The White Robe (The Sword and the Spell)

by Clare Smith

  Yesterday he’d tried to rip the robe apart with his knife and had even hacked at it with his sword, but apart from it being a bit crumpled around the sleeves, the robe was undamaged. The day before that, he’d thrown it out of the window into the pathway of a passing squad of armsmen. The squad leader had returned it to him, apologising that it was slightly dusty but one good shake had removed any trace of boot marks. He looked at the bucket and decided he didn’t want to see what effect the oil and the flames had on the thing.

  A knock on the door made him look up but he decided to do nothing about it; after his complete and utter failure to produce any trace of magic and his display of temper he really didn’t want to be lectured by some pompous master or goaded by a gloating acolyte. It was their mocking which had driven him out of his luxurious suite of rooms on his first day at the Enclave. He’d found the small inn hidden down an alleyway in the craftsmens’ quarter by accident after stumbling around the city in the dark for several candle lengths.

  After he’d drunk a second tankard of ale, he had realized that he had left his coin pouch behind, but fortunately the innkeeper had believed him when he said he could pay for his drink, room and food but had left his belongings elsewhere. Just to make sure though the innkeeper had provided him with the pot boy to help him find his way back to the acolyte’s quarters so he could collect the few things he owned. His new room was small and cramped and the single window opened onto a steaming middin heap but it was his, or at least it was until his coins ran out.

  The knock came at the door, louder and more insistent this time but he continued to ignore it. He’d promised High Master Razarin that he would stay for a moon cycle which should have been a long enough time for him to learn how to defend himself on the road, but so far all he had done was pretend to be a magician so others could laugh at him. His attempts at moving things had been a waste of time and his efforts at opening locked doors had all ended in failure. He’d tried enhancing his senses and constructing simple enchantments to refill empty goblets but nothing worked.

  The only thing which had been vaguely successful was when he had tried to command others without speaking and then Sansun had arrived outside the House of Learning, hot and lathered having almost demolished the stall in which he’d been stabled. For a moment the knocking at his door increased in intensity and then abruptly stopped. He listened to the shuffle of feet outside the door of his room and then the sounds of footsteps walking away and finally being silenced as his visitor let himself out the outside door.

  Jonderill gave a sigh of relief and produced a bright ball of light which he placed in the air just above his shoulder. He’d given the High Master and the others the moon cycle which he’d promised them. In that time he’d tried his best to be what they wanted him to be, but it hadn’t worked out so now, as far as he was concerned, he was free to leave. With his decision made he felt better, almost as if a weight had been lifted from him. He also felt hungry and realised that he hadn’t eaten since the night before.

  Leaving the ball of light floating above in the air he rummaged in the chest at the foot of his bed for suitable clothing. He ignored the fine shirts and tunics which the master’s had provided and instead pulled out the shirt, breeches and boots which Allowyn had given him. They were a bit crumpled and the shirt had a small hole in it and a blood stain at waist height, but that didn’t matter, at least he would look normal for a change. He strapped on the fine leather belt and went to attach the sword and scabbard but stopped before he picked the sword up. Somehow it didn’t seem right to wear a sword to a peaceful inn when all you were going to do was eat a bowl of stew and down a few pots of ale. He left the sword where it was, snapped his fingers to extinguish the light and made his way down the stairs and around the corner to the door of the inn.

  When he went inside the inn the common room was crowded and noisy, and the table in the corner, where he’d sat last night and the night before, was taken by four craft workers with the bulging arms of smiths or arms makers. The tables by the rear wall where you could prop yourself up and watch what was going on in the common room were also taken, leaving just those by the hearth or a few in the centre of the room. He’d tried the ones by the hearth on the first night and had almost roasted as the inn became more crowded and he was pushed closer to the fire. On the other hand he didn’t fancy the ones in the centre of the room either where people jostled and pushed past you to get to the other tables.

  He sighed and went to return to his room when the boy who had helped him move into the inn grabbed his sleeve and tugged urgently on it. “Hey! Mister! Me master says ‘e’s got a space over ‘ere fer yer if yer aint bovered ter share the doss wiv some toffs later like.”

  The pot boy pulled Jonderill in the direction of an empty table to one side of the bar. “’e says ‘e’s got stew an’ bread if yer want it, an’ some nice Vinmore red which ‘as jus’ come in today.” The boy shoved Jonderill the last few steps to the table and pulled him into a seat. “Now yer stays dossin’ an’ I’lls get yer grub an’ plonk an’ I’lls be back in a tick.”

  He sat at the table feeling slightly bemused at being hassled by a slip of a boy but he was right; it was a good spot. The table was round with six chairs surrounding it and a large reserved sign sitting in the middle of it. He shuffled into the chair that was protected by the angle of the wall and the bar, but it gave a clear view of the rest of the room except the furthest most corner. Despite craning his neck around he couldn’t quite make out who was sitting at the corner table and whether they were likely to leave soon so he could move into it.

