Sword and the Spell 01: The Grey Robe (6 page)

Viciously the guards pulled the leather thongs tighter
until the naked man was spread to his limits and could not move. Maladran was
assailed by emotions, the guards’ sadism, the warrior’s terror and the boy’s
fear but they were nothing compared to the horror of his own feelings. He knew
what would happen next and even if the boy never remembered his past he would
not let him watch what was going to happen. Using all his skill and strength
the magician took hold of the focus of his power and began pulling it from the
boy’s mind as fast as he dare. The light moved, the scene froze and became dim
and the raging tide of emotions faded but his hold was a tenuous one and the
boy would not let go. A scream tore away the focus from his grasp and the scene
returned in vivid detail.

It was the boy’s scream and his scream and the man’s
scream joined into one as the executioner’s razor edged knife slit the man’s
flesh from gullet to groin in a single stroke. He rested his knife on the man’s
throat whilst blood poured down his body before the knife was used again to
slice across his abdomen, spilling grey entrails in its wake.

The warrior’s pain and terror were unbearable but the
boy would not release him, holding him trapped in the scene whilst pain and
emotions tore him apart and threatened his sanity. The executioner rested his
knife for a moment on the man’s extended genitals and when the knife cut again
even the guards turned away from the mutilation but they held the boy so that
the mercy of that escape was denied him. The warrior arched in one last
contortion of agony and the boy gave a scream of despair before everything went
black.

Maladran was ejected from the boy’s mind with such
force that the focus of power was instantly extinguished, plunging him into darkness
and only the boy’s scream of
 
“Jonderill!”
echoed across the void.

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Maladran
slipped into the room from his hidden entryway like a shadow. He emerged from
behind a silk and brocade drape which was heavy enough to disguise his entrance
but light enough not to bulge noticeably as he pushed passed its rich folds.
Stepping to the side, he took up one of his preferred positions in the lee of a
pillar where the polished stonework reflected the light of hundreds of candles which
lit the great hall but left him in the shadows. As usual none had noted his
arrival, being too occupied with pushing themselves forward into the centre of
the hall. They knew that standing in a shaded corner was no way to attract your
liege’s attention when he held court.

If there had been someone else present hiding in the
shadowed corners of the audience chamber, either through disgrace or devious
designs, he would have emerged further down the hall. There was a space between
the walls of the great hall and the treasury room which allowed him undisturbed
passage and from there he would have watched them carefully to see what
knowledge could be gained of their intentions. Unbeknown to those present there
had been several occasions when he had taken such advantage, to the dismay and
downfall of any who would plot against the king. He alone was aware that much
of what people claimed to be his gift of magic was merely the fruits of careful
observation and the sharp wits to take advantage of others indiscretions. If
they had asked he could have explained this to the court and eased their
suspicion of him but it did no harm for the cringing courtiers to fear him and
keep him at a distance.

Now he observed them from behind the iron throne as
they paid court to the king of Leersland and his contempt for them remained
unchanged. From his position they resembled a waddling flock of coolly birds,
all feathers and frills of cascading, garish colours. Their fine silks, imported
from across the great ocean to the far south, held the radiance of the
candlelight in a display of intermingled hues. It was a pity that the subtle
effect was ruined by the thousands of gemstones sewn into the silk, many of
them poor imitations, which snatched at the light and cast it back in jagged
beams. Their resemblance to the placid and stupid coolly bird did not stop with
their fine plumage. Those at the rear, the least of the flock, periodically
stood on their tip toes and craned their necks forward and sideways in as much
of an effort to be seen as to see what was going on. Those at the centre, who
had a much better view of proceedings, gathered together in small clutches and
bent their heads in a huddle
as they
clucked and squawked about the proceedings
before them.

They were the flock, the crumb peckers and blade
fodder when sacrifices had to be made for the good of the kingdom. The real
cocks of the roost stood in the front row, their plumage so brilliant it put
the others into the shade and their gesturing and strutting so comical that
Maladran had difficulty controlling his laughter.

Slightly in front of the three Great Lords of the
realm stood a man of no less physical stature or gaudy refinery but who
appeared shrunken and cowed. Lord Andron jabbed a finger at him making him
cringe further whilst one of the others appealed to the figure on the raised
dais for justice. Meanwhile the other Great Lord pushed the visibly shaking
sacrifice forward and then stepped back as if to touch the man would
contaminate him.

