The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Roskel’s
heart was pounding from the sudden shock, his limbs heavy from a combination of
sleep and fear.

            'Don’t
kill me, please,' he said, hating himself for a coward but unable to help it.
He didn’t want to die. Not by some random hand of fate. There were plenty of
good ways to die. At the end of a Drayman raider’s sword was not a good one. In
the arms of a young maid at the ripe old age of seventy was a good way to die.

            'I
have gold…' he reached for his saddle bag but the sword was swift. The Drayman
flicked his wrist nonchalantly and drew blood from the back of Roskel’s hand.
The thief’s face registered shock, then anger.

            'Well,
damn you for a groat then. Take my money but I’ll beg no more.'

            He
glared at the Drayman. He knew little of their cousins from across the
mountains save that they were a barbarous people who slaughtered their own
young in arcane rights, let their old ones die if they could not fend for
themselves anymore and raided Sturma for little more than steel, all because
they were too stupid to figure out its makings for themselves.

            The
more he thought about it, the more angry he became.

            And
yet, the Drayman only looked on, as if weighing the thief. His face was
infuriating. The Drayman was eerily silent. His eyes bored into Roskel’s with
uncanny patience.

            'At
least tell me what you want, barbarian!'

            The
Drayman’s head cocked to one side, and to Roskel it looked like a slightly
intelligent cat learning a new trick.

            Then
the Drayman surprised him. He stroked his long, plaited beard with his free
hand, and with casual violence, thrust his sword into the ground. Then he held
one hand in front of his mouth, covering it.

            Roskel
waited a moment for more to come. When he didn’t react, the Drayman repeated
the gesture.

            'You
don’t understand me?' said Roskel. He wondered why he was even trying to talk
to the heathen. Of course he didn’t understand language. He could probably only
speak in grunts.

            Roskel
eyed the sword, but the barbarian had proven how fast he was. He discarded the
idea of trying to take it. He was no warrior, and this man obviously was.

            But
what did he want with him? If he didn’t want to kill him, which he hoped was
true, and he couldn’t speak Sturman, what was the point of this little ambush?

            Perhaps
he just wanted to taunt the unarmed Sturman for a while, until he tired of the
game and then slice him open…Roskel’s fear returned but he batted it down into
the pit of his stomach where fear belonged. It freed his mind for other things.

            The
Drayman was beginning to look irritated himself. He shook his head, no, in
response to Roskel’s question, then put his hands over his ears, nodding his
head, his hand over his mouth, shake of the head…

            Roskel,
finally, nodded carefully, never taking his eyes from the Drayman.

            'You
understand me but you can’t speak?'

            The
warrior smiled and nodded. Then he pointed to his sword, then deliberately at
Roskel, and shook his head.

            So
he didn’t want to kill him. That was a start. Roskel didn’t relax though, he
kept one eye on the sword and examined each of his options in turn while the
warrior performed his strange pantomime.

            'You
want me?'

            The
warrior nodded.

            Stranger
and stranger, thought the thief to himself.

            'What
in the world for?' he asked.

            The
warrior mimicked sleeping, then flapped his hands around his head.

            'I
don’t understand…'

            He
repeated the gesture impatiently.

            'I
don’t…wait…did you have a dream?'

            The
Drayman clapped his hands and nodded furiously. He gestured a dream once more,
then pointed to Roskel hopefully.

            'You
had a dream about me?'

            Once
more, he nodded. With that, the warrior seemed to have exhausted his repertoire
of gestures. He picked up some of the deadfall Roskel had collected and fed the
fire. He poked at it with a stick until there was warmth once again. Then he
looked Roskel in the eye and smiled.

            Roskel
was disarmed. He was at a loss as to what to do. He couldn’t talk to the man,
and he certainly didn’t want anything to do with a Drayman, but he was here,
and they were both awake.

            He
didn’t seem like a crazed killer, but there was no reason for a Drayman to be
this side of the mountains unless he was part of a raiding party…gods…were
there more of them?

            'Are
you alone?' he asked.

            The
Drayman nodded.            'Are you a raider?'

            A
strong shake of the head. He looked angry at the accusation. What did he gain
by deceit? Roskel was inclined to believe the man.

            Well,
there was nothing for it. He held up one hand and slowly, just in case the
warrior took umbrage and sliced his hand off, he reached into his pack and
brought out some food. The sword was once again to hand. Roskel’s head had only
been turned a moment. The man was lightning fast and deathly quiet.

            He
held out a ham with a questioning look on his face. The warrior seemed unsure
what to do. No doubt he wasn’t expecting any kindness this side of the mountains,
and with just cause, but Roskel couldn’t think of anything else two men could
do in the cold of the night but talk, drink, or eat.

            They
ate in careful silence for a time, watching each other over mouthfuls of food.

            'So,
why can’t you speak? Were you born that way? I mean, if it’s not impolite to
ask…'

            The
warrior opened his mouth wide and Roskel saw that he had no tongue. The man
closed his mouth again and carried on eating, still weighing the thief with his
eyes. It must be difficult to take the measure of a man, thought the thief, if
you can’t talk to him.

