The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (42 page)

            ‘They
do, and I have already requested such assistance, but I thought it best to keep
it to myself.’

            ‘You
could have told me,' said Wexel.

            ‘I
could, but you worry more than a mother hen over a chick.’

            A
discreet grin surfaced on Durmont’s face, but he hid it well beneath his usual
guarded demeanour.

            ‘If
you will excuse me, I will perform my duties.’

            ‘As
you see fit,’ said Wexel.

            Durmont
left, and Roskel said to Wexel, 'I’m going to see Rohir. Can I leave the
country in your capable hands?'

            ‘If
you don’t mind me raiding the coffers for money for a whore.'

            ‘Courtesans,
now, my friend. We have to think like one befitting our station.'

            Wexel
grunted. 'Give Rohir my regards.'

            'If
I can get past the stink.'

*

Chapter
Two

Roskel
left Wexel and headed down the hall alone. He was greeted by a barrage of
servants and minor functionaries all wishing him a good afternoon. When he
first accepted Tarn’s duties he had revelled in the attentions of the castle’s
denizens, enjoyed being a man of sudden power, and his sway over the many cute
serving girls and cleaners of the castle. Now he wished for the freedom of the
cities rooftops, the freedom to break into a house and steal a gem or bauble
and the rush of running from the guard. Now his treasury outweighed the value
of any thousand necklaces he could steal, and the guard would not chase him
because he was their boss.

            He
swore, then apologised to a serving maid, who in turn apologised to him for
intruding.

            Bloody
hell, he thought to himself. I can’t even swear without getting told what’s
what. He longed for a conquest, some anonymity, and a pair of stealthy boots
instead of these ridiculous sequined boots he wore after the latest fashions.
He did look the dandy in his frilled shirt, but he’d still swap it all for a
jig and a chase across the rooftops and down the back alleys.

            He
took his time over the stairs, and for fun snuck past a maid and hid in the
shadows of a stairwell as a scribe passed, unaware of the Steward of the country
playing the thief as he walked about his duties, no doubt wishing he was in the
guard and could attract the ladies.

            It
was good to keep in practice. He melded with the shadows and drew his dagger,
as if waiting for the next mark to come past.

            Durmont
came up the stairs. Roskel stilled his breath.

            Durmont
looked straight at him.

            'Really,
Lord Farinder, I would have thought such games beneath one of your station.’

            Roskel
put his blade away with a sheepish grin and a shake of the head. 'Every time, Durmont.
How do you do it?'

            'That
would be telling, my Lord.’ Durmont walked off, the picture of deportment,
although Roskel thought he might be hiding a smile behind his hand.

            ‘Bloody
man, spoils my fun every time.’

            Good
job he’d never tried stealing from Durmont back in his thieving days, or he’d
have been in some untidy dungeon whiling the hours away.

            He
finished climbing the stairs and walked for a minute along cold hallways. He
wished for summer, but autumn was just beginning and there was no hope of
respite from the unrelenting cold of the castle. At least his own rooms were
warm with hangings and fur.

            Roskel
came before Rohir’s apartments.

            He
knocked.

            ‘Come
in,’ called the gruff warrior.

            Roskel
pushed open the door.

            ‘I
heard you were indisposed.’

            ‘Come
a little closer.’

            The
shades were pulled. Something seemed ajar to Roskel.

            As
he approached Rohir leapt from the bed and the man’s ever present sword was in
his hands. His own jewelled dagger was in his hand in a blink of an eye. It was
a ridiculous thing, far too heavy in the hilt for dirty work, but the blade was
sharp.

            'Rohir,
what are you doing?!'

            Rohir’s
reply was a frightening growl.

            'Stop
this madness at once!'

            The
big warrior’s sword did Rohir’s talking for him. Roskel nimbly jumped aside. He
wasn’t so jaded a thief that he couldn’t see murder in a man’s eyes. If he had
any doubt that his friend had gone insane it was soon dispelled. The heavy
blade sliced the front of his shirt.

            Roskel
feinted to the left and slashed to the right, his own dagger slicing deep.
Rohir stumbled for a moment, blood flowing freely.

            Rohir’s
face began to change, his features becoming longer, his hair growing, and his
shoulders shrinking.

            ‘What
sorcery is this?’ Roskel whispered. ‘What are you, creature?’

            The
creature snarled and attacked once more, but there was no more hesitation in
Roskel’s mind. He had held back while he thought his attacker was his friend,
somehow gone insane, but no longer. As the impostor threw itself toward him he
dropped to one knee, below a clumsy slash, and drove his dagger into the
thing’s heart.

            The
glamour that had surrounded the creature faded completely.

            The
thing’s body grew in stature, thinning until nearly gaunt, but underneath the
jerkin it wore there was strength in the long muscles. It was creature Roskel
knew only too well. He had fought them before, and despised everything they
stood for.

            'Brindle's
horn!' he swore. The creature was
hierarch
, and no man.

            They
were back, and they were in the castle.

            He
dashed to the door, fear lending him urgency he had felt until this moment. If
there was one there could be others, and they could be wearing any face they
chose.

            ‘Guards!’
he called, and as soon as he heard footsteps pounding along the corridor he
ducked back into the apartment.

