The Grey Robe

by Clare Smith

  Borman wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand and studied the land in front of him. Burnt ochre stone and red sand stretched as far into the distance as he could see. The land appeared to be as flat as a table top but shimmered slightly in the late morning heat. With the borders of Tarbis a morning’s ride behind them and the Blue River winding its way westwards towards the Great Southern Ocean the kingdom of Sandstrone was dry and barren all the way to the distant sea.

  He rose slightly in the saddle, searching for some signs of life or habitation but the only life which existed in the desert kingdom depended on the natural wells scattered across the land. As far as he could make out there were none visible for a day’s ride all around. It was obvious though that people did live in Sandstrone as a single path had been cleared of loose stones and boulders to act as a crude roadway and in the distance a small dust cloud was heading towards them. He waved Rastor forward to join him, ignoring the irritating clatter of his weapons.

  “What a godless forsaken hole this is,” commented Rastor, leaning forward in his saddle and resting his hands on the raised pommel.

  “And that’s where you are wrong Guardcaptain. This is a god’s own land and the people are doubly blessed by their devotion to the one true faith. Or at least that’s what their king, or should I say their Rale, believes.”

  “Then he must have sand for brains. This place is a bloody wasteland.”

  Borman scowled in irritation. “Don’t let him or his people hear you say that. In fact when you are with them don’t say anything at all, just bow like you mean it and for hellden’s sake keep your hands off their women, unless you want to be castrated, and that goes for your men as well.”

  Rastor sighed and watched the dust cloud draw closer. “Are you sure, My Lord, that this journey is absolutely necessary? These people are nothing but savages and they cannot be trusted.”

  “Oh they can be trusted all right. These people live to fight, it is the way they prove their manhood, so all we need to do is to provide them with the means, and point them in the right direction.”

  Rastor turned to the king and frowned and Borman sighed in exasperation. Rastor was a good commander and an outstanding swordsman but had the political acumen of a pond hopper. If he ever found someone who was good with both his sword and his brains, Rastor would have to disappear.

  “I need to keep Sarrat occupied and his thoughts of expansion into the kingdoms of the west turned in another direction. Unfortunately I have heard that my ally in Leersland, who was fermenting a nice little plot against Sarrat which would have kept him busy for the next year or so, spoke out of turn and got himself killed by Sarrat’s magician. So now I need to create another diversion to keep him occupied.”

  “The High Lord Coledran was your ally?”

  “Yes the High Lord was but now he’s dead and I need a new ally. Now go and make sure that no one draws a sword, utters a blaspheme or so much as waggles his eyebrows at a woman or we might find ourselves having to fight our way out of here. Oh, and tell Rothers to set up a welcome for our visitor. Tell him it has to be something special that will impress him.”

  Rastor nodded and dropped back to pass on the command to Rothers and his men whilst Borman watched the dust cloud getting closer. He ignored the sounds of activity behind him until Lord Rothers crept up beside him whispering complaints, wringing his hands and bowing low.

  “Cousin, I have everything prepared as best as I can with what little I have but it’s woefully inadequate and not at all what it should be and I don’t know if it will impress anyone but if only I had more time and some drapes and …”

  “Enough!” Borman looked his dusty and dishevelled cousin up and down and sighed. “I’m sure you’ve done very well. Now, the man who’s coming to meet with me is the king of this land and I need you to be my noble courtier who’s honoured to wait on your king. This is a very important guest so you and I are going to deck ourselves out in the finest clothes we have with us and then treat him in the courtliest manner we can until I have what I want and he heads back to his hole in the sand.”

  He took Rothers by the shoulders, turned him around and pushed him firmly in the direction of the small canopy which had been erected to provide shade for him and his guest from the noonday sun. By the time Rastor and three of the guards had intercepted the group of horsemen at the top of the rise they were ready for them. Borman, dressed in clean leathers and a soft cream shirt, was lounging in the shade on a pile of richly embroidered cushions with a goblet of wine in his hand. Behind him Rothers stood sweating in the noonday sun dressed in a long robe with spiral patterns around the cuffs and hem, and with a tray of goblets waiting to be filled from the wine cask on the low table beside him.

