The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (30 page)

And
free. Finally free of the confines of her room. She was enjoying herself. She
marked her route and decided immediately that she would do this every night
while her mother worked the streets. Perhaps she would find a purse or a
gem…yes! She would search the streets for a gem…just like in her book.

            It
was her favourite book. In her book a little girl found a gem. Her mother took
it from her and gave it to a lord…the lord had lost the gem, of course. By
chance they fell in love and the lord took the little girl and the mother and
they became his family…they were happy…

            It
was just a story though, she thought, and her mood nearly dropped. But the
night was magical. It was a night for a little girl to dream.

*

Ellisindre
dismounted ungracefully and put her feet on the solid ground. Her rump was sore
from the ride.

            Not
for the first time.

            The
squire had not spoken a word to her, but now he tossed her a gold coin which
she snatched from the air and tucked away in her skirt with a smooth, practised
movement.

            He
slid from the horse and took her elbow.

            'Come,
my lord awaits. His ardour is rare and he is impatient when the mood is upon
him. Do not keep him waiting.'

            She
said nothing but allowed herself to be led by the arm toward a grand door. She
could see little else of the house but she got the sense that it was a large
estate. They had passed the last house a few minutes ago, and headed through
iron wrought gates onto a long paved road with carmillion blossoms on either
side, their night blooms full and fragrant.

The
squire pushed open the door with one hand and guided her through perhaps a
little roughly, but some of his rudeness seemed to have left him.

            'Through
the door to the right. My master waits in the dining room.'

            She
nodded and walked, brushing her damp hair away from her face. She put a smile
on and tried to hide her disquiet. She felt more than out of place. The house
was grand and full of artefacts. She was pleased that the squire had trusted
her to walk through such riches without trying to plunder the hall and escape
before he could find her.

            Somehow
she had the impression, though, that she would not get far.

            She
walked into the dining room and a small gasp escaped her lips. It was immense.
But she was here to work, not gawp, and her gent was watching.

            She
pushed her bosom out to its full advantage and walked toward the man seated at
the end of a long table who was smiling at her. She watched his eyes. They
seemed black at this distance.

            'Please,
my lady. Take the seat at the end. I presumed you would be hungry at this hour
and have taken the liberty of having a small repast prepared for you.'

            'My
lord, such kindness!' she exclaimed breathlessly, pouting.

            'For
such a beautiful lady…I would go to the ends of the earth.'

            Oh,
she thought, at least he made the pretence of charm.

            'Might
I have the pleasure of a name?' he enquired solicitously.

            'Ellisindre,
lord.'

            'And
I am Shawford Crale, my lady. Now we are friends. Please,' he waved a hand.

            She
sat where he indicated, at the foot of the long table. She watched him over the
candlesticks…gold, if she was not mistaken. The table, too, was the finest. It
seemed to be made of some stone she did not recognise but it had the solidity
of stone, even if it was finely polished and seemed to have flecks of gold
within it.

            She
happened to glance down and saw a strange design drawn below her chair. She
pulled the chair in and returned her gaze to the man at the head of the table.

            He
was watching her like a hawk. His eyes had not left her since she had entered
the dining hall. She tried to regain her composure and keep her smile on her
face, even though her heart pounded in her chest.

            The
gent clapped his hands and a bent old man entered bearing a tray of delicacies,
which the old man placed before Ellisindre.

            'Please,
business can wait. You must be hungry…'

            She
tried to pick but the food was delicious. There were sea oysters and plums, a
fine strong cheese and a salty hunk of fish which she tore into. The servant
returned and filled a glass with a deep red wine which she sampled and then
gulped.

            It
was a meal like she had never imagined. The flavours exploded in her mouth and
she used the napkin to wipe the juices from her lips between mouthfuls, until
she forgot all efforts at deportment and set to with a passion.

            The
man seemed content to watch her eat. She watched him from under the cover of
her hair which fell over her eyes, wondering that such a fine man could show
one such as her such courtesy, a simple woman who made men happy when she could
for a pretty.

            He
smiled at her and motioned for her to continue eating.

            She
gladly obliged, until she could eat no more.

            'Thank
you, my lord. It was a meal like no other. It was the best I have ever had. I
have no doubt, you too, will be the best…'

            The
man laughed and his long salt and pepper hair fell across his eyes.

            'My
dear lady, you are the sweetest thing. Please, allow me to pour you some more
wine…then, perhaps, we can get down to the business of the night.'

            She
smiled coquettishly at him and put a hand to her breast.

            He
approached with a bottle of the fine wine in his hand. His other was hidden
behind his back. Ordinarily it would have troubled her, but she was utterly
disarmed and not a little drunk.

