Read The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Online
Authors: Craig R. Saunders,Craig Saunders
Roskel
was dragged through the streets, then finally carried between two guards, until
after a journey that was largely lost to him, he stood before the captain of
the guard in the guardhouse.
'Why,
Ward, is this man naked?'
'I…ah…I’m
not sure.'
'What
do you mean you’re not sure?' said the captain, staring at the man.
Ward,
the guard, felt uncomfortable under the captain’s scrutiny, as he always did,
but even more so because he had no idea why the man was naked, or where he had
come from, or even why they had dragged him all the way to jail, other than for
being naked in public. It was not decent.
'I’m
sorry, captain, but I…ah…I don’t know.'
'And
these marks on him?'
'I
don’t know that either.'
The
captain sighed. Ward was usually a good man. Perhaps he had been at his cups on
duty. He took a few steps until he was before his subordinate and smelled his
breath. It smelled fresh, apart from the lingering stench of tooth decay.
'Very
well. Get him some clothes and put him in the cells. We’ll question him when he
comes to. No doubt he’s been on the smoke wheels in some tavern and thought he
was a dryad, been trying to mate with trees or some such.'
'Yes,
captain,' said Ward, and scurried off to find a shirt and trousers.
The
guard captain put shackles on the prisoner and sat back, staring at him
thoughtfully. There was something familiar about the man.
Did
he know him?
He
peered closely at the slack face.
Roskel
started to come around as the sun glanced through the barred windows of the
captain’s office. He opened one eye, then the second.
As
animation flooded the thief’s face, recognition flooded the captain’s.
'Gods,
it’s you!' he exclaimed.
Roskel
blinked, took in his surrounding and his nakedness. He could barely raise his
arms but he recognised a guard captain when he saw one. He tried to rise, but
his legs collapsed underneath him. Then he felt shackles going around his
wrists and passed into insensibility once more.
*
Roskel
took in his surroundings. He was in a dark cell. That didn’t take much
deduction. How he came to be here was a blur. He remembered visiting Shawford
Crale’s mansion and passing on the crown…at least he had not been captured with
that. Afterwards was a hazy dream. He felt something trickling down his chest.
There was dampness at his neck. He tried to feel it but could not reach.
So
whoever had captured him was extremely careful. He had no doubt he’d been out
of it for some time. He was not wearing his own shirt. He wore itchy,
uncomfortable trousers that were too short for him and tight in the waist.
His
arms ached from being pulled to the side. His shoulders were painful. His
captor was not kind. Perhaps there would be a trial…but he didn’t hold out much
hope. Justice was fickle and differed from place to place. He could only be
thankful that his hair had grown and he had a thick moustache now. If the Thane
of Ulbridge had captured him he would have been recognised and hung by now. It
was the only light in an otherwise extremely dim situation.
Sparse
daylight came through air holes leading outside, and a distant flickering
candle glinted through the crack in the cell door.
'Oh,
hell,' he said to himself, examining his shackles. He couldn’t even reach his
arms over far enough to reach his face. The bolts on the shackles were thick.
There were no locks to pick. He didn’t have a pick on him, but if he had been
given a chance he could have fashioned a knife into a pick. No chance of that.
He
tried to shift his shoulders to ease the pain, but could not. A steady
throbbing had settled in. He rolled his shoulders as best he could. He could
not afford for his arms to go numb. If that happened he would not be able to
take the chance of escape when it came.
There
was no doubt in his mind that the chance would come. No situation was hopeless.
He would be let out eventually, or a guard would become careless.
Perhaps,
even, someone would rescue him. The Skald would find him. Or the Thieves'
Covenant…or the King’s guard…
Yes,
he thought grimly, and perhaps a beautiful maiden would come to relieve him
come nightfall. Perhaps he would be given wine and fine fruits.
He
laughed to himself at the idiocy of a prisoner’s hopes and dream, but still did
not doubt that his chance would come. He was ever the optimist.
He
heard footsteps approaching.
He
shuffled back until he could push himself up, using the wall to push against.
He readied himself for his chance.
The
door cracked open, but he couldn’t see the guard’s face, backlit as he was in
the dim candlelight.
'At
last,' his captor said, and approached.
Optimism
fled in an instant. 'Oh, damn,' said Roskel.
The
Thane of Ulbridge peered at him closely. There was anger on his face, unblunted
by time. There was also a hint of grim satisfaction.
His
cuckold’s face broke into a grin.
'At
last I have the famous thief. An important man, now, too,' he said with a
satisfied smile. 'I told you there would be a reckoning for sleeping with my
wife.'
'Well,
if it helps,' said Roskel, 'we didn’t do much sleeping.'
He
didn’t even see the blow that split his lip.
His
head already ached. It was just salt in a wound. He spat blood at the Thane.
The Thane wiped his face with a handkerchief and thundered a blow into Roskel’s
stomach, driving the wind from his lungs. The Thane was not a big man, but
Roskel could not move to lessen the power of the blow. The punch was followed
by another, then another…he lost count. Punches rained on his stomach and his
ribs. Time drew out. Eventually, spent, the Thane ceased.
The
Thane was puffing from exertion by the time the beating was over.