  Rastor dismissed the guard who had been sent to invite the Rale to the meeting and led the four horsemen to where Borman waited. Two were clearly guards of some sort with long curved swords and thick leather armour only partly hidden by flowing robes. The other two were also armed but with much finer blades and armour and with robes so fine that they shimmered in the sunlight like the scales of a rainbow fish. Both had dark skin and dark eyes and the elder of the two had a neatly trimmed beard and wore jewelled studs in his ears. The younger was a boy in his early teens who stared around him with open disdain at what he saw.

  “Your Majesty,” began Rastor, “This is Prince Kremin, the eldest son of the Rale and his younger brother Prince Isallin.”

  Prince Kremin gave a perfunctory nod and Rastor bristled with indignation, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. Kremin ignored the implied threat. “Greetings king from the northern lands. My illustrious father, Tallison the Magnificent, the Rale of Sandstrone, bids you welcome to his kingdom and requests that you join with me in prayer to the almighty Talis, the one true god, may his name be praised.”

  “Your Highnesses are welcome to my travelling palace. You will excuse me if I miss out on the prayers but Federa is a jealous goddess and would be offended if I bowed the knee to another. Please be seated in the shade of my pavilion and my cousin will pour you some wine.”

  Borman gestured to the other cushions beneath the canopy and both princes sat whilst their guards took up position behind them opposite the king’s guards. Lord Rothers stepped forward with the wine but was waved away by Prince Kremin. “We are not permitted by our god, may he be praised, to touch the food and drink of unbelievers.”

  The king raised an eyebrow. “As you wish, Your Highness. I had hoped that your father would have been able to respond in person to my invitation to meet rather than send a delegation. I have brought him gifts of horses and weapons and a proposition which he would find beneficial.”

  “The illustrious Tallison does not care to leave the temple of Talis, may his name be praised, to consort with unbelievers. However you may give the gifts to me and I will pass your words on to my father.”

  Borman did his best to hide his irritation but it was difficult. “Rastor, bring the gifts so that his Highness can see them. Your Highness, I am sure that the gifts that I have for your father would reach him and you would relay my words exactly as they were spoken but as you can see the quality of the gifts are such that I couldn’t release them to anyone but the Rale himself.”

  Prince Kremin turned at the sound of horses approaching and watched in open admiration as the ten stallions were paraded in front of him. When they were taken away again Rastor unrolled the bundles of weapons and handed the prince one of the fine swords by its blade. Kremin stood and tried it for balance and then passed it to his younger brother who tested its edge with his thumb before handing it back to Rastor. The princes nodded to each other in a silent exchange.

  “Whilst Tallison the Magnificent does not care to leave the temple and soil his feet on the ground where unbelievers have stood, I believe that my father would be pleased to accept your gifts in person. If you will accompany me you may have the honour of joining him in prayer to the mighty Talis, may his name be pra
ised, at the holy temple. Your men must stay here though and you must leave behind all ungodly thoughts and belongings before you step onto our holy ground. That includes any of your weapons which are not to be given as gifts to my illustrious father.”

  Rastor went to protest but Borman put a restraining hand on his arm. “Prince Kremin, I accept your illustrious father’s welcome with humility and gratitude and will ensure that nothing will defile the purity of your holy land. However, it would be unseemly for a ruler of the six kingdoms to visit another unaccompanied and I would not wish to insult the Rale of Sandstrone. May I suggest that I am accompanied by my Guardcaptain and my cousin, both unarmed of course? ” Prince Kremin nodded in agreement. “There is one other matter; I will need some guarantee of our safe return.”

  “You do not trust our father?” asked Isallin angrily. Prince Kremin glared at him and the boy turned away and sulked.

