The White Robe (The Sword and the Spell)

by Clare Smith

  Six soldiers remained on their feet in a semi-circle around him including the one with the torn ear. Four had swords drawn and two held loaded bolt bows. Behind them stood another man; probably their officer although he wore no uniform. He too held a sword but it was the thin kind which gentlemen wore, not the work day weapon of a fighting man. In the trees behind them there were horses with their reins tied to low branches. So it had been a planned ambush and not just a coincidence that Jonderill had run into them.

  Sansun stood to one side of the wooded area, snorting and pawing at the ground, his hooves a hand span away from the pulped remains of a soldier’s head. Beneath him Jonderill crouched on the ground clutching his shoulder and staring at him with a mixture of awe and relief. If Tissian had any doubts about his calling or his master’s need for him it vanished with that one look. Tissian gripped his swords tighter and charged.

  The closest swordsman died in a welter of blood before he could move, his head bouncing to one side and his body collapsing to the ground where he stood. The soldier next to him, the one with the sliced ear, thrust his sword into the space where Tissian should have been and then looked down in surprise at the length of steel which penetrated his chest. The two soldiers behind saw the sword appear out of his back and stepped aside as the man slid off Tissian’s sword leaving a clear shot for the bowmen.

  Both archers released their bolts at the same time. Tissian deflected the first with the flat of his blade, sending it spinning uselessly into the undergrowth, but the second caught him in the shoulder knocking him backwards into the trunk of the tree behind him. One sword dropped from his numb hand but the other was still held firmly in front of him. He waited for the two remaining swordsmen to charge, but their officer ordered them to stay where they were. Behind them the two archers were reloading their bolt bows and he knew that if he didn’t act now, they would pin him to the tree and then he and Jonderill would both die. At least if he charged his master might stand a chance of escaping.

  He gave Jonderill a quick farewell grin and wondered if his was going to be the briefest tenure a protector had ever had. Then he charged. The sudden whirlwind of leaf litter, twigs and loam that hit him knocked him back into the tree again and pinned him there. Above the noise of the thrashing branches, he could hear the panicked shouts of men and the cries of frightened horses, and then the sound of horses galloping off into the distance. As the sound disappeared the whirlwind subsided and the forest debris settled back into its place on the ground.

  Tissian rubbed the grit from his eyes with his injured arm sending a stream of blood running down his shirt from the wound in his shoulder, whilst his good hand held his sword, ready for any further attacks. Around him bodies lay half covered in leaf litter and to one side Jonderill stood calmly stroking Sansun’s head and grinning like a loon. Tissian sheathed his sword and grinned back.

  *

  Dozo was the first to spot them entering the clearing in front of the cottage. He was cleaning the dishes after dinner on the porch when Jonderill led Sansun out of the shadow of the trees. He looked up in surprise, not expecting them back so soon, and then frowned at the unexpected sight of Jonderill walking whilst his protector rode. It took a moment to notice the arm bound across Tissian’s chest and the blood stains on his shirt. He dropped the dish he had been washing back into the bowl and poked his head around the cottage door to announce their arrival. By the time he stepped off the porch both Callabris and Allowyn were following close behind.

  Jonderill stopped half way across the clearing and waited for the others to approach. It had been a long walk and he hadn’t been sure if they would make it back before dark, but he didn’t want to stop for a rest with Tissian still leaking blood. Tissian and he had talked for most of the journey and had only fallen silent for the last candle length when the pain had become too bad, and Tissian needed to concentrate on keeping it at bay and not passing out.

  In all his life Jonderill had never talked to someone about his feelings for so long, not even to Barrin, who knew more about him than anyone else. Tissian had talked about how it felt to be bonded to another and the pain that Jonderill had caused by his lack of caring over the past few days. Jonderill told him about his new magic and how it made him feel and Tissian told him about disgracing himself in front of Allowyn. It had been humbling and had given Jonderill much to think about during the final part of the walk.

  Dozo arrived first and took Sansun’s bridle from Jonderill’s tired hands. “Are you alright lad?” he asked in concern, for once forgetting the honourific.

  “I’m fine, just tired, but Tissian needs your help.”

  Allowyn hurried to Sansun’s other side and quickly started to untie the bindings which Jonderill had used to hold Tissian in his seat in case he passed out with loss of blood. Tissian went to protest at his mentor’s help but Allowyn batted his hand away and carried on with his task.

  “I left the bolt in his shoulder in case I couldn’t stop the bleeding and strapped his arm up just as you taught me to,” explained Jonderill to Dozo as he too worked on the straps binding Tissian’s other leg.

  “Nearly broke another damn rib doing it,” muttered Tissian through clenched teeth.

  He took his feet out of the stirrups to dismount and Jonderill moved around the other side of the horse to catch him. Allowyn took a step back to give him room but not so far that he wasn’t there to provide help if it was needed. Tissian slid off the horse into Jonderill’s arms and Allowyn came up behind to give some support. Together they half walked and half carried the injured protector into the cottage whilst Dozo thrust Sansun’s reins into Callabris’s hands and hurried after them.

