Sword and the Spell 01: The Grey Robe (4 page)

The boy shifted his weight from one aching leg to the
other, not knowing what to do. It was starting to get dark and a cool breeze
was rustling the leaves on the trees sounding as if the forest edge was alive. If
he remained at the man’s side until he woke he would undoubtedly think him lazy
and would beat him, or worse send him away, but if he woke the man his reaction
was likely to be the same. Perhaps that was what the man wanted when he had
pushed him from his horse that morning.

Despite being pushed roughly from the horse and then being
ignored he didn’t want to be sent away, even if staying did mean a beating. If
he was to live he needed to belong somewhere and at least this man had shown
him more kindness than anyone else had for as long as he could ever remember. A
sudden resolve made him straighten his shoulders and take notice of his
surroundings. He would show the man he could be useful, he would make camp and
cook a meal and then the man might want to keep him after all.

Dark days in the squalid confines of the kingsward
compound where food had been thrown into a trough and fires had been strictly
forbidden, had done nothing to prepare the boy for setting up a camp in the
middle of the wilds. Neither had his experience of shovelling dung as a middin
boy been of much use although he’d watched the stable hands caring for the horses
and caring for a man couldn’t be that much different. Somewhere at the back of
his mind he knew he should know more but like so many other things they lay
hidden just beneath the surface, tantalisingly close but untouchable. What he
did know was that the Stablemaster always insisted the horses should be seen to
first, which seemed to him to be a good place to start.

Approaching the horse carefully as it continued to
nibble at the roadside grass he nervously took hold of the horse’s bridle and
slipped the reins from the man’s hand. When the horse raised its head he was
pleased to find the towering animal followed him without resistance. Carefully
he led the horse across the road to a grassy knoll backed by a thick stand of everleaf
trees. He’d heard the sound of running water from the road and with some
difficulty he pulled the horse through the trees to where a small stream tumbled
over a jumble of rocks. A small pool formed at one edge where a tree had fallen
at which the horse obligingly drank until it had taken its fill. The boy stood
ankle deep in the water letting its coolness soothe his bruises and abrasions
until the horse became restless. It started to move across the stream and further
into the woods and the boy followed until he found a clearing with spindly
woodland grass and enough room to move freely.

He looked around him, not sure if it would be best to
sleep in the woods or by the roadside. The horse seemed content enough so he
rummaged in the saddlebags until he found the hobble which he had seen
tethering the animal before and with some difficulty attached it to the horse
and removed its bridle. Being careful not to disturb the man, he lifted down
the saddle bags and pouches containing food and cooking equipment and placed
them in a neat pile.

As the middin boy he’d watched the stable hands
rubbing horses down when they came back from exercise with hay but there was
none in the small clearing so he pushed his way back through the trees until he
came to the roadway where he could pull up handfuls of dried grass. The grass
was tough and cut into his hands. He started to worry about leaving the horse
alone for so long so he took what he had and returned to the clearing. The
horse hadn’t moved and the boy gave a sigh of relief as he rubbed down the
parts of the horse he could reach. He knew it was not as good as using hay but
the horse seemed to like the attention and rubbed its nose against his shoulder
almost knocking him over.

By the time he’d finished his back ached and his arms
burnt with the effort but the bay horse looked contented as it munched at the
oats he had spread on the ground for it. Now he had to concentrate on the rest
of the camp which was becoming darker as the sun disappeared completely behind
the distant hills. He looked up from the pile of belongings and jumped as somewhere
nearby a sly hunter howled and a huge black sky flyer cawed raucously as it
settled down to roost. With a flash of panic the boy realised he had been
foolish and that the clearing would very quickly be in total darkness. He knew
he should have made a fire first and then dealt with the horse later but now
there was only a little time left and still so much for him to do. In
desperation he looked at the man still sitting, unmoving on his horse and a
part of him wished that he would wake up and tell him what to do whilst the
other part hoped he would stay asleep and not see how foolish he had been.

He put his tiredness to one aside and began the task
of building a fire circle of stones just as he had seen at the last camp.
Stones were plentiful by the stream side but he had to prise each one out of
its embedded position and then carry them to the clearing. His thin arms ached
and his tired legs shook as he put the last stone in place. He knew that the
fire circle had to be cleared of grass before he could light the fire but he
didn’t have a knife and he was afraid to take the one from the man’s belt in
case he woke him. Instead he did the only thing he could and stripped the turf
away with his bare hands. By the time he had finished his hands were bleeding and
in the distance more than one sly hunter was calling into the fast approaching
night.

