The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (24 page)

Chapter Sixty-Six

Roskel
walked toward the tree with one of the Haveners. The man carried a large wood
axe. His face was etched with worry.

            'Don’t
worry. It will work,' he whispered to the man as they walked toward the edge of
the clearing, where the forest began.

            Roskel
began laughing, and after a moment the man with the axe remembered his part.

            'So
you were the first here? You began this Haven?'

            'Aye,'
said Roskel, hamming it up and relishing the chance to perform again. The
stakes just made his heart race. He was finding he had a new lust for life
since his incarceration. 'I did. I felled the first tree and set my tent right
over there,' he pointed at a spot over his shoulder. 'When I’ve finished, I’ll
level this whole area and build homes of stone, and a paved road. It will be a
fine city.'

            The
axe man loosened his shoulders. 'Should I start here?'

            'Yes,
this one. This large Lud. It will make a fine table.'

            The
axe man nodded, and swung.

            The
buzzing began and Roskel started sweating. This was their only chance. He was
placing his life, and the life of this man, in the Drayman’s hands. To think
that he would have ever trusted a Drayman with his life.

            The
axe fell and a roar of rage came from the forest. At the edge a figure of a man
grew out of the vines around the trees and the shrubs on the ground. His face
was a mask of anger and hatred.

            'Now!'
he shouted, and waved. No sound came but Sisqale’s arrow was unerring. It flew
toward the apparition, but a tree swayed and the arrow struck a branch. The
arrow disappeared, no doubt to reappear in the strange archer’s quiver.

            Then
the song rose. The whole of the village sang the tune that the Drayman had
taught them, through Roskel's words. The buzzing ceased, the rustling leaves
fell still, and the vines drew back to reveal a mortal man, dressed in brown
robes, standing at the edge of the forest.

            'I
will not be defiled!' he screamed in rage, and leapt forward toward Roskel.
Stripped of his power his rage was still fearsome. He stabbed out at Roskel with
a dagger and the thief leapt back. The axe man tried to swing his axe at the
druid, but the druid was fast and strong, bolstered with the strength of his
insane convictions and the lingering life of the forest.

            Roskel
tripped and fell.

            An
arrow appeared in the druid’s chest, then disappeared. Blood blossomed, almost
black on the brown robe. The druid fell to his knees.

            Roskel
drew his dagger and approached. He was prepared to do what was necessary. He
knelt by the man, who looked up at him with hate filled eyes.

            'I
serve the forest!' the druid spat. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.
'You defile nature! The forest will rise against you, no matter if I die!'

            'The
forest will not rise. You do not serve nature. You twisted it to serve your ends.
You are a murderer, no more, no less, for all your power.'

            'I
serve the forest…' he tailed off. Roskel watched him dying.

            'I
did…what I thought was right,' he said through a mouthful of blood. Rage still
bubbled in his eyes as the blood bubbled in his lungs.

            'As
does each man,' said the thief, 'But you were wrong.'

            The
druid tried to rise and drag himself back toward the trees. Roskel kicked his
arms from under him.

            'Let
me die in the forest!'

            The
song still hung on the air. Roskel shook his head.

            'And
let you gain your power again?'

            'I
will never return!' he shouted, but he could shout no more. His strength was
gone.

            Roskel
could not bear to watch the man die slowly, but he could not risk him crawling
back to the source of his power, either.

            'I’m
all out of trust,' the thief said, and slit the druid’s throat.

            He
pushed himself to his feet and waved at the palisade.

            He
had not killed a man for a long time. He would never get used to it. But that,
too, was part of his responsibility. He could no more deny it than he could
become an assassin. Death was something necessary, sometimes, but it was always
ugly.

            'It
is over!' he cried out to the watching men and women. He could sense their
hope. His heart ached that sometimes it was necessary for some to die in order
that others could live. With a sad heart walked back toward Haven.

            He
wondered if he served the balance, or just himself.

            That
night, the people of Haven drank hard and danced long into the night. Roskel
drank little and sat apart from the people. The celebrations were sullied for
him. The ale tasted bitter.

*

Part VII.

