The White Robe (The Sword and the Spell)

by Clare Smith

  Borman nudged him with the toe of his boot. “Well?”

  “Your Majesty, Captain Malingar sends his compliments and begs to report that King Sarrat has repelled Tallison’s nomads from Leersland at considerable cost to his army but with minimal loss to those you sent to assist him. Captain Malingar reports that he has returned to Tarmin and, as you ordered, has made contact with the rebels and awaits King Sarrat’s return.”

  “And then?”

  “I don’t know, Your Majesty, the captain doesn’t share his plans with his men but we have been told to treat King Sarrat’s returning army as our brothers in arms.”

  “Good. Rastor, what do you think? You know Malingar better than me.”

  “I would say he’s doing just what you commanded him to do by keeping Sarrat sweet and staying in his good books until you’re ready to move. If he can hand the rebels over to Sarrat when he returns that will get Malingar close to the king. It’s a pity that the rebel leader will have to be handed over though, I met her when I was delivering your gold to support her cause and she is something quite special. She’s meant to be King Malute’s daughter you know.”

  Borman raised an eyebrow and looked questioningly at the messenger. “I believe so, Your Majesty, although I haven’t seen her myself.”

  “It’s a pity Sarrat won’t appreciate her,” put in Rastor with a wolfish grin.

  “It can’t be helped.” Borman poured himself another goblet of wine and stared thoughtfully into its depths. “When you’re rested you are to return to the captain and tell him to continue ingratiating himself with Sarrat until I tell him otherwise. And tell him to keep the girl from harm if he can.”

  The messenger stood and bowed and then left the room as Rastor opened the door for him. He closed the door again and turned back to the king with a smile on his face.

  “Take that stupid smirk off your face, this is business not pleasure. Now get those who are fit to travel ready to move. We leave in the morning for Wallmore and the rest can follow when they are able.”

  “Yes, My Lord, and perhaps some entertainment?”

  Borman scowled at the suggestion but then thought about it. No, I will leave the prisoners to you but do ask Lord Sullen’s daughter if she would care to join me for a nightcap.

  *

  Tarraquin looked at the smudged plan drawn on the back of an old shirt in charcoal and frowned. “I can’t make head or tail of this,” she grumbled. “It looks like a tangle of dirt crawlers have squirmed across it with dirty feet and have left muddy prints behind. It could be anywhere.”

  Across the table propped up in a padded chair Jarrul studied the upside down plan trying to make out which lines represented the outside walls of the fortress and which were the corridors and rooms. He’d been a huntsman all his life and could follow the faintest of animal tracks through any kind of forest, but reading a plan, particularly such a rough one as the one on the table, was beyond him.

  The other problem was that his heart wasn’t in it. The last time they had tried to get into Sarrat’s fortress it had ended in disaster. Half of the rebel force had been killed in the streets when Lord Tulreth had betrayed them and they had been the lucky ones. He and twelve companions had been captured and taken to Maladran’s tower where they had been turned into stone monsters and he had been tortured. If it hadn’t been for Jonderill rescuing him he would have died there.

  He looked down at his bandaged hands and wrists and moved uncomfortably in his chair. The healer said he would recover despite being half a hand span taller than before he had became Maladran’s reluctant guest. It was unlikely that he would ever have the strength to draw a bow again, or the ability to creep quietly through the forest. Sometimes he wondered if putting Tarraquin on the throne of Leersland would be worth all the pain and death that had gone before. He would do almost anything for the woman he secretly adored but the thought of trying to get into the fortress again terrified him.

  “What we need is someone who has worked inside the fortress and knows the passages and the way to the throne room. If they worked with my man Tordray, who is good with maps and plans, they could come up with something which would make more sense than this thing.”

  Jarrul looked up at the man who had spoken as he leaned over Tarraquin’s shoulder and pointed at the plan on the table. He was tall with dark hair and dark eyes and at that moment his body was pressed against Tarraquin’s side and his lips were far too close to her ear for his liking. It wasn’t that he disliked Malingar, he just didn’t trust him. Until recently he’d been fighting the nomads on the border with Sandstrone alongside Sarrat and here he was plotting with the rebels to overthrow the very same king. It didn’t make sense. Why would a mercenary with nearly five hundred men to arm and feed change sides and align themselves with a coinless rebel?

  He’d asked Malingar that question and had been told it was because he didn’t like Sarrat and his men preferred to support a just cause, but he didn’t believe that. Unfortunately Tarraquin did believe him, either because she was desperate for some support or possibly she was in love with the mercenary. Jarrul turned away as Tarraquin gave the Captain a broad smile.

  “That’s a good idea. Perro here used to be a servant in the fortress when my father was king. Whilst they work on turning this into something useable we can move onto more important matters.”

  She turned away from the table leaving Tordray and Perro pouring over the map and strolled across to the four comfortable chairs pulled up either side of the hearth. A small fire burnt in the grate and she put on an extra log on the fire before settling herself into one of the chairs. Malingar moved to the dresser and poured two goblets of wine, handing her one before taking the seat opposite her.

