Be ready.
But for what? Was he just deluding himself? Did it matter? By his reasoning, he had nothing better to do.
Slowly, painfully, for his behind was a mass of sores, he pushed himself off the ground so that he was standing. His legs shook at first, and then the pain started. It felt as though someone was poking daggers into his legs, fire burning from toe to hip.
His arms were now by his side. Slowly, an unpleasant tingling started in his fingertips. It worked its way to his shoulders. His whole body was now on fire. He flexed his hands and his feet, stamped on the ground, desperately trying to get the blood to flow again.
He’d been happier when everything was numb. But what could it hurt? Not so long ago he’d been fantasizing about death. Now he was wondering, did dreams come true?
He could not afford to fail. If there was to be a chance of escape, he had to make himself ready. He would be no good if his limbs were numb. He needed to be able to grab a guard, in case they got careless. Slim chance, but so what if he died in the attempt? Better to die on his feet than huddled against the wall.
So he gritted his teeth and worked his sleeping muscles. He was no match for a fit and healthy man. But he knew a few tricks. If he got the chance, he could blind someone with his thumbs, or crack a windpipe.
If he just got the chance.
Instead of praying for death, he prayed for a little luck and just a chance to live out his life under the air.
*
Chapter Fifty-Two
The ground froze once more as the Dow finally slunk out of sight over the western horizon. In the dim twilight, the cowled man was a long shadow sliding from alleyways and dark corners, creeping unseen toward the home of the Thane of Ulbridge.
He knew it was time. Once more the dream had come to him. The dead king, proud and tall in his sleeping mind, speaking strange words for a king.
What dreams did the thief have? The Drayman was not privy to the dreams. But the king’s visitation assumed success in this venture. He asked much of the bladesinger, but offered nothing in return. The dead king seemed to rely on his honour to see him through. Perhaps he realised that to offer riches or reward would have sullied the bladesinger further.
He had failed once. Now, he would die for honour, for another man to see him as one he could trust.
He had waited long for his chance to show Roskel that he had not been abandoned. He had not been forgotten. The bladesinger had thought about little else during the winter save how to free his friend. Perhaps in success would come salvation. Should he fail, then at least he would know release from his crushing burden.
But think not of failure, he cautioned himself as he stood before the front gates. Think of success, and glory in evil vanquished.
Were the guards evil men? He did not know. Perhaps they just served for the money. He would not kill them unless they gave him no choice. If they offered battle then their death would be merciful.
He expected resistance. Now was the best chance he would ever have. He had been watching, as had the Thieves' Covenant, and he knew that the garrison stationed here was at half-strength, many of the able men stripped from duty for the march to the north.
That was a worry for later.
Concentration was paramount.
He walked to a side wall of the compound and heaved a rope around an overhanging tree down a side street. No one was in sight. He clambered up the rope and dropped over the side. He expected getting in to be easier than getting out. He would have the thief in tow, and he didn’t know what kind of state he would be in. There was no doubt he would be weak, but had he been tortured? Was he still whole?
The Drayman couldn’t know. If he had to, at least he could give the thief release and exact revenge on his enemies.
Crouching low against the wall, hidden from the guards at the front entrance, he sidled along like a crab, aiming for the rear entrance. Roskel’s allies in the Thieves' Covenant claimed that there was an old entrance to the cellars at the rear, and a secret entrance to the maze.
He hoped they were right. He reached the shadows of the four level mansion and broke into a sure footed run over the grassy garden. He heard footsteps coming round the corner and dived behind a hedge. He counted as two guards passed by, unaware of the killer in their midst. When they had reached the corner, the Drayman knew how long their rounds would take.
He resumed his path, creeping silently, trying to avoid confrontation on the way in to increase his chances of success.
He reached the rear of the building and saw the storm shutters over the cellar. He crouched down. They were barred from within. He peered through and could just make out what he thought was a wooden barrier.
The Drayman slid his sword through the gap and swept it up with all his might. The wood was sliced cleanly in two. He pulled on the handle and the door came up. Still, he had made minimal noise. He crouched within the cellar for a few moments, just to make sure that nobody came to investigate. He could use the song to send them away, but that would only work if one came. He could not befuddle two men so easily, and once a sword thrust had begun he would not be able to turn it aside with song. Then it would come down to skill and speed. He trusted his abilities, but he was reluctant to kill a servant or a cook. There was no honour in killing an unarmed man or woman.
Nobody came to investigate. He descended into the depths of the cellar.
It was vast. It sat underneath the huge mansion and spread wide. No candle burned. He listened for the music of another living being, the subtle song of their breath or movement in the near pitch darkness, but he heard nothing. He hummed a tune himself, and the air brightened just enough for him to see by.
Now, it was all down to luck.
He examined the floor methodically, searching for an entrance. The search took valuable time.
But there was nothing. No tell tale sign. No sign of passage. The dust was disturbed around an entrance leading to what he imagined was the kitchens above. That was where most of the barrels were stored, and bottles of wine, some covered in dust, some fresh. He listened to the commotion above, no doubt preparations for a dinner. Perhaps the Thane was entertaining for a final time before joining the march north for glory or failure.
