The Queen of Thieves: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three (27 page)

Dear Reader,

If
you enjoyed the Line of Kings Trilogy, the story continues in the Rythe
Quadrilogy, set a thousand years on...in the time of the return of the Sun
Destroyers.

A
sample of Rythe Awakes follows.

Bonus sample:

Rythe Awakes

The Rythe Quadrilogy:

Book One

by

Craig Saunders

Prologue

The First (The Sacrifice)

It
was a wizard’s castle; paranoid and proud. Torches adorned each polished wall,
bathing its many halls in reflected light. Murmuring wind and guards in subdued
conversation made the only sounds. Any noise above a whisper and the castle’s
latest master, Lord Fridel, March Chief of the Protectorate, would hear.

A quiet, careful, ninety-three years old, he rested
secure in the knowledge that no intruder could reach his marble sanctuary. As a
member of the Protectorate’s ruling council he was afforded great security. The
walls of his castle were five feet thick in places, a full garrison of loyal
guards patrolled below, and two of his personal retinue stood watch outside his
room’s thick oak doors. The castle had but one tower (a winding staircase the
only point of access), and Fridel’s chambers perched on top, safe from would-be
murderers and assassins. The defences were enough to deter anybody.

But not
anything.

*

Far
to the south and west of Lord Fridel’s stronghold, on the outskirts of Lianthre
city (the capital of Lianthre, named for the continent), a summer breeze blew
soft black hair across a darkly pretty face. A young woman, only twenty-five
years of age, stood atop a flat roof that overlooked her ornate country
gardens. She stared into the night, directly at the solitary tower of the
castle she knew was there. Tall and bright in the daytime. Hidden in the dark.

Below, the carmillon’s evening blossoms went unnoticed.

She had expected to feel joy this night, but her
heart felt utterly empty. There was only the void where hatred once flowed. The
feeling was not pleasant, but she did mourn the opportunity missed; the chance
to slip a dagger between Fridel's ribs herself.

It was not murder, or worse, assassination. It was
just a balancing of accounts and the rahken warrior,
her
warrior, would
play the scales in her stead.

She pulled her hair back from her face as the
blossoms closed. Without their lurid light, she could see nothing of her lands
or servants, only a faraway lantern. On a moonless night like this, the sole
indication of how large her estate had become was the lantern's tiny firefly
glow bobbing in the distance – a guard, patrolling the boundary.

The rahkens were a strange, fierce race that lived
outside both the Protectorate and the human spheres of influence. Before the
creature’s arrival, there had been only an overgrown and thorny wilderness across
her land.

She had been tending the family grove in the
sweltering heat of the previous high summer when the rahken came to her. The
grove was modest then, lovingly restored by her after years of neglect during
her expulsion. Thoughts of larger plots worried at her as she worried over the
growth.

Alone and unannounced the rahken had arrived,
startling her despite the brightness of the suns. A dagger appeared in her
hand, sliding from where it lurked in the sleeve of her dress, but had not
flown. Instead, in stunned silence she stayed her hand as the warrior knelt and
bowed its head to her.

She had expected assassins, not a supplicant. With
its fingers the rahken made the sign of the circle, and with that simple motion
its rare service was hers.

She grew in power as a councillor in Lianthre’s seat
of human government, the Kuh’taenium. Her initial triumphs were perhaps granted
in sympathy, but her current status was due to genuine respect...and all would
come to nought. In merely six years, she had been elevated to the same status
her father had achieved before her at half his age. Just six years to reach the
pinnacle of human power on the continent of Lianthre.

But a human would never be as powerful as the
Protectorate.

Even with such an ally as the rahken, what could one
woman returning from exile hope to achieve against such a mighty adversary?

Now she knew. Revenge was all.

All she had discovered to find her father’s
assassin, all that she had risked, and for what? Who among her fellow
Councillors could she tell? There were few in the Kuh’taenium she called friend
and could confide in none.

Even so, she was proud of her rise to power, for all
that her father would have told her pride was for fools.

Perhaps pride is foolish,
she thought.
But isn't every
human triumph folly to those who rule from the shadows?

*

The
blue-burning torches in the hallway outside Fridel’s door sputtered in the
drafty tower. At each gust light flitted through the shadows. The rahken warrior
merely pulled the darkness tighter and waited, silent and unseen, as it watched
the guards outside the protocrat Lord's door.

It was at home in the gloom. The great beast’s pure
brown eyes – the colour of its pelt – saw in a way entirely different to human
sight, reliant only on the facets of light, rather the whole. It saw the
changing shades of stone and metal, the movements of the guards and the play of
the wind through the dark corners and the bright hall. Heat from the soldiers at
the door appeared as a corona, orange, with the black of cool steel where
chainmail covered torso. The guard on the left shifted slightly. He would move
soon.

The warrior readied itself as the guard on the right
picked at something stuck between his teeth that smelled like meat. It stretched
its huge shoulders. The other soldier strode lazily closer to the waiting
rahken, shrouded in shadow. They were quiet boots the guard wore, but may as
well have been iron on the stone, for stealth could not fool the rahken. The protocrat
came closer and the great beast struck out with sharp, hard claws. There was no
malice in its eyes as it spread its powerful fingers apart and tore the guard's
windpipe. Breath wheezed and blood flowed, welling in the chainmail links
before dripping onto the stone floor. The drips slowed and the guard’s polished
leather boots gave a final judder.

