'My tale begins where I left off…'
And so, through the course of five mugs of ale and a pause for some roast meat and a slice of bread, Roskel spun his tale. The Drayman was a prince from mythical lands far to the west, across a forbidden sea. He had lost all his hair when a dragon…gasps of astonishment, but at this point, not of disbelief…roared flames at him as he tried to steal a gem to pass for the return passage to Sturma. Alas, the princess was still lost, stolen away by an evil man and placed atop a towering minaret with no doorway or steps. He sought a magical rope that could climb anything, in the den of a hath’ku’atch, a legendary beast created purely of lighting. The rope was how they climbed back into the storm clouds when they went home, their hunting finished and their bellies full of virgins. They had to find the hath’ku’atch before the next storm came (Roskel was sure there would be no storms. He hoped a sudden storm front did not blow in during the night. If it did they would have to leave in the rain. He realised he should have planned his story out to begin with, but then that was the trouble with composition on the hoof.)
'And so, my friends, our situation is perilous, but weary from the road we only wished to meet old friends once again and taste some fine ale to steady our hearts for the trails ahead. The life of an adventurer is never easy. At first light, we head for the hath’ku’atch’s lair, armed only with our blades and my prince’s magic. Wish us well, for we may not return.'
'Good journeys, friend bard. May she see you to journey’s end!' toasted one of the men, chorused by the rest of the patrons.
Roskel’s heart soared. All lies, of course, but in telling the tale, he found something he enjoyed more than thieving. It was a different pleasure, but in thievery there was no recognition for a job well done. It was highly personal and led to a life of solitude. Now he saw passion and admiration in people’s eyes, and he liked it.
The Drayman caught his rapturous look. Do not let it go to your head, he seemed to say.
Roskel nodded. 'And my prince will send you on with a song!'
The Drayman glared once more, but the patrons clapped with glee. Their excitement at hearing the magical lute played by its true owner was palpable.
The Drayman strummed the first note. Only Roskel was aware of the humming beneath the tune, but his spirits were lifted, his heart light and full of courage.
If the Drayman could play for an army they would surely be invincible, he thought as the song ended and the people in the commons shouted their approval and stamped their feet.
Sam eventually ushered them to the door.
'Well, my friend, you certainly outdid yourself this evening. A fine tale indeed. It is good to have a bard again. Here,' he said, holding out some gold, 'your share of tonight’s takings.'
'Don’t be daft, Sam, I do not do this for the money. I would ask a favour, though. I have need of the old mother. I have developed a somewhat embarrassing condition since we last met.'
Sam laughed. 'No chance of meeting the old mother. She’s gone wandering about somewhere in the wilderness. Searching for herbs and the like, no doubt. But she said you might be coming this way again. She left something for you. It’s fey, the way she knows things before they happen. But this village wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s the heart of this village.'
'Then I think this village now has two hearts, and is all the stronger for it.'
The innkeeper blushed. 'Fine words, friend. Here, I’ll show you to your rooms.'
Sam lit a candle in both rooms, the Drayman’s next to Roskel. Wishing the Drayman and the innkeeper a good night, Roskel sat on his bed and held the note and the lotion left for him by the old mother.
True, it was uncanny the way people seemed to know where he was going before he did.
He opened the note and read in the candlelight.
A mutual friend of ours would have you clean for the next time you meet. She’d be unhappy with me if I let you go to her unclean. Fill a glass of water, mix this mixture in and immerse the affected limb for an hour, more if possible. I know your time is short, but rest assured the pain you feel now will be inconsequential if you displease the lady.
PS. She says she hopes you enjoyed your last taste of freedom.
Roskel put the note down. He was sweating. What did that mean? Had the lady finally tired of him and decided he was of no value, or did it mean what he hoped, and dreaded at the same time, that the lady had singled him out for special attention? He was no fool. He didn’t think he’d last long in the lady’s bedchamber. She was an exceptional woman, and he suspected that she was not only the leader of the Thieves' Covenant, which needed steel resolve and wit, but perhaps a witch of some power, too.
He did as the old mother bid. She was right. It was sheer agony. But he kept telling himself it was for the best. What he was saving himself for was the worry. He blew out the candle and eventually fell into disturbingly attractive dreams, with the stunning Queen of Thieves featuring heavily. He awoke before dawn in a sweat. What was wrong with him? He had never panicked over a woman’s attentions before. And she was just a woman. Wasn’t she?
Gods, he hoped so, for he suddenly realised he was terrified of a woman he fantasised about. It was an immensely disquieting feeling.
*
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Wexel mumbled in his sleep. He dreamt of a giant apple, chasing him through the city streets. Someone had taken a bite out of the immense angry fruit, and that had become its maw. Munch, munch, munch, it said, as it rolled inexorably through the city streets. His legs felt like lead and he ran and ran, but he could not escape…
Filcher watched in amusement as the Steward of the Sturman Crown pumped his legs under the sheets. He took another bite of his apple and watched the man running from some enemy in his sleep. Filcher liked to watch people sleep. Sometimes they were funny.
