The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (21 page)

Chapter Fifty-Nine

They
made camp for the night, within the bosom of the forest. Each man entertained
thoughts of capture, but Roskel tended to voice his thoughts, whether they were
wanted or not.

            ‘I
was at a beheading once. The axe man missed. He took the top of the man’s head
off. His body stood up and screamed. No, not for me, beheading. I’ll not be
caught,’ said Roskel, as he rolled up in his cloak.

            ‘I
am a wanted man, too. I am the king.’ Why not? Thought Tarn. I might as well be
hung for one crime as another.

            ‘No
need to make light of my predicament. You could just call me a cad and a dandy,
as you usually do. I do not appreciate your sarcasm.’

            Tarn
sighed. He thought making a clean breast of things to his friend would have
been easier. ‘No, really. The Thane of Naeth killed the king, and my father,
his son. I am the last of the line, and have been hunted by the Thane of Naeth
since I was a boy. He found me, and I have been on the run ever since.’ Tarn
felt it time that Roskel understood the gravity of his situation, should they
continue to travel together. It was only fair. Perhaps it would stop the thief
from getting them into any more trouble. Tarn was loath to admit it, but he
didn’t want to travel all the way to Naeth on his own. He would need friends,
and despite the thief’s manner Tarn found himself liking the man.

            Roskel
looked hard at Tarn and saw that he did not joke, his face dreadfully serious.

            ‘Oh,
no, it seems I have jumped from the pot to the fire. You could have told me
sooner.’

            ‘I
wasn’t sure how much I liked you. Besides, you are a wanted man, too. What
would you do with the knowledge?’

            ‘Thank
you, but I’d rather you'd kept the information to yourself. And Tarn, should we
come across anyone else on our adventure, I would strongly advise you to keep
your counsel. Not all men are as honest as I.’

            They
huddled around the fire. Roskel passed Tarn the stolen flagon. Tarn struggled
with his conscience for but a moment, then took a long pull of the fiery brew.

            He
was silent for a moment, pondering his path, a wanted man with no crime to his
name, to a wanted man for a thief. It was not, Tarn decided, too far a fall.

            ‘Who
was she?’

            ‘Who?’
asked Roskel, taking the flagon back.

            ‘Your
paramour.’

            ‘The
wild horses of the Draymar plains could not wrest it from me.’

            ‘Go
on.’

            ‘Oh,
very well. My cuckold was the Thane of Gern’s Crest, my paramour his lady,
Eleana, in the town of Ulbridge.’

            ‘Never
heard of her.’

            ‘Gods
man, poets prattle of her beauty!’

            Tarn
sniffed and took the flagon. ‘Never much call for poets on a farm.’

            ‘You
are so uncouth.’

            ‘But
never a rake.’

            ‘Your
tongue burns me, young master.’

            A
homely glow warmed Tarn from within. He was happy, and not a little drunk.

Then
he heard a crack in the woods, and too late he was on his feet. A man armed
with a bow, arrow knocked, stood grinning down at the two outlaws.

            ‘Brindle’s
goat,’ said Roskel with a heartfelt sigh. ‘This is turning out to be a poor
night for thieves and gamblers.’

*

Chapter Sixty

Slowly,
the forest filled with men. Bandits, thought Tarn. He rose calmly and drew his
sword, but one of the bandits merely tutted and gestured with the tip of his
arrow at the ground.

            ‘Put
your sword up, boy, or lose it.’

            Tarn
took the measure of the man. He was at least as big as Gard, and broad in the
shoulder. His face was grizzled from woodland living and the sun, but there
were no scars on his face. The bandit had the upper hand with the bow, no
mistake, and would not be foolish enough to risk swords against an unknown man,
even though there were only Tarn and Roskel at the campfire.

            He
took a moment to rue his decision to have a drink tonight.

            The
speaker looked on impatiently.

            Tarn
was loath to give up the sword, so he sheathed it and crossed his arms. Roskel
looked more than a little afraid, but to his credit he did not shake as he
stood. The thief’s hand did not stray near his newly acquired blade, for which
Tarn was glad. Should Tarn be forced to fight for his life, he would rather his
friend stay out of the way.

            ‘Our
camp is small,’ said Roskel, ‘but you are more than welcome to share our
provisions, my good man.’

            ‘What
language do you speak, man?’ said the spokesman of the bandits. Good, thought
Tarn. If Roskel could keep the man talking, he might be able to come up with a
plan.

            ‘’Tis
the language of kings, my good sir. I am called Roskel, and this is my
companion, Tarn. We are pleased to make your acquaintance.’

            ‘I’ll
be pleased if you just hand me your weapons, and perhaps you might get out of
this alive. You annoy me with any more of your banter and I’ll cut your hearts
out before I roast them over yonder fire.’

