The Queen of Thieves: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three (19 page)

Chapter
Sixty-Nine

The
Queen of Thieves was perhaps the most comely woman that Ruan had ever seen. Yet
with his remarkable talents he knew that she was no woman but something
else...some creature that was not mortal. She was beyond beautiful, but
terrible, too. He sensed it in her looks, and the song she made when she moved,
and when she spoke. And yet he sensed no evil intent in her coming here, on the
day of his death. He sensed not threat to his liege, Roskel Farinder.

            Farinder
believed in her.

            So
did Ruan.

            He
did not fool himself, though. He knew that she came to say goodbye. Came to try
to sway him from his course. But she saw long into the future. This he knew
without a doubt. The Queen's plans were her own, and no matter what happened
this day between them, she would know that he would not try to change the
outcome of his life. Would not try to lessen his death with cowardice.

            She
stood before him, a true vision of beauty, stunning, even. She took his breath
away. He wasn't sure if he envied Roskel her affections, or feared for him, for
she had a beauty that was deadly.

            'You
don't have to do this,' she said.

           
'I
must. Roskel is my liege. I fight for him, for Sturma, but for myself, too. Look
after him,'
he said, in the only way he could - with his wordless song.
'Please,'
he added, for he knew he spoke to a Queen in truth, crowned or not.

           
'I
fight for me,'
he sang again, with his tuneful hum.
'For me, I must
regain my honour.'

            'You
have your honour, Ruan. You are needed. I ask you, humbly, do not throw your
life away.'

           
'And
I ask you, for the affection you bear my liege, do not make my death less than
it is. One day, perhaps, people will sing my song.'

            The
Queen looked at Ruan with a softness in her eyes that touched him to the core.
He almost wavered in the face of her sadness.

            He
would not, could not waver, though.
My death will be my own.

            She
touched Ruan's face gently. 'Then let me lend you my power, so that your death
will be sung beyond the Gates, too,' she said. 'Sing, Skald, and die well.'

            She
kissed him on the cheek and turned. Within a few footsteps, she was gone.

            Behind
Ruan, somehow forgotten for an instant, somehow silenced while he and the Queen
spoke, the battle raged once more. The Protocrats came again, and again.

            Ruan
listened to that song. His people's song was lessened, perhaps, as more of his
kin fell. But no more.             Ruan strode toward the battle, his heart and
soul ready, with a smile on his face.

            He
roared. He sang, and his voice was back with glory. It was a powerful song, the
most powerful of his people. For moments, his kin halted their own songs and
stood in awe of the sudden power of the outcast who had once been mute.

            The
Protocrats could not help but cover their ears. For precious moments, there was
a lull in the battle. The Bladesingers stepped back, making way for Ruan. He
sang the song of death, and glory.

            Then,
the battle closing in again, Ruan was among the enemy, his great sword cleaving
all around and Protocrats falling as he sang and swung his blade.

            The
spell broke, and the rest of the Bladesingers joined the battle once more.

            Ruan
fought on alone for a time, never tiring, never losing his voice. His song was
strong. He sang for his life, and for his death, and in the onslaught through
the narrow pass he and the Bladesingers drove the enemy backward, through the
pass, out onto the frozen plain.

            The
snows came thick and fast, and their blades were cold. Blood drenched the snow,
until they fought upon a red field.

            The
Song of Swords was coming to a close. Ruan could feel it. Could feel the power
of the song lessen as more and more of his kin fell to the enemies ceaseless
onslaught. As they died, the remaining Singers put all their power into their
song, until but a few remained, fighting toward the heart of the enemy army,
driving forward, almost as though they were eager to meet their deaths.

            Each
Bladesinger knew well enough that there was no way to win the fight. No way for
them to live after this day, and in that knowledge they sold their lives as dearly
as they could.

            Ruan
fought back to back, for a time, with one of his brothers.

            He
swung, and killed and maimed. His brother fell, and a sword took Ruan through
the back and out of his chest. He felt his blood failing, his song faltering.
But he would not cease.

            With
one last roar to let the Gods know he died without fear, he drove his sword
through a Protocrat's arrmour, pulled it free while he pulled himself loose of
the sword that had pierced his lungs, and turned, to face another attacker...

            He
felt a blow to his neck. Blood fountained forth, spraying his own face. He
stumbled, for a moment, seeing his brothers and sisters in the song fight on.

           
So
few left,
he thought, as he died. So few.

            And
yet, as he died, he smiled, for he had his voice. He had his honour.

            In
the cold pass of Thaxamalan's Saw, the last of the Bladesingers fought to the
death. When they were gone there would be no more Bladesingers, but their song
would be sung in the halls of the Gods, beyond the Gates, for all time.

*

Chapter Seventy

The
land ran flat from the coast to Naeth. The enemy did not give chase to the
routed Sturman forces, but seemed to be setting up great earthen fortifications
some way inland. There was nothing hurried about the work. Why would there be?
The Sturmen were no threat. Soon, maybe, subjugates, but never a threat.

            The
first battle had shown that.

            Roskel
could see their army massed from miles distant. At first his army had fled with
little thought to organisation, but his commanders had finally managed to
regain some sense of order, barking at their soldiers, hounding them down.
Attempting, perhaps, to instill some mortal fear in them of the consequences
should they desert. Even so, many were lost in the rush to escape, men who
would never again return to battle. Not because they were cowards, either.
Roskel could never think of them as cowards. Not now that he had seen those
that opposed them.

