The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (41 page)

Then, on the ninth month, when his wife was about to
go into labour, a messenger came riding in.

‘My lord, you must come quick. I fear there has been
a terrible tragedy. It is your son, Theodric. He has fallen from his horse.’

Loath to leave his wife as she was soon to go into
labour, he mounted his own horse. Sick with worry he rode out to the plains,
where he found his son, head bandaged and feverish. His horsemen surrounded the
young heir on a litter.

‘He is unconscious, my lord. He fell while riding
this morning. I rode as hard as I could to find you. I cannot make him wake.’

The Thane did not know what to do. He could not
leave his wife for long.

‘Bring my son back home,’ he said, sorrow breaking
his once strong voice. The boy’s face was deathly pale.

He had an idea then, and perhaps the idea had been
there all along. No one but the Thane, and the gods if they are truly wise,
will ever know. There is one more person who knew, and she knew from the very
beginning, from the day Theodric  born. She was the one who handed the mewling
babe back into his mother’s arms.

Dandred understood what he must do. He would find
the witch.

Mere hours passed before the horsemen returned home
with the boy. Theodric  arranged in his bed, where he shook from fever, and the
Thane’s wife entered labour for the second time in her young life. The finest
physicians could find no physical malady with his son and told those waiting
that his time was short. It looked as though Theodric had been doomed to death,
from the day he was born.

The Thane, furious that this should come to pass on
that day, which should have been full of love and joy, did the only thing he
could think to do. He left his family alone, and with tears of sadness wetting
his face, and sorrow clouding his heart, rode out to the Pale Forest.

For hours, he rode, mind blank with grief for his
young son, whom he had nearly lost so long ago.

His back was  sore when he arrived, and
unconsciously he knuckled the small area above his rump as he led his stallion
deeper into the forbidding forest. The sunlight seemed to fade from up above,
and just as he thought he would never find the witch in time, there she was,
waiting for him upon a fallen tree, a deer on her right, eating berries from
her hand.

The cauldron he had made for her sat beside her
feet.

Before he could speak she bade him dismount.

‘My Lord. I told you once. I beg of you not to ask
me.’

‘My son lies dying. I need your skills. You must
save him.’

‘I cannot. I fear what affects him is beyond even my
skills to heal.’

‘There must be something you can do.’

‘The price is too high.’

‘I will pay any price.’

‘Truly? There are some prices too high for even a
man of your wealth to pay.’

‘I will pay any price.’

‘Then take this to the side of your wife. I will
meet you there.’

The Thane rode on, holding the cauldron to one side.

When he reached his home, as before, the witch was
waiting at the doorstep for him.

‘The price always comes after the deed. You know
this. I beg you one last time. Do not ask this of me.’

‘I ask and you must save my son. You are born to
serve those in need, are you not?’

‘I am, my lord.’ The witch looked at him with the
heaviest sadness he had ever seen in her eyes. ‘Take me to your son.’

‘He is upstairs.’

‘Your second son. I must see him first.’

The Thane thought it strange but allowed the witch
her whims. ‘Very well. I will take you to my son.’

He led her upstairs to his bedchamber. His wife was
sitting up on the bed. Her belly  large with child and from the bed he could
tell that the child would be coming soon.

‘You must leave me with your wife. The price, I
fear, will be too high for you, but I will save your son, as you have asked.’

He set her cauldron down beside her.

With the door shut the Thane prowled the hallway as
he had ten years before. No sounds came from within. He waited for the sound of
his mewling baby – a second son! Joy tempered with fear for his first son. All
his love was been invested in his first son. He could not die now. He would not
allow it.

The first breath hitched, and then it finally came,
a great yowling cry, one that brought happiness to his heart, if only for a
moment. This time he knew better than to barge in. The witch would call him
when she was ready.

The bawling stopped after too short a time. The
silence came as suddenly as the sound.

Dandred  worried that he could hear nothing. He
waited outside for an hour and the only sound to come from within was a steady
chanting. Darkness settled into the house, and the Thane felt a deep chill
following in the gloom.

Eventually, the witch emerged, her face grey with
strain.

‘It is done. Take me to your son.’

‘Where is my son?’

‘I will show him to you after I have saved your
Theodric.’ She held a bubbling cauldron by her side.

