The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (6 page)

Chapter Twelve

Roskel
rode for the remainder of the day, eager to put as much distance between
himself and the village of Wraith’s Guard as possible. He broke for a late
lunch to water Minstrel, but then pressed on, riding harder than was strictly
necessary. For a time Minstrel seemed to relish the freedom granted and showed
a fair turn of speed.

            Which
was all well and good, until Roskel found that at some point he had been turned
around. He seemed to have lost the Great South Road, but he didn’t mind. He was
on a road and that was good enough for the time being. By the suns he was still
heading south, even if he was no longer on a main road. There were many
oddities he had to mull over since meeting the old beggar outside the Wraith’s
Guard, but he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to look upon them, even in the
warm light of day. Some things were best left buried.

            He
passed markers for three villages off the road but decided he would rather
press on.

            That
first night, in an inn called the Waylander’s Rest, he slept fitfully. His
dreams were of the darkest things that roam in the night, of restless spirits
risen from the grave, and the undead walking through the streets at night. He
woke sweaty from the dream and washed his body from head to foot using water in
a basin on a chest that was only meant for the face.

            Once
dressed, he set out again, forgoing breakfast for an early start. This time his
horse was still in the stables and there were people about their business on
the streets. He rode on. The towns of Colebridge, Thornton, and Mar fell
behind, their stories untold.

            He
whiled away the time upon his horse whistling tunes and singing ditties. He
thought with distant regret on his one true friend, Tarn, and of the friends he
had left behind in Naeth. As the days turned into his first week on the road he
wondered how they fared in the game against the Thane of Kar’s plots and
scheming.

            But
it was not his concern. His concern lay south.

            He
saw a few wanderers, like himself, on the road. But he saw no bandits, and
there was no trouble. He forgot the village of the dead that he had left behind
and the nagging fear that had he neglected to pay for his provisions that
strange morning then he too, would have been a husk by the side of the road,
food in turn for the spirits that prowled that haunted village.

            He
tried to turn his mind to brighter things, and began to notice a few changes.
No longer did his legs and rump hurt from the jouncing of the road. He had lost
a few pounds gained while playing the lord, and he slept less, but better, than
he was accustomed to. He grew to enjoy the freedom he had gained, and made the
most of the time on the road. Once he returned to the castle of Naeth he would
again become embroiled in the business of state, vying for power among the
Thanes and the courtiers. Enjoy it while it lasts, he vowed, and rode on.
South…always south.

            His
course was unerring. The old, pitted, dirt road served him well.

            For
the first week the weather remained mild, the autumn suns a blush across the
clear blue skies. Then, as he neared the outskirts of the great forest known as
the Fresh Woods, the weather abruptly turned.

            At
first, it was just a chill wind from the east. Then clouds grew on the horizon.
He watched the weather carefully as he rode. He had not passed a village now
for a day and a half. He knew there were few villages this close to the great
forest. There were also places within its dark heart he could make for, such as
Haven, the old home of his bandit brethren, but he knew he was no longer of
there. Besides, he reasoned, the journey would take him too far out of his way,
even though he was interested to see what his old home had turned into since
its denizens gained their freedom and a pardon for past crimes.

            So
he watched the weather, and skirted the forest. He camped rough, away from the
side of the road, just in case not so friendly travellers shared the road with
him. He was in bandit country, and he didn’t wish to be run through or shot
with an arrow before he could let them know who he was. Besides, there was no
guarantee that a bandit would know him. There were many bands working this
area, and not all were as friendly or honourable as his old companions.

            Another
morning came, and this time it brought with it a light drizzle. His fire had
burned out in the night and his toes were cold. His face was wet from the rain
and the scant cover of the copse of trees he had camped under did little to
alleviate the misery of the rain.

            At
least, he thought, it is not pouring.

            At
which moment, the rain got heavier. Within ten minutes, while he hastily tried
to break camp, thunder was booming in the distance and lightning crashed into a
tree on the horizon, exploding in a shower of fire. The flames were quickly
doused by the downpour, but the smoke was an ugly stain on purpling skies.

            The
cacophony of rain on leaves and mud was deafening.

            He
reassessed the situation under the scant cover of the trees, rain dripping
through to soak his cloak and run from the stubble on his chin to drip and join
the rivulets running at his feet. There was no way he could move on. He took
his bedroll and hung it with the aid of a length of rope from two trees and
huddled underneath it, wet and miserable, cold and suddenly lonely.

            He
wished for his warm room, and forgot, for a moment, all about the freedom of
the road.

            While
he was waiting for a break in the rain, even a slight easing of the torrent, he
unpacked his oiled skins and set about creating some lasting shelter. It was
all well and good travelling when the sun shone, but he had forgotten just how
miserable it could be to be out in the rain when it was heavy enough to turn
the ground to mud. He had forgotten just how cold it could be to winter outside
when it was snowing. He had done it once, with nothing but deerskins to keep
warm and a hide to keep the worst of the wind off. He had been roaming the
outskirts of the Fresh Woods when Tarn had found him, and what a sorry sight he
had been. Bedraggled in torn clothing, with just a dagger to his name, he had
been a lost man. Then Tarn had saved him, taught him how to fend for himself in
the woods. It had been a hard time, but some of it had been good. If his old
friend had been with him now he had no doubt he would have made them a
serviceable shelter in no time.

