The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two

by Craig R. Saunders

  The man in the clearing bowed his head in shame. 'Your pardon, my lord.'

  'Granted. Now, do not fail me. The energies taken to bring you here were substantial and I do not wish to waste effort on a replacement. Know your duty, serve the Hierophant in all things, and you may one day be favoured.'

  'I understand.'

  The man in the room waved a hand and the image was gone. The light slowly faded, and once more there was only the glow of the candlelight in the room.

  As the light faded, the stranger's features returned to normal, his shifting countenance once again became human.

  *

  Chapter Eleven

  The Lord Protector of Sturma, first among Stewards, rose from his slumber and wiped the dribble from his cheek.

  He felt rested, although his backside still ached. He had slept well. He remembered the night before, and the otherworldly wailing of the wind and smiled at his imaginative thoughts running away with him.

  Roskel rose gingerly and stretched, then he dressed, swung his cape around his shoulders and checked his pack and his saddlebags. All was in order.

  He took the chair from under the door and headed out into a new day. He could hear the birdsong from outside, but otherwise all was quiet. The common room was deserted. The kitchens, too, were deserted. He had hoped to buy provisions for the next leg of his journey, but with no one here…he remembered…he was a thief. Still, it was one thing sneaking into a noble’s bedrooms to whisk away a bauble, another to steal from a poor village with little to offer.

  He checked the pantry and found some freshly baked bread and a hank of ham, which he wrapped and placed in his pack. That should keep him going for a while. He stepped back into the common room and placed a gold piece on the bar. With second thoughts, he realised that might be a bit stingy. He had no idea how much things cost in the countryside, probably cheaper than in the city, but…he placed another coin on the counter from his purse. Then he unbolted the front door and headed out.

  It was still early, but he hoped he could find someone to saddle his horse for him. He walked around the inn to the back where his horse was stabled for the night.

  There was no one awake this early though. He could not find anyone in the village. It was silent apart from the gentle wind whispering in the eaves and the rustle of straw and hay in the stables. Not a soul abroad this fine autumn morning.

  And not a sign of his horse.

  He sat and put his head in his hand. Some bastard had stolen his horse!

  Already he had visions of walking the remaining two hundred-odd miles to the cathedral, and then the further fifty or so until he reached Ulbridge and his final destination.

  Bloody horse thieves. Where the hell had the stable boy been?

  In fact, where the hell was the stable boy now?

  He strode purposefully back to the inn and shoved the door open.

  'Landlord!' he shouted into the silent building.

  'Landlord!' he cried once more, with no answering shout. Not a peep. He pulled open the front door again and headed out into the village. It was a tiny village, little more than an outpost, somewhere for weary travellers to rest their feet and provide for a longer journey. But even so…Dow was in the sky already. There should have been someone abroad this morning.

  But there was not a soul. He tried a few doors and found them, without exception, open. There was food upon tables, and beds turned down, but the town was deserted.

  His stomach turned at each new discovery and his body shook. He decided to waste no more time. He was lucky to be alive.

  He shouldered his belongings and headed south along the potted road that ran through the centre of the deserted village. The road meandered around higgledy-piggledy placed shacks and houses, until he came to the edge of the town and found his horse.

  Upon it was the horse thief.

  Minstrel waited quiet happily at the edge of the village. The man astride her didn’t seem to be interested in going any further. Roskel didn’t bother calling out. He walked at a steady pace until he reached his horse, took one look at the man and with a resigned sigh pulled the dead thief from his horse. Minstrel did not complain.

  He took one look at the man and kicked him in the ribs.

  It seemed his journey was not so secret after all. The husk of the man, dried out, was no man but a hierarch.

  Roskel kicked him again, turning the creature over, and saw some black, shining stone poking from the ground.

  When he turned to look, the village was still there. He had expected it to be gone, but it was not.

  Suppressing a chill down his spine, he mounted the waiting mare and headed off on the road once more, leaving the ghost town behind him.

  *

  Chapter Twelve

  Roskel rode for the remainder of the day, eager to put as much distance between himself and the village of Wraith’s Guard as possible. He broke for a late lunch to water Minstrel, but then pressed on, riding harder than was strictly necessary. For a time Minstrel seemed to relish the freedom granted and showed a fair turn of speed.

  Which was all well and good, until Roskel found that at some point he had been turned around. He seemed to have lost the Great South Road, but he didn’t mind. He was on a road and that was good enough for the time being. By the suns he was still heading south, even if he was no longer on a main road. There were many oddities he had to mull over since meeting the old beggar outside the Wraith’s Guard, but he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to look upon them, even in the warm light of day. Some things were best left buried.

  He passed markers for three villages off the road but decided he would rather press on.

  That first night, in an inn called the Waylander’s Rest, he slept fitfully. His dreams were of the darkest things that roam in the night, of restless spirits risen from the grave, and the undead walking through the streets at night. He woke sweaty from the dream and washed his body from head to foot using water in a basin on a chest that was only meant for the face.

