Sword and the Spell 01: The Grey Robe

by Clare Smith

  “What’s your name, child?” he asked not unkindly but with no real interest.

  “’E aint got no name,” interrupted Tarris, feeling unusually confident at the Stablemaster’s side and taking the opportunity to prove to the watching stablemen that he was as good as his master and not in the least bit scared of any of the High Lord’s visitors. “I named ‘im Middin ‘cause ‘e cleans up the ‘orse dung. ‘E don’t need no uver name.”

  The cloaked figure stiffened slightly but if Tarris’s interruption had annoyed him he concealed it well within the depths of his hood. “What’s your name, boy?”

  The boy’s back burnt like fire and his legs still shook with fear and pain. Hunger and exhaustion fogged his mind and Tarris’s leering presence at his side and bruising grip on his arm took away what little courage he had left. “Middin, sir,” he mumbled to himself and the floor.

  The hooded man flicked his riding whip at the edge of his cloak in irritation making the fine fibre ripple at his touch. “I want your given name, boy,” he snapped. “Look at me when I speak to you.”

  Terrified of what would happen if he didn’t do as the man demanded the boy responded and looked into the dark eyes of the hooded figure. The cloaked man reacted as if he had been bitten, stepping back in sudden alarm as the palest green eyes, the colour of sea ice, looked unflinchingly into his black. He turned rapidly away under the penetrating gaze allowing the Stablemaster a glimpse of the torc which he wore at his throat. Embedded in the engraved gold of the priceless artefact the blood red stones gleamed dully. The Stablemaster took a sharp breath as he recognised his Lord’s visitor whilst the cloaked man appeared suddenly agitated and indicated for his horse to be brought immediately. A stable hand ran to carry out his command.

  “I advise you to find another way to teach your kingsward their duty,” he said and without further comment he mounted and turned his horse towards the gates.

  All the time the boy kept his eyes on the hooded man, partly because he had been commanded to do so but mainly because there was something in those dark eyes which disturbed long forgotten memories. He would likely receive a beating from Tarris for not keeping them shaded or lowered to the ground but a dozen beatings wouldn’t have made him draw his eyes away from the cloaked figure.

  The man urged his horse forward neither looking at the boy nor at the Stablemaster who picked his dog whip up from the ground in front of him. The boy followed him with his eyes, shivering as Tarris’s clammy hand stroked his neck and silently pleaded for the man to save him from what was going to happen once he had ridden out of sight.

  As if the man had heard his plea he suddenly stopped his horse and stared into the distance as if he had forgotten something. Slowly he turned his horse around and rode it back to where the boy stood, still looking at him with unflinching pale green eyes. He was unused to people looking at him like that instead of turning away in fear.

  “Come, boy, your courage is wasted here.”

  He lowered his hand to within the boy’s reach and their eyes met for just a moment before the boy took his hand and was easily swung across the rump of the tall bay gelding. Memories of once before being pulled up to sit astride a fine horse behind a tall rider nudged at the corners of the boy’s mind. Naturally he adjusted his seat to nestle beneath the raised saddle back with his skinny legs tucked in the groove between muscular flanks and last rib. He held loosely onto the man’s cloak and received a nod of appreciation from the rider in acknowledgement of his light touch. Once again his heart raced in his chest and his breath caught in his throat but this time it was not from the expectancy of pain but with a genuine hope that he might escape the hellden that was the Stablemaster’s yard.

  The Stablemaster stepped forward and for a moment dared to put a restraining hand on the geldings bridle. “I’m sorry, My Lord, but you can’t just ride away with the boy like that. He’s been given into my care and he’s bonded to my master. I can’t let him go without the High Lord’s consent and knowing he was going to be properly disciplined and the like.”

  The man leant slightly forward in his saddle and the Stablemaster released the bridle as if he had been stung. “Have no fear, Stablemaster, I will see the boy gets all he deserves. Tell your master I have taken a fancy to him and will personally see that he is bound to me so that the High Lord will not be troubled with such details at this time of deep distress as he mourns the loss of his son and heir.”

  He urged the horse forward passed the Stablemaster and out of the courtyard with neither servants nor retinue to accompany him. The Stablemaster stared after him in shock; he hadn’t known the High Lord’s son was ill. When he had seen him the previous day he had looked fine.

  “Little bastard don’t deserve to be picked up and carried off like that, ‘e’s a lazy little brute and it just aint fair. What’s ‘e done to get special treatment?”

  “Special treatment?” questioned the Stablemaster with a cynical laugh. “Oh aye, he’ll get special treatment all right but none that you or any other should envy.” Tarris looked sceptical. “That was Lord Maladran, Federa’s dark servant.”

  Tarris turned pale at the thought of who he had so insolently spoken to. “You mean Maladran, the king’s magician?”

  “Aye, Maladran the king’s magician and may the good gods protect us, King Sarrat’s soul searcher and executioner.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  CHAPTER TWO

  Federa’s Servant

  The sun beat down on the boy’s back as the gelding walked along the open road edged on one side by evergreen forest and by fields of tall wheat on the other. Sweat ran between the boy’s shoulder blades and stung the welts on his back, except for the deepest cut, where the blood had dried and stuck to his sacking tunic. A fly buzzed irritatingly but was unable to reach the flesh it desired so it concentrated instead on the open blisters on the boy’s hands.

