The Grey Robe

by Clare Smith

  At the top of the natural chimney he pushed himself through the thin bushes and then returned to give Perguine the thumbs up. He leaned as far over the chasm as he dare whilst Perguine threw him their bundles. Jonderill used their lashings to make a rope and pulled the weapons up followed by Perguine. By the time everything was at the top he was grateful that Perguine was small, thin and very light.

  "I 'opes we don't 'ave to go down that way," commented Perguine as Jonderill fastened the sword to his belt, "'specially if yer mate aint feelin' too good."

  Jonderill didn’t answer. The same thought had crossed his mind and for the first time he wondered whether the person they sought had already been questioned by Maladran and if so whether he was still alive. He dismissed the idea and keeping low behind the leafless scrub, led the way, as quickly as he could without making too much noise, to the base of the tower. Praying for the moon to stay behind the ragged clouds he inched his way along the cold stone wall of the tower until he came to the door he was seeking. He tried the handle but as he had expected it was firmly locked. Perguine pushed him out of the way, produced a long thin piece of metal from one of his hidden pockets and picked the lock open with a minimum of effort.

  Jonderill was surprised at the ease in which they were able to break in but as this was the kitchen entrance perhaps Maladran hadn’t sealed it with magic. He slipped inside and stopped so abruptly that Perguine careered into his back and hissed a curse. He’d expected the inside of the tower to have changed, affected by the corruption as much as the outside had been but he hadn’t expected Garrin's domain, especially the kitchen, to be as badly affected as it was. The place stank of decaying vegetables, rancid fat and the cloying stench of rotting meat. Jonderill's stomach turned over and he could hear Perguine gag behind him.

  Almost without thinking he flexed his fingers and produced a small ball of elemental fire which illuminated the room and identified the cause of the smell. A half prepared joint lay in a pool of dried blood on the table, its surface shifting almost like a mirage as maggots crawled over its rotting surface. Vegetables, blackened and soft with decay, lay in a pan next to the joint ready to be cooked whilst milk, separated and green, stood in an open jug. It was a strange contrast to the rest of the room which was spotlessly clean.

  "Look's like they left ‘ere ina 'urry."

  "Garrin's wife wouldn't have left it like this, not unless something suddenly happened to them."

  He crossed the room giving the table with the rotting food a wide berth and opened the door into the stone hallway beyond. It was as black as night with the heavy air of a mausoleum, cold and untouched. The elemental light in his hand wavered as if something had breathed on it and Jonderill felt a prickling sensation explore his hand. He immediately killed the light, cursing himself for not realising the slightest use of any arcane power foreign to the tower was likely to be detected.

  Without the light the hallway seemed even sinister but through that darkness he could detect a slim sliver of light showing beneath another door further on. He pulled his sword from his belt and tapped Perguine on the shoulder making him jump, then took him by the arm and led him to the door.

  Hesitantly he put his hand out to touch it, ready to leap back if it was warded, but when he put his hand on the solid wood there was only the barest trace of residue power which collapsed at his touch. He sighed in relief and stepped back so that Perguine could deal with the lock. After a few moments of twisting his pick in the lock the door opened and both of them grinned in satisfaction as they stood bathed in the stairway’s bright light, unharmed so far.

  Jonderill led the way down the brightly lit stone stairway with Perguine close behind. In the four summers he’d lived with the magician he’d never been passed the door to see what lay beneath the tower. Maladran had told him it was Federa's domain and strictly forbidden and Garrin had refused to speak about it except to say that it was a place he would never wish to visit. Now as he descended deeper beneath the tower he felt like a thief and could feel the weight of the black rock pressing down on him. It was cold and damp and fear made him shudder and constricted his chest whilst bright flashes of light started to dance in front of his eyes. On the last step, in front of a solid, iron-bound door, he stopped and Perguine looked at him giving him a broad, impish grin.

  "If yer don't breathe yer aint goin' to las’ long."