  Once dressed, he set out again, forgoing breakfast for an early start. This time his horse was still in the stables and there were people about their business on the streets. He rode on. The towns of Colebridge, Thornton, and Mar fell behind, their stories untold.

  He whiled away the time upon his horse whistling tunes and singing ditties. He thought with distant regret on his one true friend, Tarn, and of the friends he had left behind in Naeth. As the days turned into his first week on the road he wondered how they fared in the game against the Thane of Kar’s plots and scheming.

  But it was not his concern. His concern lay south.

  He saw a few wanderers, like himself, on the road. But he saw no bandits, and there was no trouble. He forgot the village of the dead that he had left behind and the nagging fear that had he neglected to pay for his provisions that strange morning then he too, would have been a husk by the side of the road, food in turn for the spirits that prowled that haunted village.

  He tried to turn his mind to brighter things, and began to notice a few changes. No longer did his legs and rump hurt from the jouncing of the road. He had lost a few pounds gained while playing the lord, and he slept less, but better, than he was accustomed to. He grew to enjoy the freedom he had gained, and made the most of the time on the road. Once he returned to the castle of Naeth he would again become embroiled in the business of state, vying for power among the Thanes and the courtiers. Enjoy it while it lasts, he vowed, and rode on. South…always south.

  His course was unerring. The old, pitted, dirt road served him well.

  For the first week the weather remained mild, the autumn suns a blush across the clear blue skies. Then, as he neared the outskirts of the great forest known as the Fresh Woods, the weather abruptly turned.

  At first, it was just a chill wind from the east. Then clouds grew on the horizon. He watched the weather carefully as he rode. He had not passed a village now for a day and a half. He knew there were few villages thi
s close to the great forest. There were also places within its dark heart he could make for, such as Haven, the old home of his bandit brethren, but he knew he was no longer of there. Besides, he reasoned, the journey would take him too far out of his way, even though he was interested to see what his old home had turned into since its denizens gained their freedom and a pardon for past crimes.

  So he watched the weather, and skirted the forest. He camped rough, away from the side of the road, just in case not so friendly travellers shared the road with him. He was in bandit country, and he didn’t wish to be run through or shot with an arrow before he could let them know who he was. Besides, there was no guarantee that a bandit would know him. There were many bands working this area, and not all were as friendly or honourable as his old companions.

  Another morning came, and this time it brought with it a light drizzle. His fire had burned out in the night and his toes were cold. His face was wet from the rain and the scant cover of the copse of trees he had camped under did little to alleviate the misery of the rain.

  At least, he thought, it is not pouring.

  At which moment, the rain got heavier. Within ten minutes, while he hastily tried to break camp, thunder was booming in the distance and lightning crashed into a tree on the horizon, exploding in a shower of fire. The flames were quickly doused by the downpour, but the smoke was an ugly stain on purpling skies.

  The cacophony of rain on leaves and mud was deafening.

  He reassessed the situation under the scant cover of the trees, rain dripping through to soak his cloak and run from the stubble on his chin to drip and join the rivulets running at his feet. There was no way he could move on. He took his bedroll and hung it with the aid of a length of rope from two trees and huddled underneath it, wet and miserable, cold and suddenly lonely.

  He wished for his warm room, and forgot, for a moment, all about the freedom of the road.

  While he was waiting for a break in the rain, even a slight easing of the torrent, he unpacked his oiled skins and set about creating some lasting shelter. It was all well and good travelling when the sun shone, but he had forgotten just how miserable it could be to be out in the rain when it was heavy enough to turn the ground to mud. He had forgotten just how cold it could be to winter outside when it was snowing. He had done it once, with nothing but deerskins to keep warm and a hide to keep the worst of the wind off. He had been roaming the outskirts of the Fresh Woods when Tarn had found him, and what a sorry sight he had been. Bedraggled in torn clothing, with just a dagger to his name, he had been a lost man. Then Tarn had saved him, taught him how to fend for himself in the woods. It had been a hard time, but some of it had been good. If his old friend had been with him now he had no doubt he would have made them a serviceable shelter in no time.

  He would have to wait to see if the rain was a long-term fixture or if it would pass. He was loath to make a more permanent shelter if he was to move on in a few hours.

  As it was he sat under his makeshift cover and watched the rain pour down the edges of his skins, and then drip over the edges onto his head. He shivered and pulled his hood up. At least his cloak was made for the wet.

  He glanced over at Minstrel. Even the horse looked moody and sullen in this weather.

  Rising from his huddle, the thief scanned the horizon. The sky was black as far as the eye could see.

  He set about making himself a decent shelter. He would be going no further this day.

  *

  Chapter Thirteen

  The rain persisted all that day and all night. The thief used his sword to cut branches, diagonally, as his old friend had shown him. The lessons learned seem so old. He had already forgotten much. He intertwined what branches he could, making a solid lattice, with the leaves left on. This he propped between the twin boles of a great split tree, creating a makeshift roof. He placed the skins over the top of his shelter. It kept some rain out, but it still leaked and the rain dripped onto his hood.

