The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (11 page)

Part III.

Skald

Chapter Twenty-Three

The
Thane of Kar’s huntsman was the closest thing to a tracker that Wense had at
his disposal. The man wasn’t particularly astute, but he was dogged. Sheer
persistence and a little deduction had seen him to the village of Winslow, but
he hadn’t planned on the thief actually stopping for a few days. It didn’t make
sense and he was not good at adapting on the sudden. The move had thrown him
and he’d been forced to ask about the thief to see what he was doing.

            But
the old innkeeper had been tight lipped and belligerent. He was none the wiser
as to when the Steward would be leaving again on his unknown quest. But he had
his orders, to follow him and find out where he was going. There was only one
road south from the village and the man had headed unerringly south, apart from
one time he had somehow cut across ten miles of wildlands and marshes to leave
the Great South Road to find the Old South Road. That had taken the huntsman a
good deal of time to figure out. He’d lost two day on that ruse and wished
there would be an accounting between him and the Lord Protector.

            Still,
his orders were clear, follow the man but don’t make contact. He’d already
fouled that up; for as sure as rain followed thunder Farinder would know
someone followed him from the innkeeper. The landlord of the Year’s End was a
wily old character and extremely un-bloody-helpful.

            Easy
business, this, though, he thought as he waited off the road. He didn’t even
have to watch the road, not really. All he had to do was sit quietly and wait
for the sound of hooves.

            He’d
been waiting in a small stand of trees, hidden from the road, for three days
now. Each night he snuck into the village and checked for the Lord Protector’s
horse. Last night had been different – there had been song and lots of people
around, so he had only just got away without being spotted, then headed back to
his hide to wait. The day passed and still no sign of the thief. If he didn’t
know better he’d think the thief was waiting him out.

            Well,
he could be patient, too.

            That
day passed with still no travellers, and he began to get suspicious.

            So,
unsure as to what to do, he headed back to the village that night.

            The
village was quiet, apart from the inn, where there were sounds of people about
the business of drinking, but the stable was empty. He thought about going in
and demanding to know where the thief had gone, but he didn’t want to get into a
fight with the villagers. Villagers could be a tricky lot. They were renowned
for sticking together and he wouldn’t stand a chance. He carried a sword and a
bow, but a man alone was no match for ten, and he was no great fighter.

            Blast
it. Sneaky bastard, he thought to himself, and headed out of the village to the
nearby woods to wait for morning. There was no point in looking for tracks in
the dark.

            The
Thane of Kar's huntsman was the closest thing to a tracker Wense had, and he
wasn't very good. He would be waiting a long time for Roskel Farinder, because
Roskel was on a different path altogether.

*

Chapter Twenty-Four

Roskel
camped alone, once more. He was getting used to it. He made a fire, as Tarn had
taught him so long ago, and basked in its glow, toasting his socked feet before
the flames in the chill night air.

            Someone
could be following him, but he was confident that none could know about this
old trail. He was safe from man, and the fire would keep the worst of the night
prowlers at bay. It wouldn’t keep a determined predator from him, but Sam had
assured him that there were no bears this far from the Fresh Woods.  It was
troubling that the creatures of the forest had risen against man, but he knew
the people of Haven were a sturdy sort and had lived through trials worse than
whatever plagued them at present. But he could only do so much at once. Perhaps
he could pass a message to a Thieves' Covenant contact once he reached
Ulbridge, to have some soldiers sent to defend the village, but that was a
concern for another day. There was no sense in worrying about something he
could not change.

            So
he roasted a piece of cheese, just to see if he could. It melted and dripped
into the fire, but as he put what was left into his mouth he was pleasantly
surprised. It added a nuttiness to the cheese. He washed it down with a
mouthful of wine from his refilled skin, then chased that with an apple.
Pleased with his meal, he made sure he was out of range of any sparks that
might fly from the fire – some of the deadfall he had used was damp – and
curled up in his bed roll.

            He
lay that way for an hour or so, enjoying the peace. The woods at the base of
the hills were quiet and still. There were a few animals’ cries off in the
distance, but nothing to trouble him. He watched the flames flicker and shrink,
put some larger logs on to keep it burning during the night, and finally closed
his eyes.

            He
fell into a deep sleep and with it came a dream of his friend.

*

Chapter Twenty-Five

Tarn,
the last man to wear the Crown of Kings, was whittling a piece of wood by the
fire next to Roskel. Roskel wanted to wake from his slumber and sit up to speak
to his friend, but he could not stir. Tarn whittled calmly, watching Roskel
sleep as Roskel watched his friend in the dream. The thief knew it for a dream
but still the urge to talk to his friend was strong. It had been too long since
they had spoken.

            A
deep sense of loss overwhelmed him. His limbs felt heavy and he could not move.

            Tarn,
finally sensing his friends disquiet, rose and came to stand next to him. His
shadow lay across the thief’s face, thrown by the sputtering light of the fire.

            Then
he knelt down, and Tarn was not as he had been in life, but an undead thing,
his face sagging and his breath reeking of decay. Roskel tried to cry out, to
push his friend away.

