The White Robe (The Sword and the Spell)

by Clare Smith

  *

  Sharman sat on his horse feeling every one of his sixty summers and wondering how it had come to this. Beneath him his old horse plodded along giving the occasional disgruntled grunt and feeling as old as he did. They had been together a long time, young man and colt, soldier and war horse. It had been his intention that they would have retired together, him to his chair outside a cottage with two rooms, and the horse in the paddock with a lean-to against bad weather. He’d had it all planned. There was a small cottage on the outskirts of a nearby village that he had his eyes on, with just enough land to grow some root crops and greens and keep a few cluckers. There had never been time to have children, but his sister’s girl and her brood lived nearby, so there would be plenty of family at hand to care for him when he became too old to dig and cook his own food.

  Yes, he’d had it all planned, and then that damned fool Andron had lost his senses, and decided he wanted to become King of Leersland. Andron had always been an idiot, full of airs and graces and wanting more than he already had. Sharman had spent half his life protecting the man from himself, and that had been possible whilst it had only involved land disputes with neighbours. Twenty armed men in a border clash was one thing, but gathering an army to take a throne was something entirely different. Still, in the end he got what he deserved; his body dumped in a ditch and his head on a pike.

  That, of course, didn’t help his Guardcaptain much. Instead of looking forward to his retirement, he was back in the saddle, atop a mean tempered bag of bones which had seen better days, neither of them wanting to be there. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he had swapped Andron for someone better, but Borman was a cunning and vicious bastard, and his men, the ones from Northshield, were little better. He glanced back at the three squad leaders and the seventy odd men in ranks of five following behind.

  So they had orders to kill him had they? Well, better men than those three had tried and failed. but of course, they hadn’t had three squads of men behind them to finish the job. He wondered, if it came to a fight, the men who had been loyal to Andron, and had been dispersed amongst the ranks of Northshield men and Leerslanders, would turn against him. It was hard to tell. The stupid ones amongst them still blamed him for the culling of their comrades, but those with more sense knew he had saved many of their lives. He just hoped there were more intelligent ones than idiots amongst this group.

  He could, of course, complete his mission with brilliance and return with the white robe in chains. The reward of becoming Borman’s new Guardcaptain, with a vengeful Rastor looking over his shoulder, didn’t fill him with joy but it was better than being dead. He wondered how difficult it was going to be to capture the white robe. Like anyone who had accompanied their lord to court, he knew a bit about magicians, and had once seen Maladran remove a man’s hand with the flick of his fingers, but he had been a black magician, and this was only a white. What’s more he had seen the boy around the fortress, and in all truth, he didn’t look as if he was all there.

  The woman wouldn’t be a problem, but there was the protector to consider. He had heard that they could kill a squad of men without breaking out into a sweat, but he didn’t believe in such rumours, and in any case, he had three squads so that should warm the protector up a bit. Nevertheless, he needed to be cautious and pick his ground, which was why he had skirted around the edge of the forest and had not charged through the centre of the dense woodlands, as his squad leaders had advised. He hated fighting in close quarters where branches restricted your sword swing and the undergrowth hampered your footwork. Apart from that, there were too many loose and twisty things in a forest for a magician to use against you, assuming he was any good at magic.”

  It had also been a much more leisurely journey once they had checked to make sure that the magician hadn’t escaped to Maladran’s tower. At his age, steady riding with plenty of stops was essential. He chuckled to himself; stopping every candle length, to relieve himself, had annoyed the hellden out of the three squad leaders. Of course, it had been a gamble that his quarry would want to leave Leersland as fast as possible, but in their shoes, it’s what he would have done. Thinking about it, it was probably what he would do anyway after all this gallivanting about was over.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a commotion up ahead where the pack of fang hounds had broken into tongue and were straining at the thick leather leashes which held them back. He hated the bastards; dirty, smelly things with drooling mouths and lolling tongues like newly skinned meat. His arm still bore the scar from his one and only encounter with one as a boy, which is why he had ordered these to be muzzled, much to their handler’s disgust. If it had been up to him, he would have had their mouths bound shut and their nostrils plugged with wax, but that might have been going a bit too far. Perhaps, if the magician proved difficult, he would use them then, but they were for a last resort only.

  One of the handlers ran over to him and stopped in front of his horse. He jumped back quickly enough when the grumpy beast snapped at his head missing his nose by a finger length. Sharman smiled to himself; perhaps he should muzzle the old nag, it could bite just as well as any fang hound.

  “Captain!” shouted the man eagerly, “We’ve found their last camp with the embers still warm, and the hounds have their scent at last. They can only be a day in front of us at the most. Shall I release the hounds and bring them to bay?”

  “Of course not, I want them alive not chewed into bloody unrecognisable pieces. Tighten their muzzles so they don’t announce our arrival and take them to the rear. They’re only to be used if it looks like our quarry is going to escape us.”

