Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
Gard
knew the boy was right. He wouldn’t always work on a farm. And it was a rough
world.
‘All
right. When you’re sixteen.’
‘Sixteen!
Come on, big man.’
‘I’ll
buy you a sword when you’re sixteen.’
‘Thank
you,’ said Tarn, sullen.
‘But
I’ll start training you now,’ said Gard with a smile.
‘But
you’re a farmer. I need someone who knows how to swing a sword.’
‘I
wasn’t always a farmer, boy, and if you think swordwork is all about swinging,
you really do need a lesson or two. You’ll end up cutting off your own head.’
‘You
know how to fight? With a sword?’
‘I
fought in the civil war, Tarn. I know how to fight with more than just a
sword,’ said Gard. He smiled, but his heart was heavy. Even so, he knew from
the light in the boy’s eyes that this was his true path. He was never destined
to be a farmer.
He’d
known it since the first night.
‘You
were a soldier?’
‘I
fought for the Thane of Spar. The Spar would be under the rule of the Thane of
Naeth if it hadn’t been for men like me. Then the Thane of Naeth killed the old
king. The War of Reconciliation was pointless, in the end, but then that is the
ultimate fate of all wars. Nobody could stomach more years of fighting. We just
gave in, and the rumours of the old King’s murder eventually died.’
He
sighed.
‘I
didn’t want to fight in the first war,’ he said, ‘But some things are worth
fighting for. Still, we lost. There’s not many men can say they were proud to
be a soldier, but I did my duty with pride.’
‘Did
you kill a man?’
‘Many,
Tarn. With no joy. Sometimes you have to kill for your freedom. I’d rather die
than let the Spar fall under Hurth’s rule. If nothing else, the war granted the
Spar a little freedom from Hurth’s yoke. He’s a wicked man.’
Tarn’s
head was now level with Gard’s shoulder. He would never be as tall as Gard, yet
the work on the farm had filled his frame with hard muscle. He could work all
day with the axe, and when the need arose dug for half a day with the big man.
Gard’s strength was prodigious, and the boy could not yet match the old man,
but within a few years…
Gard
was better with an axe, but he knew the boy’s father had been a swordsman, from
the stories of him that Tarn told. No doubt he wanted to be like his father.
Gard would not deny him that.
‘I’ll
teach you, Tarn, as best I can. I’m no great swordsman, and there’s only so
much I can teach you. But I’ll teach you what I know, and you’ll have someone
to practise with. That’s all I can offer now. Perhaps when you reach your
majority you can join the guard, where you can learn more.’
‘I
don’t want to join the guard. There’s more chance I’ll be found. I don’t want
to die just yet. Tulathia says I won’t always be a farmer, though, so I don’t
know where I’ll be when I reach my majority. But my father always said every
man should be able to defend himself.’
‘True
advice, boy. Let’s get this job finished, and after lunch we’ll have some wood
work to do. We’ve got to make some wooden swords, and Molly will have to make
us some padded leather jerkins and helms.’
‘What
for?’
‘Because
I’ll be hitting you on a daily basis, and you’ll need your wits about you.’
*
Tarn
felt a fool, standing in the autumn light of the twin suns. Molly made him and
Gard leather jerkins, helms, and wrist guards, a week’s worth of work with the
needle and the knife. Though the helm was overly large, somehow the chinstrap
managed to dig into the soft flesh under his chin.
He
and Gard spent the week chopping, shaping and chiselling. At the end of the
week they had a set of beautifully crafted weapons, and doubles of everything.
Gard never did anything by half.
Halberds,
spears, axes, daggers, short swords, long swords, double-handed swords and
shields, all made from hard wood, hardened further by coating with butter, and
being left up the chimney for the smoke from the fire. Tempered so, the wood
had become like rock.
Gard
wrapped the handles in leather strips for a better grip. The weapons looked
deadly enough to kill a man, whether wood or not.
And
Tarn had yet to pick one up.
