Roskel did not waste time looking at the creature’s death-throes. He pulled himself tighter against Minstrel’s back and urged the horse to run faster, faster…
He could see Haven a mile away in the clearing. He hoped it was still a place of safety, as it had been named. It did not look it anymore. Where once there had been a hodgepodge of tents and campfires, a few wagons and horses roaming free, there was now a barricaded settlement perhaps five hundred feet round. There were crops and vegetables growing outside the palisade, but there were guards set outside with the grazing livestock, some sheep and a few cows. The herders looked up and the animals bolted as the two men fled toward the settlement.
Roskel saw a woman stand tall at the wall and draw back the string of her bow. He ducked lower but held up his hands in a sign of peace, trying to steer the mare with his knees alone, which was far from easy over the uneven ground.
'Don’t loose that arrow!' came a cry from the palisade walls. 'It’s Roskel Farinder! Open the gates!'
A section of wall was pushed aside by three men, and Roskel and the Drayman rode through the fortifications into a village at war.
He pulled up on the reins and Minstrel slid to a halt. All around him was sign of conflict. Men with bandages, women cradling sick husbands. To one side of the clearing were a few burial mounds. The forest was trying to kill the people of Haven, too.
The woman with the bow leapt down from the wall and strode over to them. She eyed them suspiciously, but a broad shouldered man laid a restraining hand on her arm and she relaxed.
'Easy, Sisqale, this rogue here is a friend to our people. It is because of him that we are a Freetown.'
Roskel smiled at the bandit…he corrected himself…freeman…and clasped his hand.
'Mar,' said Roskel, and grinned at his old companion.
'I hope you are a good shot, my lady. You have but one arrow left.'
The woman raised one eyebrow at him. Her eyes were a stunning blue, which reminded him of the sea on a calm day.
'And when you have fired that arrow, your first and last, what will you do then? Fight them off with a smile?' he said, but with a smile to show that he meant no offence.
She turned and let loose the arrow in one smooth movement.
Roskel watched it fly into the air. It disappeared into the gloom. He looked at her and saw the arrow was once more in her quiver.
'I only need one,' she said with a proud smile. A bird fell from the sky. A small boy ran to pick it up and shouted for his mother with pleasure. 'Mother, mother! I have dinner!'
The woman laid the bow over her shoulder. As she walked away she said, 'What else could it do? What else, but return to me?'
Roskel turned from the strange woman and looked up into the sky. The moons were risen. Ghost clouds haunted the silver sky. His work was not done yet. But at least he could fill his belly. Always wise, for you never knew when you were due to pass Madal’s Gates, and no man knew if there was food laid on for the spirits.
'So, Roskel,' said Mar. 'Pleasant journey?'
They both laughed. Even the Drayman smiled thinly. Then they went to discuss the forest and the perils that waited without the wooden walls.
*
Chapter Sixty-Five
Roskel sat before the fire, deep in thought. Mar watched him, a sad look on his face. Bringing up all the old pain had hurt him deeply. He had lost a son in the battle against the forest. It was a wound that he knew would never close.
'So it began when the new road went in?'
'And got worse since then. We’ve lost twenty-six men in the last six months. We’re prisoners in Haven. It’s no longer a Freetown, but a jail. The skies are open above, true, and it smells a sight sweeter than any jail I’ve ever slept in, but it’s a prison nonetheless. We can’t get out to find help, and no one can get in. The road out is a death trap. Creatures of nightmare come out in day and night alike. We can do nothing to stop them. They lose power when they are away from the forest, but as you know we are surrounded by the forest on all sides. What was once home has turned against us.'
Roskel tapped his lip, deep in thought.
He sat that way for a long time. The Drayman sat deep in thought too. His mind whirled with the possibilities. He was in the grip of doubt. What could he do? How could he help them, and still have honour? He wrestled with his conscience and his secret past. His shame was his alone. He could not share it with these people. But they needed him. Once, he had been a force for righteousness. Now, was he so ashamed of his own past that he could not help innocent people in need?
Had he become a coward?
No, not a coward. He would fight and die for duty. His duty to Roskel. But these people…did they not deserve help? Could he allow himself to be known by people once again? Could he sing proud in public? Could he let them know his pain and his shame?
'I see no way to defeat the forest, but there is a man at the heart of it. It is not nature’s wrath you face, but a rogue druid. He is bonded with the forest and draws his power from it. It is him we must defeat. But how, I cannot begin to imagine.'
'What you say rings true…forests do not rise against man on their own. I have seen human rage in the attacks. Animals do not have a mind to chase down a man and kill him for no reason. Uris Anath ran away from a bear, natural in appearance, but it chased him down and slew him, then walked back into the forest, almost nonchalant. Sisqale shot it three times, but it walked like a man taking a stroll. It knew it could not be killed. It had no fear of arrows or men. We cannot beat all the beasts in the forest, we cannot escape this trap, and we cannot find the author of our problem.'
'Perhaps we can lure him out?'
'I don’t see how. He sends the beasts to do his work. He will not come.'
The Drayman rose and took Roskel’s hand.