*

The
little girl had taken a while to find the horse. It had fallen silent some time
ago, but for some reason her senses seemed more alive than they had ever been.
She could smell it in the night, now approaching midnight by her inexperienced
reckoning.

            She
stepped up to the horse and it whinnied at her and sniffed her hand. She
stroked its nose and whispered gently to it, calming the beast.

            It
was a beautiful creature. So large she could barely reach its soft nose even
though it craned its head down for her attentions.

            Through
the fog she heard her mother’s voice, startling her.

            What
was her mother doing here, in a lord’s manor?

            Tonight
was turning into some kind of adventure…perhaps her mother had met a lord…and
they had fallen in love! Tomorrow they would come for her on this beautiful
horse and they would all ride across the downs!

            A
mystery to be solved. She crept on stealthy feet closer to the voices and
peered through a misted window.

*

'So,
my dear. To business? Shall we?'

            'Where
do you want me, my lord? What do you wish?'

            'You
look beautiful just where you are…no, no, stay seated,' he said, coming to
stand behind her.

            She
had been mesmerised by his walk. He was a solid man, well built and of middle
years. He seemed confident…and more handsome than most of the gents she had
known.

            His
hand touched her shoulder and she sighed. His hands were warm, her shoulder
cold. Always cold.

            'Such
a beautiful neck, my lovely,' he said, and caressed her gently. She felt
herself warming to him, a sudden rush of blood where she was barren. Her mind
swam from the wine and his hands were so soft.

            She
didn’t feel the knife that sliced through her neck. She was only aware of the
blood when she felt its warmth flooding down the front of her dress.

            She
tried to scream at the sight of all the blood but only a drowning gurgle came
from her rent throat.

            Shawford
Crale turned suddenly as a scream of rage rent the night from outside the
window, bringing the knife to bear. Then the window shattered and Ellisindre’s
daughter flew across the room…it was a leap no mortal could have made.

            Ellisindre
heard a startled cry escape the lips of her murderer and then the man was
thrown across the table. Her daughter jumped on top of him and like a nightmare
she was at his throat, tearing it open with her teeth. Tearing his flesh and
drinking his blood.

            She
drank, Ellisindre aware only dimly of the slurping, gurgling noises coming from
the table…then she felt flesh held against her lips.

            'Drink,
mother. Drink.'

            She
could do little else. She drank. The blood from his throat mixed with her own
and came out through the hole in her throat…then the hole was closed and she
was drinking the pumping warmth from the man down into her full belly. But his
blood warmed her through like the food had not. Her throat felt better. The
stinging pain subsided and her head cleared.

            Her
daughter dropped Shawford Crale back onto the table, and for a moment
Ellisindre marvelled at the strength it must have taken for her little girl to
hold the man for her.

            But
she was no longer the weak little girl who had been wasting in her room this
last month. Her cheeks were ruddy again and her flesh full and plump.

            'I
understand the sickness now, mother,' said her daughter. 'I feel it. I feel the
life pulsing through me. Do you?'

            Shawford
Crale’s blood trickled out from his torn neck, staining the light marble
crimson.

            Ellisindre
nodded and took her daughter in her arms. Tears dripped and mixed with the
blood on her breast.

            'I
understand now, sweetheart, but my god, how I wish I did not.'

            'Don’t
weep, mother. I dreamt of this day. That my father would be a lord! That you
would be his wife and you would no longer have to haunt the night for a penny.'

            'But
you killed him.'

            'No,
mother. I don’t think so,' said the little girl, new and frightening wisdom in
her voice. 'I understand. He will be your husband. We have given him life! You
will rule him and this house. I read it in a book, mother. The book you gave to
me.'

            'This
is no fairytale, daughter of my heart.'

            'But
if we let it, it could be,' her daughter said, her eyes pleading.

            Shawford
Crale’s blood dried. Ellisindre sat watching, her daughter eager on her lap, as
the master of the house’s throat slowly healed.

            By
morning the hole had closed. A new day dawned with dreams fulfilled and hearts
full of hope.

*

And
so, just like in the fairytales, a kiss brought the lord back to life, and they
all lived happily ever after.

            Dreams
do come true.

            And
so, in the still dark hours of the night, do nightmares.

- end -

Bonus Novel Sample:

The Queen of Thieves

(The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three)

Prologue

Rena
cradled her baby in her arms. The child was a year old. He was a grasping,
crawling, babe, his first words gurgled two months ago. He had since fallen
silent, as though those first few words had tired the child out.

            Rena
named the child Tarn, after the boy's father; the last of the line of Sturman
kings.

            The
child would never know his father.

            Rena's
mother, Mia, bustled by the fire in the middle of their shared hut.

            Mia
stopped and wiped her hands on a cloth, cleaning off the bright yellow pollen
of  a carmillion blossom she used in a potion.

