The King's Thief

Chapter 14


Beck moved quietly around the workshop. He had rented this scummy, dimly-lit room from a surly slumsdweller by the name of Ricken. The man’s stench was overpowering, but Beck had put his personal feelings aside to accept the tenancy agreement; he needed a place that he would never normally be associated with, and this certainly fitted the bill. A completely empty room had originally greeted him, and he had quickly furnished this with a trio of trestle tables, a fourth, smaller, desk and a chair for him. Moving the remaining Banshees had been a simple affair; he had sewn two rough hessian bags together, the kind that potatoes normally came in, and covered each woman. Then he had given a coin to one of the servants at the Barracks, telling him that the bags contained food for the Barracks which needed to be stored long-term in the Slums. Within a day, the bags had turned up. The three altered women now lay, a finger occasionally twitching slightly, on the bare trestle tables. They remained naked; the first signs of emaciation were starting to touch Sayela, as she had been nearly a week without food.

Beck stepped over to the desk, where a magically-fuelled lantern was glowing. In the dim light the fine pencil lines of his technical drawings were faint, and with an effort of will he increased the power flow to the stone inside the lantern. The sleek lines of his design became clear; human, but with graceful swooping wings outspread either side of the body. Pipework arched up under the figure’s hips, from the point where the wings joined between the shoulderblades, before the metal tubes plunged into the body.
Beck ruminated on the problems he faced. His previous smouldering rage had crystallised into a point, diamond-hard, and the very structures of his work kept him balanced, or so he chose to believe. Now, though, he needed to modify one of the Banshees before he could send it to attack the thieving bastard. He had briefly considered travel by sea, but the added weight of the brass head-covering would have negated any efficient buoyancy aids he could add. By magic or by air had been the only other options. Like the ferries, there were air-crafts that were held up by a mixture of magic and engineering, but there was no way his creations could travel so obviously. Something more individual was called for, and suddenly the answer had been there in his mind. It would be an angel of deliverance from his hatred, and an angel of death for the accompanying Sylva.
Beck turned away from the desk and set off. He needed money so that he could afford the materials, and that money wasn’t going to be hard to come by.


* * *


Private Rawl, the single guard outside the King’s Treasury was bored. The duty he had been assigned to was reserved for rookies or soldiers in disgrace, he being the former. In only a month, Rawl had drawn guard duty over a dozen times. He sighed. It wasn’t even hard; the treasury was part of a building crawling with trained combat magicians who were all armed and armoured; why did they bother guarding it?
He was jolted from his reverie by a single figure coming down the corridor. The man wore the uniform of a Lieutenant, and Private Rawl stood quickly to attention. As he got closer, Rawl noticed that the man had several days’ growth on his chin, certainly not regulation, and that his eyes were bloodshot, appearing slightly wild.
“I’m relieving you, Private,” said the Lieutenant.
“Sir? I was set on duty here until sundown. Is there some error?”
The Lieutenant narrowed his eyes. “Are you questioning a superior officer? Get out of here, before I have you thrown out.”
The young man almost stumbled in his haste to get out of the way. “Y-yes sir! Right away!”
Beck watched the young Private run off down the corridor. Then he laid a hand over the lock on the door, focussing his thoughts on the tiny pieces of metal that held it closed. As he muttered under his breath, a slight mist seemed to escape from his mouth, wreath down his arm and then dart under his hand. A second later, the lock clicked open.
His heart thumping in his chest, he quickly pushed the door open, slipped inside and closed it behind him before he looked around; the room was a treasure trove of gold, jewels and artefacts. The sight meant nothing to him, however, as he went straight to a curtained-off section towards the back of the room. Inside was another room, cluttered with a wide variety of objects, ranging from the mundane to the ridiculous. In here were stored the magical items confiscated by the Crown; wands capable of devastating destructive power, boots of fleetness and candles which, when burned, caused the user to experience the most vivid visions of anything he chose, real or imaginary. Madness was an unexpected side-effect to the process.
Crossing to the corner, Beck moved a rolled-up carpet aside to find the item he himself had removed from the hand of a crazed sorcerer; a leather glove and pouch. Slipping the glove on, he picked up the pouch; slipping his ungloved hand into it, he found it to be empty, but when he placed the gloved hand inside, he could feel a coin. Removing the coin, he could feel the heavy gold disc in his hand; faery gold, good for a few hours but within a day it would evaporate. Closing the pouch, he slipped the glove in his pocket and attached the pouch to his belt.
Beck closed the cupboard and walked back to the door. He peered through the keyhole, checking quickly to make sure there was no-one around, then quickly stepped back outside. Closing the door, he knelt and placed his mouth over the lock. He inhaled sharply, and the mist that had been keeping the lock open withdrew. The door snicked closed again. Without looking around, he walked back down the corridor. Once outside, he headed for a blind spot on the wall, directly behind the dormitories for new recruits; there, he knew, he would find a series of bricks on the wall which jutted out slightly, ideal for raw recruits who fancied a night of fun in the town.


