What?
War?
He nodded to himself.
'Yes,' he said softly. 'Yes.'
And he knew he was right.
*
Chapter Two
The Skald, Rualanon Mar’ganathis Mar’ganathor Am’belain, Blade Singer of the Draymar nation, First Knight of Sturma and friend to Roskel Farinder, watched the strange lights in the northern sky. A fire seemed to burn in the distant north behind the mountains known as Thaxamalan's Saw.
For three nights now the Drayman watched the lights. He sat with his legs crossed, his curved blade laid across his knees. Under the meagre shelter of a tree, he would sit all day, until nightfall and the coming of the lights. He could feel the taint of dark magic even this many miles south of the source. Ruan the Skald was attuned to magic and all its guises as few others on the land of Sturma.
There was no magic on these shores, save for witches and the Blade Singers of the Draymen.
Fey magic, foul magic, drifted south on the cold winter winds.
They were coming, he knew. The Hierarchy. An enemy of which the Sturmen knew far too little.
Too little, and too late, because they were coming in force and there were none left in these lands to oppose such an army that would surely be massing in the freezing wastes of the northlands, the uncharted territory of ice and snow.
No one on these lands could oppose such a force...but just maybe, thought the Drayman...
Just maybe he could make a difference, because his people were different. He was a Blade Singer. He was not defenceless against foul magics. He was not without power himself.
He was from a different people to the Sturmen. A powerful man, yes. An exile from his own clan, but also a man who had won back his honour, not with his blade, but with his heart. In his own eyes, he was whole again. But in the eyes of his people?
He was just one man.
A man with honour among the Sturmen, but an exile, still.
But you are not the last of your kind, thought Ruan.
Gods, he hated that voice, that voice of reason, reminding him of his shame.
For all his shame, could he return to his own people and leave this foreign land that he now called home to beg for their aid? An outcast, asking his people to send forth an army against an unstoppable tide, all to save their hated neighbouring country?
Could it be done?
Ruan did not know. But there was little choice. Without the Draymen, this land, his adopted people, would perish in the flames of the hierarchs that would march. The Hierarchy would scour Sturma of all life with their dark magic and their force of arms.
Why, he did not know. Why this strange race were so bent on destroying Sturma was a mystery to him. Yet it was his fight. It became so when Roskel Farinder, the Thief King and his truest friend became his liege Lord.
Could he face his people again?
He laughed.
You're a man of honour, he thought. And that was ever his undoing.
Did he have a choice?
Ruan bowed his head, humming a soulful tune to himself, with the cold wind blowing in soft snows and the strange light dancing all along the horizon.
He stared into the dark behind him, his new country laid out there. He looked to the west, where the Draymar nation waited. And in the north, those dancing lights.
The Drayman thought for a long time. Long into the night. While he though, he barely realised that he was plaiting his own beard, as was the custom of his people. Becoming Drayman in appearance, after so long trying to adopt the customs of the Sturmen.
He realised as his nimble fingers worked his beard into his native style, that he was decided.
He pushed himself to his feet. He sheathed his sword and mounted his patient horse. With a gentle nudge he heeled the mare, a gift from Farinder, called Minstrel, and set out for the west.
His people would come, or he would not return. He could not bear the shame that had made him take his own tongue. Once, he had made a fateful decision to save the people of a village and in turn caused their deaths. This was his shame. It would not have been forgotten.
But he had to try. Because he was a man of honour. Always, always, honour before self.
He hummed softly again. This time a different tune. The mare responded to the magic and the will in Ruan's song and picked up speed. She continued to run, tireless, across the northern plains, faster and faster toward the mountains and the borders of Ruan's homeland. Minstrel's breath frosted the air, and snowfall melted against her flanks, as Ruan rode her through Sturma's early winter, onward, toward Draymar.
*
Chapter Three
Roskel looked sadly at the empty throne. The throne was a simple thing. Wooden, plain...perhaps unimpressive to those who did not know the long history behind it. Tarn had known, when he wore the crown and sat upon it, feeling the power of history seep though his bones.
But the last person to sit upon that throne, Tarn, the Outlaw King, had also died on it.
'I wish you were here, my friend. It is a time for warriors, not for bards and thieves,' said Roskel quietly, wishing things could have been different. Wishing so much for a simpler life, perhaps, perhaps even for a return to anonymity and the freedom of a rooftop chase.
'Talking to yourself again?'
Roskel turned to see his fellow Stewards Rohir and Wexel approaching across the throne room. Both men had suffered grievous injuries in their many battles to power, but they were hale now, and though scarred and gruff they were Roskel's staunch supporters, and more, supporters of the land.
'Just missing a good friend.'
'A good man, too,' agreed Rohir, nodding toward the empty throne that should have seated the Outlaw King.
Roskel sighed. 'Enough,' he said. 'I'm getting maudlin.'
The two rough men grunted. It was enough.
'Is Durmont coming?' asked Wexel.
'He said he would.'
At the mention of his name Durmont, secretary and advisor to the Stewards, walked into the throne room. He walked slowly, but silently, as though accustomed to only being seen when he wanted to be. The man had a knack for appearing whenever he was needed - and sometimes when he wasn't. Roskel had no idea of the man's age, but he worked tirelessly for Sturma, despite his grey hair and slight, arthritic hips. The man was a constant fixture around Naeth castle.