The Return

Chapter Sixty-Seven

The
suns were high overhead as the thief and the Bladesinger reached the edge of
the Fresh Woods. The day was crisp and bright. The sky was a cloudless pristine
blue that stretched from horizon to horizon, unbroken by settlements or
villages. There was not another soul in sight. On a day like this, thought
Roskel, you could forget there were other men. He looked to his right. Well,
apart from that one, he corrected.

            'I’ve
got a stop to make. A little village called Winslow.'

            The
Drayman smiled subtly and pointed at Roskel’s groin.

            He
understood too much for a man without the power of speech.

            'Yes,
I’m sure you think it’s funny, but it burns and it’s getting worse. There’s a
wise woman there, and we could do with a break from our travels for a night.
We’ll be there before nightfall by my reckoning. And you can wipe that smile
off your face. It’s not like I’m the first man to catch the pox.'

            The
Drayman’s face indicated that he didn’t think it was the first time Roskel in
particular had been plagued with the pox. The thief glared at him. He was
becoming well versed in reading the Drayman’s expressive face.

            They
rode at an easy pace for the afternoon. There was nothing to be gained from
riding hard just yet. It made sense to save the horses on this leg of the
journey north, for they could not get further than Winslow-by-the-brook on this
day.

            Orvane
Wense, the pretender to the throne, rode along the Great North Road-- they
would be taking the old north road. It meandered more but they would be travelling
faster than the thane. They could break camp and ride on well past twilight. It
would be a fine cut thing, but Roskel thought they could make it.

            So
they spared the horses and rode into Winslow at an easy pace. There was only
one stable at the Year’s End, so they both left their horses out in the back
yard, which was enclosed. There was no stablehand, either, but it did not
matter. They tended their own mounts, then headed into the inn, where there
were sounds of revelry, drunken conversation, too loud for the small village
and the early hour. Roskel hoped the villagers hadn’t turned into drunken sots
since they had rediscovered their liking for the innkeeper.

            Roskel
pushed open the door and stepped into the bar. The chattering stopped and they
stared at the bald man and the strange outlander with his fearsome braids and
dark skin. Then Sam Durnborn, an apron around his waist and a tray with bowls of
steaming, thick stew in his hands said, 'Welcome back, bard! Welcome back.'

            There
was a moment of confusion, then the people cheered loudly at his name, even
though their eyes still lacked recognition. He had obviously made more of an
impression than he had thought.

            'How
goes the quest?'

            For
the crowd, Roskel pointed at the Drayman. 'I have found a prince of a distant
realm. Alas, he had lost the power of speech but the lute in his hands…well, it
is honey on the ears. It has finally found its owner.'

            The
Drayman glared at the thief. He hadn’t been party to this fabrication. Roskel,
for his part, just smiled back sweetly.

            'But
that is a tale for another day. Sam, two mugs of your finest ale for myself and
my travelling companion. Our road has been long.'

            'Tell
us of your journey!' one of the patrons called out, soon echoed by the whole of
the commons. Roskel sighed. He hadn’t planned on this.

            'Very
well,' he said, with a smile. He reversed a chair and sat with his arms draped
over the back. Sam gave him a mug of ale with a wink, and returned to his
duties. He was busy serving food. There were now two village girls helping out
with the serving, but he was still the innkeeper. There was a lightness to his
smile that hadn’t been there the last time Roskel had passed this way. It did
his heart good to see it. Perhaps one man could make a difference, he thought.

            'My
tale begins where I left off…'

            And
so, through the course of five mugs of ale and a pause for some roast meat and
a slice of bread, Roskel spun his tale. The Drayman was a prince from mythical
lands far to the west, across a forbidden sea. He had lost all his hair when a
dragon…gasps of astonishment, but at this point, not of disbelief…roared flames
at him as he tried to steal a gem to pass for the return passage to Sturma.
Alas, the princess was still lost, stolen away by an evil man and placed atop a
towering minaret with no doorway or steps. He sought a magical rope that could
climb anything, in the den of a hath’ku’atch, a legendary beast created purely
of lighting. The rope was how they climbed back into the storm clouds when they
went home, their hunting finished and their bellies full of virgins. They had
to find the hath’ku’atch before the next storm came (Roskel was sure there would
be no storms. He hoped a sudden storm front did not blow in during the night.
If it did they would have to leave in the rain. He realised he should have
planned his story out to begin with, but then that was the trouble with
composition on the hoof.)

