The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Page 2

  ‘Come a little closer.’

  The shades were pulled. Something seemed wrong to Roskel.

  As he approached, Rohir leapt from the bed and the man’s ever present sword was in his hands. Roskel’s own jewelled dagger was in his hand in a blink of an eye. It was a ridiculous thing, far too heavy in the hilt for dirty work, but the blade was sharp.

  'Rohir, what are you doing?!'

  The reply was a frightening growl.

  'Stop this madness at once!'

  The big warrior’s sword did his talking for him. Roskel nimbly jumped aside, fear speeding his feet He could see murder in a man’s eyes. If he had any doubt that his friend had gone insane it was soon dispelled. The heavy blade sliced the front of his shirt.

  Roskel feinted to the left and slashed to the right, his own dagger cutting deep. Rohir stumbled for a moment, blood flowing freely.

  Rohir’s face began to change, his features becoming longer, his hair growing, and his shoulders shrinking.

  ‘What sorcery is this?’ Roskel whispered. ‘What are you, creature?’

  The creature snarled and attacked once more, but there was no more hesitation in Roskel’s mind. He had held back while he thought his attacker was his friend, somehow gone insane, but no longer. As the impostor threw itself toward him he dropped to one knee, below a clumsy slash, and drove his dagger into the thing’s heart.

  The glamour that had surrounded the creature faded completely.

  The thing’s body grew in stature, thinning until nearly gaunt, but underneath the jerkin it wore there was strength in the long muscles. It was a creature Roskel knew only too well. He had fought them before, and despised everything they stood for.

  'Brindle's horn!' he swore. The creature was hierarch, and no man.

  They were back, and they were in the castle.

  He dashed to the door, fear lending him urgency. If there was one there could be others, and they could be wearing any face they chose.

  ‘Guards!’ he called, and as soon as he heard footsteps pounding along the corridor he ducked back into the apartment.

  ‘Rohir!’ He called. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. If the thing had taken Rohir’s countenance, surely it would also have taken his life.

  He searched in the garderobe and found Rohir bleeding but alive, sprawled before his toilet.

  Roskel wasted no time. He swiftly cut the shirt from his friend with his dagger, which he still had drawn, just as a soldier barged through, sword held at the ready.

  ‘Oh... My lord Steward, what has happened?’

  Roskel pressed the makeshift bandage against the wound in his friend's chest. Rohir groaned but otherwise did not stir.

  ‘Alert the guard, Drake, there may be more of those things in the rooms. They could look like anybody. They have powers of sorcery unheard of in all but tall tales. Tell the men to watch for anything suspicious.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘They are called Hierarchs. I do not know where they come from, but they are a deadly enemy. Capture one if you can, but do not risk yourselves. And call a priest.’

  ‘At once.’

  ‘And Drake?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Breathe a word of where you found him and I’ll post you in Pulhuth watching for Feewar ships.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Drake had a good head on his shoulders and Roskel trusted him to carry out the orders; which was a small blessing, because Roskel couldn’t lift the pressure from the grievous wound in his friend's chest. The blood was covering the floor now, and his hands were slick with it.

  Rohir coughed and opened his eyes.

  ‘Stay still, my friend. You bleed badly.’

  Rohir just nodded and sunk his head back to the flagstones.

  ‘Bloody creatures,' groaned Rohir. 'I thought we’d seen the last of them.’

  ‘It would seem not,’ said Roskel. ‘Now shut up and stay still.’

  He felt like crying. The blood was slowing and he didn’t think it was because of anything he was doing. It was more the case that most of it was already out.

  ‘Priest! I need you!’

  A man dressed in robes dashed into the room and barged.

  ‘Move aside. Let me work.’

  In an instant a soft glow encased the priest’s hand – Roskel saw he was no older than himself – and the priest laid his hand over the wound.

  ‘Will he live?’ asked Roskel.

  But the priest was silent.