  Jonderill realised he’d reached the bottom of the stairs without breathing once and relaxed, drawing air into his cramped lungs. With each breath the lights in front of his eyes became dimmer until they vanished completely. Perguine moved forward to the handleless door and shrugged; all his skill wouldn’t open one without a lock. Jonderill squeezed passed, pressed his shoulder to the door and pushed with all his strength but the door didn’t budge. He stepped back and stared at it in frustration.

  There had to be a way through so he tried again using his other shoulder this time but still nothing happened. Finally he took a run at it and with both his arms outstretched and his sword still in his hand he crashed against the door. A tingling sensation coursed up his arm and the door clicked and suddenly swung open nearly depositing him on the floor on the other side. He was so surprised that he burst out laughing and Perguine walked through the door to join him allowing the heavy door to close solidly behind them.

  They both stopped together as the dim light picked out the fearsome stone figures crouched and poised ready to attack. The figures were short with thick muscular arms and legs. Each face was contorted by a bestial snout complete with curved tusks and pointed horns. From the smashed parts they had put together at the cottage it was clear they’d found what had attacked the man. Jonderill and Perguine moved reluctantly between them expecting that at any moment the creatures would come alive but they remained immobile as they passed by the grotesque statues of stone.

  They left the creatures behind them and moved down the dozen or so steps into the main cavern which was vast, ice cold and redolent of putrefying flesh. Doors lined either side, most held closed by thick bolts secured with heavy locks. Each door had an iron grill which was firmly closed leaving any inmates to exist in darkness. Slowly they walked down either side of the cavern, stopping to listen at each door for the slightest sounds of life but everywhere was silent. Jonderill began to despair when the faint flickering of candlelight caught his eye where the grill shutters of one cell hadn’t been closed securely enough. He whispered to Perguine, a sound which sounded like a shout in the oppressive silence and they ran over to the locked door.

  When they drew back the shutter the prison cell wasn’t the terrible hole they expected it to be. From what they could see through the grill the room was plain and simple but clean with a rug on the floor and a half finished flagon of wine on the table. A thick pile of soft woollen blankets covered a person asleep in the corner on a well-padded bed. A red cloak, the same colour as the hat they had found in the woodsman's cottage, hung on a peg above a fine pair of leather boots.

  "This must be him," whispered Jonderill, relieved that the person they sought was alive and looked to be unharmed.

  He waited for Perguine to pick the lock and then eased the door open without a sound. Jonderill moved quickly to where the prisoner lay whilst Perguine kept guard, never taking his eyes off the sinister stone figures at the top of the steps. The prisoner was fast asleep with only his dark hair and shadowy profile showing above the mound of blankets.

  Something about the cut of the hair and his outline tugged at Jonderill's memory but he’d no time to stop and think who it might be. He shook the man's shoulder vigorously and pulled back the blankets. Immediately the man was awake and scuttled up the bed to cringe in the corner, his face pale and his eyes wide in the feeble candlelight. Jonderill looked at him carefully and felt his heart drop: of all the men to capture Rosera's heart why did it have to be him?

  He didn’t bother with an introduction. "Were you the one they took from the woodsman's cottage?"

  Pell
um dropped his arms from where he had put them protectively over his head and moved out of the corner studying Jonderill and trying to recall where he’d seen him before. He suddenly remembered the bound servant the magicians liked to call their apprentice and felt annoyed that he’d been rescued by someone who was no better than a slave.

  Pellum gave a deep mocking bow. "At your service, boy."

  Jonderill bristled at the title and the contemptuous sneer which accompanied it but Pellum had already grabbed his cloak and boots and was half way out of the cell. He took one look at the small insignificant man who kept guard, gave a grunt of disgust and started for the stairs.

  "Come on, let’s get out of here."

  "Not yet," said Perguine emphatically, putting a restraining hand out to stop Jonderill following Pellum up the stairs. "We aint finished yet."

  "We've got the person we came for; it’ll be dangerous for us to stay here any longer."