            Seeing
Tarn’s expression darken the speaker added, ‘You’d be wise not to try it, boy.
They are fine weapons, and no mistake, but I’ll gut you gladly before you make
it to me.’

            ‘Would
you like to make that a wager, friend?’ said Tarn, coolly.

            The
man holding the bow laughed. ‘Your sword against my bow? I hardly think that
fair. Still, I do not have to make wagers to get what I want. I merely take
what I need. I have six men, and were you to best me they would still end your
life today. No, I think not.’

            ‘Then
I will gamble my life. Your men against me, sword to sword.’ Tarn knew even
against experienced swordsmen, only three could come at once for fear of
cutting allies in the heat of the battle. It cut the odds down to three against
one, instead of six against one. He also had two blades, whereas the bandits
had only three swords between them, and daggers.

He
was not sure, being untested against more than one opponent, but he thought he
could make a fair go at it. His life would be forfeit anyway. At least this way
the bandits would put their bows down.

            ‘Now,
let us not be hasty, gentlemen. Perhaps we can come to some other arrangement?’
interjected Roskel.

            The
leader ignored Roskel totally, weighing up the gamble. He wanted to fight. He’d
let no young pup best him, even if the youngster did have the look of the hawk
about him.

            ‘I
accept. If you live, you keep your blades,’ and with that the leader sprang forward
with more speed than Tarn imagined such a big man could possess, but then he’d
been trained by Gard. He should have known better.

            Tarn
turned aside the downward stroke of the blade with the flat of his hand and
thrust the edge of the same hand into the leader’s throat, felling the big man.
The bandits’ leader struggled for breath while an unkempt, rat-like man leapt
forward, and another bandit drew his sword. Tarn’s sword, suddenly in his hand,
slashed inside the rat man’s knife arm, causing him to drop his weapon. His
blade circled and he caught the third bandit’s head with the flat of his blade.
Two more attackers drew their blades and advanced, but the last took up his bow
and knocked an arrow swiftly, pulling the string taut. Before Tarn could react
or roll aside, there came a roar, and the bowman turned aside to face the new
threat. It sounded like a large boar, or a cross between a pig-like snort and
the roar of a landra, a fierce woodland predator. Tarn saw his opportunity.
Drawing his dagger, he crouched swiftly beside their fallen leader and placed
the point against his throat.

            Distracted,
the remainder of the bandits found themselves trapped between the desire for
booty, and loyalty to their leader. At least, Tarn hoped for loyalty.

            The
woods fell silent but for the tortured breath of the bandit leader.

            ‘One
more step and he wheezes through two holes. Put your weapons up. There need be
no more bloodshed today.’

            The
motley band seemed unsure what to do. Obviously their leader did their thinking
for them.

            Against
the point of his dagger Tarn felt the leader’s throat move, as the big man
swallowed. Tarn eased off.

            ‘Put
your weapons up, fools. He means what he says,’ gurgled the captive bandit.

            Reluctantly,
the remainder of the rogues put their weapons up. The rat faced man held his
bleeding bicep, and Tarn’s other attacker, a tall man wearing a cloak of faded
green, lay unconscious on the forest carpet. Roskel looked on with wonder at
the speed his companion.

            ‘I
had no idea, my friend,’ said Roskel. ‘That was a sight faster than most of my
conquests.’ His voice cracked.

            Tarn
hoped his friend would not crumble, not yet. The situation was not fully played
out.

            ‘Time
for chatter later. For now, what do we do with these men?’

            ‘We
seem to have somewhat of a stand off. Should you kill their leader they will no
doubt attack.’ At this the bandits murmured. ‘A promise to do no more evil,
will, I fear, be worthless…’

            ‘I
may have a solution, if only to cease your prattling,’ said the leader, his voice
returning to normal.

            ‘What
would that be?’ asked Tarn, warily eyeing the bandits.

            ‘We
are but a small party. But my leader, The Slain, could use good fighting men.’

            ‘For
what?’

            ‘Banditry,
of course!’

            ‘And
your men won’t attack?’

            ‘If
I can’t best you I’m not sure they could. You won’t attack, will you, men?’

            His
men seemed unsure as to what to do, but muttered their agreement, no doubt with
a thought to what they would do when Tarn put up his dagger.

            ‘There,
you have my word. Now take that dagger from my neck and let me stand up. It is
embarrassing enough to be bested by a boy.’

            Tarn
stepped back and the leader of the bandits stood up, brushed himself off and
collected his fallen sword. He backed away to stand with his men.

            ‘Either
way, you have earned your right of passage. But I cannot vouch for The Slain.
If you are with me you will be safe, but even if we pass tonight I cannot
guarantee that no other will waylay you. It could be a tiring journey for you
through these woods.’