            So
much about a man was said in words. But the more he thought about it, he
realised he himself often made his mind up about people just by looking at
them. First impressions said much about a man.

            He
set aside his prejudice for a moment and studied the man as he was being
studied.

            His
heart rate had returned to normal, his belly was full, and finally he could see
without fear and anger clouding his eyes.

            What
he saw was a man who kept himself clean. The warrior’s long hair and beard were
both braided, but carefully. His face was clean, even if his skin was dusky.
His clothes were all of good quality, although the cut of his leather jerkin
was strange. Roskel had the impression it was of unusual thickness because it
was more armour than fashion. His shirt looked to be thick linen, quite warm,
but the man carried no cloak and no provisions. His only weapon seemed to be
his long, curving sword, of a design unused in Sturma, as far as the thief was
aware…so what did that tell him?

            Think,
damn it, you stupid thief…your mind has become slow from too long cloistered in
a cosy castle’s staterooms…

            That
meant that somewhere over the mountains, Draymen had the makings of steel.

            Bloody
hell!

            And
if that were true, what other of his presumptions about the man before him were
false?

            He
turned his attention to the man’s eyes. The man stared back, unabashed. His
eyes were calm and cold, but there was a hint of intelligence and…the
beginnings of a smile in his eyes? Did he understand what Roskel was doing?

            Dark
eyes, black in the fire light but probably brown…people didn’t have black eyes,
did they? But then he could only really tell once the suns came up. Demons had
black eyes…but was that just another story? Was he gullible enough to believe
everything he had heard without testing out the facts with his own eyes?

            In
truth, what did he really know about Draymen? That they raided across the
border, slaughtering wantonly could be seen. The tales were too numerous to
mention, and he had spoken first hand to those who had fought the raiders…so
there was truth in that.

            But
had any Sturman ever gone across the mountains to see how the Draymen lived?
Not that he knew. So how was it that there were stories of them eating their
children and worshipping dark gods? Nobody really knew, did they?

            This
man didn’t look like he ate children. There was a capacity for humour in his
eyes. A man like that didn’t eat children. At least, Roskel hoped not.

            'How
is it that you can understand me, then? You know the king’s tongue?'

            The
warrior laughed and clapped his hands. The sudden sound was strange and
startling, for it was unexpected and lacked the tones of a one with a tongue.
It was guttural and harsh, but merry nonetheless.

            The
warrior smiled, took a breath, and began to hum. As the sounds grew, a picture
formed in Roskel’s mind, breathtaking in its iridescent colours and strangely,
feelings accompanied the pictures…then he was falling into a vision of another
world.

*

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The
night swam and light seeped into Roskel's vision. The Drayman, the warrior
before him was proud when he was given his sword. The sun shone bright on that
day, and others since, but even within the vision Roskel understood that there
was darkness over the horizon.

            But
this tale, this song he was being sung, it was a mere introduction. He
understood that, too, from within the dream.

            He
saw the man's hands reach out and take the sword up with a swelling feeling
of...reverence?

            Yes,
thought Roskel, in as much as he was capable of thought within the midst of the
amazing vision.

            It
was the greatest honour, for the Drayman to win the blade of his father. The
blade had been forged thirty years past. A feeling of history, of the greatness
of time passed through the vision.

            With
the blade came great responsibility. The heritage of a people, but power over
them, too. He was of a line of powerful men. Others could live or die by his
hand. Justice was his to give.

            He
was, in effect, judge and executioner.

            But
he had another power, too, as did all of his ancestors, that of the song, to
make people feel what their victims had felt. This was to be their punishment.

            The
sword rose and fell times too numerous to count. The song was sung over and
over again…

            Then
the vision ended, and Roskel found that he had been crying while the Drayman
had sent him the vision, for he had no doubt that it was the Drayman’s doing.
The man was a sorcerer of some kind, but a guard, one set above other Draymen,
with the power to take life at will.

            He
felt infinite sadness as the song gradually faded...with it some understanding,
too, left Roskel, but enough remained of the feeling to sway him, and he rocked
back on his perch as he woke from the dreamsong.

            But
what crime had the Drayman committed to have had his tongue removed?

            It
must have been terrible indeed for a warrior who was akin to a lord in his own
country.

            'You
must be sad to lose all that,' said Roskel thoughtfully.

            The
warrior shook his head.

            No,
he was not sad. Or not about that. Roskel couldn’t tell. He didn’t press the
matter further.

            The
man nodded, sadness on his face too, but with a hint of a smile.

            He
laid down, took one last look at Roskel, and then, closed his eyes.

            Roskel
had the feeling that he, too, had been judged while the strange foreigner had
sung his remarkable song.

            Roskel
took one last look at the man, and the curved blade he bore. He gulped, once.

            What
would have been the outcome this night, had he failed this test?

            Death?

            Roskel
sighed and passed a silent prayer to Miskal.

            Sleep
suddenly seemed like a good idea. Morning was still a way off, and now he had
no more fear, for he knew without a doubt that this unusual man had been sent
not to test his character, but to aid him along.

            He
thought it a wise idea to worry about what the day would bring when he woke.

            He
put his head on his bed roll and was asleep in moments. No more dreams came,
and for that he was thankful.

*