by Clare Smith
He abandoned that idea and studied the wall for a bit longer, the flame bright in his palm but bending slightly towards the partition wall with the draft coming from under the door. Then he smiled to himself. If he set fire to the wall sheltered behind the log pile, the wall would burn through and the slight draft from the door would send the smoke away from him to engulf the soldiers while they slept. Hopefully it would suffocate them before they realised what was happening. It wasn’t a terribly good plan but it was the best he could come up with and much better than waiting for them to hang him.
Jonderill lowered the flame to search the floor for wood chips and kindling which he could use to start the fire and noticed a grey bundle of rags by the door. Hoping that it was something which would burn well he picked the bundle up and discovered that it wasn’t made up of rags but was the old grey robe which the white magician had given him on his apprentice day. He tried to tear it into strips but the fibres wouldn’t part so, instead, he gathered up the scraps of wood and bark from the floor and piled them onto the old robe and then clambered over the top of the woodpile to reach the far wall. As he’d thought, the woodpile was loosely stacked which made clambering over it difficult, but it meant there would be plenty of gaps for the air to get to the lighted kindling.
When he was near the far wall, he pulled back as many of the logs as he could reach and placed the scraps of wood and bark in a hollow between two thick branches. A memory of him once before having to light a fire when the need was desperate and failing miserably passed through his mind but he dismissed it; then he didn’t have elemental fire to light the kindling. He lowered the flame to the small pile of scraps and waited for the first wisps of smoke to spiral upwards before placing some larger logs over the top, leaving enough space for the fire to get going. It wasn’t as close to the wall as he would have liked but he was certain that it wouldn’t matter once the fire caught.
In the darkness he slithered back along the woodpile, cursing under his breath as the rough wood scraped against his already bruised flesh. He felt his way along the wall until he reached the locked door, the old grey robe still in his hand. It had been a very long time since he had worn the thing and he had grown since then but he thought it might at least cover his head and help to keep the spreading smoke from his eyes and nose. He pulled the rough fabric over his head and was surprised when it slid easily down his body far enough to cover his small clothes.
On the other side of the woodpile the flames didn’t seem to be doing much except for making far more smoke than he’d anticipated. Already the top half of the wood store was shrouded in smoke and suffocating clouds were beginning to roil along the ceiling and down the walls. As the smoke became thicker he started to cough so he lay down on the floor with his nose and mouth pressed against the small gap beneath the locked door, greedily sucking in air.
It occurred to him then that this wasn’t a good idea after all and perhaps he should have checked to see how damp the wood was before setting light to it. Dark clouds of smoke started to roll down from the ceiling and over his back in a thick grey mass smelling of rotting trees and mouldering leaves, stinging his eyes and burning his throat.
In desperation Jonderill scraped at the hard packed earth at the bottom of the door, trying to make the gap big enough to put his mouth to it, but years of being trampled by solid boots had packed the earth to stone hardness. The smoke continued to fill the room, wrapping around Jonderill like a smothering blanket and he took one last gasp of fresh air before he was completely engulfed. On the other side of the door he could hear a scraping sound as if something metal was being drawn across the ground and the door rattled as something large pushed against it. He staggered to his feet desperately trying to wave the smoke away from his face so he could take a deep enough breath to shout.
“Sansun! Sansun, push!” He yelled, trying not to inhale the smoke.
The door rattled again and he could hear the horse snort as it pushed against the door of his prison.
“Again, Sansun! Push again!”
The horse pushed again making the hinges and lock rattle but still the door wouldn’t move. Jonderill began to cough violently and in frustration and fear banged both hands against the door. Instantly he was thrown back across the room as the door shot open. He hit the wood pile and slithered to the floor, the smoke nearly blinding him. By the flickering light of the fire, which had at last ignited, he could just make out the outline of his horse as the smoke twisted and turned in its escape through the open door.
He crawled across the floor with his eyes closed until his hands found Sansun’s trailing reins and hung onto them, whilst Sansun moved steadily backwards dragging him out of the smoke filled building. Coughing and choking Jonderill staggered to his knees and then onto his feet, clutching at the saddle to keep upright.
“Go!” he coughed and, with him hanging onto the saddle, Sansun started walking away from the building following the course of the river downstream away from the bridge and into the darkness.
Jonderill staggered alongside the horse, trying to clear his head and lungs of smoke and fighting off waves of dizziness and nausea. Behind him he could hear shouting and when he turned to look back he could see a smudgy red glow through his steaming eyes. Putting out the fire would keep the guards busy for some time but it wouldn’t be for long. By the time they had put the fire out and gathered their horses he needed to be well away from the bridge. He pulled Sansun to a halt and clambered unsteadily into the saddle, still gasping for breath. Sansun waited until he was settled and then broke into a steady trot away from the bridge as quickly as he dared in the darkness.
