Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
The
Heirophant was troubled.
‘Tell
me once more what you see,’ the Hierophant ordered.
Jenin
would never disagree with him. As powerful as he was, he only lived because his
master needed his skills. Were they to desert him there would be no purpose to
his life, and the Hierophant suffered no creature that did not serve him in
some capacity.
Jenin
he needed because his talent eased the way for the Hierophant’s plans.
Everything he did was about the return. The old ones would be pleased with
their children, ever if the Hierophant himself were not around to see it. He
was not a foolish creature. He knew there was no place for him in the future.
Nothing, save the Soul Swords, was immortal.
‘I
see hints, glimpses of the line of kings, but the whole is denied me. But I see
three mortals, destined to oppose us. The future, as always, is uncertain. The
return is wavering. The future is now no more than a dream of fate. I see much,
and it is unclear, but over the last years the line of kings has been
strengthened. As it grows stronger, the vision of the return of the old ones
weakens. The blood of kings remains dangerous to us. I see that much.’
‘And
do your talents allow you to locate the boy? The last king?’
‘No.
It shimmers like gold dust, dancing across the paths. There are many paths the
line may follow. I can see the past, and the line is clear, yet the present
spins away from my sight with ease. I cannot focus on it, and the dust alights
on many paths to the future. It is as if it has been scattered on the wind. No
one, not even me, can make dust solid.’
‘It
falls to me, I see, to save something from this sordid experience. I do not
enjoy being thwarted.’
‘I
have failed you, my lord,’ said Jenin, with a bow.
‘Nonsense.
You have merely been bested. It happens. Now leave me, I must make
arrangements.’
‘Your
will.’ As Jenin spoke, he backed away from the balcony and let himself out. He
had been given a reprieve, and would not squander the opportunity to leave
intact. He left the Hierophant staring out across the landscape, the last sun
sliding over the distant mountains.
The
Hierophant was disturbed, but wise enough to know his second spoke true. If he
could not see the line of kings, then no mortal could. But there were other
beings that lived on this plane, myriad beings of preternatural powers.
Perhaps, given the right incentive, they would serve him.
Already,
as the wind rose and brought the stench of human life high up to his tower, the
Hierophant thought of one. The bargaining would be perilous, but the rewards...
The
rewards would be great indeed.
*
Tarn
sat alone, his back to a great tree. The birdsong around him returned, the
birds forgetting the passage of a human among them as he sat still. Birds were
not wise. They would let a cat among them if it was still enough.
But
Tarn meant them no harm. The mirs, the thrushes, the southern tempath, all
ignored him and sang in sweet chirrups, the language of the angels. Their song
was lost on Tarn.
He
was deeply troubled. After walking with Rena through the village, his joy had
been great, but now, the day after, the untroubled joy of that day, of being a
man with the woman he loved, faded.
These
last few years, his life had been one of peace and love. Before this life, he
knew the love of one man, his father, and that love had not lessened for the
warmth that held him now. Yet he would not return to that life, even if he
could. He would not change anything. But Tulathia, whom he held in high regard,
warned him yet again that he must leave his life behind, or ill would come of
it.
He
believed old mother. But how could he leave all those he loved behind? Mia,
with her sly, knowing smile. Tulathia’s wisdom and sound guidance. The harmony
he felt when with Gard and Molly.
And
love without parallel, love he had not expected, that burnt in the pit of his
stomach, made his head swim. Rena. Rena and her beautiful face, a face that
came to him every night and brought him the sweetest dreams.
How
could he leave her behind?
Where
would he go? He could not imagine being left alone. In each future he saw
himself growing old, taking over the farm from Gard and Molly when they died.
Tarn
wondered. Could he live a life alone? Could he return to the woods, or join the
guard and fight in border squabbles against the Draymar? Was he destined to
become a lone warrior, fighting unsung battles for money, or virtue? He could
imagine no other future than a life with Rena in his arms, perhaps a child to
show their love for one another.
He
would never tell Rena of his fears, or the future that the old woman predicted
for him. He would never hurt her so, for he intended to wed her, whatever
Tulathia wished. He would make his own future.
And
still, the doubt was there, eating away at everything he did. He did know fear.
Fear of loss. Not himself, but of those he loved.
Perhaps
Tulathia did see the future, but maybe, just maybe, he could make the future
his own.
The
birds knew nothing of his thoughts. They sang with joy, and resolved, Tarn
allowed himself to feel hope. To the hells with Tulathia’s prophesy. He would
make his own future. Let no one tell him where his destiny lay. That was a
man’s choice, and the only choice he was given. Tarn would be damned if he
would give that away.
