Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
Tarn
walked for two hours in the snow, still heading northwest, into the centre of
the forest. Eventually, he came to a rest at a place he deemed had enough
shelter from the storm, the snow gathered in the boughs of a great tree keeping
the snow from the ground. Tarn unrolled his bed, a thin deerskin, enough to
keep the damp of the earth from his bones, but little more, and lay as close to
the tree as he could get.
He
pulled his cloak over his face and slept.
The
cold descended that night and loneliness engulfed him. In the morning he woke,
groggy from the previous evening’s ale, frost crusting his beard.
Had
he slept more lightly, he might have heard footsteps by his camp, crunching in
the snow. But perhaps not, with the falling snow dragging sounds to the
ground.
Tarn
moved on after a breakfast of Saril vines, which he found near his camp. With
their bloody leaves chopped fine they made a nourishing stew, a supplement to
his diet of meat, along with what tubers and roots he could dig from the frozen
earth, using his sword like a spade to break the ground.
Gard
would have skinned him alive.
Instantly
saddened by Gard’s absence, Tarn concentrated on walking.
As
he moved further into the forest snow became sparse on the ground. There was a
thin covering in some areas, where the trees gave each other breathing space,
but more often than not the trees crowded in together for warmth, and their
branches intertwined, giving the snow no room to break through. Going was easy,
if a little wayward where clumps of bushes pushed Tarn from his true path.
Coming
upon a knot of trees and bushes that blocked his path, Tarn doubled back in
order to move past them. He was forced to move to his right, and as he did so
he sensed a movement far behind him.
Tarn
well knew he could not keep a watch for followers in his sleep. Instead he took
pains to clear away sign of his camp and fires, buried his waste and scraped
the ground to remove indication of his passing. Perhaps it had not been enough.
*
A
little way east of Tarn a weary traveller paused in his pursuit. He was not yet
desperate enough to risk attacking the man he followed, but he was coming close
to it. He followed his prey’s footsteps while the snow was fresh on the ground,
but now the snow was patchy at best. Still, it was enough to discern the man’s
course. He travelled northwest.
Tonight,
when the man slept, as much as it would pain him to do so, he would brain the
man with a handy branch and take what he had. The thief had a dagger, but was
loath to get his hands dirty. Beside, murder was so common.
So
was mugging, but he was desperate.
It
was sad to be reduced to violence, but it was that or starvation.
Once,
he had lived by a code. True, he had always been a thief, but never a violent
man. Still, needs must. One man alone he could take. Then when he was fed, he
would move south. Perhaps, there, find a place he could call home. He would
mend his ways, give up thieving, and philandering, and womanising.
Just
a rap to the skull. No murder involved. How hard could it be?
*
Tarn
walked all day. Then, carefully, so that no one would notice, he laid twigs
around his camp, ate, and settled in for the night, allowing himself a fire.
It
would dazzle the attackers, if only for a moment. Tarn’s eyes would be closed,
so his vision would not suffer. He curled up, one arm underneath him, and
waited.
The
evening passed, and the fire grew dim as the cold grew bright. As Tarn
struggled to keep slumber at bay, there came a soft crack from nearby. Alert,
he waited.
His
attacker flew across the camp, and Tarn rolled, but only just in time. He felt
the breeze at his unprotected head as a blow from a thick branch smashed into
the earth where just a second before his head had lain. Rolling, he was beside
the fire, and then on his feet before his attacker could come again.
He
faced his would be murderer. Before him stood a young man, perhaps a few years
older than Tarn but not many, clothed in tattered frippery. The man shivered
from the cold. He clutched a thick branch, and in his belt wore a short dagger
more suited to paring nails than cold-blooded murder.
Why
hadn’t he tried to slit his throat? A robber with morals, perhaps.
‘An
interesting scar, and an interesting blade. I shall relieve you of the one, but
not the other. If you do as I say,’ said the desperate fop.
‘The
blades may be purchased, but only with your blood,’ said Tarn, as he tried to
pull his sword from the scabbard, but despite the oil it was frozen tight.
The
thief tutted.
‘I
keep my dagger by my belly. A swordsman from the north would know to use fish
oil on his scabbard. You must be a southerner, not used to the snow. Alas, the
knowledge could have stood you in good stead, but I fear if you do not hand
over your weapons you will not live to see another winter.’
‘My,’
said Tarn, flexing his fists, ‘But you are a wordy opponent.’
In
two steps Tarn was upon the thief and, ignoring the cudgel, thundered a right
cross between the man’s eyes. His attacker dropped, and the branch fell softly
onto the forest floor.
Tarn
finally managed to draw his dagger with his left hand, and bent over the thief.
He waited for the thief to come around, and when he did, Tarn held the blade to
his throat without a word. Tarn had no compunctions about killing an unarmed
man. The thief saw this in Tarn’s eyes, and gave up the fight with a sigh of
resignation, rather than fear.
‘I
suppose it would be politic to introduce myself at this point. I am called
Roskel Farinder,’ said the thief, and smiled disarmingly. It was the only
weapon left in his arsenal.
Tarn
took the measure of him in that moment. He rose carefully, and stepped back.
The man drew himself upright and dusted off his torn cloak, as though that
would somehow make him more presentable. Tarn lowered his dagger.
