The Queen of Thieves: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three Read online

  'Then, Durmont...send word. The Lord Protector of the Sturma calls the Thanes to arms. We muster north, winter or no. I feel...as do we all...that the enemy is coming. What else the lights could mean but great magic, I do not know.'

  Durmont bowed with a grim expression on his face. 'It saddens me, but it will be as you will. And Gods help us, for we go to war.'

  Durmont turned on his heel and left the room. Roskel watched him as he went, his walk proud and upright though he could see the pain it caused the man. Durmont closed the doors to the throne room behind him, shutting out most of the light.

  Roskel, his senses attuned like no other in the room, then smelled something amiss before he heard or saw anything.

  There could only be one person whose smell would give him away...indiscernable to the others, perhaps, but Roskel paid attention to everything he could and still counted himself among the living because of it.

  'Filcher,' he said, with a tired sigh.

  A small, thin boy emerged from the shadows with a sheepish grin. He was missing a tooth or two, even at his age. Roskel had yet to determine how old the child was - he seemed to small, too wiry, to be fourteen, as the lad claimed. Roskel suspected despite the boy's slim years that he'd seen a thing or two, and lived beyond the span of years a child of his station could reasonably expect. Filcher was a boy born to survive...and an emissary of the most powerful woman on Sturma for a reason.

  'You always catch me out, Lord Protector.'

  'Filcher,' Roskel said to the child thief. 'Get word to Queen Selana. I need to see her.'

  'You're welcome anytime, my Lord. You know that.'

  'I also know at what price the Queen's favours. No, I'd rather arrive announced, if it's all the same to you, Filcher. And give the guard on the door his purse back on your way out.' Rohir laughed. 'Don't know how you do it, Filcher,' he said to the grubby child.

  'Sneaky bastard, my Lord,' said Filcher with a shrug. 'It's a talent.'

  'And a fine one. Now, go, and bring me word of the Queen. I have need of her.'

  'As you will,' said Filcher, and then he was gone.

  'Gods help you, Roskel,' said Rohir, 'You're messing with the Queen of Thieves. You're playing a dangerous game.'

  'Aye,' said Wexel. 'And apt to get burned.'

  'But,' said Roskel with more bravado than he felt, 'Such a sweet fire.'

  They parted ways, leaving Roskel alone in the throne room once more, looking, as he had been, sadly at the throne. He wished he could take council with his old friend. Rohir and Wexel were great friends and allies, but he could not talk to them about...women. About the Queen. He could sorely use council.

  'But I'm not going to get it, am I?' he said to the throne with a deep sigh.

  Sometimes it was hard being at the top. Though it seemed like everyone was beneath you, in reality there was no one to catch you should you fall.

  *

  Chapter Four

  A great fire burned beyond Thaxamalan's Saw, a preternatural fire of coruscating energies, swirling with power unheard of in the frozen wastelands to the north of Sturma. Before that energy no mortal could stand without being driven insane by the depth of fury and rage it took to create the shifting mass.

  Though no true fire, with no purity at its heart, it had burned for one whole month.

  Slowly, its light began to dim. The edges of the strange fire caved in on themselves. The rent in the frozen lands was a portal, unlike anything the world of Rythe had ever seen. Its creation had taken the deaths of over a thousand human souls, sacrifices to the power needed to hold open such a huge mass, and for so long.

  For the month the portal remained open it was in constant use...through it came the wizards of the Hierarchy and the might of the Hierarchy's army - the Protectorate.

  The Hierarchs wore no armour, no protection against the freezing land but cowled robes. Their magic, fuelled by pain and hatred and rage kept them warm, burning from the inside.

  The Protocrats wore fine armour, furred boots and cloaks, and felt the cold keenly after coming from their temperate lands of Lianthre, across the wide oceans of Rythe. Not one soldier shivered or complained, though. All bore the cold without the slightest murmur of dissent. They were born into the warrior class, trained from a young age. Almost like dogs on a master's leash, the Protocrats would fight wherever their Hierarch masters pointed.

