The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (27 page)

Chapter Seventy-Four

The
three stewards were mounted and armoured. Roskel had found a chain tabard which
he wore over a white shirt from his pack. It was somewhat fancy for a battle,
but never having been in a real blood thumping fight out in the open he wanted
to be well presented. It didn’t hurt to look one’s best.

            The
enemy was arrayed across the river, a mass of soldiers stretching across the
vista. Ordinarily, the view over the Frana was breathtakingly beautiful, but
not today. The grass had already been muddied by boot and hoof. Smoke curled in
the breeze, drifting up from braziers where fire archers would light their
arrows.

            If
there had been time to prepare, Roskel was sure he could have thought of many
different strategies. But today was not a day for tricks. They needed to win
this battle with courage and strength of arms. It was not about who was the
smartest, but about who wanted to win the most.

            The
thief steeled himself. He held the Drayman’s sword in his fist. The Drayman was
behind him, ready to ride at his back. He was glad the Drayman had agreed to
join them. When he stepped out of the tent that morning, the Drayman had
wordlessly handed him the curved blade, bowing as if to a noble, not a friend.
Roskel had embraced him, and asked him once again to fight for a people who
were his ancient enemies.

            Again,
the Drayman had agreed. He was armed with a cutlass, slightly curved and made
for a one-handed swordsman. He carried no shield.

            With
the forces of Naeth, Carmille and Mardon at his back, the thief could have been
forgiven for thinking his own army was a force to be reckoned with. But while
it was five thousand strong, the enemy numbered half that again. And the
traitor Brant marched from the north. Scouts had reported that he was now three
hours away. He could reach the battle at a crucial point and turn the tide. The
Steward’s armies would be slaughtered.

            'It
is as you say, Lord Protector. He waits on us. He can afford to wait until
Brant arrives.'

            'I
believed it to be so, Rohir, but I needed to see it with my own eyes. It will
be dangerous, but if we strike fast and hard we might win through.'

            'I
prefer a sure thing,' said Wexel with a sigh. 'I miss the forest. At least if
you took a beating you had somewhere to flee to.'

            'Then
let’s make sure it does not come to that. These men fight for our banner.'

            'They
are buoyed by news of your return, though. It has helped spirits.'

            'I
told the fool not to tell anyone.'

            'It
is good that he did. They have their symbol, Wense in his gaudy crown, and we
have ours…you.'

            'What?
I’m no symbol.'

            'To
the men, you are. I don’t know how, but rumour has started that you and the
Drayman have been in the south battling rogue giants and dragons.'

            Roskel
laughed. 'It’s surprising how fast a tale or two can spread. Words can be more
dangerous than I had thought.'

            'But
in this case, it is a good thing. The men believe you are a hero. And with your
shining head, you will stand out from the rest of the men. Your bald pate has
become a crown of sorts. It glints in the sunlight.'

            'Alright,'
said Roskel irritably, 'Don’t rub it in.'

            'Wouldn’t
dream of it,' said Rohir with a cheeky grin. 'It’s rather fetching. I imagine
you will start a new fashion.'

            'Thank
you,' he said. There really wasn’t any point in arguing. Hopefully by midday he
would be a hero. Or dead. He’d rather be a hero. But only just.

            'Well,
gentlemen,' said Roskel. 'Shall we see about cracking a few heads?'

            'Sounds
good,' said Wexel, and drew his sword.

            Rohir’s
great sword was already in his hand.

            'On
my order then,' said the thief, his voice steady. He should be afraid, he knew,
but he was not. He was excited.

            As
one, the three men raised their swords high in the air for the men behind to
see.

            Archers
stepped forward and the cavalry came to the front. The sounds were crisp and
clean. The colours were vibrant. Everything seemed to slow in that instant.

            Roskel
saw the false king sitting proudly on a horse, surrounded by his men liveried
in black tabards. In front of him were three ranks of foot soldiers, pikemen to
the front. On each flank of the enemy’s army were two legions of cavalry.
Archers were at the rear of the line, protected by the men.

            It
was surprising. At the moments of utmost peril, the mind focused on everything.
Time seemed to slow.

            Roskel
wanted to bring his sword down, to start the charge, but his arm would not
move. It wasn’t fear. He felt no fear. Then he realised it was descending, as
were Rohir’s and Wexel’s blades. Then his charger reared underneath him and the
battle had begun.

            The
pounding of hooves was thunderous. Arrows arced out over the river, flying in a
dark cloud toward the enemy. They brought their shields to bear but a few
arrows made their mark. The second flight of arrows was loosed, and then the
enemy fired on the charging forces of Naeth as they came into range, when they
were half way across the river.