The warrior lowered the protocrat to the floor.

Seconds from death the second guard hummed a slow
tune.

The rahken wasted no time.

Bounding, blindingly fast steps and the warrior’s
hand smashed palm outward into the guard’s gnarly face with enough force and
speed that he barely had time to register a blurring of the dark, and then, nothing.
His head smashed through the door, bone jutting and blood flying and the door
splintered, shattering apart, the guard and rahken both tumbling through into
the chamber beyond. Lord Fridel rose from his chair, sighting along a crossbow.
Light from the fire in the hearth glinted on the bolt.

The rahken coiled and sprang. Its hard head drove
Fridel into the air. Open hands, claws extended, rent the late Lord’s chest and
the March Chief of the Protectorate died as the bolt clattered, blunted, in the
hall.

The rahken stood for a second, focusing on the room,
its barrel chest barely moving. On Fridel’s writing table was a letter. It was
no creature of letters, but if it concentrated it could see the aftertrail
where Fridel’s eyes had passed the script. Meaning hung in the air. It could
recognise the intentions, and they were dark. It was enough.

Clutching the papers in one hand, it left the way it
came.

*

Tirielle
A’m Dralorn heard the siren call in the distance as guards signalled the
attack. Her warrior had succeeded again. Folly or not, Lord Fridel's death had
been a long time coming.

For you, father,
she thought. Then, she turned and
went inside to wait the rahken's return.

*

The Second (The Saviour)

Across
the wide seas of the world of Rythe lay a continent unknown to most
Lianthrians. The entire western side of that continent was taken up by the
wild, vast plains of Draymar.

A solitary figure stood in the meagre shelter of a
tree. In Draymar growth was sparse and the grass underfoot and the occasional
lost tree were the only things to break the monotony of the landscape until the
mountains to the east, magnificent and breathtaking after miles of barren land.
The man watched, eyes narrowed as he strained to see through the mists that
slid down the slopes.

He wore what had once been a cloak, which hung from
his frame in tatters. A scar ran from cheek to cheek, straight through his
nose. The stitches that had held his face together once had done their job.
They had left their impression, however. Observers often thought of a
caterpillar.

It would have been the defining feature on most
peoples’ faces, but not for this man. The scar became invisible very quickly.

His name was Shorn. It was his most recent name, but
not the only one. In his line of work names were a skin to be shed. The deeds
of a mercenary should go unsung.

He was famous in certain circles – revered – almost.
Among others, he was very unpopular, although his critics never seemed to get
their harshest words out in time.

Shorn’s breathed slowly into the wretched cloak to
make the most of the warmth. Watching the horizon behind him from the shadow of
the tree, he thought about his chances. Time was a commodity. Time was
something Shorn understood better than most.
Rhythm. Breath. Heartbeat.
His
heart beat slower now and he counted time to it. He stood under the tree for a
very long time, but he forced himself to count and remain calm, not sure if he
had been still for long enough. Ahead lay the woods, and the mountains.

Safety beyond them?

Straining all his senses, he willed the mist to part
and let him see, but it was heavy and dark would come soon, then he would be
hunted
and
blind.

There was nothing for it. It was his profession to
know when to run and that time was now. He pushed away from the lonely tree and
broke for the forest.

He did not see the spines that rose up in the mist
behind him, slicing the mist as they passed.

*

The Third (The Watcher)

Far
out to sea, the triangle was complete.

The Third was charged with watching the First and
the Second. Together, these Three mortals were fated to come together at the
end of days. He had watched Tirielle A'm Dralorn and the mercenary Shorn for
many years. Now, Shorn was close - just across the mountains and he would be in
Sturma.

The First, on Lianthre, was beyond his reach.

The First was the Sacrifice. The Second was the
Saviour.

The man who watched them was called Drun Sard, the
chosen of the Order of Sard. The Order of Sard were paladins, and Drun Sard
their sole priest, he alone among their number gifted in the arcane arts.

Well enough versed to understand that the time had
come to show themselves.

The time of the return is close.

Drun Sard knew this without doubt.

He had been on a platform at sea for a long, long
time. An unkempt mass of knotted hair and beard now reached halfway down his
chest and back. He sat on a wooden platform that floated out at sea where few
birds flew. He ate what fish he needed and drank rainwater when it came.
Occasionally the birds brought him gifts. He always thanked them.

He looked around his home, held to its spot by
Seafarer magic and protected by his own. He laid an uncalloused palm on the
worn wooden frame.

I won't miss this at all
, he thought. The time for
watching was over. What it heralded he could not celebrate, but to see land
again...

Drun dived into the sea, where he ran his hands
through his hair and beard under the water. He stayed there long enough to
remove the knots of the last few years. Then, still dripping, he sat on the
platform under the gaze of Rythe’s twin suns, closed his eyes and dreamed of
the circle far across the world.

*

In
a circle at the southern reaches of Lianthre, nine men sat.

One opened his eyes, and said, 'The watcher is
ready.'

Others nodded. All heard Drun Sard's words, but this
man spoke first for them in matters of war.

'Our ancient enemy already plot the downfall of the
Sacrifice. Their hand is evident in an attack on the Saviour, too.' The speaker,
their leader Quintal, sat with the paladins - leader, but not about, nor at the
head of their number. The circle was their symbol, and had many meanings but
foremost;
unity
. 'It is time for us to act. The Watcher will go to the
Saviour. We must protect the First. A'm Dralorn is
our
charge.'