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

I do know is that
they’re putting a new road down, from Juxerton to Haven, and since they began,
people have been killed by beasts no man has seen for ten, twenty years. As far
back as I can remember no bear has come from the forests to the lands of men.
No, there’s something amiss there, but I’m not a man given to imagination. I’ll
leave the storytelling to you. But just a word of warning – it’s not safe close
to the forest no more.'
                He
rose and filled the bowls with bubbling stew and the cups with warm chait.
Roskel tried his and found it was to his liking.
                What
evils were besetting Haven? Hard settlement that it was, he still had some fond
memories of the place. But such concerns were far removed from him.
                He
and the landlord talked for a while longer while Roskel filled his belly. Then
the man heaved himself out of his chair at Roskel’s request and showed the
thief to his room. There was a bed, and the rain outside drummed heavily on the
roof, but it was all in good repair.
                He
thanked the man, closed the door and stripped gratefully, then passed them
round the door to the landlord. He didn’t like not having his clothes to hand,
but they needed drying and they would dry fastest by the fire.
                Then,
too tired and full of the aches of his trails over the last day, he sank into
cold sheets and fell asleep.
     
    *
     

 
    Chapter Sixteen
     
    The
suns rose the following morning. The skies were clear and crisp, the greenery
lush and vivid after the storm. The small hamlet of Winslow-by-the-Brook came
out of its hibernation and set about the business of small hamlets everywhere.
The old widow Lowboy came out early and tried to salvage her herbs. The only
child in Winslow, a girl by the name of Frear, ran out to play in the puddles
along the dirt road, splashing herself with mud, much to the later
consternation of her mother. The only two farmers for six miles headed into the
field to survey the damage to their dry stone walls, borders between their
farms long disputed.
                The
hamlet never bustled, but there was a quiet industry about the place.
                Inside
the inn, the proprietor, Sam Durnborn, knocked quietly on his only guest’s
door. When there was no answer he headed in and set his guest’s clothes out on
a foot stool, freshly folded and nicely dried. There was still a lingering heat
in the garments from the overnight fire.
                Roskel
did not stir.
                'Good
morning, sir,' the keeper said pointedly. He wanted to be paid. He’d lay on a
breakfast, but it wasn’t his habit to let his customers stay in bed all day,
not before they’d paid up good and proper.
                His
only reply was a muffled one.
                'Breakfast
is in an hour,' he said, just in case his point hadn’t got across.
                Roskel
opened a bleary eye and looked at him.
                'I
believe I might stay a day or two longer,' the thief said, smacking the roof of
his mouth to get some juices flowing. He tried to sit up but found he couldn’t.
His chest was agony, and his limbs were burning. He tried to feel his own
forehead but it was one thing to feel poorly, another to tell if you have a
fever or not. In truth, he did feel shivery, and if he was not sick then why
was his body such a mess of aches and pains?
                'I
think I have a chill. I ache all over.'
                The
landlord tried to think of a polite way to broach the subject of payment for a
further two days, and how to let this travelling bard know that there were no
customers for him to play for his stay, it was silver or nothing.
                He
was not a subtle man, however.
                'You
can’t play for your supper, my friend. I’ll have to see some