  *

  Chapter Three

  The rest of the day passed in a haze for Roskel. He hated himself that it had come to this. Tarn had warned him with his dying words and he had not listened. He had been too bloody happy playing the lord and forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.

  He turned his face to the ceiling and cracked his spine over the back of the chair.

  Wexel paced in the outer rooms, the warrior unable to sit still for more than five minutes. The constant pacing was driving Roskel mad, but he recognised that Wexel needed to work off his nervousness in his own way.

  They were together, but each was bound up in his own private grief, in his own guilt.

  Roskel thumped the arm of the chair in an unexpected bout of dramatics. He wasn’t given to introspection, but to action. This galled him. He still didn’t know if his friend lived or died, or how he fared at all. The priests had barred them from entering the bedrooms where they worked. He could hear their chants from his perch, sometimes high, sometimes low, but constant. There was no break. He could discern different voices. It must be bad. There were three priests in there, and they obviously thought Rohir needed the gods’ constant attention. If they were silent for just a minute the big man would fall silent too, perhaps forever.

  There were no cries of pain. Roskel wished he would cry out, just once, just so that he could know his friend was alive.

  ‘We’ve been foolish, Roskel. We should have planned for this. Did we think we would live forever?’

  ‘Don’t talk like that, Wexel,’ the thief said. ‘He’s not going to die.’

  ‘I hope not. Gods, I hope not. But if he does…we will be two…and we have many enemies.’

  ‘Then we will make plans. But not tonight.’

  Wexel seemed deflated. ‘No. Not tonight.’

  He cocked an ear toward the door, and Roskel followed suit.

  The chanting had stopped.

  ‘God, don’t let him be…’

  The door to the bedrooms opened and the young priest stepped out. He seemed older. Sweat stood out on his brow and his wavy, dark hair was plastered to his forehead. He was pale, and his shoulders shook from the effort he had expended.

  Roskel held Wexel’s arm. It would not do to get angry with this priest. He could see the man had done all he could.

  ‘He lives,’ he said. For a moment the sadness and tiredness on the young priest's face didn’t equate with such momentous news and tears came unbidden to Roskel’s eyes. Then he finally took in the words.

  ‘He lives?’

  ‘Aye. He is weak and cannot be disturbed. Leave him to rest. He will need his sleep and much rest for perhaps a month. His lung was pierced, but with time I think he will be as good as new.’

  ‘We must see him!’

  ‘No,’ the priest said, and the firmness in his voice held command beyond his years. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, his tone softer. ‘That will be soon enough.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Wexel, and took the man’s arm. ‘Come, we will get you some ale and meat. You must be exhausted.’

  ‘I am, but I have no need of ale or meat. I will sleep, though, I think…if I may?’ ‘Good gods man,’ said Wexel gruffly. ‘You don’t need to ask our permission to sleep. We’re not kings, and priests are above the law.’

  ‘Then by your leave,’ said the priest, and left.

  Roskel collapsed back in the chair. ‘I have been lax in my obligation to Tarn, Wexel. I’ve been lording it up and that was never
what I was supposed to be doing.’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up, Roskel. We’ve all been lax. But no longer.’

  Roskel nodded. ‘Perhaps. But I have duties beyond.’

  He rose, determined despite his tiredness. It was well into the middle of the night, and worry was more exhausting than a midnight jig.

  ‘Will you alert Silvan and the hunters? We must be vigilant. Bring Silvan to the castle. There is much to be done and no time left. The old enemy returns and I have things I need to do.’

  ‘What are you talking about, friend?’

  ‘Tarn’s last wishes. The reason I am here. There is still one thing I must do. Call the old bandits together for the morning, Wexel, for I must learn to live on the road again. I have one last journey to make for the king.’

  *

  Chapter Four

  Storm clouds raced across the autumn skies as the secret council sat in session. Bandits to a man, each had seen his share of death and fought back to back along the road to the Castle of Naeth. In all but name they owned it; this one-time castle to the king, capital of the nation of Sturma.