            'And
so, my friends, our situation is perilous, but weary from the road we only
wished to meet old friends once again and taste some fine ale to steady our
hearts for the trails ahead. The life of an adventurer is never easy. At first
light, we head for the hath’ku’atch’s lair, armed only with our blades and my
prince’s magic. Wish us well, for we may not return.'

            'Good
journeys, friend bard. May she see you to journey’s end!' toasted one of the
men, chorused by the rest of the patrons.

            Roskel’s
heart soared. All lies, of course, but in telling the tale, he found something
he enjoyed more than thieving. It was a different pleasure, but in thievery
there was no recognition for a job well done. It was highly personal and led to
a life of solitude. Now he saw passion and admiration in people’s eyes, and he
liked it.

            The
Drayman caught his rapturous look. Do not let it go to your head, he seemed to
say.

            Roskel
nodded. 'And my prince will send you on with a song!'

            The
Drayman glared once more, but the patrons clapped with glee. Their excitement
at hearing the magical lute played by its true owner was palpable.

            The
Drayman strummed the first note. Only Roskel was aware of the humming beneath
the tune, but his spirits were lifted, his heart light and full of courage.

            If
the Drayman could play for an army they would surely be invincible, he thought
as the song ended and the people in the commons shouted their approval and
stamped their feet.

            Sam
eventually ushered them to the door.

            'Well,
my friend, you certainly outdid yourself this evening. A fine tale indeed. It
is good to have a bard again. Here,' he said, holding out some gold, 'your
share of tonight’s takings.'

            'Don’t
be daft, Sam, I do not do this for the money. I would ask a favour, though. I
have need of the old mother. I have developed a somewhat embarrassing condition
since we last met.'

            Sam
laughed. 'No chance of meeting the old mother. She’s gone wandering about
somewhere in the wilderness. Searching for herbs and the like, no doubt. But
she said you might be coming this way again. She left something for you. It’s
fey, the way she knows things before they happen. But this village wouldn’t
have it any other way. She’s the heart of this village.'

            'Then
I think this village now has two hearts, and is all the stronger for it.'

            The
innkeeper blushed. 'Fine words, friend. Here, I’ll show you to your rooms.'

            Sam
lit a candle in both rooms, the Drayman’s next to Roskel. Wishing the Drayman
and the innkeeper a good night, Roskel sat on his bed and held the note and the
lotion left for him by the old mother.

            True,
it was uncanny the way people seemed to know where he was going before he did.

            He
opened the note and read in the candlelight.

A
mutual friend of ours would have you clean for the next time you meet. She’d be
unhappy with me if I let you go to her unclean. Fill a glass of water, mix this
mixture in and immerse the affected limb for an hour, more if possible. I know
your time is short, but rest assured the pain you feel now will be
inconsequential if you displease the lady.

            PS.
She says she hopes you enjoyed your last taste of freedom.

Roskel
put the note down. He was sweating. What did that mean? Had the lady finally
tired of him and decided he was of no value, or did it mean what he hoped, and
dreaded at the same time, that the lady had singled him out for special
attention? He was no fool. He didn’t think he’d last long in the lady’s
bedchamber. She was an exceptional woman, and he suspected that she was not
only the leader of the Thieves' Covenant, which needed steel resolve and wit,
but perhaps a witch of some power, too.

            He
did as the old mother bid. She was right. It was sheer agony. But he kept
telling himself it was for the best. What he was saving himself for was the
worry. He blew out the candle and eventually fell into disturbingly attractive
dreams, with the stunning Queen of Thieves featuring heavily. He awoke before
dawn in a sweat. What was wrong with him? He had never panicked over a woman’s
attentions before. And she was just a woman. Wasn’t she?

            Gods,
he hoped so, for he suddenly realised he was terrified of a woman he fantasised
about. It was an immensely disquieting feeling.

*