The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (7 page)

Part II.

Year's End

Chapter Fifteen

Roskel
rode for the best part of the day. The rain had shrivelled his pride and joy
and that just added to his misery. A man had to have something to boast about.
On the plus side there wouldn’t be many to bother him on this journey.

            Lunch
was a sad affair, soggy bread and a piece of cheese eaten astride Minstrel.

            And
then, shivering and sneezing regularly now, certain he had a case of the chills
coming on, he spied a few buildings in the distance.

            He
set off at a trot and made for the buildings.

            He
didn’t care. He would have settled for Wraith’s Guard right then.

            A
small hamlet hove into sight. Its wide streets were running water, running over
the front doors. No one was foolish enough to step outside on a day like this.

            A
stream that ran alongside the hamlet had burst its banks long ago. It looked
almost like a small river. Roskel was glad that he didn’t have to cross it. It
ran off to the north, perhaps joining the river Frana at some point in its
meandering future.

            He
dismounted as he reached the centre of the hamlet, and sighed with great relief
as he sploshed along the river road to a sign at the end of the hamlet. In the
dim light he had to strain, but it seemed to read ‘Year’s End’.

            He
walked round to the back and found a single stable, with no stable hand. He
stripped and wiped down the mare with a handful of straw and put some hay on
the ground for her. He was dog tired, from having no sleep and his joints and
muscles seemed to scream with the fugue, a growing chill that would take a good
fire and a warm meal to chase away. No matter how tired a man was, though, if
he was wise he would see to his horse first.

            He
left Minstrel, who seemed happy enough to be out of the rain, and headed to the
front door of the inn.

            It
was a one-story affair, shuttered windows and wooden tiles, well-weathered,
upon the roof. He hoped it was safe. He was almost ready to drop.

            He
pushed the door open and entered, having to duck to avoid knocking himself out
on the low door.

            There
was only the proprietor in the place, his feet up in front of a small fire. He
jumped up as the door closed. Roskel fired a sneeze and held up a hand in
greeting.

            'Please
tell me you have a room to spare.'

            The
man was quite old but showed a surprising turn of speed as he stood and came to
guide Roskel to the fire.

            'Come,
come by the warmth! You must be freezing.'

            He
smiled, showing a gap or two where teeth should have been. 'What are you doing
out in this? Damn fool bard.'

            'Don’t
mind me,' said Roskel, easing himself gratefully into a chair by the fire.
Water was already pooling around his feet on the flagstones.

            'And
don’t you mind me. What am I thinking? Berating a paying customer…you are a
paying customer, aren’t you?' he added warily.

            Roskel
laughed. He felt he could manage that.

            'Yes,
I am. And I’ll pay well for a warm meal and a spot of chait, if you have the
makings of it.'

            'Best
there you’ll ever taste!' the keeper said, his manner suddenly perking up at
the mention of money. 'There, you just rest your bones and I’ll set about
feeding you. I’ve two rooms and you can take your pick. It’s not often I see a
traveller these days, what with the troubles and all, but you’re welcome to
what I’ve got.'

            The
man bustled about, stripping Roskel’s wet cloak and hanging it over a chair in
front of the fire. Thankfully, he did not try to strip anything else. His good
graces obviously only extended so far, thought Roskel with a grin.

            The
thief set about making himself comfortable. It was fortuitous indeed to find an
inn this far off the beaten track. The fire crackled with welcoming warmth and
he felt some of the numbness begin to leave his muscles. Troublingly, as he
breathed there seemed to be some fluid shifting in his chest. He coughed and
spat phlegm into the fire.

            Perhaps
his luck hadn’t held after all.

            Roskel
tried to rub some life back into his arms. He couldn’t wait to dry his clothes
and crawl into a bed. If he could think of a way to do it, he’d take a burning
log from the fire and sleep on that.

            The
proprietor came back with a cauldron full of some kind of stew. No doubt a
couple of days old, but beggars and itinerant thieves couldn’t be choosers.

            'Yesterdays
doings, I’m afraid, but good enough. I’ll join you, if you’ve a mind to talk,'
said the man, setting the cauldron above the burning logs to heat.