  The time of kings had passed. Now it was time for men of stout hearts to rule a country that had been left to drift after one too many civil wars and numerous incursions by their western neighbours, the Draymar. Fate had dictated that they had no other borders, just coastline to the south and east, and the impassable mountain range that cut across the north, known to all as Thaxamalan’s Saw, the origins of the name lost to time.

  Roskel tried to keep still while Wexel paced. He wondered if it was as tiring to watch for Rohir as it was for him. He glanced at the pale warrior reclining in his sick bed and caught his eye. Rohir rolled his and managed a weak shrug. He was resigned to Wexel burning a hole in his rug with his incessant feet padding about.

  Wexel stood still for a moment, shook his head, and set off once more. Roskel waited for him to speak again. They had been over the same ground many times during the course of their discussion, and Roskel was intractable, but Wexel needed to feel he had come to the same conclusion on his own.

  Wexel halted and turned to Rohir.

  'Surely you can’t let him leave? Not now.'

  'He’s his own man, Wexel,' said Rohir weakly.

  'If he leaves we are weakened! Not now. Not with Kar snapping at our borders and thinking he can march through us with our own armies. Our coffers are drying up, what little we had left after that bastard Hurth squandered most of it. We can barely afford to pay our own soldiers’ wages. They want to go over to Kar! Our position is untenable. We are the Stewards of the Crown. We must be strong for Sturma. This is what we’re here for!'

  'Take a breath,' said Roskel, not unkindly. 'I know why we’re here. Because Tarn loved this country, even though it made him an outlaw. He knew what we would have to do, and I know what he would want me to do. He told me before he died. No matter what we say, what you say, I must leave. I am a thief, a bandit, a dandy and a liar, but I know when I am honour bound and I will not shirk my duties. I have shirked them too long. I sit and make proclamations when I would rather be swiping some duchess’ jewels-- I smile and talk politely to men who would not last five minutes in any reputable tavern. I lay with courtesans now and drink the finest Stum, but I long for a tavern whore and a mug of ale. And yet I know my duty. My wishes do not come into it. I must go. Tarn warned me of the price of failure. It is not just me that will suffer if I fail in my duty, but the whole of Sturma, for generations to come. I must go, Wexel,' he said softly. 'You must take charge of this shambles until I return.'

  'But without you we are not strong enough!'

  'You are. You can be.'

  'But I don’t know what to do!' cried Wexel, and Roskel’s heart went out to the former bandit. He felt the same way every day, and still they looked to him to lead them.

  'Look to Durmont. He will guide you.'

  Rohir nodded to Roskel, understanding passing between them.

  'Let him go, Wexel. We will trust in ourselves, and our friends. We are not alone.'

  Wexel threw himself into an armchair and stuck his legs out. 'Bloody hell. What I wouldn’t give for a band of ruffians and sword. I’d sort out this lot in five minutes.'

  Roskel laughed. 'I’m sure it seemed simpler when it was just a bunch of swarthy miscreants stealing the Thane of Naeth’s gold, but you can do this. This running the country, the council business…everything is just banditry gilt in gold.'

  'See? How can we do without you? You can talk like them. I don’t even know half the words they do.'

  Rohir coughed hard and wiped some blood from his lips with a handkerchief.

  'Then we’ll learn some new bloody words, won’t we?' he said when his coughing fit had died down.

  Roskel rose. 'It’s time we left you to rest. I will leave instructions with Durmont. I can waste no more time. I have a long journey ahead of me, and I have already dallied too long.'

  'Tell us what we must do.'

  'I will tell Durmont all I can, but know this – whatever happens, trust in Durmont, and believe not a word the Thane of Kar says. Remember he has stalwart allies in the northern Thanes, and we are surrounded by them. Try not to tug their braids for I fear they will not play nice. I leave for six months at most. If I am not back by then, by the spring thaw…you will have to find a new steward.'