  Protocrats and Hierarchs alike stood in ranks before the shifting, shrinking portal, waiting at attention. Campfires burned between meticulously arranged tents. Armour was silent, the force arrayed standing perfectly still. They waited patiently. They had waited, some of the first, in the freezing snows, bedding down on ice, for a month. Such a feat took time - to transport such a large army across the wide expanse of Rythe's seas in a mere month - a journey that would have taken many months by sea.

  The portal exploded into myriad lights and then it was gone. In the place where the portal had burned bright stood the Hierophant. The Hierophant - leader of the Hierarchy. Leader, and perhaps owner, of the vast army of Protocrats. Alien and powerful beyond mortal understanding, old, wise, and evil to the core.

  The Hierophant looked upon his great army without any semblance of pleasure or pride on his drawn face. His kind had been at war with Sturma now for nearly three years, though Sturma had been unaware, mostly. A subtle war, waged by spies and mages. But no longer.

  The Hierophant spared no thought for the few that had fallen to bring this culmination to pass. He did not think of Savan Retrice, his only child, burning brightly for eternity for his failures. He spared no compassion for his son, nor the other spies he had sent forth in a bid to control this land and kill the line of kings.

  Yet, they had all failed. And now it was left to him, and the might he could bring to bear on the country.

  If he could not subdue this barbarian nation, he would wipe it out.

  A month in the making, three years of waiting, and no inspiring speeches, or even a glance to the greatest army of an age.

  Without preamble or ceremony, the Hierophant beckoned the leader of the Protocrats before him.

  'March,' he said.

  And the might of the Hierarch's armies turned to the south.

  *

  Chapter Five

  Moisture dripped from the walls of the dark tunnels deep beneath the earth. The Queen's domain...her lair...was under the city of Naeth. It was a fitting place to the Queen of Thieves to make her home. The maze of tunnels were like filaments of a silken web, luring her prey in to their deaths.

  Roskel was the fly.

  Any time he met Selana he knew she held his life in her hands. It did not matter how powerful he was - he had an idea that the whole of the Sturman armies would have a hard time taking down the Queen of Thieves in her own domain. It was a deadly place, and she would have been a deadly foe. And yet, here he was, in her underworld again, counting her an ally...and more? He could not resist...he was powerless. Not quite under her sway, but close. Too close, he knew.

  His journey took many turns, his shaven head breaking many spider's webs along the way, but the journey to the Queen's rooms was like a habit, now, like the thoughts he had of the Queen - a habit he could not break. He did not need to see her quite so often. He was a powerful man in his own right. But he ran to her each time she called. Drawn closer to the spider, the witch, the...what was she? How old was she?

  How dangerous?

  He had no doubt she could reach out and have any life taken should she so wish. The Thieves' Covenant of Naeth were hers to command, perhaps The Thieves' Covenants of every city in Sturma. Roskel knew her web spread wide and far.

  She could have him killed anytime she wanted. Perhaps that was part of the allure. Roskel, who had once been a dandy and a philanderer, maker of cuckolds and lover of the finery of a courtesan's silken purse. Now, in the thrall of the Queen's beauty, he was nearly powerless.

  But no longer. He would not answer Filcher's summons to the Lady any more. Enou
gh was enough...at least this time, this call, had been at his own behest.

  Hadn't it?

  He opened his eyes, suddenly aware again of his surroundings.

  'Fool,' he told himself, for he stood before the Queen's chambers as though he had walked the dark path to her door in a dream. Of course she'd wanted him to come...like he could have invited himself...else why had Filcher been there? By chance?

  'Fool,' he said again. But he knocked, just the same. It wouldn't do to enter the Lady's chambers and interrupt her business. That kind of familiarity could cost a man his life.

  *

  Chapter Six

  Roskel pushed open the door to the Lady's chambers as he was bid enter. The door moved smoothly though his legs almost betrayed him as he walked in.

  Hold it together, Roskel, he chided himself. You're the Lord Protector of Sturma, Brindle damn it.

  But he was in her thrall, and denying it didn't make it any less so.

