Read The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Online
Authors: Craig R. Saunders,Craig Saunders
The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (25 page)
Wexel
mumbled in his sleep. He dreamt of a giant apple, chasing him through the city
streets. Someone had taken a bite out of the immense angry fruit, and that had
become its maw. Munch, munch, munch, it said, as it rolled inexorably through
the city streets. His legs felt like lead and he ran and ran, but he could not
escape…
Filcher
watched in amusement as the Steward of the Sturman Crown pumped his legs under
the sheets. He took another bite of his apple and watched the man running from
some enemy in his sleep. Filcher liked to watch people sleep. Sometimes they
were funny.
He
put his apple down and tapped the lord on his shoulder. Wexel awoke with a cry,
and seeing an intruder in his room, he immediately thought Hierarchy and
reached across the bed for his sword.
It
was not there.
'Sorry
to wake you my lord. It’s Filcher, your lordship.'
'Filcher,
Filcher…' the Steward said, his hand searching for his sword.
'Filcher,
my lord. You know, the lady’s messenger.'
The
sleep finally fell from Wexel’s eyes and he relaxed slightly. 'Filcher! I
thought Rohir told you never to break into bedrooms again!'
'He
told me never to break into his room, your lordship. He didn’t say anything
about yours. Besides, it’s urgent.'
'It
had better be,' growled the tired warrior. Having his sleep interrupted made
him irritable. As did having a sneaky thief break into his bedroom. He imagined
such an intrusion would make even the most patient man irksome.
'It
is my lord. But you’re not going to like it.'
'Spit
it out, boy, so I can get some sleep.'
'Well,
the lady says you’ve got to march in the morning. I thought you’d need a bit of
time to prepare, though. I expect that takes some doing, marching an army.
You’ve got to get all those soldiers out of the whorehouses for one thing…'
'You’re
too young to dandy that word about.'
'I’m
fourteen, your lordship.'
'What?!'
Wexel blurted, his sleeping mind catching up.
'She
said you’d say that, my lord. I’m to tell you that the Lord Protector-- who I
think the lady has a soft spot for; I shouldn’t be surprised if there’s a bit
of kissing in the future…'
'Yes,
yes, get on with it. What about Roskel?'
'He’s
a free man, my lord, and rides for Naeth this very night. The Thane of Kar has
an army of seven thousand men on the march, and the captain of the western
garrison has joined his banner. You’re supposed to march and meet the army to
the south of Naeth’s borders. She says if you let him reach the walls, all is lost.'
'What?'
Filcher
sighed and repeated himself. 'That’s what she told me to tell your lordship. I
don’t know no more.'
'How
the bloody hell am I supposed to get an army ready to march in the morning?'
'Don’t
rightly know. I’m just a messenger, see?'
Wexel
shook his head and rose. 'Well, you can come and tell Durmont and Rohir what
you told me. I’m too tired to figure this out on my own.'
'The
lady said you’d pay me for my time,' said the young thief hopefully.
Wexel
rolled his eyes and grabbed the thief by the ear.
'Just
bloody well come on. You’re conscripted. I’ll pay you, but you’ll bloody well
work for it.'
The
thief paled. 'Work, your honour? I’ve a weak constitution.'
'Good.
A bit of hard graft will soon sort that out.'
Wexel
dragged him down the corridor to Rohir’s room. If he was going to panic, at
least he wouldn’t be doing it alone.
*
The
Drayman sang and the horses ran tirelessly all day. Roskel was still buoyed by
the evening before, and the Drayman seemed full of energy, too. Roskel could
not wait to reach the borders of Naeth. He just hoped they were swift enough to
beat the Thane of Kar to its borders, and raise the alarm in time to close the
city gates and prepare for a siege. With the evidence he carried he could make
the other Thanes see that the Thane of Kar was a false king, gather armies to
his cause and drive the pretender back to his own lands in shame. Roskel and
the other stewards would strip the rebel Thane of his titles and outlaw him.
There
seemed to be a strange sense of justice in the world. A man like the Drayman
was reviled in his own lands and Sturma for doing right, and a man like Wense
gained armies and support and caused evil to be done wherever he trod. There
was no justice in the lands. Roskel vowed to change that. On his travels he had
discovered much about the lands, and much about himself. He would be a better
man. No more womanizing. No more thievery. He would find himself a nice lady
and marry, rule the lands with an even hand together with his friends. He
thought it a good idea that the Stewards each spent some time seeing the
country, meeting its people, to better understand what drove the common man, to
see with their own eyes the struggles of the poor. Was it just that a selfish
merchant could enjoy untold riches, while a poor woman with a good heart was
reduced to working the streets? Was it justice that a wealthy man’s child stood
a better chance at life than the child of the basest pauper? No. There was
something wrong with Sturma. There was no balance.
