The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy, #1

By Craig R. Saunders

'For fans of Gemmell, Eddings and Erikson: Old-school heroic, epic fantasy.'

The old king dies, murdered with only the moon to bear witness. Now, a tyrant rules the land of Sturma in an iron grip, and a terrifying new threat masses across the ocean on the world of Rythe. The land, and humanity itself, balances on the brink of destruction. 

But hope remains, for the line of kings lives on in one man. He is the hunted man, the master of the blade and the leader of the lost.

He is the Outlaw King.

Editor: Faith Kauwe
Cover Art: Copyright Chris Taggart

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fable Books
• Release date: Jun 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781521803431

Craig R. Saunders

Hi. I'm Craig R. Saunders, also known as Craig Saunders and Craig Robert Saunders. With the 'R' is the name under which I write fantasy. Here's my full profile: Craig Saunders is the author of forty (or so) novels and novellas, including 'ALT-Reich', 'Vigil' and 'Hangman', and has written over a hundred short stories, available in anthologies and magazines, 'best of' collections and audio formats.  Imprints: Dark Fable Books/Fable Books.  Likes: Nice people, games, books, and doggos. Dislikes: Weird smells, surprises, and gang fights in Chinatown alleyways.  He's happy to talk mostly anything over at: www.craigrsaunders.blogspot.com   @Grumblesprout Praise for Craig Saunders: [Masters of Blood and Bone] '...combines the quirkiness of Dean Koontz's Odd Thomas series with the hardcore mythology of Clive Barker to create an adventure that is both entertaining and terrifying.' - examiner.com [Vigil] 'A gripping accomplishment.' - Murder, Mayhem and More. 'Saunders is fast becoming a must read author...' - Scream. [Bloodeye] '...razor-sharp prose.' Wayne Simmons, author of Flu and Plastic Jesus. 'Plain and simple, this guy can write.' - Edward Lorn, author of Bay's End.  [Deadlift] 'Noir-like, graphic novel-like horror/thriller/awesomeness.' - David Bernstein, author of Relic of Death and Witch Island. 'A master of the genre.' Iain Rob Wright. [Spiggot] 'Incredibly tasteless, shamelessly lowbrow, and very, very funny.' - Jeff Strand.  [A Home by the Sea] 'Brutal and poetic...' - Bill Hussey, author of Through a Glass, Darkly. [Rain] '...the best book I've read in a year.' - The Horror Zine. [Cold Fire] '...full of emotion and heart.' - Ginger Nuts of Horror.

Book preview

Dedication and Acknowledgements

It’s a strange thing, writing this short introduction more than ten years down the line from the first draft of ‘The Outlaw King’. These stories set in the world of Rythe were some of my first. I always intended to finish the cycle, but life gets in the way of our good intentions, doesn’t it?

So, here we are, in 2016, and I write this introduction from my shed. I used to write in a house, you know. I had a room solely for writing. But I lived on my own, then, and now I have three (three!) children.

There are many reasons to work in a shed. Three children are pretty good ones.

So, this Kindle, or paperback, which you hold, is for you: readers who stuck with this series.

For you, Sim; even when the sun is shining.

Thank you to Faith Kauwe for her patience in editing the Rythe novels. A huge undertaking, and I’m just glad she didn’t croak before they were done. Any mistakes remain my own.

To Chris Taggart, for the outstanding cover art, who saw it through.

Love you all.

Craig

The Shed

2016

A short postscript from Chris Taggart himself...

The inscription on the Outlaw King’s throne is from a Manowar song, ‘The Crown and the Ring’.

It reads, ‘High and mighty, alone, we are kings.’

Prologue

The old warrior turned his face to the rain. He had seen enough death to know his own was upon him.

His name was Ulrane, and his rage had not been enough to see him through one last fight - his son, the last of the line of Sturman kings, had still been taken from him. The boy fought the Thane of Naeth’s men just as hard as his father and though just a boy, he had found blood this day.

Ulrane could only hope the Thane would not use his son badly.

Had Ulrane been a lesser man, he would have despaired. But he was proud of his son and he held onto that pride as death embraced him. These last moments were too precious, these last memories too sweet, to give over to useless tears.

There should have been trumpets. There should have been a year of mourning, but there would be no rites to mark the passing of the line of kings, and none but the Thane would ever know of his son.

Would that my boy could have lived.

But no regrets. A man could not pass Madal’s Gates that way.

Regret was not for kings.

He would take the love of his wife, his father, his only son, and hold them to him like jewels as he passed the Gate. A rich man in love and life; perhaps such treasures could survive death.

