The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two
Read The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Online
Authors: Craig R. Saunders,Craig Saunders
© Craig Saunders 2012
All rights pertaining to this
work belong to Craig Saunders and Craig R. Saunders Publications. Any
resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Editor: Faith Kauwe
3rd Edition.
The Thief King
The Line of
Kings Trilogy:
Book Two
by
Craig Saunders
(inc. Glossary, bonus short story
'The House of Dreams' and sample of The Line of Kings Book Three, 'The Queen of
Thieves')
Table of
Contents
The Island Archives
:
The Stewards of the Crown
(The War of Reconcilation onwards)
Bonus Short Story:
The House of Dreams
Bonus Novel Sample:
The Queen of Thieves
(The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three)
Dedication
This
is the boring part - if you aren't featured. But if you don't read it, you
won't know, will you?
So,
for Mum, without whom I would not be able to write (because she bought me this
computer). For Sim, without whom I could not live. For Tom, without whom my
life would be a much duller place. For Jack and Harry, because they keep me on
my toes and teach me to get a grip, and for Dad, for all the times I miss you
(mainly when I'm putting up shelves and doing the plumbing).
For
Baldy Nan and Grandad, too...beyond the gates.
Thanks,
too, to Faith Kauwe for the work on editing these novels - any mistakes remain
my own.
And
you, the readers - love you all.
Craig
The
Shed
2015
(3rd Edition)
Roskel
Farinder tried to get the louse in his moustache between his teeth. His beard
was long enough, but the mite was just out of reach. He longed to scratch his
face, or even better, shave the growth off with some hot water and lather.
Better still, have a fine barber do it.
He
allowed himself one of his many fantasies. He imagined he was sitting in a
chair with his head tilted back, propped upon a soft head rest. His hair was freshly
washed and cut, his body bathed, scrubbed and sweated in a spa. The soothing
sound of the barber’s blade stropping lulled him. Not so long ago he’d been
able to afford the finest barbers in Naeth, the capital city of Sturma. He’d
been an important man, for a time. Before that he’d been a bandit, before that
a thief of no little renown.
Unfortunately,
the name he’d made for himself back then had gotten him into trouble now. The
only blade he’d ever used, the one between his legs, had gotten him into hot
water more times than he could count. If only he’d used his head instead of
his…well…he’d certainly learned his lesson this time. No more dalliances with
powerful lord’s wives. He’d even steer clear of their mistresses…oh, but that
soft, pale flesh…the sweet smell…his mind wandered again. He allowed it free
reign. He had done so since his incarceration. It kept him sane. A man had to
have dreams. A prisoner had even greater need of them.
A
man could go insane, chained in a dank dungeon, unable to scratch his own
beard, unable to urinate except when the guard came and brought the bucket. It
was a matter of learning control, or sleeping in your own soil.
Roskel
was a fast study. He still had some shred of dignity, even in this dark corner
of the world.
Ulbridge
town. Twice damned. His bane.
Why,
oh why, had he ever thought to return? He’d had the whole of Sturma. A kingdom
he had once run-- and he’d left it all behind on a fool’s quest.
Now
he was that fool.
The
thief turned his mind once again to the matter of getting free. He had worried
over the problem for the last three months. He had to get free. Too much rested
on his success. And yet he could hope for no aid, for nobody knew where he was.
It had been a necessity at the time. Now he wished he’d taken a companion with
him. His only hope, he knew, was that someone else would break him out. A
witch, perhaps, who could transform him into a stealthy cat. Then he could
squeeze through the bars and creep past the guards, out into the fresh air and
the cool night.
To
see the stars...he sighed.
To
stalk the rooftops once more…happen upon a lady, by chance, lonesome while her
husband was away on business…perhaps a merchant’s wife…no. He shook his head -
the little movement he could manage. No more lonely wives. He had learned his
lesson. He had.
He
chaffed from the constant irritation of the iron shackles that bound his arms
to each side. He had learned to tense and ease his muscles periodically, but
when he slipped into his uneasy sleep his arms lost all feeling. Every time he
woke, his arms screamed as the blood rushed back where it belonged.
In
truth, the life of a prisoner was a sorry one. He tried to be thankful for his
small mercies…a more inventive captor might have cut off his offending article,
or had him hung…but his captor knew who he was. A public humiliation would not
work. The Council would hear of it and his captor would be hung himself.
