The Queen of Thieves: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three

by Craig R. Saunders

  Ruan fought back to back, for a time, with one of his brothers.

  He swung, and killed and maimed. His brother fell, and a sword took Ruan through the back and out of his chest. He felt his blood failing, his song faltering. But he would not cease.

  With one last roar to let the Gods know he died without fear, he drove his sword through a Protocrat's arrmour, pulled it free while he pulled himself loose of the sword that had pierced his lungs, and turned, to face another attacker...

  He felt a blow to his neck. Blood fountained forth, spraying his own face. He stumbled, for a moment, seeing his brothers and sisters in the song fight on.

  So few left, he thought, as he died. So few.

  And yet, as he died, he smiled, for he had his voice. He had his honour.

  In the cold pass of Thaxamalan's Saw, the last of the Bladesingers fought to the death. When they were gone there would be no more Bladesingers, but their song would be sung in the halls of the Gods, beyond the Gates, for all time.

  *

  Chapter Seventy

  The land ran flat from the coast to Naeth. The enemy did not give chase to the routed Sturman forces, but seemed to be setting up great earthen fortifications some way inland. There was nothing hurried about the work. Why would there be? The Sturmen were no threat. Soon, maybe, subjugates, but never a threat.

  The first battle had shown that.

  Roskel could see their army massed from miles distant. At first his army had fled with little thought to organisation, but his commanders had finally managed to regain some sense of order, barking at their soldiers, hounding them down. Attempting, perhaps, to instill some mortal fear in them of the consequences should they desert. Even so, many were lost in the rush to escape, men who would never again return to battle. Not because they were cowards, either. Roskel could never think of them as cowards. Not now that he had seen those that opposed them.

  In the face of such might, the size of his army was pitiful.

  Roskel could have cried in despair, but he had done that once in a prison cell far beneath the surface, without the succor of the suns' light, waiting for death. Never again would he shed a tear for a hopeless cause.

  He heeled his horse and rode ahead of his shattered force.

  Wexel rode there, along with two Thanes.

  He nodded to the Thanes. They saw the expression on his face and took their leave.

  'Wexel,' he said, without preamble. 'Take charge. I'm going to ride ahead to the city. There's nothing more for me to do. We need to prepare for...well, we need to prepare.' He knew there was no winning, but that did not mean he would give in without a fight. If they could at least dent the enemy, bleed them a little...

  Folly, his mind told him, but he squashed the thought hard. Still, it bounced back, and with force.

  'They come from the east and the north, our armies are in disarray and...we cannot win.' Now he said as much out loud, he felt like a traitor to his country. To himself.

  'Don't talk like that,' said Wexel.

  'But it's true...it's true.'

  'Roskel...'

  'Don't, Wexel,' he said. 'I'm heart sore, and frightened. I'm the Lord Protector and I've just lost more than half my force in one engagement. I do not know what to do. I don't know!'

  'Damn it, Roskel, keep your voice down! The men are skittish enough. As many have deserted as were killed back on the beach.'

  Roskel shook his head.

  'You're right, Wexel. I'm not cut out for this. I'm a thief, nothing more.'

  Wexel hawked and spat. 'Nothing more? You stole the Crown of Kings, once. You survived gaol. You are The Queen of Thieves consort in all but name, and Lord Protector of Sturma. Grow a pair, man.'

  Roskel's mouth dropped open, for a second, and then he laughed. He couldn't help himself. It was a belly-laugh, full of genuine humour, and he could not help but let it out.

  Wexel grinned.

  'Inspirational, eh?' said Wexel.

  Roskel tried to stifle his laugh. In truth, there was no real reason for it. But it felt like release. Would it hearten the men? Make them think their leader callous?

  He found he did not care.

  As he and Wexel road on, their laugh dying to the occasional chuckle, a rider approached. The rider came from the south, and Roskel saw him approaching long before Wexel.

  'What's that?' he said, though he hoped...he hoped...