  "Yer might 'ave got what yer came 'ere for but I aint. I's got a friend down 'ere an' I aint goin' wivout 'im."

  Jonderill hesitated, unsure of what to do.

  "For all that’s sacred, let's get out of here," hissed Pellum angrily. "Your friend is dead or at least as good as, he stopped screaming half a day ago."

  "Perguine, you search that side and I'll search this," commanded Jonderill, Pellum's comments having made his mind up for him. "And you, get yourself back down here and keep watch."

  He didn’t stop to take note of Pellum's reaction but started down the line of doors, pulling back the grill shutters and peering into the darkness beyond. It was the smell of faeces and tortured flesh that told him the third cell along was the one they sought. Within seconds Perguine had the door unlocked but when Jonderill opened the door he went no further but stood in horror staring at the body inside. The man hung from the ceiling by hooks driven through his hands and was unmercifully stretched by hooks driven through his feet and fastened to a winch on the floor. His skin had split in a dozen or more places and his back had been flayed bloody by a whip.

  Perguine pushed the paralysed Jonderill to one side and released the handle of the winch so the body slowly crumpled to the floor. The movement prompted Jonderill into action and he quickly knelt by the man’s side and removed the hooks from his flesh as carefully as he could. By the time he’d finished the grisly task Perguine had returned from Pellum's cell with the half flask of wine and strips of clean linen torn from the sheets on the bed. The man on the floor opened his eyes and groaned as Perguine held the wine to his lips whilst Jonderill did his best to bandage his bloody hands and feet.

  Pellum put his head around the door and made a distasteful face. "He's going to slow us down; can't you just mercifully finish him off so we can get out of here before someone comes?"

  Perguine ignored him. "Jarrul, ol’ son, where’s t’others?"

  "I didn't talk," whispered Jarrul, his throat hoarse from screaming.

  "I knows yer wouldn't, I told t’others as much but the rest of the lads, they aint as strong as yer is. Where is they Jarrul, where’s Dern an' Becken an' Sieran an' t’others?"

  "The others are dead," snapped Pellum, desperate enough to forget to lower his voice.

  "He took them down some stairs,” whispered Jarrul. “I saw them go before he started on me."

  "We'll get’em out me ol’ mate, yer wait an’ see,”

  "No we bloody well won't," shouted Pellum. "We have company.”

  *

  Maladran woke from his trance, blinking in confusion and breathing rapidly like a man suddenly awakened from a deep sleep by the clash of weapons. For a fleeting moment he couldn’t recall where he was or why he should be sitting in a hard, straight back-chair in a fireless room with only a single candle to give him light. Then his mind cleared and he remembered his exhaustion.

  Within the space of a few days he’d used the darkest of magics to scry across an entire kingdom and if that wasn't enough he’d then used it to breathe life into his stone warriors and hold that life for over four days. Given those circumstances it wasn’t surprising that he was exhausted and in desperate need of prolonged rest to restore his powers. Feeling totally safe and unassailable within his tower he’d put himself into a state of trance and then gone further and deeper into the void between life and death than he’d ever dared before.

  Being in such a deep trance, he should have felt nothing until he’d recovered his full strength but in the blackness of the void there had been a sudden disturbance, a mere vibration and flicker of light, here and then gone. It had only been a small disturbance but sufficient to warn him that a power other than his own had invaded his domain and was close by his physical body. In alarm at his vulnerability he’d pulled out of his trance quicker than was sensible and now felt weak and disorientated. When he stood his legs would barely hold him and he’d had to wait for his strength to return and his head to stop spinning before he could cross to the table and remove the black silk covering of his scrying globe.

