

*

Chapter One Hundred-Eight

The
leaves were thick on the ground along the King’s Boulevard. Redalane looked out
from the high window from his chamber, sadness and fury competing for his
heart.

            Shortly,
he would meet Hurth and the other thanes, for the last time. He was prepared.
None of the thanes would be armed tonight, but concealed in his belt buckle was
a short dagger, perfectly sharp, honed fine. It was narrow, and made of bone.
When he plunged it into Hurth’s neck, he intended to snap the blade, so there
would be no chance to withdraw it. It was coated with a fine residue of
capsibellum, a powerful poison for which there was no known antidote. It would
flow through his tormentor’s blood, paralysing his muscles, then his lungs. He
would suffocate, his heart slowing, his head bursting with the need for oxygen.
He wanted to kill the Thane with his bare hands, choke the life from him and
watch the light fade from his eyes as his soul fled, but this way was more
certain. He wished he had magic, so that he could steal the man’s soul and hold
it in torment for eternity, torture it with unimaginable agony. But there was
no magic in the world, just that of witches, and that was only good for
healing. He wanted to rend, and tear, and maim. But he would not get the chance
for a leisurely death.

            To
attack the Thane of Naeth in front of his guards would be to invite death. He
had one chance, and one chance only. When Tarn attacked the castle, he would
use the moment to strike Hurth down. His guards would be in disarray, and
Redalane’s own men, an accompaniment of thirty – all that was allowed – would
storm the cells and free his son. It was the best plan he had been able to
devise. His men would escape the same way Tarn would enter. He had no doubt
that Tarn would succeed in getting into the castle. He had petitioned Selana
for her aid, and she had come to him in a dream. She promised Redalane that
Tarn would penetrate the castle.

            Redalane
rested his hopes on one young man. But there was something about the young man,
a solidity he could not define, a quality within that shone through his eyes.
He believed in him, although he did not know why. It was a slim chance that he
would succeed this night, but it was all Redalane had. Even if Tarn failed in
the task appointed him, Redalane would still kill Hurth. Should his son die,
they would be together beyond Madal’s gate. He had no wife alive, no other
children. To live out his life alone, in the cold halls of his castle, was no
future he could bear.

            Tonight,
he would strike, and let the gods decide his fate.

            He
pulled his cloak tighter about his broad shoulders, and turned from the window.
A light rain began to fall, and the moon was obscured from view. The air was
heavy with expectation. There would be a hard rain tonight.

            A
knock at the door came, and Redalane prepared to meet the enemy.

*

Chapter One Hundred-Nine

The
Protectorate tenthers knew no magic. They were entirely reliant upon Merilith
to be their eyes, to divine threats to them, but even should they have no
foresight, they were more than capable of defending the Council of Ten from all
mortal threats.

            Merilith
bustled into the chamber, where the ten Thanes, the most powerful men of
Sturma, sat in quiet discussions. His human master would lead the talks, and at
the end the other Thanes would be chastised, and controlled. Hurth would rule
unopposed. Merilith thought that the Thane of Spar would be a problem. He saw
in his fugue state, where he received his visions, that Redalane planned
treachery. But with the Protectorate to guard Hurth, there could be little
doubt of the outcome, should Redalane attempt anything. The castle guard were
alert tonight. Any dereliction of duty would be harshly punished. But the guard
were paid well, from the Thane’s own coffers. They were loyal, in as far as
loyalty could be bought.

            Merilith
was not worried about treachery from within the room, but a sense of something
wrong. There was a gap in his sense. Where he would ordinarily be able to
foresee threats to the Thane, as he had on occasion when assassins breached the
defences of the castle, there was a wavering, as if there were a mist
throughout the castle. Something tickled his senses, like a spell being cast in
a distant room, or the pull of full moons. He was concerned, but not overly worried.
No assassin could breach this room. There were eight Protectorates within, two
outside guarding the doors. They were warriors of exceptional skill. No human
would be a match for them unless they were to outnumber them two to one, and
even then the outcome of such an engagement was far from certain.

            To
bring a force large enough to challenge the Protectorate guards, and gain
access to the rooms through the castle, where double the normal guard
patrolled, would be a feat of magic unheard of. The attackers would have to use
a portal directly into the room, and get at least sixteen men through that
narrow aperture before they were cut down.

            It
was all well and good, but Merilith was still concerned. He took the Pernant of
the tenthers to one side and voiced his concerns, quietly enough that the
Council of Ten would not be disturbed. Even on this occasion, Hurth exerting
his influence not too subtly over his guests, it would not do to interrupt. It
would be unseemly.

            The
Pernant nodded his acknowledgement. He relayed his orders to his soldiers, and
sent one man outside to warn the guard on the door. Merilith had a gnawing
concern that the soldier would not return, or that his head would roll into the
room, but he came back unscathed and took up a position inside the door.

            The
blank patch troubled him, still. Outside, a storm brewed. Rain ran in rivulets
on the windows. He could not hear the sound of it above the chattering of the
council, but soon, he knew, there would be thunder. It was an ill omen.

            He
made sure his dagger was in place, and strode out through the door. He would
wait outside. If anyone made it as far as the door, he would have to risk using
magic openly. It was a last resort – he could not have the Council suspect the
Thane of Naeth’s advisor of using magic, but tonight, he felt, it might be
necessary.

            Thunder
boomed, and Merilith found himself sweating. From inside the castle, there was
no sound. By now he should have heard the patrol in the corridor. He looked at
the two Protectorates on either side of the door, and began an incantation,
softly, the words drifting on the heavy air.

            A
small ball of mist sprang into life before his eyes. He sent it forth, to seek
out what he could not see with his mind’s eye. His vision glazed, and the eye
roved, supplanting the sight of one corridor for the next. The eye gathered
speed, and underneath his eyelids,  Merilith’s eye flickered backward and
forward, searching around corners, and in dark corridors, for the threat he
knew was there. 

*