  The rider closed fast. He was covered in grime from the road. His horse's hooves kicked up clods of dirt and snow as he halted before the head of the Northern Armies.

  He bowed, no mean feat atop a horse.

  'Lord Farinder...'

  'Tough day?' said Roskel, and he and Wexel fell to laughing again. A crazy kind of laugh, maybe, but it felt good, nonetheless. The messenger stared uncomfortably at the Stewards, and eventually coughed to interrupt their mirth.

  Roskel looked up and behind the rider the suns came out, and with the sudden light and the snow white plain, he saw a vast mass of shining steel far to the south.

  A great force riding hard ahead of a long train of soldier on the march, further still to the south. A glorious sight. Roskel felt hope flutter in his heart.

  'Gods, Wexel,' said Roskel. 'I hope that's Redalane.'

  'It is, my lord,' said the messenger. 'He wants to know where you want his armies deployed.'

  Roskel laughed again. 'I hope to the Gods, young man, that he's going to tell me that.'

  *

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Roskel clasped hands with Redalane with such relief that the sight of the man nearly brought him to tears, where earlier he had been laughing hysterically.

  The man was old, but hale, and his hand dwarfed Roskel's.

  Roskel felt like a fraud in the face of the man who had fought in the Reconcilation Wars, a man who was born to leadership and battle.

  'What's happening?' said Redalane, without further preamble. He was not a man to bandy words. He, too, thought Roskel, had his share of heartache in the past. Redalane's son had been all but crippled, but his life had been saved by Tarn and Roskel. Redalane would forever be in their debt.

  Roskel felt no compunctions on calling on that debt right now.

  'Redalane,' he said. 'I need you to take charge of the army. I'm not a commander. I have no experience. I rode many men to their deaths on the beach and I would not do the same again. Will you? Will you take command?'

  Redalane grinned.

  'Thought you'd never ask,' he said. 'Now, tell me everything. I mean everything. The more we know about the enemy we face, the better chance we'll have.'

  'They have magic,' said Roskel. 'We had no counter...it was a slaughter.'

  Redalane frowned. 'Magic?'

  Roskel nodded.

  'Then we have no choice. We have a mutual friend...and we have a haven.'

  'A haven?'

  'Naeth, man. Don't you even know you're own castle?'

  'It's not really 'mine'...'

  'Good as,' said Redalane. 'Naeth is where we make our stand.'

  'A force comes from the north, too...Redalane, I fear it is hopeless.'

  'None of that talk, lad,' said Redalane, and for some reason those simple words heartened the Thief King.

  'None of that talk, because we aren't done yet. Now, we ride. We have plans to make, defences to build...'

  Redalane talked long on the journey back to Naeth. Roskel listened.

  He wondered...wondered if it could be done...

  But they had nothing to lose. Nothing at all, because the enemy was at the gates.

  *

  Part VI.

  The Enemy Before the Gates

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Rena had never seen a city, not in all her short life. Naeth was the first city she had ever visited, and yet still she did not see it as others would, but something entirely different. Her new sight was remarkable indeed.

  Her senses were alive with the city. The smells of a city were not the perfume of
the countryside that Rena was used to, but of sweat and sewage, and rot and mould, and old fruit on the roadside stalls. Off fish in the markets and bad breath of drunkards roaming the streets in the early evening light.

  Where the snow in the fields twinkled in the sunlight, here it was muddy and grey and slushy. And yet there was something undeniably beautiful about the city.

  The sounds of hawkers and shouts of guards and courtesans, the clink of coin changing hand and the brush of people close by as they passed. Yet none brushed Rena, for she was marked apart from others.

  Asram walked at her shoulder, silent, obviously uncomfortable in the city. But he did not mark Rena out as different, but her insistence on walking alone with a bandage around her missing eyes - a silk strip of bright red. It did not affect her vision at all, and she walked through the throng of people unerringly toward the castle gates, through the outlying areas, never faltering. People whispered as she passed, but she knew it was a time for witches and magic again on Sturman lands, and if these people found her strange, she did not care.

