Sword and the Spell 01: The Grey Robe (19 page)

Jonderill looked up, the bruise on the side of his
face showing the pattern of a hand. He had barely left the practice yard when
Redruth had stopped him, striking him across his cheek with his gauntleted hand
in challenge for the humiliation Jonderill had caused him. After the
Housecharge’s warning about fighting, Jonderill dared not accept the challenge
so Redruth had used the broadside of his sword to vent his feelings of anger whilst
his friends kept watch.

If it hadn’t been for Barrin’s timely arrival, Redruth
could have made the error of judgment the Cadetmaster feared. He wanted to tell
Barrin it was all right and it didn’t matter but it did, more than Barrin could
ever understand. Perhaps Animus had been right all along, perhaps he should
concentrate all his efforts into becoming a magician and forget about being
like everyone else.

“It won’t happen again,” said Barrin. “I’ll see to
that.”

Jonderill shook his head. “No it won’t happen again
because I won’t be going to sword practice again.”

“You don’t mean that do you? I know how much you
wanted to learn swordcraft”

Jonderill painfully flexed his bruised fingers and
considered his answer. He didn’t want to mean it, but he didn’t want Barrin
fighting his battles either. Before he could reply, an angry shout for Barrin to
move cut through the noise of the inn. Barrin jumped to his feet and clutched
the pitcher of ale.

“I’ve got to go, my dad’ll skin me if he sees me here
sitting and talking to you when the place is so busy. You stay there and drink
your ale and I’ll be back when I’ve been ‘round with the ale jug again.”

He left the table almost at a run and was instantly
lost in the growing crowd which had come to hear Tavlon play. Jonderill knew if
he sat there for much longer the innkeeper would come and shift him to make room
for paying guests and he didn’t feel up to being told his presence was not required
twice in one day. He left the table and pushed his way through a group of men
smelling of straw and horses. The smell jogged unpleasant memories and Jonderill
elbowed his way through the crowd, eager to be outside in the night air and
away from people.

Outside of the packed inn with its smoke and noise and
smell of stale sweat, the night was cool and dark. Torches burnt in brackets at
each street end, giving off a creamy yellow light, sufficient to light the way
but gentle enough not to take the blackness away from the sky. There was no
moon but thousands of stars speckled the heavens as if someone had thrown them
up into the air and they had stuck to the black velvety surface. He began to
walk, still staring at the sky and drinking in its calming influence.

The Princess’s birthday celebrations were going on in
the palace and the place would be bursting with people and noise. He wanted to
be alone so he carried on walking passed the turning he would normally take to
the magician’s tower. The streets beneath his feet were now as familiar as the
striped pattern on Plantagenet’s best robe, which he had pressed that morning,
so he didn’t have to think where he was going, only let his mind wander.

His mind picked up the sound of approaching footsteps
and automatically guided him away from the human contact he didn’t think he
could face and down a less well lit side street. Here the sky seemed even
darker and the stars brighter. He had an overwhelming urge to stand in total
darkness and solitude and let his mind reach out to the stars’ distant light.
When more footsteps approached he didn’t hesitate but turned almost instinctively
down a small unlit roadway.

After a score of paces the roadway opened into one of
the city’s many squares redolent with the smell of flowering honeyvine but
unusually not lit by torchlight. He crossed to the centre of the square and
found the stone bench and marble statue of some past Vinemaster which he knew
would be there. With a sigh of satisfaction he leant back against the statue and
watched the stars, oblivious to anything else.

A glow of torchlight interrupted his contemplation and
with some annoyance he turned towards the roadway he had recently trod. A tall
man held the torch, its flickering light obscuring Jonderill’s sight of him.
Lost in shadow, Jonderill felt that he should have known the man and a sudden apprehension
made him sit up. Surely Redruth had taken enough revenge for one day. He stood
slowly and began to walk away towards one of the other streets which opened
into the square but before he could reach the entrance, another torch carrier
appeared, blocking his way. This one was smaller and more stocky and looked
like he would know how to handle a blacksmith’s hammer.

Jonderill’s apprehension turned to fear and he broke
into a run, intent on reaching one of the other exits before whoever it was could
cut him off, but torches were already there
 
and figures blocked every exit except one. The
figures started to move towards him and Jonderill knew he was being herded into
the remaining unlit passageway but as his only other option was to try and
defend himself in the open he decided to give it a chance. There was always the
slim possibility that the passageway would supply some means of escape.

