He felt infinite sadness as the song gradually faded...with it some understanding, too, left Roskel, but enough remained of the feeling to sway him, and he rocked back on his perch as he woke from the dreamsong.
But what crime had the Drayman committed to have had his tongue removed?
It must have been terrible indeed for a warrior who was akin to a lord in his own country.
'You must be sad to lose all that,' said Roskel thoughtfully.
The warrior shook his head.
No, he was not sad. Or not about that. Roskel couldn’t tell. He didn’t press the matter further.
The man nodded, sadness on his face too, but with a hint of a smile.
He laid down, took one last look at Roskel, and then, closed his eyes.
Roskel had the feeling that he, too, had been judged while the strange foreigner had sung his remarkable song.
Roskel took one last look at the man, and the curved blade he bore. He gulped, once.
What would have been the outcome this night, had he failed this test?
Death?
Roskel sighed and passed a silent prayer to Miskal.
Sleep suddenly seemed like a good idea. Morning was still a way off, and now he had no more fear, for he knew without a doubt that this unusual man had been sent not to test his character, but to aid him along.
He thought it a wise idea to worry about what the day would bring when he woke.
He put his head on his bed roll and was asleep in moments. No more dreams came, and for that he was thankful.
*
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Carious broke the horizon. A shaft of sunlight reached Roskel’s closed eyes and forced them open with its brightness.
He sat up with a start, remembering his strange visitor, and rubbed his eyes. The warrior was practising in a clearing with his sword, graceful and quiet enough not to wake the thief.
Should he worry? Should he call out?
No. He'd seen his friend Tarn practise with the blade enough times to know it was a form of meditation, more than exercise.
He left his new...companion, was he? to his sword work and set about making something to eat.
The warrior came to him and sat down, sweat beading his brow.
They did not speak. Roskel smiled and nodded and busied himself serving.
Before Roskel had awoken, the Drayman had fetched his own pack from somewhere. Where, Roskel couldn’t imagine.
'Do you have a name?'
The warrior shook his head. He motioned flying away, and his tongue being torn from his mouth. Roskel invented his side of the conversation for him.
I have no name. I am outcast.
'Did you have a name, before they did that to you?' he guessed.
More gestures, a sad face…
It dishonours me to sing of it. I will sing my name no longer. Now I have no name. I am outcast, Roskel imagined him saying.
'How is it that you understand me?'
The warrior mimicked speech by yapping with his hand, before his ear, then swayed, as if dancing to music.
You have words. To me, words are music. I can understand meaning in music. It is my gift.
'What is your shame?'
A firm shake of the head.
It is my shame.
'What shame? It is an amazing gift.'
No. I am unclean, he mimed, scrubbing at his arms, his face. I am outcast.
'Stop saying that. It’s getting tiresome.'
The humming stopped and the silence of the plains suddenly descended.
Roskel realised the words were only half his imagination. The man had been humming all along, perhaps boosting his gestures with the power of his song.
Shaking his head, Roskel handed the man some food.
'Well, I can’t call you No Name. When we’re done, you’ll have to tell me of your dream, and what you want. But for now, let’s eat.'
And so they ate, in near silence, the only sounds the occasional birdsong and their soft munching and swallowing.
The man made a gesture when they had finished. Roskel guessed it meant thank you.
'Don’t mention it,' he replied. 'Is there any way you can use your gift to talk to me, you know, so we can have a conversation?'
The man nodded. He indicated that he wished to touch Roskel’s head. Roskel could see no reason to deny him. He nodded.
'What did you dream?' he asked. The humming rose at first, then he was unaware of it as words formed in his mind.
I can speak to another this way, but only if we are touching. A man came to me last night, while I was on the road. His name was Tarn. He said I would find you, and that you were his friend. He knew of my shame. He told me I can redeem myself if I help you on a quest. I do not know of your quest. But the dream man told me that this world balances on a knife edge, and that the light needs allies to sway the balance. Believe me or not, I am…I was…a force for light. I will aid you in your quest.
'I believe you,' said Roskel, 'For last night I also had a dream of my friend, Tarn. He was king of this land but he was killed. This land has enemies from afar. They are known as the Hierarchy. They are alien to us, inhuman and strange. I do not know what they want. But to foil them, I must take an item of great power to a man. But I do not have the item. I must get it.'
I was shown this also. It is good that you do not lie to me. I will help you. I know a man’s heart when I hear the song in his words. Your heart is true.
'I am glad you think so,' said Roskel, trying to hide his mirth. 'You seem like a decent fellow yourself.'
The song in his ears grew in power. 'I am a force for light, no matter what my shame.'
'I didn’t mean to offend. I wasn’t being sarcastic.'
'I…understand. Your song is strange to me. And it has been a long time since I have heard the song. A long time since I sang.'
'Remarkable, all the same.'
'But weaker, now. I can no longer sing, just make music.'
'Then we go?'
'We go. I will follow where you lead. My blade will sing for you.'