            'I’ve
a mind. I’d hear about these parts. It’s been some time since I’ve been this
way and I seemed to have got turned around a few days back.'

            'I
can give you directions to most places round these parts. Can’t guarantee
what’d be safe anymore. Hold on, I’ll just get the milk.'

            Roskel
wondered what the man thought safe. There had always been dangers a plenty for
a traveller in Sturma’s wild lands-- in its forests with their dark depths
hiding untold dangers for the unwary, its crumbling relics with their
guardians. The barren mountains to the west, holding back the Drayman raiders,
the unknown monsters of the sea…no, he thought the man meant some new threat.

            Just
perfect. Something else to deal with. Was nothing ever easy?

            This
journey was turning into a nightmare. Ghosts, storms, getting lost…what else
could it throw his way?

            The
landlord returned and placed two cups on a table to hand and two bowls beside
the fire to warm. He mumbled something Roskel didn’t catch and headed back to
the kitchen.

            This
better be a bloody feast, thought Roskel, for all the effort the man was going
to.

            Finally,
a pot full of chait set to warm before the fire, the man sat with a comfortable
sigh and pulled out a pipe.

            Once
he had a fair head of smoke around him, Roskel broke the easy silence.

            'So,
am I still north of the Fresh Woods?'

            'Aye.
Not too far north. Far enough that the troubles reach our ears but not our
hearths.'

            'What
troubles do you speak of?'

            'It
is strange, in truth. I do not know what to believe. Some tales grow in the
telling, but I’ll set you on with what I know, if you’re heading south…?'

            'I
am. I aim to skirt the forest though.'

            'Wise.
Well,' he said, settling into his pipe, 'There’s been odd doings further south.
Beasts long since forgotten since men settled this area are come to do mischief
along the borders. They come out of the forest at night. There’s been maulings
and not a few deaths. Some folk have disappeared. I’d chance a guess and say
they’ve been eaten…but that’s just a guess, mind. Ah, look at me, I’m not much
of a storyteller. I’m sure you could spin it into a tale to frighten a miner.'

            'No,
go on. I’m interested. What do you think is causing the animals to attack? I
take it these are just ordinary creatures?'

            'From
what I hear they’re ten feet tall, bears and big cats, things from darkest
nightmare, but that’s just what I hear and I don’t set much store by things. If
you ask me, its animals that have been put out since the logging began.
Probably disturbed their homes or some such.'

            'New
road?'

            'Aye,
to Haven.'

            The
man must have seen surprise on Roskel’s face.

            'You
know it?'

            'Yes.
I have been there, once. Some time ago. So it’s still there?'

            A
small indiscretion, thought Roskel. He should not have mentioned knowing the
bandit’s village. But too late now.

            The
man seemed to think for a moment.

            'Probably
different to when you knew it. It’s grown some in the last year or so. Been
trade between them and the outlying regions. Thriving, some might say. Still,
what do I know? We’re far removed from others out here. What I do know is that
they’re putting a new road down, from Juxerton to Haven, and since they began,
people have been killed by beasts no man has seen for ten, twenty years. As far
back as I can remember no bear has come from the forests to the lands of men.
No, there’s something amiss there, but I’m not a man given to imagination. I’ll
leave the storytelling to you. But just a word of warning – it’s not safe close
to the forest no more.'

            He
rose and filled the bowls with bubbling stew and the cups with warm chait.
Roskel tried his and found it was to his liking.

            What
evils were besetting Haven? Hard settlement that it was, he still had some fond
memories of the place. But such concerns were far removed from him.

            He
and the landlord talked for a while longer while Roskel filled his belly. Then
the man heaved himself out of his chair at Roskel’s request and showed the
thief to his room. There was a bed, and the rain outside drummed heavily on the
roof, but it was all in good repair.

            He
thanked the man, closed the door and stripped gratefully, then passed them
round the door to the landlord. He didn’t like not having his clothes to hand,
but they needed drying and they would dry fastest by the fire.

            Then,
too tired and full of the aches of his trails over the last day, he sank into
cold sheets and fell asleep.