He took her down the hall to where his first son was
laid up. He was sweating with the fever and mumbling. His bandaged head was
soaked through and bloody.

The witch knelt beside him and took a ladle from the
bubbling cauldron. She gently placed the ladle to the young boy’s lips and bade
him drink. Even in his unconscious state the boy drank heartily. He drank the
whole ladleful and then to the Thane’s surprise his eyes opened.

‘Theodric!’ cried the Thane in joy. ‘You are awake!’

‘Father! I had the most terrible dream.’

‘No more dreams now my boy. You must rest.’

The boy smiled and lay back down.

‘I cannot thank you enough, witch of the Pale
Forest. Your price. Name anything.’

‘The price has already been paid.’

The Thane looked confused for a second. Until he
looked down into the cauldron. It  still bubbling. There, in the murk, bobbed
something small, cherubic. It turned its head toward him, and recognition of
his deeds came too late.

Dandred put his head in his hands and howled his
anguish to the night.

The witch watched him with tears in her eyes, but
her tears had fallen long ago. Some people are sad because they know too much,
some are sad because others know too little. Witches know both kinds of sorrow.

*

‘That’s
a horrible story! I shan’t sleep tonight,’ the boy asserted with a strange kind
of glee.

‘As it should be son, as it should be. Now you know.
That is the reason most people fear witches. One small part of us, which we do
not wish to acknowledge, knows the truth. No matter what we do, or what we
learn, or how much we are blinded by love, know this, child; witches are wiser
than any man.’

‘Well, now I know why I should be afraid of
witches.’

‘Don’t fear them, child. Instead, pity them. That, I
think, would be more fitting.’

With that, the boy’s father kissed the child on the
cheek, and tucked his cloak around him, proof against the chill growing on the
air. But he was a kind man. He built up the fire in the clearing, and left it
burning against the night, and all that lived within.

The End

Bonus Material: The Thief King (The Line
of Kings Trilogy Book Two)

Sample

Prologue

Roskel
Farinder tried to get the louse in his moustache between his teeth. His beard
was long enough, but the mite was just out of reach. He longed to scratch his
face, or even better, shave the growth off with some hot water and lather.
Better still, have a fine barber do it.

            He
allowed himself one of his many fantasies. Sitting in a chair with his head
tilted back, propped upon a soft head rest. His hair freshly washed and cut,
his body bathed and scrubbed and sweated in a spa. The soothing sound of the
barber’s blade stropping. Not so long ago he’d been able to afford the finest
barbers in Naeth, the capital city of Sturma. He’d been an important man, for a
time. Before that he’d been a bandit, before that a thief of no little renown.

            Unfortunately,
the name he’d made for himself back then had gotten him into trouble now. The
only blade he’d ever used, the one between his legs, had got him into hot water
more times than he could count. If only he used his head instead of
his…well…he’d certainly learned his lesson this time. No more dalliances with
powerful lord’s wives. He’d even steer clear of their mistresses…oh, but that
soft, pale flesh…the sweet smell…his mind wandered again. He allowed it free
reign. He had done since his incarceration. It kept him sane. A man had to have
dreams. A prisoner had even greater need of them.

            A
man could go insane, chained in a dank dungeon, unable to scratch his own
beard, unable to urinate except when the guard came and brought the bucket. It
was a matter of learning control, or sleeping in your own soil.

            Roskel
was a fast study. He still had some shred of dignity, even in this dark corner
of the world.

            Ulbridge
town. Twice damned. His bane.

            Why,
oh why, had he ever thought to return? He had the whole of Sturma. A kingdom he
had once run. And he’d left it all behind on a fool’s quest.

            Now
he was that fool.

            The
thief turned his mind once again to the matter of getting free. He had worried
over the problem for the last three months. He had to get free. Too much rested
on his success. And yet he could hope for no aid, for nobody knew where he was.
It had been a necessity at the time. Now he wished he’d taken a companion with
him. His only hope, he knew, was that someone else would break him out. A
witch, perhaps, who could transform him into a stealthy cat. Then he could
squeeze through the bars and creep past the guards, out into the fresh air and
the cool night.

            To
see the stars...he sighed.

