Read The Queen of Thieves: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three Online
Authors: Craig R. Saunders,Craig Saunders
The Queen of Thieves: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three (11 page)
Ruan hummed, but his humming
alone, aided by his magic, was melodic enough. At first his own tune, his song,
was drowned out by his kin, but the power in his tune grew and grew until Ruan
himself quivered with the power of the song. He was held in its thrall, and in
time, so were his kind.
So, wordlessly, he
sang, and his song grew until it became a story and his defence, his plea and
the truth all in one. It would have to be enough. But then he was not alone.
The Outlaw King was a force, like the wind itself, within his head.
In a small corner
of Rythe is a country called Sturma
, he sang, but the Draymen knew this
well, for they were old enemies. This alone would not sway the Blade Singers,
he knew, but as with a song, a story must begin at the beginning...
Across the wide
ocean there is another land...a land bigger than all of Drayman lands and the
lands of the North and Sturma together. This land is ruled by creatures known
only as the Hierarchy.
These creatures
feed on hatred and anger. It is the source of a foul magic...the foulest to
stain the lands of Rythe. It is an abomination to all that is held holy by the
Blade Singer. It is...unjust.
Justice was something
the Blade Singers understood well, for they were judges. This, of course, Ruan
knew.
Justice,
called
Ruan. In the song he called,
justice.
His people
remembered. The Blade Singer was the judge. That Sturma is the ancient enemy of
their people did not matter. That the Hierarchy were evil, this stirred the
souls and hearts of the Blade Singers.
And Ruan hummed and
his song rose on the dusty air.
His people swayed to
his music, as he swayed to theirs. His magic, his song, was strong, maybe more
so for the lack of words.
Still bound by his
hands to a wooden pole, there was only one way to show his kind that his cause
was just and his song was true. He needed the power of his sword...not because
it was mystical, but because it was his focus.
Ruan's song changed,
became a wave of sound, visible even, in the disturbance in the dust and chill
air. Ruan called forth his sword.
It rose in the air,
twirling. Ruan did not move but for his lips and his throat and the rise of his
chest, but the sword came at him, fast, until at the last moment it swung
behind him and cut his bonds. The sword swung back before Ruan. He plucked it
from the air and held it above his head.
This is power,
he sung,
but without justice it means nothing. It is a tool for barbarism,
nothing more.
This is magic,
he sung,
and this is the song that the Hierarchy fear. The Sturmen have no
magic. The Hierarchy burn the land and the people with their evil,
and the
Blade Singers stirred, for it was outside the natural order.
Their song joined
Ruan, and he knew he had won this battle, just as each and every Blade Singer
in Yemathalan's courtyard knew that they could not win the next. But they would
stand with Ruan.
They would follow.
Thank you, King
,
he thought, but there was no presence in his head. Yet his pain had gone, and
he wore a smile on his face to be among his brethren and sistren again. The road
would be hard, and there was only death for them at the end of it. This much
was understood by all, with or without the song. The Hierarchy numbered legion,
and the Blade Singers were but a hundred, maybe, certainly no more.
It did not matter.
Justice was all to the Blade Singers. They were born and raised to be judges
and executioners, and the Hierarchy were an abomination.
They would follow
Ruan across the mountains. They would stand against the enemies of humanity.
*
The winter's suns burned high in
the sky when the Blade Singers mounted their horses. They moved as one. Some
carried provisions, some did not. It did not matter. Nothing mattered but the
battle to come. It was not an army.
There were maybe a
hundred Blade Singers left in Draymar. They were an old order, and the men and
women gathered were the last of their kind. Their kind would not come again.
They each knew, finally, that they were to judge the ultimate evil, not the petty
squabbles of their people, but evil incarnate.
It was what the order
of Blade Singers were made for.
No man, no woman,
regretted mounting their horses and setting out for Sturma. Now their course
was set, they would see it through to the end. Army though they were not, they
rode to battle as one. With the song lifting their spirits, and lending their
mounts unnatural speed, they rode. A great plume of dust followed them as they
heeled their horses harder and faster, faster, across the plains.
The dust cloud grew
larger, and night fell.
More days, more
nights. Breaking to water the horses. They rode to battle, to death, to glory,
and when they were gone there would be none left to sing their song. They would
die. But before they did they would sing the song of swords one last time.
*
The
Hierophant did not feel the cold, though snow fell hard and the wind blew
slantwise across the blasted, barren wasteland north of the mountain range that
hid Sturma. Still, he wished for the view from his minaret in Lianthre. The
climate was more agreeable, and the view mildly interesting. From his tower he
could watch the humans below playing out their petty lives, warring and
building their rude dwellings down next to the mud.
No,
the cold might not bother him, but the view did. It was never ending, nothing
but a dull white. In the cold sunshine the ice and snow twinkled and blinded
him. In the night there were no lights to see by at all. And when it snowed, he
could see nothing but the flakes that crusted his hood and his short black
eyelashes.
No
Hierarch sported a beard, like the barbarian humans of Sturman lands. The
Protocrats, those Hierarchs who had no magic but had their lust for blood and
pain, would feel the bitter wind keenly in their bones. Their armour would
freeze. Many days now they travelled through the wasteland with nothing to see
but the vague shape of the mountains in the distance, and still, not one of the
Protocrats complained about the freezing weather, their snow crusted cloaks and
armour, nor the burden of their weapons and their shields.
