Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
There
was a castle so deeply rooted in time, that time spread and flowed around it
like a stream flows around a pebble. On some planes it appeared as a castle, on
some a fencement, in others a watery grave, a bog or a prison.
Wherever
the creatures of that plane placed their unwanted souls.
On
this plane, the mooring upon which Rythe was tethered to the universe, it was
the most perfect castle, beautiful in its barbarity, stretching further than
the eye could see in all directions at once.
On
every level of the castle, so immense it could never be guarded, beings of all
manner slumbered. Mostly they were men or hierarchs. There were other creatures
boasting different levels of sentience, but each and every being had one thing
in common: they had sinned too greatly to ever pass Madal’s gates.
There
would be no peace in death for them, only the chance of peace. Once a year that
chance was granted. Few achieved it.
There
were rules, but the game the gatekeepers played forbade those rules ever being
spoken. Only by luck, logic, the power of discernment, or by sheer dogged
determination could those rules ever be fathomed. Even then some of the
creatures held would never understand, and so would never be free.
For
their keepers, never held little meaning. They were eternal.
One
prisoner among them was entirely unique. Not a hierarch, yet of their blood.
Not a human, nor could he be mistaken for such. He was something else.
Something else entirely.
The
Soul Swords, the guardians of the jail, held him against their better
judgement.
They
held creatures no mortal could kill. They held creatures that ate their own
societies, beings of such power that they were nearly mythical, like the
Hath’ku’atch, the Kurmigon and lizards of great girth that fed on their own
kind, known in some realms as dragons.
The
most powerful among their prisoners, however, made even the Lu distinctly
uncomfortable. He was the only one that could destroy suns.
Soon,
as each year before, his chance at redemption would be granted.
He
showed signs of learning.
Kilarian,
his jailor and tutor, was pleased. He did not think the creature deserved to be
here. He wanted him to succeed. But he wasn’t allowed to tell him the rules.
When the time came to awaken him, the prisoner would have to figure out the
rules for himself.
Then,
should the being be wise enough, gods help the world of Rythe. They thought
beings of power such as the Sun Destroyers had left for good.
He
betrayed his brethren. That was his sin. A sin against his own kind. That the
Soul Swords thought this a good thing would not stay their hand. They were
creatures of duty. The prisoner, though, knew nothing of duty. He was a traitor
to his blood.
The
prisoner’s name was Caeus, and his time on Rythe was not yet over.
*
A
harsh north wind blew across the Spar, bringing with it a flurry of snow that
would drift and make it impossible to exit from the first floor of the
farmhouse. Soon Gard, Molly and Tarn would have to make use of the winter door,
on the second floor.
On
his water runs, Tarn had to drop the water bucket down the well, rather than
lowering it, just to break the thick ice that formed on the water.
Each
morning he and Gard would clear what snow they could and feed the animals in
the barn. Work did not stop for winter. Molly would make porridge to send them
on their way. Tarn ate everything put in front of him, and began to show signs
of growth in his wiry limbs and through the chest and shoulders.
At
night, he would drink Stum. It burned on the way down, but induced sleep.
He
was thankful for the thick blankets that Molly brought, and all the wood he
helped chop. But nightfall remained Tarn’s least favourite time. He grew to
hate the darkness, not because of the dark, but of the dreams it would bring.
On
many cold nights, ice crusting the washbowl, Tarn cried himself to sleep,
dreaming of his father and the mother he never knew. When the pain of loss was
most bitter, he would think of Rena, his only friend, and give thanks for Gard
and Molly, without whom he would most likely be dead.
If
he was exhausted the dreams stayed away, so he worked as hard as he could.
Frost
became a permanent fixture on his windows. Sometimes he drew the beast that
saved him from the soldiers the night his father was murdered. To him it had
looked like a boar. But with tusks like razors which cut through his bonds,
freeing him to run.
Gard
told him one soldier survived.
He
would never be truly free of the fear of capture, but it paled into
insignificance compared to the fear of sleep.
Gard
saw the drawings, but never said a word. Maybe he thought he could make the
boy’s demons go away, if only he refused to believe in them.
Throughout
the winter, the boy spoke of his life, and gradually Gard came to understand
what drove the boy. Everyone had demons, Gard knew. His own were fierce enough.
Even so, no child should have such a beast snapping at his heels.
The
old farmer and his wife talked about this, when Tarn fell into his troubled
sleep each night. They knew, deep down, that the gift given them would not
stay.
But
stay he did.
Winter
was long and hard, and over the course of many nights, the boy opened his heart
to the big man and his wife. The telling was hard, and the trusting harder
still.
Each
night, over Stum before the boy slept, he told a little more, until one night,
as the fire in the hearth burned low and the wind howled against the shutters,
Gard would let him stall no longer.
‘Tarn,
you promised me a tale. You have yet to tell it. Tonight we will listen, and
you will talk. I will take no argument.’
Tarn
looked hurt, and a little afraid, but he did not disagree with the big man.
‘We
will hear it, whatever it is, Tarn. All of you is welcome under this roof,’
said Molly.
He
knew he had no choice.
‘I
will tell you what I can.’
‘That
is all we ask, boy.’
Tarn
took a drink, to steel himself for what he knew would be a painful tale, rather
than for the warmth.
He
took a deep breath and began.
‘I
was born when my father was an older man. My mother was a farmer’s wife before
she was my father’s wife. She was widowed as a young woman but kept her farm,
working it alone and with hired help when it was needed. My father met her one
day, coming out of the woods carrying a lamb that strayed.