            'Someone's
coming,' said Mia, putting down the stained cloth and stirring the mixture over
the peat fire in the circular hearth.

            'Who?'
asked Rena.

            'I
don't know...strange...'

            Rena
heard the footsteps crunching through the snow to the door of the hut. She
half-rose to answer the late night call.

            'No,
tend the child,' said Mia. 'I'll go.'

            Mia
opened the door before the visitors could knock. A flurry of snow blew in
through the front door.

            'Who
is it?' Rena called from beside the fire, but before Mia could utter a word, a
sword ran her through, bursting from her back with a spray of blood.

            She
had no breath to cry out.

            Rena
screamed, laid the babe down.

            She
did not panic. She was a witch. A young witch, still, but a witch, nonetheless.

            The
closest thing to her with which she could protect herself and her babe was the
cauldron. It was a big, heavy thing. She took up the cauldron from the fire,
burning hot on her unprotected hands but she did not notice the pain or the
weight. For a moment she was blind to emotion and feeling. Blind to everything
but the sudden threat to her child.

            With
a great cry she ran to her mother as a warrior clad in some dark material
pulled his sword free of her mother's chest. Mia toppled to the floor, dead
before she hit the dirt.

            As
the warrior, the assassin, drew his sword back to strike again, Rena flung the
burning mixture into his face. Her cried out, his skin steaming, and fell back.

            With
all her strength Rena swung the cauldron, her own hands burning, and caved in
the man's skull.

            Only
then did she look up.

            Five
more men in dark garb stood before the door to the hut, weapons drawn, faces
masked.

            'Kill
her,' said one, 'and kill the child.'

            'No!'
she shouted. 'No!'

            The
first man advanced, faceless behind his mask but with cold alien eyes. He did
not make it any further. With a soft sound breaking the night, an arrow thudded
into the killer's neck. The missile travelled in and through, the steel
arrowhead protruding. The assassin - surely no man - fell to the ground. Breath
gurgled for a second then the assassin was silent.

            There
was a space of no more than a moment when nobody moved. The moment broke and
everything seemed to happen at once.

            Another
of the assassins turned to the new threat, and was taken with an arrow through
his eye. In the time it took for Rena to take up a dead man's sword in her
burned right hand, another two fell quickly. One remained, and he made the
fatal error of looking for the bowman and forgetting the witch behind him.

            With
a grunt Rena swung the heavy blade up over her head and down into the last
killer's skull.

            The
blade stuck fast and was torn from her grasp when the assassin fell. She stood
defenceless, facing the night, blind in the dark and the snow, looking into the
blackness for the archer.

            'Easy
now,' said a man from the forest. She heard his footsteps through the high snow
before she saw him.

            A
long man, holding a curved horn bow. On his back a quiver with two arrows. At
his hip he wore a short sword and a dagger.

            He
bowed before her, then knelt, taking one knee in the blood-stained snow.

            'I'm
sorry,' he said. 'I was too late.'

            Rena,
too, fell to her knees and began sobbing.

            She
sobbed for a time, then stood and wiped her eyes. The man still knelt, head
bowed, his hair crusted with snowfall and the grime of the road.

            Turning,
she saw her mother's form, and her babe crying beside the fire, swaddled in a
blanket.

            'I'm
sorry, my lady, but you must come with me. There is no more time for mourning.'

            'My
mother...'

            'The
ground is hard and she is dead,' said the bowman, but softly.

            'You
know me?'

            'Only
by name,' he said, 'A mutual friend sends me to bring you forth. We have need
of you. Need of your kind...need of the babe...'

            'Who?'
she asked, as she pulled her mother's body in from the cold.

            'Roskel
Farinder.'

            The
thief, she thought. The thief her husband had told her of.

            'The
thief?'

            The
bowman laughed softly, despite the grim situation.

            'No
longer, lady,' he said. 'People call him Steward, Lord Protector of Sturma,
now. There are some of us that know him as the Thief King.'

            Rena
shook her head. 'King?'

            'Since
your husband fell, Lady. The Thief King is a...nickname...nothing more.'

            She
shook her head again. 'I must see to my mother,' she said shortly.

            'There
is no time. There is danger at every turn.'     

            'Make
time,' she told him.

            He
bowed his head once more. 'How can I help?'

            'Watch
the night. This is my business,' she told him.

            'As
you wish,' he said. He turned at the door as she called out to him.

            'I
should know your name,' she said.

            'Lady,
my name is Asram Fell, and I am your servant.'

            Rena
nodded. 'Thank you, Asram Fell,' she said, then turned to her business, that of
a witch in mourning, as she closed the door he stood out into the falling snow
with no complaint.

*

Part I.

