Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (24 page)
Tarn
knew he must do the right thing. The Slain’s murder of the soldier, after he
surrendered, sat heavily on Tarn’s young shoulders. Upon returning victorious
to the encampment, Tarn immediately sought out Roskel.
‘I
will challenge for leadership,’ Tarn whispered to Roskel, beside the evening
fire. The other men toasted each other, but Tarn and Roskel sat apart. Tarn was
the hero of the day, but he had taken his praise and removed himself.
‘You
speak a fool’s words, but I know you are not a fool.’
‘I
have thought long on it. I have been blind all this time, and forgotten my
path. It is time to set out on the road I was meant to travel. I have an
opportunity here, and the Slain will lead these men to destruction. There must
be a better way.’
‘Do
you ever wonder where we come from?’
Tarn
was confused at the change of topic, but answered as best he could, after
giving a moments thought.
‘There
came from the east, from far beyond the great sea, a ship made from glass, with
a thousand people upon it. The land was called Starion, and was as far from us
as the clouds. Our ancestors drove the Draymar across the mountains, which is
why they have always hated us. The thousand called the land Sturma, named for
the strong men who were our sires.’
‘Pure
nonsense,’ said Roskel with disgust. ‘We are the same kin as the Draymar. Underneath
our skins we are all the same. No, we came from the stars.’
‘Brindle’s
goat man, now who’s talking nonsense?’
‘It
is more poetic, is it not?’
‘Poets
and kettles, you dandy, both spout hot air. What is your point?’
‘Very
well. If you challenge and die, who will continue your quest? However you
believe we came about, I do not think we were put here to die, but to live.
While you live there is a chance. They will cut you down before we get within
ten feet of the Slain.’
‘We?’
‘Well,
you. I’ll keep your woman warm while you are in your grave.’
‘Watch
your tongue, man.’
‘A
mere slip of the tongue is often all it takes.’
‘Are
you trying to make me angry?’
‘Actually,
yes. I’d rather you attack me. At least that way you might live, and forget
this folly.’
Tarn
reigned in his anger. He saw what Roskel was trying to do, but he knew his own
mind. He was decided. ‘Too late, my friend. Talking to you has only firmed my
mind.’
‘What?’
‘I
believe we came here to be strong men. A king lives for the people. He has a
duty to do. I cannot go back to my love without that duty fulfilled.’
‘You
are a stupid man, and your reasoning is full of misplaced pride.’
‘Enough.
In the morning I will challenge. Now go to sleep.’
‘Fool.’
‘Fop.’
Roskel
saw the determination in his friend’s dark blue eyes. Wisely, he decided that
further argument would be to no avail. He grunted and turned his back on Tarn,
who laid on his back and thought heavy thoughts. He felt strangely burdened
with guilt and doubt, and not a little fear, but at last, he knew he was once
again on the right path.
*
The
uncrowned king rose with Carious’ first light. Roskel slept soundly. Tarn
stretched and drew his blades around him, shedding his cloak so he stood in his
shirt and trousers. He pulled his boots on and turned his face to the sun. Dow
was yet to rise, but Carious rolled across the horizon. The early glow
illuminated the camp. Only the children had risen, the younger ones playing
quietly, the older starting their chores to free the rest of the day.
Roskel’s
gentle snore abruptly stopped as Tarn kicked him in the ribs.
‘What?
Who?’
‘Not
so eloquent first thing in the morning, are you?’
‘What
are you doing? Dow’s still rolling out of bed. It is too early. Leave me to
sleep.’ Roskel tried to turn over again. Tarn nudged him with his toe.
‘Come
on, dandy. You’ll want to see this. I am going to challenge the Slain. You
might well see me get carved up today.’
‘You’ve
already been carved like a side of pork. Don’t be foolish. Stop this now, Tarn,
before you get killed. The Slain’s men are just as likely to cut you down as
the Slain himself,’ Roskel said as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
He had never been an early riser.
‘It
is a gamble, but one I must take. For the good of these people.’
