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

you see,
was going steadily mad.
                'He
began to shun his friends. He began to stay in his home. For days he would not
eat. Then he started to become thin…not from lack of food, but more like a shadow
drawn out.
                'The
man would only come out of his house at night. On a clear night the villagers
would see him, walking back and forth, back and forth, burning a furrow in the
ground around his home with his worried footsteps.
                'The
villagers tried to persuade him to leave the house. But he would not hear their
pleas. The house moaned in the night by now. On a windswept night the anguish
in the stones could be heard for up to a mile.
                'Then
one day, the man was there no longer. He was just not there. It was like he had
disappeared. But the villagers knew. He was not gone. He was in the stones.
They could hear the cries of his soul in the night, sometimes crying like the
bereaved. The man had gone the way of the old ones. The power had eaten him
alive, and there was nothing left but the sad, black house.
                'Listen
well tonight, should you stay at the Restless Spirit Tavern, for you will hear
his cries on the wind, should they be right. But don’t be tempted to leave the
tavern at night, for his restless spirit is in these stones. The stones
of power. And so the village stands, and the villagers remember.'
                Roskel
watched the old man as he finished his tale. The old man's face came alive,
telling his story, just as Roskel felt alive from hearing it.
                'What
happened to the house?'
                The
old man nodded, expecting the question...like a troubadour born, he'd led
Roskel to it.
                'The
house was torn down. Its stones were spread around the perimeter of the
village. The people guard against the return of the spirit, and the spirit in
the stones guard us. Never has a bandit crossed those stones. None with
darkness in their heart may pass the walls and leave alive. The spirit is our
guardian, and we are stewards of the stones…lest they eat another of the
unwary…'
                The
old man grinned.
                Roskel
smiled back. Even though the old man couldn’t see him he got the sense that he
knew he was pleased. It was a fine story. A good one for a tavern on a dark
winter’s night, should it come to that.
                'It
was a fine tale, old father, and I thank you for taking the time to tell it to
me. I hope my heart is pure. It certainly is a tale to give the evil traveller
pause.'
                'As
it should, my lord. But if you will not take my word as to its truth, just
listen to the stones tonight in your bed. Or, perhaps, you’ll like to believe
it was just a story.'
                'Perhaps,'
said Roskel, and for some reason the story chilled him, but not unpleasantly.
It was  a good tale, and he had nothing to fear.
                He
pressed a gold piece into the old man’s hand. 'For the tale and the time. It
was finely told, and one well worth remembering.'
                The
old man smiled up at Roskel as he remounted Minstrel.
                He
did not look back at the old man. For some reason he feared to look. He had
heard enough tales to know the folly of looking back when you met a stranger on
the road. The darkness was falling, it was past dusk, and in such an hour in
places of power it did not pay to look back.
                Just
in case the man wasn’t there.
                Roskel
paid for a room and stable for the night in the Restless Spirit Tavern, and lit
a candle against the dark. He laid down, his backside aching and his limbs
weary, glad for the rest, and listened to the wailing in the night.
                It
could have been the wind.
     
    *
     
     

 
    Chapter Nine
     
    The
strange man stood