The Queen of Thieves: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three Page 6

  The witch - if that's what she was - kissed the babe on the cheek and handed him back.

  'Motherhood is denied me, Rena child. Hold him dear. Trust me when I say I will do all in my power to protect him.'

  'And power indeed,' said Asram.

  The woman nodded. 'Rena, my name is Selana. These creatures...they are from beyond our shores. They want the babe. Do you understand why?'

  Rena nodded. She was mesmerised by Selana's beauty, and her allure. She had always thought that her mother, Mia, was the most beautiful woman in the world, but Selana was...stunning. Simply stunning.

  She stood in a revealing dress in the middle of a scene of carnage, and snow had begun to fall again, yet she gave no indication that the cold affected her at all. She radiated power, more than even Tulathia, the oldest and wisest witch that Rena had ever known.

  'I understand,' she said, and understood something else, too. This witch was more than mortal. She was something else, entirely beyond understanding. Remorse for killing those creatures was no issue for one such as her. They were beneath her. Everything was less than she was.

  And yet she held the babe with such a tenderness that she could not be evil. She could not.

  'Then trust in me, child,' said Selana. 'Asram,' she said, turning her attention to the huntsman, who shifted his gaze, as though afraid to look upon Selana would burn him up. Maybe it would.

  'My Lady?' he said.

  'You are to meet a man on the road north, at a wayside tavern called the Pickled Hare. From there on out you will travel only at night. He will protect you...but have a care, Asram. He is an asset against...' she indicated the burning wizard among their attackers, '...his kind.'

  'A dangerous man?'

  'The most, perhaps...but an ally. I do not trust him, but you need him. Be watchful, aye?'

  'Aye, my Lady.'

  'Then I go,' she said, and unbidden kissed both on the cheek. In a blink, she was gone. There could be no doubt that she had been there a moment before, though. The carnage remained as proof.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  'Who was that?' asked Rena, staring in awe at the place where the woman had stood not a second before. 'Selana? Is that supposed to mean something? You know her?'

  Asram shook his head. 'I know her. I didn't know she knew me - not by sight, but I'm not surprised. People say she knows everything. I confess, I'm glad to have met her, even more glad that I'm still alive.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  'She is the Queen of Thieves...rumour has it there is no more terrible a woman on the face of Sturma.'

  It was Rena's turn to shake her head. 'She has such power...yes...but she saved us...'

  'She did, but have no doubt it is for her own ends,' said Asram.

  'I do not know,' said Rena. She fell silent, mulling this over for a time, simply walking, as the three of them headed alone the track, back the way they had come.

  They walked past the bodies of the dead, leaving the scene of the slaughter behind. The villagers of Haven, the Hierarch warriors and the mage, too. Neither one of them looked at the bodies anymore as they passed. Rena concentrated on looking down, smiling at her babe, as though he were a talisman to ward against the sight of the dead. Maybe he was. He was a beautiful, bold boy. Too young to speak, but he made himself known when he wanted to. It seemed now, since the Queen of Thieves had held him, that he wanted to play.

  It suited Rena, as while she played scoop with her baby, she put one foot in front of the other. Nothing more.

  She was not a stranger to power - she had known Tulathia, and she was a fledgling witch herself - but the Queen of Thieves was something else. She was almost too large a thing to think about.

  So she resolved to put it from her mind.

  So Asram and Rena walked for a long time, their journey feeling almost aimless as they left the track for the outskirts of the forest. But Rena followed Asram's lead and never once questioned that he knew where they were going.

  Eventually, she spoke again. 'Asram?'

  'Rena?' he answered, and she smiled, unbidden.

  'How do you know her? Selana?'

  'It is a long story...I owe the Thieves' Guild. I...owed a debt. In exchange for money she bid me - through a man named Garenhill - to serve the Lord Protector.' Asram shrugged. 'I could make the story sound more interesting, I think, though the truth is I was a gambling man, and a drinking man, and a killer of men by trade.'

  She thought on this a while, walking slightly behind him, watching him scan the trees.

  'I think you're a good man, Asram,' she said, finally.

  Asram laughed. 'I'm not the best.'

  'Who is?' she said, and he turned and grinned at her.

  She looked at his strong back, his bow slung once again. He had long hair, curling at the nape of his neck. He was filthy, too, and smelled bad...

  But then whatever he was, why he was her protector, what made him willing to give his life for hers, she did not know. And, she realised, she had never, until now, thought to ask. She had just taken it as her right. Standing surrounded by men, creatures, who wished to do her and her babe harm, she finally understood that this man's protection was not her right.

  It was an honour.

  'Asram?'

  'My Lady?'

  'Rena, please,' she said.

  'Rena, then.'

  'Thank you.'

  Asram stopped and turned. He smiled, a big grin. He nodded, then turned and set forth at a steady pace yet again.

  He was rough, bearded, scarred...but it was a good smile.

  She followed Asram's lead, and together they concentrated in putting miles between themselves and the death they left behind. All the while, they headed closer to their goal.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Two days later Asram knelt at the edge of the Fresh Woods. A hard man, hiding in the long grass. It might have been that another man was scared, but not Asram. His bow string was drawn tight against his cheek. He took no chances. At the first sight of trouble he was well prepared to loose the arrow unerringly at his mark.