  She just wanted to see the throne upon which her lover had died. Her lover, her friend, and near the end, her husband, too. Her husband, Tarn, the Outlaw King to the people of Naeth, but more, so much more, to her.

  Rena's wounds were healed and she felt stronger. Her back did not hurt from carrying her babe. The babe, too, had grown and become more talkative on the journey, gurgling and giggling again, where for a time he had been quiet. She thought of all she had lost to come to this point in time, to come to this city. And now she realised that she had found much, too. Asram had become a friend upon whom she could rely. She knew her power, now, knew her strength. She had her babe.

  Together, Asram and Rena walked through the city's districts toward their ultimate goal. Through the Gates, the Merchants, and finally the Noble quarters, until together they stood before the castle gates. Asram took Rena's lead. She, in turn, waited for the guard to speak.

  'My lady?' said the guard, because he was confused by this beautiful, blind woman standing serenely before him. Though the armed man next to her had the look of the brigand about him, and gave the guard pause, the woman...

  She was arresting.

  'I am here to see the Lord Protector,' said Rena shortly. 'This is Asram Fell,' she said, then with a grin that Asram found quite becoming and startling, because he had yet to see a sense of humour in Rena, she added, 'And I am the Queen.'

  Rena stared at the man, and even though she had no eyes and proclaimed herself a queen, he did not laugh, but stepped aside and ushered her in.

  'My lady,' he said, instead, in the face of her determination. 'Master Fell. Please enter.'

  And it was Rena's turn to be surprised, but if she was to claim a throne, then she could not afford doubt.

  The Queen of Sturma that would have been entered the castle. Asram patted the shoulder of the guard as he passed. He looked slightly crestfallen, as though he was not entirely sure what had just happened.

  Asram knew how the poor man felt, because he, too, was in awe of this new woman who he thought he had known. It turned out he did not know her at all.

  Together, they strode through the castle's corridors, to meet their fate, whatever it may be.

  *

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Filcher, the young thief, sat on crossed legs in Durmont's chambers. Durmont, for his part, showed no surprise when the thief appeared, but offered the gaunt child an apple from a bowl on the table. Durmont had no doubt that Filcher could have taken the apple and eaten it without him being any the wiser, but he felt, as did all the castle, that the Queen of Thieves chosen emissary, this filthy urchin, was in need of feeding up and a little love. He was a mystery, but a good boy.

  'Thank you, and the lady, Filcher, for bringing me word.'

  'S'alright,' said the lad. 'Can I go now?'

  'You can.'

  'She'll be here about now,' said Filcher, and pushed himself from the floor to his feet in one supple motion.

  A knock came at the door and Durmont went to answer it, not supple in his movements at all. He was an old man, and he felt every year of it as he opened the door to his quarters and found a stunningly beautiful blind girl at his door. He turned his head and just caught Filcher dropping out of his window.

  'My lady,' said Durmont...'I should come to you.'

  'You are Durmont?' said Rena without preamble.

  'I am. And you, my queen...'

  'I do not intend to be queen for longer than it takes, Durmont. Please, Asram has told me of you. I would not have you bow and scrape to me.'

  'My lady. Where is Asram?'

  'He has gone to change and clean up, he said.'

  'And you?'

  'Time for that later. I need to see the Queen. Selana. Before Roskel returns. I hear the battle goes ill.'

  'I hear as much, too. I think the army is two days ride away. The enemy...I do not know.'

  'Then time is short. Can you take me to the Queen?'

  'Two Queens, eh?' said Filcher, who to Durmont's surprise had not left at all. 'Can do, M'Lady,' said the grubby child with a grin. 'What happened to your eyes?'

  Rena smiled. 'A witch burned them out.'

  'Cor,' said Filcher.

  'I'm a witch, too,' said Rena.

  'Cor,' he said again.

  'And give Durmont his purse back, won't you? Good lad.'

  'Sheez,' said Filcher, 'you're worse than her.'