  The man looked disappointed that his beasts were not going to be first at the kill, but he did as he was commanded. Sharman looked back at his troops and wished that he could reorganise his three squads so he could have all his own men together in one troop, but he couldn’t, so he just had to get on with it. He had spent half his adult life reacting to changing situations and had survived pretty well so far. The only difference was that in the past, he had always wanted to win and return in triumph, whilst this time, he wasn’t sure what winning would actually look like. However, that wasn’t a decision he had to make yet; the first task was to find and capture the magician. After that, he would take his opportunities as they came. He raised his hand and the troop cantered forward.

  *

  Nyte sat on top of the flat rock, her unfocused eyes fixed on a distant point, looking for all the world as if she were in a trance. She wasn’t of course, she had found what she had been searching for some time ago, but when you are a slave, moments of peace and quiet are few and far between, and should be prolonged and savoured. Resisting the temptation to look sideways at her master sitting on a nearby boulder, looking like a huge black carrion eater, she thought about what she would like to do with him. If she had a knife, she would slit his throat before he knew what had happened, but she hadn’t, and in any case, the time wasn’t right yet; she still had a use for him, but her time would come, and then she would rejoice in his death.

  If he hadn’t been her master she might have spared him, after all, he was young and handsome, and he hadn’t beaten or raped her as others had tried to do, but he was one of them, the ones who thought that all women were theirs to do with as they wished. So he had to die; only she would do it quickly as a favour to him. The others would not be so lucky. Borman and that grunter, Vorgret, would die slowly and horribly. They were the ones who had taken her away from her Lord Tallison, the only man she had ever loved.

  She didn’t know how, but she would find a way to return to him, and when she did, she would take him a prize of such value that she would never have to leave him again. What that prize would be was hidden from her for now, but she was certain that one day, it would be there for her to take. In the meantime, she would stay with Sadrin, give just enough of herself to keep him content with her company, and enjoy her freedom away from Vorgret’s lecherous eyes.

  Sadri
n was also enjoying his freedom from Vorgret. He owed the king everything, his life included, but that didn’t mean that he had to like him. The man had the manners of a mud grunter, the sexual appetite of a randy stallion and was about as trustworthy as a sly hunter. He was also intelligent, cunning and ambitious, all the qualities he admired most. So for now, he stayed by his side and played the part of a dutiful magician, and trusted that one day, in the near future, the king would honour his promise and make him High Master of Federa’s Enclave.

  He looked up to where the girl sat on a flat rock, and smiled to himself at the game they played. She pretended to be the meek slave who did everything she could to please her master, and he pretended to be her overlord, who withheld his hand from beating her, as every slave deserved, and protected her from the sexual demands of others because she was his property. The reality of their relationship couldn’t be further from the charade people saw. She was an enigma that fascinated him, a product of a violent childhood who, in return for his forbearance and protection, shared her two special gifts with him. He had no doubts that one day, when it suited her, she would leave without saying goodbye, and in all truth, he would miss her.

  It was her gift which had brought them to this place, a special ability to locate someone without ever having seen them. This gift, and her ability to take away pain with her touch were almost magical, and he wondered if there had been magic somewhere in her past. He would have liked to have known, but it was pointless asking; she rarely spoke of anything and, of her past, not at all. In a way it was a pity her gift was so effective; it had been his intention to make this trip last as long as possible, but she had been adamant that there was no need to visit the court at Alewinder, as their quarry was now in Leersland. All they needed to do was to ride long and fast, and avoid being delayed by curious people who asked too many questions.

  So that’s what they had done, crossing Essenland’s border with Vinmore, skirting the great north forest and looping around the centre of the country through lands covered with wine berry vines and fruit orchards. He thought it would be good to stop, in order to enjoy the beauty of the rich and fragrant land, but Nyte had pressed on relentlessly. Of course, they had stopped several times for her to go into a trance in order to track their quarry, but none had taken as long as this stop. He hoped it wasn’t a sign that she had lost them, Vorgret would be angry if he didn’t return with his prize.

  Now that he watched her more closely, he could see that she was playing their game of pretend, and that she wasn’t in a trance at all, but thinking about him. He stood and walked to the horses, undid both sets of reins from the low branch where they were tied and mounted his grey gelding. It was the signal that he had spotted her pretence. She walked to where he sat astride his horse, her green eyes clear and bright, and looked up at him with a knowing smile.

  “He’s less than a day away and moving rapidly towards us. We should be on him and his companions before they cross the Blue River.”

  *

  Sansun was the first to sense their approach. Although he had never been in battle, it was in his blood, a direct descendant of Leersland’s finest war horses, bred for strength and bravery. His ears shot forward and his muscles tensed as if he were preparing to change direction at the slightest command. Jonderill had felt it too, only moments after Samsun’s gait changed. It wasn’t so much a sound, as a vibration through the ground, which travelled up through his horse’s muscles and into every fibre of his being. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the first of their pursuers crest the hill behind them. From this distance he couldn’t make out who they were, but from the shroud of dust which was starting to rise, he knew that there had to be many more of them than their own small party.

  With barely a touch Sansun’s stride lengthened to a canter to come alongside Tissian’s mount and Jonderill leaned across to point behind him. His protector glanced back and shouted something, which Jonderill thought sounded like ‘bridge’ and dug in his heels making his horse spring forward into an all out gallop. The others didn’t need to be told something was wrong, they just followed Tissian’s lead up the next rise and then down the last dip to the river’s edge.

