So he roasted a piece of cheese, just to see if he could. It melted and dripped into the fire, but as he put what was left into his mouth he was pleasantly surprised. It added a nuttiness to the cheese. He washed it down with a mouthful of wine from his refilled skin, then chased that with an apple. Pleased with his meal, he made sure he was out of range of any sparks that might fly from the fire – some of the deadfall he had used was damp – and curled up in his bed roll.
He lay that way for an hour or so, enjoying the peace. The woods at the base of the hills were quiet and still. There were a few animals’ cries off in the distance, but nothing to trouble him. He watched the flames flicker and shrink, put some larger logs on to keep it burning during the night, and finally closed his eyes.
He fell into a deep sleep and with it came a dream of his friend.
*
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tarn, the last man to wear the Crown of Kings, was whittling a piece of wood by the fire next to Roskel. Roskel wanted to wake from his slumber and sit up to speak to his friend, but he could not stir. Tarn whittled calmly, watching Roskel sleep as Roskel watched his friend in the dream. The thief knew it for a dream but still the urge to talk to his friend was strong. It had been too long since they had spoken.
A deep sense of loss overwhelmed him. His limbs felt heavy and he could not move.
Tarn, finally sensing his friends disquiet, rose and came to stand next to him. His shadow lay across the thief’s face, thrown by the sputtering light of the fire.
Then he knelt down, and Tarn was not as he had been in life, but an undead thing, his face sagging and his breath reeking of decay. Roskel tried to cry out, to push his friend away.
But Tarn laid a calming hand on his shoulder, and he knew that it was just a dream, after all. His friend would not appear to him this way. Tarn had been kind and strong and full of honour and loyalty. A good man would not rise again. He would have passed Madal’s Gate. Once passed, they would never open for his friend again.
It was just a dream, but in the dream Tarn spoke.
'Whatever comes this way, do not panic. In days to come your life will be hard and you will want to die, but do not despair. Trust that your life has purpose, and I have not forgotten you. Trust. Leave your fear behind. Your day will come. Trust, but do not fear me. I live and die for Sturma. As do you, Roskel. You have been chosen. Trust and do your duty and you will live longer than you could imagine. Trust in your friends. Trust in those you have no reason to trust. You will know who when the time comes. Now…awake…it is your time.'
Roskel murmured in his sleep and woke with a startled and frightened cry.
A man stood before him, his sword across his lap, staring in the fading firelight at the thief.
Roskel’s hand leapt to his sword, but the blade was not there.
The man tapped Roskel’s blade with the tip of his own, where it lay by his side.
The man was no Sturman. His eyes spoke of murder and torture, dark eyes in a dark face.
As it should be, for the man was a Drayman, and Roskel was at his mercy.
*
Chapter Twenty-Six
Rohir sat with Durmont in the common room late that night, discussing strategy, when a guard begged leave to interrupt them.
'My lords,' he said, just to be on the safe side. He was unsure as to Durmont’s status, but whatever it might be, it was certainly somewhere above his station.
'I have a man that demands an audience. I say demands…he was quite persuasive and somehow he managed to get into the castle in the first place. Ordinarily I would have clapped him in irons and sorted it out later, but…'
'But what, man,' barked Rohir. 'Spit it out.'
The guard snapped to attention. 'My lords, he can’t be more than twelve years old!'
'I’m fourteen!' came a high pitched voice from outside the door.
Rohir sighed and rolled his eyes at Durmont.
'Let him in.'
A filthy street urchin shook himself free of a guard stationed outside the door and with plenty of huff and bluster pushed his way into the room.
'Empty your pockets,' said Rohir in a tired voice.
'What!' said the urchin, as if it was the greatest offence he could imagine.
'Empty them,' said Rohir patiently. It was no use. Being in league with the Thieves' Covenant was a necessity but these little beggars they sent as messengers were rousing his ire. They always seemed to fill their pockets with whatever they could find. The armour on their stands would have been long gone by now if the little scrappers could’ve lifted it.
The boy emptied his pockets and didn’t even have the grace to seem bashful when he turned out a golden quill and the official seal of the Lord Stewards.
'Wasn’t that in your office, Durmont?'
'It was.'
'I found it,' insisted the boy.
'I should have you flogged. Now what is your message? Speak quickly before I have this large man escort you from the castle.'
The boy sniffed and took the measure of the guard, who outweighed him by at least ten stone.
'I could beat him.'
Rohir bit his lip to hold the laugh in and Durmont looked away.
'No doubt,' he managed eventually. 'What is your name, boy?'
'Filcher, Lord.'
'Indeed?' said Durmont.
'It ain’t funny. Me mam died and the Covenant named me. Their right as I was an orphan and they took me in. Still, I ain’t happy about it.'
'No,' said Rohir, 'I suppose not. Now, do you have a message?'
'Yep. The lady said you’d pay me, mind.'
Rohir stared at the child. He certainly had front.
'I’ve no doubt you’ve secreted about your person enough to pay for your services as a messenger. Now, should I have you searched?'