  'Thief King,' said the most stunning woman the Roskel had ever laid eyes upon. She lounged across a wide bed, her skirts hitched to show just enough of her long, dark legs to make Roskel gawp and stutter like a thirteen-year old virgin on his first outing to a brothel.

  'Selana,' he finally managed. 'You call, and I come running. I am undone, by the way. I'd appreciate it if you would not endeavour to look quite so...ah...'

  'Tongue tied yet again? You play me, Roskel, like no other man would dare. You fascinate me. Still you fight it.'

  'Fight it?'

  'You know what I speak of. Don't bandy words with me, wordsmith.'

  Selana shifted on the bed and gazed into Roskel's eyes. Roskel bent a knee and bowed his head. At the sight of her he was a blathering fool, and danger lurked in every move of her perfect frame. He had seen how fast she could move. He was not a fool.

  She moved too fast to be purely mortal.

  'What news, my Lady?' asked Roskel, keeping his eyes averted.

  'I thought you'd never ask,' said Selana with a smirk that Roskel caught from the corner of his eye.

  'You summoned me, my Queen.'

  This time he could not miss her grin.

  'I seem to recall you asked Filcher to convey to me your wish for a meeting...'

  'I'm a fool for you, my Queen, but not a fool. Filcher came because you wanted a meeting, no?'

  Damn it. My Queen? What the hell was he getting himself into?

  Same thing he did every time he saw her. Deep water, then deeper water.

  'Ha, smooth, Roskel. Have I told you how dashing I find your new look?'

  'Queen, please...'

  'I'm toying with you.'

  'And then some,' said Roskel. He risked looking up. Her smile was something to behold indeed.

  'News?' he said again.

  'Rena...your man has her.'

  'And?'

  'And the child, too,' she said.

  'Can't you bring her straight here?'

  'You think I have such power?'

  'I don't doubt it.'

  The Queen rose so that she was sitting upon the bed. Roskel's heart thudded in his chest. If she came any closer...would he run? Would he give in?

  But she granted him a small reprieve with a mischievous grin on her lips, like she knew exactly what he was thinking. She did not move further.

  'You'd be wrong, Roskel. Witch I may be, but I have not the knack for such things. A wizard, a mage, you would need for such a feat. To my next point...'

  'The lights in the northern skies?' said Roskel. 'They are coming, then?'

  'They are here,' she said, and Roskel's ardour was suddenly gone. He blanched. The simple sentence told him everything he needed to know.

  They were on these shores, and in force.

  'How many? Can our force hold them back?'

  'Legion,' she said.

  'Can we stand, though?'

  'I do not know, Thief King. Yet there is hope. There is always hope, is there not?'

  'Sneaky bastard, Lady, I find hope to be.'

  She laughed, and he was grateful for it.

  'Yes, Roskel, I suppose it is. Can I stroke your head?' she added.

  'Lady! Please...'

  Like a thirteen-year old virgin. He put his hand to his shaven head defensively.

  She laughed again. 'The Skald rides forth,' she said. 'The Protectorate and the Hierarchy come by sea and land. You have allies. Never forget that, Roskel. You are not alone. Never alone. And I will not abandon you. Never that.

  'But Rena, she comes. My kind come, too. We will make magic unlike anything these shore have seen in a millennia. You will muster your force in the east and meet them from the sea. The north is not your problem.'

  Roskel wasn't sure who he feared most - the hard Queen, or the playful. Either was as dangerous as the other.

  'The north will be unguarded...'

  'It will not.'

  'You?'

  She laughed again, and Roskel's heart could not help but beat faster.

  'No, the Skald and his kind.'

  'What? The Draymen on our shores?'

  'Foolish man. Pride has no place in war. But no. Not the Draymar. The Bladesingers. Where you could not stand, they may have a chance. They have a magic of their own.'

  'Ruan calls his brothers? I thought he was an outcast.'

  'He is,' she said. Finally, Roskel risked a look at the Queen. Queen of the Thieves' Covenant. A witch of power. A being unlike any other he knew. Dangerous, beautiful, and, he realised, someone he could trust...as long as their interests were the same.