‘Lie
to yourself but not to me, my friend. It is for your gain if you pursue this
course of action.’
Others
around the camp were beginning to stir now, so Tarn lowered his voice even
further.
‘Regardless,
I am going. Are you coming or not?’
Roskel
rose without further complaint. Both men squared their shoulders and headed
toward the central hall.
Tarn
noted how many places were empty around the camp, and how often a woman had her
arm thrown out to hold onto a lover, lest they flee in their sleep. But there
were no lovers there and the women cradled empty air. The people of Haven were
sorely diminished, and now the Thane of Naeth was their enemy. Tarn could see
that the end for these people would come soon.
He
reached the door to the hut. He pulled the covering aside, saw the Slain on his
throne. Tarn did not enter. Sometimes, he thought, things need to be seen.
‘Slain,
I, Tarn, challenge you for the right of leadership. Come forth, and let us
settle this with swords.’
Tarn
spoke loudly enough for the whole camp to hear. People sat up rubbing eyes, and
Tarn could see a few men buckling sword belts and coming toward him. He saw the
giant form of Brendall, towering over most others, running, and three other
lieutenants of the Slain’s ragtag army. If this didn’t go well they would
slaughter him. Tarn had no illusions about his chances of beating the four
lieutenants. He had seen them in fights and all were confident swordsmen. Not
his match alone, but more than enough to dismember him should they attack
together. Tarn hoped his challenge would bring forth the Slain. The madman
could, of course, order his men to cut Tarn down, but then he would lose face
amongst his people. A leader needed the respect of his people.
Tarn
had earned that respect at yesterday’s battle.
Slain
had earned it over years.
Not
for the first time he wondered about the sense of challenging the Slain. He had
convinced himself that it was to save these people, that he cared for them, but
he held no grudge against the Slain. Even though the madman had murdered a man
yesterday, so had Tarn. Who was better than whom?
Tarn
summoned the carmillion blossom in his mind after a moment, worrying that he
had lost the ability. The flower bloomed, and with its scent, washed the fear
and doubts away.
The
Slain walked toward him. He did not hold his sword. Tarn was grateful for that
much. Tarn stepped outside as the Slain stepped forward.
As
always the Slain was bare to the waist.
Tarn
dared not take his eyes from the bandit leader. Out of the corner of his eye he
could see the four lieutenants, ready to cut him down should the Slain so order
it. He could not see Roskel, but he knew he was behind him. Always behind him.
‘He
wants to fight? Yes, I see him. He wants my blade. Perhaps if he were dead too,
he could take my place.’ The Slain nodded as he spoke.
‘I
seek not battle, but will cross swords to first blood, should our leader force
me too. I would have him stand down, for as you can see he is not fit to lead.
Yesterday saw the loss of many of our brave men, and a direct challenge to the
Thane of Naeth. I have a better way, if you will trust me to lead.’ Tarn spoke
to the assembled Haveners, stepping back to give himself room should the Slain
not observe protocol. Challenges in the camp were fought during last light, the
day given to preparation. The Slain himself had instigated the rule to stop
pointless fights to the death, which often spilled over and caught innocent
bystanders up in the violence. It was a good way to keep the men in check.
There had not been a murder outside the circle in two years.
Brendall
stepped forward. ‘You could have ruled your own section, Tarn, but this is too
much. We want the Slain to lead us, not you.’
Tarn
feared this. The Slain merely smiled, but did not look at Tarn.
‘I
will save you from the Thane. If you will but trust me. If you stay here, under
the Slain, you will all be slaughtered when the Thane’s men come in force, and
come they will. You must trust me, for your own sakes.’
He
saw a few of the women begin to look unsure. They wanted no fighting where they
made their homes. The men would welcome a stand up fight, but Tarn had to make
them understand it was not the way.
‘If
you follow this man, soldiers will come to your door. If you follow me, most of
you will live. We cannot win a war, we are too few. The Thane has ten thousand
men at arms. We are fewer than a hundred. You know I speak the truth.’
