The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (25 page)

Chapter Seventy-Two

‘I
am cross, Merilith, and when I am cross I make people pay.’

            Hurth
stood looking out over the city of Naeth from the ramparts of his castle. The
city, a sore, a pustule, that grew around the castle, spoiling its harsh beauty
with its sprawling humanity. The Thane loathed it, and all its scurrying
inhabitants, not one of them grateful for what he was attempting to do – unite
the nation.

            ‘Of
course, my lord. But the Thane of Spar is already in your pocket. It is these
bandits.’ Merilith spoke the word bandits with evident distaste. ‘A punitive
expedition against them may be advisable, to show that our influence extends
beyond our borders. A show of strength will stand you in good stead when you
take the crown.’

            ‘No,
my wily advisor. I disagree. Am I able to disagree with you?’

            Merilith
was still alive for many reasons, and his uncanny ability to seem to agree with
the Thane in all things was paramount among them. ‘I bow to your wisdom in all
things, my lord.’

            ‘Then
I will leave it up to the Thane of Spar to recover my gold.’

            ‘A
wise decision, my lord,’ said Merilith, with a slight shrug. Truth be told, he
did not desire an expensive war of attrition against a mere group of bandits.
Merilith recognised the futility of searching for them in the vast expanse of
the Fresh Woods. He wanted nothing to do with the malodorous cretins.
Furthermore, it would look weak for the Thane to lead the expedition. However,
it would send the right message should the Thane of Spar be forced to take
matters in hand, that to fail the Thane of Naeth was to incur his wrath. He
would need to be strong when he took the crown.

            Well,
strong enough to rule. The fates already decreed that whatever the outcome the
Thane’s line would not last. But at least the Hierarchy would have a line of
subservient puppets.

            Merelith
shook himself. There remained just one problem. If the true king lived, and his
line prospered, all their plans would crumble to dust.

            ‘Then
send a messenger on my fastest horse. Let the Thane of Spar know that he is to
recover my gold, or replace it, or I will be forced to take measures.’

            ‘It
will be done my lord.’ Merilith folded his arms and joined his lord in watching
the pathetic lives of the mortals below.

            ‘Now,
Merilith. Now.’

            Merilith
hastily unfolded his arms. ‘Of course, my lord.’

            Not
once did the discussion of the king come up. Merilith was sincerely hoping the
king would just die on his own. If they could not find him, perhaps he had gone
to ground. The best magic available on Rythe had been turned to the problem, to
no avail and it seemed there was not much else they could do.

            The
crown might not rest on Hurth’s head, but given time, people would accept him;
even if he had to take the land of Sturma by force. Through Hurth, the
Hierarchy would rule.

None
of it mattered to Merilith. If they could not find the king the Hierarchy’s
plans would not matter. Still, the lad would probably die in obscurity.

            How
old must he be now? Sixteen? Had he even reached his majority? Had he already
spawned an heir?

            Merelith
shivered. It did not bear thinking about…that the line had already grown
stronger.

            He
left the ramparts, and fervently hoped that the king would die alone and
forgotten.

He
turned his mind to the problem of the bandits as he strode through the dark
corridors of the castle. Disgusting creatures, but human society was rife with
lawlessness. It was, it seemed, inherent in the beasts, this desire to fight
control.

            In
time, they would follow the Hierarchy, just like errant sheep, looking for a
shepherd to guide them to the slaughter.

*

Chapter Seventy-Three

A
horse drew up to the castle at Karnell, the Castle of Light, the Thane of
Spar’s home and the home of his ancestors.

            A
ragged man dismounted before the drawbridge. The great bridge was down, but
soldiers covered the entrance.

            The
Spar was the closest Thanedom to the Fresh Woods, and the man had ridden hard
to get here, from a town on the outskirts of the forest, where he purchased a
horse. He had ridden hard, and foam covered the horse's flanks. The man saw it
merely as an investment. Besides, since his leg had been broken and poorly set,
he had no choice but to ride.

            He
had been beset by bad luck all his life, but that was about to change.

            A
man in the livery of the Spar, a swan against a blood-red background, stepped
forward and addressed the man.

            ‘You
may not come before the Thane looking like a waif. Go to the town and get
yourself clean before you come back, then you can petition for an audience to
see the Thane on the third day, like everyone else. In short, go away.’

            The
speaker was a thin man, but held himself tall and had a steely look about him.
He had no time for those who mistreated their mounts.

            ‘I
have news of the greatest importance for the Thane. He will deal harshly with
anyone that keeps the news from him.'

            ‘And
what news would that be?’

            ‘I
need my reward first.’

            The
guard laughed, rolling an eye to his companion. ‘Tell me, and I will decide
whether the information warrants it.’

            ‘I
have found the scarred man from the posters that have been up these last five
years.’

            That
caught his attention. ‘The one the Thane of Naeth wants?’

            ‘Yes,
you agree such a man would be of value to the Thane of Spar? Now, my reward.’

            ‘Wait
at Oribeth’s Tavern, and I will send word to you. Clean yourself up first.’

            The
man made to leave.

            ‘Your
name, before you leave?’

            ‘Uxthorn.’

            The
guard nodded, his gaze fixing the man’s distasteful face in his mind, should he
need to give a description of him. ‘I will send word.’

            Uxthorn
left reluctantly. He had expected to be paid immediately. He fumbled in his
purse as he rode away, at a more sedate pace. He cursed when he was out of
earshot. It galled him to have to spend his own coin to give them what they
wanted.

            He
consoled himself with the thought that he would soon be rich beyond imagining.

            A
short ride and he arrived at the village that had settled near the security of
the castle. He found the tavern, and with the last of his coin took a room, a
meal, and a bath.