But still Ulrane wondered why the Thane's men had stayed their hand.

Maybe there was hope yet, even in this dark hour.

The last gentle patter of rain fell. Hren, the larger of Rythe’s two moons, came out from behind a dark cloud.

‘Tulathia, look over him if you will, grant him swift death if you won’t.’

His final prayer, spoken with his dying breath, hung on the air. And so it was that the king died, with only a solitary moon to bear witness.

*

I.

The Child

Chapter One

The wood cracked, loud on the still air. The split round fell, half left, half right, with the piles already there.

In the Spar, winters were hard and the hearth was always hungry.  

Gard placed another log on the stump. A big man, thick across the shoulder but with a firm paunch, his hands dwarfed the axe handle. His muscles were not for show.

His hair ran to grey. His nose had been broken in his youth, and never set right. It lay flat against a broad, pleasant face. It was a face his wife had grown to love in their thirty years of marriage; years in which he forgot the hardships of his youth.

The big man, as his wife called him, paused in his labour and listened. He heard soft footsteps carried to him with no wind to bring them. He swung the axe with just enough strength to embed the head in the stump.

‘I’ve not finished yet, boy,’ he called out.

‘I thought you could use a warm drink. Old bones aren’t made to withstand the chill.’

‘These old bones have known more harsh winters than you’ve lived, and mind your cheek, Tarn.’

Tarn, a wiry thirteen year old, put two drinks on the stump, next to the axe.

He had come to the farm a month before in a sorry state, bloody and shivering. Gard’s woman, Molly, took the boy in and fed him. Not a word would the boy speak as to where he got his wound. The cut ran down the right side of Tarn’s smooth face, from eye to chin. He was lucky to have both eyes. Even now the scar was livid, the kind of mark that would not fade with age but thicken and mark the boy for either a warrior or a victim.

‘My apologies, Big Man,’ Tarn said politely. ‘Perhaps I could take a turn. Give you a rest, after all your years of toil.’

Gard grinned, but that scar on the boy's face often worried him. He could not imagine what the boy had done to arouse such hatred in an attacker, for surely it was meant to be a mortal cut.

‘I’m still young enough to give you a black ear,’ said Gard.

‘I don’t doubt it. I’m still nimble enough to get away.’

‘You reckon?’

Tarn noticed the glint in Gard's grey eyes.

‘Hm. Maybe...not.’

‘Hm,’ said Gard. ‘And maybe you’re not as daft as you look.’

Both sat on the pile of split logs with their drinks in quiet thought.

Gard was aware of Tarn, of course, but he did not stare at the boy. He looked out over their land - crisp skies and low, green hills. But it was the boy who was on Gard's mind, not the farm or the Spar.

Tarn would, he thought, still be a fine man. Thick dark hair, fierce eyes and good bones. Clearly Sturman, but Gard knew Tarn was not from the Spar. His accent, for one thing. He spoke like he came from everywhere at once. The boy’s manner of speech, too, was far more educated than any boy Gard knew...and many adults, for that matter.

The night the boy turned up on their doorstep Gard traced the boy’s tracks. What he found he never told his wife; three men slaughtered where they stood. From the crest on their cloaks, Gard knew only too well who they were. They wore the Thane of Naeth’s stolen crest, the boar rampant.

It seemed Tarn had powerful enemies - and some kind of luck, too. The soldiers had been killed by a beast, not a sword. Something had gored their chests and legs.

But a wounded man escaped. Whoever sent those killers knew the boy lived, too. Tracks and blood did not lie, and luck did not last forever.

The boy would not be staying.

What hatred must those men have harboured to disfigure the boy? To want him dead?

It worried Gard, but he knew what would be, would be.

For now, Gard was wise enough to accept small gifts, no matter how soon the sheen faded. He and Molly had wanted a child, but never been blessed.

‘What’s my woman doing?’ Gard asked, shaking his head and turning his gaze away from the rolling hills of the Spar.

‘Molly is baking,’ Tarn said, and ran a finger over his scar. The boy did it whenever he was thoughtful.

‘What’s on your mind, boy?’

Sorrow flitted over the boy’s face. Gard only ever saw that sadness in glimpses. Something troubled Tarn, but he guarded his secrets closely.

Gard knew when to speak and when to hold his council. Tarn would speak in his own time or not at all.

‘Nothing, just cold, that’s all.’

‘Well, I’ve just the thing to warm you up,’ said Gard. He gulped the last of his drink, stood, and pointed to the axe. ‘Make yourself useful.’