* * *


The Ox had dragged itself up onto the shifting sands before the hatch opened to disgorge the passengers. Winraer accepted a helping hand from Kaliss, taking tottering steps, then finally pushing him away to try her legs properly. When she was satisfied, she moved to stand at Faergaldan’s side. Kaliss could not help but notice how her fluidity of movement had returned, seeming even more ethereal for its previous absence. His nostrils flared, the sharp salty tang of the Esterwade channel smothering all else.
“Form up,” the Kinroc was saying, “we have a long walk ahead of us. Three more weeks will see us at Sylvanasher, so let your step be merry with that thought.” He turned and started to lead the troupe away from the beach. They clambered up a sandbank, revealing a broad plain of swaying grass and, in the distant East, a forest. To the South, the land curved around with a range of mountains. The beach curved around behind them and off into the North. Without hesitation, they set off in the direction of the forest.


* * *


“What do you know of magic, Ryn?”
Ryn looked at the thief contemplatively for a moment before answering. “I know little of your human magic, as seeking that knowledge has never been my mission. There are some among us who are well-versed, though, even to rival your King’s army.” A distant look came into his eyes. “I’m sad to say that I also know little of our own erg. That honour is reserved for those such as Winraer.”
“She’s quite a fighter, isn’t she… I can’t blame her for hating me, after what humans did to her,” said Kaliss. “Does she have anyone waiting for her back at… Sylvanasher, is it?”
“Yes, our city. The name means ‘Sylva Home’ in our tongue, and no, Winraer is alone in this world,” the Sylva replied.
The two moved on in silence for a while. The wind was getting stronger, seeming to almost whip the air out of Kaliss’s mouth as he breathed. Spots of rain came with it; undoubtedly a storm was on the way.
“Tell me about Sylvanasher, Ryn.”
Ryn closed his eyes for a moment, then began to speak. “The principal city of our people, formed out of a living forest. Imagine the forest we are now approaching, but in each tree lives a family, their very homes formed from the living branches. The trees are encouraged to grow in useful ways, for example to form shelves if needed, or worktops. No fire is permitted there, and all cooking is done in a special clearing, surrounded by rocks.”
Kaliss interrupted impatiently. “I was meaning to ask about that; you hold trees in high regard, but burn wood for fires?”
Ryn looked at Kaliss solemnly. “No, Kaliss; we only use dead wood for our fires, and they are built in efficient ways. The wood helps us, so it continues to be of use even after death. Just as we left Haergane to fertilise the earth and feed the animals, the trees help us beyond their own lifecycles.”
Kaliss let Ryn continue, thinking that this protector role of the Sylva was a far cry from the stories he had heard about the war.
“Sylvanasher is grown over the area where our forefathers communicated with the Lior. The legend runs that its roots spread far under Sylvanasher, sustaining all life there. There is a spot in the city where a single silver-barked tendril shoots upwards from the earth. It curves over, and a small drop of sap emerges, once a year. The occasion is one of great celebration, for the sap is collected and shaped over the years. It naturally formed a helm, becoming clear over time; the colour is said to speak, to those who look into it, of countries with boundless greenery; a world suffused by nature.”
Kaliss suddenly focussed everything on what Ryn was saying. He felt compelled to absorb every word.
“The Radiant Emera, as we call it, rests in the grove, leant up against the root of the Lior. It provides us with power through the ground it touches, and in times of great need it can be worn to empower one Sylvan warrior beyond mortal bounds. Only twice has it ever been wielded thus, and those dark times are enshrined in the memory of the Council of Thirteen.”
Kaliss waited a moment before speaking, wishing it to seem like a natural question. “How is the Emera protected? I mean, it’s just sitting there, yes?”
Ryn smiled, despite the rain now falling steadily. “The Radiant Emera is protection, by its very nature; we are sustained by it, as is Sylvanasher, and were it to be taken it would be over the body of every Sylvan man and woman, for that invading force would have had to battle through our entire race to get to it.”
The storm built to a crescendo above them; rain lashed down onto them, lightning crackled through the air and, in its wake, thunder boomed. The grass they were walking on became sodden, puddles causing the soil to turn to mud, slowing their progress. Kaliss ran over in his mind all that he had learned, feeling the hanging threads of a plan begin to slowly knit together. At present, only the simplest concepts were available to him, but more information would add more details.


