The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two

by Craig R. Saunders

  'Alright,' said Roskel irritably, 'Don’t rub it in.'

  'Wouldn’t dream of it,' said Rohir with a cheeky grin. 'It’s rather fetching. I imagine you will start a new fashion.'

  'Thank you,' he said. There really wasn’t any point in arguing. Hopefully by midday he would be a hero. Or dead. He’d rather be a hero. But only just.

  'Well, gentlemen,' said Roskel. 'Shall we see about cracking a few heads?'

  'Sounds good,' said Wexel, and drew his sword.

  Rohir’s great sword was already in his hand.

  'On my order then,' said the thief, his voice steady. He should be afraid, he knew, but he was not. He was excited.

  As one, the three men raised their swords high in the air for the men behind to see.

  Archers stepped forward and the cavalry came to the front. The sounds were crisp and clean. The colours were vibrant. Everything seemed to slow in that instant.

  Roskel saw the false king sitting proudly on a horse, surrounded by his men liveried in black tabards. In front of him were three ranks of foot soldiers, pikemen to the front. On each flank of the enemy’s army were two legions of cavalry. Archers were at the rear of the line, protected by the men.

  It was surprising. At the moments of utmost peril, the mind focused on everything. Time seemed to slow.

  Roskel wanted to bring his sword down, to start the charge, but his arm would not move. It wasn’t fear. He felt no fear. Then he realised it was descending, as were Rohir’s and Wexel’s blades. Then his charger reared underneath him and the battle had begun.

  The pounding of hooves was thunderous. Arrows arced out over the river, flying in a dark cloud toward the enemy. They brought their shields to bear but a few arrows made their mark. The second flight of arrows was loosed, and then the enemy fired on the charging forces of Naeth as they came into range, when they were half way across the river.

  This was folly, Roskel’s mind told him. The horse splashed through the river, slowing as it battled against the weight of the water. Roskel was soaked through to the knee and the water was freezing.

  Behind him, archers ran half way across the river and unleashed a barrage of missiles into the morning sky, darkening it for brief seconds. Then the black charger Roskel rode reached the front line of soldiers and the arrows ceased.

  There was a moment of calm before they clashed. The moment stretched in Roskel’s mind. He would always remember it. The men before him looked grim and determined, but frightened, too. Some were young, some were old, but even though they were soldiers, they feared death. A soldier’s bright blue eyes pierced him and he pulled his sword back. The strength of the dead king flowed through his muscles. He swept the sword down and cut deep into the soldiers face. Suddenly there was blood flying and the blue eyes were forgotten.

  Screams and shouts of rage, fear and pain rent the morning’s calm. Foot soldiers drove in behind the cavalry, battling against the Thane of Kar’s lines. The fighting was fearsome in intensity. The men of Naeth had readied their hearts for this battle. The men of Kar were not so fortunate. They had expected an easy fight, with the enemy in confusion. Instead the fight had come to them.

  Each inch seemed to take a great toll in life. Bodies littered the ground within the first few minutes of the confrontation, but the ploy was working. The suddenness of the driving wedge at the heart of the enemy’s lines broke the centre. The enemy cavalry were too far removed to reach Roskel’s arrowhead as it pushed toward the Thane of Kar, wearing his fake crown, shouting orders to his commanders.

  Eventually the enemy’s horsemen reached Roskel and his warriors, stalling their attack as they were forced to defend the rear, too. Naeth's archers could not attack, for fear of hitting their own warriors.

  Roskel’s sword hacked and slashed. As expected, he became a beacon at the heart of the attack. The Drayman protected the thief’s back, Rohir and Wexel crushed the enemy on both sides.

  Blades dripping blood fell and blood flowed freely. Roskel himself bled from three cuts to his thighs, one deep. He was still strong and his sword arm swift. The seven forms could be adapted to a horseman, but his legs were unprotected. His blood ran down his calf and pooled in his boot. He was unaware of his injuries, though. Blood lust was on him. This was why bards still sang of battles, not because of the wounded and the terrible screams of the dying men, but because of the bravery and the passion.