  Once the relief of being rescued from the Stablemaster’s dog whip had gone, the familiar despair had returned to the boy; the man had not spoken another word to him nor given him any idea of his intentions. His experience so far as a bound servant had not been a happy one and despite having rescued him the hooded figure with the black eyes did not have the appearance of making that experience any better.

  The boy shifted his position slightly trying to distance his filthy sacking tunic from the man’s fine cloak. His damp legs were chapped sore against the horse’s broad back and his head hurt where the sun beat down on his fair hair but worst of all he felt sick. The only food he had eaten in two days was some bran mash left by an ailing mare and a collection of soft carrots and withered apples discarded by the Stablemaster as unsuitable for his horses. They had all been stale and had not settled well and now lay like lead in the pit of his stomach.

  As the horse swayed from side to side his stomach churned in protest. He tried to hold back the rising bile, too scared to ask the man to stop, but his stomach was beyond his control. He retched once and leant as far as he dare from the side of the horse whilst what remained of his last meal spewed down his leg and the horse’s hock. The animal sidled disdainfully to the left before its master corrected its pace but apart from that there was no sign his distress had even been noted.

  He felt wretched; the smell from his sacking tunic and his sodden loin cloth was overpowering. Flies in abundance now buzzed around his fouled leg whilst a white stain marred the horse’s otherwise perfect deep brown coat. This would surely earn him a beating or some other punishment from his new master. He closed his eyes to hold back the hot tears which threatened to bring him more disgrace and failed to notice the horse had stopped by the side of a small stream which crossed the road.

  “Next time you wish to relieve yourself, tell me,” said a gruff and severe voice. Maladran’s arm came round and caught the boy on the shoulder, ejecting him firmly from the horses back. Not expecting the move, the boy fell over sideways and hit the water with a splash which knocked the wind from him. Coldness wrappe
d around him as he disappeared beneath the surface and for a moment he swallowed water instead of air. Coughing and choking he found his feet on the unstable bed of the stream and scrambled to his feet.

  When he stood the water was shoulder high but a pace further away, on the raised crossing, it barely covered the horse’s hooves. The man urged the horse onwards and the boy scrambled out of the pool and trailed behind, his bare feet sliding over the polished pebbles of the ford and water dragging at the rough sacking on his tender back.

  At the other side of the ford Maladran turned his horse away from the ground churned to mud by the hooves of many horses and foot travellers and rode into a small clearing. It was surrounded by young everleafs and the scrub had been cut back to allow a clear area around a circle of stones which made up a much used fire pit. A number of logs had been drawn up close to use as seating. He stopped and turned his horse towards the boy so he could have a better look at his property.

  “You smell boy,” he said with distaste. “Take off your clothes so I can see what I have purchased under those rags.”

  The boy removed his top, wincing as the fibres pulled away from the congealed blood on his back and then with more hesitancy pulled his rough sacking loin cloth down, hanging his head in shame. He didn’t know the nature of his new master but he did know why some men took young boys as their bound servants. As the tall man dismounted and walked towards him he shook with fear and when the man placed a firm hand on his shoulder lights flickered in front of his eyes, his knees buckled beneath him and everything went black.

  Many men feared Maladran, a few with just reason and others because of what he was. It was a reaction he was used to and he had learnt at an early age to shield his senses from the emotions of others. It was a simple trick and nowhere as difficult as distancing himself from his own human feelings, something which his master, Yarrin, had taught him before he had died. The boy’s fear, however, was different. As he placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder his depth of despair flashed across Maladran’s mind making him recoil in shock.

  Nobody had breached his barriers like that since the day the king had placed Yarrin’s torc around his throat. He touched the boy again and felt overwhelming pity that someone so young could know such terror. The boy was nothing but skin stretched too tightly over bones. Abused skin, bruised and cut and hot with the beginning of a fever. He took off his cloak and wrapped it around the pathetic figure, smell or not the boy needed care and if that should cause him to delay his return to the man who owned his own life, then so be it.

  *

  A scream tore the air making the bay gelding move nervously at its hobble, unsettled by the cries which once again shattered the peace of the dawn hours. Maladran rolled free of his blanket for the third time in as many hours and threw another log onto the fire watching the sparks shoot into the darkness. He needed neither sleep nor the heat the burning log produced but he had imposed the discipline of normality on himself in an effort to retain the remnants of his humanity that his growing powers had threatened to take from him. His master would laugh at his weakness if he knew or cared. Maladran walked to where the boy lay and gently bathed his face with a soft cloth and cold water. The boy was slick with sweat but since he had bathed the limp body in the river the fever had abated and unless the sores on his body became infected he would recover and be ready to travel within a day.