He broke contact and smiled at the thief. Roskel felt dizzy and disoriented. And not just from the singer’s song, but from the suddenness with which his fate leapt and jumped, he was powerless to guide himself in any path other than that which had been set for him when he met Tarn so long ago.
Even in death, the king still ruled.
*
Chapter Thirty
Orvane Wense was not much of a rider. His men broke camp that morning and dusted the frost from their bedding, stowed their tents and saddled restless horses.
Wense himself pulled himself up onto a wagon, wishing it had a cover and a fire within to keep the coming winter out. He wished they could go faster, fast enough to beat the winter and keep heading south to wherever the suns went when the snows came.
Snow had yet to find them. But in the north, it would not be long. Already frost made the ground hard, the rains were freezing, and he was miserable. He wished he was back in his castle, a fire roaring.
He was not much of a traveller. Usually, he would have another do his travelling for him. But that had failed. His huntsman had sent no word. He wouldn’t be surprised if the man was rotting in the undergrowth somewhere between here and the Cathedral at Kus.
But he had other means of finding out the things he wanted to know. He turned his head and searched for his new ‘friend’. The man refused to ride a horse so ran alongside. He ran at the same pace as the horses and he ran without tiring, and the men did not like it. Wense didn’t care. He would not share his wagon with the man. If he was too much the fool to mount a horse then he would have to run.
But he did not complain, and he did not slow them down.
Besides, Wense could never leave the strange man behind. He wanted this new friend as close as was safe. The strange man was, after all, his only remaining link to the Lord Protector. He had told Wense that his men would find the Lord Protector at the Cat
hedral again.
Wense fervently hoped so. Just so long as the thief got there first and did what he had to do. Then they could follow on behind and take the crown.
It was hard to keep secrets from the man running alongside. But Wense had managed to. The replacement crown would be in place, and he would take it. Roskel would take the real crown, perhaps for the king’s bastard son, perhaps not. It did not matter. The false crown would see Wense on the throne well enough, and he would see the Lord Protector at the bottom of a river before he could get anywhere with the real one.
*
Chapter Thirty-One
The hills had proven to be better than the old road. There was forage to be had, game in the trees and bushes, and not a soul on their journey. The trail was unknown, even locally. Perhaps the bandits hereabouts knew of it, but no merchant would ever use it, so what profit in stalking the old cow trail?
An easy journey, pleasantly passed with the garrulous thief doing what he loved most - the talking - and the mute man nodding and listening. Frustrating at times, for the thief, and no doubt for the Drayman, too, but they fell into a steady rhythm.
Roskel’s new travelling companion proved to be adept at fending for himself. They ate a hearty lunch before a midday fire, roasting rabbit which the outcast had speared suddenly with a lightning fast strike of his sword at it as it ran across their path. Roskel had skinned it with his dagger, as Tarn had shown him long ago, but he hadn’t found it easy. There were many reasons why he had chosen the life of a thief rather than that of a ranger or a huntsman, and skinning animals was among the best he could think of. It spoiled your appetite when you had to skin your own meat.
But the stench of the guts was soon forgotten as the aroma of roasting rabbit reached his nostrils.
Now, their small fire burning low and their bellies full with watered honey wine and rabbit meat, they gazed at their journey ahead, laid out before them. They sat at the edge of the hills, looking out over the view.
In the distance a farmer’s cottage sat snug against the foothills, his cows grazing on the grass that covered the sloping ground. Larny Cole’s farm, Roskel imagined. He toyed with the idea of heading up the hill to the farmer, asking for a night’s sleep on the strength of his friendship with Sam Durnborn, but with the Drayman in tow? No, he did not think that was wise. There would be a reckoning to pay, and even if he could persuade the farmer that he and the Drayman in particular meant him no harm, it would just mean an uneasy night’s rest for an innocent farmer. He would not put the man through such trials.
Besides, he reasoned, what else could he possibly need? He had a companion for the road, food in his belly and in his pack, the first leg of his journey nearly over and he had not had to kill anyone or run for his life. He was content. True, he had been in mortal peril in the town of Wraith’s Guard…but then, at the time, he hadn’t known it, so that didn’t really count, did it?
A bad chill and some lingering sickness in his lungs were the only true prices he had paid so far, and small price to pay for a man travelling the length of Sturma alone. Even with the Thanes of each region sending out patrols to pacify the bandits, and rangers hunting the wild beasts of the untamed regions, there were still many pitfalls in the country for the unwary and the poorly educated. Roskel had some knowledge of the country, and of woodcraft, but he was no fool. He knew he was a baby when it came to looking after himself in the wild lands. Fortunately there had been villages along his long journey, and he had met kindness more often than not, but he had not planned his route and had taken more risks than were strictly necessary. All for the sake of the Cathedral on the Plains, and the treasure guarded within.
He gazed out over the plains, a vast grassland with the Cathedral nestled in the centre of it. The grass undulated softly in the breeze, a rippling sea of green as far as the eye could see. The sky above was unimaginably huge, from horizon to horizon, a blue expanse uninhibited by trees or mountains. The landscape would be considered boring by some, but not Roskel. He could see its majesty. And he knew, when they reached it, the Cathedral would tower above the plains, no other sights to detract from its black grandeur.