            To
stalk the rooftops once more…happen upon a lady, by chance, lonesome while her
husband was away on business…perhaps a merchant’s wife…no. He shook his head -
the little movement he could manage. No more lonely wives. He had learned his
lesson. He had.

            He
chaffed from the constant irritation of the iron shackles that bound his arms
to each side. He had learned to tense and ease his muscles periodically, but
when he slipped into his uneasy sleep his arms lost all feeling. Every time he
woke his arms screamed as the blood rushed back where it belonged.

            In
truth, the life of a prisoner was a sorry one. He tried to be thankful for his
small mercies…a more inventive captor might have cut of his offending article,
or had him hung…but his captor knew who he was. A public humiliation would not
work. The Council would hear of it and his captor would be hung himself.

            But
for all his past glories and power, it availed Roskel little. He could not
imagine a more useless past in such a situation. He might be a thief but he
sorely wished for some modicum of magical talent like wizards of old tales.

            The
first of Rythe's two suns was rising outside. He couldn’t see it, but the first
birdsong of the day drifted to him through the crack in the wall. Cracks
through which blew a sadistic autumn wind.

            Be
thankful for the small mercies, he chided himself. At least it carried his own
stench away on the windier days.

            No
breakfast was forthcoming.

            He
allowed his mind to drift. Like the fool he was, he went over his mistakes in
his head, as he did a thousand times each day.

            If
he had just forgotten all about the crown. If he had just left and become a
thief again…

            Not
for the first time, his mind turned to thoughts of death. Would it be a relief?
In truth, his dreams sustained him, but more and more he wondered if it
wouldn’t just be better to be allowed to die.

            His
eyes misted for a moment. If he hadn’t listened to Tarn, he wouldn’t be here.
But then who could deny a dying man’s wish?

            And
the last king, at that.

*

I.

Hearth and Home

Chapter One

The
King had been dead a year. Many people no longer recalled when there had been a
king.

            Tarn,
the dead king, had ensured that none should take the crown with his dying wish.
Roskel Farinder cursed his friend for his wishes and his last and only edict. It
meant he was stuck in the throne room, wrangling with a man he hated, yet
shackled by duty.

            That
man was the Thane of Kar. He argued with the Thane of Mardon across the great
table that Roskel had ordered built in the throne room.

            Wexel,
one of the three joint Stewards of the Crown, caught Roskel's eye across the
crowded room and rolled his eyes. The childish move from the large man made him
smile. Like him, Wexel was not born to the business of running a country. While
Roskel Farinder was a born thief, Wexel was a born warrior, more at home
wielding his great sword than the quill he was so often forced to wield these
days.

            Roskel
allowed the argument to fade into the background and let his eyes drift around
the room. The adornments of battles past, some not so long ago, hung from the
walls. Tapestries he had ordered, after the fashion of the south, covered the
spaces in between. He was not so ensconced in his position that he could flout
centuries of tradition and hide the castle’s history away, but he could at
least bring some beauty to a room that remembered only death. It had been his
hope that this room could in future be a place of contemplation, that the
tapestries would show the fate of the last warrior king and perhaps shed some
light on the follies of violence. He feared these men at the table only saw
glory in the death.

            Maces
and great swords, chainmail hung on carved figures, shields emblazoned with the
boar’s crest of the kings, the great axe of the barbarian king the Red Slayer,
scourge of the Draymar, a strangely hafted spear, the haft fashioned from some
black wood unknown to any he had asked, runic symbols carved. In alcoves stood
statues of past kings, each wearing their armour of state. War, reminders of
war, the illusion of glamour and honour fought for and won in battle. The
warrior kings were respected.

            But
what had it availed any of them? Roskel had studied the Sturman Archives,
housed in Naeth Castle's great library, beneath the throne room. Only three of
the kings of the past had died peacefully, in a written history of the kings
that was over a thousand years old. Would that he could change the habit of a
lifetime. What was the life expectancy of a Steward of the Crown? Here he sat
at the head of the state table, arguing lords surrounding him, some holding
barely concealed malice for others of power who disagreed with them.

            The
Thane of Kar would have his head were it not for open support for the new
regime from the Thane of Spar. Without Redalane, the Thane of Spar, the council
of Thanes would have already descended into open warfare. He was the Stewards
of the Crown’s greatest ally. Grievously wounded in the battle to wrest the
country from the machinations of the Thane of Naeth (a position as yet
unfilled) he had been instrumental in bringing the country back from the brink
of civil war to some semblance of normality and a thin sense of sanity.