‘She
took him to be her husband, and the life of a lone hunter, all my father knew
for most of his life, changed, but without regret. This my father told me. He
told me he loved my mother, but I cannot remember her. He said she was a fine
woman, full of love. She bore me late in life, and to the local witch’s
surprise, I was a healthy boy.’
‘Many
children born so late in life are not so fortunate.’
The
boy nodded, and Gard watched him closely. He was used to Tarn’s way with words.
He seemed more mature than a boy of his years should be, but Gard guessed he’d
lived more than most in his short years. The big man watched closely, and kept
his council, as Tarn’s eyes drifted for a moment; the only sign of pain he
showed at the recounting of his life.
‘When
I was three, the task of raising me fell on my father’s shoulders. He took to
what he knew once more, the life of a huntsman. My mother’s death did not
affect me. I was too young to know her well. I remember her holding me, and
singing to me, but little else. I do not remember her being unwell. She died of
a long fever and my father buried her in her fields - we left that day.’
‘That
must have been hard, Tarn, on one so young.’
Tarn
nodded. Molly looked kindly at the boy and motioned him to go on. She wanted to
take his hand but sensed it would only make the telling harder.
‘I
was young enough that it did not matter,’ said Tarn, looking away from the two
people left in the world who loved him. He found he could not look at their
faces, so full of compassion. Instead, he stared at the floor while he spoke.
‘After a while, it was like the forest was the only home I had ever known. I
almost forgot I had a mother, or that I had been born on a farm. I grew, and I
learned. My father fed me well, and he loved me and taught me as best as he
could. He taught me how to speak, how to think for myself, how to reason. He
taught me to read, sometimes from books when he could buy them, sometimes by
writing in the mud...’
‘You
write?’
‘I
do.’
‘Leave
him speak, Molly,’ said Gard. He followed with a smile, though.
Tarn
took a moment, looking into the distance, as though seeing the past in the
dancing fire shadows on the walls.
‘We
spoke on things he insisted I must know, about the Thanes, and the history of
my country, but all he taught me was useless. I will never need to know it. But
I know how to work, and how to dress a deer, how to make fire, and a bow, how
to use a knife, and how to fight. Most of all he tried to make me a man.’
Molly
thought that sad, that the boy had never been able to be a boy. So much
responsibility thrust onto his young shoulders. Never been able to play as a
lad, and now a life on a farm. He spoke like an adult, intelligently but
without passion. But there was still time. Perhaps the boy could learn to be
young again. Perhaps he could finally find peace.
‘My
father and I roamed the Lare Woods, and the Fresh Woods, visiting towns and
villages only occasionally, eating what we could pick or kill, and that was my
life.’
Tarn
took a deep breath, steeling himself. He needed trust for the next part of his
story. He looked up, and realised he never needed to doubt these two kind
people.
‘I
knew he was a wanted man from an early age. He would never tell me of his life
before he came to the woods, but I know he was a warrior once. He always wore a
sword slung across his back, and I saw him use it more than once. I cannot
judge the skill of a swordsman, but the night I was taken I think he killed
seven men. I think he was a good swordsman. I don’t know why he was hunted, or
for what crime. I asked him many times and he would only tell me that he would
share the tale with me when I reached sixteen. All he would say was that there
were many kinds of criminal.
‘Now
I will never get to hear his story, or share his love again. All I know is that
we lived in the woods because we could live nowhere else.’
‘So
you do not know why the Thane of Naeth’s men hunted your father? Why they
wanted you killed?’ asked Gard finally.
‘I
have no idea. But my father must have done something terrible, for them to hunt
him for so long. I guess he came from Naeth. He was never afraid to go into
towns outside that region, merely wary. None of the other Thanes were hunting
him. Just the Thane of Naeth. I do not know what he could have done that would
make them hunt him for years.’
‘Does
it matter?’
‘Of
course it does,’ said Tarn, as if it was a foolish question, but he said it
with as much kindness as he could muster. ‘Whatever he did made them hate me,
too.’
‘Well,
there is no way to find out. You are safe here. We love you, boy, and would let
no harm come to you,’ Gard told him gruffly, unaccustomed to speaking his
feelings so plainly. Molly held the big man’s hand.
Tarn
smiled sadly at them both, and for the first time his eyes were moist. ‘I love
you both, for you are the kindest people I have met in my short years, but I
don’t think I will ever be safe. For some reason, the Thane of Naeth wants me
dead.’
*
The
Thane of Naeth paced the throne room in his stolen castle. His soldiers had
searched the Lare Woods, where the king died, and for a hundred miles in all
directions, even into the Spar, and relations with the Thane there were fragile
at best. Now the snow was too thick on the ground for horses.
His
journey to the cathedral at Kus had proved to be a wasted trip. The crown would
not bear his head. The priests there insisted they could do nothing. It was
fey, ancient magic that kept him from proclaiming himself king. The crown would
only pass to him upon the death of the line of kings. Only then could there be
a new king.
Furious
though he might be, he was not prone to fits of rage. His blood boiled with the
draught his advisor gave him, but that was the only fire he allowed himself.
Instead,
he made plans. Perhaps the boy had gone further? He thought it unlikely. One so
young could not survive alone. He would put up a reward. The people would turn
on him. They would not tell from fear, but greed…the Thane knew greed to be a
tool he could use. It overruled fear. It had a power all its own.
Come
the spring, when the snows cleared, he would send his men out with the decree.
The roads were all but impassable now. He had waited this long, he could wait a
while longer.
Patience,
he counselled himself. He did not need Merelith for that.
*