The
Hierophant, had he any of the baser emotions, might have expressed his pride to
his troops, but it was not his way.
He
strode south with nothing on his feet, the snowfall melting beneath him. The
other Hierarchs among their number took the lead. The Protectorate Tenthers,
the fighting units of the Protocrats, followed tireless behind. One approached
the Hierophant. Their leader did not halt his progress. The man fell in beside
him.
'My
Lord,' said the Protocrat. A scout, the Hierophant assumed, by his garb. He did
not trouble himself to learn the ways of the Protectorate. They were hunting
dogs, no more.
'What?'
he replied. He might have the man skinned. He might not. It depended on the
message. It might be that the man was highly placed within the army, or a
simple footsoldier, but truth was, the Hierophant did not care. He was
absolute.
'There
is something in the snow. Many of our patrols have not returned.'
'Lost
in the blizzards, no doubt,' said the Hierophant, dismissing the man with a
wave.
'My
Lord, forgive me...we have found bodies...torn...as though by a beast.'
The
Hierophant nodded. Perhaps he would not have the man skinned. It
was...interesting news.
At
last,
he thought. Something to
do.
'Go
find out what it is, then.'
The
Protocrat bowed low, although the Hierophant had already left, walking on
ahead, as though the loss of his soldiers was of little import.
The
loss of a few soldiers did not bother the Hierophant at all. Yet the news was interesting
indeed. Maybe they would find some amusement on the long journey south yet.
Between the making of the portal and the machinations from afar to exterminate
the line of kings, this war had gone on too damn long.
Truth
be told, the Hierophant was long-lived, but Gods, he was so bored. So bored. He
longed to hear the screams of soldiers on the battlefield. He needed to feed on
their pain and agony. What was the point of living long, if not for the
pleasure of torn flesh?
*
Night
fell with a darkness that was absolute. Not the dark of the moons, nor the dark
of the city, but a complete lack of light.
The
blackness did not matter to Hierarch or Protocrat. The Protocrat army had no
magic, though they were perfectly capable of setting camp, blind, if need be.
They did so methodically, each Tenther unit setting out their own tents. Even
had they wanted to move on, they would have been unable - the blizzard had
reached such a climax that even the Hierarchs among the army would have been
hard pushed to make their way through the thickening ice and the worsening
storm. They may not have felt the cold, but they were not immune to the deep
drifts that they came across, struggling through under their own power,
sometimes burning holes through the deeper drifts with unnatural fire.
Even
so, the Hierarchs were not immortals - magic took its toll, and was not
limitless. For larger, more powerful spells, blood would be needed. Humans were
good for that, though there were no humans whose pain the army could feast on.
In
the blackness night many of the Protocrats and Hierarchs had ever experienced,
Hren and Gern, Rythe's dual moons, completely hidden, nothing could be seen -
not even two feet in front of a man. So it was that when the attack began, the
army of Protocrats, professional and experienced soldier were taken by entirely
by surprise.
*
The
scout that the Hierophant had briefly considered killing was fast asleep, taking
brief respite from the cold. Even in his sleep he shuddered from the cold, and
dreamed of ice.
He
was woken from a terrible nightmare and thrust into something more real by
shouts of pain nearby, out by the edges of the camp. For mere seconds, he remained
in his bedroll, unsure as to whether the cry was his own from the dream, or for
real.
A
scream came again from a different quarter. This time he knew it was for real,
because for a Protocrat or Hierarch to scream, the agony must have been terrible
indeed. His kind were born to bear pain. Other cries of pain joined the first
few, and became a cacophony. He threw himself out of bed, ready in moments
- he only wore light leather armour, and was armed with a short sword which he
kept beside his bed. He slept in his armour and cloak - anything to provide
more warmth. He was ready as soon as his arms were free. He snatched up his
sword.
There
was meagre light in the tent from two candles. Something tore a hole in the
side of his tent and a great beast powered through the hide covering. In the
low light the scout saw that the thing's white fur was caked in blood and ice.
It had huge paws that ended in deadly black claws. With a terrible snarl it
came for him.
He
knew no fear - he was a Protocrat. Fighting was in his blood, but he knew he
would die this night.
The
beast tore the head from one Protocrat who was too slow to react.
The
scout did not see the head fall, because the beast swung again. He ducked under
a powerful lunge and jabbed up with his short sword. The blow should have
pierced the creatures lungs. But his sword merely seemed to irritate the beast.
In
the next instant, his chest was crushed by a punch the likes of which he had
never known. He was thrown backwards over his bedroll to land with a heavy
thump against the icy floor.
He
looked down to see his life blood gushing from the wound. In the candlelight he
noted how black his blood looked.
He
glanced away from the sight of his life's blood pouring from his wound. He saw
that in mere instants a single creature had killed every Protocrat in the tent.
The thing roared, deafening even in the midst of the noise of battle.
He
tried to reach his short sword, but his arms would not work. The thing leaned
over him, roared again. It sniffed at him, once, then turned and was gone. The
scout's eyes drifted closed and he dreamed...for a short time. Then, nothing.
*