The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two by Craig R. Saunders, Craig Saunders Read Free Book Online

about
the man, and a surety that Roskel wished he could feel on this long road he had
set out upon.
                'I’ve
some bread and cheese, if you’d be partial to a little sustenance. You
certainly look hungry.'
                'You
don’t eat so much when you get to my age, but I’ll take a little water if
you’ve a mind, my lord.'
                'I’m
not lord, old father. Just a travelling minstrel.'
                'As
you wish,' said the old man. There was a note of disbelief in his voice that
Roskel picked up, but to his credit the old man was sensible enough a beggar
not to disagree with a penny mark.
                Roskel
handed the old man a water skin. His hand found the skin with unerring
precision. He could make a pretty penny for the carnival with such skills,
thought the thief.
                'And
so to the story, my lord.'
                'I’m
on the lookout for a new tale or two.'
                'Tis
a fine tale.' The man took a sip of water and smacked his lips in appreciation.
'From the north,' he said with a smile. 'Straight from the mountains. The
finest I have tasted in a long time.' He put the skin down. 'Finer than the
water from around here. For that is dead water. Cursed, my lord, if you believe
in such things.'
                Roskel
smiled, nodded; sure that the old man would somehow feel him nodding,
just as he could sense a storyteller's opening gambit.
                'The
old ones, those who lived here before the race of man came from across the
ocean and settled these shores, the old ones had a different name for this
land. They called it ‘Sambra’. They built the monuments you see crumbling at
places of power. It was an old power. The power of land. Sturmen have lost the
using of such powers. Now, in these days, there are no wizards-- but the old
ones, they had magic at their fingertips. They had the power of the gods, or so
it would seem to us.
                'This
here village is built over the remnants of one such place. A relic of forgotten
ages past. You can see, if you’ve a mind to, the ridge that runs around the
village. The village rests in the centre. Take a look, my lord, if you’ve a
mind. You’ll see the occasional stone peering out from under the earth. Stone
like you’ll never see in a quarry for it does not come from this land. Black as
the darkest night, and unbreakable. Strike it with hammer and chisel hard
enough and you’ll break the hammer and chisel both, but not a dent will you
make in that stone. The people of the village use the stones that rise up for
hearths and fireplaces, for no heat will mark it. The people of this village
have grown wise. They will not dig for it, for one man had the folly to do so
and it proved his ruination.'
                Roskel
took a sip of his water. The suns were moving over the western horizon, but he
didn’t mind. He could see there was a tavern a ways down the road. He had time.
And, he had to admit to himself, the old man was a storyteller born. No doubt
past the age of ninety you’d heard a tale or two.
                'Remember,
the old people had power. They built on places of power. That power seeped into
their buildings. They left, for why nobody will ever know, but that power
remains. A man from the village determined to mine the stones. He thought to
build his house from the stone. He dug and carried for many years, until he had
enough stones to build a house. But the stone remembers.
                'He
built a fine house on the outskirts of town, and for a year and a day, the
villagers were in awe of his home. It was darker than the darkest night, but on
a moonlight night it shone with a silvery glow. Sometimes people said that they
heard it sighing, like a woman who’d lost a child or a man who’d lost his wife.
It sighed like disappointment and death, sadness and despair. The man,