He sat and pondered his plan. He would have to leave Minstrel behind and approach at night, as he had once before. They would travel across the plains, cutting to the south, to the edge of the Fresh Woods. A journey of perhaps a day there, a few hours walk to the Cathedral itself…the Drayman could ride the horse and meet him once the deed was done…they would have to ride double for a while, and in the dark. Still faster than running all that way.
He did not know what means the priests employed these days to protect the artefacts within the great building. There were priests aplenty within the Cathedral, and priests had the power of their gods to call upon. He knew from experience that the artefacts had guardians. He had thought to steal a golden torc once, and failed miserably when chased from the plains by a spectral dragon, a terrible creature that had been as large as a house.
A vision, one might think, but it had been a vision with amazing powers if that were the truth of it. He had seen it pick up the torc and return to the Cathedral with a single flap of its wings.
He was, of course, presuming that the spectre had been a dragon. There were no dragons on Sturma, just creatures of legend. It could even have been the ghost of a real dragon that once rode the skies. Who could know? He might never know the truth of it.
He touched the Drayman’s arm. His companion had been staring with longing at the plains.
'We should go. We have a day’s ride. Tomorrow I exchange the crowns.'
The Drayman nodded slightly and rose with ease from his knees. His long curved sword hung from a belt at his hip. In seconds he had his pack slung across his broad shoulders. Ready to go, he seemed to be saying. Hurry up.
Roskel took longer to pack up. Then he kicked some dirt over the embers of the fire, swung himself into the saddle, and set off across the plains.
*
Chapter Thirty-Two
Night fell.
Roskel’s palms were sweaty already. His face, too, poured with sweat and his lungs burned. He ran at a steady pace from where he’d left the Drayman, legs beating out a steady rhythm, the long grass swishing as he passed.
Hren rolled across the dark sky alone this night, but it gave plenty of light to see by. The grass took on a silver hue under the moon and Roskel blended with the grass. From a distance no one would see him.
Gradually, the Cathedral broke the darkness with a blackness more complete than night itself. It was like a great shadow that towered into the sky instead of across the ground. Moonlight did not glint from its surface, but seemed to be absorbed by it.
Roskel slowed his pace and tried to get his breath back. A year of living easy and the sickness in his lungs had robbed him of much of his speed and energy, but he was still a fit man, and young. Soon his breathing was steady and calm.
He surveyed the Cathedral as he approached, looking for lights in the accommodation quarters built to one side.
All was darkness, apart from one room atop the hall. It was a narrow, sparse light, probably from a candle, but stark enough in the otherwise dark plains, like a beacon drawing the eye.
His shirt was a dark grey, his trousers darker still and his soft doe-skin riding boots were thin-soled and almost pure black, although thankfully the riding had taken some of the sheen from them. He could not afford to reflect even the most meagre light. If someone came by and saw his boots or a belt buckle glinting in the moonlight he would be discovered.
He slowed as he reached the outer wall of the Cathedral, its uppermost tower a full hundred and fifty feet above him. He was not worried though. He did not have to climb so far. And he had no need of reconnaissance for he had performed the same jig a time before, back when he had still been a thief and not the Lord Protector of Sturma.
By rights he could have walked in through the great front doors and demanded the crown, but that would let people kno
w that he had taken the real one, and leave him no room to manoeuvre. He needed subterfuge and subtlety. He needed this ruse to be a secret.
He walked carefully around the right hand side of the building, to where there was a corner below a window. Nothing had changed since he had last been here. He put his fingers in the narrow gaps between the black stone…he noted how it felt…cool and smooth. So similar to the village of Wraith’s Guard, and the stones he’d found there. The story told him by the village’s apparition, the old beggar, sprang to his mind and he wondered if this was an old one’s place, too. But he did not have the time to be daydreaming. He pulled himself up and placed his feet on either side of the gap, then shimmied higher and higher, his muscles aching from the unaccustomed labour. Even aching, his muscles had not forgotten how to scale a reluctant wall. He gained the window sill and pulled himself up.
Untying the long rope from around his waist, he secured it to the window frame, then lowered himself into the interior hand over hand, his boots taking his weight between handholds.
With a soft, almost inaudible slap, his feet reached the floor. More smooth black stone. Coldness seeped through the thin soles of his boots. A chill finger ran down his back. He wished he had never heard of the old ones. Now he suspected he had met one, or at least its ghost, his imagination raced.
But no time. Concentration was paramount for a thief, not flights of fancy. He stilled his racing heart and his leaping thoughts, concentrated fully on the sounds of the Cathedral. There was a soft breeze blowing this night, and a gentle moon, but Roskel would be undone by neither. His ears cut out the sound of the wind and focused on any sound that was irregular or out of place.
The Cathedral was silent. He looked around from where he stood below the window. There were shafts of moonlight coming in through the regularly spaced windows along the west wall, and he stood in shadow. The only time anyone could have seen him was the brief moment he had been outlined against the moonlight in the window.
The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Page 10