            Tarn
weighed his options. The bandit leader seemed as honourable as a ruffian could
be, and true to his word neither he nor his band made a move to break their
agreement. They all seemed expectant. No doubt they could use someone handy
with a sword.

            What
would his father say? What would Gard have said? He knew exactly what they
would say, but with a cold heart he told himself that they weren’t there. His
father had been in his position once, and he ran. Tarn would not. He could see
fate spinning this night, making a tangled thread. Sometimes, he knew, a man
had to go with that thread and see where the end lay.

            He
could see no way forward but to go along with the bandits. For the time being.
He would not be drawn into murder, for that would go against his teachings and his
own heart, but he sorely needed direction. The offer seemed fortuitous, and
honest. A life on the run in the woods got him no closer to his ultimate goal.
Perhaps it was time to take a chance and trust to fate’s whims.

            He
was glad Tulathia was not around to hear his thoughts. She would have his ears
for leaving anything to fate. But maybe he could make his own...

            It
was, thought Tarn, as good an offer as any.

            Their
leader waited, his eyes watching Tarn carefully. Tarn still had his sword in
hand and swiftly sheathed it. He smiled inwardly. What was his life coming to,
placing his trust in thieves and bandits?

            ‘And
what of your leader, this Slain? What manner of man is he?’

            ‘He
is hard but fair. He will honour the agreement of one of his lieutenants ‘

            ‘What
is your name?’ asked Tarn, decided. He held out his hand.

            ‘I
am called Brendall.’ The giant shook with Tarn. ‘Brendall Dale. These are my
men. This is our little corner of the forest, on the outskirts of the town. The
guard fear the woods, and we are safe enough. Good pickings, this close to a
town. Prime spot, you could say. All sorts of waifs and strays around these
parts.’ Brendall smiled and showed a mouthful of stained teeth.

            He
wasn’t pretty, but Tarn had good sense about him when it came to people.
Brendall was a man of his word, even if a thug.

            ‘Should
you join us, you would have to gain the approval and permission of the Slain,
but you would be my man. What say you? Will you meet our leader?’

            ‘I
will, but I will not say yea or nay until I have discerned his nature. I am no
murderer.’

            ‘Nor
I, although times are des3perate. The Thane of Naeth demands higher tithes from
all the lands hereabouts, even though they are not his lands. He has designs to
be a king, I do not doubt. The taxes are so high there are scant pickings.
People are just too poor to have spare.’

            ‘Have
you murdered a man?’

            ‘Murdered?
No. Killed? Who has not, my friend? Times are hard, and desperate measures must
be taken. I have never killed in cold blood, and I always give my marks a fair
chance. Sometimes people’s pride is their downfall. Until I met you, that is.
That was some fine blade work.’

            ‘I
take no pride in it, but these weapons were a gift. Otherwise I would not be
foolish enough to fight a band of armed men.’

            ‘Nonetheless,
you bested me. Now, what do you say? I doubt you’ll get a better offer this
side of the Uller.’

            He
made up his mind. ‘Very well. Camp is made. Share it tonight. We will move on
in the morning light.’

            ‘Hold
on,’ said Roskel. ‘Don’t I get a say in this?’

            The
bandit lieutenant took a seat on a fallen log, and his men took his lead and
sat also.

            Tarn
smiled at his friend. ‘The way I see it, we need benefactors, and in the short
term banditry is little different to thievery. You should fit right in.’

            ‘I
am no killer of men.’

            ‘There
is little killing involved, if it eases your conscience,’ said Brendall.

            ‘Even
a little, I fear, is too much.’

            ‘If
you’re a baby about it, don’t come,’ said the rat-faced man, who Tarn would
later learn to call Gan. He still tried to stem the flow of blood, but Tarn
sensed he would not hold a grudge. He already seemed relaxed, and not overly
confrontational.

            ‘I’m
no virgin to be coddled, my good man, yet I do have sensibilities. Like
avoiding being seen.’

            ‘Then
you can wear a mask, like Hirander the Good,’ said Brendall with a smirk.

            Tarn
offered the flagon, and one of the bandits rose and went into the woods and
came back shortly with a pack of food, which they shared out willingly before
Roskel spoke again.

            ‘I
have reservations about this new direction, Tarn.’ Roskel sat next to Tarn and
tried to keep his voice low, never taking his eyes from the bandits. It was
some feat, managing to watch them all at once. For their part the bandits
seemed perfectly at ease. Now the threat of violence was past, they merely sat
and drank. They did not waste words.

            ‘As
have I, Roskel, but our time is wasted in the forest. I have plans, and this
could be a good opportunity. I would ask that you trust me.’

            Roskel
fell silent again for a long time, but eventually he said, ‘Then trust you I
will. Do not steer us wrong, Tarn. I would not travel the hawk’s road with you,
should you fall from grace.’