  Clearly the table where he sat was being held back for someone with influence but with any luck he could eat his meal and disappear back to his room with the remains of the wine before whoever it was found him sitting at their table. As if he had read his mind, the boy arrived with a large bowl of steaming stew in one hand and a half flagon of wine in the other. He put them on the table along with a small loaf of bread from under his arm and a clay goblet and wooden spoon from the pocket of his grubby, grey shorts. He gave a gap-toothed grin, a quick salute and scurried back into the crowd.

  Jonderill smiled to himself and wiped the spoon and the rim of the goblet on the sleeve of his shirt before attacking the meal. The stew was thick and rich and just spicy enough to make his tongue tingle and his throat burn; he was glad he wasn’t sitting near the fire. He broke open the loaf which was still steaming slightly inside and dipped it into the dark gravy washing it down with the soft, warm wine. For the first time that day he felt that life really was worth living.

  “Well, what have we here then? I do believe it’s the Enclave’s new white wizard.” The speaker gave a cynical laugh and dropped his sword belt loudly on to the table in front of Jonderill, who didn’t bother to look up.

  “Nah, Dowin, that’s no wizard, from what I heard, the Master of Magic said he was a peasant or a muck digger who’s no better than a low servant.” The second speaker leant across the table and picked up the remaining half of Jonderill’s bread, breaking off a chunk and passing the rest onto his four friends. Jonderill ignored them and concentrated on finishing the rest of his stew as fast as he could. Around him the five young men pulled out the chairs and sat around the table.

  “From what I heard Master Tressing say he isn’t even a peasant, but an escaped slave from Leersland.”

  Dowin picked up his sheathed sword from the table and prodded Jonderill in the shoulder with it. “Hey, peasant, is it true what they say, that no goods like you get branded in Leersland like some kind of animal?”

  Jonderill did his best to ignore them but the second speaker, who had sat down next to him, kicked him sharply in the shin under the table. “Hey, peasant, my friend here is talking to you.”

  He looked up and recognised three of the young men as the acolytes who had been in the room of instruction with him earlier in the day. The others were younger but clearly of the same mould. He looked from face to face and dec
ided it was time to leave. Jonderill went to stand but the two acolytes on either side of him pulled him down and pressed his forearms firmly to the table. Dowin pulled a thin knife and laid it on the table close to Jonderill’s left hand. He tried to push back his chair but realized now that his choice of seat had been a poor one and he was trapped in the corner.

  “Now peasant, is it true what they say, are you a branded slave?”

  Jonderill said nothing but when Dowin gave a slight nod the two acolytes who held his arms pulled back his sleeve revealing the faded kingsward scar.

  “Well, well, well, so the rumours are true. Now what is the High Master up to trying to teach a dog like you magic tricks?”

  “Perhaps we could get the dog to do some tricks for us,” suggested the acolyte sitting next to him. “How about getting him to beg?”

  “Leave me alone,” growled Jonderill as he tried to pull away but the two acolytes either side of him held him fast. They looked to their leader with expectant grins.

  “Why not? Come on, peasant; let’s see you on your knees begging for us to leave you alone.” Jonderill said nothing. “Chaslin, see if your knife can teach this dog to obey his betters.”

  Chaslin, who picked up the knife, gave a wolfish grin and leaned over the table. With a laugh he carved the letter ‘D’ into Jonderill’s forearm with the tip of his knife. Jonderill gritted his teeth and blood dripped from his arm onto the table. Dowin nodded again and Chaslin pressed the tip of his knife into Jonderill’s arm once more.

  “What in hellden’s name is going on here!” bellowed the innkeeper. Chaslin slipped the knife underneath the table and passed it to the youth sitting next to him as the others released Jonderill’s arms.

  “Nothing. It’s just a little game,” said Dowin, giving the angry innkeeper a warm, confident smile. “We were just initiating our friend here into the acolyte brotherhood, weren’t we Jonderill?”

  Beneath the table Jonderill could feel the knife tip prod him in the ribs encouraging him to nod in agreement.

  “Well you’re not doing any of your magic stuff in my inn, so out, the lot of you and don’t come back, ever.”

  The innkeeper stood with his arms folded scowling at the five acolytes with his pot boy hovering behind him. He waited until they had gathered their swords and cloaks and watched them weave their way through the crowd and out of the inn before turning his attention back to Jonderill. The pot boy had already given Jonderill a clean cloth to press against his cut arm and was wiping up the spots of blood with a well used rag.

  “Not all the acolytes who study at the Enclave are like that, but they are an unpleasant bunch. If I had known that Gellidan had reserved the table for their use I would never have let them in. It used to be that only those dedicated to the goddess were allowed into the Enclave, but lately anyone can come if their father’s got enough coin or a title. That lot are all youngest sons of one lord or another and you would be well advised to keep clear of them, particularly if what they were saying about you is true. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a full inn tonight and I need that table, so if you could drink up and leave I would be much obliged.”

  The innkeeper returned to the bar and Jonderill watched as the pot boy cleared away his half eaten meal and disappear back into the crowd. If he had any doubts about leaving the Enclave his mind was now firmly made up. Carefully he lifted the cloth and looked at the cut on his arm which had stopped bleeding. It was a shallow cut and with any luck it wouldn’t scar. He poured the rest of his wine into his goblet and drank it slowly, watching the other customers eating and drinking with their friends. It occurred to him that they were all craft workers, mainly from the smithies but with a few weavers as well. He couldn’t see any armsmen amongst them which was a bit odd considering the name of the inn. There were definitely no other acolytes in the room and he wondered why his five tormentors had picked this inn for their evening’s entertainment.