  Callabris watched them go and gently stroked the nose of the tired horse. “It looks like we are surplus to needs old feller.” He led the horse to the side of the shelter, unsaddled and watered him and gave him a gentle brush down until the horse looked relaxed and comfortable.

  By the time he returned to the cottage, Jonderill was tucking into the remains of the evening’s stew which Allowyn had reheated for him. He sat and waited patiently whilst Jonderill finished his meal. As he pushed the empty dish to one side, Dozo came into the room carrying a bowl of bloody water and a stained towel. He took both outside to dispose of them and returned, placing a smooth metal bolt about as long and as round as a finger on the table in front of Jonderill. The flights were blood stained and mangled but the tip was still sharp and unmarked.

  “He was lucky; it missed the bones and just cut muscle. It is painful and bloody, but quick to heal. You did well, Jonderill, to restrict the bleeding as you did.”

  “Will he be alright?” Jonderill asked in concern.

  “Oh yes. Sore for a few days and weak in that arm, and his ribs will ache for a moon cycle, but otherwise the same as ever.”

  Jonderill slumped as if the air had been let out of him, but some colour came back into his face. Dozo poured him some herb tea before taking his seat at the table.

  “What happened?” asked Allowyn.

  Jonderill took a deep breath and started from when they left the cottage to their return, leaving nothing out except what they had talked about on their return journey through the forest together.

  “Are you sure it was an ambush and you didn’t just stumble across a hunting party out in the woods after forest runners?” questioned Allowyn when Jonderill reached the end of his story.

  “Yes, I’m certain. There wasn’t a fire only a cold camp which had been there for one or two days. They were definitely waiting for someone to come that way but I don’t know if it was me they were waiting for.”

  “It could have been Dozo. They could have followed him from Alewinder.” suggested Allowyn.

  “That’s a possibility. I do what I can to cover the wagon tracks, but anyone who is really determined to find where I enter the forest could follow my trail. If they wanted to follow me back to this cottage it wouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “Are you sure it w
as Prince Pellum who led them?” asked Callabris. “It just seems so unlikely.”

  “I’m certain I recognised him but if you want I can ask Sansun, he knows him better than I do.”

  “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. Allowyn, what do you suggest we do?”

  “Dozo, when can Tissian travel?”

  “Tomorrow, if we take it steady and you can get him to stay in the wagon.”

  “Then I think it’s only a matter of time before Pellum returns with more than a dozen men and I don’t think we should be here waiting for him to call.”

  “I agree, which is really quite convenient as my master has commanded my presence. So tomorrow we leave for Northshield and King Borman’s court.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  PART THREE

  Kings, Queens and Magicians

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Unexpected Visitors

  Tallison picked up his loose silk trousers from the floor where he had dropped them and bunched the richly embroidered tunic in one hand around his waist so it wouldn’t be spoilt. He was still breathing hard and small beads of sweat ran down his neck as he waited for his heart beat to return to normal. Behind him the naked man wept, his tears dampening the table over which he was bent. The sound irritated Tallison, it had been so much better when the man had screamed or cursed and if it hadn’t been for the pleasure of fucking King Borman’s cousin whenever he wanted to, he would have slit the man’s throat many moon cycles before. As it was he had a number of uses, as he had just proven, although his use as a hostage had ended the day Borman had returned the mutilated body of his youngest son to him.

  He walked to one of the many decorative tables in the huge and luxurious pavilion and rang a silver bell. Almost instantly two small girls, neither of them older than ten summers, trotted into the room carrying a bowl of scented water and a towel. They were twins, somewhat of a rarity in his kingdom, and their mother had been loath to part with them. Still, once he had made her a widow, she had seen the sense of not having the cost of caring for them.

  Although he enjoyed their company now, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with them when they became one or two summers older and he lost interest in them. Perhaps they would make a fitting gift for the wife of one of his guard captains. The thought of rewarding one of his cousins with such a valuable gift and receiving their gratitude pleased him and he smiled down at the two naked girls as they washed and dried him. When they had finished their task he pulled his loose silk trousers back on and one of the girls tied the draw string before he dropped the tunic over the top of them.

  Tallison clicked his fingers in command and behind him the man left his position at the table and picked up his robe which lay in a heap on the floor where he had left it. With his head bowed and shoulders slumped in dejection, he walked to the corner of the tent where a pile of dirty blankets lay and washed himself with Tallison’s discarded water. When he had finished, the girl took it away and the man dressed in what had once been his fine, brightly coloured robe, but which was now tattered and stained. He wiped his eyes on his torn sleeve and settled into his bed like a whipped cur.