As the false dawn started to light the sky to the east Jonderill pulled Sansun to a stop and slid wearily from the saddle. The early morning was chill and he shivered where the breeze blew against his bare legs. He was blackened with soot and smoke, hungry, thirsty and sore from his beating. Beside him Sansun’s head drooped with fatigue and steam rose from his heaving sides in the cold morning air.
“We need a bath and some food and some sleep, old friend.”
Jonderill stroked the horse’s nose and felt helpless. Anything of any use was gone; his saddlebags with his store of food and clean clothing, his coins, his letter of freedom, even Plantagenet’s old battered sword had been taken. All he had was his old grey robe, a horse and a saddle. He felt carefully under the saddle flap for the hidden cloth bag which held the torc and sighed with relief as he felt its familiar shape. At least they hadn’t found that, not that it was much use in their current situation. He looked at the lightening sky and realised that they’d been travelling in the wrong direction, away from Northshield and back towards Leersland. They needed to go back in the other direction but as he stood there he was sure he could hear the distant drumming of hooves and the shouts of mounted men.
They couldn’t go back the way they had come otherwise they would run into the guards and neither of them were in a fit condition to go forward at any speed to escape their pursuers. As he stood there trying to decide what to do, wisps of dawn mist, touched pink by the rising sun, curled around his ankles reminding him of how close they were to the river’s edge. The mist rose from it in a thick blanket spilling across its banks and obscuring the other side. He thought that the far bank had to be a long way across, possibly further than he had ever swum before, and he had no idea how strong the current would be but the sound of galloping horses was getting louder and he had run out of options.
Being as quiet as he could, he led Sansun to the river’s edge and tried to make out the other side. With any luck the riders would gallop past them in the mist and wouldn’t see them swimming across the river. Once the guards realised that they had lost their quarry they would have to back track and when they found where they had crossed the guards would probably not follow them across the water but go back to the bridge and cross there. By that time he would either be far away or drowned.
“I hope you can swim, old boy,” he said
as he led his horse into the water, the mist swirling over them and hiding them from view.
The sun was well over the horizon by the time Sansun pulled him out of the water and onto the far bank. With the last of their strength they staggered a dozen paces up the steep bank and disappeared into a small coppice of silver bark which lined the river. It had taken them longer to cross the river than Jonderill had anticipated, the current having taken them half a morning’s walk further down the river from where they had entered the water and the mist was thinning rapidly. Above the mist the sun shone brightly and sky singers flew in circles calling to each other. Jonderill collapsed onto the loamy floor of the small wood and instantly fell asleep.
When he woke Sansun was contentedly cropping grass at the far edge of the coppice and his stomach rumbled noisily. At that moment he wished he could eat grass too. He stood up and walked over to the horse which looked no worse for his swim except that his mane was knotted and the saddle had slipped sideways and was sodden with river water. Jonderill removed the saddle and checked to make sure that the torc was still secure in its hiding place. The sweat and the dust which had marred Sansun’s silver coat had been washed away and, whilst he didn’t gleam, the horse looked reasonably well cared for. This was more than could be said for himself, looking like a beggar in the short grey robe and bare feet.
He pushed his fingers through his hair trying to undo the tangles and went in search of some food. In the bushes he could hear long eared hoppers moving about and he had seen their scat but he had nothing with which to catch them and not enough patience to make and set snares. He knew there would be fish in the river which he could catch but there might also be guardsmen watching the river bank for him so that wasn’t an option either. Instead he picked a few late berries and some fallen nuts that he’d found and settled on those. When he’d finished his meagre meal he headed back to his horse, retrieved the torc from the ruined saddle and together they set out for Wallmore.
Riding without a saddle was a new experience for him and before the sun had set his legs were sore from rubbing against Sansun’s hide. Everything else ached with the strain of staying balanced on the back of the horse without the aid of stirrups. When they crossed a small stream which meandered away into some woods he decided it was a good place to stop for the night. He brushed Sansun down as best as he could with handfuls of dried grass and then collected some deadwood and used elemental fire to set it alight. After that he dug up some flour roots and wild onions which he placed in the embers at the edge of the fire to cook for his dinner. They were a bit old and dry and would be tough to eat but they were better than nothing.
Whilst he was waiting for them to cook he found an old log and pushed it to the edge of the fire and sat with his arms wrapped around himself trying to keep warm in the chill night air. Painful memories of another night he had spent like this when he was a small boy and had just met Maladran passed through his mind. Despite what had happened he missed the black magician, in fact, he missed everyone and came to the conclusion that he didn’t like being alone.
The feeling left a hard lump in his throat and the thought of food turned his stomach so he slid off the log and curled up in its protection. He found himself listening for the calls of sly hunters but everything was silent except for the crackle of the fire and the scurrying of small animals in the bushes which faded away as he drifted off to sleep.
*
When the first light of morning touched the pale leaves of the white bark trees Jonderill had reached a decision. It was a day’s walk to Wallmore, most of it along the open road he had seen from a ridge the previous afternoon. He had learnt a lesson from his encounter with Northshield’s guards; a beggar riding a horse of Sansun’s quality was too conspicuous and was asking for trouble. It wasn’t that he thought the guards at the bridge would have made a report about a horse thief who had escaped them but, even so, one look at him and Sansun together would be enough to arouse the suspicions of most people.
