The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (31 page)

            He
was just one man.

            A
man with honour among the Sturmen, but an exile, still.

           
But
you are not the last of your kind
, thought Ruan.

            Gods,
he hated that voice, that voice of reason, reminding him of his shame.

            For
all his shame, could he return to his own people and leave this foreign land
that he now called home to beg for their aid? An outcast, asking his people to
send forth an army against an unstoppable tide, all to save their hated neighbouring
country?

            Could
it be done?

            Ruan
did not know. But there was little choice. Without the Draymen, this land, his
adopted people, would perish in the flames of the hierarchs that would march.
The Hierarchy would scour Sturma of all life with their dark magic and their
force of arms.

            Why,
he did not know. Why this strange race were so bent on destroying Sturma was a
mystery to him. Yet it
was
his fight. It became so when Roskel Farinder,
the Thief King and his truest friend became his liege Lord.

            Could
he face his people again?

            He
laughed.

           
You're
a man of honour
, he thought. And that was ever his undoing.

            Did
he have a choice?

            Ruan
bowed his head, humming a soulful tune to himself, with the cold wind blowing in
soft snows and the strange light dancing all along the horizon.

            He
stared into the dark behind him, his new country laid out there. He looked to
the west, where the Draymar nation waited. And in the north, those dancing
lights.

            The
Drayman thought for a long time. Long into the night. While he though, he
barely realised that he was plaiting his own beard, as was the custom of his
people. Becoming Drayman in appearance, after so long trying to adopt the
customs of the Sturmen.

            He
realised as his nimble fingers worked his beard into his native style, that he
was decided.

            He
pushed himself to his feet. He sheathed his sword and mounted his patient
horse. With a gentle nudge he heeled the mare, a gift from Farinder, called
Minstrel, and set out for the west.

            His
people would come, or he would not return. He could not bear the shame that had
made him take his own tongue. Once, he had made a fateful decision to save the
people of a village and in turn caused their deaths. This was his shame. It
would not have been forgotten.

            But
he had to try. Because he was a man of honour. Always, always, honour before
self.

            He
hummed softly again. This time a different tune. The mare responded to the
magic and the will in Ruan's song and picked up speed. She continued to run,
tireless, across the northern plains, faster and faster toward the mountains
and the borders of Ruan's homeland. Minstrel's breath frosted the air, and
snowfall melted against her flanks, as Ruan rode her through Sturma's early
winter, onward, toward Draymar.

*

Chapter Three

Roskel looked sadly at the empty
throne. The throne was a simple thing. Wooden, plain...perhaps unimpressive to
those who did not know the long history behind it. Tarn had known, when he wore
the crown and sat upon it, feeling the power of history seep though his bones.

            But the last person
to sit upon that throne, Tarn, the Outlaw King, had also died on it.

            'I wish you were
here, my friend. It is a time for warriors, not for bards and thieves,' said
Roskel quietly, wishing things could have been different. Wishing so much for a
simpler life, perhaps, perhaps even for a return to anonymity and the freedom
of a rooftop chase.

            'Talking to yourself
again?'

            Roskel turned to see
his fellow Stewards Rohir and Wexel approaching across the throne room. Both
men had suffered grievous injuries in their many battles to power, but they
were hale now, and though scarred and gruff they were Roskel's staunch
supporters, and more, supporters of the land.

            'Just missing a good
friend.'

            'A good man, too,'
agreed Rohir, nodding toward the empty throne that should have seated the
Outlaw King.

            Roskel sighed.
'Enough,' he said. 'I'm getting maudlin.'

            The two rough men
grunted. It was enough.

            'Is Durmont coming?'
asked Wexel.

            'He said he would.'

            At the mention of his
name Durmont, secretary and advisor to the Stewards, walked into the throne
room. He walked slowly, but silently, as though accustomed to only being seen
when he wanted to be. The man had a knack for appearing whenever he was needed
- and sometimes when he wasn't. Roskel had no idea of the man's age, but he
worked tirelessly for Sturma, despite his grey hair and slight, arthritic hips.
The man was a constant fixture around Naeth castle.

            And indispensible,
thought Roskel. Without Durmont's tireless service and wise council the nation
may very well have fallen apart long before now. Roskel was well aware of the
debt that the country owed this aged man.

            'Durmont, I'm glad to
see you here. We greatly need your council. As always.'

            'The lights in the
sky?' said the old man, with a wry grin. 'You need no council from me. It is
already decided, is it not?'

            'Perceptive, as
always,' said Roskel. 'I did not want to presume, Durmont. Should things have
been different, you know you would have been elevated to Protector long
ago...alas...we three are doomed to lofty heights.'

            'I think my position
is lofty enough, Lord Farinder. I wish nothing more than to serve.'