Failure, the Drayman hoped. He did not care about the politics of these people, but he recognised evil by its song, and the one who led in all but name was pure evil. He thought the people of Sturma would soon suffer under that alien yoke.
He turned from the cellar entrance and resumed his search. He hummed again, but this time a different tune. He turned slowly, toward each corner of the vast cellar…there! Something different about the echo…he continued with his melodic humming and walked toward the discrepancy. The closer he got, the surer he was. This was the secret passage.
It was covered in bricks, but the bricks, he saw, were different to the other brickwork. It was newer, for one thing, and the workmanship was shoddy. It looked to be a temporary measure that had never been finished.
He sniffed and there was a mild breeze from beyond the makeshift wall. After a moment’s consideration, he kicked a corner…then again, and again.
Eventually a brick tumbled through the opening and he began pulling other bricks from the entrance. It was the work of minutes once the corner of the brickwork was exposed.
Behind the wall was a dark tunnel, stretching off into the distance.
Now came the test. The ultimate test of his abilities. He needed to hear the song of Roskel’s breathing within the maze to find his way. It would be a remarkable feat, if he could do it.
He set off into the darkness. He padded on silent feet, listening for the slightest hint of movement.
*
Chapter Fifty-Three
The Drayman walked in the dark for perhaps a mile, running his hand along the wall to guide him. He had counted his turns, testing his concentration and his memory. He could afford no mistakes. The maze turned this way and that, confusing him with its end
less deceit.
He heard the song of breathing and followed toward the sound. He could not make out Roskel, but if he was close enough to where they kept a prisoner…surely no prisoners were kept in the most distant regions of the dungeon. The guards would never find the prisoners to feed them.
He came before a door with the song of breathing from within. He took a dagger from his belt and pried open the door, working on the rusty hinges rather than the lock.
The door almost fell to the ground but he caught it with his free hand and lowered it.
Entering the cell there was a terrible stench. He hummed so that the cell was lit.
In the corner a man huddled against the wall, trying to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness.
The Drayman reached out to touch the man, to sing a soothing song to him, to let him know he was free. In that touch, when fleas leapt toward the fresh flesh of his arm, he knew he was wasting his time. This man was irreconcilably mad. He didn’t even need to see his eyes or his face. There was nothing he could do for the man. He could free him but his cage was stronger than bars. He did not have the talent for curing insanity.
He thought about ending the man’s torment, but he could not be sure if his madness was terrible or beautiful. Some madmen saw visions of loveliness in every breath. He was not an executioner to kill without thought.
His heart heavy and his mind unsure as to the wisdom of his actions, he left the madman to his dreams, whether they be heavenly or terrible nightmares. He could not kill a man on a chance.
He began to run. This was a terrible place. He needed to free his friend. His heart ached from the thought of Roskel being forced to spent long months trapped in this place. Every man, woman and child in here needed to be released, but he was not the man to do it. It would need a larger force to do what needed to be done.
The Drayman was under no illusions. He knew he would be hard pressed to win free with the thief as it was, without taking on more responsibilities. But with every prisoner he passed, his heart sank.
So much suffering. It was a song more terrible and poignant than any he had ever heard.
But he had to listen to it. He had to try to find Roskel within this place of terror and madness.
So he ran. He saw a light ahead, its glow stark after so much darkness. He sped toward it on silent feet.
He had no more thoughts of compassion for the guards of this place. They deserved no quarter if they could serve in this hell and hold people until they lost their minds in darkness and fear.
He rounded a corner and surprised a guard. The Skald ran him through with no hesitation. He was young, the warrior saw, and died with shock on his face.
The Drayman had no time to take satisfaction. He ran on, listening to the song, the terrible dirge of death and despair that reverberated off every wall.
He found two more guards, and killed them both. One had a ring of keys at his belt, which the Drayman took. They had been eating a meal. He threw their table against a wall in rage, plunging the hall into darkness once more. Then he heard it.
The subtle shift in the song. Someone was moving. His breath was laboured, there was a sense of pain in the song, but no madness…not yet…a hint of hope.
Roskel.
He ran toward the sound, still counting his turns. He came before a door and the man within sensed his presence.
Roskel called out in hope.
'Is someone there?'
The Drayman sang his song and Roskel saw fields of green and the golden suns luscious in the bright blue sky. The song of hope and life.
'Skald! I knew you’d come! Quickly, before they come to see what is happening! Free me!' he said, and the Drayman could feel the hunger in his words.
He tried the keys and eventually found one which opened the door. He entered, the stench of the room overpowering. He took two steps toward the thief and wrapped his arms around him, singing all the time. Tears streamed down their faces.
'It doesn’t matter, you fool. You are here now. Let’s go.'
The Drayman unlocked Roskel’s shackles and put his arm around him, leading him back the way he had come. From a distant corridor he heard the sound of pounding feet, brought by the commotion.