  “It was a good idea of yours to move into this inn, it’s much more convenient than the camp in the forest, not to mention more comfortable.”

  Tarraquin shrugged. “We were lucky to find a sympathiser in Tarmin who owned such a place and could be persuaded to take the risk helping us.”

  Malingar laughed. “The promise of a rich reward and a knighthood from the future queen is always very persuasive. It’s not just the improved comfort which makes this such a good place to be though; it means that we have better access to information about Sarrat’s movements.”

  “Has there been any news?” asked Tarraquin anxiously.

  “No, nothing’s changed. When my men and I left Sarrat and his army, they were still pushing the last of the nomads across the border. Prince Kremin was Sarrat’s prisoner and without him the nomads are leaderless and more or less defeated, so there was no point in me and my lads hanging around any longer. If everything goes as it should, it will be at least two moon cycles before he returns to Tarmin, by which time, you will be sitting on the throne of Leersland and the people will be firmly behind you.”

  “I wish I could be sure.”

  “Don’t worry. When we are ready to move a squad of my men, supported by the remainder of your rebels, will take out the guards in the fortress, there’s not many of them anyway. The rest of my men will enter the city under Captain Dandon and will secure the barracks and city walls. If there is any opposition they will deal with it. By the time Sarrat arrives Tarmin will be firmly in our control.”

  “What about the men Sarrat brings back from the border war with him?” she asked. “Won’t there be enough of them to retake the fortress?”

  “From what I’ve seen of them they are a rag tag lot. In any case they are going to be fewer in number than when they left Tarmin and weary from fighting the nomads for so long. If Sarrat wants to fight a battle outside of Tarmin’s walls, then it could be a close run thing, but with the city behind us I suspect most of the lords and their retainers will just drift away and leave him to it.”

  “And what if they don’t?” asked Jarrul as he hobbled towards the fire supported by one of the rebels. He dropped gratefully into the chair next to Tarraquin.

  “Well that depends a lot on you, doesn�
��t it?” snapped Malingar. “If you’ve done your job properly and have roused the city in support of their rightful queen there won’t be a problem. All those soldiers sitting behind Sarrat will have family and friends in Tarmin and they won’t want to fight and perhaps kill them, especially once they know that Tarraquin is King Malute’s rightful heir.”

  “That’s all under control, isn’t it Jarrul?” asked Tarraquin.

  “Our friends are talking quietly to all those who count and Tavlon is travelling the inns in the city with his ballad about the true heir returning to Leersland but if we are not to alert those who are loyal to Sarrat, or the royal guard, we have to be careful. It takes time to start a rebellion and overthrow a tyrant.”

  “Time is something we don’t have much of.” snapped Malingar.

  “That’s enough.” put in Tarraquin. “It doesn’t help to have the two of you squabbling all the time.”

  “Even if the returning army doesn’t support him,” said Jarrul, ignoring Tarraquin’s admonishment, “Sarrat could still go to the Great Lords and raise an army from amongst their retainers.”

  Tarraquin gave a cynical laugh. “If I know the Great Lords as well as I think I do they would rather cut Sarrat’s throat than help him to keep his throne. No, the Great Lords are not a problem; they have no power left and will sit on the side lines and do nothing.” She looked up as Tordray and Perro approached carrying a roll of parchment and looking pleased with themselves.

  “Your Highness, Captain Malingar sir, I think we’ve found it.” They unrolled the parchment and propped it up on the spare chair. “It’s here,” said Tordray pointing to a thick black line which ran around the edge of the plan. “The track is outside the city walls not inside as we thought.” Tarraquin and Malingar leaned over to get a better view. “This is the entrance which is hidden by a gully so that it cannot be seen by the guards on the city wall. It leads to a passageway that runs inside the wall until it connects with the wall of the fortress just here.”

  Perro nodded excitedly. “We always wondered why the two walls met at that spot and nowhere else.”

  Tordray continued. “There is another passageway along the inside of the keep and two exits. It looks like one opens onto the courtyard behind this building and the other opens out into the throne room, either behind the throne or a bit further down.”

  “The throne room entrance must be hidden by a tapestry and the other comes out behind some drapes and supporting pillars.” concluded Perro triumphantly. “It looks like the passageways are only wide enough for one person to walk at a time, but it means that we should be able to get into the fortress and the throne room without being seen.”

  “Are you sure of this?” questioned Tarraquin. “I wish Jonderill were here so he could confirm it.”

  “We are sure this is the way Maladran gets into the fortress without being seen,” said Perro firmly.

  “If Maladran used the passageway it might be protected by magic.”

  “I think I know someone who will be able to help with that.” They all looked at Malingar questioningly.

  “And will your friend be able to help with Maladran when Sarrat sets him loose on us? I’ve seen firsthand what that black-hearted bastard can do with his dark magic,” said Jarrul bitterly. “If we can’t deal with Maladran, then none of this will work.”