  What her real interest was, he had no idea.

  He nodded, meeting her eyes and nearly losing himself for a moment.

  'My Queen,' he said again, and he did not know why, but it felt...good. He held onto the image of her smile as he travelled the dark corridors back to the castle. That, and a healthy dose of caution.

  But he was fast reaching the point where he would throw caution to the wind. He did not know yet whether he would be glad of it.

  *

  Chapter Seven

  He really is quite handsome, thought the Queen, as she watched Roskel Farinder turn and leave. He held himself well - like he'd become accustomed to walking like a warrior. He was not, and never would be, for all that he had managed to slay the Thane of Kar, Orvane Wense, in open battle. None of that mattered. She did not need a warrior. What she truly needed was a man of honour, a man stout of heart, and firm in his resolve.

  She thought that Roskel Farinder could be that man. Maybe once, no, but now? He'd learned much in gaol. Found out more about himself and his love of the country than many men knew in their lifetime. Just as she'd had high hopes for the Outlaw King, she had her sights set on a man who could save the country.

  He had a fine behind, too, she thought, as he closed the door behind him.

  She rose from the bed, her dress rustling as it fell down to cover her legs, and called out, softly. Sound travelled along the tunnels. Garenhill, her only true confident, came from an adjoining room.

  'You heard?' she said.

  'I heard, my Lady,' said Garenhill. His long moustaches wobbled as he spoke. 'You play a dangerous game, I think. He is a man who should not be underestimated. Remember he took down a Thanes' army. He is the man that survived Shawford's grasp. You want my advice?'

  'No,' said the Queen.

  'Very well,' said Garenhill, continuing as though his Queen had not spoken, 'I think you should be true to him. Set out right, as it were. Enough of these games.'

  'But, Garenhill, games are all I have.'

  'I have known you long, my Lady, and I think that is not quite true.'

  She laughed. Few could speak as openly as Garenhill without incurring her wrath.

  'I do like him. There is something about him...I can't quite put my finger on it...'

  'You like him because he is afraid of you, and yet fascinated...and I think you are a little afraid of him, too, and yes, fascinated.'

  'I don't know
what you mean,' she said.

  'I think you do,' said Garenhill. He stroked his long moustaches and turned on his heel to go, but then turned back to face the Queen on a whim, understanding on his face, and a small smile.

  'Are you leaving?' he said.

  'I am,' she said softly, wistfully. 'I must pay a visit to an old friend.'

  Garenhill nodded. 'Have a care, Lady. There are not many in this world that could cause you harm. Shawford is one such...man...'

  'I shall be careful, Garenhill,' she said through a dangerous smile. 'Oh, I will be careful indeed.'

  Garenhill closed the door behind him, leaving his Queen to her journey.

  The Queen played false in many ways, but she wondered about Garenhill's advice.

  Yes, she thought, yes, I am fascinated by the mortal Roskel. Fascinated?

  Maybe something more.

  She thought about this, and about lying to the Thief King, and not for the first time.

  She could have rescued him from the Thane of Ulbridge's gaol at any time she'd wished, either herself, or had someone do it for her. It would not have been such a difficult task. But she had left him, because he needed to understand. And to understand justice he had to experience injustice for himself.

  She would lie to him again, before this war was through. Win or lose, yes. She had no choice but to lie to him.

  So she sent him to the coast, to meet the force there...so many men would meet their deaths...but a man might emerge the other side. A man who could see this through to the end. The true end of things, to save Rythe, not just Sturma.

  To be by her side when the Sun Destroyers returned.

  But, Selana, you get ahead of yourself.

  She shook her head to clear such thoughts. Maybe she could have travelled south to journey with the girl Rena and her man Asram Fell, but to what end? Asram was more than capable, and the girl was no fool, either, and a witch.

  Rena, too, had her own journey to make, and sometimes a journey was not about the miles covered.

  No, her time was too important to babysit, no matter the import of the girl and her child.