  'Don’t talk like that, Farinder. You get back here. We need you. We can get by on bluster for a few months, but we’re not stupid. You run this country. We might be able to cover for a while, but we cannot replace you…'

  'If I do not return you must. The hierarchs are abroad again, and we know next to nothing about them. Believe me, I wish I did not have to leave but I do. Trust me when I say I am torn, but I must follow my heart. These were Tarn’s last wishes. It is because of him I still live. It is because of him we are free men and not dangling corpses from a gibbet.'

  'I understand,' said Rohir. Roskel clasped his hand.

  Wexel looked at the floor, but Roskel would not let him ignore him and leave in bad blood. He thrust his hand under the bandit’s nose. Reluctantly, Wexel took the proffered hand and shook.

  'Just make sure you come back. Dandy or no, we’ll miss you. You’re one of the smartest men I know…'

  'Thank you, friend. Now, come, let’s leave this man to rest.'

  They headed out the door and left Rohir pale and withered in his sick bed.

  Wexel embraced Roskel once they were outside, then pushed him away.

  'Not a word, remember?'

  'Not a peep.'

  Roskel nodded. He knew his two friends would keep his confidence. He could not take the chance of someone knowing where he went. He was a prize indeed, one of three stewards. He would have to travel by night, and he had many enemies. At least his face was not well known.

  Enemies on all sides, and he would be a man alone. The hierarchy, their mysterious warriors, attacking the land of his fathers for some alien reason. The Thane of Kar and his spies, all whom would be more than happy to see him dead.

  On top of that, he would be travelling back to Ulbridge, the city he had fled when Tarn had happened upon him and saved him from freezing or starving to death in the Fresh Woods.

  And just the small matter regaining the Crown of Kings along the way. That was child’s play.

  *

  Chapter Five

  Orvane Wense, Thane of Kar, sat and watched the man before him. His own castle was not as grand as that of Naeth, but it was tried and tested. His ancestors had fought and held the Draymar from these very walls. The castle had been bloodied, and not only by war but by intrigue and fratricide. He knew about the later only because it had been him that had murdered his brother. His brother had been older than him, and in line to succeed their father. He had only been twelve years old at the time, but he still bore the memories now he was a man looking at his sixtieth year.

  His own son would never have to go through such distress. He was an only chil
d. The Thane of Kar was proud of his son. He was a warrior born, more at home hunting Drayman renegades than behind a desk running the Thanedom, but he would learn. He was not weak, not like his own brother had been. There would be no doubts over the succession.

  If events turned out as planned he would be on the throne. The Stewards were a bad joke. The three men could not see what was right in front of them. Already the western legion’s commander had pledged his support to Wense. The man could not stomach working for the bandits that resided in the castle. The only man among them with the sense to wipe his own arse was Roskel Farinder.

  Farinder, though, was a man with a past. Wense made it his business to know his enemies and his friends alike. General pardon might have been granted, but Wense knew where bad blood lay; and power. His old adversary once, the Thane of Ulbridge was now counted a friend. True, the man could turn in an instant, but he had been wronged once by the man Sturma now called Steward and Protector of the Realm.

  It would be no stretch of the imagination to trip Farinder up.

  He turned his attention back to the man before him. His expression was implacable, but the man before him seemed to have power of his own. He was one to watch. He considered having him executed where he stood, but his proposal was interesting.

  'And what would you ask, in return for this…favour?' enquired the Thane of Kar of the man before him.

  'Should events go as planned, my lord, merely the opportunity to advise further.'

  'A position on my council?'

  'Nothing so lofty, my lord. Just a friendly ear, from time to time.'

  Wense was no fool. It was a shoddy bargain. But although the man asked little…there was something about him. He seemed too…serene. No doubt he knew the Thane of Kar by reputation. People who knew the Thane were never so calm. If he was as well placed as he said he was he would know more than just rumour. But what was the harm?

  'Very well. Tell me this news. In return, I will look favourably upon you, should you wish my favour…that is what you wish, is it not?'