The Queen of Thieves: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three (4 page)

Chapter Eight

Durmont's bones were old and the
growing cold of winter reminded him of his age most every minute that passed,
despite the fire that burned in his hearth.

            Most of his teeth
were gone (leastways, the useful ones, it seemed), and yet his mind was still
sharp. Sharp enough to see the Lady's hand in the new orders he drafted for the
Council of Ten - the assembly of Thanes, although since Roskel had killed one
of their number it was only strictly a Council of Nine. A replacement had yet
to win out in Orvane Wense's old seat of power, with in-fighting and
assassinations rife. It meant the country was weakened in its defence against
Drayman incursions. But then the Draymar nation had not invaded for many years.
Sturma's barbaric neighbours were quiet, and that suited Durmont just fine. The
passes through the Culthorn Mountains in the west would still be manned, were
still manned - he had made sure of it - and that would have to be enough.

            Sturma had bigger
concerns than the Draymar.

           
The Hierarchy were
coming.

            For a moment, at the
thought, Durmont felt an even greater chill in his bones, and shuddered, as
though he were outside in the falling snow instead of beside a roaring fire.

            That Thanedom would
be next to useless in the coming battles. The southern Thanes, however, would
answer a call to war, whether they were to muster east along the coast to wait
for the invaders there, or north along Thaxamalan's Saw.

            The northern Thanes,
too, recognised the Steward's power. They would answer the call...reluctantly,
perhaps, but they would march.

            So, they could count
on Naeth's standing army, and the two remaining northern Thanes...they would be
able to muster soon. Word would take time to reach the six southern
Thanes...Redalane, Durmont's old friend and liege among them.

            Redalane, he knew, was
a warrior born. Roskel was canny enough, but he knew nothing of war. Redalane
was a veteran of the War of Reconciliation.

            Yet he had the
furthest to travel, from the Castle of Light in the Spar, Sturma's southern
most region.

            He might well be late
to the party, thought Durmont grimly.

            It might present a
problem, too, as the northern Thanes would march before the south would even
receive word of the imminent war. The coming winter would play its part.
Messages would be delayed. The armies marching would be hampered by the snow
that would inevitably drift its way south as the year wore on.

            In the north, the
power struggles ever present would surface. Old tensions would come to the fore
and there would be the usual jostling for power and influence.

            Durmont wished his
liege Lord, Redalane, the most powerful of the southern Thanes, would arrive
first. In name alone were the Stewards rulers...the Thane of Spar, Redalane,
alone had the force of will to hold an alliance between the Thanes together.

            Durmont permitted
himself a small sigh as he sealed the last missive, this one to Redalane, with
a personal message attached for his Lord, and his friend. Muster east, along
the coast. Their entire force. The assembled might of nine Thanedoms, all in
one place, waiting for a threat to come by sea.

            Leaving their entire
northern flank unprotected.

            It left a bad taste
in Durmont's mouth. He did not trust the woman Selana, Queen of her domain or
not. He did not trust her network of thieves. What fool would?

            A Thief King, he
knew.

            Sometimes he
despaired of his station. Roskel was an astute man in many ways, but a fool
when it came to a pretty face.

            He sighed. Roskel
wouldn't be the first man to be undone by a beautiful woman.

            Roskel's trust for
the Queen was a dangerous thing. The two played each other, circled, like
lovers frightened to embrace lest they impaled each other with their ardour.

            Durmont sighed again.
He was getting too old for the duties he swore to uphold, but he wasn't in his
grave yet. He rose on weak legs, but even here, in his private rooms, he would
not let himself show how weak he had become.

            He took to the
letters with the official seal of the Lord Protector of Sturma to the stables.
Setting his reservations aside, he walked the long corridors to the stables on
old legs, with a heavy heart full of fear.

            Leaving the entirety
of the northern border unmanned?

            Folly, surely. Not
even the mountains would hold such a force as must be coming at bay. Such a force
that could light the entire sky with fire.

            He passed out the
letters one by one to the waiting horsemen, passing each letter with an
admonishment to mind the roads, and making sure each rider understood the
import of the message he or she carried.

            Then he returned to
his rooms, well past midnight, to sleep for his usual five hours. He always
ensured he was up before his masters, for he was a lifelong servant, and
perhaps, he thought, more the fool for it.

*

Part II.

The Journey
North

Chapter Nine

Rena dipped her long curling
blonde hair in the frigid stream. Under the shelter of the trees at the edge of
the Fresh Woods the snow on the ground was light, but the stream water was still
near freezing. Ice ran down from the hills to the west, and at some point this
stream might reach a river, and that ice would travel until it hit the sea.

            Asram thought on
this, the passage of ice to the sea, as he looked at Rena's back, in this one
of her few unguarded moments.

            Her hair was so
completely tangled and matted that she could not even run her fingers through
it. She was a witch, but not yet a very accomplished one, maybe, wondered
Asram. She might be able to mix various poultices and make effective brews from
herbs, but she couldn't tame her hair.

            Asram Fell, her
protector, watched her wash her hair with the baby Tarn in his arms, guarding
his thoughts as Rena guarded her emotions.

            They neared the Fresh
Woods, and respite from the road at the new settlement of Haven, but the road
was long yet. Naeth was at the furthest point north of Sturma and they had
started out from the Spar, the southern-most tip of Sturman lands.