Tulathia
was wrong.
If
they ever came for him, he vowed he would be prepared.
No
more running.
*
The
temperature dropped suddenly, and the Hierophant found himself wishing for a
fire, even though Carious’ fading light still hung in the sky. In truth, the
Hierophant was little affected by the cold, but it was
freezing
.
A
reek pervaded the room. The leader of the Hierarchy, the most powerful beings
on Rythe, with wizards who could control the weather, travel on thoughts and
words, hold humans in invisible chains, suck life out of any living thing and
drink its power, gagged. He could not abide foul humours. Now the smell of
rotting, bloated flesh assailed his nostrils.
He
held his robe over his mouth and nose. The incantation was complete, and he
felt slightly light-headed from the smell and the exertion. The spell was the
limit of his power. To call a being from another plane was beyond the ability
of all but the most gifted wizard, and even then it took its toll.
The
being the Hierophant summoned took all his power, and the cost of its service
was greater than any one else could afford.
The
air shimmered, and filthy languages of long dead races, and alien creatures
that spoke in strange, blood drenched tongues, came tumbling through a rent in
the air. Shapes and colours merged into a muddy form in the centre of the room,
and words and thoughts barged their way into the Hierophant’s senses.
He
reeled back in his chair, and almost fell. The power was greater than anything
he imagined. Were it not for the trinket he held, taken from the deep vault
beneath his tower, he would have been concerned. As it was, he could sense the
being’s lust for it. Its words were thick with hatred, but tinged with desire.
‘Guryon…kill.
The…jiful…price.’
The
Hierophant deciphered its words from the tumble of languages that sprung forth
from the Guryon’s many mouths. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears. It
took all his power to control, to hold the creature on this plane. The planes’
assassin did not like being tethered to one place, and it could easily tear the
Hierophant’s soul from his body should it wished. But the bargain held it in
check. It could see the gleam of metal across the Hierophant’s lap, and feel
the magic bound within.
‘The
line of kings must die. You will find the boy for me, and end the line. Then
the price will be paid.’
The
form before the Hierophant flickered between the planes, but could not leave.
‘There
is no line.’
‘One
day the line will become true. You may even sense those close to the line. I
want the line and everything it touches to be killed. Do what you can. Find the
line, or the price will not be paid. The dagger will be yours. One more tool
for you. I know what you desire. You know my desire. Now be gone from my
sight.’
The
Guryon howled. The air caught fire and with a crack it was gone from the
Hierophant’s uppermost room. The Hierophant used the last of his power to
extinguish the flame, then slumped in his chair, spent.
Dealing
with devils took it out of him. But he knew the bargain. If the Guryon could
not find the line of kings, then nothing could. One chance, and one chance
only.
Tonight
he would sleep peacefully, tired to the bone and safe in the knowledge that no
matter how long it took, the Guryon would find the line of kings and sever it
from the fates.
Its
greed was legendary. If it could be controlled by something it wanted, it would
hunt for eternity.
The
Hierophant laid the dagger beside his bed. It was a shame to lose the dagger of
Cergyon, a blade that could slice through even spirit armour, through
sentinels, but the price of dealing with demons was always high. The planes’
assassin’s services were worth it.
The
Hierarch dragged himself from the chair to the bed, dropped down onto it, and
fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.
*
The
suns were bright overhead as Tarn made his way to Tulathia’s call. A man now,
she was to fulfil her promise to him, to tell him of his past.
The
suns’ early warmth seeped through the trees to fire Tarn’s muscles. He ran, his
sword held tight against his hip with his left hand, racing through the trees.
Ever
since he had met Tulathia, she had held onto the knowledge of his past with
both fists, and even with all his wiles Tarn had been unable to wrest it from
her.
Walking
now, Tarn saw the clearing where the witches’ hut sat.
Gone
was the sod roof, the ill-fitting door, having been replaced over the years
with the fruits of the villagers’ toil. Now it had a wooden slat roof, and the
doors and windows all fitted snugly against their frames. Its chimney was of
stone, and it had a hearth inside, instead of a stone circle for the fire. The
villagers worked with love, and since Tulathia arrived there were no whispers
against the witches. They worked for the people, and the people, gradually,
grew to love and respect them. It warmed Tarn’s heart now to call the Wherry
his home.
He
knocked, tentatively, as always. He was no longer afraid of the witches, but he
was wary of disturbing some difficult spell and ruining a farmer’s crops, or
more likely a potion to ward off ill humours, or raise his ardour.
‘Come
in, Tarn,’ came the creaking voice of Tulathia.
