The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One
Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
©Craig Saunders 2015
All rights pertaining to this
work belong to Craig Saunders and Craig R. Saunders Publications. Any
resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Editor: Faith Kauwe
3rd Edition.
The Outlaw King
The Line of
Kings Trilogy:
Book One
by
Craig Saunders
(inc. Glossary, bonus short story
'The Witch's Cauldron' and sample of The Line of Kings Book Two, 'The Thief
King')
Table of Contents
Bonus Material: The Island
Archives
Bonus Material: A Short Story
:
The Witch’s Cauldron
Bonus Material: The Thief King
(The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two)
For Sim, with all my love, even
when the sun is shining.
And
a note to you, the reader,
Thank
you for reading - this book is for me, but also for each reader who has stuck
with me over the last few years. Thank you.
It's
the first professionally edited version of The Outlaw King, too. Thank you,
Faith. Any mistakes remain my own.
I
hope you enjoyed this tale well enough to come back for more. The Line of Kings
Trilogy continues with Book Two, 'The Thief King', and, if you haven't already
read them, you might like the tales set out in the Rythe Quadrilogy, concluding
soon with 'Beneath Rythe'. Oh, and look out for a new, stand-alone story set on
Rythe - The Warrior's Soul.
Craig
The
Shed
2015
The
old warrior turned his face to the rain.
He’d
seen enough death to know his own was upon him. He’d done his bleeding.
The
sky unleashed its fury but he could not feel the rain. Ulrane’s passion and
rage had not been enough to see him through. His son, the last of the line of
Sturman kings, had still been taken from him.
The
boy would have grown to be fine man
.
He fought the Thane of Naeth’s men
just as hard as his father. Young though he was, he had found blood this day.
Ulrane
could only hope that the Thane would not use the boy badly. That he would kill
him quickly. Had Ulrane been a lesser man, he would have despaired. But he was
proud of his son. He held onto that pride as death embraced him. These last
moments were too precious, these last memories too sweet, to give over to
useless tears.
There
should have been trumpets. There should have been a year of mourning, but there
would be no rites to mark the passing of the line of kings, and none but the
Thane would ever know of his son. Would that the boy could have lived.
But
no regrets. A man could not pass Madal’s Gates that way.
Regret
was not for kings.
He
would take the love of his wife, his father, his only son, and hold them to him
like jewels as he passed the Gate. A rich man in love and life; perhaps such treasures
could survive death.
Ulrane
wondered why they hadn’t murdered the boy, when he had fought so hard. Why they
stayed their hand.
Maybe
there was hope yet, even in this dark hour.
The
last gentle patter of rain fell. Hren, the larger of Rythe’s two moons, came
out from behind a dark cloud.
‘Tulathia,
look over him if you will, grant him swift death if you won’t.’
His
final prayer, spoken with his dying breath, hung on the air.
And
so it was that the king died, with only a solitary moon to bear witness.
*
Chapter
One
The
wood cracked, loud on the still air. The split round fell, half left, half
right, with the piles already there.
In
the Spar, winters were always hard.
Gard
placed another log on the stump. His sweat cooled in the frosty air. A big man,
thick across the shoulder, with a firm paunch, his hands dwarfed the axe
handle. His muscles were not for show.
His
hair ran to grey. His nose had been broken in his youth, and never set right.
It lay flat against a broad, pleasant face. It was a face his wife had grown to
love in their thirty years of marriage; years in which he forgot the hardships
of his youth.
The
big man, as his wife called him, stood shirtless. For a moment he did not move,
just listened. He always stood still when listening hard. This time he heard
soft footsteps carried to him with no wind to bring them. He swung the axe with
just enough strength to embed the head in the stump.
‘I’ve
not finished yet, boy,’ he called out, turning round.
‘I
thought you could use a warm drink. Your old bones aren’t made to withstand the
chill.’
‘These
old bones have known more harsh winters than you’ve lived, and mind your cheek,
Tarn.’
Tarn,
a wiry thirteen year old, put the brewed juice on the stump, next to the axe.
‘My
apologies, Big Man,’ Tarn said politely. ‘Perhaps I could take a turn at the
axe. Give you a rest, after all your years of toil.’
‘I’m
still young enough to give you a black ear.’