Maladran watched dispassionately; it was all a sham of
course, a charade, a game invented by the powerful houses to deflect attention
from their own activities. If it meant that one of their own number disappeared
from view every now and then what did it matter? One less noble family meant
more land for the sons of those who remained. By now the subject of their
accusations, the young Lord Tulreth, was cringing so much that he had fallen to
his knees with his forehead touching the floor.

The magician allowed himself a very small smile, he
had seen terrified coolly birds roll over and die at this stage before but this
one looked stronger than most and would likely survive the ordeal long enough to
feel the full force of the king’s justice. Maladran moved suddenly, almost surprising
himself with his decision to show himself and intervene. It was something he
rarely did when the king was holding court and passing judgment. The changes
which had come over him during his journey had made him feel magnanimous
towards the man, besides which he had waited long enough to talk to Sarrat.
Apart from anything it would give him considerable satisfaction to put the
three pompous Great Lords firmly back into their places, grovelling at the feet
of the king and, of course, the king’s magician. He sauntered towards the dais
and instantly drew the king’s attention to him.

With an imperious wave the powerfully built man on the
throne commanded immediate silence. It took no magician to sense his annoyance
and impatience with his courtier’s bickering. With just two words he sent the
gaggling flock scattering in all directions and the soldiers of the kingsguard
opened the side doors of the Great Hall to let the panicking coolly birds
escape. Only Lord Tulreth remained where he was, under armed guard in the
centre of the room with his brow pressed to the floor and his buttocks in the
air.

It was one of the things Maladran admired the most
about King Sarrat, his absolute control over the lords who gave him their
fealty. He also admired Sarrat’s strength of purpose and his determination
which had gained him the throne. Manoeuvring his way from the lowly position of
a disgraced lord’s third son to the position of High Lord had taken daring and
courage.

That had been nothing though compared to his
successful bid for the throne which had been a masterpiece of audacity and
planning. It was there that Maladran’s admiration ceased. The king was a clever
and ambitious man, but all his strongest attributes had led to bloodshed and he
cared not if his commands caused the death of his enemies or the innocent.
Whilst Maladran was not averse to dealing with the removal of others when it
was necessary he only did so to honour his vows to the king and only once had he
killed someone in pursuit of his own ambitions.

Maladran might not like the man who sat on Leersland’s
throne but he couldn’t escape the hold the king had over him. For the present,
whilst his powers continued to grow under Sarrat’s patronage, he was content to
let the situation rest. Sarrat’s rise to power had been his rise too but his
support of Sarrat had cost him his freedom and he was now as much the king’s
slave as if he had been bound to his service since childhood. He resented the
hold Sarrat had over him even though it was the way it was with his kind. Only
a king’s protection could give Federa’s initiate the chance to study and obtain
mastership of their arcane power in safety but in return they became the
property of the ruling monarch.

The alternative was to practice in secret, hoping to
become proficient and able to protect themselves before they were discovered by
the spies of one of the other five kingdoms. If they failed the end was
invariably the same, loss of both hands and inevitable death for the initiate
and anyone who had helped them.
 
The
common people feared those with the power but not as much as kings did. A
master magician at the height of his powers was always considered far too
dangerous to the security of the six kingdoms to be left to his own devices and
so the decision to live and serve Sarrat had not been a difficult one. Maladran
had seen the way others just coming to their powers had died and that held
little appeal compared to being a great man’s property.

When he had pledged obedience to Sarrat the man had
not actually been the ruling monarch, or even for that matter High Lord. He’d
just been the youngest son of a minor lord who had fallen from the king’s
favour and as such had little prospect of dying from natural causes. Sarrat had
done the only thing he could, he had found himself an ally although their
association would have had them both horribly executed if King Malute or his
magician, Yarrin, had found them out. However Sarrat had been more than willing
to take the chance of discovery knowing he needed Maladran’s power behind him
if he were to survive. Similarly the young magician needed Sarrat’s ambitions
to be fulfilled in order to lay claim to the secret of Yarrin’s unrivalled
power.