* * *


Soaked through, the group of travellers gained the protection of the forest that had haunted the horizon for most of the day. Here the trees were tall evergreens, providing not only shelter but a dimming of what light there was. Brown needles were kicked up every time Kaliss stepped, sticking to everything thanks to the rain. Even the normally buoyant Sylva had fallen silent as the group trudged through the half-light.
The camp that night was cold, no fire being lit due to the wood being soaked through. On the second day of the storm, Kinroc Faergaldan ordered the group to remain in the forest, despite the fact that the treeline wended north-east. “This storm is unnatural, and I will not leave the protection of the trees,” was all he would say when asked. Finally, around midday on the third day, they emerged from the trees into bright sunlight, everything having a freshness to it. Birds sang unheeded in the branches and the sky denied any truth of the storm, displaying instead a brilliant sapphire perfection. Exhausted, for sleep had been hard to come by in the torrent, they slumped to the drying ground and rested. The night passed uneventfully.


The dawn broke to find the travellers already on their way. Kaliss ambled along, automatically following the back of the walker in front of him, while his mind worked to remember all that had happened. Had it really only been two weeks ago he had been planning the raid on the warehouse? It seemed like a lifetime ago, or at least, enough events had happened to fill a lifetime since then. The thief found himself walking, quite by accident, astride with Winraer; the female magician, as he could not help but think of her as. She had been quiet since their conversation on the Ox, and Kaliss was keen to chat with her, for two reasons; firstly, it might be useful to have someone friendly in the ‘enemy’ camp, but mainly because he found that he genuinely liked her. Having self-justified his interest in her as part of the mission, he tried to strike up a conversation.
“So, you’re feeling much better now?”
This elicited a grunt from the woman and, sensing that he was not currently welcome, Kaliss gradually slowed his pace so that she overtook him. Keeping his head down, he pondered the way Winraer was acting towards him; she had every reason to hate him, as she seemed to hate all humans, but what they had been through just four days before had shaken everyone to the core. Grimacing, Kaliss remembered the mangled remains of his former lover; no matter what had been between them, no human deserved that fate. Where had it come from? The body had yielded no clues beyond her identity.
Shaking his head, Kaliss turned his eyes towards the horizon. A few scattered houses could be seen grouped together, smoke rising into the blue skies from the crude chimney of the largest house, evidently some sort of inn.
Kaliss called over to Ryn, walking a few feet away. “I’ve not travelled this part of the world before. What’s the town ahead?”
“The town of Kentin,” the Sylva replied. “We need supplies; food, water, information. The towns and villages around here are neutral in the war, being as they are far away from Theria and Sylvanasher.”
As they walked, he started to shrug into his cloak and Kaliss, seeing that everyone was donning theirs too, started to fumble with his. Ryn, seemingly a fount of all the knowledge one could need, continued.
“The front lines are regrettably closer to my home than yours; the armies of Theria marched almost uncontested through this land, claiming it as a great victory. Rape and murder followed in their wake, for the villagers were unable to defend themselves. There’s a chance we may be seen by an informer in the town, hence the cloaks.”


* * *


The sun was directly overhead as they entered the small town. Sure enough, the largest building was an inn, and as the day was pleasant there were a handful of tables placed outside. A few men, all elderly, sat drinking from earthenware mugs and chewing toba. A couple of elderly women walked between the buildings, paying the travellers no heed, and when two children ran straight towards the group, Kaliss winced; however, they split off to each side, then met back up again at the rear of the group, seeming not to notice any difference. From the other end of the short row of houses, a working party of about ten young and middle-aged farmers arrived, pouring into the inn with good-natured rowdiness, ready for their midday meal.
Without hesitation, Faergaldan lead the group to one of the single-storey houses; thatch covered the roof, the house being wooden, but painted white, though both the house and the paint were in need of some attention. The Kinroc knocked on the door, a complicated pattern, and they waited.
There was a crash from inside, then there was a muffled shout of “Godsdammit, hold on a second,” followed by a string of muttered cursewords. The voice was like wire scraping across a piece of glass. A thump announced the arrival of the voice’s owner at the door, and then it swung open to reveal a bandy-legged old man, his bald head a mass of wrinkles poking out from a simple grey cotton shirt, which in turn revealed that he was wearing only underclothes below it. The ancient smiled, revealing a single tooth, and began to make a wheezing sound. Kaliss realised the man was laughing. He felt his own laughter begin to surface inside him at the man’s ridiculous image. Then the man spoke, his scratchy voice performing a fresh assault on their ears.
“You took your sweet time, you pestilent bastards! Get your wooden hides inside. Quick!” Suddenly, the smile disappeared, and the man beckoned them in quickly. Kaliss looked over at Ryn, who simply smiled and shook his head, before leading the way inside. Silently, the group filed in, and the door closed behind them.