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 (25 page)
In
the end, Tarn watched the dried out husk of the Hierophant turn to dust on the
floor.
Years
of battle. Thousands dead.
The
ending of loves before they had truly begun. The fall of the great and the good
and the evil and the meanest paupers and all the other deaths that surrounded
this war of an age.
And,
he knew much more. Knew of the three that would come to oppose the Return. The
Return of the Sun Destroyers. He knew of Caeus, and what rested upon that
creatures Gods' forsaken powers.
He
wondered, little more than charred meat himself, if he was any different to the
Hierophant. Was he so different to a creature that had cheated death for
centuries by feasting on mortal souls and agony?
Of
course you are
, said a voice in the fog.
Tulathia.
Tarn
did not grin, but he would have, had his flesh not been charred beyond
recognition.
The
Outlaw King, the Lich King, stepped outside the pavilion as the Hierophant's
magic reversed, and a great portal opened in the sky. Hierarchy and Protocrat
alike, those that had used the portal's magic to travel to Sturma, flew through
the air, some screaming, dragged into the vortex, back to wherever it was the
vortex lead.
Lianthre,
thought Tarn. A land far distant. May they all die when they fall back home.
Time
to say goodbye
, said Tulathia, unseen.
Tarn
nodded. He knew Tulathia waited to guide him back home...back to Madal's
embrace. He was not afraid. He removed the Crown of Kings for a moment and
donned his full-faced helm.
His
love could not see his ravaged face again.
He
placed the Crown atop his helm, and walked through the mist and screaming
soldiers back to the Castle of Naeth, and, he hoped, peace for his warrior
soul.
*
As
Tarn walked unseen through the fog, he sensed the suns' rising not far off. His
time upon this land was done. In truth, he should not be here now. He was an
abomination. This, he understood.
Man
should not return from beyond the gates. And yet he had. He had. He was here,
striding through the fog and fires of a destroyed city.
Heading,
for the last time, to say goodbye.
Unnatural
or not, he could not pass up the chance to say one final farewell to his true
love. His Rena. Maybe to hold the babe in his arms once more...maybe to clasp
hands, one last time, with his friends.
Folly
and stupidity, he knew, because he did not belong. His time was done. Or, it
should have been. He should not be here. Yet the loves of his life lived called
to him, held him on the world of Rythe with even more power than the witch
kin's dreadful summoning.
As
he strode through the ravaged city, horns sounded, then, shortly, the thunder
of hooves. Tarn saw the remnants of the Sturman army, proud men all, ride forth
from the castle. Soon, battle was joined. The Hierarchs threw their magic, but
within the mystic fog their terrible fires were lost.
It
would be steel against steel, and Tarn thought that maybe, just maybe, Sturma
would prevail.
*
Roskel
waited for Tarn in the Throne Room, his heart full of sorrow because even
without the Seer's sight, even just a mortal man as he was, he knew full well
his duty, and what must come to pass before the suns early rise, before the
dawn of this new, free age. Before the dawn of years, a millenium, without
threat from the slumbering and defeated Hierarchy.
Yes,
he thought with overwhelming sadness...
I know my duty.
He
smiled sadly at his King, encased in full armour, right up to his helm, as the
Lich entered the throne room. This time, for the last time. It seemed the King
was destined to die within his throne room one more time.
'Old
friend,' he said. 'Upon your death you told me I would need to perform a
service for you. I never knew it would be this.'
Roskel
remembered well the conversation that he and Tarn had will Tarn had died - the
first time - upon his throne.
Tarn,
fully helmed, withdrew his blade, tempered in the Heirophant's fires. He turned
it hilt first toward his truest friend.
'You
have to,' said Tarn. His voice was husky from death and fire. 'Don't let her
see me like this. No more. I'm done, Roskel.'
'Tarn...Tarn...must
it be this?'
'I
would have no other end than this,' said Tarn, and Roskel sensed his old friend
and his liege smiling, despite his ravaged dead body and the helm between them.
Roskel could not even see his friend's eyes.
He
wasn't sure his friend had eyes left. All he could see through the slit in
Tarn's helm was a blackened mess. His friend stank, too...like a charred
corpse.
Of
course he stank like a charred corpse, thought Roskel. For that's what he is.
He
is just a memory.
Roskel
nodded and with a shaking hand took the proferred blade. He knew there was no
other way. Things could never be the way they were. This was Tarn, his old
friend. But he was a dead man, too. He could not stay.
Nor
would Tarn allow it.
'Then,
farewell at last, my King,' said Roskel and drew the blade back.
'Stop!'
came a sob at the door. 'Stop!'
Rena
stood at the door, her chest heaving with wracking cries. Her eyes streamed
with tears. 'Would you leave, once more, without saying goodbye?'
She
held up the babe up to see his father.
But
Tarn could not see. He could not cry. He had no eyes left, and the only thing
holding him together was armour, the Crown of Kings, and witches' magic.
He
was a husk, a dry lover. Nothing more than a corpse.
'Goodbye,
Rena, my first and only love. Goodbye, baby Tarn,' he said. 'My son.'
Rena
sobbed harder than she had ever cried before, but she, too, knew what must be
done. She turned her head away, even now, unable to witness the destruction of
the first and only man she had ever loved.
