Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
Tarn
sat on the throne, his plain, pitted sword on his knees.
It
was the day of his crowning.
About
him, his bloodied men stood, proud in their pain. They had won the day. There
was nothing left for them to do. It was the pinnacle of achievement. There was
some part of them that felt regret, for their greatest moment had come.
Everything from this day forward would feel shallow, a mere shade of the great
day. They would take the memory of it to their graves.
The
walk to the throne had been hard. Tarn found himself overcome with weariness.
His legs were leaden. All he wanted to do was sleep, sleep through his reign,
if it came to that. He found, as he sat on the throne, that he had no desire to
be king.
The
remaining Thanes, Redalane among them, holding his chest wound together,
watched Tarn take the throne, and took a knee.
‘Rise.
No man need bow to me. But take my hand, in friendship, and follow me, your
king. Show me your allegiance.’
One
by one, the Thanes, even those reluctant to, stepped forward and kissed Tarn’s
hand.
Soldiers,
formerly men of the Thane of Naeth, stood outside the door. All bowed when Tarn
passed, wearing the crown. Word would soon spread. There would be no need for
more bloodshed. Enough men died for Tarn to sit on the throne. It was a hollow
victory. He felt no joy, just dogged tiredness, seeping through his limbs. His
arms were heavy, but then that was to be expected. It had been the fight of his
life.
The
Thane of Spar’s face was pale from blood loss as he came before Tarn. A surgeon
was on the way from the hospital. Minor wounds had been stitched already, but
the wound in Redalane’s chest was beyond stitches. He would need a skilled
healer, for Hurth’s sword had struck deep enough to gash ribs. He had worn no
armour to lessen the blow.
‘I
owe you my life, and the life of my son. I am your man, from now and forever.
You can count on the Spar’s support in all things. I was right to trust you. I
hope you can forgive the way I treated you once. I did not know.’
Tarn
held out his hand to the Thane, who kissed it. He noticed it shook.
‘There
is no need for apologies, Thane of Spar. You are a good man, abused by an evil
that thankfully is no longer present in this castle. There are still those that
were loyal to the Thane of Naeth. Our work is not yet done, and I will count on
your strong heart in the days to come.’
‘My
heart is yours, as are my men.’
‘Then
I thank you.’
As
Redalane stepped back, he noticed a trickle of blood running down Tarn’s arm, a
small stream, but he mentioned it anyway. Even small wounds could fester, and
the king’s life was too important to risk for such a minor injury.
‘You
are wounded, my king, your shoulder is bleeding.’
‘It
is nothing, Redalane. Your dagger grazed my shoulder.’ Tarn grinned. ‘It is my
only wound. Luck was on my side today.’
Redalane’s
jaw dropped, and suddenly a tear came to his eye. ‘I have killed you, my king,
with my loathing for Hurth. That dagger was poisoned.’
Tarn
saw only truth in the man’s eyes. So that was why he felt such lethargy,
despite a great battle. He was dying.
He
shook his head, and laughed ruefully. So it came to this. He laughed again, but
a tear fell from his eye. He had so much to lose, and all of what he was, what
he fought to return to, no doubt lay sleeping in the distant village of Wherry.
That
was worth his tears, but he wiped his eye anyway. He would not cry in front of
his men, not on this day, this day of glory. It was theirs as much as his.
‘It
was not your doing, Redalane. It was you who brought me here, who gave me the
chance to come to the end of my path. I think that, somehow, I have done what I
was destined to do. The gods, it seems, have no more use for me.’
As
he said this, he felt no anger toward the gods. What would be the point? He had
asked for the chance to avenge his family, his father, his grandfather, Gard
and Molly. He had been given it. To ask more, to wish that he could live out
his life with Rena as his queen, bringing justice to the land, installing pride
again in a once proud nation, well, that was just fancy.
His
father told him long ago that wishes were for fools. He led by example, making
the most of the life allowed him every day. Not once did he see regret, or
anger, upon his father’s face. Tarn would not let him down, even in these final
moments.
There
were more important things on which to expend his last breath. His talking was
not yet done.
He
motioned for Redalane to leave him, which he did, with a heavy sadness in his
eyes. If he lived, thought Tarn, he would have a great burden to bear. But
then, he would have his son back. Perhaps then he would have the strength all
Tarn’s friends needed in the coming days, and years.
Silence
descended the throne room. Redalane’s whisper had been overheard by some, and
outrage swept the remainder of Tarn’s men.
Tarn
held up his hand for quiet.
The
finery of the king’s throne room, usurped by the Thane of Naeth for so long,
faded into the background, the once garish colours of ancient tapestries and
painting long faded. The glory of the kingdom had dulled. But, he thought,
looking past the aged splendour of the room and all its trappings, the nation
could be great again.