  Around them the land had been cleared of the white bark trees and weepers that usually grew near water, their wood and supple branches having been used to construct the bridge that crossed the narrow section of the Blue River. The ground around it was bare stone, with a few scattered pebbles where the river had overflowed its banks and washed the soil away, leaving just the bedrock and heavy debris behind. For a row of archers it gave an ideal killing ground, but for a lone swordsman, or even two, it was a death trap.

  Pebbles scattered in all directions as they pulled their horses to an abrupt halt, and Tarraquin’s went down on its hocks. It barged into Birrit’s horse and would have thrown her from the saddle if it hadn’t been for Jarrul’s steadying hand. By the time they had the horses back under control and facing the way they had come from, both Jonderill and Tissian had dismounted and the protector had pulled his bolt bow free from the saddle. Their pursuers could be seen more clearly now; a large group of armed men riding hard down the last hill in ordered ranks with a smaller group behind them. The first riders disappeared into the dip, although the sound of shouted commands was still just discernible over the pounding of hooves.

  “Go master! I will hold them back as long as I can.”

  Tissian pulled his body armour over his head and replaced his baldric, expecting his commands to be obeyed. Instead Jonderill spoke quick words to Sansun and slapped him lightly on the rump. The horse snorted and barrelled into the others, turning them around and herding them towards the bridge. Jarrul tried to pull his horse back but Jonderill waved him away, shouting orders that only just carried over the noise of the milling horses. He turned his horse back towards the bridge and grabbed the lead reins of the pack horse, shouting to Tarraquin to follow him. The four horses clattered across the bridge, its timbers groaning under their weight. Tarraquin took a despairing look back and then rode as hard as she could, looking for a better place to make a stand with Tissian’s empty horse and Sansun close behind.

  “You should have gone with them, master,” said Tissian in the silence which was left by the departure of the others. “I cannot protect you here against so many.”

  “I thought you would stand a better chance if we stood together. If nothing else I can pass you the bolts for your bow.”

  “A bit of magic wouldn’t go amiss either.”

  Jonderill just shrugged and followed Tissian to the front of the bridge. Close up he realised just what a rickety affair it was. Thick tree trunks had been buried into the stony ground at the four corners of the bridge, and three of the long, thin white bark tree trunks had been fastened to each pair of posts. These had then been entwined with weeper branches to form the sides of the bridge. The floor was made up of rough planking, full of knots and holes, which were tied at each corner to the lowest of the white bark trunks, so that they hung a hand span below them and barely that much above the sluggish flow of the river. From the moss and slime on the planks it was clear that they were frequently submerged, and it was likely that they were rotted through. He didn’t know much about building bridges but it looked to him like a stiff breeze would blow the whole thing away.

  As they stepped onto the bridge the whole thing creaked alarmingly and Jonderill grabbed one of the supports as the plank beneath his foot dropped slightly at one end. Tissian stood in front of him and loaded his first two bolts into his double shot bow as the enemy crested the rise in front of them. They had spread out into a line with the squad leaders in the front and for a moment they had paused as if they were weighing up the opposition. Jonderill leaned forward over Tissian’s shoulder, relieved to see that his hands were absolutely steady on the bolt bow.

  “How do protectors practice for this sort of thing?”

  “We don’t, it just comes naturally.” He looked back and gave Jonderill a mis
chievous grin, “Or at least, that’s what Allowyn told me.”

  He turned back, as the first wave of riders charged down the rise, releasing the first two bolts and flipping the next two in place whilst the release cord was still vibrating. With a smooth and well practiced motion he wound back the cord and a second set of bolts found their target before their attackers were half way down the incline. His targets had been well chosen. The squad leader and the front horses went down first causing the line behind them to falter and those around them to swerve and collide, so that by the time they had completed their descent, only a dozen men remained mounted. Tissian brought two more riders down, and then threw his bow aside.

  On the crest of the hill Sharman watched the action with interest. He had been right to be cautious and just send the one squad down; if he had committed another of them, then more horses and men would have been felled. As it was, he had forced the protector to abandon his long range weapon and still had enough men left to push home his advantage. He waited for the rest of the squad to close in with swords and finish the fight, but was surprised when the leading pair fell backwards off their horses clutching at their faces.

  Tissian threw his third knife and cursed as it missed its target. He was trying to aim and gauge the distance of the nearest swordsman at the same time, and it just wasn’t working, he needed to concentrate on one or the other. If he could just clear the right hand side they might stand a chance of surviving this charge. He threw his fourth knife and heard a scream whilst he was pulling his fifth from his baldric and fixing on his next target. As he let it fly he caught the flash of a descending blade from the corner of his eye and cut the man’s arm off at the elbow. The man shrieked and fell back but the sword continued its downward path, its tip catching Tissian’s upper arm and slicing a long gash before it fell to the ground. Tissian cursed and plunged his sixth knife into the throat of the man who had just missed his sword stroke on his other side.