Read The Queen of Thieves: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three Online
Authors: Craig R. Saunders,Craig Saunders
The southern Thanes mustered west
of the Fresh Woods, some thirty miles from Rena and Asram, who slogged through
the outskirts of the woods toward the new town of Haven.
The pennants of the
armies of the great and mighty flapped in the wind and snow. Soldiers on
horseback and on foot all shifted, some stamping, some clapping their hands,
trying to work some blood into their freezing extremities.
Even though the
winters were milder in the south than the north, the depths of winter were
still harsh enough to frost the breath, and harder still on a man wearing
armour.
The battle was a way
off...three, maybe four weeks march in the summer. In the winter, it could be
twice that. Men would be lost on the journey, but time was short...the enemy
was coming.
Yet Redalane was
confused. They were to march north, then east to the coast. And yet the enemy
forces, by all accounts, were working their way south from the frozen wastes
above Thaxamalan's Saw.
He sighed, wishing
Durmont was beside him for his council. Yet Roskel needed Durmont more than he.
Roskel would be in need of wise council in the days to come. Redalane was all
too aware that Roskel was no warrior, nor a commander of men. He had no
experience of war, apart from the battle against the Thane of Kar. There was
nothing for it, though, but to march the men north.
In Durmont's missive
to him he read plenty between the lines. Durmont was getting old. This he knew.
But he was no doubt still sharp, though Redalane had not seen his old friend
and his right hand man for a year - since loaning his expertise to the northern
courts and the Stewards of Sturma.
He could sorely use someone
wise beside him now, for Durmont told him in a private letter than he, too, was
confused - the enemy was in the north. The southern thanes and their force were
to muster in the east. It made no sense, and Durmont pointed out,
unnecessarily, that he felt the Queen of Thieves hand in the north. Her
influence over Roskel was extending, and that, Redalane thought, was a
dangerous thing.
But then he'd had
dealings with her in the past, hadn't he? And she hadn't steered him wrong,
either. He knew her for a dangerous woman, but true, too.
He just had to trust
that she knew what she was doing.
'Damn it,' he said to
no one in particular, wishing yet again for some sensible council. He had no
choice. March. March to the coast and see what was what when they were safely
in the north with the miles behind them.
Redalane, the Thane
of Spar and the most powerful man on Sturma behind Roskel Farinder, had
experience of dealing with Hierarchs. He knew they were masters of subterfuge.
He could only imagine that they intended to come by sea, too.
Redalane was a man of
wide experience indeed. He'd dealt with Hierarchs, and Kings; Thief Kings and
Outlaw Kings. He was no stranger to courtly intrigue, nor to the field of war.
He knew, too, that
Roskel was no fool. Durmont assured him as much, and if there was one man
Redalane trusted with his life, it was Durmont.
It still bore heavily
on him that it was his own blade, his own poison, which had ended the young
Outlaw King's life. But it was the past, and he had to focus on the future.
There needed to be a reckoning. His son, Kuin, was all but blind and not a
little mad since his incarceration under the old Thane of Naeth - and the
Hierarchy had taken a hand in that outrage, too.
His son remained
behind, at the Castle of Light. Healing, he hoped. Redalane always hoped
against hope that his son would heal, and be an heir to him. Aging, as he was,
he needed an heir.
Hope, he thought
grimly. Bastard hope.
But he turned his
mind again to the battle coming. Hope had no place on the battlefield. It was
no replacement for sound planning and strong arms.
So, against good
sense, but feeling the urgency, the southern Lord's armies mustered. Frost
sparkled on iron. Breath frosted in the frigid air. Clasps and swords and
shields rattled and clanked and creaked.
Then Redalane,
looking out in pride at an army unlike Sturma had ever seen, even since the War
of Reconciliation, raised his fist, once, then dropped it.
The army marched.
*
Shawford Crale tucked his napkin
into his finely embroidered shirt and began his evening meal. Ellisindre, his
wife, had taken to her room with her latest folly. The folly, a young man,
screamed from upstairs within the family bedroom. Shawford sighed. She never
could control her food.
Crale's meal was laid
out upon the vast dining table, her head laid just so, her neck bared at a
comfortable angle for Crale to bleed.
With a sharp knife he
sliced the girl's throat, thinly, so as not to kill her, and held a crystal
decanter under the flow of blood released by his practised incision.
There really was no
need to toy with his food. His wife...well...she was clumsy, and a little too
hasty when it came to her food. Crale had learned as much when she had nearly
killed the Lord Protector of Sturma.
Crale smiled at the
thought and poured some of the warm blood into a crystal glass. He managed to
take one sip of the fluid before there was a change in the air. He reacted
fast, but not fast enough...no one could have reacted fast enough, for while
Shawford may have had a vampire's preternatural strength and speed, the Queen
of Thieves was nothing mortal.
Crale dropped the
glass, swearing roundly and flushing, as Selana's hand was in his hair, pulling
his head back, and her razor-sharp finger nails at his throat.
*
'You and your wife are both such
children. How many years has it been now, Shawford? How many years? And still
so hungry?'
Crale dared not
answer, with the Queen of Thieves deadly nails placed on his throat. In fact,
he dared not swallow, either, because to do so might have resulted in a nasty
cut, and his shirt was fresh on.
'No matter,' said the
Queen. She sighed.
It would be the
matter of less than a second to break the thrall on the girl laid out on the
table. And yet, to do so would create problems. As much as she was loath to
admit it, she needed Shawford. She needed him for what he could do, if nothing
else.
No mere vampire, but
an undead mage, and no mean one at that.
Could he be
trusted?
She took her nails
from his neck.
No, of course he
could not be trusted.
She looked at the
woman - maybe just a girl, still, laid out on the table before Crale, her
life's blood leaking from her neck. She sighed again. There was nothing she
could do for the girl.