Brendall
stepped back. ‘I don’t know Tarn. Perhaps the Slain is wrong,’ at this he
looked warily at the Slain, who did not seem to care one way or another – it
was probably good for Tarn that their leader was showing them all his insanity,
but he felt bad, taking advantage of the man when he could not speak for himself
– ‘But we have always followed him.We have gold. We could hire mercenaries to
defend us.’
‘There
are not enough mercenaries in the whole of Sturma. Believe me, my friend, you
will be wiped from these lands.’ Tarn spoke directly to Brendall. The other lieutenants
would take their lead from him. The Slain watched with dark eyes, no hint of
his designs, but there was a small smile on his lips. That smile worried Tarn
more than any words could.
He
concentrated on the immediate problem – staying alive long enough to fight a
duel.
‘No
one will remember you,’ he said. ‘You will have no sons to mourn you. We will
be ash. If you would not follow me, then follow the Slain. Here is your leader.
Follow him to your death. If you want him, follow him, and I will leave. Or we
will fight and I will lead. Choose now.’
There
was silence for a time, the Slain muttering to himself. The people of Haven
were not used to being given choices.
They
were prosperous under the Slain, but frightened of the new battle that was coming.
The Slain had overstepped the mark, and not given thought to what his people
wanted. It could be a fatal mistake.
The
cry came out slowly. The call for the Slain to fight.
Tarn
stopped them. ‘There is no need for bloodshed. If the Slain will stand down, we
will lead ourselves. I will show you a better way, but I will not murder a man
who today does not even know of what we speak. Do not call for blood. He has
led bravely for two years, but he is no longer of sound mind. I would let him
stay at the camp. What say you, Slain? Will you follow me?’
The
Slain’s eyes took on a distant look, and Tarn was certain that he did not
understand anything that was happening this morning.
‘I
will fight you. Tonight we will fight.’
He
was suddenly lucid.
‘People,
I will show you my strength. Tonight I will fight this young man, and kill him,
and you will trust me. We will defeat the Thane’s men when they come.’
But
it was too little too late. The people were afraid of the Thane, and were on
Tarn’s side. Come evening the two men would fight, and Tarn knew if he won the
people would look to him. Then he would have the chance he dreamed of. It would
still be hard, but there was hope.
If
he lived.
*
Night
crept over the woods, but there was still enough of Dow’s light left to
illuminate the two fighters in a ring marked out with stones.
Tarn
wondered what his father would have thought about what he was going to do. He
was afraid that had Gard been alive, he would have turned his back on him.
Tarn
drove his sword into the dirt and cracked his knuckles. The Slain faced him
across the circle, his long sword already quivering in the ground.
Both
men were shirtless. The Slain’s muscles were well defined, honed from years of
sword work. He would have stamina, speed and experience on his side.
Tarn,
too, was shirtless. He had wounds from the attack against the Thane’s soldiers,
a slice across his shoulder, a shallow cut to his forearm and a deeper cut in
his chest where a sword pierced his leather jerkin, but all were healing,
scabbed and tight. None of the wounds bothered him. What did bother him was
that the Slain bore no marks of war upon his slick body, even though he fought
like a berserker. It didn’t inspire Tarn’s confidence, and perhaps, as the
bandits' children thought, he truly was invincible and could only be killed by
a golden arrow.
The
fight was to the death. The Slain insisted. Tarn understood. No weakness could
be shown when leading men such as these.
All
of Haven came to watch the fight. It was more than fascination with gore – the
villagers had seen enough of it to last a lifetime - their futures hung on the
winner.
Perhaps
fate meant for Tarn to die today. He could not tell. He had seen no omens, and
neither had Roskel, who set great store in such things. His friend watched
along with everyone else. None of the observers wore weapons – if anyone tried
to interfere they would be dealt with harshly.
The
sun glinted off the two swords jutting from the earth. The warriors waited for
the signal to begin.