  Roskel fought with ferocity and his men rallied to him. His gleaming head stood out and his men drove forward, drove toward the heart of the enemy’s forces. Roskel could see the Thane of Kar now. He could see the recognition in his face, and the fear, too. The Thane had expected Roskel to be dead, yet here the thief was, laying into the enemy’s elite soldiers.

  For the first time Roskel faced a horseman. They battled flank to flank. Roskel took a thrust in his left shoulder and his arm fell dead. Suddenly his balance was off and he missed an opening, to take another thrust on his unprotected cheek. Then the swordsman overbalanced and Roskel’s charger knocked him down. He flailed in the saddle and Roskel drove the point of the curved sword into the man’s unprotected groin. The horseman fell to the ground where he was trampled.

  There was an instant of calm. He looked around and saw that Wexel had been unhorsed. He was laying into horsemen left and right with his great sword. It had the reach to be a match for a mounted man. A soldier charged at him but the Drayman was there, sword flashing and the man fell before he could reach the Lord Protector. Roskel turned and looked for the Thane of Kar.

  He was shouting to be heard over the clamour of steel on steel. Roskel wasted no more time. It was as though a tunnel opened up before him. The black clad soldiers were drawn into battle by the driving cavalry of Naeth. Roskel urged the horse into a run and swung his sword. A man stumbled and fell in front of him but the charger just rode over him.

  The false king saw the danger and turned to flee, but in the centre of his lines he was surrounded by a whirling storm. There was no way to escape. Grim determination on his face he wheeled his own horse round to charge at Roskel. The thief lowered his sword, point facing forward like a lance. The Thane of Kar did the same and they charged full speed at one another. Mud flew in the air from the horses’ hooves. Roskel was aware of his shoulder, shooting pain in the joint making his good arm shake.

  The boar, came the words in his mind. At the last moment he switched and pulled the sword away, swaying as the Thane of Kar’s sword passed, sliding from his chain tabard. As the man passed, Roskel’s blade spun and fell.

  He pulled up and turned, the charger reacting instantly to his knees. He could no longer hold the reins with his hand.

  The Thane of Kar was unhorsed, lying on the ground face down. His head, and the false crown, were split in two.

  *

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  The Drayman saw the alien, the force behind the Thane of Kar, running for his life through the rear of the lines. With his song, he called men to him and rode hard after the man.

  He rode faster than he ever had, gaining all the time. He raised his borrowed sword high.

  The man that was not a man turned and the Drayman was satisfied to see fear on his face.

  Then the man was shouting something as he ran, in an unknown language that even the Drayman could not understand. His ears burned from the arcane, evil magic that it released.

  Then the air before the running man shimmered and he dived into the open air…and disappeared.

  Before he went the Drayman saw a strange room, with candles burning and dark windows, even though it was morning.

  He halted his horse and listened with all his powers. There was a tinkling and an eerie wailing, like hungry ghosts, then the sound of the battle returned. To his ears he could make out the change in the fighting. The battle was slowing.

  He turned and trotted back, the bewildered soldiers following him. Roskel stood in a growing circle of calm a hundred feet away. He had dismounted and was holding the broken crow
n in his hands. He looked shocked, too. His mouth was slack and he bled from numerous wounds, but he still stood.

  The Drayman stopped next to him, and laid a hand on Roskel’s shoulder.

  You can stop it now. You know what to do.

  Roskel turned slowly, blinking, as if only just coming to realise what he had achieved.

  With the Drayman’s help he mounted his charger.

  'Will you lend my words power?'

  The Drayman looked into Roskel’s eyes and smiled.

  Yes.

  Side by side, the Drayman’s hand on Roskel’s shoulder, the two men stared out at the battle. There was a different tone to it, even to Roskel’s untalented ears. There were only small pockets of fighting now. But time to end it. Enough men had died needlessly this day.

  'The false king is dead! Lay down your arms!'