'No, my Lord,’ the young urchin recanted hastily. As I was saying, the lady says to tell you that the Thane of Kar rode out this morning with an honour guard of fifty men. We’ve word that he’s headed to Ulbridge to meet with the Thane there.'
Rohir and Durmont both sat up straighter and stared at the boy.
He shuffled his feet a little but stood up to the powerful stares.
'And you’re sure of this message?'
'Sure as, my Lords.'
Rohir waved at the guard. 'Take him to the kitchens and give him a supper. Then escort him from the castle. Do not let him leave your sight. As for you boy, you’ll be fed and not flogged. Be thankful, for I’m not always this kind. Pass my gratitude to the lady.'
The guard grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck and pulled him from the room.
Rohir turned to Durmont only when they were alone again.
'Do you think he knows?'
'I wouldn’t put it past him. He has spies throughout the city. But I don’t see how he could know Roskel’s ultimate destination.'
'It must be a coincidence. But what could it mean?'
'I don’t know. There is naught we can do about it for the time being. The Thieves Covenant are well placed though, and can let us know what transpires in the south. We must trust in Roskel to complete his quest and return to us. He is on his own.'
'That’s what I’m worried about. He’s out on the road and he’s got no one to watch out for him. Now the Thane of Kar is headed to Ulbridge too. I don’t like it.'
'We can’t do anything about it now.'
'I know. And I don’t like that either,' said the Steward.
*
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Roskel’s heart was pounding from the sudden shock, his limbs heavy from a combination of sleep and fear.
'Don’t kill me, please,' he said, hating himself for a coward but unable to help it. He didn’t want to die. Not by some random hand of fate. There were plenty of good ways to die. At the end of a Drayman raider’s sword was not a good one. In the arms of a young maid at the ripe old age of seventy was a good way to die.
'I have gold…' he reached
for his saddle bag but the sword was swift. The Drayman flicked his wrist nonchalantly and drew blood from the back of Roskel’s hand. The thief’s face registered shock, then anger.
'Well, damn you for a groat then. Take my money but I’ll beg no more.'
He glared at the Drayman. He knew little of their cousins from across the mountains save that they were a barbarous people who slaughtered their own young in arcane rights, let their old ones die if they could not fend for themselves anymore and raided Sturma for little more than steel, all because they were too stupid to figure out its makings for themselves.
The more he thought about it, the more angry he became.
And yet, the Drayman only looked on, as if weighing the thief. His face was infuriating. The Drayman was eerily silent. His eyes bored into Roskel’s with uncanny patience.
'At least tell me what you want, barbarian!'
The Drayman’s head cocked to one side, and to Roskel it looked like a slightly intelligent cat learning a new trick.
Then the Drayman surprised him. He stroked his long, plaited beard with his free hand, and with casual violence, thrust his sword into the ground. Then he held one hand in front of his mouth, covering it.
Roskel waited a moment for more to come. When he didn’t react, the Drayman repeated the gesture.
'You don’t understand me?' said Roskel. He wondered why he was even trying to talk to the heathen. Of course he didn’t understand language. He could probably only speak in grunts.
Roskel eyed the sword, but the barbarian had proven how fast he was. He discarded the idea of trying to take it. He was no warrior, and this man obviously was.
But what did he want with him? If he didn’t want to kill him, which he hoped was true, and he couldn’t speak Sturman, what was the point of this little ambush?
Perhaps he just wanted to taunt the unarmed Sturman for a while, until he tired of the game and then slice him open…Roskel’s fear returned but he batted it down into the pit of his stomach where fear belonged. It freed his mind for other things.
The Drayman was beginning to look irritated himself. He shook his head, no, in response to Roskel’s question, then put his hands over his ears, nodding his head, his hand over his mouth, shake of the head…
Roskel, finally, nodded carefully, never taking his eyes from the Drayman.
'You understand me but you can’t speak?'
The warrior smiled and nodded. Then he pointed to his sword, then deliberately at Roskel, and shook his head.
So he didn’t want to kill him. That was a start. Roskel didn’t relax though, he kept one eye on the sword and examined each of his options in turn while the warrior performed his strange pantomime.
'You want me?'
The warrior nodded.
Stranger and stranger, thought the thief to himself.
'What in the world for?' he asked.
The warrior mimicked sleeping, then flapped his hands around his head.
'I don’t understand…'
He repeated the gesture impatiently.
'I don’t…wait…did you have a dream?'
The Drayman clapped his hands and nodded furiously. He gestured a dream once more, then pointed to Roskel hopefully.
'You had a dream about me?'
Once more, he nodded. With that, the warrior seemed to have exhausted his repertoire of gestures. He picked up some of the deadfall Roskel had collected and fed the fire. He poked at it with a stick until there was warmth once again. Then he looked Roskel in the eye and smiled.
Roskel was disarmed. He was at a loss as to what to do. He couldn’t talk to the man, and he certainly didn’t want anything to do with a Drayman, but he was here, and they were both awake.
