Sword and the Spell 01: The Grey Robe

by Clare Smith

  She waited until Jarrul left the Great House and crossed back over the yard, glad that she had chosen the steady young man as her confidant. He’d always treated her with the gentleness and care which her father often failed to show and he meant much more to her than the High Lord ever had. She supposed it was her father's position or perhaps his drinking which made him so cold towards her, but she had tried to love him as a daughter should, especially after the death of her brother.

  As Jarrul entered the huntsman's lodge, Tarraquin slipped passed him and out of the back door to make her way into the Great House without being seen. Six candle lengths was a long time to wait to fulfil her vow and avenge the death of her brother but she was patient. Had she not waited five summers already for the right moment, held back only by lack of opportunity and to honour her promise and friendship to Jonderill?

  At their last meeting he had made it clear that Maladran was no longer his friend, so now that she had the chance for revenge there was nothing to hold her back. She would strike a blow for both of them and one day, when they were man and wife, she would tell Jonderill what she had done and he would love her even more. Tarraquin reached her room overlooking the ornamental garden at the rear of the Great House and lay back on her bed, letting her daydream drift into a light, pleasant sleep.

  Jarrul didn’t sleep. In fact he hadn’t slept for several nights for thinking about Tarraquin's plan to assassinate the magician. It was a good plan which could be successfully executed with any victim, except perhaps the magician. What if he read her thoughts and saw murder there, or detected the drug in the wine before he drank it and what if, when the moment came to strike, Tarraquin found she couldn’t take a man's life in cold blood. He had loved Dennin like a brother and was happy to see his killer dead, but there were too many ifs in Tarraquin's plan, all of which could lead to disaster.

  The biggest flaw, as he saw it, was the lack of an escape route in case things went wrong. Tarraquin was so certain of success she’d never considered failure but Jarrul had. He’d been preparing an emergency camp so deep in the forest that nobody would ever find them, or at least that is what he hoped. Now, as he collected the last of his stores together and headed for the forest, he felt as if he was betraying her but better that than watching her die horribly at the Magician’s hands.

  *

  Tarraquin awoke as the sun was setting, flooding her room with orange and gold light. It was her favourite time of day and she was feeling bright and fresh but unbelievably nervous. Hoping the warm water would settle her nerves she bathed for longer than usual, however, she was still jittery when it came time for her to dress for dinner. She had chosen something simple in a pastel colour with childish frills rather than something sleek with adult lace and she kept her hair down and wore little jewellery in the hopes that her innocent appearance would mislead Maladran.

  Her youth and inexperience would also provide the excuse to forgo the red wine and she could only hope that her father would not make any pointed comments about her girlish dress or lack of wine consumption. He was terrified of Maladran and with any luck he might have been drinking for most of the day and be too befuddled to notice anything different about her.

  She needn’t have feared; when she entered the richly decorated dining room her father was already swaying slightly and made few comments about anything except to welcome his guest and offer the magician the hospitality of the house. It was offered with barely hidden insincerity. The High Lord, second only to King Sarrat in Leersland's strictly hierarchical society, would rather have seen the magician dead than have him eating at his table.

  However, he was a practical man when he was sober and he knew not to refuse the king's magician, however much one might want to. The last time Maladran had sat at his table, Dennin had shared their meal but now his chair stood empty, a reminder of just how powerful the magician was and who owned him.

  As the meal ended the High Lord poured more red wine, drinking two goblets to the magician's one and glaring at him belligerently across the table until the wine finally loosened his control over his tongue. "What brings you here, Maladran? I've paid my taxes and raised the levy for Sarrat's army, what more does the bastard want?"

  Tarraquin cringed at her father's insult and gave Maladran a quick glance but his face remained expressionless.

  "Our king is concerned for your well being and misses your presence at court," responded Maladran pleasantly.

  The High Lord emptied his goblet and poured himself some more wine whilst Maladran slowly sipped his. Tarraquin looked to see if the magician was suspicious of the wine but he continued to drink without betraying any suspicions.

  "Well I don't miss Sarrat," slurred the High Lord. "You tell that murdering animal fucker that if he wants to see me he'd better get off his arse and come here instead of sending his boot-licking jester."

  Tarraquin looked alarmed at her father's unprecedented outburst, certain that it was the effects of the drug along with a full day's drinking which had loosened his tongue enough to speak treason. She quickly moved to his side and took his hand trying to distract him and prevent him from speaking further but the damage had already been done. Maladran rose to his feet, his eyes full of anger.

  "I see you have forgotten the lessons of my previous visits and your arrogance has gone too far to be dealt with by a mere warning. Tomorrow you will return with me to Tarmin and answer to your king for your treasonous words. Any attempt to resist will result in the total destruction of your house and line."

  His words were wasted as the High Lord slumped onto the table into a drunken stupor. Tarraquin clutched her father's limp body, terrified at the implications of Maladran's announcement. "Please, Lord Maladran, please forgive him! He didn't mean what he said. A man becomes bitter when he loses his only son and too much wine makes him say things he doesn’t mean. He will apologise for everything he has said tonight when he wakes in the morning and I will make sure he attends court when he is summoned."