  Rothers hated his life and loathed himself for being too much of a coward to end it. When Borman had left him there with the mad Rale of Sandstrone, a hostage to Borman’s honour, he had tried to be the sort of hostage whom his cousin could admire; stalwart, proud of his country and loyal to the king who had trusted him with the diplomatic role. The nomads had laughed at him and Tallison had ridiculed and humiliated him at every opportunity, but he had tried, he really had. Then Prince Kremin had been captured and tortured to death and he learnt that Borman had no honour whatsoever and had left him to die there.

  That was the first time Tallison had taken him, tied across the table, and he had screamed and cursed, forgetting all about being courteous, stalwart or proud. Tallison had been so aroused that he had taken him again within a candle length and it was probably that which had saved his life. Now there was no need for ropes, he just bent over and wept. Sitting in his dirty blankets, sore and bruised and starving, he wished that he had died along with all the other prisoners Tallison had slaughtered that day in revenge for his son’s death. They were the last prisoners who’d been taken in the war with Leersland.

  Tallison had saved him from a relatively quick death so that he could dishonour him, which he did every time he felt the need. He had tried to escape once and Tallison had just let him go, knowing that there was nothing for days around but burning, parched desert. He had returned after a single day, burnt and blistered, and had never tried to escape again. Now, for most of the time he was treated like a cur, given the menial tasks that others wouldn’t do, occasionally beaten, frequently abused and always starved. When the whim took him Tallison paraded him naked through the tented city with a mock crown on his head as a symbol of Tallison’s power over those who did not believe in the mighty Talis.

  For the rest of the time he cringed in the corner, ate scraps from Tallison’s plate and thought of the revenge he would never have the courage to take. Now he watched from his corner as Tallison reclined on one of the many couches in the room, one of the little girls sitting at his feet whilst the other went to fetch a plate of honeyed fruits. He took a wine berry soaked in honey for himself and popped another one into the girl’s mouth, smiling at her and stroking her hair.

  The girl whispered something and giggled and Tallison turned and gave him a disdainful look before smiling and nodding permissively at the girl. She stood and walked over to where he sat carrying the plate of delicacies. He knew what was coming next and although he hated it the chance to eat could not be given up because of his pride. The girl gave the command and he sat up and begged, his tongue hanging out and panting like a hound. She giggled and popped a honeyed fruit into his mouth and from his couch Tallison roared with laughter.

  Before the girl could give the command for him to do something even more humiliating there was a loud knock on the side pole which supported the decorative entrance flaps and one of Tallison’s body guards ducked inside and bowed. “Your Magnificence, Prince Quarim has returned from Leersland with urgent news and requests an audience with his illustrious father.”

  Tallison scowled in annoyance. He had sent his eldest surviving son to Leersland to spy on his enemy and his instructions had been quite clear; become part of Tarmin society, watch what Sarrat does and when he is at his weakest, send a report back. Coming here and reporting back in person was definitely not a part of his orders.

  “Send the boy in but stay yourself in case I need you.” He shooed the remaining twin off his couch and she ran to join her sister in the corner.

  Prince Quarim, the eldest in a long line of bastards, was small and thin and not yet old enough to need to shave. His hair was dark, like his father’s, but he had his mother’s blue eyes. She had been the daughter of a minor Leersland noble and a favourite of King Duro who had brought her back from a visit to Leersland to grace his court. When Tallison had killed his brother he had taken her as a prize and she had given him three bastards before dying in childbirth. She had taught Quarim the ways and manners of the nobles of Leersland which had earned him the position of Tallison’s spy. He knelt on the floor by his father’s couch, with his forehead touching the rich carpet, and ten days’ dust and desert sand covering his clothes.

  “Why have you broken my command? Why are you here, boy?”

  “Your Magnificence, my illustrious father, forgive my disobedience to your will, but I have news of such import that I could not entrust it to another. May Talis be praised, our enemy is dead!”

  Tallison sat bolt upright in surprise and in the corner of the tent Rothers shuffled as far forward as he dared trying to catch every word. “Dead?”

  “Yes, mighty one, at least a moon cycle past at the hand of his magician.”

  “Callabris murdered Borman?”

  Quarim looked confused. “No, mighty one. I mean King Sarrat and his magician. T
hey are both are dead.”

  Tallison looked truly shocked, but in the corner, Rothers had slumped back into his tangle of dirty blankets; he had so much wanted it to be Borman.

  “Are you certain of this?”

  “Yes, illustrious father, I was close by when this was revealed and I saw Sarrat’s head on a pike when I left the city gate. There is more too, may Talis be praised forever. A woman now rules Leersland.”

  “A woman! Talis, may his name be praised, has truly blessed us. With a woman on the throne, all Leersland can be ours.” He jumped to his feet and pulled his son into an embrace. “Come, we must tell our people the news so all may rejoice in the blessings showered on us by Talis, the one true god.”

  He pushed his son towards the entrance and then stopped for a moment by the side of his bodyguard. “Bring the hound.”