He
would not kill a man who had surrendered, even if he had tried to brain him a
moment before.
‘You
are most gracious, and I am at your mercy,’ said the thief, bowing low. He drew
his dagger cautiously, held between thumb and forefinger, and dropped it to the
frozen earth. ‘Please forgive me, but I am not much good at waylaying
travellers, and you seem more prepared than most.’
‘You
fight like you dress,’ said Tarn, keeping hold of his own dagger.
‘I
thank you for your mercy, but dressed as you are I would appreciate it if you
would keep your sartorial comments to yourself.’
Tarn
laughed and sat by the low fire. ‘Well, I’ll do that. You must have fallen on
hard times. Sit with me a while, and I’ll see if I can decide what to do with
you.’
‘I
do hope it doesn’t involve skinning. It seems you have a habit of making
clothing from the things you meet in the woods.’
‘I
shouldn’t worry, stranger, your skin looks too thin to make a decent pair of
boots.’
‘I
suppose I live at your sufferance, but really…what’s wrong with my skin?’
*
The
cold also grew in the far north.
A
great fire roared in the common room of Naeth Castle, and Hurth stood before
it. To the observing Thanes it seemed that the Lord of Naeth was surrounded by
flames, granting their liege the appearance of a demon spawned in the lower
hells.
‘There
have been some hints of dissent from among the southern Thanes,’ Hurth told
them in a stern voice. ‘It seems that our hold over those errant nobles is
somewhat lacking. I may not be king, but Sturma needs a ruler, and by the gods,
I am it. We meet here today to decide what to do with them.’
All
the Thanes paid tithes to the Thane of Naeth, yet the southern Thanes, far
removed from the northern seat of power, were exercising as much control as
they were able over the north. They paid the tithes, for they were afraid of
civil war with their more powerful northern counterparts, but they heavily
taxed traders visiting from the north in a punitive measure, perhaps designed
to irk the Thane of Naeth.
It
was galling, but he did not often allow himself to feel powerless.
Somewhere,
lurking underneath his thoughts, though, the nagging suspicion remained that he
would never be king, no matter his actions on this day or any other. He
trampled the thought down to where it came from and turned his mind back to the
matter at hand.
Then
there would be no room for disagreement. His rule would be absolute.
‘The
Thane of Spar pays his taxes, as do the other Thanes, but still he blocks our
plans at every turn. By now the south should be totally in our control,’ said
Cardon, the Thane of Carmille, a small Thanedom to the west of Naeth. Carmille
had little to boast but wheat and farmers. Their army, such as it was, could
barely man the walls of Naeth castle.
Hurth
had no time for Cardon. He waited to see what Orvane Wense would have to say.
Orvane, Thane of Kar, had yet to speak. Hurth knew him to be a petty man, but
one who would seize power from Hurth in a moment, should Hurth show any
weakness. The Thane of Kar would happily go to war with the southern thanes,
and the north would win, but the cost of such a campaign would be prohibitive.
Hurth
desired power, even more so than wealth, but would not squander wealth if there
were any other way.
‘The
Thane of Spar is in my pocket. But were we to go to war with the south I think
even he would join the war, no matter what he stands to lose,’ said Hurth. None
of the other nobles thought to question what the Thane of Spar had lost.
Rumours were rife, and they all had families.
‘Assassination?’
inquired Orvane.
‘I
have mused on the possibilities, Orvane, but I am loath to take any action that
could precipitate a war,’ said Hurth, not to belittle his only true rival, but
purely because he could see the drawbacks of such a course of action.
‘Then
control. We cut off the south from all northern trade. They need our wheat…’
‘But
we need their fish, and beef, and the forests are good hunting ground and
provide us with timber, where we only have stone. The masons would be up in
arms, and building would suffer. The guild of traders could cause problems
should they take umbrage at any plan we implement.’ Fanador, Thane of Mardon,
swung his jug as he made this point. Artisans were plentiful in his Thanedom,
and he was only looking out for his own wealth.
‘Well,
then,’ said Hurth, ‘We have a slight problem. None of you seems willing to take
action, but all agree that something needs to be done to punish the southern
thanes, short of war. As always, that leaves it up to me to take measures, and
I have decided.’
‘And
what is your decision?’ asked Orvane, with just a hint of disrespect in his
voice.
‘Soldiers
will accompany all trade caravans. Any demand of payment for passage to the
south will be dealt with as banditry. They will desist, for they are afraid of
a war they could not win. We will call their bluff, and show them where the
true power on Sturma rests. What do you say to that, Merilith?’ Hurth spoke
without looking.
His
reedy advisor blanched, but Hurth could not see him. ‘A wise plan, my lord.’
‘You
see, Merilith? I am capable of making a decision on my own.’
Merilith
smiled for the benefit of the on-looking Thanes. ‘As I have always said, Lord,
you are the wisest master.’
Hurth
smiled at the assembly. ‘And don’t you forget it,’ he said, for Merilith’s ears
as much as the thanes.
‘I
will see you next month.’ And with that, the thanes were dismissed.
Crown
or no crown, not one of them, even Orvane, was stupid enough to ever challenge
their leader openly. They were dogs, and with a standing army of nearly ten
thousand men, Hurth held their leads.
*