I can draw him out. I can teach these people how to strip him of his power. Perhaps we can even kill him.
'How, friend? Tell us how.'
The Drayman looked pained.
My shame is at the heart of it. I have a tale to tell. You may hate me at the end of it.
'I will listen. I will not judge. You have shown yourself a true friend.'
It is a terrible shame.
'No worse than anything I have done.'
The Drayman broke the touch and walked off, away from their fire.
'What was that all about?' asked Mar.
'I don’t suppose his secret matters now. He can talk if he wants to. He has a power over music. He can create words from a tune.'
Roskel didn’t see any sense in letting the bandit leader know that the Skald was also from across the mountains where the Draymar roamed. One secret a night was enough by his reckoning.
'Truly? A remarkable talent.'
'It is. But he is reluctant to use it. I think he can help us. I hope he can help us, for I am at a loss.'
The Drayman returned shortly and sat beside the thief. He took his hand in a curiously familiar gesture, and began to hum.
Once, when I was a proud bladesinger, there was a drought. It is common across the mountains. The land is not lush like Sturma. In many places there are vast arid wastes, where rain does not fall for years at a time. Crops fail. Whole tribes die.
My tribe was one such tribe from the wastes. I was discovered to be a bladesinger. I gained my father's sword and left the land of my family to serve the cause of justice.
I served without question for seven years. Then I heard that my family was starving, that the rains did not come.
I travelled to my old home. I had the power to bring rain.
The Drayman wept.
I sang and the rains came. I broke the balance. I did not serve justice, but my own heart. I failed as a bladesinger.
My people should have died. A bladesinger found out and came to my village. He had heard my song. He slew them all and I could not stop him. He served justice. He served the balance.
He banished me. That is my shame.
; 'That you let them die?'
NO!
The words caused pain in his head.
More softly, the Drayman spoke again.
No. My shame is that I let them live. Because of me they died a dishonourable death. I shamed myself and my people. So I will not sing the song again. I took my tongue.
Roskel paled.
'You took out your own tongue.'
The Drayman nodded, his eyes challenging.
'I think you take duty too far, my friend. But I do not pretend to understand your pain. Forgiveness is not mine to give, but you have saved my life and been a stalwart ally. I believe in you. By your people, you may have done wrong. By mine, the bladesinger who executed your people was wrong. His act was evil in my eyes. Not yours. But yours are a different people.'
Mar watched the exchange with a serious expression. He could only hear half of the conversation, but the man’s pain was evident for all with eyes to see.
'Please help us,' he pleaded. 'If you can. We are a good people, and we fight an unnatural enemy. We need help.'
The Drayman stared at the ground.
Roskel laid his hand on his shoulder.
'This is your place now. These people need you. You would be serving the balance. I believe that.'
The Drayman shook his head and walked away from the fire once more.
Roskel and Mar sat in silence, waiting for him to return. They could not sway him. He had to make up his own mind.
The fire burned low. Roskel put more logs on. As they caught, the Drayman returned, grim determination on his face.
I will help.
Roskel nodded to Mar. 'At last, we have a chance.'
*
Chapter Sixty-Six
Roskel walked toward the tree with one of the Haveners. The man carried a large wood axe. His face was etched with worry.
'Don’t worry. It will work,' he whispered to the man as they walked toward the edge of the clearing, where the forest began.
Roskel began laughing, and after a moment the man with the axe remembered his part.
'So you were the first here? You began this Haven?'
'Aye,' said Roskel, hamming it up and relishing the chance to perform again. The stakes just made his heart race. He was finding he had a new lust for life since his incarceration. 'I did. I felled the first tree and set my tent right over there,' he pointed at a spot over his shoulder. 'When I’ve finished, I’ll level this whole area and build homes of stone, and a paved road. It will be a fine city.'
The axe man loosened his shoulders. 'Should I start here?'
'Yes, this one. This large Lud. It will make a fine table.'
The axe man nodded, and swung.
The buzzing began and Roskel started sweating. This was their only chance. He was placing his life, and the life of this man, in the Drayman’s hands. To think that he would have ever trusted a Drayman with his life.
The axe fell and a roar of rage came from the forest. At the edge a figure of a man grew out of the vines around the trees and the shrubs on the ground. His face was a mask of anger and hatred.
'Now!' he shouted, and waved. No sound came but Sisqale’s arrow was unerring. It flew toward the apparition, but a tree swayed and the arrow struck a branch. The arrow disappeared, no doubt to reappear in the strange archer’s quiver.
Then the song rose. The whole of the village sang the tune that the Drayman had taught them, through Roskel's words. The buzzing ceased, the rustling leaves fell still, and the vines drew back to reveal a mortal man, dressed in brown robes, standing at the edge of the forest.
'I will not be defiled!' he screamed in rage, and leapt forward toward Roskel. Stripped of his power his rage was still fearsome. He stabbed out at Roskel with a dagger and the thief leapt back. The axe man tried to swing his axe at the druid, but the druid was fast and strong, bolstered with the strength of his insane convictions and the lingering life of the forest.
Roskel tripped and fell.