The
Slain did not smile. He did not waste any energy on words. He merely stood
ready, relaxed and oppressive like a winter storm. Leaves rested on the ground.
Tarn hoped he would not slip on them.
Brendall
held his arm up in the centre of the circle.
‘To
the death. A clean death. On your honour.’ He looked at each man, towering over
both. His arm was rock steady. Tarn kept his eye on the Slain.
Then
the hand fell. Tarn stepped forward and took his sword up, but before he could
bring it to bear the Slain was upon him, faster than Tarn could believe. He
leant back out of range of the sword, sliding his front foot back, and aimed a
cut at the Slain’s stomach, which the bandit leader easily blocked.
Air
rushed by Tarn’s ear as the Slain’s reverse cut missed him by inches. Tarn’s
calm wavered. He could see everyone looking on, the concern on Roskel’s face,
but he could not see the Slain’s sword. It was a blur. Only by instinct did he
manage to block, following shoulder movements rather than the path of the
blade, guessing where the blade would be and letting his unconscious mind take
over.
There
was no time to attack. He saw no opening. The Slain’s sword was a whirlwind,
creating a cutting arc around the man. It was as if there were three blades at
once. A cut opened on Tarn’s cheek. He was only aware of it when he felt blood
dripping onto his bare chest. The Slain’s blade was razor sharp.
Surely
a man could not move any faster. All Tarn could do was to hold him at bay. Tarn
knew he would slip up before the Slain tired. It must have been minutes since
the fight began, but still there was no sign from the leader that he tired.
Already Tarn’s muscles ached. He exercised every day, but there was no
substitute for reality.
He
felt a stinging cut at his side. His bloom faded in and out. He could not
concentrate on anything but the feeling of fear which took the place of his
flower. It ate at him, and he knew he slowed because of it. The man was
unbeatable. So fast, so fierce.
Another
cut opened up. It was deep, and he felt the strength leeching out of his arm
almost immediately. Half heartedly he made a lunge at the Slain, but his blade
was turned aside easily and Tarn only just blocked the Slain’s vicious riposte.
Then, if anything, the blows became more powerful, overhead strikes intended to
cleave Tarn’s skull in two, ringing on his sword, vibrations running up Tarn’s
weakening arm. He added his left hand to the battle and fought on two handed,
but still his strength was not enough. Fear made him weak.
But
the Slain’s attacks slowed, too. He was not superhuman. Even a man driven by
madness was at the mercy of his own flesh.
Tarn’s
hand slipped, blood mingling with sweat, loosening his grip on the soft
leather. If he was to live, he had to finish this quickly.
He
dropped his guard on his right, feigning greater weakness than he was
suffering, opening himself to attack. The Slain obliged, seeing a way to end
the contest. Tarn weakly defended two blows, and waited for the switch from
left to right that he knew would come. Then, as the attack came, he swung the
sword left handed against the Slain’s head, grabbing the Slain’s sword arm with
his right hand.
His
blade struck, and he was sure it was a death blow. But the Slain kicked him
away, and shook his head. Blood poured from the head wound, but still he came
on.
Tarn’s
fear rose again. Surely his skull was split, but he was as fast as ever.
Tarn
retreated - the only thing to do. He was aware of nothing, but the edge of the
circle and the attacking demon. Forced to fight left handed, his weakest hand,
he could not stave off the fatal blow much longer.
Desperate,
he tried his unarmed moves, where his strength lay. Warding off a powerful
two-handed blow from the blood drenched madman, he swung his foot and connected
with the Slain’s knee. His balance upset, the Slain stumbled for a moment, and
Tarn’s sword speared his side, deep enough to pierce the heart.
The
madman only renewed his attack with a terrifying roar, but the blows were
slower. Tarn did not relax, and finally, panting, the Slain dropped his sword
to his side. Tarn stepped out of range of the broadsword, in case it was a
feint.
‘Finally,
peace,’ smiled the Slain as blood coursed from his wounds, and slumped onto his
face.
Tarn
joined him on the ground, and passed into blackness before the cheers arose.
*