But
for all his past glories and power, it availed Roskel little. He could not
imagine a more useless past in such a situation. He might be a thief but he
sorely wished for some modicum of magical talent like wizards of old tales.
The
first of Rythe's two suns was rising outside. He couldn’t see it, but the first
birdsong of the day drifted to him through the crack in the wall. Along with
the birdsong blew a sadistic autumn wind.
Be
thankful for the small mercies, he chided himself. At least it carried his own
stench away on the windier days.
No
breakfast was forthcoming.
He
allowed his mind to drift. Like the fool he was, he went over his mistakes in
his head, as he did a thousand times each day.
If
he had just forgotten all about the crown. If he had just left and become a
thief again…
Not
for the first time, his mind turned to thoughts of death. Would it be a relief?
In truth, his dreams sustained him, but more and more he wondered if it
wouldn’t just be better to be allowed to die.
His
eyes misted for a moment. If he hadn’t listened to Tarn, he wouldn’t be here.
But then who could deny a dying man’s wish?
And
the last king, at that.
*
The
King had been dead a year. Many people no longer recalled when there had been a
king.
Tarn,
the dead king, had ensured that none should take the crown with his dying wish.
Roskel Farinder cursed his friend for his wishes and his last and only edict.
It meant he was stuck in the throne room, wrangling with a man he hated, yet
shackled by duty.
That
man was the Thane of Kar. He argued with the Thane of Mardon across the great
table that Roskel had ordered built in the throne room.
Wexel,
one of the three joint Stewards of the Crown, caught Roskel's eye across the
crowded room and rolled his eyes. The childish move from the large man made him
smile. Like him, Wexel was not born to the business of running a country. While
Roskel Farinder was a born thief, Wexel was a born warrior, more at home
wielding his great sword than the quill he was so often forced to wield these
days.
Roskel
allowed the argument to fade into the background and let his eyes drift around
the room. The adornments of battles past, some not so long ago, hung from the
walls. Tapestries he had ordered, after the fashion of the south, covered the
spaces in between. He was not so ensconced in his position that he could flout
centuries of tradition and hide the castle’s history away, but he could at
least bring some beauty to a room that remembered only death. It had been his
hope that this room could in future be a place of contemplation, that the
tapestries would show the fate of the last warrior king and perhaps shed some
light on the follies of violence. He feared these men at the table only saw glory
in the death.
Maces
and great swords, chainmail hung on carved figures, shields emblazoned with the
boar’s crest of the kings covered the walls. The great axe of the barbarian
king, the Red Slayer, scourge of the Draymar and a strangely hafted spear,
fashioned from some black wood unknown to any, carved with runic symbols hung
nearby. In alcoves around the room stood statues of past kings, each wearing
their armour of state. War, reminders of war, the illusion of glamour and honour
fought for and won in war were everywhere. The warrior kings were respected.
But
what had it availed any of them? Roskel had studied the Sturman Archives,
housed in Naeth Castle's great library, beneath the throne room. Only three of
the kings of the past had died peacefully, in a written history of the kings
that was over a thousand years old. Would that he could change the habit of a millenia.
What was the life expectancy of a Steward of the Crown? Here he sat at the head
of the state table, arguing lords surrounding him, some holding barely
concealed malice for others of power who disagreed with them.
The
Thane of Kar would have his head were it not for open support for the new
regime from the Thane of Spar. Without Redalane, the Thane of Spar, the council
of Thanes would have already descended into open warfare. He was the Stewards
of the Crown’s greatest ally. Grievously wounded in the battle to wrest the
country from the machinations of the Thane of Naeth (a position as yet
unfilled) he had been instrumental in bringing the country back from the brink
of civil war to some semblance of normality and a thin sense of sanity.
The
Thane of Spar was, Roskel thought, one of the strongest men he had ever known.
Redalane had endured years under the yoke under Hurth, the deposed Thane of
Naeth. His son had been held captive for nearly a decade, until Tarn, Roskel’s
friend and the author of Roskel's current misfortune, had rescued the boy and
executed Hurth.
It
should have been a time of rejoicing. Tarn, rightful heir to the throne of
Sturma, had returned. But he had died shortly afterwards from a poisoned blade
never intended for him.A sad day. Once more, the futility of violence
demonstrated in death.