Lofty
ideals. Part of him longed to forget it all and roam the lands as an itinerant
bard, spinning tales and singing songs. The Drayman could come with him. With
his playing and Roskel’s tales they could make enough money to always have a
roof over their heads and food in their bellies.
There
was beauty in telling tales, true, but did it change the world? Perhaps, for a
time, while the listener was transported into a make-believe world where wrongs
were righted. They wanted to believe in a better world, one where the villain
always got what he deserved and the hero got the girl. But it wasn’t true life.
In real life, men died penniless in babbling agony in a side street, children
coughed out their lungs with lung rot, warriors died, their tales unsung, on
forgotten battlefields. The princess sometimes won the heart of a noble man,
but just as often she was forced into a loveless marriage by her heartless
father.
No,
stories were powerful, but as a steward he could change more. Justice was his
responsibility. It could not be shirked. It was a man’s lot to make difficult choices
in his life. His would be a force for good. His experiences had taught him as
much. You could not run from duty. Tarn had known that before Roskel had, but
they had come to the same place. You could not outrun your fate, you could only
face it with courage.
The
Drayman pulled his horse alongside and they slowed as he stopped humming and
the horses realised they had been running for nearly a whole day.
Ahead
of them, like a dark blot on the countryside, was the length of the river
Frana. Beyond that, the borders to Naeth.
Freedom
and the end of their journey were finally in sight. Unfortunately, so was a
vast army stretching across the wetlands, tents pitched and horses corralled.
Smoke rose from cooking fires. It was an army waiting for an enemy. Roskel
turned his head and looked behind him. To the far west, there was a hint of dust
clouds rising on the dusky air. Another army, perhaps a day’s march distant.
He
shook his head. So nearly home.
'Come,
they are on our side. I think. I cannot see the banner from here, but they are
arrayed facing the south. I think word of the false king has spread to the
north lands and the armies of Naeth await the pleasure of the ‘King’. Let’s
ride. I hope our reception will be friendly.'
The
Drayman nodded, but touched Roskel’s arm.
What
of me? Will they attack me for what I am? Soldiers of the north will know the
face of a Drayman.
'Then you are my bodyguard and my
man. I am the Lord Protector of these lands. At least, I was when I left. I
hope things have not changed too much in my absence…'
You
could be more reassuring.
Roskel realised the man was
trying to convey humour.
He
smiled. 'Trust me. I owe you my life. If need be, mine will be forfeit for
yours. But I do not think it will come to that. Let’s ride. I think in the
morning, or perhaps the morning after that, battle will be joined.'
The
two horsemen rode toward the camped army, jouncing in the saddle at a cautious
trot. It did not pay to gallop toward a group of soldiers.
Usually
it was best to gallop away. It was unnatural to be going toward so many armed
men, even if they were on his side.
Roskel
hoped that was the truth of it.
*
The
Thane of Kar paced within the confines of his command tent. Savan Retrice, the
hierarchy advisor, watched with satisfaction on his face.
'You
are sure?'
The
hierarch smiled because this man was such a coward. His outward appearance was
that of a tyrant. He thought nothing of ordering a man to his death. He had
fought along the border with the Draymar in his youth, but at his heart he was
afraid. If the battle was not a sure thing he would never have attempted to
take Naeth.
'I
am sure. Commander Brant marched the western legion toward the rear of the
enemy army. They will be crushed between two armies. None will escape. The
Stewards are with the main army. They are fighting men. They believe a great
commander leads from the front, but they are not commanders. They are just
bandits. They have a battle commander, a man named Brallis. Gifted, but bested
before by Brant. Brant is the better commander, although his men only number a
thousand. He will shift the balance, and already we have close to seven
thousand camped here, compared to a mere five thousand enemy. It is a foregone
conclusion, my king. We will destroy them to a man.'
Orvane
Wense paced some more. His head did not feel right. He had been suffering
headaches, and he could not decide on his own anymore. Part of him knew that he
left too much of the deciding to his advisor, but the man had never steered him
wrong. He was reliable and his advice was always sound.
'Then
we march?'
'I
would suggest first light. We will be fresh enough when we muster before the
banks of the Frana. Battle will be joined by midday.'
'I
will lead the honour guard at the centre.'
'A
fine plan, my lord. You will be visible to all, but protected. The crown will
be a beacon. It will drive the men on. It is said men will rally to the crown.'
Wense
sat down and sighed.
'I
will be king of all Sturma! I will!'
'Yes,
my king. After tomorrow, you will stand unopposed.'
'Now,
leave me.'