The
weapons were arrayed in the barn. Gard stood before the boy with a stern look
on his rough face. Tarn recognised the warrior in the big man for the first
time, and wondered how he’d never seen it before.
‘I
want you to forget everything you know about me. When we train, you are my student,
not my son. You will do everything I ask of you without question. We start
today. We will train each afternoon until sunset.’
‘At
last,’ said Tarn.
‘It’s
nice to see you’re so eager. You’ll wish we hadn’t started by the end of the
day. Come on, we’re going for a run.’
‘A
run? I thought I was to learn how to use a sword?’
‘And
you will. But we do this my way or not at all. Any complaints?’
Tarn
looked sullenly, longingly, at the barn.
He
began unbuckling his helm.
‘What
are you doing?’ growled Gard. ‘You will wear your armour always.’
‘But
it’s heavy, and I’m not allowed to wear armour anyway. Only soldiers are
allowed armour.’
‘You’ll
do as I say. No questions. Follow.’
Gard
set off at a gentle lope. Tarn sighed, buckled his helm, and set off after him.
After
the first mile, Gard began to run a little faster. They were in the woods and
Tarn found he needed to watch his feet as he ran, for fear of tripping over a
root. Gard seemed to take it in his stride, and opened a gap between them. Tarn
tried to close the gap but didn’t have the strength, or the breath. He stumbled
more than once. Gard increased the pace again. Tarn marvelled at the man. He
didn’t think it possible for such a big man to move so fast. And he knew that
Gard never ran.
After
three miles Tarn sensed they were heading back to the farm. He found new energy
and tried to close the gap on Gard, but the big man picked up the pace again.
Tarn’s breath came in irregular gasps, and his legs burned. He could barely
keep Gard’s back in sight, and when he broke the cover of the trees, Gard put
more distance between them, his legs working with easy rhythm while Tarn could
only just put one foot in front of the other.
When
he finally made it back to the farm, Gard stood calmly in front of the barn,
his breathing heavy but regular. Tarn felt as though there was a fire in his
legs, and he stood panting, with his hands on his knees.
‘Stand
up straight!’
Tarn
forced himself to stand, and held his sides.
‘First
lesson. Breathing is important. Breathe out when you exert yourself. Keep your
breathing regular when you are training. Breathe in through your nose and out
through your mouth. Breathe out just before you get hit and you won’t get
winded. Remember that?’
Tarn
managed to nod.
‘Fights
are never long, but prepare for each fight as though it lasts a week. In battle
you will need to be fit to survive. That is what we train for.’
Tarn
was too out of breath to say anything.
‘Next
– keep supple. Follow my lead.’
Tarn
followed as Gard showed him a series of stretching exercises. Tarn found he
could not manage some of the exercises shown to him. At the end of it his
muscles were shaking.
‘Now
strength.’
Gard
got down on the floor and performed a push up.
‘Copy
me. Let’s see how many you can do.’
Tarn
did so. He managed fifteen. Gard followed him, and managed fifty, before
stopping. He seemed as though he could have done more.
‘In
a month I want you to be able to do fifty. That will do for push ups.’
Then
they did chin ups on the barn door frame. Gard could do twenty five. Tarn
managed six.
‘Aim
for twenty five the first month. You are not as strong as me, but you must be
as strong as your frame will allow.’
‘Are
we going to fight today?’ asked Tarn, panting.
‘What
did I say?’
‘No
questions.’
‘Right.
When I want you to ask questions, I will tell you. Remember your questions, and
ask when I give you permission.’
Tarn
said nothing.
‘You’re
not breathing like I told you.’
Tarn
started breathing as Gard instructed and found he caught his breath more
quickly.
‘Go
and get some water. Water is important. You have one minute to bring me a jug,
and make sure you don’t spill any.’
Tarn
ran to the farmhouse, filled a jug with water from the water barrel, and ran
back to Gard.
Gard
nodded.