Instead
of wasting time on things, he thought of his men. He looked around at the
once-bandits that remained. Them, he could see clearly. They all bore their
wounds silently. Proud, brave men, of stout heart and solid of mind. He would
need them, this final day. He nodded to each in turn, his heart warming from
the presence of them, blood coursing just a little faster. Hastening the end,
he thought. But there would be enough time. There always was, for a wise man.
Wexel
still stood, although he had a huge wound running up through his guts. Should
he live he would be a stalwart supporter of the new leader.
Erin,
a canny swordsman, had suffered only minor wounds. His skills would be needed.
He would be the new leader’s bodyguard. His skills were only second to Tarn’s.
Brendall
was dead and the thought saddened Tarn. But there were enough unbending men
left and it provided him small comfort that he would soon see his friend beyond
Madal’s gates.
The
new council would be one of war.
Warriors
were going to be important in the years to come. There would be threats from
within, and without – Tarn had not forgotten the Draymar. His father had told
him they were like a weed. They rose, and fell, but always they came again, and
always they were unwanted. Sturma needed to be strong on all fronts.
Other
men lived, and they would all be soldiers in the new era. It would be a brave
age. Tarn would not be there to see it, but he had one last chance to make an
impact. With a push in the right direction, perhaps Sturma would survive, and
be stronger for it.
Even
Roskel had proved to be made of sterner stuff than Tarn gave him credit for.
The thief held one hand to a flap of skin on his forehead where a foreign blade
had sliced him. He had been lucky. The thief had always been lucky. It was a
good trait.
Tarn
had been lucky in his own way. He had evaded capture for so long, known love
and happiness, if fleeting, and met many dear to his heart. There were not many
people who could boast as much in such a short span. Only nineteen years, he
thought with a sad smile. And so much left to see.
But
that was not his task. His line ended today. Now, he thought, to see to the
future of the kingdom.
His
men would follow Roskel. Only Roskel was wily enough, smart enough, to lead the
country, in lieu of a king. The other Thanes, among their number men of
ambition equal to the former Thane of Naeth, would work against him at every
turn. For Sturma to survive the upheaval, to avoid another civil war, his
friend would need all the help he could get, but it was not a post for a
fighting man. A leader had others to fight his battles for him. Roskel would
recognise that, and his men would respect his intelligence.
It
would be hard, frustrating, and sometimes all but impossible, but he knew his
friend could succeed at the task. There would be no king.
‘I
am killed,’ he said to the assembled men, without rancour. ‘You fought bravely,
men, and you will be rewarded. Roskel, step forward.’
His
friend stepped forward, and unbidden hugged Tarn tightly against him.
‘Enough,
my friend,’ Tarn told him kindly. ‘We have no time for remorse. I can already
feel my heart slowing. Listen to me, all of you. Roskel will be the guardian of
Sturma. He will lead, not as a king, but as a Protector of the Kingdom, and all
of you, Thanes included, will be the stewards of a new age. I charge you all to
ensure peace in this land, and make it as strong a nation as it once was. My
men will be a council for peace, but sometimes even peace has to be fought for.
Men, times ahead will be hard, but this is my plea to you; be strong, for
Sturma.’
Tarn’s
vision darkened as he spoke. He paused, and Roskel thought his king, his
friend, dead. But the king’s eyes fluttered beneath his eyelids. Roskel stood
back, and watched, and waited. Tarn was not yet dead, and Roskel knew that when
he opened his eyes, he would have something lasting to say.
His
friend always did the right thing. This time would not be any different.
*
In
Tarn’s mind, cutting through the murk that seeped in, came a voice he never
expected to hear again.
Mist
swirled before his eyes, obscuring a winding path. No other sounds came, or if
they did, Tarn thought they were muffled by the mist. There was a susurration,
a vagueness on the air. Death, he mused, made you deaf in the afterlife, which
was sadness for a soul lost in this eerie fog. A memory of sound from the past
life, or the echoes of voices lost in the tepid mist. He looked down at his
hands. They were unblemished, youthful as in life. He was clothed, but in no
clothes he had ever owned. His feet were unshod, and he could feel warmth in
the path underfoot.
He
concentrated on the memory of sound. There, in the distance, a whispering,
urgent voice. Calling him forward.
He
had nowhere else to go. As in life, he thought, there is nowhere to go but
onward, forever, along a path with no end in sight, into the heart of
insubstantiality. No matter the path you took, the impact was forgotten. In
this other life – he thought there would be friends, family, even enemies with
whom to share the memories of life – there was nothing but a cloud of amnesia,
stealing memory and purpose.
But
there was a path, and a voice. That, simple as it was, would be his purpose. A
man like Tarn could not float on that cloud, or drift off the path into the
ether. One foot in front of the other. Concentration was paramount. He looked
at his feet and strode forward.