The price of achieving their ambitions had been high
on both of them. Nothing remained of the pleasant young man Sarrat had once
been and his continuing patronage had cost Maladran the life of every acolyte
he had brought to initiateship. Sarrat’s fight for survival had turned him into
a hard man who would have no one stand against him. It was one of the reasons he
had given Maladran the degrading but necessary duties of king’s soul searcher
and occasionally, executioner. Despite that it had been worth the sacrifices to
find out how Yarrin could call on the power which lay beyond the arcane without
going mad. Once he had taken this knowledge further and had become the power’s
master he would have no need to wear the collar around his neck. He would be
the most powerful of all magicians and Sarrat would no longer own him.

He pulled himself from his contemplations as the last
courtier waddled from the Great Hall and stepped further forward from the
shadows into the full exposure of bright candlelight. The kingsguard looked
uneasy at his sudden appearance and fingered their weapons nervously. He
ignored their reaction and walked purposefully towards the figure on the dais,
his eyes fixed on the king and only his long dark robe making a sound as it
trailed across the polished stone floor. At the foot of the dais Maladran
inclined his head in a brief nod. From anyone else it would have been
considered an insult worthy of punishment but Sarrat accepted it, albeit with
some annoyance. He might be king but he still needed his arrogant and powerful
magician.

Maladran remained standing; he had always refused to
prostrate himself at the king’s feet to demonstrate either his loyalty or his
subservience and wisely Sarrat had never insisted. The magician watched his
lord, a smile of greeting curling the corner of his mouth but leaving his dark
eyes cold and unaffected whilst he judged the king’s mood. He waited in
silence, knowing the king expected him to speak first and watched for Sarrat’s
volatile temper to reach the edge of explosion before stepping in with the
expected courtesy.

“I’m at your service, My Lord.” As always he had
gauged Sarrat’s mood to perfection, dangerously using the familiar form of
address which would not be tolerated from anyone else.

“
You’re late; my guards tell me you returned yesterday.”

Maladran looked contrite in mock appeasement. “That’s
true but I hardly thought Your Majesty would care to share my dust and grime
from the road as well as the information your humble servant carries.”

Sarrat gave a burst of cynical laughter but a genuine
smile of pleasure creased his face, momentarily softening the hard features. He
stood and descended the three steps from the dais, throwing an arm around the
magician’s shoulder and guiding him towards one of the Great Hall’s many doors.

“Since when have you been a humble anything?” he
questioned with a laugh. “If I remember rightly the last time I reminded you of
your lowly position you threatened me with brewer’s droop for a year.”

“Ah yes,” replied Maladran, remembering the heated
argument over the wardship of a lord’s pretty, orphaned daughter, “but as I
recall you were threatening to have me castrated like a common slave at the
time.”

Sarrat laughed with a malicious glint in his eye
whilst a kingsguard opened the door to allow the two men to pass through into a
small private room decorated with considerable comfort and style. “But she was
such a pretty wench wasn’t she Maladran?”

“She was indeed My Lord and from what I hear she has
turned out to be a woman of exceptional beauty who is loved and honoured by her
husband and three children. It would have been a great pity to despoil such
delicate fruit for a few nights pleasure, especially when there are always so
many others more willing.”

“So I recall you counselling me at the time, only
threatening me with the pox was taking your point too far.”

“So was threatening to take my balls,” retorted
Maladran.

Both men laughed at their past encounter although at
the time it had been no laughing matter. The king poured two silver goblets
full of deep, red wine and handed one to the magician, indicating him to be
seated. Maladran chose a hard wooden chair without any padding but supporting a
magnificently carved high back of entwined dragons. It was his usual place,
half in the shadows with the sun behind him. Sarrat chose a more comfortable
chair which seemed to wrap around his short but muscular frame, giving the
magician the advantage of both height and light.

“Well, will High Lord Coledran return to my court?”
Sarrat asked when he was settled.

“Most certainly, My Lord. Surprisingly the illness
which kept him from your presence appears to have been genuine; I found him
barely able to walk and for most of the time incoherent.

“He’s been like that since the night we took the
throne,” laughed Sarrat.

“True, but for once this was not due to a surfeit of
red wine. However he will recover rapidly now, although he has found the cure a
most bitter one to swallow.” Sarrat raised an eyebrow in question. “Even as we
speak your will has been made known to the High Lord although I regret that his
only son will be unable to follow him to court as he is no longer heir to the
family name. That honour will have to go to another.”