            The dangers of the
journey were far from exhausted.

            Yet as Asram held the
child in his arms and watched the young widow and witch wash her hair in the
freezing stream, he was more content than he had been in many, many years.

            He could think of
worse things to be doing than travelling the wilds with a beautiful woman.

           
Watch your
thoughts, man,
he told himself.
She was no man's for the taking,
were a woman ever a man's for the taking. He sighed, quietly, acutely aware of
giving Rena any sign that he watched her so intently. But she was beautiful.
There was no avoiding it, and he couldn't deny that she was growing on him.

           
The Outlaw King's
widow
, he chided himself, as though he had forgotten for one moment on the
road. His liege Lord Roskel bid him watch over her, and that was all he would
do. She was untouchable, unfathomable...not merely because she was a witch. But
he was a creature of duty and his duty was to see her and the babe to Naeth
safe and sound.

           
But, Gods...

            She wrung her hair
dry and turned her gaze on him, and he was reminded of the other reason she was
untouchable. Looking into her eyes now, he had nearly forgotten just how damn
cold she was, and a man was liable to get burned touching a woman as cold and
hard as ice.

            Perhaps, he mused as
he thought back to their first meeting, in the blood and snow, it was no
wonder.

*

Chapter Ten

The woman who would have been
Queen of Sturma, had things turned out differently, the woman who was mother to
the last of the line of kings, came from her humble witch's hut behind Asram
Fell.

            Her mother had just
been killed. Asram had killed the attackers - all bar two, who Rena had seen to
herself. Looking at her now, soot from the fire on her face, he imagined her a
warrior Queen, rather than a young witch. There were no tear tracks on her cheeks.
Perhaps witches grieved differently to mere mortals, thought Asram. Perhaps,
though, she would mourn later, and shed her tears when they were safely away on
the road. Maybe it was for the best.

            'Asram,' she said.
She had been inside her home with the body of her mother for some time. He
didn't want, or need to know, the business of a witch in mourning.

            'My lady,' he said.

            'Rena,' she said.
'Please. I am no one's lady,' she added. For some reason Asram felt the words
held a deeper meaning than he grasped. 'Help me bring the assassins inside the
hut,' she said.

            She did not need to
ask twice, and he thought nothing of the order. He was Roskel's man. Before
that he had been the Queen of Thieves' man. Now he was Rena's, until his duty
and his debt were fulfiled and repaid.

            He nodded and pushed
himself to his feet, slinging his bow across his shoulders. There were no
sounds in the night. Nothing to make him think that there were any more killers
out in the quiet snows. But he was ever careful, and because of his care was
still alive despite the number of men he'd faced with bow and blade.

            Together, he and Rena
dragged the first corpse across the threshold. Rena's mother was laid out,
wrapped in a linen cloth, before a small fire that burned still in the hearth.
Laid to rest.

            'Dump the bodies
wherever you want,' she said.

            Asram nodded again.
His orders, from the Steward himself, but more importantly, perhaps, coming
through the Queen of Thieves, to serve Rena in all things, but moreover, to
protect her life with his. To Asram, should she order him to, he would do most
anything. He was a man of honour, though from his looks one might not think so.
He had the look of a ruffian, though with a certain glint in his eye that made
people perhaps more inclined to give him the time of day than try to run him
through. Still, in his line of work, plenty of people tried to run him through
- charming eyes or not.

            When he had dumped
all the bodies in the hut, Rena thanked him.

            'Spread this around
the hut,' she told him, passing him a large vial containing some kind of
noxious liquid. He did so without question, flicking the potion or whatever it
was around the hut liberally.

            Meanwhile, Rena took
a bowl and filled it with pungent moss. She placed the bowl on her mother's
chest.

            Then she set fire to
the fluid that she had Asram sprinkle around the hut. Flames leapt up swiftly. Almost
immediately the bodies of the assassin's caught alight and the air was full of
the stench of roasting flesh. Asram waited patiently in the midst of the
growing fire for his lady.

            'Madal's Gates be
closed to you,' she said of the assassins. She spared a last glance at her
mother, then shouldered a pack and led the way out into the night. Whatever
words she had spoken over her mother's body while Asram had waited out in the
snow would forever be a mystery to him.

            That suited Asram
fine. He knew well enough of witches to steer clear of their business. The
Queen of Thieves was frightening enough. For a man who'd face perhaps a hundred
foes and won out, witches and magic caused fear in him like nothing else ever
could. He did not like that which he could not understand, could not
see...could not slay.

            Asram took a second
to look at the strange face of one of the assassins. A fey creature indeed.
Humanoid, but without doubt inhuman. He looked at the face while the flames
licked the body and vowed that none of their kind would ambush them again.

            Without a further
look back he stepped out into the night.

            The snow was already
melting from the sod roof, and the timbers of the hut caught with blue fire.

            'Your hut...' he
said, though he knew what Rena would say.

            'I shan't be coming
this way again,' she said.

            And Asram was not
surprised.

            'North, Lady...Rena,'
he said.

            'Of course,' she
said.

            But through it all
her voice was flat, like all the love had gone from her heart, and with the
babe in a sling around her waist, her pack on her shoulders, they turned for
the north in silence.

*