He put his apple down and tapped the lord on his shoulder. Wexel awoke with a cry, and seeing an intruder in his room, he immediately thought Hierarchy and reached across the bed for his sword.
It was not there.
'Sorry to wake you my lord. It’s Filcher, your lordship.'
'Filcher, Filcher…' the Steward said, his hand searching for his sword.
'Filcher, my lord. You know, the lady’s messenger.'
The sleep finally fell from Wexel’s eyes and he relaxed slightly. 'Filcher! I thought Rohir told you never to break into bedrooms again!'
'He told me never to break into his room, your lordship. He didn’t say anything about yours. Besides, it’s urgent.'
'It had better be,' growled the tired warrior. Having his sleep interrupted made him irritable. As did having a sneaky thief break into his bedroom. He imagined such an intrusion would make even the most patient man irksome.
'It is my lord. But you’re not going to like it.'
'Spit it out, boy, so I can get some sleep.'
'Well, the lady says you’ve got to march in the morning. I thought you’d need a bit of time to prepare, though. I expect that takes some doing, marching an army. You’ve got to get all those soldiers out of the whorehouses for one thing…'
'You’re too young to dandy that word about.'
'I’m fourteen, your lordship.'
'What?!' Wexel blurted, his sleeping mind catching up.
'She said you’d say that, my lord. I’m to tell you that the Lord Protector-- who I think the lady has a soft spot for; I shouldn’t be surprised if there’s a bit of kissing in the future…'
'Yes, yes, get on with it. What about Roskel?'
'He’s a free man, my lord, and rides for Naeth this very night. The Thane of Kar has an army of seven thousand men on the march, and the captain of the western garrison has joined his banner. You’re supposed to march and meet the army to the south of Naeth’s borders. She says if you let him reach the walls, all is lost.'
'What?'
Filcher sighed and repeated himself. 'That’s what she told me to tell your lordship. I don’t know no more
.'
'How the bloody hell am I supposed to get an army ready to march in the morning?'
'Don’t rightly know. I’m just a messenger, see?'
Wexel shook his head and rose. 'Well, you can come and tell Durmont and Rohir what you told me. I’m too tired to figure this out on my own.'
'The lady said you’d pay me for my time,' said the young thief hopefully.
Wexel rolled his eyes and grabbed the thief by the ear.
'Just bloody well come on. You’re conscripted. I’ll pay you, but you’ll bloody well work for it.'
The thief paled. 'Work, your honour? I’ve a weak constitution.'
'Good. A bit of hard graft will soon sort that out.'
Wexel dragged him down the corridor to Rohir’s room. If he was going to panic, at least he wouldn’t be doing it alone.
*
Chapter Sixty-Nine
The Drayman sang and the horses ran tirelessly all day. Roskel was still buoyed by the evening before, and the Drayman seemed full of energy, too. Roskel could not wait to reach the borders of Naeth. He just hoped they were swift enough to beat the Thane of Kar to its borders, and raise the alarm in time to close the city gates and prepare for a siege. With the evidence he carried he could make the other Thanes see that the Thane of Kar was a false king, gather armies to his cause and drive the pretender back to his own lands in shame. Roskel and the other stewards would strip the rebel Thane of his titles and outlaw him.
There seemed to be a strange sense of justice in the world. A man like the Drayman was reviled in his own lands and Sturma for doing right, and a man like Wense gained armies and support and caused evil to be done wherever he trod. There was no justice in the lands. Roskel vowed to change that. On his travels he had discovered much about the lands, and much about himself. He would be a better man. No more womanizing. No more thievery. He would find himself a nice lady and marry, rule the lands with an even hand together with his friends. He thought it a good idea that the Stewards each spent some time seeing the country, meeting its people, to better understand what drove the common man, to see with their own eyes the struggles of the poor. Was it just that a selfish merchant could enjoy untold riches, while a poor woman with a good heart was reduced to working the streets? Was it justice that a wealthy man’s child stood a better chance at life than the child of the basest pauper? No. There was something wrong with Sturma. There was no balance.
Lofty ideals. Part of him longed to forget it all and roam the lands as an itinerant bard, spinning tales and singing songs. The Drayman could come with him. With his playing and Roskel’s tales they could make enough money to always have a roof over their heads and food in their bellies.
There was beauty in telling tales, true, but did it change the world? Perhaps, for a time, while the listener was transported into a make-believe world where wrongs were righted. They wanted to believe in a better world, one where the villain always got what he deserved and the hero got the girl. But it wasn’t true life. In real life, men died penniless in babbling agony in a side street, children coughed out their lungs with lung rot, warriors died, their tales unsung, on forgotten battlefields. The princess sometimes won the heart of a noble man, but just as often she was forced into a loveless marriage by her heartless father.
No, stories were powerful, but as a steward he could change more. Justice was his responsibility. It could not be shirked. It was a man’s lot to make difficult choices in his life. His would be a force for good. His experiences had taught him as much. You could not run from duty. Tarn had known that before Roskel had, but they had come to the same place. You could not outrun your fate, you could only face it with courage.
The Drayman pulled his horse alongside and they slowed as he stopped humming and the horses realised they had been running for nearly a whole day.