He reached the entrance before those carrying the
torches and shot down the cobbled path without further hesitation even though
it was obviously a trap. High walls of smooth polished stone towered on either
side with another one at the end of the passageway. It was a part of the crenulated
city wall standing nearly twice his height and blocking his exit. He looked
around for doors or windows through which he might escape but the walls were
featureless, neither did the smooth stone offer any possibility of handholds
for climbing. Anxiously he studied the gap at the end of the unlit street passageway
which was now filled with armed figures but they were men and not boys. When
the tallest of them stepped forward Jonderill instantly knew who it was.

“Well if it aint the magician lovin’ dirt crawler out
takin’ the air an’ lookin’ for someone’s arse to lick.”

“Leave me alone, Tarris.”

“Leave yer alone? What, after our last meetin’ when
yer tried to burn down me stables wiv yer filthy magic tricks? I’ll leave yer
alone all right but only after me friends an' I’s ‘ad what we want from yer.”
He turned to his four helpers. “Take ‘im an old ‘im real tight, an’ watch owt
for ‘is ‘ands, they spit fire.”

Tarris stepped back and the four men moved forwards,
their swords sheathed but with weighted clubs in their hands. He knew he
couldn’t fight them, each man weighed twice as much as he did. His only hope
was to let them come as close as possible and then dive between their legs and
make a run for it but in the enclosed space he didn’t fancy his chances. As the
men came within three paces Jonderill dived low, knocking the centre man
sprawling and catching another a glancing blow which made him stumble
backwards. The fallen man groaned but Jonderill only managed one more step
before one of the two remaining men grabbed him by the arm twisting it
viciously behind his back and the other grabbed him by the hair. He cried out
as an iron grip dug into earlier bruises and ceased all resistance before his
arm was wrenched from its socket.

One of the men lifted him from his feet and slammed
him hard against the wall. His breath left his body in a rush of air and his
head rang where it collided with the stone. Before he could collapse to the
ground two of his attackers lifted him from the floor and stretched his arms against
the wall holding his hands so he couldn’t produce elemental fire even if he had
the concentration to do so. He managed a gasp of breath as another closed in on
him but in an instant that was knocked from his body. The men laid into him with
fists and clubs and when his legs began to give way Tarris came forward,
torchlight reflecting off the long blade in his hand.

“Now me mates ‘ave ‘ad their fun it’s my turn an’ I’m
goin’ ter do somethin’ to yer which yer aint goin’ to forget in a long, long
time.”

He took a step forward and lowered his blade.
Jonderill closed his eyes and helplessly waited for Tarris to begin but instead
of the searing agony of the cut he expected, his arms were very nearly ripped
from his sides as the passageway erupted into chaos. Bodies dropped from the
wall behind him accompanied by screams and shouts and the sound of sword
against sword. He opened his eyes to see Redruth charging passed him, sword in
hand, with four other cadets behind him.

The men dropped Jonderill and scrambled to form a
defensive line in front of Tarris, hoping to withdraw into the open square and
use the advantage of strength against their young opponents. Tarris, as yet
unblooded, took quick note of the situation and ran as if a trolsterk was after
him, escaping into the square only a moment before another group of cadets arrived
from another direction, trapping the men between them. Outflanked and
hopelessly outnumbered the men dropped their weapons and backed against the
wall with their hands held high in submission. The cadets closed in but stopped
just short of an arm’s length, holding them at sword point and looking eagerly
to their leader for a chance to blood their swords for the first time.

Barrin helped Jonderill to his feet and then looked at
his eager friends and shook his head. With some disappointment the cadets
reluctantly lowered their swords. Meanwhile Redruth had pushed to the front and
stood staring disdainfully at the men with his hands braced on his hips, just
as he had seen the Cadetmaster do.

“When you see that cowardly gnawer who ran off and
left you to our mercy, you can tell him that if he ever tries to lay a finger
or anything else on Jonderill again he will face the anger and retribution of
the king’s cadets and the knight’s squires. Now just to remind you to deliver
this message we’re going to give you a taste of your own medicine.” He stepped
back behind the grinning ring of cadets and squires. “Broadside lads and then
run them out of here.”

The young swordsmen yelled like tortured souls from
hellden’s halls and enthusiastically carried out the reminder with the flat of
their blades before letting the men go, chasing them for a short way with
shouted jeers and insults. In a moment they returned, noisy and laughing to
stand around Jonderill, Barrin and Redruth.

“Thanks,” said Jonderill in a shaky voice. “I thought
I’d had it that time.”

“Think nothing of it; it makes a nice change to use
our swords on real people instead of dummies. Not that I could tell much
difference except they screamed and ran away and the dummies don’t.”

“How did you know I was in trouble?” asked Jonderill
through the laughter.

“We didn’t,” replied Barrin, “but Redruth had just
come in to the inn when you left and he recognised the men from the stables as
they followed you out. He guessed something was going on.”

“We would have been here sooner only we couldn’t drag
Tuckin away from his dinner” added Redruth.