He turned to face the sound but Roskel tugged on his arm.
'Revenge can wait. Let’s flee now and worry about retribution another day.'
The Drayman breathed slowly through his nostrils, calming himself, then nodded. It made sense.
They turned and headed off into the darkness.
Sounds of pursuit came, and once or twice they saw distant light from a corridor. Only once did the Drayman have to use his sword, when a pair of guards happened upon them. But he had heard their boots pounding down the twisting corridors and was waiting for them. He slew them easily and took immense satisfaction in their pain.
Then they reached the cellar. Roskel was panting and limping heavily.
'I’m fine,' he said in response to the Drayman’s concerned song. 'Well, I'm not, but I’ll be fine when we get out of here.'
They headed to the cellar door, but the Drayman laid a restraining hand on Roskel’s arm. Then they heard footsteps outside.
The Drayman counted, then he counted enough for the two patrolmen to be well away down the far side of the mansion. With a gentle tug on Roskel’s sleeve he led him into the night.
For a moment Roskel just stood and marvelled at the glorious sight of the figure of eight moon in the sky, Gern half hiding his brother from sight. It was a rare and special moon.
You have the rest of your life to take in the beauty of the sky. For now we must flee.
'You’re right,' said the thief, and they broke into a run, Roskel’s feet unsteady and his breath rasping in his chest. They reached a wall and the rope waiting there.
'I can’t climb that,' said the thief. 'My arms are too weak.'
The Drayman nodded and climbed to the top of the wall. Then he indicated that Roskel should tied the rope around his chest.
When the knot was tight, the Drayman heaved his friend to the top of the wall.
As the first cries of alarm went up in the grounds, and guards began scurrying to and fro, the thief and the bladesinger were on the other side of the wall and off into the darkness, following the darkest route that the Drayman could have picked, back to the temporary safety of the Blushing Drunk.
*
Chapter Fifty-Four
Morning broke with Carious’ rising. The rider rode hard. His horse was lathered and he himself was sweating despite the chill air. The melt beneath the horse’s hooves cracked and the horse pounded across the fields toward the rear of the column of soldiers. He was not challenged as he rode past the soldiers and supply wagons toward the head of the column. The ride took thirty minutes at a gallop. Eventually he pulled alongside the Thane of Ulbridge and the Thane of Kar, who had finally decided that riding in a wagon gave the wrong message to his soldiers, at the behest of Savan, who often whispered words of wisdom into his increasingly receptive ear.
The hierarch rode behind the two commanders, a smile upon his face.
'What is it, man?' snapped the Thane of Ulbridge.
'Urgent message from the captain of the guard, my lord,' said the man breathlessly.
'Well, out with it.'
The messenger cleared his throat. 'The prisoner has escaped, my lord.'
'What?'
'I’m sorry my lord, that was all I was given to know. I assumed you would know what he was talking about.'
'I do!' The Thane’s face dropped. 'Command the guard, all available men are to scour the city. He is not to escape. I want him dead.'
'Yes, my lord,' said the messenger, swallowing. He wheeled his horse around and rode off back the way he had come.
'He must not escape the city,' said Wense.
'He will not.'
'You said he would not escape your dungeons, and he did.'
'I said he will not!'
The Thane of Kar gl
ared at him.
'My king,' added the Thane of Ulbridge truculently.
Savan heeled his horse next to the two men. 'My king. I have resources available. I could aid the search?'
'Do it. He must not reach Naeth alive. I have no doubt he will try for the city. Some misguided sense of duty. Though it is too late to stop my coronation,' he said, absentmindedly settling the crown upon his head.
'He will not live out the week.'
'Then send what word you will.'
Savan nodded and rode away from the advancing column. Wense noted how the horse seemed skittish, unhappy with the rider.
'How exactly does he send messages?'
'A secret way,' said the man who would be king. But in truth, he was troubled. He didn’t know, but he never worried about it anymore. There had been a time when the advisor had made him uneasy. But he didn’t mind so much anymore. He set his worry aside. What did it matter? The man was extremely helpful, even if he did have his funny ways.
*
Chapter Fifty-Five
The Drayman knocked on the barred rear door of the Blushing Drunk in the prearranged manner. After a minute he was rewarded by the sound of the bar and bolt being drawn back. Morning had broken fully, and the city streets were crawling with guards, but he had managed to guide the thief, half-carrying him, back to the inn without incident. Well, he’d been forced to kill a man along the way, but he no longer counted the Thane of Ulbridge’s men as deserving of quarter. They were beasts who served a beast.
Roskel collapsed inside the door.
'Roskel!' exclaimed the burly innkeeper, Darwell. 'You made it! I didn’t think it could be done!' he beamed with pleasure as he picked the thief up and led him into the commons.
For his part Roskel managed a weak smile.
'I bet you could use an ale.'
'I could,' he said, and winced as he sat on a bench. His face registered considerable pain.
'Were you beaten?'
'No, I wish I was. I am covered in sores. They are agony.'
The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Page 15