            He
would have to wait to see if the rain was a long-term fixture or if it would
pass. He was loath to make a more permanent shelter if he was to move on in a
few hours.

            As
it was he sat under his makeshift cover and watched the rain pour down the
edges of his skins, and then drip over the edges onto his head. He shivered and
pulled his hood up. At least his cloak was made for the wet.

            He
glanced over at Minstrel. Even the horse looked moody and sullen in this
weather.

            Rising
from his huddle, the thief scanned the horizon. The sky was black as far as the
eye could see.

            He
set about making himself a decent shelter. He would be going no further this
day.

*

Chapter Thirteen

The
rain persisted all that day and all night. The thief used his sword to cut
branches, diagonally, as his old friend had shown him. The lessons learned seem
so old. He had already forgotten much. He intertwined what branches he could, making
a solid lattice, with the leaves left on. This he propped between the twin
boles of a great split tree, creating a makeshift roof. He placed the skins
over the top of his shelter. It kept some rain out, but it still leaked and the
rain dripped onto his hood.

            His
sweat cooled and he shivered in the sudden cold. True autumn had begun. The
trees at first had given a measure of shelter, but now the wind was picking up
and the red-gold leaves were being blown from the trees. The wind whipped
through the copse of trees and chilled him to the bone. His hands were numb,
and he couldn’t even build a fire. There was no dry wood. Had he known he was
going to be forced to camp in this autumn storm he would have thought to bring
some dry wood into the camp, but it was too late for that now.

            So
he kept his arms wrapped tightly around his chest and tried to conserve his
warmth. The day passed miserably. The night was even worse. He couldn’t sleep,
for the rain poured around his seat and made the ground too wet to lay on.
Everywhere he looked was mud, and still the rain did not abate. When night came,
the wind howled, testing his woodcraft to the limit. The cloud cover was too
heavy for even the slightest hint of a moon to peek through. It was almost
pitch darkness, but as he became accustomed to it he realised that there was a
slight light, just enough to see a foot or so in front of him.

            The
woods at night were a different world to that which he had been born. The last
time he had been forced to camp outdoors he’d had company. Alone, the sounds of
the night took on new meaning. Even over the heavy downpour he could hear
snuffling creatures, their vision vastly better than his, coming around to see
who this human interloper was. And perhaps to take the measure of him. Should
he be found wanting, would they test him?

            Rustling
undergrowth…a boar? A badger? Or just a land mir, rooting around for a more
comfortable seat in the wet?

            He
tried to turn his imagination to lighter thoughts. He tried to remember the
last time he had spent the night with a woman, then became depressed because it
had been so long ago.

            He
wondered how long he would be stuck out in the woods, driven to find shelter in
a woodland where there were no handy caves and it was impossible to get in the
lee of the wind. The wind out here seemed to come from all directions, and be
as bold as youngsters playing peek-a-drawers with the baker’s daughter.

            The
thunder had quit before dusk, but in the darkest hour of the night, just as
Roskel’s head was finally nodding, it came back with a vengeance. The storm
must have had another riding its coattails, he thought dozily.

            Thunder
crashed overhead and the storm found new frenzy. One of his skins blew free to
whip across the copse with a flapping, fluttering sound like bat wings in the
dusk. Rain came into Roskel’s hide steadily, soaking him through. He was too
miserable to bother moving, but in some deep, tired part of his mind he knew he
was in trouble. He had to find true shelter. In the morning he would have to
make for the nearest inn, or even ask a farmer for shelter out of the storm.
The problem was he had no idea how far he would have to travel in the rain.

            If
he was lucky the storm would blow itself out by first light, but he was not a
man given to trusting to luck. He weighed the dice at every opportunity.

            But
what could he do against the weather? He could not run a trick on the gods. He
could not fool the storm. If it meant to blow for a week, all he could do was
ride it out.

            And
so thinking, he pulled his cloak tighter, listened to the beasts of the night
in their shuffling, prowling walks make their way through the copse in search
of gods knew what.

            The
light broke. The storm did not.

*

Chapter Fourteen

Roskel
was soaked to the bone. He breakfasted on some hard bread which he held out in
the rain to soften, and a handful of nuts he had picked along the road a ways
back. At least he would be regular, he thought with a wry grin.

            There
was nothing else for it. His fingertips were wrinkled from exposure to the
constant rain, his joints seemed to ache, from the base of his neck to his
toes. He was tired enough to sleep in the mud, but he knew that could be the
death of him. He was well dressed, and in the dry he would have been warm enough,
but now he was sodden he felt every chill.

            He
sneezed violently and cursed.

            That
was just what he needed now, a case of the chills.
Warm up, and everything
will look alright tomorrow…really, it will
…no matter how convincing he
tried to be he could not fool himself. This storm was not going to stop. He
could not wait it out. He would have to ride.

            And
hope for the best.

            Trust
to luck, perhaps. He hated trusting to luck. Largely because his luck was
terrible and whenever he did, he lost.

            With
his meagre possessions upon his horse and camp broken, he mounted and headed
back to the road.

            Where
the road had once been, there was now a river. Water flowed freely along the
road, a dirt brown river with countless potholes hidden. Dangerous for a man
afoot. Potentially deadly for a horse that couldn’t see its footing.

            He
had no choice, though, he would have to risk it.

            Setting
off, more miserable than he could ever remember, he made for the south.

*