Hurriedly he pulled the man’s possessions closer to
the circle of stones and untied the small leather bucket from the saddle so he
could fetch water from the stream. He crouched down on the smooth stones by the
stream’s edge letting the cold water run over his fingers, sooth his dirty,
aching hands and looked around him as the bucket filled. On the far side of the
stream he could just make out the grassy knoll where the horse had stopped. The
stand of trees in between looked dark and ominous with the last of the daylight
reaching only as far as the nearest trunks. Behind him on the other side of the
clearing the woods looked even darker. He needed to gather wood for the fire
and that meant he needed to go further into the dark woods where there would be
fallen branches.

He shuddered; he was afraid of the dark. In the
kingsward compound darkness had been a time of danger and fear when long tailed
gnawers would scurry around where he lay, some of them running over his feet if
he kept too still. It was in the dark that the warders came into the compound and
he would hide in a small crevice between two stone walls whilst the men took
the older boys away. Only a few ever returned, bruised and bloody. The darkness
of the trees held the same kind of fear but like the terrors of the compound he
knew they couldn’t be avoided. With another shudder of apprehension he took the
full bucket back to the clearing and then stepped back into the darkness and
began the task of collecting fallen branches for the fire.

The fearful journey into the dark wood was made six
times. Each time he returned clutching a small armful of wood until the call of
a sly hunter made him stop and look around the darkening camp in alarm. The
call came from the right in the direction of the road and was close enough to
make the bay gelding move restlessly at its hobble. It whickered nervously as
another howl came from the left, answered by one even closer by.

He knew nothing about the ways of sly hunters although
he had once seen the marks of their fangs on two of the High Lord’s dead hounds
after a hunting party. He thought they must be something like the scavengers
which roamed the alleyways of the poor quarter at night and prowled outside the
kingsward compound. Sometimes one would get in and then there would be screams
and blood until someone came with a firebrand to chase the creature away. The
memory made him whimper in fear; he needed to have a fire desperately but had
no idea how to start it.

His hands shook as he stacked twigs and branches in
the fire circle in a close heap. He didn’t want to touch the man’s possessions
in case he thought he was a thief but he was so desperate he started to search
in the leather pouches for anything which might start a blaze but nothing seemed
familiar or suitable. More sly hunters joined the pack and called eagerly at
the edge of the camp, close enough for the horse to whinny and stamp in fear.
His panic grew as he tried to remember the little he knew about fire but he was
sure he had never seen one lit except once when dried grass was ignited by the
strike of a stallion’s hoof against stone cobbles.

Perhaps that’s what he needed, iron and stone. He
rummaged frantically through the man’s belongings, his desperate fingers untying
the pouches and scattering the contents across the ground until he found a
small black object which felt like metal. Desperately he scurried back to the
fire circle and pounded the metal against a grey river stone but nothing
happened. He tried again with the same result and once again as the shape of a
sly hunters became visible, slinking through the trees.

“Please light,” he cried frantically, tears of
frustration and anguish blurring his vision. “Please!” He struck the two
objects again, distraught by his failure as the horse screamed and danced away
from the grey creatures which closed in around it.

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With a loud crash the fireball exploded in a flash of
brilliance which sent the pack of sly hunters scuttling away in confusion. The
boy cried out in surprise and staggered backwards, tripping on a branch poking
out of the circle of stones and sitting down hard on the loamy soil. A glowing
ball of flame rose in the air in front of him and slowly descended towards the
piled wood. He scuttled back nearly as hastily as the pack had done and watched
in awe as the ball of fire nestled in the centre of the fire circle and
instantly ignited the wood he had so desperately tried to light.

Confused by what he had seen the boy wiped away the
tears of panic with the back of his grubby hand, trying to understand what had
happened. He looked up and his confusion changed to terror as he cringed back
with a startled cry. Across the fire, his face tinged red from the dancing,
scarlet flames, stood the magician, his eyes deep set and the black pupils
alight with the reflection from the flames. His dark cloak mingled with the
shadows, making him appear part of them and only the glowing rubies in the gold
torc at his throat separated him from the darkness beyond.

“You should have called me, boy,” Maladran said in a
stern, accusing voice.

“I didn’t want to wake you, master.” The boy paused
for a moment gathering his courage, “and I thought I could be of some service
to you and then you .......” His voice trailed away to a whisper. He had been
foolish; how could he think that a small boy like him could be of use to such a
powerful lord?

Maladran looked around him, impressed by the boy’s
determination. After being curtly dismissed and walking all day on bare feet
the preparation of the camp must have pressed him to the limits of his endurance.
Maladran repressed a smile and felt an unaccountable pride in the boy’s achievements.

“You have done well enough boy, only next time don’t
try and start a fire with a whetstone; they are for sharpening swords and
knives and not for making sparks.” He walked around the fire to take the stone
from the boy’s hand and then dropped it amongst his scattered belongings. “And
never rifle through another man’s possessions in case he thinks you are a thief
and runs you through with his newly sharpened sword.”