            The
Thane of Spar was, Roskel thought, one of the strongest men he had ever known.
Redalane had endured years under the yoke under Hurth, the deposed Thane of
Naeth. His son had been held captive for many years, until Tarn, Roskel’s
friend and the author of Roskel's current misfortune, had rescued the boy and
executed Hurth.

            It
should have been a time of rejoicing. Tarn, rightful heir to the throne of
Sturma, had returned. But he had died shortly afterwards from a poison of the
body. A sad day. Once more, the futility of violence demonstrated in death.

            ‘Roskel?
Roskel? What say you?’

            ‘What?’
said Roskel. He turned his attention back to the affairs of state, if only
until he could cry off and sneak into the city for some much needed ribaldry
and loving among the seedier courtesans.

            ‘Kar.
Should the western legions be brought under the rule of Kar?’

            ‘I
say no. Kar has more than enough men at arms to hold the northern pass, should
the Draymar arise from their slumber. The western legion stands ready to march
on a moment's notice and could be in place in no more than four days time,
cavalry in half that if riding hard. No. There is no need.’

            ‘Then
the Stewards are united, the Council of Thanes is split. Precedent is clear,’
said Durmont, who had taken to running the Castle since the last Councillor,
Merelith, an alien being who had twisted Hurth’s ambition for its own
unfathomable means, had been killed. ‘In the event that the council of Thanes
is split, the Stewards vote decides, and the Stewards stand united against the
proposal. I have Steward Rohir’s declaration before me,’ he showed the scroll
to the council. Let there be no dissent from this day forward.’

            Muttering
from the northern lords, Roskel’s bane, were silenced by Durmont’s rapping of
the gavel.

            ‘The
Council of Ten is adjourned for the next two months. The festival of Telling
begins in three days time. The lords' suggestions have been passed. From this
year forth, minor crimes may be pardoned at the lords' discretion. I declare
this meeting over. Gentlemen, until next we meet.’

            Durmont
was a true godsend. It was he who had reasoned out this new method of mutual
governance, and so far it was working.

            Roskel
rose, turning to glance at the empty throne left behind him. He had left it as
a reminder for those present at the table. Roskel, Wexel and Rohir were
stewards and nothing more. At some point there would be a king again. In a
year’s time, in ten or a hundred, Sturma would be united under a monarch once
more. When one came who could wear the crown.

            He
shook hands with the Thane of Mardon, made vague assurances that he would visit
the western Thanedom in the next month, and came next to Wexel.

            ‘Wexel,
what is wrong with Rohir?’

            ‘I
had a message from his squire after the noon break. He has taken to his
bed...well, his garderobe, mainly. He had something bad to eat.'

            ‘I
hope his day has been a more fruitful experience than ours. I doubt the stench
could be worse.’

            The
Thanes left, talking amongst themselves. Durmont approached the two stewards as
they laughed over Rohir’s discomfort.

            ‘My
lords, I will have the notices of the moot posted throughout the city. There is
one urgent matter which I did not feel appropriate for general discussion in
the council. Hurth's old spy master is still at large, and your, ah,
contacts…have failed to find the man. He still has friends in the city, which
is troubling, though I have heard rumours of a meeting between Lord Kar and a
man of ill repute that fits his description...have a care, my Lord.’

            ‘There
is little we can do that we are not already doing. If the Thieves’ Covenant
cannot find the man, then there is no hope.’

            ‘As
you say, my lord,’ Durmont replied. ‘I will post warrant posters again, but I
doubt it will do any good.’

            'Me,
either,’ said Roskel. ‘Please excuse me, Durmont, I think I’d better go and
tell Rohir to 'ware the Thane of Kar, he is looking to cause trouble yet again,
and peace is fragile at best. I wish Tarn were here. He’d make sense of all
this nonsense.’

            ‘Unfortunately
governance is a tricky business, my lord, if I may be so bold as to suggest?'

            ‘What
is it, Durmont?’

            ‘I
would have your allies watch the Thane of Kar’s movements. I do not think him
content. I believe the Thieves' Covenant has contacts in other guilds, in other
cities?’