  He sat in the chair behind the globe and placed both hands over the smooth form, staring into it without blinking. When he’d first come out of his trance the alien power had still been present but his sudden, uncontrolled probe for the power source had resulted in it being immediately withdrawn. He cursed himself for his momentary lack of concentration but little real damage had been done. Any foreign power used in his domain, which was different from his own, would leave a trace which could be easily followed. Putting other thoughts aside and concentrating on the task in hand he mumbled a brief incantation and sent his consciousness spiralling through the globe. Carefully he searched for signs of the intruder moving downwards through each floor of the tower.

  In the kitchen he found what he was looking for; disturbed wards and the fuzzy outline of a person, slowly dissipating as the residual power faded. The power source was unusual and it intrigued him. He could almost taste the residue on the edge of his tongue. It felt familiar as if he’d been in its presence before but he couldn’t place it. The other oddity was that whilst only a small amount of power had been put to use, large amounts seemed to have flowed from the user, like water in an over full jug.

  It was a careless use of magic which the user seemed unaware of or perhaps, on the other hand, he could have been too strong to care. Maladran was unconcerned. No magician was stronger than he was and in any case such wastefulness would weaken the intruder and make the task of following the magic worker and dealing with him much easier.

  At his command the image in the scrying globe moved on, out of the kitchen and through the door leading down to the first level of caverns beneath the tower. At the foot of the stairs the warding on the heavy metal door had been shattered and Maladran frowned in consternation. It shouldn’t have been possible to pass through such a warding in his own domain but the warding hadn’t just been removed, it had been utterly destroyed.

  If the intruder could do this without the need to call on an extra power source then the warding on the final door wouldn’t stop him either. If the intruder moved through that door the secret ways of the deepest magics would be open to him and then he would be a threat. Whatever the cost, this user of magic had to be stopped and destroyed.

  Maladran leapt from his chair, knocking it over backwards and no longer caring about his own fatigue or the limit that it would place on using his own power. His only thought was to prevent the user of alien magic having access to the secrets held in the lower caverns or, worse still, breaking through the final ward and discovering the demon magic which was hidden there. He crossed the room to a large table on which stood twelve small stone caskets arranged in a circle.

  As he touched each one in turn the stone lids slid back and a spark of life flickered into being in all but one of the caskets. He held out his hand over the first casket and drew his knife across the palm until blood welled up in the long gash and dripped from his hand onto what lay inside. The burning pain from his slashed hand focused his power and into that focu
s he called upon black necromancy.

  One by one he allowed his blood to drip on the already bloody contents within each casket until all had been touched by his power. He stepped back from the table and continued his incantation as he licked the blood from his hand, staining his lips red and leaving a taste of salt and metal and sickness in his mouth. Slowly he released his power, letting it pulse through the memory of blood and flow into the contents of the stone caskets until the single hearts within beat in time with the rhythm of his own. Maladran held out both hands over the caskets in supplication, giving out an unearthly cry in an ancient tongue to revive the dead and bring his servants to life.

  *

  At Pellum’s cry of alarm Jonderill dived for the door of the cell and looked in horror towards the stairs as the first of the stone creatures began to move. They shifted slowly at first, with jerky movements and grinding joints but as life spread through their bodies, starting from their grotesque heads and working downwards, their movements became smoother and they began to advance down the stairs.

  "If we make a run for it, we'll get passed them before they attack," shouted Pellum in desperation. He started to run forward but Jonderill grabbed his arm and held him back. He looked at Jonderill with contempt. "Don't dare touch me, boy, or I'll have the skin flogged from your back when we get out of here."

  Jonderill ignored the threat. "We won’t make it; Jarrul cannot be moved that fast."

  "Sod Jarrul! I'm not hanging around here waiting for him."

  Pellum ripped his arm from Jonderill’s grip and started towards the stairs but it was already too late as the first of the savage stone creatures moved from where it had been standing and jerked forwards to block his way. Desperately he turned and ran, making for the only other exit in the cavern, a heavy metal bound door at the far end. He reached the door and dragged on the handle, rattling it frantically but the door wouldn’t budge. In undisguised fear he turned and watched as the last of the creatures, the one with only one arm, began to move towards him.