Tarn smiled. ‘I thought you weren’t too old.’

‘I’m not, but I’ll have no lazy boys under my roof.’

‘But I am just a boy, after all,’ said Tarn craftily.

‘I was chopping wood at seven. You could do worse. It’ll put some muscle on that scrawny frame of yours.’

Tarn sighed and pulled the axe free with ease. Scrawny, true, but he had muscles on his frame. More than most boys his age.

From a hard life?

‘I suppose someone needs to take up the slack,’ said Tarn.

Cheeky sod, wherever he comes from, thought Gard, but with a smile.

An hour later, Gard marvelled again at the stamina of the boy. He was as strong as an ox, even though he looked thin and underfed.

He wondered for the last time that day where the boy came from. Then he put it to one side. If the gods meant him to know, he would, in time.

*

Chapter Two

The pennant over the Thane of Naeth’s castle depicted a boar against a shielded background, but today it hung limp. The boar on the Thane’s crest, a symbol stolen from the old king, twenty-two years before. A simple beast for a simple king. The people had known peace and love under the king after the War of Reconciliation. Peace now under the Thane of Naeth, too. But love? No. Not that.

The Thane of Naeth. Would-be usurper of the throne, named Hurth, all but forgot the people that put food on his table.

No other Thane could oppose him. Soon he would be king.

Merelith, Hurth's adviser, watched his lord as he watched everything around him. With a keen, shaded eye.

Hurth sat at the head of the great hall. A soldier in chainmail encrusted with blood stood before Hurth, and Merelith lurked at Hurth's shoulder. The Thane bade the soldier speak.

‘We killed the old man in the Lare woods, where he was said to be hid.’ The man, quivering slightly as he spoke, continued, ‘He took six of my men through Madal's Gate, Lord. Me and the three others was bringing the boy to the castle. But he ran off...some great beast attacked us. It was dark. Couldn't tell what it was. It killed all but me.’

The man could have been shivering from the cold. No fire burned in the great hearth. The Thane would not permit himself to be warm.

Merelith himself did not care if it was cold or hot. Neither affected him at all.

‘I told you to kill anyone who travelled with the old man,' said Hurth. 'Now you risk a legend. Do you know the power of a legend, man?’

‘Sire?’

‘No matter. Why did you disobey me?’

The Thane’s voice held no satisfaction, and Merelith knew why. The true king might be no more, but it meant nothing without the boy’s head. While the line of kings remained unbroken the Crown of Kings would wait inside the Cathedral on the Plain, and Hurth would not - could not - wear it.

‘He was but a boy,' said the soldier. 'When the beast attacked, Gerrick struck the boy’s face open. A mortal wound, Thane. He must've died. He must have.’

The soldier shrugged. ‘And he was but a lad.’

‘I understand you did not mete out the death I required. I understand that you failed me. You ran, and you ran to me, while this little child ran the other way? Justice is for the young, too,’ said Hurth. He granted the soldier a cold smile. ‘Have his hands removed. They are of no use to me.’

‘No! We did what you told us! We killed the old man!’

Two guards came forward. They may have been deaf for all the good the condemned man’s pleading did.

'We killed him!'

The man screamed as the guards dragged him away.

Merelith watched with thinly veiled amusement. He slid up to the throne that the Thane had taken for his own, even though the Thane would be denied the crown.

‘The boy must be found,’ whispered Merelith.

‘I know that, fool. And we will find him - alive or dead.’

‘I hope so, my Lord. The trail is cold again.’

The Thane looked thoughtfully at Merelith, and Merelith did not look away.

To Hurth, Merelith would merely seem an unnaturally tall, gaunt man of indescript appearance. A dull man, one of letters and numbers...the kind of man the Thane expected to advise.

I am not a man, though, Hurth, thought Merelith. I am a Hierarch.

Underneath this guise he wore each day, Merelith was the same as all his brethren and sistren - the same as his true kin. His face beneath this form was paler than a human face, his eyes were of a mottled grey unseen in man or woman. Hierarch's hair was almost always dark, like a raven's feathers, and straight. He might seem physically weak, his body thin and wiry, but he was stronger than most men, and faster, too.

Merelith was a mage. A kind which fed on pain, and deceit, and here in Hurth's realm pain and deceit were always available. For a creature such as him, this land was a banquet.

‘We will find him,’ said Hurth once more. ‘How far can the boy get? He probably pissed himself in fear and died in the woods. Men will still hunt. I will leave nothing to chance, Merilith.’

