The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Page 6

  He dismounted as he reached the centre of the hamlet, and sighed with great relief as he sploshed along the river road to a sign at the end of the hamlet. In the dim light he had to strain, but it seemed to read ‘Year’s End’.

  He walked round to the back and found a single stable, with no stable hand. He stripped and wiped down the mare with a handful of straw and put some hay on the ground for her. He was dog tired, from having no sleep and his joints and muscles seemed to scream with the fugue, a growing chill that would take a good fire and a warm meal to chase away. No matter how tired a man was, though, if he was wise he would see to his horse first.

  He left Minstrel, who seemed happy enough to be out of the rain, and headed to the front door of the inn.

  It was a one-story affair, shuttered windows and wooden tiles, well-weathered, upon the roof. He hoped it was safe. He was almost ready to drop.

  He pushed the door open and entered, having to duck to avoid knocking himself out on the low door.

  There was only the proprietor in the place, his feet up in front of a small fire. He jumped up as the door closed. Roskel fired a sneeze and held up a hand in greeting.

  'Please tell me you have a room to spare.'

  The man was quite old but showed a surprising turn of speed as he stood and came to guide Roskel to the fire.

  'Come, come by the warmth! You must be freezing.'

  He smiled, showing a gap or two where teeth should have been. 'What are you doing out in this? Damn fool bard.'

  'Don’t mind me,' said Roskel, easing himself gratefully into a chair by the fire. Water was already pooling around his feet on the flagstones.

  'And don’t you mind me. What am I thinking? Berating a paying customer…you are a paying customer, aren’t you?' he added warily.

  Roskel laughed. He felt he could manage that.

  'Yes, I am. And I’ll pay well for a warm meal and a spot of chait, if you have the makings of it.'

  'Best there you’ll ever taste!' the keeper said, his manner suddenly perking up at the mention of money. 'There, you just rest your bones and I’ll set about feeding you. I’ve two rooms and you can take your pick. It’s not often I see a traveller these days, what with the troubles and all, but you’re welcome to what I’ve got.'

  The man bustled about, stripping Roskel’s wet cloak and hanging it over a chair in front of the fire. Thankfully, he did not try to strip anything else. His good graces obviously only extended so far, thought Roskel with a grin.

  The thief set about making himself comfortable. It was fortuitous indeed to find an inn this far off the beaten track. The fire crackled with welcoming warmth and he felt some of the numbness begin to leave his muscles. Troublingly, as he breathed there seemed to be some fluid shifting in his chest. He coughed and spat phlegm into the fire.

  Perhaps his luck hadn’t held after all.

  Roskel tried to rub some life back into his arms. He couldn’t wait to dry his clothes and crawl into a bed. If he could think of a way to do it, he’d take a burning log from the fire and sleep on that.

  The proprietor came back with a cauldron full of some kind of stew. No doubt a couple of days old, but beggars and itinerant thieves couldn’t be choosers.

  'Yesterdays doings, I’m afraid, but good enough. I’ll join you, if you’ve a mind to talk,' said the man, setting the cauldron above the burning logs to heat.

  'I’ve a mind. I’d hear about these parts. It’s been some time since I’ve been this way and I seemed to have got turned around a few days back.'

  'I can give you directions to most places round these parts. Can’t guarantee what’d be safe anymore. Hold on, I’ll just get the milk.'

  Roskel wondered what the man thought safe. There had always been dangers a plenty for a traveller in Sturma’s wild lands-- in its forests with their dark depths hiding untold dangers for the unwary, its crumbling relics with their guardians. The barren mountains to the west, holding back the Drayman raiders, the unknown monsters of the sea…no, he thought the man meant some new threat.

  Just perfect. Something else to deal with. Was nothing ever easy?

  This journey was turning into a nightmare. Ghosts, storms, getting lost…what else could it throw his way?

  The landlord returned and placed two cups on a table to hand and two bowls beside the fire to warm. He mumbled something Roskel didn’t catch and headed back to the kitchen.