            But
Tarn laid a calming hand on his shoulder, and he knew that it was just a dream,
after all. His friend would not appear to him this way. Tarn had been kind and
strong and full of honour and loyalty. A good man would not rise again. He
would have passed Madal’s Gate. Once passed, they would never open for his friend
again.

            It
was just a dream, but in the dream Tarn spoke.

            'Whatever
comes this way, do not panic. In days to come your life will be hard and you
will want to die, but do not despair. Trust that your life has purpose, and I
have not forgotten you. Trust. Leave your fear behind. Your day will come.
Trust, but do not fear me. I live and die for Sturma. As do you, Roskel. You
have been chosen. Trust and do your duty and you will live longer than you
could imagine. Trust in your friends. Trust in those you have no reason to
trust. You will know who when the time comes. Now…awake…it is your time.'

            Roskel
murmured in his sleep and woke with a startled and frightened cry.

            A
man stood before him, his sword across his lap, staring in the fading firelight
at the thief.

            Roskel’s
hand leapt to his sword, but the blade was not there.

            The
man tapped Roskel’s blade with the tip of his own, where it lay by his side.

            The
man was no Sturman. His eyes spoke of murder and torture, dark eyes in a dark
face.

            As
it should be, for the man was a Drayman, and Roskel was at his mercy.

*

Chapter Twenty-Six

Rohir
sat with Durmont in the common room late that night, discussing strategy, when
a guard begged leave to interrupt them.

            'My
lords,' he said, just to be on the safe side. He was unsure as to Durmont’s
status, but whatever it might be, it was certainly somewhere above his station.

            'I
have a man that demands an audience. I say demands…he was quite persuasive and
somehow he managed to get into the castle in the first place. Ordinarily I
would have clapped him in irons and sorted it out later, but…'

            'But
what, man,' barked Rohir. 'Spit it out.'

            The
guard snapped to attention. 'My lords, he can’t be more than twelve years old!'

            'I’m
fourteen!' came a high pitched voice from outside the door.

            Rohir
sighed and rolled his eyes at Durmont.

            'Let
him in.'

            A
filthy street urchin shook himself free of a guard stationed outside the door
and with plenty of huff and bluster pushed his way into the room.

            'Empty
your pockets,' said Rohir in a tired voice.

            'What!'
said the urchin, as if it was the greatest offence he could imagine.

            'Empty
them,' said Rohir patiently. It was no use. Being in league with the Thieves'
Covenant was a necessity but these little beggars they sent as messengers were
rousing his ire. They always seemed to fill their pockets with whatever they
could find. The armour on their stands would have been long gone by now if the
little scrappers could’ve lifted it.

            The
boy emptied his pockets and didn’t even have the grace to seem bashful when he
turned out a golden quill and the official seal of the Lord Stewards.

            'Wasn’t
that in your office, Durmont?'

            'It
was.'

            'I
found it,' insisted the boy.

            'I
should have you flogged. Now what is your message? Speak quickly before I have
this large man escort you from the castle.'

            The
boy sniffed and took the measure of the guard, who outweighed him by at least
ten stone.

            'I
could beat him.'

            Rohir
bit his lip to hold the laugh in and Durmont looked away.

            'No
doubt,' he managed eventually. 'What is your name, boy?'

            'Filcher,
Lord.'

            'Indeed?'
said Durmont.

            'It
ain’t funny. Me mam died and the Covenant named me. Their right as I was an
orphan and they took me in. Still, I ain’t happy about it.'

            'No,'
said Rohir, 'I suppose not. Now, do you have a message?'

            'Yep.
The lady said you’d pay me, mind.'

            Rohir
stared at the child. He certainly had front.

            'I’ve
no doubt you’ve secreted about your person enough to pay for your services as a
messenger. Now, should I have you searched?'

            'No,
my Lord,’ the young urchin recanted hastily.  As I was saying, the lady says to
tell you that the Thane of Kar rode out this morning with an honour guard of
fifty men. We’ve word that he’s headed to Ulbridge to meet with the Thane
there.'

            Rohir
and Durmont both sat up straighter and stared at the boy.

            He
shuffled his feet a little but stood up to the powerful stares.

            'And
you’re sure of this message?'

            'Sure
as, my Lords.'

            Rohir
waved at the guard. 'Take him to the kitchens and give him a supper. Then
escort him from the castle. Do not let him leave your sight. As for you boy,
you’ll be fed and not flogged. Be thankful, for I’m not always this kind. Pass
my gratitude to the lady.'

            The
guard grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck and pulled him from the room.

            Rohir
turned to Durmont only when they were alone again.

            'Do
you think he knows?'

            'I
wouldn’t put it past him. He has spies throughout the city. But I don’t see how
he could know Roskel’s ultimate destination.'

            'It
must be a coincidence. But what could it mean?'

            'I
don’t know. There is naught we can do about it for the time being. The Thieves
Covenant are well placed though, and can let us know what transpires in the
south. We must trust in Roskel to complete his quest and return to us. He is on
his own.'

            'That’s
what I’m worried about. He’s out on the road and he’s got no one to watch out
for him. Now the Thane of Kar is headed to Ulbridge too. I don’t like it.'

            'We
can’t do anything about it now.'

            'I
know. And I don’t like that either,' said the Steward.

*