  Maladran knew the bitterness of losing someone too and what it could do to you but such an insult couldn’t be allowed to go unpunished. He looked unforgivingly at the girl. There was not much to be gained from letting Sarrat destroy the High Lord but if he could give the king something to keep him occupied it might give him some respite from Sarrat’s constant demands and interference. The girl was pretty enough to give Sarrat some pleasure and young enough that he would enjoy taking her, and as she was unlikely to be willing he would enjoy having her even more.

  "You will accompany your father as well and attend to the king’s wishes.”

  Tarraquin held her father tightly and watched the magician leave the room. If she had any doubts before about what she planned to do, her course of action was now clear.

  *

  Maladran awoke with a start in the strange, dark room and instantly knew something was seriously wrong. The pain in his head hammered to the beat of his heart, his limbs felt like dead weights and when he tried to move, waves of nausea threatened to plunge him into unconsciousness. Instinctively he knew he had been poisoned, an unpleasant experience but fortunately not one which would destroy him. However it was not his body's violent reaction to the drug which had woken him to his peril, but his magician's sensitivity to imminent danger.

  Contrary to popular belief, magicians died as easily as any other man with their throat cut or a knife between their ribs. The thing which made them appear to be immortal was their instinct for danger, which now clamoured for attention in Maladran's drug-befuddled mind. He sensed movement to one side and at the last moment saw the knife thrust aimed at his heart. With as much will power as he could muster he forced his unresponsive body across the bed but not far enough. The drug had not only blurred his thoughts but had drained his strength and he was not quick enough to avoid the blade slicing into his forearm and side and slashing through to the bed.

  Having missed their mark with the first attack, his assailant pulled the knife from the bed an
d slashed out with it again, scoring down the magician's back as he forced his drugged body to roll from the bed. Maladran hit the floor with a crash, his head pounding to the racing of his heart and the pain from his unresponsive limbs centring on the three deep gashes which shed blood like burning acid.

  He began to pull himself onto his hands and knees but a booted foot crashed into his ribs and sent him sprawling back to the floor. Desperately he tried to roll onto his side to protect himself but his body would not respond and his attacker’s foot again made contact with his ribs. The sound of bone cracking and the feeling of soft flesh tearing reverberated through his body and were amplified by his drugged mind into a hideous scream which tore from his throat, giving some relief to the pounding in his head.

  The shattering sound seemed to make his attacker hesitate for a moment and a third kick never landed. Instead he saw the deep shadow of his assailant, all that could be seen in the darkened room, drop to his side. A small hand gripped the back of his hair and yanked his head back to expose his throat. Their eyes met for an instant and Maladran grasped at the only way that was left to defend himself. He fought to create a void in his mind powered by the glowing gems in the torc around his throat.

  His black orbs looked into Tarraquin's eyes, holding her mesmerised whilst he brought his power into focus. He pushed it outwards into her mind full of jumbled, uncontrolled images. Images of Dennin, looking smug and spiteful, assailed her, his cruel hands pinching her when no one was looking and the hurtful words, which were all he ever seemed to have for her, making her cry. She had sought revenge for so long that the truth about her brother had become buried beneath the person she wanted him to be. The truth, now she had it forced upon her, hurt like a knife cut and for a moment her resolve wavered, but it was only for a moment as she fought to get control of her own thoughts.

  "He may not have been much of a person but he was my brother," she hissed. Her grip on Maladran tightened but still she didn’t deliver the death stroke.

  In response Maladran's thoughts, echoed through her mind. "He wasn't even that, he was the High Lord's son but never your brother."

  A new image formed in her mind and she recognised it as Leersland's throne room but littered with bodies and stained in blood. A younger Sarrat stood over King Malute’s dead body, a blooded sword in one hand and a crown in the other. She wanted to see more, to understand what had happened and why Maladran was showing her these images but she could feel the strength returning to the magician and his grasp on her mind growing stronger. Tarraquin shook her head to dispel the image and as Maladran’s grip was momentarily lessened other images flooded into her mind; memories of that night's events and the truth about the death of her real father.

  "You killed my father.” she spat, “Sarrat held the sword but you held him in thrall while Sarrat cut him down.”

  With a cry of anguish she drove the blade towards his throat but the edge was deflected by the torc and sliced up the side of his chin and across his ear instead. Maladran was regaining the use of his limbs now but in his weakened state he knew he fought a battle he would lose against an opponent strengthened by hate. Tarraquin pulled the knife back but the moment’s reprieve had given him long enough to recreate the void in his mind. Now his power gathered to strike back at his attacker. Sensing his intent Tarraquin plunged the knife towards Maladran's heart but without releasing her hold on him she didn’t have the reach to make a lethal strike. The blade fell short of his heart impaling his shoulder instead and pinning him to the floor.

