The Queen of Thieves: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three (10 page)

Chapter
Twenty-Nine

The
preternatural wind died down and the boat slowly glided in toward the shore,
coming to a halt, finally, around fifty yards from the sand. A man, certainly,
but a man like no other Roskel had ever seen, called out.

            'I
bring the land of men word from across the wide waters,' the man shouted across
the distance. Even from this distance, Roskel could see that the man had bright
blonde hair that was almost white. There was some hint of the sea about the
man, too - maybe in the flow of his long hair, or the way that fifty yards
distant Roskel could still tell the man had bold blue eyes, the colour of
shallows, not the deeps.

            'Share
our camp?' shouted back Roskel. He was determined to be welcoming - he had
never seen a Seafarer before. They were almost mythical.

            'Landfall
is denied our kind, and we must return to the battle,' shouted the man.

            'Battle?'
said Rohir from beside Roskel.

            Roskel
nodded. He wasn't sure if he was satisfied that the rumour of a force on its
way to Sturma was true, but his bladder suddenly felt tight and uncomfortable.
A sensation he knew all too well...an impending brush with death does that to a
man. Well, most men. At least that's what Roskel told himself.

            He
thought, to his shame, that he might be glad if the Queen had been playing them
false all along.

            But
if they were to fight, then damn the Hierarchy. They would fight, and fight
well.

            'Battle
with whom?' he said to the blonde-haired man at the helm of the boat.

            'The
creatures from Lianthran lands - the Hierarchs, they are known. They come. The
Fee'war hold them at bay out to sea, but we do not have the magic to best them.
They burn our ships. Soon they will come. We cannot stop them. You must avenge
us.'

            The
man cried out in a language that Roskel had never heard before, then thumped
his chest three times. Before the Thief King could say more the captain of
their ship turned, slowly, and then they were gone in a rising wind, this time
from land to sea, where before the wind had blown the ship inward.

            'What
the hell was that?' said Rohir, of the strange display.

            Roskel
shrugged. He had no idea either. Some kind of curse, some kind of blessing.
Something of the sea people, for sure, and he knew next to nothing of them save
that they existed, living their entire lives at sea.

            'Settle
the men...no...ready the men,' Roskel told Rohir.

            The
three Thanes, sitting ahorse at some remove behind Roskel and Rohir, made as
though to come forward, but Roskel stalled them with a raised hand. Quietly, he
said to Rohir, 'And make sure those idiots do as their told, eh?'

            Rohir
grinned.

            'My
lord.'

            Roskel
thought to forbid his friend calling him such, but the men, the Thanes, even
his friend, needed a leader. For good or ill, that was him.

            The
men at the fore had heard most of the exchange. Before the day was through
everyone in the camp knew that the enemy was coming. Preparations for battle
begun in earnest, armour readied and weapons donned, the men waited. They took
their evening meal, same as always, though plenty were sick of belly and would
not eat. Roskel knew how they felt, as when evening fell, Roskel and his fellow
stewards took their evening meal alone, as was their custom.

            Roskel
picked at his food. Rohir and Wexel were eating heartily, and Roskel wished
just a little that he could have a little of their fortitude for the coming
battle.

            'She
was right,' said Wexel through a mouthful of food.

            'I
know. I wish she wasn't,' said Roskel, truthfully. He did not need to ask of
whom Wexel spoke.

            'I
hope Durmont's having a better time of it,' said Rohir. 'I'm tired of freezing
my damn arse off and smelling of salt. I hope they bloody well get here soon.'

            Roskel
laughed despite himself. Sometimes he forgot that his two friends were warriors
and bandits born, thrust unwillingly into ruling a nation instead of the
rightful king.

            For
a moment he was saddened, thinking of the best friend he ever had, the man they
called the Outlaw King.

            But
he put it to one side. It was time to prepare for war.
The northern war can
take care of itself
, he imagined Selana saying. He turned his mind to the
problem of the now, and tried to forget about everything else.

            Wexel
and Rohir finished every morsel on the rude table in their shared tent.

            Finally,
when he went to bed hungry, Roskel's stomach was roiling. He felt sick to the
core. He was, he knew, terrified.

            And
tired. So tired. He had time to wonder whatever had become of his Skald, Ruan.
Then, too tired to think of anything else, he drifted into a troubled sleep.

*

Chapter Thirty

Ruan's
birthright, the sword of his father and fathers before, rested in the dirt
before him. The dirt was hard-packed, frozen. His ear, where his head had lain
against the cold ground, was numb. He felt blood crusted in his hair...a sound
blow to the head, he remembered, had taken him from his horse...

            And
the Blade Singers...surrounding him...men and women...

            He
lay in a courtyard - Yemathalan's courtyard, the home of his kind. The home of
the Blade Singers. All was silent, for now, though the song waited in the throats
of those who stood around the exiled Drayman warrior.

            Ruan
alone among them could never sing again, for he had taken his own tongue in his
shame. Once, many years ago, he had used his talents to subvert the natural
order of things. He had saved a village, only to see them slain by another of
his kind for they should have died. They should have died - Ruan knew this.
Once, he would have changed the outcome, changed his actions. But his shame
ruled him no longer. Roskel Farinder had given him back his honour, and it was
for his friend Roskel, and for the Sturman people he fought. But he fought for
Rythe herself, too - of this he was in no doubt.