  This better be a bloody feast, thought Roskel, for all the effort the man was going to.

  Finally, a pot full of chait set to warm before the fire, the man sat with a comfortable sigh and pulled out a pipe.

  Once he had a fair head of smoke around him, Roskel broke the easy silence.

  'So, am I still north of the Fresh Woods?'

  'Aye. Not too far north. Far enough that the troubles reach our ears but not our hearths.'

  'What troubles do you speak of?'

  'It is strange, in truth. I do not know what to believe. Some tales grow in the telling, but I’ll set you on with what I know, if you’re heading south…?'

  'I am. I aim to skirt the forest though.'

  'Wise. Well,' he said, settling into his pipe, 'There’s been odd doings further south. Beasts long since forgotten since men settled this area are come to do mischief along the borders. They come out of the forest at night. There’s been maulings and not a few deaths. Some folk have disappeared. I’d chance a guess and say they’ve been eaten…but that’s just a guess, mind. Ah, look at me, I’m not much of a storyteller. I’m sure you could spin it into a tale to frighten a miner.'

  'No, go on. I’m interested. What do you think is causing the animals to attack? I take it these are just ordinary creatures?'

  'From what I hear they’re ten feet tall, bears and big cats, things from darkest nightmare, but that’s just what I hear and I don’t set much store by things. If you ask me, its animals that have been put out since the logging began. Probably disturbed their homes or some such.'

  'New road?'

  'Aye, to Haven.'

  The man must have seen surprise on Roskel’s face.

  'You know it?'

  'Yes. I have been there, once. Some time ago. So it’s still there?'

  A small indiscretion, thought Roskel. He should not have mentioned knowing the bandit’s village. But too late now.

  The man seemed to think for a moment.

  'Probably different to when you knew it. It’s grown some in the last year or so. Been trade between them and the outlying regions. Thriving, some might say. Still, what do I know? We’re far removed from others out here. What I do know is that they’re putting a new road down, from Juxerton to Haven, and since they began, people have been killed by beasts no man has seen for ten, twenty years. As far back as I can remember no bear has come from the forests to the lands of men. No, there’s something amiss there, but I’m not a man given to imagination. I’ll leave the storytelling to you. But just a word of warning – it’s not safe close to the forest no more.'

  He rose and filled the bowls with bubbling stew and the cups with warm chait. Roskel tried his and found it was to his liking.

  What evils were besetting Haven? Hard settlement that it was, he still had some fond memories of the place. But such concerns were far removed from him.

  He and the landlord talked for a while longer while Roskel filled his belly. Then the man heaved himself out of his chair at Roskel’s request and showed the thief to his room. There was a bed, and the rain outside drummed heavily on the roof, but it was all in good repair.

  He thanked the man, closed the door and stripped gratefully, then passed them round the door to the landlord. He didn’t like not having his clothes to hand, but they needed drying and they would dry fastest by the fire.

  Then, too tired and full of the aches of his trails over the last day, he sank into cold sheets and fell asleep.

  *

  Chapter Sixteen

  The suns rose the following morning. The skies were clear
and crisp, the greenery lush and vivid after the storm. The small hamlet of Winslow-by-the-Brook came out of its hibernation and set about the business of small hamlets everywhere. The old widow Lowboy came out early and tried to salvage her herbs. The only child in Winslow, a girl by the name of Frear, ran out to play in the puddles along the dirt road, splashing herself with mud, much to the later consternation of her mother. The only two farmers for six miles headed into the field to survey the damage to their dry stone walls, borders between their farms long disputed.

  The hamlet never bustled, but there was a quiet industry about the place.

  Inside the inn, the proprietor, Sam Durnborn, knocked quietly on his only guest’s door. When there was no answer he headed in and set his guest’s clothes out on a foot stool, freshly folded and nicely dried. There was still a lingering heat in the garments from the overnight fire.

  Roskel did not stir.