‘Roskel?
Roskel? What say you?’
‘What?’
said Roskel. He turned his attention back to the affairs of state, if only
until he could cry off and sneak into the city for some much needed ribaldry
and loving among the seedier courtesans.
‘Kar.
Should the western legions be brought under the rule of Kar?’
‘I
say no. Kar has more than enough men at arms to hold the northern pass, should
the Draymar arise from their slumber. The western legion stands ready to march
on a moment's notice and could be in place in no more than four days time,
cavalry in half that if riding hard. No. There is no need.’
‘Then
the Stewards are united, the Council of Thanes is split. Precedent is clear,’
said Durmont, who had taken to running the Castle since the last Councillor,
Merelith, an alien being who had twisted Hurth’s ambition for its own
unfathomable means, had been killed. ‘In the event that the council of Thanes
is split, the Stewards vote decides, and the Stewards stand united against the
proposal. I have Steward Rohir’s declaration before me,’ he showed the scroll
to the council. Let there be no dissent from this day forward.’
Muttering
from the northern lords, Roskel’s bane, was silenced by Durmont’s rapping of
the gavel.
‘The
Council of Ten is adjourned for the next two months. The festival of Telling
begins in three days time. The lords' suggestions have been passed. From this
year forth, minor crimes may be pardoned at the lords' discretion. I declare
this meeting over. Gentlemen, until next we meet.’
Durmont
was a true godsend. It was he who had reasoned out this new method of mutual
governance, and so far it was working.
Roskel
rose, turning to glance at the empty throne left behind him. He had left it as
a reminder for those present at the table. Roskel, Wexel and Rohir were
stewards and nothing more. At some point there would be a king again. In a
year’s time, in ten or a hundred, Sturma would be united under a monarch once
more-- when one came who could wear the crown.
He
shook hands with the Thane of Mardon, made vague assurances that he would visit
the western Thanedom in the next month, and came next to Wexel.
‘Wexel,
what is wrong with Rohir?’
‘I
had a message from his squire after the noon break. He has taken to his
bed...well, his garderobe, mainly. He had something foul to eat.'
‘I
hope his day has been a more fruitful experience than ours. I doubt the stench
could be worse.’
The
Thanes left, talking amongst themselves. Durmont approached the two stewards as
they laughed over Rohir’s discomfort.
‘My
lords, I will have the notices of the moot posted throughout the city. There is
one urgent matter which I did not feel appropriate for general discussion in
the council. Hurth's old spy master is still at large, and your, ah,
contacts…have failed to find the man. He still has friends in the city, which
is troubling, though I have heard rumours of a meeting between Lord Kar and a
man of ill repute that fits his description...have a care, my Lord.’
‘There
is little we can do that we are not already doing. If the Thieves’ Covenant
cannot find the man, then there is no hope.’
‘As
you say, my lord,’ Durmont replied. ‘I will post warrant posters again, but I
doubt it will do any good.’
'Agreed,’
said Roskel. ‘Please excuse me, Durmont, I think I’d better go and tell Rohir
to 'ware the Thane of Kar, he is looking to cause trouble yet again, and peace
is fragile at best. I wish Tarn were here. He’d make sense of all this
nonsense.’
‘Unfortunately
governance is a tricky business, my lord. If I may be so bold as to suggest?'
‘What
is it, Durmont?’
‘I
would have your allies watch the Thane of Kar’s movements. I do not think him
content. I believe the Thieves' Covenant has contacts in other guilds, in other
cities?’
‘They
do, and I have already requested such assistance, but I thought it best to keep
it to myself.’
‘You
could have told me,' said Wexel.
‘I
could, but you worry more than a mother hen over a chick.’
A
discreet grin surfaced on Durmont’s face, but he hid it well beneath his usual
guarded demeanour.
‘If
you will excuse me, I will perform my duties.’
‘As
you see fit,’ said Wexel.
Durmont
left, and Roskel said to Wexel, 'I’m going to see Rohir. Can I leave the
country in your capable hands?'
‘If
you don’t mind me raiding the coffers for money for a whore.'
‘Courtesans,
now, my friend. We have to think like one befitting our station.'
Wexel
grunted. 'Give Rohir my regards.'
'If
I can get past the stink.'
*