“Thank you,” said Jonderill again against another peal
of laughter.

“It’s nothing,” said Redruth, “especially after what
you did for Lias.”

“We’d do the same for any sword brother,” added
Tuckin.

Redruth put his arm around Jonderill’s shoulder. “You’re
one of us now.”

~
   
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The six
black horses with their waving black plumes walked steadily through the
ornamental gateway, the carriage they were pulling lurching slightly as it left
the smooth roadway behind and rolled across the cobbled courtyard. Behind the
coach rode the Household Guard, their usual red-plumed helmets changed for
black and black cloaks covering their dress uniforms. Once inside the gateway
with the gates firmly closed behind them the guard wheeled away left and right
to return to their barracks and the coach pulled up under the covered portico.
Drizzle continued to fall from a grey, leaden sky and outside the gates of the
palace the damp crowd began to disperse back to their homes in the city of
Dartis in silence; the only sound the mournful ringing of the city bells.

The footman, also dressed in black, opened the coach
door and pulled down the steps, waiting for the two passengers to alight. The
first was a man of middle years with short salt and pepper hair, matching
moustache and beard and soft grey eyes, red rimmed with recent tears. He
stepped back from the carriage and held out his hand to assist the second
passenger from the coach but had his proffered hand slapped ungratefully out of
the way by the Crown Prince.

At fourteen, Prince Newn of Tarbis was tall for his
age but had the slight build that he had inherited from his mother. The rest of
his features were all his father’s, wavy brown hair with a slight hint of red
and deep brown eyes. His nature was all his own.

“I don’t need your assistance and get these men out of
their bloody black garb, it’s bad enough that I have to wear it without having
to look at it as well.”

He stamped up the steps leading to the palace’s Grand
Reception Hall throwing his gloves and helmet onto the floor followed by his
sword belt, scabbard and blunted blade. The sword skidded across the white
marble floor and one of the many soberly dressed servants scuttled after it.
The Prince glowered at her and she hastily stepped back into line with the
other waiting servants.

Lord Farrion followed his nephew up the first flight
of stairs, along the corridor with guards at each end and into the prince’s
private chambers. Newn pulled off his black jacket, not bothering with the
silver cuff buttons which tore away from the delicate fabric and rolled across
the floor. He threw the jacket in the direction of the fire grate before
collapsing into a padded chair by the fire.

“Pour me a drink.”

Farrion scowled at the boy but went to the dresser and
poured a small amount of red wine into a silver goblet and topped it up with a
double measure of water from a matching silver jug.

“From now on I will have my wine without water, and I
want that maid punished, nobody steps out of their place when I pass.”

Farrion picked up the goblet of watered wine, crossed
the room and held it out towards the prince who glared back at him. His uncle
shrugged and put the goblet on the table by the prince’s chair before sitting
in the comfortable chair opposite him.

“That was a boring waste of time. I should have been
in Vinmore at Princess Daun’s birthday celebrations instead of having to listen
to that old windbag droning on about life after death. The man’s a fucking idiot
if he believes in that stuff; when you’re dead you’re dead.”

“Your Highness! You should have more respect for the
High Priest, he’s the head of your temple and that was your parent’s funeral.”

“I would have more respect for him if he had kept his
mouth shut and anyway, why couldn’t they have died after Daun’s birthday
celebrations.”

“It would have been better if they had not died at all.
Your Highness”.

Newn shrugged, “It didn’t do you much harm did it?
From minor lord of a forgotten backwater estate to regent of Tarbis in one
single move, but you’d better get this through your head, uncle, you’re not the
ruler here, I am. It’s me who’ll live in the king’s apartments and me who’ll
sit on the throne and when I am twenty you will go back to your estates and be
forgotten and the realm will belong to me. You’re just a caretaker and if I’m
not happy with the way you’ve managed things then I will make certain that you
never return anywhere.” He swigged back his wine and held out his goblet to be
refilled. “Now where’s that damn white magician?”

Farrion pulled himself out of the comfortable chair
and fetched the flaggon of wine, topping his goblet up first and pouring the
the little bit which was left into Newn’s goblet. “I’ve sent for him, Your
Highness. Please take my advice and treat him with care; Callabris is a
powerful man and it wouldn’t be wise to upset him.”

“Bollocks, he’s a white; he can’t even take a life without
being sick whereas any one of my men could kill him without thinking about it if
I wanted them to.”

“You underestimate his powers and the strength of his
protector, together they are formidable.”

“Rot. If he were a black he would be dangerous but whites
are useless, I don’t know why my father didn’t get rid of him and keep a real
magician.”