Tarn
pulled the door open, and stepped inside.
No
light snuck in around the windows, shut as they were. The only light was from
the fire burning in the round hearth, suffused through the smoke. He could make
out three figures, seated around the fire. Stone supports held the chimney in
place, but Tulathia insisted that they be able to sit around the fire, not in
front of it. Three stone pillars held it up, and the fire sputtered within
them. They were burning moss.
Tarn
made his way closer. Rena smiled through the fog at him, and he felt his heart
leap as it always did.
Mia
passed him a brew still bubbling from the pot over the fire. There was little
heat in a moss fire, and much smoke, but still enough to keep a pot warm, if
not boiling. Tarn coughed as he took the drink, wondering what it was. As if reading
his mind Mia told him, ‘It is for the mind. To make it open. Some doors within
a mind close as time passes. For you to receive your present it must be open
all the way. Drink. And relax. You will get used to the smoke.’
‘Thank
you,’ said Tarn. Unquestioningly, he accepted what Mia told him and drank
deeply of the brew in his cupped hands.
‘Welcome,
Tarn, son of Ulrane. It is time for you to become the man you are destined to
be, although you will not be happy with the news I bring,’ said Tulathia.
‘Thank
you for your welcome, old mother,’ he said. ‘I wondered how long it would take
you to tell me what you know.’
‘The
time was not right before. You needed to find your own path first. I would not
have sullied your manhood trials with promises to fulfil, before you were even
a man.’
Rena
reached across and touched his hand, and he felt her warmth. He put the wooden
cup on the hearth, empty, and turned his gaze from his lover to Tulathia.
Her
face was no more wrinkled than when he’d met her. She’d been old for as long as
he’d known her, and so always pictured her as old. He could not imagine a time
when she had been young and full of life. And yet, despite her evident years,
she remained robust. She worked as hard as the young witches of the village, now
her home.
‘Tell
me, old mother. What is my wish?’
‘To
know who you are. You asked me long ago, and now I can tell you. But
understand, Tarn, that I tell you this with no joy, for the knowledge will not
please you. Are you sure you still wish to know? And have your path diverted?’
‘Yes,’
said Tarn. He did not hesitate. It had been his desire since he had been able
to think, to understand why he was always on the run, who his father had been
to be hunted so.
He
was eager, but not a fool.
‘But
no more of the future, old mother. It is the past that interests me. What comes
will come. I understand what you told me long ago. Should I know what comes the
path is apt to strangle me.’
Tulathia
nodded. ‘You have wisdom, Tarn, but not enough. Sometimes the past can dictate
the future. But still, as you will. When I tell you, the spell I cast upon you
will no longer hold. I was only able to hide you from prying eyes for so long
because you were ignorant of your destiny, and yes, your past. When you gain
the knowledge of where you come from, and where you are going, you will no
longer be hidden. You are safe while you remain with me, but no other. It will
be a dangerous path, should you choose to take it. Are you still sure?’
This
gave Tarn pause for thought. He had been hidden for so long. Surely no one
still hunted him? Could he risk it? Would he be undone? But then, was he not
resolved to run no longer?
Tulathia
watched the young man’s eyes. Tarn did not notice the hunger there.
‘Rena,
what do you think?’ he asked, knowing that Rena had as much say in his future
as he did, for he loved her above all else and would have her in his life until
death.
‘I
would have you here always. I do not wish to run with you, hiding in the woods
for the rest of our lives. That would be no future for our children.’
‘But
we do not know that is what will happen. And if I am with you…’
Tulathia
interrupted. ‘But when you know who you are, you will understand what will
happen. You must decide. I cannot tell the future, Tarn, for your future is
uncertain. Fate, it seems, has a place in her heart for you. You are in many
futures. Which one, well, that is up to you.’
Tarn
smiled through the smoke at Rena, and saw her nod her head. ‘Take what you
desire, Tarn,’ she said. ‘I will stand by you.’
‘Tell
me who I am, and I will take my chances.’
‘Very
well, young Tarn. Open your mind. For you to understand who you are, you must
see what has already been. Open your mind to the past, and so see the future.’
Tarn
relaxed, seated cross-legged in front of the blue burning fire. He felt at
peace. The women around him all loved him, in their own fashion. He had an
epiphany as he sank – Tulathia loved him for what he could do. She loved the
promise of the man, not just the man himself. He heard the witches speaking in
low voices, no doubt casting some spell on him. But he put all worries asides.
Their voices were soothing…how could he not trust these women, who watched him
grow into manhood?
The
voices faded, then they were gone, and he fell through the earth.
*