            The
Blade Singers arrayed before him meant to take his life for returning, he knew.
Each man and woman stared at him, as though weighing the worth of his soul.

            He
knew his own worth, whether they could see it or not.

            They
would kill him. Rythe would be lost. He could not let that happen.

            Ruan
tried the bonds that held him tight against a wooden pole. They did not shift,
but burned tighter into his thick wrists. His legs were unbound, but he could
not stand...even lying down, as he was, his sight swam.

            The
winter's sun beat hard on his aching head. Even the winter sun in Draymar could
burn while the ground froze solid.

            His
hands bound, he could not touch his sword.

            Before
him were the last of the Blade Singers. Ruan was surprised to find their
numbers had grown in the years since he had left their order, though not by
many. He was surprised, too, to find them all in one place.

            Had
they assembled just for the return of an outcast? He did not think so. This
amount of power in one place meant something else. They meant to kill him, for
sure, but also...

            Did
they know of the threat in the north?

            Maybe.

            He
let his head rest against the ground for a time. He tried to hold onto
consciousness through the pain pounding within his split skull, but it slipped
from his grasp when they lifted him up and planted one end of the wooden pole
into a hole in the ground. Head slumped against his chest, he was unaware of
the sad song of his kind rising, echoing from the ancient walls of Yemathalan.

            There
was a song of swords for many eventualities, but this was judgement...this was
a prelude to an execution.

            For
the Blade Singers were the judges of their people, yes, but they were also
Draymar's headsmen.

*

Chapter
Thirty-One

Yemathalan
was one of the old places.

            It
was build atop the only hill for miles in any direction. Visible from miles away
across the lonely Drayman plains, it stood dark against the skyline. A beacon,
but also the only truly defensible site for many, many miles. A black tower
rose from the centre of the fort, older than the surrounding stone
fortifications. Nobody knew how old the fort was, and certainly nobody knew who
built the original black tower. Whomever it had been, the builders were not
Draymen. This was all anyone could be certain of.

            There
were few old places left in the world, and each was built of the same smooth,
black stone - the Cathedral on the Plains, Naeth's Underworld...and no longer
standing, the ruins at Wraith's Guard, among the few on this continent.

            It
was an old place, and the stone remembered. The stone echoed.

            When
Ruan awoke to song his head was angled up, leaning against the post. He was
looking at the black tower. Groggy though he was, from the blow on the head, he
recognised the tower before he recognised the song.

            No
Blade Singer had spoken to him. He was surrounded by them, and it seemed that
they had no interesting in hearing his own song. They sang out loud and strong
in the courtyard, their song echoing around the ancient fort. It seemed the
Blade Singers did not wish to wait for him to sing his own case...nor could he,
with no tongue.

            He
cried as they sang. He had almost forgotten the beauty of the song.

            Among
the voices in those swirling, magical words, many called for his death. He
could die, he knew. He could die with no regret. Roskel Farinder had given him
back his pride. He could die a man. A Blade Singer, still, even if only in his
own eyes. Yet he owed that man, didn't he? His debt to the Thief King was not
yet paid. Maybe it never would be.

            How
could you pay back a man to whom you owed your life?

            The
answer, Ruan knew, was that you could not. You could never repay such a debt.
It was for life, and to give up and let his brethren and sistren kill him
now...that would sell the debt short.

            He
could not die. Not yet.

           
It's
not your time
, said a voice called down from the aether by the song.

            It
was a familiar voice, and it made Ruan smile, because even her, facing his
death song, he had allies. A powerful ally indeed.

            The
Outlaw King was here in spirit, as he had been once, long ago, when that man's
spirit had led him to Roskel, and to Ruan's salvation. The dead, it seemed, saw
long
.

*

Chapter
Thirty-Two

Sing out, Blade Singer...sing
out!

            Could he? Could he
win through, against the power before him?

            Ruan let himself be
lifted by the song, despite that they sang of his death for his crimes.
I
don't know
, he thought.
I am full of doubt.

           
Then listen and
weep, for they sing of your shame that is no shame. Listen and weep while you
let the world die.

            He closed his eyes,
hoping for the King's voice to leave him be. He knew he had but one chance, but
under the power of the song, he was next to helpless. He let himself be carried
along by the terribly allure of the magic in the words.

            How could he sing
against such passion and beauty - the untainted song of his kind?

           
Sing, man...sing
before the song ends.

            Ruan had never seen
the Outlaw King. But even now, just his voice radiated power. Ruan could only
imagine the strength of the last King of Sturma, to send his voice through the
spirit world, the world beyond the gates, to talk to Ruan and urge him
on...give him strength...

            He felt strength
coursing through him again. His throbbing head felt clear for the first time
since awakening, bound and on trial, in Yemathalan.

           
Sing, sing, sing
for your life and the lives of Sturmen and Draymen and Rythe herself, sing!

            The power of the song
sung against Ruan did not lessen. If anything, it built and built until it was
a tower of sound, looming over him. Many had been crushed beneath such a song.
Yet Ruan smiled, buoyed by the passion of the spirit King. Lent strength and
passion and bravery where he may have wilted.

           
I've got to try,
he thought.
I have no choice.

            Quietly at first,
then louder and louder, he began to hum.

            He had a choice, yes.
He could lay down and die under the power of their song, but even without his
tongue, he was no without power himself.

           
Sing, Drayman,
sing!

            And he sang.

*