'I’ve
been looking forward to that for such a long time.'
'You’ve
had your fun,' mumbled Roskel through his bloody lips. 'Let me go. I will be
missed. Our little differences aside, I’m still Lord Protector of Sturma. You
can’t keep me here.'
'Oh,
I can. You’ll not be Lord Protector come the spring. You see, no one knows
you’re here. Orvane Wense will take the country. I have hitched my wagon to his
horse. As for you, only a few guards know about these dungeons. You’re below my
mansion. No one can hear you cry out. I think I’ll be keeping you as my guest
for a long, long time.'
The
Thane turned and bolted the door from the outside. Roskel was plunged into
darkness once again.
Despair
descended on him, heavier than the darkness and undeniable.
Not
a soul knew he was there. There was nothing he could do.
He
thought about it for hours. The longer he thought, the more sure he was that he
would never leave the cell alive.
*
The
outcast prowled the city streets. Winter had broken and something was in the
air. Expectation, throughout the city. A buzz, and not the first insects of
spring. He heard the music of the city and it spoke of a new beginning. He
understood the rumours. This man, this Orvane Wense, had come and raised an
army. He planned to march north…but it was more. He wore a crown. People
thought he was the king.
The
Drayman knew it was all false. The Thane of the northland region marched for
another. Even without the music, the Drayman understood. This man did not rule
his own heart. There was another. The Drayman had seen his kind once. The
glamour did not hide him from the Drayman’s eyes. The alien could cloak his
appearance, but he could not hide the sounds of his passing. He could not make
his music different. The voice the outcast had heard while the Thane was taking
in the city one fine winter’s day was bleak, harsh and guttural.
He
did not understand such arcane arts, but to his eyes the man that was not a man
had blood red eyes that leaked power with every stare.
The
creatures name was Savan Retrice, and he was a hierarch.
Roskel
was needed, and the Drayman needed to help him break free. But there was no
chance. The Thieves' Covenant could not help, even though they seemed to hold
some affection for the Lord Protector. He was an important man, but also a
thief. He heard rumour that some lady wanted him free…but how? The Thieves'
Covenant was weaker in the south, and they could not come from their strongholds
through the winter.
Darwell
allowed him to stay at the tavern, playing on occasion to earn his keep. Once a
week Darwell met with a Thieves' Covenant contact who led him to believe that
help would come in the spring.
All
the while Roskel rotted in a gaol.
The
Skald waited, and waited...until spring's first flush, hating the waiting, but
this woman, this Queen of Thieves, told him wait, wait...
Roskel
could command armies, but the army was preparing for war. Already rumour that
the Thane of Kar had taken the crown for his own had reached the north.
Now
war would come to this land. Only one man could avert it, and even then there
was slim chance. If they could prove that the crown the Thane wore was false…
But
there was no way to get the true crown. Besides, it was where it was supposed
to be.
So
the Drayman wandered the city streets, once more. He plotted out the route from
the Thane’s mansion, round the city, figuring out their exits. Darwell’s place
was safe, but not for long. If he ever managed to free the thief, if he had
some help, they would have to flee. The city would not be safe for them even by
a friend’s hearth.
Darwell
had grown on the Drayman. He had become a friend, of sorts, although they could
only truly communicate when they were alone, for the contact needed to
facilitate his singing would have caused rumour and he could not afford to
appear as he was, rather than a traveller wintering in the warm.
Always
with his cloak pulled low and a mug of ale that he nursed all night, the
Drayman had become a fixture.
There
were two greens in the town, remnants of the village that had first been here.
Sometimes he paced around in the snow, marvelling at its feel as it crunched
underfoot. It was so beautiful. Pristine in the morning, only to be sullied by
grime as the day wore on. He relished each morning’s fresh fall. Each snowfall
drew him closer to spring.
At
last, one morning, the song of the snow changed. The thaw began, and spring
came.
And
the Thieves' Covenant gave the Skald what he needed. What he'd waited for all
along-- a way in.
*
The
time to break the thief out of gaol came.
The
Thieves' Covenant swore that no one had ever escaped the labyrinth beneath the
mansion. Rumour told of a sprawling maze that spread out like roots underneath
the city. They had never been mapped.
The
Skald knew there was no more time to dally. He had to break Roskel free before
the Thane reached the north. He knew enough of politics to know that if the
Steward appeared he would be able to prove the crown was false. The Thane of
Kar’s support would crumble, and the land would be able to find peace.
The
Drayman had untold routes from the mansion to exits from the city and Darwell’s
inn.
He
saw the guard leaving the city, called to duty in the army. Already they were
mustering outside the walls. He smiled to himself. It was the best chance he
was going to get.
He
returned to Darwell’s inn and spoke to his mind.
I
can wait for aid no longer. I go tonight.
'Are you sure? It is probably
suicide.'
Probably.
He squeezed the big innkeeper’s
arm in a friendly gesture.
If
I die, use the rest of Roskel’s gold to pay the Thieves' Covenant. Send
messages north and tell them what has happened here. There must be a reckoning.
'I will,' said Darwell.
The
Drayman nodded once and went to his room to rest. It would be a long night.
*