  His voice boomed like thunder. It carried to the furthest reaches of the battlefield. Early black mirs feasting on the dead burst into the air, startled from their pickings.

  Slowly, the sounds of steel clashing with steel slowed.

  'Cease!' ordered the Lord Protector, his voice lent unnatural strength by the Drayman’s arts.

  Silence fell, and eyes turned to the source of the powerful voice. Roskel held the crown high.

  'The false king is slain by my hand. I am Roskel Farinder, Lord Protector and Steward of the Sturman crown. Justice has been done. Let there be no more killing this day!'

  The enemy fell quiet and backed away from the soldiers of Naeth. No man raised his sword as the enemy retreated warily, each side watching the other for any indication that they would continue fighting.

  The words Roskel spoke had power because of the Drayman’s power. They were amplified, feelings sent out on the waves of sound, truth and trust in his every word.

  'The crown is destroyed. From this day forth none will wear the crown until one who is worthy comes again. This is my will. This is the law. From this day forward there is no king. Let no man raise himself up until the crown is whole again and the line of kings returns to this land. My will is the law! All soldiers who fought under Kar are pardoned, save the Thane of Ulbridge. He is stripped of his title and his life is forfeit. A reward to any man who brings him before me. No other man will be punished for their part in this war. Return to your homes and come not again against the Stewards of Sturma, or face your destruction.'

  The men looked at each other. The soldiers of Naeth stepped forward and disarmed each man.

  Slowly, a flood a soldiers headed to the south, flowing around the circle that surrounded Roskel. They looked dejected, but they didn’t look as if they wanted to fight.

  In an hour or so, during which time Wexel and Rohir, and the Thanes of Mardon and Carmille arrived, Roskel watched the enemy leave.

  They were not the enemy. The true enemy had escaped, and the Thane of Ulbridge had not been found. He had escaped justice, too. But he would not get far. Already soldiers were hunting him, scouring the lands to the south.

  Roskel sighed and shifted his shoulder. He needed attention, but the men needed to see him, too.

  All the commanders arrived, then the soldiers crowded in a vast circle around Roskel. He looked out over his forces.

  He was proud, but more than anything, he was tired. Tired of the constant battle to do right and see justice reign over the land of his fathers.

  'Men of Naeth. Men of Sturma! Today a great victory has been won!'

  A cheer went up.

  'We stand against an ancient enemy. Our war is not done. We must be vigilant. But I will be here to protect you. I am tireless in the fight. We fight for justice!'

  'Will you not be our king?' said the Thane of Carmille loudly enough so that the front ranks of soldier could hear. They answered with a joyful cry, echoing the thought.

  'I will not! When the king comes again, you will know it. I will be no Thief King, but a guide in the coming years. Let there be no more talk of kings this day. Tend to the wounded and clear the dead. Tonight we toast their memory, and celebrate a great victory!'

  The men shouted loudly and waved their swords in the air.

  Then Roskel fell from his horse and passed out.

  *

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Roskel woke with daylight streaming through the tent. He’d had the strangest dream. The Queen of Thieves had held his head in her arms and sung to him, a lulling tune that soothed his pain away and made him sleep.

  He tested his arm and his legs. They were bound tight, his arm in a sling across his chest so he could not lift it. It was painful, but not as bad as he expected it to be.

  The Drayman woke and turned toward his friend.

  Good Morning, he seemed to say with his smile.

  Roskel smiled back. He pushed himself from the bedroll and with a flick of his head, indicated that they should leave the tent. Picking up the Drayman’s sword he walked gingerly toward the fresh air.

  He pushed open the flap and stepped out to hundreds of eager faces watching him, then a great cheer went up and a chant of ‘Hail, the Lord Protector,' which while not very catchy was quite sweet, he thought.

  'And a fair morning to you all!' he shouted with a smile for his men.

  Rohir and Wexel stood before him.

  'Today we ride for Naeth. But before I go, I want witnesses. I elevate the Drayman to First Knight of Sturma, protector of the Stewards. Who will witness it?'