‘Drink,’
he said.
Tarn
drank gratefully. Then, without warning, Gard punched Tarn in the face,
knocking Tarn and the jug into the dirt. Tarn sat up, dazed and shocked. He had
never been hit before, and couldn’t understand why Gard had struck him. He
rubbed his chin.
‘Good.
No questions. I hit you so you understand what it’s like to be hit. It hurts,
but it won’t kill you. Now you know the worst that can happen, do not be afraid
of getting hit.’
Tarn
rubbed his chin once more and pushed himself up.
‘Now
we work.’
Tarn
made for the barn, smiling.
‘No.
Here.’
By
sunset, Tarn shook with fatigue. When Carious finally slipped over the horizon,
Tarn could barely stand and Gard had hardly broken a sweat. By the end of the
week, Tarn had yet to pick up a weapon, but he no longer shook. By the second
week, Gard made things harder. By the third week, Gard had Tarn practising
steps, lifting, leaping, and shuffling his feet.
He
didn’t ask questions, though.
*
From
his towering minaret above the citadel the Hierophant watched as the humans,
tiny below him, built their homes and their businesses, and watched those homes
crumble like the beings that built them. His favourite site was the graveyard.
It was the one area of the town that kept on growing. He did not know why the
humans bothered burying their dead, or why the living returned to place flowers
on the graves. The Hierarchs burned their dead. A body was a shell, no more.
Buried, it just took up space.
The
citadel must have seemed eternal to those squabbling animals below. The citadel
had been there for hundreds of years. No human structure could match the
longevity of his kind.
They
warred on each other, even though they were of the same race, and the continent
was constantly in turmoil. While they strove to raise themselves above the
filth, someone else made sure they were beaten down. The Hierophant did nothing
to stop them. The wars kept the population down.
His
kind, above it all, literally and metaphorically.
Wars
made for great entertainment. As yet none of the humans thought to rise against
the otherworldly creatures that lorded over them. The Hierarchy kept its more
sadistic urges secret from the population at large, and magic kept the humans
in line. Even with their numbers, they could not face the Hierarchy. But the
Hierophant knew one day they would surge in numbers. Then the humans could be a
force to be reckoned with. But for now they were pointless, no more dangerous
to the Hierophant’s designs than mice, or dung.
Yet
hope was a powerful force, embodied in the line that could oppose him, come the
return of the old ones, the Sun Destroyers, the forebears of the Heirarchy.
The
royal line was the greatest danger the Heirophant could see in the future. The
kings of Sturma. Such an insignificant country, plagued by civil war and
incursion from its aggressive larger neighbour. And yet the sole threat to the
might of the Hierarchy.
The
Hierophant was patient, though. He had lived more than ten human lifetimes, and
would live for much longer. The long view was all that concerned him. But if
one death today made it easier for the return to happen – and so much could go
wrong, he understood that – then the boy would have to die.
But
Jenin could no longer see the boy. He was hidden from magical eyes. A hole
where the boy’s fate should show bright to a seer’s eyes. The Hierophant was no
seer, but he understood what had happened.
Someone
other than the Hierarchy could practice magic.
Magic
was almost unheard of among humankind, but the Hierophant knew there where
gifted women, who used all manner of parlour tricks like entertainers, called
witches. It amused him, that the witches needed tools to create magic. It was
not in their blood. It was weak magic.
Still,
strong enough to perturb Jenin.
The
spell, however, weakened. Jenin caught glimpses of the boy again. There
remained a haze around him, but he could now be seen. And his future was
changing. Once, his death had been assured. But as time passed, and the boy
grew older, his death became a thing of chance.
He
would be a man soon, and no man could be hidden from a seer’s eyes for long.
Fate could always see the man, once a child had been pushed into fate's path
inexorably, and a seer could see fate. But fate was fickle. The slightest nudge
could alter the future, and now there were others playing a game the Hierophant
thought his alone.
*