And indispensible, thought Roskel. Without Durmont's tireless service and wise council the nation may very well have fallen apart long before now. Roskel was well aware of the debt that the country owed this aged man.
'Durmont, I'm glad to see you here. We greatly need your council. As always.'
'The lights in the sky?' said the old man, with a wry grin. 'You need no council from me. It is already decided, is it not?'
'Perceptive, as always,' said Roskel. 'I did not want to presume, Durmont. Should things have been different, you know you would have been elevated to Protector long ago...alas...we three are doomed to lofty heights.'
'I think my position is lofty enough, Lord Farinder. I wish nothing more than to serve.'
Roskel nodded. He'd clap the old man on the back, but he wasn't sure it would be welcome. Durmont was the very definition of comportment. Back slapping would probably result in a severe frown and a dressing-down, Lord Protector of Sturma or not.
'So, it seems the future we feared would come to pass is already here. Wexel, Rohir? Are we all in agreement?'
'Yes,' said both men as one.
'Then, Durmont...send word. The Lord Protector of the Sturma calls the Thanes to arms. We muster north, winter or no. I feel...as do we all...that the enemy is coming. What else the lights could mean but great magic, I do not know.'
Durmont bowed with a grim expression on his face. 'It saddens me, but it will be as you will. And Gods help us, for we go to war.'
Durmont turned on his heel and left the room. Roskel watched him as he went, his walk proud and upright though he could see the pain it caused the man. Durmont closed
the doors to the throne room behind him, shutting out most of the light.
Roskel, his senses attuned like no other in the room, then smelled something amiss before he heard or saw anything.
There could only be one person whose smell would give him away...indiscernable to the others, perhaps, but Roskel paid attention to everything he could and still counted himself among the living because of it.
'Filcher,' he said, with a tired sigh.
A small, thin boy emerged from the shadows with a sheepish grin. He was missing a tooth or two, even at his age. Roskel had yet to determine how old the child was - he seemed to small, too wiry, to be fourteen, as the lad claimed. Roskel suspected despite the boy's slim years that he'd seen a thing or two, and lived beyond the span of years a child of his station could reasonably expect. Filcher was a boy born to survive...and an emissary of the most powerful woman on Sturma for a reason.
'You always catch me out, Lord Protector.'
'Filcher,' Roskel said to the child thief. 'Get word to Queen Selana. I need to see her.'
'You're welcome anytime, my Lord. You know that.'
'I also know at what price the Queen's favours. No, I'd rather arrive announced, if it's all the same to you, Filcher. And give the guard on the door his purse back on your way out.' Rohir laughed. 'Don't know how you do it, Filcher,' he said to the grubby child.
'Sneaky bastard, my Lord,' said Filcher with a shrug. 'It's a talent.'
'And a fine one. Now, go, and bring me word of the Queen. I have need of her.'
'As you will,' said Filcher, and then he was gone.
'Gods help you, Roskel,' said Rohir, 'You're messing with the Queen of Thieves. You're playing a dangerous game.'
'Aye,' said Wexel. 'And apt to get burned.'
'But,' said Roskel with more bravado than he felt, 'Such a sweet fire.'
They parted ways, leaving Roskel alone in the throne room once more, looking, as he had been, sadly at the throne. He wished he could take council with his old friend. Rohir and Wexel were great friends and allies, but he could not talk to them about...women. About the Queen. He could sorely use council.
'But I'm not going to get it, am I?' he said to the throne with a deep sigh.
Sometimes it was hard being at the top. Though it seemed like everyone was beneath you, in reality there was no one to catch you should you fall.
- end -
About the Author
Craig Saunders is the author of over thirty novels and novellas, including 'Masters of Blood and Bone', 'The Estate' and 'Deadlift'. He writes across many genres, but horror, humour (the 'Spiggot' series) and fantasy (the 'Rythe' tales) are his favourites.
Craig lives in Norfolk, England, with his wife and children, likes nice people and good coffee. Find out more on Amazon, or visit:
www.craigrsaunders.blogspot.com
www.facebook.com/craigrsaundersauthor
@Grumblesprout
Also by Craig Saunders
Novels
Left to Darkness (Oblivion Series #1)
Masters of Blood and Bone
The Estate
A Home by the Sea
Rain
The Noose and Gibbet
A Stranger's Grave
The Love of the Dead
Spiggot
Spiggot, Too
The Seven Point Star
The Gold Ring
Days of Christmas: A Sarah House Novel
Novellas
Flesh and Coin
Bloodeye
Deadlift
A Scarecrow to Watch over Her
The Walls of Madness
Insulation
Short Story Collections
Dead in the Trunk
Angels in Black and White
Dark Words and Black Deeds
Writing as C. R. Saunders:
Vigil
Writing as Craig R. Saunders:
The Outlaw King (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One)
The Thief King (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two)
The Queen of Thieves (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three)
Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Quadrilogy Book One)
The Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Quadrilogy Book Two)
Rythe Falls (The Rythe Quadrilogy Book Three)
Coming Soon:
Unit 731
The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Page 24