            In
the face of such might, the size of his army was pitiful.

            Roskel
could have cried in despair, but he had done that once in a prison cell far
beneath the surface, without the succor of the suns' light, waiting for death.
Never again would he shed a tear for a hopeless cause.

            He
heeled his horse and rode ahead of his shattered force.

            Wexel
rode there, along with two Thanes.

            He
nodded to the Thanes. They saw the expression on his face and took their leave.

            'Wexel,'
he said, without preamble. 'Take charge. I'm going to ride ahead to the city.
There's nothing more for me to do. We need to prepare for...well, we need to
prepare.' He knew there was no winning, but that did not mean he would give in
without a fight. If they could at least dent the enemy, bleed them a little...

           
Folly,
his mind told him, but he squashed the thought hard. Still, it bounced back,
and with force.

            'They
come from the east and the north, our armies are in disarray and...we cannot
win.' Now he said as much out loud, he felt like a traitor to his country. To
himself.

            'Don't
talk like that,' said Wexel.

            'But
it's true...it's true.'

            'Roskel...'

            'Don't,
Wexel,' he said. 'I'm heart sore, and frightened. I'm the Lord Protector and
I've just lost more than half my force in one engagement. I do not know what to
do. I don't know!'

            'Damn
it, Roskel, keep your voice down! The men are skittish enough. As many have
deserted as were killed back on the beach.'

            Roskel
shook his head.

            'You're
right, Wexel. I'm not cut out for this. I'm a thief, nothing more.'

            Wexel
hawked and spat. 'Nothing more? You stole the Crown of Kings, once. You
survived gaol. You are The Queen of Thieves consort in all but name, and Lord
Protector of Sturma. Grow a pair, man.'

            Roskel's
mouth dropped open, for a second, and then he laughed. He couldn't help
himself. It was a belly-laugh, full of genuine humour, and he could not help
but let it out.

            Wexel
grinned.

            'Inspirational,
eh?' said Wexel.

            Roskel
tried to stifle his laugh. In truth, there was no real reason for it. But it
felt like release. Would it hearten the men? Make them think their leader
callous?

            He
found he did not care.

            As
he and Wexel road on, their laugh dying to the occasional chuckle, a rider
approached. The rider came from the south, and Roskel saw him approaching long before
Wexel.

            'What's
that?' he said, though he hoped...he hoped...

            The
rider closed fast. He was covered in grime from the road. His horse's hooves
kicked up clods of dirt and snow as he halted before the head of the Northern
Armies.

            He
bowed, no mean feat atop a horse.

            'Lord
Farinder...'

            'Tough
day?' said Roskel, and he and Wexel fell to laughing again. A crazy kind of
laugh, maybe, but it felt good, nonetheless. The messenger stared uncomfortably
at the Stewards, and eventually coughed to interrupt their mirth.

            Roskel
looked up and behind the rider the suns came out, and with the sudden light and
the snow white plain, he saw a vast mass of shining steel far to the south.

            A
great force riding hard ahead of a long train of soldier on the march, further
still to the south. A glorious sight. Roskel felt hope flutter in his heart.

            'Gods,
Wexel,' said Roskel. 'I hope that's Redalane.'

            'It
is, my lord,' said the messenger. 'He wants to know where you want his armies
deployed.'

            Roskel
laughed again. 'I hope to the Gods, young man, that he's going to tell me
that.'

*

Chapter
Seventy-One

Roskel
clasped hands with Redalane with such relief that the sight of the man nearly
brought him to tears, where earlier he had been laughing hysterically.

            The
man was old, but hale, and his hand dwarfed Roskel's.

            Roskel
felt like a fraud in the face of the man who had fought in the Reconcilation
Wars, a man who was born to leadership and battle.

            'What's
happening?' said Redalane, without further preamble. He was not a man to bandy
words. He, too, thought Roskel, had his share of heartache in the past.
Redalane's son had been all but crippled, but his life had been saved by Tarn
and Roskel. Redalane would forever be in their debt.

            Roskel
felt no compunctions on calling on that debt right now.

            'Redalane,'
he said. 'I need you to take charge of the army. I'm not a commander. I have no
experience. I rode many men to their deaths on the beach and I would not do the
same again. Will you? Will you take command?'

            Redalane
grinned.

            'Thought
you'd never ask,' he said. 'Now, tell me everything. I mean everything. The
more we know about the enemy we face, the better chance we'll have.'

            'They
have magic,' said Roskel. 'We had no counter...it was a slaughter.'

            Redalane
frowned. 'Magic?'

            Roskel
nodded.

            'Then
we have no choice. We have a mutual friend...and we have a haven.'

            'A
haven?'

            'Naeth,
man. Don't you even know you're own castle?'

            'It's
not really 'mine'...'

            'Good
as,' said Redalane. 'Naeth is where we make our stand.'

            'A
force comes from the north, too...Redalane, I fear it is hopeless.'

            'None
of that talk, lad,' said Redalane, and for some reason those simple words
heartened the Thief King.

            'None
of that talk, because we aren't done yet. Now, we ride. We have plans to make,
defences to build...'

            Redalane
talked long on the journey back to Naeth. Roskel listened.

            He
wondered...wondered if it could be done...

            But
they had nothing to lose. Nothing at all, because the enemy was at the gates.

*