The Thane waved Merelith away.

‘Your will, my Lord,’ said Merilith.

He held his smile in. He guarded his own emotions and motivations more carefully than the Thane.

Hurth wanted to be a king...the Hierarch wanted so much more.

The line of kings needed to end, yes, but not for Hurth's petty crown. The last king had to die because of what the line would mean in years to come, when the old ones returned.

Only the kings could oppose the return.

But not if they are all dead, thought Merelith.

Just the death of a boy. How hard could it be?

*

Chapter Three

The air grew colder over the Spar and on their small farm, miles from the nearest village, Gard and Molly spoke of matters that they did not really understand, and most of their talks centred on the boy, Tarn.

The child - for at thirteen years he was only a child - did not sleep easy. They listened to Tarn crying out in his sleep, and only after a long and hard day full of work would the boy sleep without dreams. Gard understood enough to work the boy hard. It was the only way to grant reprieve from his demons. But he could not work the boy harder without breaking him, and many man wouldn't be able to work so long, with sore hands and backs and muscles, without respite.

And Gard's way, Molly knew, would break the boy's body.

‘Tarn’s been working the farm for near on a month now. I’m taking him to the village for the winter fayre. It’ll be the last time the boy gets to be around people ‘til spring,’ said Gard.

'When I said we need to do something else...I did not mean parade him before the townsfolk.'

Gard smiled. 'Parade? I'll do no such thing, Molly.'

'I know,' she said with a sigh. 'I know. I worry about him. He should sleep the sleep of youth, not the troubled rest of an old man. I think whatever hurt he suffered has yet to heal. Perhaps he should stay here until that time comes.’

‘We can no more force him to stay here than we can cast out his demons. Meeting other children his age will be good for him. You’ll see. Trust me, Molly. And Tarn. He's a good lad.'

Molly smiled at her man. Strong, and even though age crept up on him, he was still wise enough and sound of mind. He would fight ageing like he’d fought all his life. When the time came, she imagined Gard would not truly die, but turn to rock.

‘Then do it. Take him to the village and let him wander. He could do with a drink.’

‘He’s but thirteen!’

‘Don’t tell me you weren’t in your cups half his age,’ she spoke quietly, for fear of waking Tarn.

‘A different age, back then. I took over our farm from my father when he died. My sisters worked with me. The boy doesn’t have to work as hard.’

‘Maybe not to eat, to survive, but he does work hard. Too hard, and we both know it. And husband? He’s not the boy. He’s Tarn.’

Gard sighed. ‘I just can’t bring myself to think of him as any other. Honestly? I’m scared he’ll leave.’

Molly went to her husband’s side.

‘I feel the same way - as though he’s a gift from which we could be parted any day - but because of it we’ve not thought to question where he came from.’

‘I question it every day.’ Gard took his wife’s hand, and held it with a gentleness that belied his strength.

Molly's eyebrows rose. She suspected Gard knew something, but his face this night was more open than usual.

'Ah, hells,' said Gard.

‘Tell me what you know,’ said Molly, but kindly, without a trace of smugness or anger at catching Gard in falsehood.

If it came to it, he wouldn't lie to her, and she knew it. He’d not done so in the thirty years of marriage and wouldn't start now. She would not lie to him, nor he to her.

‘You remember I left you with him when he arrived?’

Molly nodded.

‘Well...I tracked him. I found signs of a fight. I did not speak of it to you as I didn’t want to worry you.’

‘Tell me what you found,’ said Molly, concern on her face.

‘I found three dead men, each mauled by a beast. I think one of the men, soldiers, escaped unharmed.’

‘You think it was they who had Tarn?’

‘I think they meant to take him alive, but when the beast attacked they sought to kill him rather than let him escape.’

‘They failed.’

‘But they won’t fail twice, wife. I don’t know why they want the boy, but the soldiers will return.’

Molly put her hands around her husband. ‘Then we must send him away.’

Tears rode her voice.

Gard stroked his wife’s hair. ‘We will wait awhile. The boy is too young to fend for himself. He must stay until he is old enough.’

‘He can’t go to the fayre, Gard.’

‘We cannot hide him. He must grow as all other boys would. I will take him to the fayre.’

Molly shook her head against her husband’s chest.

‘But if they find him?’

‘They will not. I’ll make sure of it.’

‘I trust you, big man.’

‘I know, wife,’ he said, but still he sounded unsure. Of himself, or Tarn, Molly could not tell.

*

Chapter Four

Far across the wide seas of the world of Rythe, thousands of miles from a small, insignificant country known as Sturma, the first continent sprawled. That great land was called Lianthre.