  'Good morning, sir,' the keeper said pointedly. He wanted to be paid. He’d lay on a breakfast, but it wasn’t his habit to let his customers stay in bed all day, not before they’d paid up good and proper.

  His only reply was a muffled one.

  'Breakfast is in an hour,' he said, just in case his point hadn’t got across.

  Roskel opened a bleary eye and looked at him.

  'I believe I might stay a day or two longer,' the thief said, smacking the roof of his mouth to get some juices flowing. He tried to sit up but found he couldn’t. His chest was agony, and his limbs were burning. He tried to feel his own forehead but it was one thing to feel poorly, another to tell if you have a fever or not. In truth, he did feel shivery, and if he was not sick then why was his body such a mess of aches and pains?

  'I think I have a chill. I ache all over.'

  The landlord tried to think of a polite way to broach the subject of payment for a further two days, and how to let this travelling bard know that there were no customers for him to play for his stay, it was silver or nothing.

  He was not a subtle man, however.

  'You can’t play for your supper, my friend. I’ll have to see some coin.'

  Roskel groaned and sat up fully, which set off a coughing fit. He winced in pain as he coughed up enough phlegm to drown in, then walked gingerly over to the window which he opened, then spat out of. He had some manners, that one, thought the landlord.

  Roskel pulled his pouch from under the bed and rummaged for a moment, shivering even though the morning was warm for the time of year.

  'I don’t know how sick I am yet, it’s a bit too early to tell. But I feel as though I’ve been beaten with a large stick. How much for three further days? I’ll pay in advance.' The effort of talking was making his head swim.

  The landlord perked up at the mention of three days in advance. It was enough to see him through the cold winter months when none but traders and a few hardy souls too stupid to winter in the warm chanced by.

  'Three silver pieces. Meals are extra, mind. A penny a drink, a groat for stew. I don’t cook to order. You eat when I eat. I’m not cooking twice.'

  Roskel thought it was a reasonable rate for a quiet bed and food. He had the sense he’d be laying up a few days.

  'And you’ll look after the horse?'

  'Five pennies a day for the horse. We’ve grain and hay.'

  'Then you have a deal. One gold for the inconvenience, five silver for three days and food for my horse and I. Sound fair?'

  Roskel took some pleasure in watching the man try to avoid rubbing his hands together in glee. He imagined he’d just offered to pay the man enough to winter in some style.

  'It has been a pleasure doing business with you.'

  Roskel nodded and shook hands with the man, exchanging money. The man’s jowls wobbled happily as he counted out the coins.

  'Now, let me get some rest,' said Roskel, and sank back into the sheets, still warm.

  'Fine. Breakfast is in an hour, still,' said the proprietor.

  'If you’re going to act like my father, at least may I have your name? I can’t very well call you proprietor for the next few days?'

  'Sam Durnborn’s the name, sir. You rest easy. For all the coin you’ve paid me I’ll bring you your porridge in bed.'

  'At last,' said Roskel with gentle sarcasm, 'what I was angling for all along.'

  Sam just shook his head and closed the door behind him. Bards were funny these days. Thought they were lords. Back in his day bards had worked for a living, not laid about eating porridge in bed like they were kings.

  Still, for a gold and five silver he’d polish the man’s damn boots.

  *

  Chapter Seventeen

  The air shimmered in the simple room in the poor quarter, and with a wave of his hand Savan Retrice, agent of the hierarchy, once spymaster to the Thane of Naeth, and newfound friend to the Thane of Kar, made the vision before his glowing red eyes vanish.

  He was troubled. For days now he had failed to contact his subordinate. The Thane of Kar was getting restless for news, and he could only stall for so long. He hated to admit it to himself, but his contact was gone. He had not been killed – at least in no normal manner – for the magics he used were attuned to his body. If he were dead, the spell would hone in upon his corpse and his fate would be known.