  He looked out over the road and the cleared ground surrounding The Pickled Hare tavern, and as his eyes moved, so did the bow.

  He searched the land for threats as the suns went down. Dow, the smaller of Rythe's two suns, had long ago sunk below the horizon. A little light still remained from Carious, the larger sun. Asram did not like to approach new ground in the dark. He did not like the dark. His eyes were not as effective, and his eyes were a better weapon than his bow. Seeing threats before they arose was half the battle that was staying alive in his line of work.

  Rena knelt behind him, quieting Tarn, who looked about ready to squall after a day in the sling being jounced and jostled across the rough terrain in the freezing cold.

  But there were no threats. Not this time.

  Asram slung his curved bow upon his back, stored his arrow, and held out an arm to Rena, which she took. Her protector pulled her up from the ground, where she knelt beside him. Together they walked up the road in the last light of the day to the tavern.

  Asram knew better than to expect a warm welcome. He was aware of just how precious his travelling companions were, and how much danger they were in. And now, bidden by the Queen of Thieves herself, they were to meet a man who, by her own admission, was a deadly ally - possibly deadly to their enemies, but also to them.

  'Come, Rena. Let's meet this man.'

  The tavern itself was a mean thing, ill-repaired and tumbledown from the outside. They did not expect much as they pushed open the door to the Pickled Hare and entered into the gloomy, firelit tavern.

  They were pleasantly surprised, though, because the tavern was far more welcoming inside than out. The fire in the hearth was stacked high with split logs, crackling and hazy with heat. Two older men, no doubt from the nearby village, nodded before the fire, well in their cups. There were a few other patrons, but not enough to give Asram
and Rena pause. People looked at them as they entered, then looked away, disinterested.

  It was, by and large, the same as taverns across the land of Sturma that Asram had frequented, but for slight differences. In the countryside, being ignored was almost a warm welcome.

  For a split second, Asram contemplated slaking his thirst, but he knew if he began drinking he wouldn't stop. If he drank, he'd drink it until it was all gone, or he could no longer move a cup to his lips. He knew himself well enough. It was how he ended up here, in a country tavern, with the would-be Queen and the last of the line of kings in his care.

  Gods, how did he go from a murdering drunken gambler to the sole hope of the nation?

  He could have laughed at it, but he need his wits, not a drink. And he didn't do that anymore, anyway. He had a purpose now.

  His sole purpose, his only reason for being alive - protecting Rena and the child.

  He heard footfalls on the stairs, and turned, hand resting easily on the hilt of his dagger. It could have been a casual stance, in anyone else.

  Not on Asram.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Shawford Crale pulled the door to his cold room closed and wiped his lips, checking up and down the hallway. There was no one in sight. The hallway was dim, the boards warped, but as he made his way toward the commons along the hall and the stairs he made very little sound, and what little sound he did make could not be heard over the murmur of the tavern's patrons in the commons. The clink of metal mugs, the crackle of the fire in the great hearth, the bubble of a slow stew in the pot over the fire. Voices, the occasional laugh, shuffling feet...

  And as he reached the last few steps, the voices died as the sound of the door opening and closing drifted to Crale's preternatural ears.

  Three new heart beats. One steady, slow. One ordinary, a smaller sound, and a slightly faster beat - a woman. And one fast and tiny and hale. A baby.

  He smiled. It was time to make some new acquaintances.

  He made an effort to make more noise coming down the last of the stairs. He did not wish to arrive unannounced. He pushed open a door made of old slats that kept the draft from the cold rooms upstairs and the delicious warmth of the commons from mixing. The door squeaked. He let it.

  With a smooth, practiced walk that exuded both confidence and danger he crossed the room, but there was a smile on his face.

  A woman stood in the centre of the commons, looking at him. The fast beating heart, the flutter of her pulse in the side of her quite beautiful neck. She was disarming. Beside her, hand on the hilt of a dagger, was her...protector? Yes, that seemed right. He of the cold steady beat. The woman had a babe in a sling about her chest, and she held herself stiff, as though in a little pain. Crale could smell blood on her, but it was dry. She had been wounded but was healing.

  And yes, there, that most tantalising of beats, that of a hale and hearty child.

  But Crale was not a slave to his hunger.

  Besides, he had just slated his thirst on a maid in his rooms in a somewhat sordid encounter. He'd been forced to drink directly from the filthy girl, and the foul taste of unwashed poor people still clung to his lips.

  Still, he thought, a meal on the hoof, so to speak. He mustn't grumble.

  He would be leaving soon, long before the body was discovered.

  But to his charges. His mind ticked as he approached, watching the sole threat, the man with the cold steady heart and his hand on his dagger.

  Crale kept his voice low as he approached.

  'Rena...and...babe...and you must be the man Asram Fell. My name is Shawford Crale, and I think it is time we were leaving...'

  'We've travelled a long road, Crale,' said Asram gruffly. 'The babe and the lady need rest and respite and a bite to eat. We can travel when we have eaten.'