Her
pain was immense, but her pride in her man, too, huge.
'Roskel,
do it,' said Tarn. 'Take the blade and ends this unlife.'
Rena
held in her tears at the end. Roskel was grateful. The last sound a warrior
heard should not be the crying of his woman, but of blade on flesh and steel.
And
yes, Tarn was a warrior. He was the Outlaw King. He was the Warrior King. He
was his
friend.
Roskel
nodded, once. He drew the blade back, and with a grunt thrust the sword through
armour as though the armour was not there at all, through to the other side.
With
a sigh, like a man falling to his death with happiness, Tarn's corpse fell to
the floor.
And
on the unnatural fog, the Outlaw King met Tulathia before Madal's Gates, and
later, beyond.
*
Days
of war pass and come again. Islands rise and fall in the sea. Mountains
themselves strain toward the sky as each year, each century, each millenium,
passes by. Time dwarfs the petty battles of men, but man stands, still, against
the darkness.
Men
like Tarn, the Outlaw King. Roskel, The Thief King, and women, too. Rena, and
Selana, and the Witches' Covenant.
Those
remaining after the War of the Kings waited outside the gates of the castle,
before the assembled people of the city of Naeth. The highborn, the peasant,
the mean and the beautiful alike.
They
had come to see the two Queens and the heir to the throne that could never be. Rumour
spread. People
knew
. Peasant and noble, people knew. This was Sturma.
This was the end of the era, and history was made, would be remembered. For how
long history would be remembered did not matter. What mattered was that it had
been made, and made by heroes and heroines, Kings and Lords and men and women
of low birth. Sturma was the crux, and Sturma had won.
Rena
shook, unaccustomed to such attention, to so many people. She wore her bright
red silk band around her missing eyes. The baby, the King that would never see
a throne, stood on his own two feet beside her. She held his hand to stop him
running off, because though he might have been a king, he was still but a babe.
The
air of anticipation, of joy at being a survivor, the very celebration of life
hard won, was a heavy weight upon the air, but one that brought tears and
smiles unbidden to the faces of those assembled before the Queen that would
have been.
Cheers
rang out around the streets as Rena took baby Tarn in her arms and held him
high for all to see.
'One
day...one day...' she choked on her words, imagining Tarn as he had been. Her
beautiful friend and lover. She saw Gard and Molly and her mother, Mia, as they
had been - great souls, all.
She
saw Tulathia, and knew, somehow, that she still waited in the mists before
Madal's Gates, a tireless servant of Sturma and Rythe, and yes, Carious and
Dow, too...those twin suns that were life to this land.
Roskel
Farinder, King of Thieves, touched Rena's arm tenderly, then shouted above the
roaring of the crowd. He knew she felt the heavy weight of expectation and
could not go on.
But
he was the troubadour, was he not? He could perform. He had performed along
with his friend, Ruan, once. He had performed along with his friend Tarn, too.
Both were lost. But never forgotten. Never forgotten.
Their
song lived on.
'Cheer,
people, and celebrate a great victory...and know this...one day a King will
come again! One day a King will come again!'
The
crowd roared louder still.
'Celebrate
today. Celebrate tonight. Remember the fallen and your loves. Live your lives.
Tomorrow we rebuild. For now, celebrate life! Celebrate life. For the fallen!
For the fallen! For the fallen!'
The
crowd shouted, nearly screamed the refrain.
For
the fallen, he thought. For the legends. For heroes gone and to come.
Roskel
nodded to the assemblage. The Thanes of eight Thanedoms, Redalane among them.
The Lord Protectors - Wexel, Asram and Roskel himself.
But
one was missing. The Queen of Thieves.
He
stepped down from the great table in the centre of the square and took his
leave. The crowds revelled and cheered and he walked through the throng to
great congratulations, but he knew that this day was not done.
*
Asram
sat beside Rena at the grand table for the feast of victory. Everything on this
day was about celebration. Food and drink was in abundance. He had taken none.
His
heart beat too fast in his chest...he had barely had time these last few days
to say two words to Rena.
But
he felt he must. He felt...he had no choice. He needed to know. He burned
within in a way that almost hurt.
She
turned to him and smiled. He remembered when he thought her cold, but no
longer. She was not cold. She was damaged, perhaps, but then, he, a killer of
men, a gambler, a thrall to the Queen of Thieves...
Could
they be saved? Was there such a thing as a happy ending in this hard, hard
world?
She
was beautiful, and he knew she saw him well enough. Maybe well enough to know
that his knees shook beneath the table.
'My
Lady...' he began.
'I
know what you would ask, Asram. You are dear to me...could be dearer, still, I
think...but it is not the right time. Nor can I stay.'
'Then
I cannot stay as Steward, Rena, for I am sworn to protect you and Tarn. If you
will not stay, then I will leave.'
'Your
place is here,' she said, but she was not cold. Not any longer, because she
wore a tight, small smile. The kind of smile that begins small, yet holds
within it greatness.
'My
place is with you and your son.'
Rena
took Asram's hand beneath the table.
Asram
clamped his teeth shut for fear of his teeth clattering.
Sometimes,
he thought, things are best left unsaid.
*