  All the men had heard stories of the Drayman by now, and those who had not, had seen his prowess in battle.

  'Aye!' came the reply from a hundred men or more.'

  'Then, Drayman, I name you First Knight, from this day forward you carry the honour of the Stewards, and your line after you. Will you accept?'

  The Drayman nodded.

  Roskel held out his sword to him.

  'Your honour is your own,' he said, just so that the Drayman alone could hear him.

  A tear appeared in the Drayman’s eyes.

  He touched Roskel’s hand as he took back his sword and accepted his new role.

  I am outcast no longer. My name is Rualanon Mar’ganathis Mar’ganathor Am’belain. You may call me Ruan. You have my name. My honour is yours.

  'Hell of a name. You certainly earned it,' said Roskel with a wide grin.

  'Soldiers of Naeth, I present to you Rual, bladesinger and First Knight! Let the name be sung throughout our city and his deeds told.'

  Roskel smiled and clasped hands with his friends and allies.

  By nightfall, he was in his bed, and there was no place he would rather have been.

  He fell to sleep, and the Queen of Thieves stepped from the shadows and watched him sleep with great interest.

  'You have become a man at last, my dandy. I think I shall have to watch you carefully,' she said while he slept.

  'A man in many ways, my beauty…perhaps one day I will show you them all,' Roskel said with a wink, then closed his eyes and slipped back into slumber.

  Selana smiled and melted back into the shadows.

  Yes, she thought, a man of many qualities. But still with the confidence of the braggart and dandy he had been when she first met him. She would make him worthy yet.

  *

  Epilogue

  Savan emerged in the portal room, gasping for breath and facing the Hierophant.

  Pure rage burned in the Hierophant's eyes. Retrice hoped for mercy.

  'You have failed.'

  'I…'

  'No excuses, bastard child. You will burn for this.'

  'No!' cried the hierarch, and threw himself on the ground.

  The Hierophant’s eyes glowed with the power of an inferno, and Savan was suddenly engulfed in flame.

  The Hierophant had no mercy. He was nothing but a creature of hate.

  'Burn, and live!' the Hierophant cursed him, and turned on his heel, leaving his disappointing son, his only child, to roast for the rest of his life.

  The screams followed him as he took the stairs t
o the top of his tower in angry strides.

  Subtlety was lost on the barbarians. Already he had wasted too much time on them. The hierophant made a short incantation, his red eyes glowing brighter than his son's burning, screaming form, and then he was gone.

  In an instant, he appeared before the council of the Protectorate, the Hierarch's army.

  'It is time to prepare for war,' he said.

  *

  The Island Archives

  The Stewards of the Crown

  (The War of Reconcilation onwards)

  Cast

  Major

  Roskel Farinder - Bard of little repute, Lord Steward, Protector of the Realm, Keeper of the Crown. Baldy.

  Minor

  Darwell Redd - Old friend of Roskel Farinder and proprietor of The Blushing Drunk.

  Durmont - A stalwart ally of the forces of light.

  Ellisindre - Shh. She's a vampire, but it's a secret. Wife to Shawford Crale.

  Filcher - Cheeky little rapscallion. Messenger in the employ/Thrall of the Queen of Thieves.

  Frear - I'm surprised you remember her. I don't.

  Larny Cole - Lonesome farmer. Loves goats.

  Mar - Leader of Haven.

  Rohir - Steward/Brought back to life by priests following an attack by a Hierarch assassin.

  Tarn - The Outlaw King.

  Wexel - Steward/Big Sword/Previously grievously wounded in battle for Naeth Castle by a Protocrat warrior. Suffers from warts and collywobbles and grout on Thursdays.

  Yargreat - Artisan in the employ of the Thieves' Covenant.

  Sam Durnborn - Good man in a pinch, that Sam. You know where you stand with a Sam. Reliable, stout fellow. Unless he's a girl.

  Savan Retrice - Hierarch. Former Spy Master under the Thane of Naeth. Currently roasting for all eternity, but prior to his eternal damnation guided the Thane of Kar toward war.