Lights in the Sky

Chapter One

The
bald man, Roskel Farinder, sat in a seedy tavern called The Badger nursing a
mug full of frothing ale. The tavern was in a dark corner of the docker's
quarter. A dangerous place for a man like Roskel, who was not much of a
fighter, but he was not concerned. Sometimes the right look could fend off the
wrong kind of attention, and Roskel Farinder had the look of the hawk about
him.

            All
around the room drunken sailors and soldiers, maids and wives, old men and
young men eyed the Thief King in the corner table, sitting alone. Roskel's
shaved head shone in the firelight. He stroked his long moustache and turned
his eyes to his cup and his ears to the conversation around the tavern.

            Two
older men - old, but with teeth still in their heads - were the most
interesting of the patrons. One old man was missing four fingers of one hand.
Roskel noted this from the corner of his eye, without seeming to turn his head
to stare.

            No
one recognised Roskel with his new shaved scalp, for the last most people had
seen of him he had been a dandy, with fine barber cut hair and finer garb. He
was largely ignored, but where once the Thief King had been a soft man,
responsibility, incarceration, and killing had changed him to a man to match
his look.

            No
longer a dandy. Not quite a warrior...not by a long shot...but dangerous
seeming enough to give people pause should they think to accost him along his
route back to the castle.

            'I
saw the suns burning from behind the mountains, I tell you, and it was night.'

            'Goat's
balls, Mange,' said the old man with the missing fingers.

            Roskel
wiped the ale from his lips and pulled his cloak tighter against the long
winter that was surely coming.

            The
same tale passed many lips this last autumn, of the suns burning bright, or a
great firelight over the mountains, when the silver moons should have ruled the
night sky.

            'Goat's
balls, my arse,' said six-finger's friend with a laugh. Roskel would have loved
to have sat for longer. The accents within the tavern, the atmosphere, the ale
- he enjoyed all of it. Too long had he sat in the seat of power, growing lax.

            But
he had not forgotten. Power meant he was responsible for these people. Meant he
was responsible for the safety of this country, his Sturma.

            Roskel
had heard enough. He downed the last of his ale and left his mug on the table
and pushed himself up. He didn't need to look to see his protectors rise as he
did.

            Winter
was coming hard, and it was bringing something else from the North, too. A fire
that burned in the night. Something else was coming right along with winter. Of
that he was sure. He was sure, too, that it would be down to him to deal with
whatever may come. He was Lord Protector of Sturma and Steward of the Crown of
Kings. He never forgot. It weighed heavily upon his shoulders every single day.

            The
fey light north of the mountains stank of magic, and the only magic on Rythe
belonged to the enemies of Sturma.

            The
Hierarchy, the dark-hearted bastards from across the ocean.

            Some
days the burden of leadership weighed more heavily than others, and this was
such a day. Roskel thought hard as he walked to the castle with two bodyguards
behind him in the shadows. He felt the burden of all the souls he was
responsible for. His shoulders were sore as he walked, as though from a real
weight. Shoulders slumped, he walked to find his brother protectors and prepare
for...

            What?

            War?

            He
nodded to himself.

            'Yes,'
he said softly. 'Yes.'

            And
he knew he was right.

*

Chapter Two

The
Skald, Rualanon Mar’ganathis Mar’ganathor Am’belain, Blade Singer of the
Draymar nation, First Knight of Sturma and friend to Roskel Farinder, watched
the strange lights in the northern sky. A fire seemed to burn in the distant
north behind the mountains known as Thaxamalan's Saw.

            For
three nights now the Drayman watched the lights.  He sat with his legs crossed,
his curved blade laid across his knees. Under the meagre shelter of a tree, he
would sit all day, until nightfall and the coming of the lights. He could feel
the taint of dark magic even this many miles south of the source. Ruan the
Skald was attuned to magic and all its guises as few others on the land of
Sturma.

            There
was no magic on these shores, save for witches and the Blade Singers of the
Draymen.

            Fey
magic, foul magic, drifted south on the cold winter winds.

            They
were coming, he knew. The Hierarchy. An enemy of which the Sturmen knew far too
little.

            Too
little, and too late, because they were coming in force and there were none
left in these lands to oppose such an army that would surely be massing in the
freezing wastes of the northlands, the uncharted territory of ice and snow.

            No
one on these lands could oppose such a force...but just maybe, thought the
Drayman...

            Just
maybe he could make a difference, because his people were different. He was a
Blade Singer. He was not defenceless against foul magics. He was not without
power himself.

            He
was from a different people to the Sturmen. A powerful man, yes. An exile from
his own clan, but also a man who had won back his honour, not with his blade,
but with his heart. In his own eyes, he was whole again. But in the eyes of his
people?