*

Chapter Sixteen

The
suns rose the following morning. The skies were clear and crisp, the greenery
lush and vivid after the storm. The small hamlet of Winslow-by-the-Brook came
out of its hibernation and set about the business of small hamlets everywhere.
The old widow Lowboy came out early and tried to salvage her herbs. The only
child in Winslow, a girl by the name of Frear, ran out to play in the puddles
along the dirt road, splashing herself with mud, much to the later
consternation of her mother. The only two farmers for six miles headed into the
field to survey the damage to their dry stone walls, borders between their
farms long disputed.

            The
hamlet never bustled, but there was a quiet industry about the place.

            Inside
the inn, the proprietor, Sam Durnborn, knocked quietly on his only guest’s
door. When there was no answer he headed in and set his guest’s clothes out on
a foot stool, freshly folded and nicely dried. There was still a lingering heat
in the garments from the overnight fire.

            Roskel
did not stir.

            'Good
morning, sir,' the keeper said pointedly. He wanted to be paid. He’d lay on a
breakfast, but it wasn’t his habit to let his customers stay in bed all day,
not before they’d paid up good and proper.

            His
only reply was a muffled one.

            'Breakfast
is in an hour,' he said, just in case his point hadn’t got across.

            Roskel
opened a bleary eye and looked at him.

            'I
believe I might stay a day or two longer,' the thief said, smacking the roof of
his mouth to get some juices flowing. He tried to sit up but found he couldn’t.
His chest was agony, and his limbs were burning. He tried to feel his own
forehead but it was one thing to feel poorly, another to tell if you have a
fever or not. In truth, he did feel shivery, and if he was not sick then why
was his body such a mess of aches and pains?

            'I
think I have a chill. I ache all over.'

            The
landlord tried to think of a polite way to broach the subject of payment for a
further two days, and how to let this travelling bard know that there were no
customers for him to play for his stay, it was silver or nothing.

            He
was not a subtle man, however.

            'You
can’t play for your supper, my friend. I’ll have to see some coin.'

            Roskel
groaned and sat up fully, which set off a coughing fit. He winced in pain as he
coughed up enough phlegm to drown in, then walked gingerly over to the window
which he opened, then spat out of. He had some manners, that one, thought the
landlord.

            Roskel
pulled his pouch from under the bed and rummaged for a moment, shivering even
though the morning was warm for the time of year.

            'I
don’t know how sick I am yet, it’s a bit too early to tell. But I feel as
though I’ve been beaten with a large stick. How much for three further days?
I’ll pay in advance.' The effort of talking was making his head swim.

            The
landlord perked up at the mention of three days in advance. It was enough to
see him through the cold winter months when none but traders and a few hardy
souls too stupid to winter in the warm chanced by.

            'Three
silver pieces. Meals are extra, mind. A penny a drink, a groat for stew. I
don’t cook to order. You eat when I eat. I’m not cooking twice.'

            Roskel
thought it was a reasonable rate for a quiet bed and food. He had the sense
he’d be laying up a few days.

            'And
you’ll look after the horse?'

            'Five
pennies a day for the horse. We’ve grain and hay.'

            'Then
you have a deal. One gold for the inconvenience, five silver for three days and
food for my horse and I. Sound fair?'

            Roskel
took some pleasure in watching the man try to avoid rubbing his hands together
in glee. He imagined he’d just offered to pay the man enough to winter in some
style.

            'It
has been a pleasure doing business with you.'

            Roskel
nodded and shook hands with the man, exchanging money. The man’s jowls wobbled
happily as he counted out the coins.

            'Now,
let me get some rest,' said Roskel, and sank back into the sheets, still warm.

            'Fine.
Breakfast is in an hour, still,' said the proprietor.

            'If
you’re going to act like my father, at least may I have your name? I can’t very
well call you proprietor for the next few days?'

            'Sam
Durnborn’s the name, sir. You rest easy. For all the coin you’ve paid me I’ll
bring you your porridge in bed.'

            'At
last,' said Roskel with gentle sarcasm, 'what I was angling for all along.'

            Sam
just shook his head and closed the door behind him. Bards were funny these
days. Thought they were lords. Back in his day bards had worked for a living,
not laid about eating porridge in bed like they were kings.

            Still,
for a gold and five silver he’d polish the man’s damn boots.

*