  If he'd thought a blind woman an easy mark, he reassessed her very quickly.

  *

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  The suns had long set. In the darkness of Durmont's quarters a small candle burned in a long-tarnished pewter candlestick. Durmont read a missive by the light, still in the calm night. The candle flickered.

  'Filcher?' he asked.

  No reply, but the sense of movement behind him.

  Durmont was old, but he was not slow. Hierarch, he thought. He had a dagger at his hip. Before he could draw it a cold hand fell on his, immensely strong. Durmont could not move his hand at all. No Hierarch, this, he saw, looking at the hand that held him fast. 'Ah,' said Durmont, his voice remaining steady and dignified, as it always did. 'Shawford Crale, I presume?'

  'You're perceptive, for an old man,' said Crale. He released Durmont and stepped back. 'Durmont, yes?'

  Durmont nodded.

  'Now, there. We are acquainted.'

  'And I am no doubt poorer for the acquaintance.'

  'Have a care. You know, Durmont, nobody knows I am here.'

  'And would you feed?'

  'On you?' Crale laughed with genuine humour. 'I don't think you're my type.'

  'To business, then?'

  'You seem well informed,' said Crale.

  'A mutual...friend...informed me that you would be visiting. As the Lord Protector and you have something of a history, I merely surmised that you would deliver the package in a round-about manner...'

  Crale smiled. 'You have a pretty way of speaking. I like it. No more bandying, then, eh? To business. I have the Crown of Kings. I wish nothing in return.'

  'Nor shall you get it,' said Durmont calmly, though his old heart fluttered in his chest.

  'Save one thing,' said Crale. 'Pass on my apologies to Lord Farinder, and my regards to the Lady. My service is done. I would not have the Lord's enmity any longer...I believe it would not prove prudent in the future.'

  Durmont considered this for a moment.

  'I will pass along your message and your apology for Lord Farinder's unfortunate detainment with your lovely wife.'

  Crale smiled again.

  'Then, Durmont. I wish you good eve.'

  'I would say the same, but I fear someone will not make it through the night.'

  'Worry not, Durmont. I shall not feed in your city.'

  Durmont could not bring himself to thank the fiend.

  'I'll see myself out,' said Crale, and stepped from the window of Durmont's room, as though it
were on the first floor rather than atop the eastern tower.

  'I shall have to do something about that window,' he said to himself once his racing heartbeat had slowed. 'It might as well be a bloody door.'

  He looked at the sack the Crale had left upon the floor. The Crown of Kings. He knew enough about the Crown to leave it be. It was a fey artefact, and he'd had his fill of fey for one night.

  'I do hope you know what you're doing,' he said. But he wasn't entirely sure who he meant. Roskel, or The Queen.

  Both, perhaps.

  *

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Asram and Rena stood before the Queen of Thieves, in the Queen's domain under the city. It was a simple room, with a bare kind of luxury. A beautiful room. A room, Rena didn't doubt, that few ever saw.

  She wasn't sure, but she thought that Asram was a little afraid - the first time she had sensed such fear in her stoic protector. Possibly it was being in the presence of the Queen, though, dressed as she was. Selana wore next to nothing in her own chambers, and what she did wear was practically see-through.

  'Asram,' said Selana, 'You have done a remarkable job, and one to be rewarded, I think. Bringing Rena and the babe all this way, and by and large unscathed...well, baring the loss of an eye or two...a feat unparalleled.'

  Rena felt the Queen made light of the loss of her eyes, but she herself had taken it in her stride, too. It was nothing to joke about, though. The fact that she could see well enough, in her strange manner, was beside the point. She had lost her eyes.

  But Selana looked at her and smiled, softening the slight. Rena was not immune to the Queen's glamours. She smiled back.

  'Asram, we will talk more of your reward in the coming days, but your job is not done, not yet. Lord Farinder returns shortly and he will need men at arms. I charge you to protect him upon the field. Rena will be my charge from here on out.'