  Shawford Crale shook his head, smiling but his eyes watching the people assembled.

  'People will already be talking. I took the liberty of ordering provisions. Let us not start out on bad footing, Asram Fell. We can rest up a while on the road, but time grows short...a mutual friend of ours assures me of that...'

  'The Lady?'

  'Careful, Rena...the patrons are not deaf and her name is not to be spoken lightly, for waves can be made easily in the backwaters like this. Words can travel fast on such waves.'

  'You speak pretty,' said Asram, as though it was an insult. Crale did not take it as such.

  'Thank you.'

  Crale walked slowly to the bar - he didn't do anything fast unless he had to - and spoke for a few moments with a grizzled and bearded old barkeep...perhaps the proprietor of the Pickled Hare. The old barkeep nodded and disappeared for a second. Crale did not turn back to reassure or otherwise acknowledge Asram and Rena. They could do little but wait.

  Shortly, the old man returned with a sack. Crale laid what looked to be a gold piece upon the counter.

  'Now, shall we?' he said upon his return. Asram noted that the man had a second sack tied across his back. He travelled light, it seemed.

  Crale opened the door before them and headed out into the night.

  They had no choice but to follow him. He waited for them, ever the gentleman, and with a smile that Rena did not quite like, ushered them forward into the gloom.

  Pretty, thought Crale of Rena, looking at her back in the fading light of the tavern as they left it behind.

  A lot prettier than the maid.

  *

  Part III.

  The Song of Swords (1)

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ruan the Blade Singer, The Skald, long ago crossed the Culthorn mountains into his homeland. The whole of the Draymar nation lay before him. Chill with winter, but warm compared to Sturma and the snows that Ruan had left behind. At first, coming down from the mountains, his land was lush, trees were plentiful and the plains were grassy. As he travelled further inland, though, toward the heart of his nation, the trees grew sparse, the grass turned brown, and the cold suns beat down on his back despite the chill in the air. Little rain fell on this side of the mountains. Further to the west, on the steppes where the Draymar bred their horses, rain was common and the land was verdant. Yet out on the plains it was dry and harsh and barren. It was a hard land.

  Ruan ate only what he could forage or kill on the journey west to find his people, the remains of his kind - the Blade Singers. He was lean at the beginning of his journey, running to gaunt now. His teeth ached from chewing tough meat and frozen roots and tubers. Forage was hard, out on the plains. Ruan did not use a bow, either, so hunting was an exercise in futility unless prey wandered close enough for him to skewer with his sword.

  Minstrel, too, had lost weight, but she had gained muscle. She bore the many miles well. Water and grass just out of the mountains had been plentiful. Now, Minstrel watered at the few streams that Ruan knew off, and fed on the scrawny grasses that grew along the banks. If it was good enough for Drayman horses, it was fine for Minstrel, Ruan figured.

  Though Minstrel did not seem overly impressed, having been coddled by Roskel, grain fed and watered often.

  Ruan knew horses well, though. Minstrel was in the best shape of her life.

  Ruan slowed the mare to a trot, careful as they negotiated a narrow ravine, a mere trickle of water running along the bottom of the dry bed. He wasn't worried about meeting marauders - his curved blade and his hair set him apart from the Draymen as a Blade Singer. No one but other Singers would know his shame. He was in little danger. On the way across the mountains, though, he had avoided his people. The border patrols were easy enough to avoid for a man that knew the trails.

  Ruan wondered again at his folly, seeking out the other Blade Singers, an outcast asking for aid for their ancient foes, the Sturmen.

  Folly, stupidity...hubris. Hubris in himself and perhaps misplaced pride in the abilities of his people against an army of mages and fiercely talented warriors.

  But his course was set. Ruan believed in fate, in a preordai
ned life. He believed utterly that his life was leading to this moment.

  He guided his horse, Minstrel, toward it.

  There was no snow this far into the heartlands, and the ground was dry and hard with the biting cold. Minstrel took it steady up the gradual incline from the ravine toward the plains. When she reached the plains again, and sure footing, Ruan coaxed the mare into a gentle gallop, onward, toward his people and death or glory.

  He let Minstrel have her head, then, his heart set on his course.

  Death or glory, he thought...but it was his last thought that did not come with pain for a long time.

  In one moment he was revelling in the feeling of the freezing wind burning his cheeks, the next he was staring at the sky with Minstrel grazing happily nearby and three faces looking down upon him. He was suddenly aware that the three, two men and a woman, wore curved long swords like his. His head pounded and he felt blood leaking from his scalp. The men and the woman looked familiar...hair like his, swords like his...

  He tried to think, tried hard, but the pain in his head made his thoughts swim away.

  He noted an absence of weight at his hip. His sword...gone...stripped away from him.

  Stand and fight, he thought. But then on the tail of that thought, and you'll die...

  These were no mere brigands that he could deal with while his head swam and he was disarmed.

  He had found the Blade Singers.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Roskel Farinder was not a warrior. He knew this in his heart. It mattered little to him that he could not swing a sword well, because he was confident in his other talents.

  No, he would never be a warrior of great renown. He had neither the build, the skills, nor the look.

  Yet he needed to be seen to be one.