Nothing but shadowy remnants of the old ones’ might remained and too few knew of the progeny left behind after the banishment...and the desires they harboured.

The children of the old ones called themselves the Hierarchy, and they knew mankind’s ascendancy could not last. The Hierarchy had long plans. They were long lived and they were patient.

In the first continent’s capital, named for the continent itself, the Hierarchy’s impossibly tall towers overlooked the petty human lives played out below. High above the stench of humanity, they watched the humans’ sad, short lives begin and end.

In the tallest of those towers, the leader of the Hierarchy, a creature called the Hierophant, ruled over all. He considered the future laid out before him, and it was the world itself which hung in the balance.

Not since the great mage Caeus left had the world been so close to the brink.

It was Caeus who lead the battle, and in the end saw victory over the old ones. It was his power which led to the banishment of the Hierarchy's forebears from Rythe.

We are diminished now.

But then, what did numbers matter?

His face, like all his kin, was longer and paler than that of a human. Like the mage Merelith the Hierophant's face was cold, his grey eyes bleak and uncaring. His hair was black and shone even in the dim light within this, the tallest minaret of all.

The Hierarchy were long lived, but they were not legion. Still, humanity could not hold them back, because humanity did not have magic. They were plain creatures, ugly and without purpose, and the little magic a few possessed was pitiful.

They will fall, he thought. He was entirely without doubt on count - he had seen the outcome of millennia of wars both quiet and loud.

When our fathers return, they will be pleased to see the power we hold.

The Hierophant thought all these things while he toyed with a mewling, tongueless human babe.

Even these things bore me.

'Turille!'

He beckoned his servant with a long, crooked finger.

Turille approached and cowered.

‘I tire of it, Turille. Remove the creature.’

‘At once, master,’ said Turille, bowing low.

‘Wait. Send in Jenin, too. I would know how our plans progress.’

‘Master,’ said the servant.

Pathetic, thought the Hierophant as his servant picked up the thing in one hand and scuttled from the room.

As he watched the Hierarch leave he wondered if this was what their race would come to, or if they would be great once more.

So sure, and yet...still I doubt?

The Hierophant's power was absolute. He did not like this uncertainty.

How can I be so unsure of a future which many have seen?

He did not know, but he could not shake the feeling.

*

Turille put the horrible human creature out of its misery before calling Jenin. In its death throes it defecated explosively, and in doing so soiled the hem of Turille’s robes.

He threw the body down the long, spiralling stairwell in disgust.

Turille was unusual for a Hierarch, ruled by fear as he was. It would not do to keep Jenin waiting and he feared Jenin almost as much as his master. A change of clothes would have to wait.

Jenin could crush Turille’s skull between his hands, had he the energy to do so. Turille’s one hope was that Jenin would not stoop so low as to dirty his hands. Perhaps the scent wafting from his robes would serve as protection.

Turille scuttled down the gilded stairway to the seer’s chambers, where he knocked tentatively.

‘Master Jenin,’ he called, barely able to hide his trembling in the flickering glow of the torches burning down the hall. ‘The Hierophant awaits your pleasure.’

The door opened after a long time. Jenin stood before Turille, a full seven feet tall in black robes. Turille’s eyes watered instantly from the smoke wafting through the doorway and hated himself for his weakness.

‘I will find my own way,’ growled Jenin.

‘As you will,’ Turille said, a hint of gratitude in his voice, and turned on his heel. He did not wish to be around Jenin any longer than necessary, just in case the crazed Hierarch decided he wanted his polished skull for a smoke bowl.

*

Jenin stretched, sniffed the air after the departing worm and wondered if he soiled himself in fear. Placing his hands on hips, Jenin bent to one side, eliciting a loud crack from his back.

His head brimmed with a future unwritten.

What he had seen could mean the end of the Hierarchy; an end to all their plans...and if they failed, the return could not happen.

Our fathers will be forever lost among the stars.

He saw billions of humans, laying waste to the land, spawning more each time they bred.

In his visions, Rythe shook and the line of kings remained unbroken. In that unthinkable future, he saw no sign of his kind at all.

*

Chapter Five

Tarn woke and stretched noisily after a blessedly dreamless night. Hard work seemed to ward off the dreams.

In many ways, he never had time to be a child. Life was too hard for childish flights of fancy, for laziness, for mourning.

Unimaginative, maybe, but Tarn understood well enough that such foolishness could mean his death. Tears would not bring his father back. More importantly, the