            This
was folly, Roskel’s mind told him. The horse splashed through the river,
slowing as it battled against the weight of the water. Roskel was soaked
through to the knee and the water was freezing.

            Behind
him, archers ran half way across the river and unleashed a barrage of missiles
into the morning sky, darkening it for  brief seconds. Then the black charger
Roskel rode reached the front line of soldiers and the arrows ceased.

            There
was a moment of calm before they clashed. The moment stretched in Roskel’s
mind. He would always remember it. The men before him looked grim and
determined, but frightened, too. Some were young, some were old, but even
though they were soldiers, they feared death. A soldier’s bright blue eyes
pierced him and he pulled his sword back. The strength of the dead king flowed
through his muscles. He swept the sword down and cut deep into the soldiers
face. Suddenly there was blood flying and the blue eyes were forgotten.

            Screams
and shouts of rage, fear and pain rent the morning’s calm. Foot soldiers drove
in behind the cavalry, battling against the Thane of Kar’s lines. The fighting
was fearsome in intensity. The men of Naeth had readied their hearts for this
battle. The men of Kar were not so fortunate. They had expected an easy fight,
with the enemy in confusion. Instead the fight had come to them.

            Each
inch seemed to take a great toll in life. Bodies littered the ground within the
first few minutes of the confrontation, but the ploy was working. The
suddenness of the driving wedge at the heart of the enemy’s lines broke the
centre. The enemy cavalry were too far removed to reach Roskel’s arrowhead as
it pushed toward the Thane of Kar, wearing his fake crown, shouting orders to
his commanders.

            Eventually
the enemy’s horsemen reached Roskel and his warriors, stalling their attack as
they were forced to defend the rear, too. Naeth's archers could not attack, for
fear of hitting their own warriors.

            Roskel’s
sword hacked and slashed. As expected, he became a beacon at the heart of the
attack. The Drayman protected the thief’s back, Rohir and Wexel crushed the
enemy on both sides.

            Blades
dripping blood fell and blood flowed freely. Roskel himself bled from three
cuts to his thighs, one deep. He was still strong and his sword arm swift. The
seven forms could be adapted to a horseman, but his legs were unprotected. His
blood ran down his calf and pooled in his boot. He was unaware of his injuries,
though. Blood lust was on him. This was why bards still sang of battles, not
because of the wounded and the terrible screams of the dying men, but because
of the bravery and the passion.

            Roskel
fought with ferocity and his men rallied to him. His gleaming head stood out
and his men drove forward, drove toward the heart of the enemy’s forces. Roskel
could see the Thane of Kar now. He could see the recognition in his face, and
the fear, too. The Thane had expected Roskel to be dead, yet here the thief was,
laying into the enemy’s elite soldiers.

            For
the first time Roskel faced a horseman. They battled flank to flank. Roskel
took a thrust in his left shoulder and his arm fell dead. Suddenly his balance
was off and he missed an opening, to take another thrust on his unprotected
cheek. Then the swordsman overbalanced and Roskel’s charger knocked him down.
He flailed in the saddle and Roskel drove the point of the curved sword into
the man’s unprotected groin. The horseman fell to the ground where he was
trampled.

            There
was an instant of calm. He looked around and saw that Wexel had been unhorsed.
He was laying into horsemen left and right with his great sword. It had the
reach to be a match for a mounted man. A soldier charged at him but the Drayman
was there, sword flashing and the man fell before he could reach the Lord
Protector. Roskel turned and looked for the Thane of Kar.

            He
was shouting to be heard over the clamour of steel on steel. Roskel wasted no
more time. It was as though a tunnel opened up before him. The black clad
soldiers were drawn into battle by the driving cavalry of Naeth. Roskel urged
the horse into a run and swung his sword. A man stumbled and fell in front of him
but the charger just rode over him.

            The
false king saw the danger and turned to flee, but in the centre of his lines he
was surrounded by a whirling storm. There was no way to escape. Grim
determination on his face he wheeled his own horse round to charge at Roskel.
The thief lowered his sword, point facing forward like a lance. The Thane of
Kar did the same and they charged full speed at one another. Mud flew in the
air from the horses’ hooves. Roskel was aware of his shoulder, shooting pain in
the joint making his good arm shake.

           
The
boar
, came the words in his mind. At the last moment he switched and pulled
the sword away, swaying as the Thane of Kar’s sword passed, sliding from his
chain tabard. As the man passed, Roskel’s blade spun and fell.

            He
pulled up and turned, the charger reacting instantly to his knees. He could no
longer hold the reins with his hand.

            The
Thane of Kar was unhorsed, lying on the ground face down. His head, and the
false crown, were split in two.

*

Chapter Seventy-Five

The
Drayman saw the alien, the force behind the Thane of Kar, running for his life
through the rear of the lines. With his song, he called men to him and rode
hard after the man.