  The sudden flash of pain shattered the void in his mind at the same instant that he gathered his power ready to strike back. Pure, undirected energy exploded from him in a blast of arcane power which swept everything before it. Bed covers, rugs, ornaments and even heavy furnishings were slammed against the walls, scarring decorative plaster and scouring out mortar between the stones. Tarraquin, who was closest to the centre of the explosive release, was flung against the wall like a rag doll, to fall limp and senseless on the floor. Maladran felt the pain of his lost control as if his body were being torn apart cell by cell and a spiral of whirling vertigo engulfed him and plunged him into a blackness which was darker than the unlit room.

  Jarrul had been waiting in a small alcove in the corridor outside of Maladran's room. He felt the passage of the released power as a blast of cold energy, which pushed him back into the wall and filled his lungs with ice. He gasped for air as his breath burnt his throat and chest, making him double over with the pain. On unsteady legs he staggered to the far wall and propped himself against it, glad to breathe in the warmer night air. Before he had completely recovered, his fear for Tarraquin’s life sent him staggering to Maladran's door, where he frantically rattled the latch and pulled on the handle. It was firmly locked as he guessed it would be.

  For a candle length he had stood guard in the corridor without the High Lord's permission, or knowledge, knowing that if he were discovered then it would earn him a beating and cost him his position but what he proposed to do now would surely cost him his life. Without waiting any longer Jarrul stood back from the door, braced his shoulder and charged. The door shook beneath the impact and the delicate fittings snapped. Using his boot to complete the task he snapped the door open so it crashed back against the wall.

  He took in the chaos of broken furniture, shattered ornaments and torn bedding before he saw the smears of blood on the floor where the bed had once stood. Fearful of what he might find he followed the trail to where Tarraquin lay in a heap by the wall and in three strides he knelt at her side. With relief he found that the blood wasn’t hers. Urgently he picked her up and draped her limp form across his shoulder, at the same time looking for her victim, but wherever the magician was, he was no longer in the room.

  Outside in the ornamental garden Maladran regained consciousness and picked himself up from the grassy bank where his own internal defences had deposited him after the explosion of power. All those who were masters of the arcane knew the secret of instantaneous travel, but the energy required to cover even small distances was enormous. Somehow his mind had used the instant of explosion to propel himself from imminent danger.

  Now he struggled to his feet, his legs shaking beneath him and blood running unchecked from the three deep gashes and his sliced ear. The knife still protruded from his shoulder so he pulled the weapon free and dropped it at his feet. His head swam from the lingering effects of the drug and loss of blood whilst his wounds stung like fire but they were nothing compared to the anger which rose within him, a white hot anger which swamped every other feeling.

  "So you would dare stand against me, you witch!" he screamed into the night.

  He raised his arms level with his shoulders and emptied his mind as he called on all his power to give him vengeance. The blood-red rubies embedded in the engraved golden torc glowed brilliantly and their power surged into him, expanding and burning until he could hold it no longer. He opened his hands and his eyes.

  "Those who stand against me must be destroyed!"

  With a scream he opened his mind and hurled the power from within him. Instantly the High Lord's magnificent mansion exploded into a sheet of flame.

  Tarraquin watched in horror from the far edge of the garden as her home disintegrated in a ball of fire and with it a life which had all been a lie. The ferocious heat, sufficient to melt stone and turn everything else to ash, beat against her face, drying her tears as they fell. Jarrul turned her around so that her tears could fall unhindered against his chest and she was protected from the sight of the burning building. When her sobs had quietened he gently but insistently led her away from the scene of destruction and into the nearby forest.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Diversionary Tactics

  King Borman pulled his horse to a halt at the top of the rise and eased himself in the saddle, tired after eight days of travelling with very little respite and seven nights spent in uncomfortable, flea infe
sted inns and way-houses that had seen better days. He was a fit man with broad shoulders and muscular arms and legs from his daily practice with sword and lance but he was also used to the comfort of his palace. It had been a long time since he’d spent days in the saddle and slept in hard beds. He missed the good food that his personal cook prepared for him and the fine wines from his own well stocked cellar. After a week of eating the poorly cooked food that seemed to be the lot of those who travelled across the southern parts of Tarbis he was thoroughly sick of travelling.

  Behind him Guardcaptain Rastor came to a noisy halt, the constant rattle of assorted weapons against his mail surcoat silent for once. Close behind him four of the honour guard gratefully stopped and the ten war horses they led, all of them stallions, milled around in bad tempered disorder. Lord Rothers, King Borman’s cousin, brought up the rear. At first he’d been honoured to be included in the king’s party on their visit to Vinmore. He’d even felt pleased when he was told he would travel to Tarbis with his cousin but now he was feeling abused and put upon, relegated as he was to the position of personal servant.

  His fine, multi-coloured clothes were covered in dust and his carefully manicured hands were rough with having to wait on the king. He muttered under his breath, complaining to himself about the inconvenience of riding for days without the benefit of a coach and baggage train. The two pack horses he led were totally inadequate and nearly all of his own belongings had been abandoned so that one of the pack horses could carry the king’s personal belongings. On the other horse, where his baggage had once been, was a large assortment of weapons wrapped in leather bundles which would be enough to equip the king’s honour guard ten times over. It just wasn’t fair.