The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (26 page)

Chapter Seventy-Two

He
heard the guard whispering, then he heard Rohir shouting, 'Well bloody well
bring him in then, you groat!'

            Roskel
smiled and allowed the guards to drag him into the tent.

            Rohir
beamed and laughed when he saw his friend, his head shiny with cooling sweat
and his arms trussed behind him like a roast pig.

            'Cut
him loose!'

            'And
my companion, too,' said Roskel.

            'Are
you sure?' said Wexel.

            'On
my life,' said the thief.

            The
guard was unsure, but a firm nod from Rohir made up his mind. He untied both
their bonds.

            'Our
weapons?'

            'Give
them to him,' said Rohir. 'Just do it, man. Don’t you recognise your Lord
Protector, you fool? Just because he’s lost his hair,' he shook his head.
'Bloody soldiers,' he said with a sigh.

            'My
apologies, my Lord,' said the patrolman. 'We half thought you were dead, truth
be told.'

            Roskel
patted him on the shoulder.

            'Let’s
say no more about it. For now, don’t let anyone know I’ve returned. I’d keep it
a secret a while longer.'

            'Yes,
Lord Protector.'

            'Good
man. Keep up the good work. Send a runner and bring the Thanes here, to this
tent.'

            'I
will go myself.'

            Roskel
nodded and turned away from the man. Then he crossed the room and hugged his
two friends, their broad arms encircling him completely.

            'Gods,
it is good to be back.'

            'In
truth, we half thought you’d died, too. It’s only because of the lady that
we’re here today and you’ve still got a position to return to.'

            Rohir
looked questioningly at the Drayman.

            'It’s
alright,' said Roskel. 'I trust him with my life. I owe him my life, in fact.
This fierce man is a true friend. He knows everything.'

            'Well,
then, it doesn’t sit right, but welcome, I suppose,' said Wexel.

            'Come,
Wexel,' the thief laughed. 'You can be more gracious than that!'

            'Welcome,
friend,' he managed. He took the Drayman’s hand and shook it. 'You have my
thanks for returning our friend to us. Mostly whole,' he said, rubbing his hand
over Roskel’s gleaming pate.

            Roskel
pushed his hand away.

            'It’s
a long story, and we’ve much to do. The false king will come in the morning,
and we must be united before the night is through. Who comes to the banner of
Naeth?'

            'The
Thanes Carmille, Mardon and the Crest. The Southern Thanes march, but they are
divided. They believe Wense is the rightful king, but they will not join the
war. Redalane marches, but he will not arrive in time for the fighting, I think--
just in time to face the king, should he win. But if he wins, even Redalane
would stand down for peace. We must defeat him in the morning, but we are
outnumbered. It is a chance we do not take lightly. The lady bid us to come,
although I feel she has some plan that does not necessarily see us victorious.
I cannot help but feel we would have been able to withstand a siege within Naeth’s
walls. This battle is too risky.'

            'You
must trust her,' said Roskel. 'She has not seen us wrong so far. I believe she
is a true ally, although her desires are unknown to me. I think she would aid
us.'

            'She
has ears in every city. She kept us informed of most of your travels. Apart
from the winter months, when we heard nothing of you save that you still
lived.'

            'She
had her reasons, I think,' Roskel said to Wexel. 'Strange reasons, dangerous
reasons, but she does what is best for Sturma, of that I have no doubt. If she
said you must fight here, then you must. It cannot be avoided now, anyway.'

            'Then
we fight.'

            'That
we do, but not for nothing.'

            The
tent flap pushed aside and the two thanes entered, bleary eyed from their beds.
They blinked at him, trying to place his features. The Drayman was forgotten,
standing against the side of the tent and keeping silent. He was as good at
silence as he was at music. He had an affinity for sound and its absence both,
it seemed.

            'I
thought you dead!' said the Thane of Carmille. 'But it is good to see you
whole!' He clasped hands with the thief.

            The
Thane of Mardon was more reserved. 'Glad to have you back. What news?'

            'Here.
I need a drink, but you all need to read these. Pass them around. It will
suffice to prove the Thane of Kar’s death is justified and that he is a
pretender, the crown does not belong to him. Read, while I get a drink for me
and my companion.'

            The
Thanes started, just noticing the Drayman. Both had seen Draymen before.

            'I
know, I know. Trust me, he is an ally. And one of our best at that. Pay us no
mind, just read.'

            The
Thanes and the two stewards read the evidence of Wense’s plot to steal the
crown and the throne of Sturma, and his manoeuvring of the Thane of Ulbridge
and the other southern thanes while he wintered in Ulbridge, trying to break
their support of the stewards and sow discontent. It was all written there,
incontrovertible evidence in bold ink.

            Eventually,
a discussion began among the four men. Roskel let them talk it through for a
time. They needed to get things straight in their own heads, but none of this
was news to him or the Drayman.

            The
sat cross legged on the floor of the tent, the rug underfoot lush and warm.
Roskel’s head felt droopy but there would be time enough for sleep soon. He
would make sure he got a few hours before dawn. Then he planned to spread the
word that he had returned and would lead their forces when they tried to hold
their side of the river. It would be a slaughter. The river would be hard to cross,
but the Thane of Kar had numbers on his side.

            Roskel
would become a symbol. He was no warrior, but he could be a presence. A
commander should lead his forces, not sit lording over them from a distance. A
commander should be prepared to take risks alongside his men. It would gain him
respect, and they would fight all the harder.

            He
didn’t expect he would actually have to do much fighting. He wasn’t a fool.

            'So,
Roskel, how did you come by this information?'

