The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (17 page)

Chapter Forty-One

Dreams
came to Roskel that night. He dreamt of blood, unusual for him, for he usually dreamt
of women and thievery. Blood dripped from the walls of the room. Blood dripped
from his hands. He felt teeth and a sharp yet sweet pain on his chest, his
shoulders, his arms and finally his wrists. It was strange, too, to dream of
pain and feel it. But he did not wake.

            Morning
came. Roskel opened his eyes but the sunlight was harsh and he was so tired. He
hoped the master of the house would not mind but he needed to sleep. It had
been a late night. He needed to sleep.

            So
tired…so tired…

            So
he drifted into sleep. The day passed. The moons rose and still Roskel was in
the land of slumber.

*

Chapter Forty-Two

Darwell
was as worried as the outcast Skald. The thief had been gone too long. All day
they had waited for the thief to return. At first, it was possible that Roskel
had decide to rest at the manor for the night. But as dawn rose, then midday
came it was increasingly likely that something was wrong.

            Night
came, and with it the first of the evening’s drinkers. If the thief had been
able to return he would have. Nothing could take this long.

            The
Drayman worried that Roskel had been captured by the guard that were after him.
By the innkeeper’s accounts Roskel had committed a grave sin against the ruler
of this city by taking pleasure in the man’s wife. The Drayman could not
understand such long running ire, but then this was a strange land. In his own
country, a woman was free to choose who she wanted. Nobody owned her. It was
unnatural for a man to own a woman, just as it was wrong in his mind for a
woman to own a man. Freedom was paramount. But, he reminded himself, there was
much about this country he did not understand. Through the music of these
people’s words he was learning more every day, but some things he simply did
not want to understand. Some concepts were so alien he had been shocked. Like
these women that sold their bodies. If love was not given freely it was not
love. It dishonoured both the man and the woman. That was a shame he could
understand, and yet men and women made a habit of it most nights. He heard them
in the back street behind the inn. The music their lovemaking made was tainted
and harsh to his ears.    

            The
dark skinned outlander wished he could speak, as he often did, but it was
difficult when the man could only communicate in gestures.

            Eventually
he sighed and sat back, resigned, on his chair. Night had come around again and
still there was no sign of his companion. He could speak in words with the fat
innkeeper through his song, but the outcast did not trust Sturmen. It had been
bred into his bones and his heritage since birth. He sensed that the man was
full of goodness…but to sing the song to him, mind to mind?

            It
was a secret he had to keep. He had no choice but to share it with the thief,
for they were bonded in fate. He would share it with no other, though, not
until the day he died in his lonely exile.

            Exiled
from his own land, he was an outcast in this one, too, and the only method of
communication that remained for him was denied by his own will. It would not be
easy to live in this land. He found he missed the easy manner and the lack of
secrets that Roskel provided.

            All
he had was duty. In his own land, he had failed in that duty. For his shame he
had taken his own tongue. He was not worthy to be a bladesinger. And yet
someone thought he had worth. The spirit of a king. He had a part to play in
life yet. The thief needed him. He had a duty to fulfil yet and would not fail
this time.

            He
needed the thief, he knew in his heart, as much as the warrior in his dreams
said that he was needed.

            He
had no choice. Duty was a hard master. He would have to wander the city and
find this Shawford Crale’s manor. Something was amiss or the thief would have
returned by now.

            The
Skald indicated that he was going out, and left the innkeeper to his worries
and his business. There were enough people in the bar to keep him busy.

            The
outcast pulled his hood tighter, and set out into the moonlit streets.

*

Chapter Forty-Three

'Shush,
don’t worry,' Ellisindre whispered to Roskel. Her breath next to his ear was
divine.

            Roskel
knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but his hands could not help themselves. It
had been such a long time. The feel of her skin, the heady perfume she
wore…everything about her was making him a fool.

            'No,
we mustn’t,' he said, his voice thick with desire despite his words. 'We must
not!' he whispered harshly, but her hands were caressing him…it had been such a
long time. Her touch was so gentle, so…unreal…

            Everything
had the cadence of a dream. This couldn’t be happening. But it was. The touch
was real, even though to his ears the sounds seemed to be coming as though from
under water, trickling into his ears on cool misty breath.

            He
tried to push her away, but half-heartedly, and with weak hands. He had no
strength. It did not seem to matter to the wife of Shawford Crale. While the
master slept, the thief was seduced and he was powerless to stop it.

            'We
mustn’t make a noise,' she said, and nuzzled his neck with her cold lips. She
was so cold, but her skin was velvet just the same.

            The
pleasure was intense. Like nothing he had ever felt. Every time her lips and
hands touched him, every time she shifted her weight and he felt her firm, taut
body slide along his naked ribs, he was bewitched.

            Suddenly
her head came from his neck and he saw her lips were the darkest red. Concern
slipped into his sleepy mind but she turned her eyes on him and smiled and all
worry was again forgotten. It was still there, in his thoughts, but it drifted
out of reach and he was so weak. Too weak to think about anything but her lips
kissing his throat.

            'Silent,
my love. Wait for me,' she said breathlessly. He imagined her ardour as
desperate as his. Then she rose from the bed and glided toward the door.

            He
moaned. It was agony when she left him.

            Then
the door cracked open. He writhed as he was left alone, the sheet twisting
about his legs. He needed her. He could wait no longer. Such passion coursed
through his body, his blood boiled with the smell of her, lingering in the
room.

            He
rose, unsteadily. Her husband was still asleep. If he could just find her, lead
her back to his room. Naked and confused, his neck dripping blood on the floor,
he staggered toward the open door. He could not be without her. Her husband be
damned.

            Roskel
pushed the door and headed out into the candlelit hall, bare feet padding on
the floor as he crept to find his love.