Savan
rose and left with a bow. Outside he took a deep breath. He could not wait for
the battle. The cries of agony as men died would be ecstasy for him. He thrived
on pain. It gave him strength. It was a rare opportunity among his kind to
revel in death on such a scale.
He
was lucky indeed. He left for some privacy. It was a long walk, but eventually
he found a glade away from the light of the campfires. He waited for contact to
come, then he reported to the Hierophant’s second-in-command.
He
had lost favour with their leader, but soon he would be highly placed. His
scheme was coming to fruition, and soon Sturma would be no more.
The
air shimmered and the vision solidified.
He
began to speak. He could not keep the excitement from his voice.
Clouds
bunched in the darkening sky and his eyes glowed red as fire against the
blackness.
*
A
small dog yapped at Roskel’s heels as he rode into the camp. The only light
left was a small sliver of a waning moon and the orange glow of the campfires.
They were unchallenged for a mile or so, until they were close to the heart of
the camp. It seemed nobody expected an assassin to be so bold as to ride into a
pitched army’s camp. Everybody could see they were armed. It was dark enough
that the Drayman passed unnoticed. Finally their luck gave out and a patrol stepped
in front of their horses.
'Halt!'
said their leader forcefully. He was a gruff faced man well past his middle
years. Roskel didn’t recognise him, but then he never had dealings with the
various garrisons stationed throughout Naeth. They were Rohir’s domain. He had
the way of talking to soldiers. Roskel had always been better at dealing with
the Thanes and court business. His manner was more suited to their elegant way of
speaking, and his naturally suspicious nature allowed him to see through the
rosy words to the meaning behind, quite often thinly veiled barbs that passed
the other stewards by.
Roskel
and the Drayman complied. They allowed the soldiers to surround them. There
would have been little he could have done to stop them, apart from committing
suicide on their blades.
'Who
are you, and what do you think you’re doing? Trotting in here like you own the
place?'
Roskel
pulled his hood back.
'I
am the Lord Protector and first Steward of the Sturman nation!'
The
man just looked at him blankly, which was disheartening as Roskel had said his
lines with a considered flourish.
'And
I’m the king. Get gone.'
'I
am the Lord Protector, damn it. Don’t you recognise me?'
The
man peered at him politely.
'Begging
yer pardon,' said the patrolman with mock sincerity. 'I thought you was just
another bald beggar.'
Roskel
sighed. It was going much as he had expected. At least they hadn’t challenged
the Drayman yet. He was hoping to avoid that, at least until he gained the
command tent.
'You
have the right of it. I can see there’s no fooling you. I’m actually a deserter
from the false king’s army, come to see Lords Wexel and Rohir.'
'Oh,
I see, a change of tune is it? Well, if you’re a deserter and have a message
for the Stewards, I’ll see they get it. So you tell me, then you’ll be branded
for a traitor and sent packing back to your foul lord’s army. How do you fancy
that then, lad?'
'Well,
I’m not actually a deserter as such…I’m more of an assassin. I’m in the employ
of the Thane of Carmille, come to report on my latest venture,' he ventured.
'That’s
fine then. I’ll just have to disarm you. Dangerous, are you?' he said, a grin
on his face.
'I
see that won’t work either…'
'I
tell you what I see. A bloody joker wasting my time. Bugger off and be thankful
I don’t cut your kneecaps off where you sit. Just because you can afford a
horse don’t make you a lord, see?'
'You’re
a sharp man. Perhaps if I show you the real reason I’m here, you’ll escort me
to see the lords.'
'It
better be good. My feet ache and I’m tired-- and in the morning I’ve got to go
to war and a man my age just doesn’t need the excitement.'
'Why
captain, you don’t have nearly enough lines on your face for such cynicism.'
'Stow
it,
my lord
.'
'Very
well. I have a Drayman spy in my care that I have captured. He has important
information that only the Stewards may hear.'
He
heard the Drayman gasp.
'Trust
me,' he whispered out the side of his mouth.
'Show
him.'
Reluctantly,
the Drayman pulled back his hood. The patrolmen’s swords scraped from their
sheaths in an instant.
'What
trickery is this? You bring a Drayman here?' The captain spat on the ground and
moved toward the Drayman.
'He
is totally under my control, but I would appreciate an escort.'
'You’re
a tricky one, of that alone I have no doubt. You’ll have your audience. Then
I’ll have the pleasure of gutting myself a Drayman and a traitor both. Bring
them!' he said.
'At
last you see the light!' said Roskel as they were roughly pulled from their
horses and disarmed.
'Be
thankful I have my doubts, or I’d bash you for talking that way.'
'Consider
me chastised, my good man. Lead on.'
The
soldiers swiftly bound their arms and led them toward the command tent in the
centre of the camp.
*