'I have need of you,'
she said, wishing there was some other way.
'Ah, so,' he said,
his tones all oil and smoke, 'My lady needs one of my particular...talents...'
'Mind your pride,
Shawford, and remember who I am.'
Shawford coughed.
'Indeed. Indeed.'
A scream came from
the second floor of the mouldering estate house. The glamours that worked on
the human food that came through the door had no effect on Selana. She could
see that the estate, once grand, was crumbling around the vampires' ears. No
doubt their little brood would soon move on to pastures new. Vampires could
never stay in the same place for long.
'The lady of the
house?' enquired Selana.
'Yes, she is
entertaining,' he said.
Selana had to remind
herself why she was here. It was a nest of vampires. What had she expected?
Maybe she'd thought
their thirst to have abated before now. But either way...it wasn't her problem.
He was. Shawford
Crale. Full of evil long before he was turned. Long before he became a
family
man. And yet because of his peculiar talents, that of mage and blooddrinker, he
was one of the few people in the country she would count powerful enough to
withstand a Hierarchy mage.
He was her problem,
but he knew who the true power on Sturma was, and it was her. Time to remind
him, perhaps.
With a swift stroke
from her sharp nails she cut the young girl's throat from one side to the
other. Blood and air fountained across the room, splashing the filthy table,
the threadbare carpets, the crooked chairs.
Shawford Crale mopped
blood from his face with a handkerchief. 'Really, my lady, that was uncalled
for.'
She drove one of her
perfect nails through Crale's cheek and pulled him to his feet.
'Fetch the Crown of
Kings, Shawford, and leave tonight.'
Crale winced, still
perfectly able to feel pain. He managed a nod.
'You will be meeting
friends on the road north, and soon,' said the Queen, letting Crale go. The
wound in Crale's cheek healed almost instantly. 'I have need of one with your
particular talents...and perhaps predilections, too...'
'Ooh, I'm practically
salivating,' said Shawford, licking his lips with an unseemly tongue, but with
a little more reservation in his voice, this time.
Not enough, though
,
thought Selana. Her fist flicked out and she pierced that oily tongue between
two of her long nails in an instant.
'You are to have
three companions on the road. Meet them at the Pickled Hare tavern in no more
than three days time. Night time will suffice. No harm will come to them.
Understood?'
''eth'' said
Shawford.
'Good,' said the
Queen. 'Set out tonight. I'm sure the lady of the house will find her own
diversions while you are absent.'
Shawford, his tongue
back in his mouth, grinned. 'I'm sure she will.'
'And your daughter?'
enquired Selana solicitously. She had to admit, she had a soft spot for the
little girl. She, too, was a savage, but through no fault of her own. How old
was the child now? She might very well be fifty years of age, though she would
always look like a mere girl of ten years.
'Fine and well, Lady,
fine and well. My wife can manage her admirably, while I confess sometimes I
find fatherhood...trying.'
'As it should be,'
she said with a nod. The man was a bastard, a devil, a mage and a vampire, but
ever the proud father.
And as deadly a
companion as one could ever wish, she thought. She just hoped he could keep his
thirst in check to see Rena and her babe to Naeth.
You play some
deadly games,
she thought to herself. But the winter would be long and dark
this year and she needed to risk much to win much.
'Now,' she said to
Shawford, who still sat at the bloody table.
'Now?'
She nodded. 'The
Pickled Hare tavern,' she said. Then she was gone.
*
Crale met his wife coming down
the stairs as he came from the cellars of the estate house, carrying the most
valuable artefact in the country in a simple hessian sack. Every time he saw
her he was taken with her beauty, her grace, and the sheer passion she took in
torturing her food. She was practically covered head to foot in blood. She left
bloody footprints as she descended the stairs. But oh so gracefully...
'She thinks I'm
dumb,' said Ellisindre, 'But I'm not.'
'Not for a minute do
I think such a thing, darling wife,' he said, skirting the issue of Selana
thinking his beloved wife dumb...which was undoubtedly the truth as far as
Selana went. 'Did you feed well?'
'Yes. The man was a
delight. Tasted a little of Stum, truth be told, but pickings were sparse by
the canal this eve.'
'Ellisindre, you
could have most any man you want...' In truth, even had she not been stunningly
beautiful, she could have made any man in the world dance to her tune with a
glamour. The glamour that the vampires used was a mere trick, but in a land
with little in the way of magic, it sufficed. A witch, maybe, could see through
it. Certainly someone as accomplished as Selana could. But it sufficed.
'I wanted something a
little...dirty,' admitted Ellisindre.
Crale nodded. His
wife was ever a slave to her roots. She was stunning, but never was born to
good breeding.
Still, hadn't Crale
himself plucked her from the streets? He certainly wasn't immune to the charms
of the lower classes. Hells, he'd married a common harlot. Couldn't say he
wasn't a fair man.
'I have to go...' he
said. He took her hand as she reached the bottom of the stairs. It was sticky
with drying blood.
'I heard.'
'Will you give our
dear daughter a kiss from me? I may be gone...a time.'
'I don't trust her,
Shawford.'
'Neither do I, but
she rules our kind and I learned many years ago never to go against her. Trust
or no, I must do as she bids.'
Ellisindre pouted -
beautifully - but she did not complain further. She knew that a
request...order...from the Queen could not be denied. They had no masters, no
mistress, few peers, but the Queen was set above them all.
'Then have a care, my
love,' she said.
'And you,' he said.
They did not kiss. Crale shouldered his burden and closed the door behind him
on their crumbling estate house.
The Crown of Kings on
his shoulder, he set out north, under the steady light of the moon, through the
freezing cold of a winter's night, with nothing but his fine bloody shirt on
his back.
*