  It was the state of the boy’s mind rather than his body which troubled Maladran now; that and his inability to block out the boy’s emotions. Even though he had placed a token of healing and calm in the boy’s hand his fevered sleep was confused and distorted by nightmares and he could still feel his fear like searing fire. There was also something else which was buried deep within the boy, fighting to be free from the chains which held it. As if to confirm his feelings the boy cried out a name, Jonderill. Who could this Jonderill be that the name was repeated again and again and why did the boy scream the name as if it was being torn from his throat in agony? He shook his head, confused by thoughts and feelings he thought had been buried long ago.

  He was intrigued by the boy and he wanted to know why he couldn’t block the boy’s emotions but was that enough reason to give his time and attention to the child? True, the boy would have died without his intervention but kingswards died all the time, they were as worthless as the criminals who begat them. What then drew him to this one and, more importantly, what would he do with the boy when his fever broke? He had made a vow to take no more apprentices after Sarrat had taken the last one from him and there was no room in his life for any who could never become a servant of Federa and call on the power of the arcane.

  Perhaps it would be a kindness to end the boy’s life whilst he slept, better than leaving him by the ford for the next traveller to claim. As if he had heard the man’s thought the boy cried out not to leave him there, pleading so that tears ran between his closed eyes. Maladran went to pull the cloak higher around the boy’s body but he suddenly clutched his hand and screamed and called the name again, Jonderill. He probed gently into the turmoil of the boy’s mind until he calmed and when he rested peacefully again the magician left him to return to the fire and his own troubled thoughts.

  The boy awoke with the sun on his face and the smell of boiling oats in the air. He opened his eyes slowly and lay very still, enjoying the unaccustomed warmth and peace. The cloak was smooth and warm against his body and whatever his head rested against was soft and clean. He moved an arm to push the cloak away from him and realised he was naked. With that realisation all the memories of the past days came flooding back in a sweeping tide of horror. It was the man’s cloak and the man had ordered him to strip. Then there had been the feel of the man’s hand on his shoulder and he couldn’t remember what had happened after that. Perhaps his rescuer was waiting for him to wake before he did anything else. He closed his eyes again hoping the man had not seen him stir.

  “So you are awake at last. When you feel ready there are hot oats with dried apple and honey and some travel bread which is still edible.”

  The boy didn’t move although the smell of the oats made his stomach complain and his mouth water. There was another smell too which invaded his senses, a smell from past days when warmth and comfort had also been part of his life. It was soapwort and he realised he had been bathed. His eyes opened wide at the sudden revelation and he raised his head sufficiently to watch the dark haired man stir their breakfast. He wanted the food desperately but not what the food might cost him.

  “Come boy, out of your blankets,” said the man, not unkindly but with impatience. “You have delayed my journey long enough and I must be moving on.”

  It was a command and the boy had learnt that commands must be obeyed and quickly if a beating was to be avoided. He pushed the cloak aside, enjoying the fine touch against his skin one last time and stood on shaking legs which threatened to fold beneath him. Carefully, whilst his legs became firmer, he brushed the dirt from the warm cloak and folded it into a neat package. There was no sign of his own clothes so he supposed the man wanted him naked. He walked to where the man sat in front of the fire and bowed his head, partly in submission but mainly in fear.

  Shaking with fear of what was to come he stood and waited for the man to command him and wondered if a few hours of pain might not be worth days of warmth and hot food but he had promised himself a long time ago that he would not give himself away that easily. It was the boy’s fear, bludgeoning his senses, which alerted Maladran to the boy’s presence behind him and he turned to face the boy with a frown as the waves of terror emanating from him increased in their intensity.

  Maladran regarded the boy realising that he was taller than he had at first thought, or at least he would be if he didn’t bow his head or cringe. There was also something in the boy’s subservience which disturbed him, like a stone in his boot which shouldn’t have been there and would have to be removed. Without knowing why, he wanted to see the boy stand tall and run and laugh an
d do all the things other boys did, all those things he had never been allowed to do as a magician’s apprentice.

  Unaccustomed feelings touched him like he hadn’t felt for an age. He wanted to look into those pale eyes and instead of seeing fear he wanted to see happiness and strangest of all, affection, a feeling which had been starved out of him when he was no more than this boy’s age. The force of his own feelings, always kept deeply imprisoned by the discipline of his training, made him feel light headed and he fought to push them back into the inner place where they were normally confined. Only they no longer seemed to fit and small scraps of emotion were left behind.

  The boy moved to hold out the folded cloak and he took it without thinking or noticing the boy’s shaking hands. He moved behind him to see how the welts were healing and in doing so placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Fear and revulsion burnt his fingers as the boy flinched from his touch. Unable to shield himself from his emotions, he withdrew his hand as if he had been stung. He had felt fear like that before on those occasions when he used his power to extract answers from those who had been brought before him, the king’s soul searcher. He licked his lips in anticipation of the effect the terror of others always had on his body and touched him again, lighter this time and further down the boy’s back.

  Flesh tightened beneath his hand as he moved it down the young body. The boy was sweating now as his hand moved down towards his spine’s end. He longed to continue his seduction, allowing the dark side of him to have free reign but the jewelled torc around his throat tightened and instead he withdrew his hand and pushed those emotions too, firmly back into place. Maladran shook out the dark cloak and placed it around the boy’s shoulders so that it covered all his nakedness.