“No, master.”

The man turned on the boy savagely, his annoyance at
his use of the hated title spilling over into anger. “And don’t ever call me
that again. I am a slave to no man and no man belongs to me and that includes
you, boy.”

The boy’s lip trembled and his shoulders drooped at
the clear rejection. The magician felt the emotion as much as he saw it and was
torn between ending the disturbing, tenuous link between them or praising the
boy for his initiative. He settled on something in between.

“My name is Maladran.”

The boy gave a small cry and looked from the
unnaturally started fire back to the tall man, his rekindled fear touching the
magician like small pointed knives. So, even the lowest dregs of society knew
his name and feared his powers. Somehow the confirmation of this fact didn’t please
him as he thought it should and he realised he wanted this small grubby boy to
like him. He pushed the unwanted and worrisome thought from his mind.

“See, boy, now you know who I am you will be eager to
be free of me. The sooner we can clear up this mess the sooner we can eat and
sleep. Tomorrow we will reach my tower and the following day the city of
Tarmin, then you will be free of me. Now pack these things away whilst I see to
the horse and some food.”

Maladran turned away from the boy determined not to
notice his tears and pulled down every mental shutter he had against the boy’s
emotions. The magician threw himself into the task of preparing a meal from the
dried meat and vegetables he took from his saddlebag but still the boy’s
confused feelings intruded on his thoughts. He put the old battered cooking pot
over the burning logs, filled it half way with the water from the leather
bucket that the boy had filled and then unsaddled the horse and finished the
work that the boy had started.

It had been a long time since there had been somebody
to help him when he travelled on the king’s business or in his tower. He
chuckled to himself; volunteers to travel with him from the kingsguard or the
people of Tarmin were hard to find. With a final pat on his horse’s neck he
returned to the fire and ladled out two dishes of not very appetising stew for
the boy and himself.

By the time the boy’s head nodded forward onto his
chest and the plate he had been holding slid slowly from his fingers Maladran
had made a decision. The boy was so thin and vulnerable and had felt so much
pain and fear in his few years of life that he couldn’t help feeling pity for
him. He knew what it was like to be alone but he had always had the love of the
goddess and his magic to protect him, even as a small child. This one had no
one to protect him from the horrors of the kingsward compound where he had
planned to return him. If he left him there alone he would more than likely die
of starvation or end up the property of some fat merchant which would be even
worse. The simple solution would be to arrange for the boy to be passed to
another for training, someone who would be too scared of his retribution to carry
out their duty with the Stablemaster’s harsh hand.

Satisfied with his decision he collected the horse
blanket from his pile of belongings and placed it at the far side of the fire by
the boy and then carefully rolled him over and laid him on the blanket. The boy’s
weight was nothing and his exhaustion so deep that he failed to stir, even when
Maladran placed the depleted sack of oats under the boy’s head and his own
cloak over his thin body. The night was cold but he wouldn’t miss his cloak
that much. With the good supply of wood the boy had gathered it would be easy to
keep a natural fire burning and later he had work to do which would provide its
own heat. He picked up the dishes and cooking pot and rinsed them in the
stream. There was no sign of the sly hunters returning so he pulled up some
flour roots which always grew near fresh running water and buried them in the
ashes at the edge of the fire for tomorrow’s breakfast. Listening to the boy’s
gentle breathing he waited for the moon to rise above the trees.

For most of the day he had been in a deep trance
cutting off the world around him and finding the peace which often eluded him
in the rare moments he slept. In his tranced state there was no one to make
demands of him, his power was quiescent and the dark side of his nature, which
became more dominant as his powers grew, was stilled. The escape had refreshed
his mind and had let him forget the price that he had paid so he could wear the
demon-engraved torc. The trance had renewed his powers but it had robbed him of
a day of living. In a trance he could not hear the birds sing, or see the green
leaves outlined against the sky or feel the touch of the cool wind on his skin.
He could not taste the sweetness of cold spring water or smell the fragrance of
the fresh grass, crushed beneath his horse’s hooves. In fact he might as well
have been dead.

However the respite had been necessary even if it was
only to clear his mind of the smell of burning flesh that he had left behind in
High Lord Coledran’s Grand Hall. It had been an unpleasant way for his son to
die but necessary. He had also needed to regain his strength to resist the
demands of the powerful artefact he wore which whispered to him to abandon his
humanity in exchange for its power. The increased frequency with which he
needed to escape into a trance worried him as it became harder to completely
quell the torc’s seduction. He touched the metal band and wondered how its
previous owner had come to master the demon within and what words of wisdom he
would have for his student now. They were likely to be harsh words considering
he had murdered the old man.