            He
rode faster than he ever had, gaining all the time. He raised his borrowed
sword high.

            The
man that was not a man turned and the Drayman was satisfied to see fear on his
face.

            Then
the man was shouting something as he ran, in an unknown language that even the
Drayman could not understand. His ears burned from the arcane, evil magic that
it released.

            Then
the air before the running man shimmered and he dived into the open air…and
disappeared.

            Before
he went the Drayman saw a strange room, with candles burning and dark windows,
even though it was morning.

            He
halted his horse and listened with all his powers. There was a tinkling and an
eerie wailing, like hungry ghosts, then the sound of the battle returned. To
his ears he could make out the change in the fighting. The battle was slowing.

            He
turned and trotted back, the bewildered soldiers following him. Roskel stood in
a growing circle of calm a hundred feet away. He had dismounted and was holding
the broken crown in his hands. He looked shocked, too. His mouth was slack and
he bled from numerous wounds, but he still stood.

            The
Drayman stopped next to him, and laid a hand on Roskel’s shoulder.

           
You
can stop it now. You know what to do.

           
Roskel turned slowly, blinking,
as if only just coming to realise what he had achieved.

            With
the Drayman’s help he mounted his charger.

            'Will
you lend my words power?'

            The
Drayman looked into Roskel’s eyes and smiled.

           
Yes.

           
Side by side, the Drayman’s hand
on Roskel’s shoulder, the two men stared out at the battle. There was a
different tone to it, even to Roskel’s untalented ears. There were only small
pockets of fighting now. But time to end it. Enough men had died needlessly
this day.

            'The
false king is dead! Lay down your arms!'

            His
voice boomed like thunder. It carried to the furthest reaches of the battlefield.
Early black mirs feasting on the dead burst into the air, startled from their
pickings.

            Slowly,
the sounds of steel clashing with steel slowed.

            'Cease!'
ordered the Lord Protector, his voice lent unnatural strength by the Drayman’s
arts.

            Silence
fell, and eyes turned to the source of the powerful voice. Roskel held the
crown high.

            'The
false king is slain by my hand. I am Roskel Farinder, Lord Protector and
Steward of the Sturman crown. Justice has been done. Let there be no more
killing this day!'

            The
enemy fell quiet and backed away from the soldiers of Naeth. No man raised his
sword as the enemy retreated warily, each side watching the other for any
indication that they would continue fighting.

            The
words Roskel spoke had power because of the Drayman’s power. They were
amplified, feelings sent out on the waves of sound, truth and trust in his
every word.

            'The
crown is destroyed. From this day forth none will wear the crown until one who
is worthy comes again. This is my will. This is the law. From this day forward
there is no king. Let no man raise himself up until the crown is whole again
and the line of kings returns to this land. My will is the law! All soldiers
who fought under Kar are pardoned, save the Thane of Ulbridge. He is stripped
of his title and his life is forfeit. A reward to any man who brings him before
me. No other man will be punished for their part in this war. Return to your
homes and come not again against the Stewards of Sturma, or face your
destruction.'

            The
men looked at each other. The soldiers of Naeth stepped forward and disarmed
each man.

            Slowly,
a flood a soldiers headed to the south, flowing around the circle that
surrounded Roskel. They looked dejected, but they didn’t look as if they wanted
to fight.

            In
an hour or so, during which time Wexel and Rohir, and the Thanes of Mardon and
Carmille arrived, Roskel watched the enemy leave.

            They
were not the enemy. The true enemy had escaped, and the Thane of Ulbridge had
not been found. He had escaped justice, too. But he would not get far. Already
soldiers were hunting him, scouring the lands to the south.

            Roskel
sighed and shifted his shoulder. He needed attention, but the men needed to see
him, too.

            All
the commanders arrived, then the soldiers crowded in a vast circle around
Roskel. He looked out over his forces.

            He
was proud, but more than anything, he was tired. Tired of the constant battle
to do right and see justice reign over the land of his fathers.

            'Men
of Naeth. Men of Sturma! Today a great victory has been won!'

            A
cheer went up.

            'We
stand against an ancient enemy. Our war is not done. We must be vigilant. But I
will be here to protect you. I am tireless in the fight. We fight for justice!'

            'Will
you not be our king?' said the Thane of Carmille loudly enough so that the
front ranks of soldier could hear. They answered with a joyful cry, echoing the
thought.

            'I
will not! When the king comes again, you will know it. I will be no Thief King,
but a guide in the coming years. Let there be no more talk of kings this day.
Tend to the wounded and clear the dead. Tonight we toast their memory, and
celebrate a great victory!'

            The
men shouted loudly and waved their swords in the air.

            Then
Roskel fell from his horse and passed out.

*