            'I
stole it,' said the thief.

            The
Thanes’ mouths dropped open. They knew he had been a thief before, but they
hadn’t expected him to be quiet so bold about it.

            Then
the Thane of Carmille laughed and clapped his hands.

            'It
is as I’ve always said, my lord. You certainly are a breath of fresh air.'

            Roskel
smiled. 'So, do you think we can sway the southern thanes to our cause?'

            'With
these letters, bearing Wense’s personal seal? Of course. But it is too late for
that.'

            'Too
late for them to march, but if we win we will need to show that we have not
killed the rightful king. No, tomorrow, we fight with the men we have and make
a stand here. There is a reason the lady sent us here, though I cannot imagine
what it is.'

            'I
hope she has not sent us to our deaths. We will be hard pressed to hold the
river. The commander of the legion is a good man, and he has good plans, but it
is a simple war on open land. There is not much place for cunning strategy,
just bravery…perhaps foolery.'

            'Then
trust his plans. I for one need to sleep. My eyes are drooping. Will someone
get me a suit of armour for the morning? I plan to fight myself.'

            'Don’t
be a fool, Roskel, you can’t fight!'

            'I
can, and I will. Now, if you’ll all keep it down, I’m going to sleep.'

            With
that Roskel laid his head on his arms and was snoring softly in moments.

            That
left the four men staring at the Drayman, who stared back, unabashed.

            Eventually,
Rohir broke the silence. 'Forgive us if we seem rude, friend. It is not every
day we see a Drayman on our side. What is your story? How did you meet?'

            The
Drayman shook his head sadly, opened his mouth and showed them the wound where
his tongue used to be.

            It
was a hell of a conversation stopper. 

*

Chapter Seventy-Three

The
thief slept deeply. In his dreams he walked through a misty land, tendrils of
fog caressing his bare arms. He wore a silver tabard over a sleeveless shirt.
By his side was a curved sword, like the one the Drayman carried.

            He
practised a few slashes with the sword. It was surprisingly light, and even in
his weakened arms it felt swift and deadly.

            'It
does not suit you,' said a voice from the mist.

            Roskel
held the blade before him, more as a talisman than a weapon.

            'Who’s
there?' he called out, suddenly dreading that the owner of the voice would step
from the mist.

            But
step from the mist he did; with a smile on his face and his arms held wide for
his old friend.

            'But
you should learn. It is an age for warriors, old friend, not lovers.'

            'Tarn!'
cried the thief and dropped the sword. He ran through the mist and embraced his
friend.

            'I’ve
missed you. Everything has gone wrong since you died.'

            'Not
everything,' said the dead king. He flipped the sword into the air and caught
the hilt with his hand, then swept the sword in a flat arc.

            'It
is a good blade. Only for one hand, but it rings true. It is an object of
power. Here, take it. It is for you to use.'

            'But
I don’t know how. I am weak.'

            'Then
I will lend you my strength,' said Tarn with a smile. He passed the sword to
Roskel.

            'Here,
slash from the shoulder to the hip, like this…'

            And
so he showed Roskel the Seven Forms. Each made sense to the thief. Sword play
was easy, if you had the speed and the strength of arm. He wondered why he had
never bothered to learn before.

            'It
is good to see you, my old friend. I wish you were with us tomorrow.'

            'I
will be with you. Trust me, as you always have. I know life has asked much of
you. But you understand duty.'

            'I
do. All too well,' said the thief sadly. 'How did you do it, Tarn? How did you
stay true, even at the end?'

            'Truly?
At the beginning, with anger. At the end, with love. Through it all, though,
duty above all else. Sturma needs men who understand duty. You are such a man.
You will serve in my place.'

            'I
am not strong enough.'

            'Then
you must become strong. Strength comes in many forms, my friend. You have a
strong heart, and that may be enough.'

            'I
hope so. But I am afraid.'

            'Fear
not, for you are cherished by one you cherish in return. It will give you
power. You will need it, for while I hate to ask more of you, I fear I must.
Rythe is in great peril and Sturma must survive. You must win tomorrow, but
there will be treachery. Now listen, and listen well.

            'The
commander of the western legion has allied with the Thane of Kar and marches at
your rear. You must defeat the false king before he arrives, or you will be
crushed between the hammer and the anvil. Many men must die, but the only way
to avert disaster is to charge first. You must take the battle to them.'

            'But
it will be slaughter!'

            'No!
Not if you do as I say. Now, this is what you must do…'

            The
last king of Sturma spoke to Roskel and the thief listened well. His happiness
at seeing his friend was tempered with sadness, too, for he knew it was just a
dream.

            Tarn
had passed through Madal’s Gate. He was a friend and always would be, but now
he was a shade, too. Just a ghost from the past.

            But
sometimes, he remembered, ghosts served the living. He remembered the town of
Wraith’s Guard, and the spirits that had saved him there. Could he put his
trust in a ghost?

            He
listened, still. Spirit or not, what it said made sense. It might be the shade
of Tarn, but it was still his friend. It was time to put his trust in his fate
once more.

            'Now,
run the forms again. And know them well when you awake.'

            Roskel
took up the sword and ran through the forms…again…again…always pushing himself
to run faster, slice, slash, thrust, parry, riposte…and again…

            The
dream seemed to last forever. Sweat dripped from his naked brow. Surely you
couldn’t sweat in a dream?

            He
turned to ask his friend if this was just a dream, but he was alone in the
mist.

            He
had to find a way back. He turned, and walked back the way he came. He awoke
before dawn, ready to do what he must.

*