The light of the full moon slanting between the trees cut
through his sombre thoughts and he looked to see if it was high enough in the
sky to start his night’s work. He sighed knowing that tomorrow he would
probably need to go into his tranced state again but he put the thought out of
his mind as he began to concentrate on the task ahead of him. Scrying had never
been one of his better skills, particularly an undetected scrying of a residue
image but it had to be done that way or the subject’s interfering and doddering
old guardians would detect his presence and might even attempt to block his
sight. With his plans for the future that would never do.

Carefully he removed a small silver globe, no bigger
than a breakfast egg from his saddle bag and held it at arm’s length as he
concentrated on the fire. He felt its flames burn against the back of his eyes
and the light sear the delicate nerves. When his mind was consumed by the
burning red light he closed his eyes slowly, dousing the flames in his mind until
not even the afterimage of the glowing coals remained. He opened his eyes again
to a blackness lit only by the silver light of the moon’s brilliance.

Slowly he raised his head to study the shining body
and felt its touch in his mind. When his mind was full of the white glare he
pulled his eyes away from the moon and fixed them on his own metal globe held
at an arm’s span away and pushed the light from his mind. The silver ball, a miniature
of the one which hung in the sky and his own, floated in the air above his outstretched
hands, steady except for the slightest quiver. Maladran adjusted his position
as coloured images wrapped around the silver globe before being absorbed into
its structure.

“Daun,” he whispered in a voice cold with malice.

The silver globe vibrated and grew, its surface
stretching to become a swirl of white and greys, splitting into random colours
which formed and reformed until the moiling surface stabilised into an image of
perfect clarity. It was a room of considerable luxury. Delicate blanchwald
furniture, polished to a sheen with intricate carvings filled the sunlit room.
Delicately woven drapes of wine and peach were pulled open to reveal a long
crystal-paned door with a colourful garden beyond. A deep blue carpet of soft
wool covered the entire floor, giving the room an air of comfort and warmth.
Bright pictures hung on the walls in guilt frames and a small glass chandelier
caught the sunlight sending rainbow colours across the walls. But it was not
the room’s contents which interested the magician.

In the centre of the room, on the deep blue carpet sat
a small child in a carefully embroidered robe of white silk and lace frills.
The tiny flowers of brilliant sky blue seemed dull compared to the child’s
sparkling eyes and the sunlight which slanted through the crystal doors
appeared tarnished next to the gold of her curly, shoulder-length hair. Pink
cheeks, as delicate as passion fruit, glowed against creamy skin and her parted
lips would shame the deepest red berry in the forest. Her features were fine
and delicate and although she was only in her fourth summer, there was no
mistaking the graceful and beautiful woman she would grow to be.

“She’s beautiful,” said the boy in awe and wonder.

For a moment the image wavered as the magician cast a
brief glance at the boy who sat up wrapped in his cloak. He turned his
attention back to the image, steadying it and studying it intently.

“Who is she?”

Maladran struggled to hold the image steady. It was
difficult to focus his sight on what had taken place hours previously and
converse at the same time in the present. “Her name is Daun but her beauty is
deceptive. Watch.”

A small grey kittling, soft and fluffy and with a
plaited red leather collar lay curled asleep in her lap. The little girl looked
around to make sure nobody was watching and gave an impish grin before hooking
her fingers beneath the red collar and quickly jumping to her feet, allowing
the kittling to dangle by its noose only inches from the ground. The unfortunate
creature gave a startled yowl, cut short as its tormentor swung it from side to
side, laughing with a perverse joy as the yowl turned into a choking splutter.

As if realising she was strangling the poor creature
she let it regain its feet but only long enough for it to gasp a breath before
she yanked it into the air again, laughing delightedly at its terrified squeal.
After her third repetition of this game the girl became bored and still
dangling the choking kitlling by its collar she walked purposely through the
open doors and into the sunlit garden beyond. She looked around to see who else
was in the confines of the garden and then set off again, her destination
obvious.

“No!” cried the boy, staring at the image in horror. “The
kittling will drown.”

“Wait and watch,” warned Maladran.

The little girl skipped brightly to the edge of a
large decorative pond where water lilies bloomed at the centre and turquoise
dragon-flies skimmed its surface and with a mighty swing flung the kittling as
far into the centre of the pond as she could manage. The unfortunate creature
hit a water lily pad with a thwack and stayed afloat long enough to gasp a much
needed breath before it disappeared beneath the surface. It bobbed up again
showing a small wet head with terrified eyes and a soundlessly gaping mouth.
Daun screamed in frustration at the creature’s audacity which immediately
brought the attentions of the garden boy who was tending a nearby flower bed.
He ran to her side and on seeing the drowning kittling pulled off his sandals
to wade in to save the drowning animal.