He didn’t seem like a crazed killer, but there was no reason for a Drayman to be this side of the mountains unless he was part of a raiding party…gods…were there more of them?
'Are you alone?' he asked.
The Drayman nodded. 'Are you a raider?'
A strong shake of the head. He looked angry at the accusation. What did he gain by deceit? Roskel was inclined to believe the man.
Well, there was nothing for it. He held up one hand and slowly, just in case the warrior took umbrage and sliced his hand off, he reached into his pack and brought out some food. The sword was once again to hand. Roskel’s head had only been turned a moment. The man was lightning fast and deathly quiet.
He held out a ham with a questioning look on his face. The warrior seemed unsure what to do. No doubt he wasn’t expecting any kindness this side of the mountains, and with just cause, but Roskel couldn’t think of anything else two men could do in the cold of the night but talk, drink, or eat.
They ate in careful silence for a time, watching each other over mouthfuls of food.
'So, why can’t you speak? Were you born that way? I mean, if it’s not impolite to ask…'
The warrior opened his mouth wide and Roskel saw that he had no tongue. The man closed his mouth again and carried on eating, still weighing the thief with his eyes. It must be difficult to take the measure of a man, thought the thief, if you can’t talk to him.
So much about a man was said in words. But the more he thought about it, he realised he himself often made his mind up about people just by looking at them. First impressions said much about a man.
He set aside his prejudice for a moment and studied the man as he was being studied.
His heart rate had returned to normal, his belly was full, and finally he could see without fear and anger clouding his eyes.
What he saw was a man who kept himself clean. The warrior’s long hair and beard were both braided, but carefully. His face was clean, even if his skin was dusky. His clothes were all of good quality, although the cut of his leather jerkin was strange. Roskel had the impression it was of unusual thickness because it was more armour than fashion. His shirt looked to be thick linen, quite warm, but the man carried no cloak and no provisions. His only weapon seemed to be his long, curving sword, of a design unused in Sturma, as far as the thief was aware…so what did that tell him?
Think, damn it, you stupid thief…your mind has become slow from too long cloistered in a cosy castle’s staterooms…
That meant that somewhere over the mountains, Draymen had the makings of steel.
Bloody hell!
And if that were true, what other of his presumptions about the man before him were false?
He turned his attention to the man’s eyes. The man stared back, unabashed. His eyes were calm and cold, but there was a hint of intelligence and…the beginnings of a smile in his eyes? Did he understand what Roskel was doing?
Dark eyes, black in the fire light but probably brown…people didn’t have black eyes, did they? But then he could only really tell once the suns came up. Demons had black eyes…but was that just another story? Was he gullible enough to believe everything he had heard without testing out the facts with his own eyes?
In truth, what did he really know about Draymen? That they raided across the border, slaughtering wantonly could be seen. The tales were too numerous to mention, and he had spoken first hand to those who had fought the raiders…so there was truth in that.
But had any Sturman ever gone across the mountains to see how the Draymen lived? Not that he knew. So how was it that there were stories of them eating their children and worshipping dark gods? Nobody really knew, did they?
This man didn’t look like he ate children. There was a capacity for humour in his eyes. A man like that didn’t eat children. At least, Roskel hoped not.
'How is it that you can understand me, then? You know the king’s tongue?'
The warrior laughed and clapped his hands. The sudden sound was strange and startling, for it was unexpected and lacked the tones of a one with a tongue. It was guttural and harsh, but merry nonetheless.
The warrior smiled, took a breath, and began to hum. As the sounds grew, a picture formed in Roskel’s mind, breathtaking in its iridescent col
ours and strangely, feelings accompanied the pictures…then he was falling into a vision of another world.
*
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The night swam and light seeped into Roskel's vision. The Drayman, the warrior before him was proud when he was given his sword. The sun shone bright on that day, and others since, but even within the vision Roskel understood that there was darkness over the horizon.
But this tale, this song he was being sung, it was a mere introduction. He understood that, too, from within the dream.
He saw the man's hands reach out and take the sword up with a swelling feeling of...reverence?
Yes, thought Roskel, in as much as he was capable of thought within the midst of the amazing vision.
It was the greatest honour, for the Drayman to win the blade of his father. The blade had been forged thirty years past. A feeling of history, of the greatness of time passed through the vision.
With the blade came great responsibility. The heritage of a people, but power over them, too. He was of a line of powerful men. Others could live or die by his hand. Justice was his to give.
He was, in effect, judge and executioner.
But he had another power, too, as did all of his ancestors, that of the song, to make people feel what their victims had felt. This was to be their punishment.
The sword rose and fell times too numerous to count. The song was sung over and over again…
Then the vision ended, and Roskel found that he had been crying while the Drayman had sent him the vision, for he had no doubt that it was the Drayman’s doing. The man was a sorcerer of some kind, but a guard, one set above other Draymen, with the power to take life at will.
The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Page 9