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

a few changes.
No longer did his legs and rump hurt from the jouncing of the road. He had lost
a few pounds gained while playing the lord, and he slept less, but better, than
he was accustomed to. He grew to enjoy the freedom he had gained, and made the
most of the time on the road. Once he returned to the castle of Naeth he would
again become embroiled in the business of state, vying for power among the
Thanes and the courtiers. Enjoy it while it lasts, he vowed, and rode on.
South…always south.
                His
course was unerring. The old, pitted, dirt road served him well.
                For
the first week the weather remained mild, the autumn suns a blush across the
clear blue skies. Then, as he neared the outskirts of the great forest known as
the Fresh Woods, the weather abruptly turned.
                At
first, it was just a chill wind from the east. Then clouds grew on the horizon.
He watched the weather carefully as he rode. He had not passed a village now
for a day and a half. He knew there were few villages this close to the great
forest. There were also places within its dark heart he could make for, such as
Haven, the old home of his bandit brethren, but he knew he was no longer of
there. Besides, he reasoned, the journey would take him too far out of his way,
even though he was interested to see what his old home had turned into since
its denizens gained their freedom and a pardon for past crimes.
                So
he watched the weather, and skirted the forest. He camped rough, away from the
side of the road, just in case not so friendly travellers shared the road with
him. He was in bandit country, and he didn’t wish to be run through or shot
with an arrow before he could let them know who he was. Besides, there was no
guarantee that a bandit would know him. There were many bands working this
area, and not all were as friendly or honourable as his old companions.
                Another
morning came, and this time it brought with it a light drizzle. His fire had
burned out in the night and his toes were cold. His face was wet from the rain
and the scant cover of the copse of trees he had camped under did little to
alleviate the misery of the rain.
                At
least, he thought, it is not pouring.
                At
which moment, the rain got heavier. Within ten minutes, while he hastily tried
to break camp, thunder was booming in the distance and lightning crashed into a
tree on the horizon, exploding in a shower of fire. The flames were quickly
doused by the downpour, but the smoke was an ugly stain on purpling skies.
                The
cacophony of rain on leaves and mud was deafening.
                He
reassessed the situation under the scant cover of the trees, rain dripping
through to soak his cloak and run from the stubble on his chin to drip and join
the rivulets running at his feet. There was no way he could move on. He took
his bedroll and hung it with the aid of a length of rope from two trees and
huddled underneath it, wet and miserable, cold and suddenly lonely.
                He
wished for his warm room, and forgot, for a moment, all about the freedom of
the road.
                While
he was waiting for a break in the rain, even a slight easing of the torrent, he
unpacked his oiled skins and set about creating some lasting shelter. It was
all well and good travelling when the sun shone, but he had forgotten just how
miserable it could be to be out in the rain when it was heavy enough to turn
the ground to mud. He had forgotten just how cold it could be to winter outside
when it was snowing. He had done it once, with nothing but deerskins to keep
warm and a hide to keep the worst of the wind off. He had been roaming the
outskirts of the Fresh Woods when Tarn had found him, and what a sorry sight he
had been. Bedraggled in torn clothing, with just a dagger to his name, he had
been a lost man.