Ahead of them, like a dark blot on the countryside, was the length of the river Frana. Beyond that, the borders to Naeth.
Freedom and the end of their journey were finally in sight. Unfortunately, so was a vast army stretching across the wetlands, tents pitched and horses corralled. Smoke rose from cooking fires. It was an army waiting for an enemy. Roskel turned his head and looked behind him. To the far west, there was a hint of dust clouds rising on the dusky air. Another army, perhaps a day’s march distant.
He shook his head. So nearly home.
'Come, they are on our side. I think. I cannot see the banner from here, but they are arrayed facing the south. I think word of the false king has spread to the north lands and the armies of Naeth await the pleasure of the ‘King’. Let’s ride. I hope our reception will be friendly.'
The Drayman nodded, but touched Roskel’s arm.
What of me? Will they attack me for what I am? Soldiers of the north will know the face of a Drayman.
'Then you are my bodyguard and my man. I am the Lord Protector of these lands. At least, I was when I left. I hope things have not changed too much in my absence…'
You could be more reassuring.
Roskel realised the man was trying to convey humour.
He smiled. 'Trust me. I owe you my life. If need be, mine will be forfeit for yours. But I do not think it will come to that. Let’s ride. I think in the morning, or perhaps the morning after that, battle will be joined.'
The two horsemen rode toward the camped army, jouncing in the saddle at a cautious trot. It did not pay to gallop toward a group of soldiers.
Usually it was best to gallop away. It was unnatural to be going toward so many armed men, even if they were on his side.
Roskel hoped that was the truth of it.
*
Chapter Seventy
The Thane of Kar paced within the confines of his command tent. Savan Retrice, the hierarchy advisor, watched with satisfaction on his face.
'You are sure?'
The hierarch smiled because this man was such a coward. His outward appearance was that of a tyrant. He thought nothing of ordering a man to his death. He had fought along the border with the Draymar in his youth, but at his heart he was afraid. If the battle was not a sure thing he would never have attempted to take Naeth.
'I am sure. Commander Brant marched the western legion toward the rear of the enemy army. They will be crushed between two armies. None will escape. The Stewards are with the main army. They are fighting men. They believe a great commander leads from the front, but they are not commanders. They are just bandits. They have a battle commander, a man named Brallis. Gifted, but bested before by Brant. Brant is the better commander, although his men only number a thousand. He will shift the balance, and already we have close to seven thousand camped here, compared to a mere five thousand enemy. It is a foregone conclusion, my king. We will destroy them to a man.'
Orvane Wense paced some more. His head did not feel right. He had been suffering headaches, and he could not decide on his own anymore. Part of him knew that he left too much of the deciding to his advisor, but the man had never steered him wrong. He was reliable and his advice was always sound.
'Then we march?'
'I would suggest first light. We will be fresh enough when we muster before the banks of the Frana. Battle will be joined by midday.'
'I will lead the honour guard at the centre.'
'A fine plan, my lord. You will be visible to all, but protected. The crown will be a beacon. It will drive the men on. It is said men will rally to the crown.'
Wense sat down and sighed.
'I will be king of all Sturma! I will!'
'Yes, my king. After tomorrow, you will stand unopposed.'
'Now, leave me.'
Savan rose and left with a bow. Outside he took a deep breath. He could not wait for the battle. The cries of agony as men died would be ecstasy for him. He thrived on pain. It gave him strength. It was a rare opportunity among his kind to revel in death on such a scale.
He was lucky indeed. He left for some privacy. It was a long walk, but eventually he found a glade away from the light of t
he campfires. He waited for contact to come, then he reported to the Hierophant’s second-in-command.
He had lost favour with their leader, but soon he would be highly placed. His scheme was coming to fruition, and soon Sturma would be no more.
The air shimmered and the vision solidified.
He began to speak. He could not keep the excitement from his voice.
Clouds bunched in the darkening sky and his eyes glowed red as fire against the blackness.
*
Chapter Seventy-One
A small dog yapped at Roskel’s heels as he rode into the camp. The only light left was a small sliver of a waning moon and the orange glow of the campfires. They were unchallenged for a mile or so, until they were close to the heart of the camp. It seemed nobody expected an assassin to be so bold as to ride into a pitched army’s camp. Everybody could see they were armed. It was dark enough that the Drayman passed unnoticed. Finally their luck gave out and a patrol stepped in front of their horses.
'Halt!' said their leader forcefully. He was a gruff faced man well past his middle years. Roskel didn’t recognise him, but then he never had dealings with the various garrisons stationed throughout Naeth. They were Rohir’s domain. He had the way of talking to soldiers. Roskel had always been better at dealing with the Thanes and court business. His manner was more suited to their elegant way of speaking, and his naturally suspicious nature allowed him to see through the rosy words to the meaning behind, quite often thinly veiled barbs that passed the other stewards by.
Roskel and the Drayman complied. They allowed the soldiers to surround them. There would have been little he could have done to stop them, apart from committing suicide on their blades.
'Who are you, and what do you think you’re doing? Trotting in here like you own the place?'
Roskel pulled his hood back.
The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Page 19