*

Chapter Forty-Four

The
Drayman could feel the wrongness in the song as he laid his hand on the door.
It was locked, but Roskel was inside somewhere. He had no doubt. There was no
room for doubt or fear. His friend was in peril and something
wrong
lived here. 

            He
took one step back, then crashed a booted foot into the lock. The door splintered
and he rammed it with his shoulder, stumbling into a room. Splendour surrounded
him. It was a fine entrance hall. He did not understand these people’s
fascination with useless artefacts, but he understood enough to know that these
paintings and statuettes that lined the walls were valuable.

            Wasting
no time he concentrated on every sound, but there were no sounds that he could
hear. He drew his long, curved sword and headed to the right, through a wide
arch and into a dining room. It was empty, but there was a lingering smell of
food…but humming softly, augmenting his senses, he could just make out a hint
of something else…bitter sweet decay?

            He
hummed louder. There was a glamour here. Powerful, immensely powerful. Had he
his tongue he could have banished it in moments, but as it was he gained a
glimpse, just for a second, of what lay underneath. Beneath the grandeur of the
entrance hall and the dining room was the stench of death. The floor was dusty,
the walls damp. Cobwebs hung from a ceiling that had never been cleaned.
Spiders scurried away from his gaze, then the false vision crashed down on his
like a falling cage and truth was trapped without. He turned about him, beauty
once more restored.

            But
he had seen the truth. The vision was beautiful but it was not real. It was a
lure, like the red pipers that sang a beguiling song, leading their prey toward
them, only to crush them and drink their blood.

            He
could feel them now. The blood drinkers. This was their lair. He hummed,
sending his senses out. But they knew he was there and they were powerful
indeed. He sensed power of the ages. They were old, older than him. Their power
leaked into the city that was their food. He knew their kind from the music of
their movements and their breathing…it was the breath of the dead.

            Warily,
he took the first stair.

            A
beautiful woman seemed to glide graceful across the top landing. He looked away
from her eyes and held his sword like a talisman before him. He heard the dark
dirge of music behind him and turned just in time to swing his sword as a man
leapt through the air, flying toward him.

            No
more thought. Humming all the time, even when breathing in, creating
latticework of sounds around his mind that protected him, he swung his blade,
itself imbued with power, and sliced the man’s reaching hand from his arm. The
man rolled away with a cry of inhuman rage. He dived under the bladesinger’s
thrust and into the dining room. No time to purse him.

            He
turned his gaze back to the woman. She was taking the stairs, her own dangerous
glamour rising. He felt his resolve wavering as she descended toward him, but
then he saw Roskel stumbling across the landing, blood dripping from his neck,
and the glamour was broken.

            She
saw his resolve and screamed, ear piercing and shrill. Out of tune to the
outcast’s ears. He ran toward her, blade raised and tried to slice her head
from her body but she dived over the railings and landed gracefully below,
cutting them off.

            The
Drayman ran and took Roskel’s arm, leading him back down the stairs. Blade held
before him to ward against the woman’s charms, his song rising in the air
against her inhuman cries, he took the steps two at a time.

            'Let
us leave, abomination. We are not here for you.'

            She
knew he could not destroy her. But she was hungry, still. Always hungry.

            She
leapt. His sword took her through the chest. She fell to the ground, then
rolled away.

            The
Drayman burst through the door into the night. And ran straight into a guard.
Roskel was still insensible.

            The
woman, the creature stood before the door, blood covering her gown.

            'Lady
Crale!' cried the guard. Behind him three more were running along the road.

            'Guard!
Arrest these men! They have broken into our home and attacked us!'

            The
Drayman had no choice. It was now or never. His own song rose and he tried to
pull Roskel away, but he could not fight the blood drinkers and the guard both,
not with Roskel the way he was. All he could do was get away and trust that the
guard were safer than the creature outlined in the door. He melted back from
the guard’s questing hands and suddenly a cloak of darkness fell upon him.

            'Where
did he go?' said one of the guards.

            'No
matter. We have one. Take him in.'

            He
grabbed the naked thief and took him away. None of the guards thought to
question why he was naked.

            'Lady,
you are wounded!'

            'It
is nothing, my man. Take him away. I never want to see him again.'

            'I
will send men back to search for the other one. Tuman, stay and guard the
house.'

            'There
is no need. He has gone.'

            She
watched them go from the door. Then she closed the door and stalked angrily
toward the dining room.

            'My
love!' she cried as her husband walked toward her.

            'It
is nothing,' he said. 'Did you feed well?'

            She
smiled and led him toward the window. 'Does it hurt badly, sweetheart?'

            'No.
See? Already it returns,' he indicated his arm, where the flesh was growing
back, a nub of bone stretching. Sinew and blood vessels whipped energetically
around the bone.

            'He
was so fresh. I have never had the blood of a lord before.'

            She
stood before the window, watching as the guard led the thief away.

            'Do
you think the man with power will return? He was dangerous.'

            'No,
he will not return. Still,' he said with a sigh, 'This duty has proven onerous
already. I wish we could get the crown away. I’ve a mind to throw it away…but
the pull and power of the one who compels us is stronger than my own will. I
imagine we shall have trouble because of it yet.'

            His
hand had grown now, and the skin was stretching from his elbow down to his
wrist, thickening as the seconds passed.

            Ellisindre
fingered the hole in her dress thoughtfully.

            'At
least the blood did not wake our daughter.'

            He
listened with a cocked ear.

            'No,
she wakes. Send out the manservant. Find her some food. It is not safe for her
to wander tonight. There will be questioning guards abroad and our family has
had enough excitement for one night.

            Shawford
Crale put his arm around his wife’s shoulders, and together they watched the
naked thief being led from their property, until even their preternatural eyes
could no longer see him.

*