It was far too dangerous to take the horse further and Sansun would be safe in the woods where there was plenty of food and water until he could return for him. He buried the torc in its black bag, explained his plan to the horse and then left him to walk away from the edge of the woods and across the fields towards Wallmore.
Jonderill had left the fields behind around noon and had joined the roadway concentrating hard on avoiding loose stones which would bruise his bare feet whilst at the same time watching the city becoming larger and larger as he drew closer. He had stopped twice on the road; once to drink at a roadside well and once to help a carter unload and then reload his wagon because a wheel spoke had been in need of repair. For that he had received two copper gellstart, a hunk of bread which was at least two days old and a much welcomed ride to the city gates. Now he stood in line with families and traders, journeymen and farmers, waiting to get through the main gates and into the city.
The walls of Wallmore were massive; nearly three times the height of a man and the depth of a horse and cart. Firing slits penetrated the wall at regular intervals and soldiers with bolt bows manned the ramparts. It was nothing like open and peaceful Alewinder. By the time he reached the gates it was almost dark and most of those who had been in the queue behind him had given up any hope of getting into the city before the gates closed and were setting up camp outside of the walls for the night. Four guards were already pushing the massive gates closed and another two stood ready to drop the locking bar in place as he squeezed through. They all scowled at him.
“Papers.” snapped an irritated guard as he walked up to Jonderill with his hand out.
Jonderill tried to look innocent. “I’ve lost them.”
The guard looked him up and down in disdain. “We don’t allow beggars into the city at night. You’ll have to go before I lock you up.”
“I’m not a beggar,” said Jonderill. “I’ve got money and I’ve come to work for someone in the city.”
“Prove it.” Jonderill pulled the two copper gellstart out of the pocket of his robe and held them out in the palm of his hand. “Now isn’t that a coincidence? Two copper gellstart is the tax for staying here overnight.” The guard held out his hand and Jonderill looked at him defiantly. “If you want to come into my city you pay what I say you will.” Jonderill sighed in resignation and reluctantly handed over the two coins.
“Now who is it you want to see?” asked the guard as he pocketed the coins.
“I’ve come to see Callabris, King Borman’s magician.”
The guard gave a bark of laughter and waved the other guards over. “This one says he’s come to see the white robe do some tricks. Well you’re out of luck mate, Callabris don’t mix with the likes of you and even if he did he’s gone and won’t be back for a season. You two, chuck him out.”
Two of the guards grabbed Jonderill’s arms and dragged him to a small gateway which another guard unlocked and held open. The guards pushed him roughly through the door and slammed it shut behind him cutting off the sounds of their laughter.
Jonderill stumbled on the roadway and fell to one knee grazing it and the palm of his hand on the gritty road surface. He swore to himself under his breath and slowly rose to his feet hoping that nobody around had seen his undignified exit from the city. On the trampled land around the main gate carters and merchants were setting up camp for the night. Those with hand carts and single pack animals had gathered in one area and already a communal fire had been lit.
There was the smell of cooking food in the air and, as he looked around, he could see people gathering around a large cauldron donating bits of meat or fresh vegetables to the communal pot. Others were unrolling bedrolls or heaping packs around the fire as the travellers staked out their claim to the best sleeping places for the night as close to the fire as they could get.
Beyond the communal fire the owners of the larger wagons and the caravan drivers were claiming their own space, parking wagons, seeing to their stock and lighting their own
fires to cook their evening meal. If any had noticed Jonderill’s forced exit from the city they didn’t acknowledge it but carried on with their evening preparations as if it were a well ordered routine. Jonderill brushed the dirt and specks of blood from his knee and hands, looked towards the distant forest which was fading into the gloom and tried to decide if he could make it back to the forest edge before total darkness fell.
The distant call of a sly hunter answered by its mate helped to make his mind up and he turned away, making his way carefully to where the communal fire lit up the outside of the city walls. As he passed the small hand carts draped with waxed covers to protect their contents from the evening dew, the smell of hot food coming from the cauldron suspended over the fire made his stomach rumble and his mouth water. It had been so long since he had eaten anything except burnt flour roots and over baked wild onions that the smell of fresh mushrooms, spiced beans and yard birds cooking together in a thick stew made his head spin.
He made his way through the small crowd towards the edge of the fire where two women, dressed in brown dresses tied at the waist with rough hemp belts, were cooking flour cakes on a hot stone. The younger of the two, with her hair held back by a scarf made of the same material as her dress, deftly turned half cooked flour cakes on a hot stone with a flat, broad knife. The older woman, as thin as a pike staff and with a sour expression, flipped the flat cakes off the hot stone and onto a platter which she held out to the people as they passed, nodding to each one as they took the offered food.