It
was not until the evening that he heard the Thane’s soldiers asking for him in
the tavern, while he was nursing a beer paid for with a copper piece left over
from what he had taken from the Slain’s hoard.

            He
was glad
that
bastard was dead. All that gold, and none of it had ever
graced his hands.

            ‘Over
here,’ he told the soldiers. When they approached, he asked, ‘Have you word for
me?’

            ‘You
are to come with us,’ said one of the soldiers.

            He
followed, a smile on his face. He would make more money than he could carry
with this news.

            He
was not disappointed. After an hour, he was on the road again, his pockets
heavy.

            The
location of the bandit camp was worth ten gold pieces, a fortune to a man with
nothing but greed between his ears. He was worth it. All the gold they had
stolen for the Slain, all the gold he had stolen under Tarn as one of
Brendall’s men…if they had been more forthcoming, he told himself, he would
never have sold them out. But all along they had treated him like a fool, never
taking him into their trust, guarding their gold, like he was a common thief,
turning him away when he asked for his just share.

            Well,
he had showed them. Now he had his own gold, and he hadn’t needed to rob anyone
to get it. It was practically honest work.

            And
he knew the value of gold. He would spend it, not hoard it like the fabled
dragons, but spend it on ale and women, like people were supposed to.

*

Chapter Seventy-Four

Tarn
sat in the central hut for the last time. He would not take the Slain’s home.
The funeral had been a grand affair, the pyre stacked high with wood, burning
all night while the bandits and their women drank stolen wine. The Slain would
have been proud, thought Tarn.

            People
were coming in all the time. Men who left when Tarn took control returned,
hearing tales of his leadership. Trust had been hard to come by, but after a
month and with no further loses, only an improvement on the situation of the
Haveners, people grew to believe in his leadership. It would be a long time
before he could get what he wanted, but he had time. If he could just keep
these people alive for long enough to help him get his revenge, perhaps they
would have a chance at a better life, with or without him at their head.

His
preparations were in place. When the Thane of Naeth’s men breached the edge of
the woods, he would know.

            ‘What
are you thinking, Tarn?’ asked Roskel, at his side.

            ‘We
have been here for a month now, but I am sure there is something I am missing.
These people are relying on me. I hope I do right by them. We are now at war,
thanks to the Slain, and I am their best chance at survival. It will be a shame
to leave Haven behind. It has a certain charm.’

            ‘You
have done the best any man could.’

            ‘Call
my lieutenants to me. I would speak with them.’

            Roskel
got up. ‘It shall be as you command, my king.’

            Tarn
ignored him and sat back on the wooden throne. It was not to his liking, having
people rely on him. He thought he would make a poor king. There was so much to
think of, and he had no kingdom, just one big colony of bandits.

            Brendall
entered first, as his right as first lieutenant. The others, Rilon, Wexel and
Mar followed, each man forced to duck under the lintel of the door. They were
all armed. Some kings made their men disarm when they were in his presence.
Tarn would not. He would show no fear of them, but that he trusted them.

            Time
would tell whether he was being foolish or wise.

            Wexel
removed his greatsword from the scabbard which he wore across his back and laid
it to one side. Tarn showed no sign of concern.

            ‘Greetings,
friends. How go the preparations?’

            ‘We
are ready, Tarn. Should they come against us, our patrols will see them. There
are sections of the woods where men could pass unseen – we have not enough men
to cover the entire borders of the Fresh Woods, but it would be a slight chance
of men getting in. To find us the force would have to be large. We would see
them,’ Brendall told him.

            ‘My
other orders are in place?’

            ‘Yes.
Those that need to, know,’ said Mar.

            ‘Anything
else
I
need to know?’

            ‘New
men came in today. Uxthorn returned with them.’

            ‘That
weasel? I thought he left for good.’

            ‘Beggars
can’t be choosers, I suppose,’ said Brendall. Wexel, quiet, as usual.

            ‘Very
well. At the feast of spring we will make the announcement. Be prepared. Thank
you.’

            All
men nodded and took their leave.

            ‘We
have too many scoundrels, my friend,’ said Tarn to Roskel when the other men
left.

            ‘I
suppose when you are the bandit king you have to make do with what you are
given.’

            ‘Don’t
call me that, Roskel. It makes me uncomfortable.’

            ‘But
it is what you are. Perhaps it is your blood that calls people to you.’

            ‘They
are just desperate.’

            ‘So
were we, once.’

            ‘You
are right, I suppose,’ said Tarn. ‘Do you think we can pull it off?’

            ‘What?
Destroy the Thane of Naeth with nothing but a hundred trusted men? No, I think
it stupidity at worst, folly at best.’

            ‘Thank
you for your honesty,’ said Tarn wryly.

            ‘I
just say what I see, Tarn.’

            ‘Hmm.
Still, we have little choice.’

            ‘We
could flee. Leave these bandits behind and become anonymous in the southlands
again.’ More than a hint of hope surfaced in the thief’s words.

            Tarn
shook his head sadly. Part of him wanted to agree with Roskel, but his path was
set. Perhaps, he mused, it always had been.

            ‘I
will never be anonymous. Too many are looking for me. Enough. We will stick to
the plan and think on other things.’

            ‘As
you please.’ Roskel rose to leave. ‘I will see you tonight, then.’

            Tarn
left too, to see the new arrivals, as he always did, and hear their stories.

            At
the southern edge of the forest, unseen by the scouts, the Thane of Spar’s best
men melted into the edge of the woods, and followed the marks upon the trees,
just as Uxthorn told them. One hundred men who knew how to travel quietly
crept, and would keep on creeping until they came upon the camp.

*