            Roskel nodded. He'd
clap the old man on the back, but he wasn't sure it would be welcome. Durmont
was the very definition of comportment. Back slapping would probably result in
a severe frown and a dressing-down, Lord Protector of Sturma or not.

            'So, it seems the
future we feared would come to pass is already here. Wexel, Rohir? Are we all
in agreement?'

            'Yes,' said both men
as one.

            'Then, Durmont...send
word. The Lord Protector of the Sturma calls the Thanes to arms. We muster
north, winter or no. I feel...as do we all...that the enemy is coming. What
else the lights could mean but great magic, I do not know.'

            Durmont bowed with a
grim expression on his face. 'It saddens me, but it will be as you will. And
Gods help us, for we go to war.'

            Durmont turned on his
heel and left the room. Roskel watched him as he went, his walk proud and
upright though he could see the pain it caused the man. Durmont closed the
doors to the throne room behind him, shutting out most of the light.

            Roskel, his senses
attuned like no other in the room, then smelled something amiss before he heard
or saw anything.

            There could only be
one person whose smell would give him away...indiscernable to the others,
perhaps, but Roskel paid attention to everything he could and still counted
himself among the living because of it.

            'Filcher,' he said,
with a tired sigh.

            A small, thin boy
emerged from the shadows with a sheepish grin. He was missing a tooth or two,
even at his age. Roskel had yet to determine how old the child was - he seemed
to small, too wiry, to be fourteen, as the lad claimed. Roskel suspected
despite the boy's slim years that he'd seen a thing or two, and lived beyond
the span of years a child of his station could reasonably expect. Filcher was a
boy born to survive...and an emissary of the most powerful woman on Sturma for
a reason.

            'You always catch me
out, Lord Protector.'

            'Filcher,' Roskel
said to the child thief. 'Get word to Queen Selana. I need to see her.'

            'You're welcome
anytime, my Lord. You know that.'

            'I also know at what
price the Queen's favours. No, I'd rather arrive announced, if it's all the
same to you, Filcher. And give the guard on the door his purse back on your way
out.'     Rohir laughed. 'Don't know how you do it, Filcher,' he said to the
grubby child.

            'Sneaky bastard, my
Lord,' said Filcher with a shrug. 'It's a talent.'

            'And a fine one. Now,
go, and bring me word of the Queen. I have need of her.'

            'As you will,' said
Filcher, and then he was gone.

            'Gods help you,
Roskel,' said Rohir, 'You're messing with the Queen of Thieves. You're playing
a dangerous game.'

            'Aye,' said Wexel.
'And apt to get burned.'

            'But,' said Roskel with
more bravado than he felt, 'Such a sweet fire.'

            They parted ways,
leaving Roskel alone in the throne room once more, looking, as he had been,
sadly at the throne. He wished he could take council with his old friend. Rohir
and Wexel were great friends and allies, but he could not talk to them
about...women. About the Queen. He could sorely use council.

            'But I'm not going to
get it, am I?' he said to the throne with a deep sigh.

            Sometimes it was hard
being at the top. Though it seemed like everyone was beneath you, in reality
there was no one to catch you should you fall.

- end -

About the Author

Craig Saunders is the author of over
thirty novels and novellas, including 'Masters of Blood and Bone', 'The Estate'
and 'Deadlift'. He writes across many genres, but horror, humour (the 'Spiggot'
series) and fantasy (the 'Rythe' tales) are his favourites.

            Craig lives in Norfolk,
England, with his wife and children, likes nice people and good coffee. Find
out more on Amazon, or visit:

            www.craigrsaunders.blogspot.com

            www.facebook.com/craigrsaundersauthor

            @Grumblesprout

Also by Craig Saunders

Novels

Left to Darkness (Oblivion Series
#1)

Masters
of Blood and Bone

The
Estate

A Home
by the Sea

Rain

The
Noose and Gibbet

A
Stranger's Grave

The Love
of the Dead

Spiggot

Spiggot,
Too

The
Seven Point Star

The Gold
Ring

Days of
Christmas: A Sarah House Novel

Novellas

Flesh and Coin

Bloodeye

Deadlift

A
Scarecrow to Watch over Her

The
Walls of Madness

Insulation

Short
Story Collections

Dead in
the Trunk

Angels
in Black and White

Dark
Words and Black Deeds

Writing
as C. R. Saunders:

Vigil

Writing
as Craig R. Saunders:

The
Outlaw King (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One)

The
Thief King (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two)

The
Queen of Thieves (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three)

Rythe
Awakes (The Rythe Quadrilogy Book One)

The
Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Quadrilogy Book Two)

Rythe
Falls (The Rythe Quadrilogy Book Three)

Coming Soon:

Unit 731