  “Without wishing to insult you or your family, young Prince it is difficult to trust a man who kills his own brother in order to take a throne.”

  Isallin turned back and started to draw his sword but was stopped by his elder brother who held up a placating hand to his guards who had also reached for their swords. “What you have just said is insulting and dishonourable but they are not unexpected words from a heathen and an unbeliever. If it is your wish to have a hostage Prince Isallin will stay here until you return.” The young prince glared at him in shock and then clamped his mouth firmly closed. “Come, we must leave, the temple is a quarter day’s ride away and it’s best that we get there before dark.”

  “I bet it is,” muttered Rastor following closely behind his king.

  *

  King Borman hadn’t been to Tilital before and his anticipation to see the fabled ‘Diamond City’ was as keen as the moments before he took a reluctant woman. He remembered his father telling him about the smooth, pure white walls with their sixteen magnificent towers topped with golden domes which dominated the countryside. Then there was the black gate, higher than two men, as thick as a sword’s length and bound in solid silver, which had been a gift from his father. The sight which stood before him had little resemblance to his father’s description. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Kremin’s assurances that this was the city of legend he would have thought he was in the wrong place entirely.

  For a start the walls were no longer white but a dirty grey, pock marked and crumbling. In places metal stakes had been driven into the stone and rust coloured streaks, the colour of dried blood seeped beneath them. Only two of the towers remained above the height of the wall, their gold covered domes long since gone leaving the remains of beams exposed like old bones. What was left of the other towers lay in piles of rubble at the foot of the walls in amongst the piles of stinking refuse which had been left there to rot. The black gates with their silver binding had gone and through the open gap where they had once been he could see a crumbling and deserted city with desert creeper entwined between broken windows and missing doors.

  He turned away in disappointment and studied the new city which had taken its place; a city of tents and shacks of every shape and size, colour and construction. He had just left one, a two-roomed affair made of unadorned animal hide which smelt as if the rotting animal had only just parted with its skin. Compared to others around it the tent had been a veritable palace. Inside it was furnished with three poorly stuffed mattresses, a wooden bench and a table which rocked unsteadily when Rastor had dropped their saddle bags onto it.

  The tents around him looked too small to hold even a single mattress and chair and the shacks were no better. They resembled small boxes propped up against each other and looking as if they were all about to collapse. People wandered between the tents, pushing against each other with scowls and muttered curses and kicking out at mangy dogs which scavenged for food. Smoking fires burnt outside some of the tents and on one there was what appeared to be the remains of a faded, green wooden door.

  Their arrival had been greeted by silence from the people who lived in the city of tents and shacks as they watched the riders pass with looks of what could have been anger or envy or even fear. Whatever it was Rastor had ridden close to the king to give him as much protection as he could and Lord Rothers had cringed away from anyone who might touch him. The only noise had been the whistles of appreciation as the stallions were led away by a group of men in leather armour. They even had to wait outside the tent allocated to them until a man and his two wives were evicted.

  Now Borman stood waiting whilst Prince Kremin approached ready to escort them to the temple of Talis. There had been no wash water in their tent and their request that some be fetched was met with cynical laughter. Rothers had helped him to brush the red sand off his skin and out of his hair, but sand grains still stuck to him and scratched him whenever he moved. He’d dressed in the fine dark robes with the royal crest embroidered in gold thread and a stiff collar studded with pearls which he wore on formal occasions.

  In Northshield the heavy wool protected him from the cold, but here the collar chaffed and sweat ran down his body. He almost envied Rothers who stood behind him fussing with the hang of his own cotton robe, a light blue affair with yellow embroidery and tassels. Beside him Rastor wore a clean but crumpled shirt under his everyday leathers, fingering the empty space at his belt where his sword should have hung.

  “Why in hellden’s name would anyone want to live in this squalor and leave a perfectly good city to go to ruin?” muttered Rastor to himself.