            ‘Rohir!’
He called. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. If the thing had
taken Rohir’s countenance, surely it would also have taken his life.

            He
searched in the garderobe and found Rohir bleeding but alive, sprawled before
his toilet.

            Roskel
wasted no time. He swiftly cut the shirt from his friend with his dagger, which
he still had drawn, just as a soldier barged through, sword held at the ready.

            ‘Oh...
My lord Steward, what has happened?’

            Roskel
pushed his hands against the wound in his friend's chest. Rohir groaned but
otherwise did not stir.

            ‘Alert
the guard, Drake, there may be more of those things in the bedrooms. They could
look like anybody. They have powers of sorcery unheard of in all but tall
tales. Tell the men to watch for anything suspicious.’

            ‘What
is it?’

            ‘They
are called Hierarchs. I do not know where they come from, but they are a deadly
enemy. Capture one if you can, but do not risk yourselves. And call a priest.’

            ‘At
once.’

            ‘And
Drake?’

            ‘Yes?’

            ‘Breath
a word of where you found him and I’ll post you in Pulhuth watching for Feewar
ships.’

            ‘Yes,
my lord.’

            Drake
was had a good head on his shoulders. It was a good job, because Roskel
couldn’t take his hand from the grievous wound in his friend's chest. The blood
was covering the floor now, and his hands were slick with it.

            Rohir
coughed and opened his eyes.

            ‘Stay
still, my friend. You bleed badly.’

            Rohir
just nodded and sunk his head back to the flagstones.

            ‘Bloody
creatures,' groaned Rohir. 'I thought we’d seen the last of them.’

            ‘Not
by a long shot,’ said Roskel. ‘Now shut up and stay still.’

            He
felt like crying. The blood was slowing. He didn’t think the bleeding was
slowing because of anything he was doing. It was more that most of it was
already out.

            ‘Priest!
I need you!’

            A
man dressed in robes dashed into the bedroom and barged through into the
toilet.

            ‘Come,
move aside. Let me work.’

            In
an instant a soft glow encased the priest’s hand – Roskel saw he was no older
than himself – and the priest laid his hand over the wound.

            ‘Will
he live?’ asked Roskel.

            But
the priest was silent.

*

Chapter
Three

The
rest of the day passed in a haze for Roskel. He hated himself that it had come
to this. Tarn had warned him with his dying words and he had not listened. He
had been too bloody happy playing the lord and forgotten what he was supposed
to be doing.

            He
turned his face to the ceiling and cracked his spine over the back of the
chair.

            Wexel
paced in the outer rooms, the warrior unable to sit still for more than five
minutes. The constant pacing was driving Roskel mad, but he recognised that
Wexel needed to work off his nervousness in his own way.

            They
were together, but each was bound up in his own private grief, in his own
guilt.

            Roskel
thumped the arm of the chair in an unexpected bout of dramatics. He wasn’t
given to introspection, but to action. This galled him. He still didn’t know if
his friend lived or died, or how he fared at all. The priests had barred them
from entering the bedrooms where they worked. He could hear their chants from
his perch, sometimes high, sometimes low, but constant. There was no break. He
could discern different voices. It must be bad. There were three priests in
there, and they obviously thought Rohir needed the Gods’ constant attention. If
they were silent for just a minute the big man would fall silent too, perhaps forever.

            There
were no cries of pain. Roskel wished he would cry out, just once, just so that
he could know his friend was alive.

            ‘We’ve
been foolish, Roskel. We should have planned for this. Did we think we would
live forever?’

            ‘Don’t
talk like that, Wexel,’ the thief said. ‘He’s not going to die.’

            ‘I
hope not. Gods, I hope not. But if he does…we will be two…and we have many
enemies.’

            ‘Then
we will make plans. But not tonight.’

            Wexel
seemed deflated. ‘No. Not tonight.’

            He
cocked an ear toward the door, and Roskel followed suit.

            The
chanting had stopped.

            ‘God,
don’t let him be…’

            The
door to the bedrooms opened and the young priest stepped out. He seemed older.
Sweat stood out on his brow and his wavy, dark hair was plastered to his
forehead. He was pale, and his shoulders shook from the effort he had expended.

            Roskel
held Wexel’s arm. It would not do to get angry with this priest. He could see
the man had done all he could.

            ‘He
lives.’ He said. For a moment the sadness and tiredness on the young priest's
face didn’t equate with such momentous news and tears came unbidden to Roskel’s
eyes. Then he finally took in the words.

            ‘He
lives?’

            ‘Aye.
He is weak and cannot be disturbed. Leave him rest. He will need his sleep and
much rest for perhaps a month. His lung was pierced. I think he will be as good
as new.’

            ‘We
must see him!’

            ‘No,’
the priest said, and the firmness in his voice held command beyond his years.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said, his tone softer. ‘That will be soon enough.’

            ‘Thank
you,’ said Wexel, and took the man’s arm. ‘Come, we will get you some ale and
meat. You must be exhausted.’

            ‘I
am, but I have no need of ale or meat. I will sleep, though, I think…if I may?’            ‘Good
gods man,’ said Wexel gruffly. ‘You don’t need to ask our permission to sleep.
We’re not kings, and priests are above the law.’

            ‘Then
by your leave,’ said the priest, and left.