  His sweat cooled and he shivered in the sudden cold. True autumn had begun. The trees at first had given a measure of shelter, but now the wind was picking up and the red-gold leaves were being blown from the trees. The wind whipped through the copse of trees and chilled him to the bone. His hands were numb, and he couldn’t even build a fire. There was no dry wood. Had he known he was going to be forced to camp in this autumn storm he would have thought to bring some dry wood into the camp, but it was too late for that now.

  So he kept his arms wrapped tightly around his chest and tried to conserve his warmth. The day passed miserably. The night was even worse. He couldn’t sleep, for the rain poured around his seat and made the ground too wet to lay on. Everywhere he looked was mud, and still the rain did not abate. When night came, the wind howled, testing his woodcraft to the limit. The cloud cover was too heavy for even the slightest hint of a moon to peek through. It was almost pitch darkness, but as he became accustomed to it he realised that there was a slight light, just enough to see a foot or so in front of him.

  The woods at night were a different world to that which he had been born. The last time he had been forced to camp outdoors he’d had company. Alone, the sounds of the night took on new meaning. Even over the heavy downpour he could hear snuffling creatures, their vision vastly better than his, coming around to see who this human interloper was. And perhaps to take the measure of him. Should he be found wanting, would they test him?

  Rustling undergrowth…a boar? A badger? Or just a land mir, rooting around for a more comfortable seat in the wet?

  He tried to turn his imagination to lighter thoughts. He tried to remember the last time he had spent the night with a woman, then became depressed because it had been so long ago.

  He wondered how long he would be stuck out in the woods, driven to find shelter in a woodland where there were no handy caves and it was impossible to get in the lee of the wind. The wind out here seemed to come from all directions, and be as bold as youngsters playing peek-a-drawers with the baker’s daughter.

  The thunder had quit before dusk, but in the darkest hour of the night, just as Roskel’s head was finally nodding, it came back with a vengeance. The storm must have had another riding its coattails, he thought dozily.

  Thunder crashed overhead and the storm found new frenzy. One of his skins blew free to whip across the copse with a flapping, fluttering sound like bat wings in the dusk. Rain came into Roskel’s hide steadily, soaking him through. He was too miserable to bother moving, but in some deep, tired part of his mind he knew he was in trouble. He had to find true shelter. In the morning he would have to make for the nearest inn, or even ask a farmer for shelter out of the storm. The problem was he had no idea how far he would have to travel in the rain.

  If he was lucky the storm would blow itself out by first light, but he was not a man given to trusting to luck. He weighed the dice at every opportunity.

  But what could he do against the weather? He could not run a trick on the gods. He could not fool the storm. If it meant to blow for a week, all he could do was ride it out.

  And so thinking, he pulled his cloak tighter, listened to the beasts of the night in their shuffling, prowling walks make their way through the copse in search of gods knew what.

  The light broke. The storm did not.

  *

  Chapter Fourteen

  Roskel was soaked to the bone. He breakfasted on some hard bread which he held out in the rain to soften, and a handful of nuts he had picked along the road a ways back. At least he would be regular, he thought with a wry grin.

  There was nothing else for it. His fingertips were wrinkled from exposure to the constant rain, his joints seemed to ache, from the base of his neck to his toes. He was tired enough to sleep in the mud, but he knew that could be the death of him. He was well dressed, and in the dry he would have been warm enough, but now he was sodden he felt every chill.

  He sneezed violently and cursed.

  That was just what he needed now, a case o
f the chills. Warm up, and everything will look alright tomorrow…really, it will…no matter how convincing he tried to be he could not fool himself. This storm was not going to stop. He could not wait it out. He would have to ride.

  And hope for the best.

  Trust to luck, perhaps. He hated trusting to luck. Largely because his luck was terrible and whenever he did, he lost.

  With his meagre possessions upon his horse and camp broken, he mounted and headed back to the road.

  Where the road had once been, there was now a river. Water flowed freely along the road, a dirt brown river with countless potholes hidden. Dangerous for a man afoot. Potentially deadly for a horse that couldn’t see its footing.

  He had no choice, though, he would have to risk it.

  Setting off, more miserable than he could ever remember, he made for the south.

  *

  Part II.

  Year's End

  Chapter Fifteen

  Roskel rode for the best part of the day. The rain had shrivelled his pride and joy and that just added to his misery. A man had to have something to boast about. On the plus side there wouldn’t be many to bother him on this journey.

  Lunch was a sad affair, soggy bread and a piece of cheese eaten astride Minstrel.

  And then, shivering and sneezing regularly now, certain he had a case of the chills coming on, he spied a few buildings in the distance.

  He set off at a trot and made for the buildings.

  He didn’t care. He would have settled for Wraith’s Guard right then.

  A small hamlet hove into sight. Its wide streets were running water, running over the front doors. No one was foolish enough to step outside on a day like this.

  A stream that ran alongside the hamlet had burst its banks long ago. It looked almost like a small river. Roskel was glad that he didn’t have to cross it. It ran off to the north, perhaps joining the river Frana at some point in its meandering future.