Whether
time passed, or if every moment bled into one endless parody of time, Tarn
could not tell. A shape formed within the mist. Gargantuan, larger than
anything life could hold, like a mountain but flat, impenetrable, unassailable.
It loomed, and on either side of the structure, two statues – no, not statues,
beings. They shifted, and like the mountains themselves their movements would
have been imperceptible in time, but this was outside of time. Normal rules had
no place within the mist. They took hold of time, made a mockery of minutes,
hours, days.
The
creatures moved, craning heads forward to see the speck approaching along the
path. Tarn looked up, seeing heads formed of some grey material, but surely not
rock. The mist parted to allow this vision. Nothing could obscure them. Tarn
understood then, seeing the men made of living rock, standing upon the mist
either side, as though they were weightless. The crack in the structure before
him, a line, unbelievably fine. No hint of what lay beyond could be seen, but
he knew there was something behind the structure. Madal’s realm, and these were
his guardians. But how could he pass the gates? Surely only the guardians would
be capable of shifting the mountainous mass.
‘That
is a problem for later, Tarn. For now, we must speak. Time is shorter than you
think.’
He
looked down at the voice, lost to the world, but strong and urgent here in this
time out of time. He smiled – relieved to find that he still could. Tulathia
stood, so dwarfed by the gates that she could have been standing on the borders
of the night time air, but for the stars missing behind her.
He
tried out his voice, and found that it worked just as it always had done.
‘I
have missed you, old mother.’
‘And
I you, Tarn.’
Even
here, she was old. As old as a human could be, but never as old as the gates.
‘I
have waited long for this moment.’
Tarn
laughed. ‘I have waited my whole life for this.’
‘You
would have, had I told you what I knew.’
‘Did
you know I was to die?’
‘All
men die. But yes, I saw one possible future. I am saddened beyond words that I
should meet you now, though. I had hoped I was wrong, that you would succeed,
and live. But you succeeded, and you will die. Soon, Tarn, but we have this
moment. You must listen.’
‘Speak
on, old mother. I feel the pull of the gates, even now.’
‘Hold
tight to your memories of life. Your work for Sturma – for Rythe – is not yet
finished.’
Tarn
was silent for a moment, and held onto the thought of Rena. His one regret. His
perfect, abandoned love. Sadness was almost overwhelming, but there was a
warmth there, too. One day, when he passed these gates, she would come to him.
But he hoped he would have long to wait. The world would be so much less
beautiful without her in it.
‘I
feel overwhelming sadness, old mother. My life has been for naught. I loved, I
fought, but in the end I lost.’
It
was Tulathia’s turn to be silent, and in her stare Tarn saw only kindness. He
felt himself grow uncomfortable in her gaze.
‘Don’t
be a fool, boy. Your life has been more important than you can imagine. In you,
the future burned at its brightest. You have brought hope to all those that
come after you. Your life is the foundation for more than you can imagine. You
have won a great victory. None of your love has been in vain.’
‘I
hope so,’ he said, sadness heavy on his soul, in this place where there was no
beating of the heart in his breast.
‘And
I
know
so, boy, so don’t be a fool,’ said Tulathia, but not unkindly.
Tarn,
chastened, allowed her to speak.
‘Now
listen. Sturma must remain strong. It must be a nation. Here, I can see further
into the future, so far it would make your head spin. I cannot tell you
everything I know, but you must ensure the crown is found, but not in ten
years, nor one hundred. You will never know why, but a thousand years from now
the crown will be needed. It will be worn again.
‘Men
will fight for it, if it is left where it can be found. It must be well hidden.
In time, one will come again, one who can wield its power. It contains the
past, and when the time of the return comes, the past must be known. It could
save Rythe, even though the chance is slim.’
‘What
is the return?’
‘A
time of pure darkness. The future is bleak, indeed. One day, even the land
beyond these gates may be dark and bereft of souls. I would not see that
happen, and between you and I we have enough power to fire an arrow into that
darkness. Perhaps we can halt it for a little while, but there will be others,
when the time comes. Heroes will rise, gods will walk the face of Rythe,
monsters will howl in the night, and it will be nothing compared to the evil
that lives among the stars, waiting to return into the light and corrupt it.
Listen to me, now. Prepare the way. Hide the crown. Choose your lieutenants carefully,
for they must see Sturma through not only the near future, but ensure its
survival into the distance. Without Sturma, there will be no future souls.’
‘You
paint a bleak picture, Tulathia.’
‘Heed
my words, Tarn. Now return. My time here is done. I will see you in the next
life.’
Tarn
felt a familiar tug, like the pull of the waking world in sleep. He waved
farewell to Tulathia, and saw that his hand, once solid, was translucent. It
disappeared from vision, and the mists cleared.
*