  “It’s because they are savages,” whispered Rothers. “Just look at the way they are dressed, even Prince Kremin looks like a barbarian.”

  “Quiet!” hissed Borman angrily. “Unless you want your tongues cut out.” He bowed briefly to the Prince and gave an ingratiating smile. “Prince Kremin, we would like to thank you for your kind hospitality and the chance to change and refresh ourselves before meeting with your father.”

  Prince Kremin returned the bow, gave Rothers a contemptuous look and ignoring Rastor completely as if he wasn’t worthy of his attention. “My illustrious father is awaiting you in the temple of the mighty Talis, may his name be praised.”

  He led the way across the camp without saying another word and they followed, avoiding the piles of rubbish which littered the narrow and winding walkways between the tents. Four heavily armed guards fell in behind them and Rastor sized them up ready to defend the king if he had to. He wasn’t certain if the guards were there to ensure their good behaviour or to protect them from the hostile crowds which milled about. As the tents began to thin out a different encampment came into view on the far side of a heavily guarded clearing. Rastor couldn’t help but be impressed and whistled under his breath at the size of the encampment which was laid out in military style.

  Six well ordered rows of square tents with pointed roofs ran down one side of the open area with their door flaps tied back and benches drawn up outside. A long picket line of sleek horses, including their own mounts and the ten stallions ran along the other side. Men in light robes hurried around them grooming coats and tending to the horses’s needs. All around the camp small groups of men in leather armour practiced with the new weapons they had brought as a gift for the Rale and in one corner a single fire burnt with the carcass of some animal cooking on a spit above it. The smell of roasting meat reminded Rastor of how hungry he was.

  At the far end of the square, in the shade of giant fan trees, was a magnificent construction of elaborately decorated hides held up by gold capped poles and topped with banners painted with entwined sand crawlers, the symbol of Talis. They fluttered weakly in the humid air so that the sand crawlers seemed to writhe around each other. The pavilion was huge, making the line of warriors in ceremonial armour who guarded the entrance look like toys.

  As they approached the entrance two girls with oiled skin and gold bangles opened the door flaps and beckoned the prince and his guests inside. They dropped the door covers behind them shutting out the heavy ai
r and early evening insects. Inside the air was cool and the pavilion was brightly lit by lanterns hanging from decorative beams. The girls fetched bowls of scented water and soft towels for the guests and then returned to the side of their master with smiles and giggles.

  Tallison the Magnificent patted one of the girls affectionately on her bare behind before stepping forward to greet his guests. “Welcome to the Temple of Talis, the one true god, may his name be praised.”

  Borman bowed briefly to the man in front of him whilst Rastor and Lord Rothers both bowed deeply and stepped back as they had been instructed. Trying to keep himself from staring at the naked girls, Rastor carefully surveyed the interior of the pavilion which appeared to be separated into different areas by fine, hanging drapes. The area they were in was scattered with small tables and piles of cushions and seemed safe enough. He looked for possible threats to his king but there were no guards present and the only weapon he could see was the curved sword carried by the Prince. There might not have been any immediate threat but he felt as naked as the girls without his sword at his side.

  Beside him a red and sweating Lord Rothers stared fixedly at the floor and shook slightly. He didn’t know what he was doing here or why Borman had brought him along but he really wished he was safely back home in his own salon. When Prince Kremin touched him lightly on the arm to indicate that they should retire to one of the tables at the edge of the room he jumped and gave a squeak of surprise, receiving a glare of contempt from the Guardcaptain in return. He took a deep breath and following meekly behind Rastor, who couldn’t resist the temptation to give the two girls a last, fascinated glance.

  King Borman scowled at his Guardcaptain and then returned his attention back to his host. “Your Holiness, please accept my thanks for receiving me and for your hospitality, it’s been a long and tiring journey from Northshield to your kingdom.”

  “Not many people travel to the land of the one true god, may his word live forever, especially heathens such as you. Please sit and take refreshment and tell me what has brought an unbeliever to my temple.”