  Malingar started to respond but was stopped by the sound of shouting and boots pounding up the wooden stairs. He drew his sword and pushed Tarraquin behind him just as the door burst open. Captain Dandon rushed in flanked by two of his squad; all three had been riding hard and were covered in dust.

  Dandon saluted briefly. “Captain, Your Highness. Sarrat has left the border and is on his way back to Tarmin in a hurry. He’s a day or two at the most behind us.”

  “That’s it then.” Malingar sheathed his sword and took Tarraquin’s hands in his own. “We move now or not at all. Tomorrow, Your Highness, you will sit in your rightful place on the throne of Leersland.”

  “Or we’ll all be dead.” muttered Jarrul under his breath.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Enclave

  The smell of roasting forest runner broke into his dream, out of place in the solitary darkness of a cold cell where he was chained to the wall. He licked his lips which should have been dried and cracked from being a prisoner for so long but instead they were moist and his mouth watered at the promise of food. At least his hunger made sense and his stomach tightened with the need to eat. He strained against the chains which held him and rolled onto his side as the iron manacles from his dream disintegrated and his nightmare dispersed like morning mist.

  Unfortunately the ache in his back and shoulders was real enough but when he opened his eyes, speckled sunlight filtering through the everleafs lit up a large clearing alive with sounds and smells and activity. Jonderill blinked away the confusion and slowly sat up, ignoring the complaints of aching muscles and bruised flesh. He struggled to dispel the last remnants of his unpleasant dream, which still played at the edges of his mind, but the bustle of the campsite was pushing it further away.

  The smell of roasting meat was coming from the fire at the centre of the camp, where two men in grey livery attended to a spit which held the carcass of the small forest runner. They took turns turning the spit and basting the meat with the contents of a small skin which made the fire spit and crackle as the surplus fell on it. On the other side of the fire another man in the same livery threw a handful of dried leaves into a pot of steaming water, stirring it gently. Beyond the fire a group of men with rolled up shirt sleeves brushed the coats of the horses or combed out manes and tails whilst one worked his way along the string of horses checking legs and hooves.

  To Jonderill there seemed to be less horses there than there had been the night before, but as his recollection was a bit hazy he couldn’t be sure. A clash of weapons from the other direction made him start and he turned to watch six lightly armoured men face off in pairs going through the movements which the Cadetmaster had taught him and which once had been so familiar. They were good, very good, and he could almost hear Swordmaster Dilor calling out the moves. Instead Allowyn, minus his bronze armour and formidable array of weapons, called out corrections as the moves were repeated again and again.

  Jonderill pulled himself to his feet, rolled up the blanket with which someone had thoughtfully covered him and took it to the neat mound of blankets stacked under a waterproof covering. His new shirt and breaches were crumpled from having slept in them, but apart from that and his stiff muscles, he felt better than he had done for several days. He picked his way over to the fire and took the proffered bowl of herb tea from the man by the cauldron. It was hot and bitter and hit the back of his throat like grain spirit, but by the time he had finished the bowlful, his head was clear of sleep and the echoes of his dream had disappeared.

  Seeing Jonderill awake, Allowyn dismissed his men and joined him by the fire. “Good evening, I hope you are feeling better?”

  Jonderill looked a bit sheepish. “Yes I am thank you. I’m sorry; I don’t usually fall asleep straight after breakfast, I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Don’t think anything of it; it wasn’t your fault anyway. Dozo put a sleeping draft in your second bowl of oats. You needed the rest and some time to recover from the beating you’d taken.” Jonderill looked suspiciously down at the dregs of his herb tea and Allowyn laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s not something Dozo does often but as well as being our cook he’s also our healer. He would have asked your permission if he thought you would have given it so instead he asked me. I hope you will forgive us this once, I promise I won’t let him do it to you again.”

  Jonderill nodded and smiled. “Do you always ride with a healer?”

  “No, only when I’m on Federa’s business, then I take men with as many different skills as possible as I never know quite what we’ll run up against.”

  Jonderill looked around the camp
. “Where are the rest of your men and the others you rescued from the slaver?”

  “All those we rescued were asked if they wished to join us at the goddess’s Enclave, but no one volunteered, very few do. So some of my men have taken them in a wagon to Vinmore where they will be safe. The rest of my men are either on patrol, on fatigues or are on an errand for me. We will stay here until they return.”

  He took Jonderill’s empty bowl from his hand, refilled it and led the way to the log they had shared at breakfast that morning. “Jonderill? That sounds Esslandian, is that where you’re from?”

  Jonderill shrugged. “I don’t know but it is unlikely; it’s the name that was given to me when I was a kingsward in Leersland. As far as I know I’ve never been to Essenland or anywhere apart from Vinmore, although I did set out to go to Tarbis once as I wanted to see the great ocean, but I never got that far.”