An arrow appeared in the druid’s chest, then disappeared. Blood blossomed, almost black on the brown robe. The druid fell to his knees.
Roskel drew his dagger and approached. He was prepared to do what was necessary. He knelt by the man, who looked up at him with hate filled eyes.
'I serve the forest!' the druid spat. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. 'You defile nature! The forest will rise against you, no matter if I die!'
'The forest will not rise. You do not serve nature. You twisted it to serve your ends. You are a murderer, no more, no less, for all your power.'
'I serve the forest…' he tailed off. Roskel watched him dying.
'I did…what I thought was right,' he said through a mouthful of blood. Rage still bubbled in his eyes as the blood bubbled in his lungs.
'As does each man,' said the thief, 'But you were wrong.'
The druid tried to rise and drag himself back toward the trees. Roskel kicked his arms from under him.
'Let me die in the forest!'
The song still hung on the air. Roskel shook his head.
'And let you gain your power again?'
'I will never return!' he shouted, but he could shout no more. His strength was gone.
Roskel could not bear to watch the man die slowly, but he could not risk him crawling back to the source of his power, either.
'I’m all out of trust,' the thief said, and slit the druid’s throat.
He pushed himself to his feet and waved at the palisade.
He had not killed a man for a long time. He would never get used to it. But that, too, was part of his responsibility. He could no more deny it than he could become an assassin. Death was something necessary, sometimes, but it was always ugly.
'It is over!' he cried out to the watching men and women. He could sense their hope. His heart ached that sometimes it was necessary for some to die in order that others could live. With a sad heart walked back toward Haven.
He wondered if he served the balance, or just himself.
That night, the people of Haven drank hard and danced long into the night. Roskel drank little and sat apart from the people. The celebrations were sullied for him. The ale tasted bitter.
*
Part VII.
The Return
Chapter Sixty-Seven
The suns were high overhead as the thief and the Bladesinger reached the edge of the Fresh Woods. The day was crisp and bright. The sky was a cloudless pristine blue that stretched from horizon to horizon, unbroken by settlements or villages. There was not another soul in sight. On a day like this, thought Roskel, you could forget there were other men. He looked to his right. Well, apart from that one, he corrected.
'I’ve got a stop to make. A little village called Winslow.'
The Drayman smiled subtly and pointed at Roskel’s groin.
He understood too much for a man without the power of speech.
'Yes, I’m sure you think it’s funny, but it burns and it’s getting worse. There’s a wise woman there, and we could do with a break from our travels for a night. We’ll be there before nightfall by my reckoning. And you can wipe that smile off your face. It’s not like I’m the first man to catch the pox.'
The Drayman’s face indicated that he didn’t think it was the first time Roskel in particular had been plagued with the pox. The thief glared at him. He was becoming well versed in reading the Drayman’s expressive face.
They rode at an easy pace for the afternoon. There was nothing to be gained from riding hard just yet. It made sense to save the horses on this leg of the journey north, for they could not get further than Winslow-by-the-brook on this day.
Orvane Wense, the pretender to the throne, rode along the Great North Road-- they would be taking the old north road. It meandered more but they would be travelling faster than the thane. They could break camp and ride on well past twilight. It would be a fine cut thing, but Roskel thought they could make it.
So they spared the horses and rode into Winslow at an easy
pace. There was only one stable at the Year’s End, so they both left their horses out in the back yard, which was enclosed. There was no stablehand, either, but it did not matter. They tended their own mounts, then headed into the inn, where there were sounds of revelry, drunken conversation, too loud for the small village and the early hour. Roskel hoped the villagers hadn’t turned into drunken sots since they had rediscovered their liking for the innkeeper.
Roskel pushed open the door and stepped into the bar. The chattering stopped and they stared at the bald man and the strange outlander with his fearsome braids and dark skin. Then Sam Durnborn, an apron around his waist and a tray with bowls of steaming, thick stew in his hands said, 'Welcome back, bard! Welcome back.'
There was a moment of confusion, then the people cheered loudly at his name, even though their eyes still lacked recognition. He had obviously made more of an impression than he had thought.
'How goes the quest?'
For the crowd, Roskel pointed at the Drayman. 'I have found a prince of a distant realm. Alas, he had lost the power of speech but the lute in his hands…well, it is honey on the ears. It has finally found its owner.'
The Drayman glared at the thief. He hadn’t been party to this fabrication. Roskel, for his part, just smiled back sweetly.
'But that is a tale for another day. Sam, two mugs of your finest ale for myself and my travelling companion. Our road has been long.'
'Tell us of your journey!' one of the patrons called out, soon echoed by the whole of the commons. Roskel sighed. He hadn’t planned on this.
'Very well,' he said, with a smile. He reversed a chair and sat with his arms draped over the back. Sam gave him a mug of ale with a wink, and returned to his duties. He was busy serving food. There were now two village girls helping out with the serving, but he was still the innkeeper. There was a lightness to his smile that hadn’t been there the last time Roskel had passed this way. It did his heart good to see it. Perhaps one man could make a difference, he thought.
The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Page 18