  When his goblet was empty he made his way slowly to the door but before he reached it he felt an urgent tug on his shirt sleeve. He looked down to where the pot boy stood behind him holding an old, cracked scabbard with a simple, iron cross-hilted sword sticking out of the top of it. “Me master says ter gives yer this ter show them toffs that you knows how ter stick ‘em if yer ‘ave ter. ‘e says ter bring it back when yer done wiv it.”

  The boy thrust the sword into Jonderill’s hand and disappeared back into the crowd. He watched the boy go before stepping out into the night and closing the door behind him. After the brightness of the inn the unlit pathway seemed extra dark; even the light from the torch lit square barely reached the door of the inn. He turned to the left and followed the wall along and then turned again to reach the stairs to his room.

  “Hello peasant,” said a deep voice out of the darkness. Two small balls of elemental fire lit up the darkness and Jonderill’s heart dropped as he recognised the five acolytes from earlier. “We have some unfinished business. My friend here wants to see you do some tricks and Chaslin has some carving to finish.”

  Dowin and his friend, Jeb drew their swords and Chaslin unsheathed his knife and held it out in front of him whilst the two younger acolytes, who held the elemental fire, stepped back to give their friends more room.

  “Why don’t you just go away and leave me alone. I don’t have anything you want and I don’t want to fight you.”

  “Well, that’s where you’re wrong. Jeb here wants to see you beg on your knees, Chaslin wants more of your blood on his knife and I want you back in Leersland and chained up or whatever they do with slaves there.”

  Jonderill sighed in resignation and pulled the old sword from its battered scabbard. It felt heavy and cumbersome and awkward in his hand. He had never held a cross-hilted sword before and, as he struggled to grip it, he wished that he had his own sword in his hand instead of which he’d foolishly left it upstairs.

  Jeb attacked first with a cross body slice which Jonderill parried but the impact sent a shock through his wrist and arm making the heavy sword twist in his grip. He had barely regained his hold on the weapon when a reverse cut came back at him knocking his sword to the other side. He retook his stance and tried to remember all the things that the Cadetmaster had taught him. When Jeb advanced again with a number of chest height thrusts he was ready for them and was able to push them aside. Jeb repeated his cross body slice which Jonderill caught on his blade and held it there, hilt to hilt until Jeb retired with a grin on his face and Dowin stepped forward making practice swings through the air with the ease of a well practiced swordsman.

  Jonderill parried his first two moves but the third thrust slipped past his guard and pierced his shoulder by a finger’s width. The Acolyte stepped back and saluted whilst drops of blood appeared on Jonderill’s shirt. Jeb took Dowin’s place and with little style bludgeoned at Jonderill’s sword until he lost his grip and the weapon spun from his hand. Jeb stepped back and Dowin moved in again piercing Jonderill’s other shoulder. This strike was slightly deeper and blood immediately blossomed on the front of his shirt.

  “You can make this easy by getting down on to your knees and begging for mercy in which case Chaslin will just finish his carving or you can pick that sword up and we’ll teach you a lesson and then Chaslin will still carve you up. So, what’s it to be, slave dog?”

  Jonderill looked down at the sword, took a deep breath and knowing it was the wrong thing to do he picked it up. It felt heavier than ever and the wound in his shoulder made his arm ache. He took up a defensive stand and backed up against the wall of the inn with the tip of the sword wavering unsteadily in front of him. Jeb came at him from one side and Dowin from the other. He parried Jeb’s high cut which would have taken his arm off at the shoulder but could do nothing about Dowin’s thrust which pierced him in the side. Jonderill gasped as he felt the steel blade being withdrawn from his body and dropped the sword to grip the bleeding wound.

  “Painful but not fatal,” said Dowin. “Now get down on
your knees, slave dog.”

  Jonderill stood defiantly with his back to the wall and blood dripping through his fingers. He’d lasted this far so he wasn’t going to give in now. Dowin gave an irritated sigh and thrust his sword towards Jonderill’s thigh but the hit never landed as his sword was deflected downwards; its tip scoring a line in the dirt by Jonderill’s feet. Dowin stepped back and raised his sword to attack the newcomer but before he could do so his attacker had scored two thin cuts down the length of one forearm. As he looked in astonishment at the blood marking the torn edges of his sleeve his opponent’s second sword flicked his wrist sending Dowin’s sword spinning from his hand.

  Jeb charged forward swinging his weapon in a vicious head slice and from the shadows Chaslin threw his knife at the new attacker. The swordsman caught Jeb’s downward slice and deflected it to the side, trapping it with his sword hilt whilst his other sword knocked the knife from the air sending it bouncing harmlessly against the wall. In a fluid motion he turned the blade broadside and smacked it against Jeb’s ribs. Jeb gave a scream of pain, dropped his sword and stumbled after his retreating friends leaving the alleyway in darkness.