  No, it was as if he had ceased to exist. He remembered the strange wavering, the insubstantiality the last time he had succeeded in casting the spell. This was some strange new magic, unknown to him. For the tracker to disappear so perfectly there must be magic in play.

  It was something his superior would wish to know about. But he was loath to contact him, because the failure of the tracker reflected badly on him.

  Still, without further assistance he could not get into Orvane Wense’s good graces, and he needed to be well placed for the hierarchy’s plans to come to fruition. He knew where the man was going, and he had a good idea as to why, but he needed to keep track of the Lord Protector. The unknown was to be feared. The hierarchy horded knowledge for knowledge was power, and here was the greatest future threat to his superior’s plans since the last king had been killed.

  That line was clouded and could no longer be followed by prognostication – and yet at the moment of the king’s death the line had not been cut, but had shattered into a thousand shards. They could not follow the king line’s destiny, but they knew should it resurface there would be a reckoning for their kind.

  No, the best they could do now was ensure that the nation of Sturma, fated to be their enemy come the return, would crumble long before that time, so that should a king rise to take the crown again there would be no nation for him to rule.

  In order to do that, they needed to be able to manoeuvre the Thanes. They had already tried the most powerful of Thanes, Redalane and Hurth, and while Hurth had been successfully manipulated, ultimately all that had been left was confusion. There was some power or powers opposing their plans, as reticent to reveal itself as they were themselves.

  His master would not be pleased at this turn of events. It was becoming a habit; these troublesome humans opposing them and winning despite the odds and the power facing them. It was a habit that he didn’t have the luxury of getting into. He had the sense to realise that if he failed to find Roskel Farinder that his tenure on Sturma would be short.

  Savan Retrice prostrated himself upon the floor and called up the vision.

  He was a hierarch. He had no fear. But he was not stupid. As he called upon his master, his voice shook.

  'My lord Hierophant…I have ill news,' he said, his face turned to the floorboards.

  'Speak, Savan, and know my will,' said the voice of the Hierophant. He did not sound pleased.

  *

  Chapter Eighteen

  Roskel sank toward insensibility for a time, a day after arriving at Year’s End. He woke himself sometimes from a heavy, fevered sleep with his own mumblings. Durnborn watched from the door, concern on his face. The man had a fierce fever and threw the covers from h
imself even though the day was chilly. Durnborn was loath to do so, but he entered the room and pulled up the covers high.

  'The hierarchy are here!' shouted Roskel suddenly, grasping the man’s wrist; much to the landlord’s surprise. He gently pried the bard’s fingers free and tucked his unresisting hand under the sheets. Then he fetched an extra blanket from a shelf and laid that over the man, too.

  What the bloody hell was a hierarchy? His curiosity was tugging at him, but to listen to a man in a fever just wasn’t right. A man’s innermost thoughts could come out when he knew nothing about it. It wasn’t meant for anyone else’s ears. It would be just as bad as sharing another man’s dreams. Some things were meant to remain private.

  He closed the door and left the bard tossing and turning beneath the sheets.

  The landlord went back in at dusk with a drink. His guest was sleeping deeply, but would not stir beyond a mumble. He tipped a cup against the man’s chapped lips and forced him to take some drink. He wasn’t getting paid extra for the service as a nurse maid, but he didn’t want a guest dying in his inn.

  Night came, and he checked in once more, but the bard was asleep, turning fitfully on the bed. He closed the door quietly. After blowing out the candles around the common room and putting the guard in front of the embers in the fire, he went to bed himself.

  He lay awake till the early hours of the morning. His guest was sickening. If the man wasn’t well, come the morning, he feared he would be forced to do something about it.

  He turned onto his side and fell to sleep with a concerned frown on his face.

  *

  Chapter Nineteen

  Morning came and Roskel was no better. The landlord, Durnborn, watched from the door. He had not eaten for longer than a day now, and with whatever fever ailed him, that was not good. The man needed to eat, but he had no idea how to get him to take his food. He had tried ladling some thin porridge into the bard’s mouth, but it all just dribbled out again.