‘I
don’t doubt it. I’m still nimble enough to get away.’
‘You
reckon?’
Tarn
eyed the big man, with his taut muscles and noticed the glint in his grey eyes.
‘Hm.
Maybe...not.’
‘Hm,’
said Gard. ‘And maybe you’re not as daft as you look.’
Tarn
had come to the farm one month ago, bloodied and alone. Gard’s woman, Molly,
took him in and gave him food. Not a word would the boy speak on where he got
his wound. Even now the scar on his face stood livid in the frigid air. It would
not fade with age, Gard knew from experience, but thicken and mark the boy for
a warrior or a victim.
Gard
could only imagine what the boy had done to arouse such hatred in an attacker,
for surely it was meant to be a mortal cut.
The
scar ran down the right side of Tarn’s smooth face, from eye to chin. He was
lucky to have both eyes. Hell, he was lucky to have a face. The wound still
bled when Tarn turned up at the farm, pale from loss of blood. Gard found out
later just how far the boy had walked.
Molly
stitched the wound as best she could and saved the worst of the scarring with a
hot poultice, changed every day.
He
would still be a fine man. Thick dark hair, fierce eyes and good bones. Clearly
Sturman, but somehow Gard knew he was not from the Spar. His accent, for one
thing. He spoke clearly with no accent to speak of, like he came from
everywhere at once. The boy’s speech, too. He seemed far better educated than
any boy Gard knew. And many adults, for that matter.
The
night the boy turned up on their doorstep Gard traced the boy’s tracks. He had
travelled for miles, leaving the boy with Molly. Told Molly he was going to
find the witch, Mia. What he found he never told his wife, but lied and said
the witch was away with a birthing.
Three
men’s corpses, he found, slaughtered where they stood. From the crest on their
cloaks, Gard knew only too well who they were. The Thane of Naeth’s stolen
crest, the boar rampant, on their cloaks.
Powerful
enemies indeed.
The
marks on the soldiers were the marks of a beast, like something had gored their
chests and legs. But the wound on the boy was without doubt that of a sword.
The three men bore swords. One, unsheathed, had lain blooded beside a torn
body.
It
could only have been the boy’s blood – the beast escaped unharmed. A wounded
man also escaped. Tracks and blood did not lie.
He
knew the boy would not be staying. If one enemy lived, they all knew the boy
lived, too. They would come for him.
What
hatred must those men have harboured to so disfigure this young, pleasant boy?
To want him dead?
Gard did not spend too long pondering the problem. What
would be, would be. Now he and Molly had a child around the house. A dream
they thought would never come true. Though blessed with love, love sometimes is
not enough.
For
now, Tarn being there was enough. Gard was wise enough to accept small gifts,
no matter how soon the sheen faded.
‘What’s
my woman doing?’ Gard asked.
‘Molly
is baking,’ Tarn said. Unconsciously he fingered the scar. The boy did it
whenever he was thoughtful.
‘What’s
on your mind, boy?’
Gard
thought he saw sadness on the boy’s face. It passed in an instant, though. Gard
only ever saw the boy’s sadness in glimpses. Something troubled him, but Tarn
guarded his secrets closely.
Gard
knew when to speak and when to hold his council. Tarn would speak in his own
time or not at all.
‘Nothing,
just cold, that’s all.’
‘Well,
I’ve just the thing to warm you up,’ said Gard, picking up his brew and
pointing to the axe. ‘Make yourself useful.’
Tarn
smiled. ‘I thought you weren’t too old.’
‘I’m
not, but I’ll have no lazy boys under my roof.’
‘But
I am just a boy, after all,’ said Tarn craftily.
‘I
was chopping wood at seven. You could do worse. It’ll put some muscle on that
scrawny frame of yours.’
Tarn
sighed and pulled the axe free with ease. Scrawny, true, but he had muscles on
his frame. More than most boys his age. From a hard life, that much was
obvious.
‘I
suppose someone needs to take up the slack.’
An
hour later, Gard marvelled again at the stamina of the boy. He was as strong as
an ox, even though he looked thin and underfed.
He
wondered for the last time that day where the boy came from. Then he put it to
one side.
If
the gods meant him to know, he would, in time.
*