A knock on the door interrupted them before Newn could
continue. A servant, now dressed in house livery instead of black, opened the door
allowing the magician and his protector to enter. The tall magician, dressed
all in white bowed briefly whilst behind him his protector searched the room
with his eyes, finally settling them intensely on the prince. His arms hung loosely
at his sides but his hands were tense as if at any second he would unsheathe
the double swords that crossed at his back.

“Well, what have you found out?”

Callabris bowed slightly and took two steps forward.
“It is as your uncle suggested, Your Highness. The landslide which swept your
parents’ carriage into the ravine was not natural. There were signs that part
of the hillside had been undermined and that it had been shored up with logs
until the time was right to pull them away and let it slide. We found shattered
logs at the bottom of the ravine and I detected traces of man sweat in the
wooded area above the road.”

“It was fortunate that this happened when they were on
their way to visit you rather than when you were returning with them, wasn’t it
Uncle otherwise it would have been your funeral today as well as theirs?”

Lord Farrion ignored the comment. “Were you able to
follow and find those who did this terrible thing?”

“I regret not, the landslide obliterated any tracks
and the heavy rain in the area has made it difficult to follow any other
traces. The area is full of hidden valleys where it is easy to hide a palace
let alone a few men who don’t want to be found.”

“How convenient.” Newn left his chair and walked to
the dresser where he poured himself a full goblet of wine, staring back at his
uncle in challenge. “I don’t know why my father supported you, Callabris;
you’re a waste of space. You failed to protect my father and mother and then
you fail to track down the men who killed them. In fact you’re even more useless
than that worthless brother of yours who let King Duro of Sandstrone die.
Perhaps you should meet the same fate as he did for your continuous failures.”

Callabris said nothing but behind him his protector
took a threatening step forward ready to defend his master if anyone moved
towards him.

“That’s enough,” interposed Farrion. “Callabris, His Highness
is upset and is not thinking straight. It might be best if you and protector
Allowyn returned to where the landslide happened and tried again to pick up the
trail. We’ll send for you when your presence at court will once again be
appreciated.”

Callabris bowed briefly and left the room followed
closely by Allowyn. The door had barely closed when Newn threw his goblet of
wine at the door. It clattered noisily to the floor and the wine ran down the
pale silverbark wood and pooled on the marble floor like fresh blood.

“I don’t want him here again; get rid of him and get
me a black. And if you ever talk to me like that again I’ll make you pay.” Newn
kicked the goblet out of the way and left the room, slamming the door behind
him and leaving red foot marks along the hallway.

Lord Farrion sighed deeply and refilled his goblet
before returning to stare into the flames in the fire grate. Perhaps the boy
did have a point, the magician did fail his father and it could be beneficial
to have the magician and his damned shadow removed before the prince changed
his mind and wanted them back again. A small smile crossed his features. The
boy was a fool as well as a spoilt brat; didn’t he know that a ruler without a
magician to support them, even a white one, was vulnerable? But if the magician
did leave and then something unfortunate happened to Prince Newn he couldn’t be
blamed, after all he had only followed the prince’s orders.

*

Callabris stood at the edge of the landslide studying
the tumble of rocks, broken trees, uprooted shrubs and loose soil which had been
torn from the hillside and had rolled downwards sweeping away the road just as
the royal coach had been passing. The force of the landslide had carried the
coach along with the horses and the passengers over the precipice into the ravine
below. It was only the driver who hadn’t been carried into the ravine, his body
having been impaled on the dagger-like remains of a splintered mountain
everleaf.

A gouge had been carved out the side of the ravine
with the canopy of tall everleafs shattered by the path of the landslide. The
smashed coach had been found two days later when it had failed to arrive at
Lord Farrion’s estate. What had remained of the bodies, after sly hunters and
mountain growlers had taken what they could reach, had been buried quickly without
the usual pomp of lying in state.

He had been part of the search party, not that his
magic had been needed to find the remains of the king and his wife. Whilst the royal
guard had done the grisly work of retrieving the remains he had carried out a
cursory search of the area for an explanation of what had happened. Perhaps if
he hadn’t been so upset at the death of a master he had served faithfully for
ten summers he might have seen then that the landslide was manmade.
 

Landslides were not uncommon in the area but he had
missed the initial signs that the king’s death had been no accident. He and his
protector had returned two days later and had found the signs which he had
reported to the Crown Prince but now the trail was cold and the after image of
the assassins, who had left their footprints and smell behind, were vague and
indistinct.

Callabris felt the presence of his protector behind
him and wiped the moisture from his eyes onto the back of a knuckle. “He was a
good man and a fair and just king. He will be greatly missed by his people and
all who called him friend.”

“I think that his son isn’t of the same mould.”

“I regret that you’re right, Allowyn. His mother’s
indulgence has turned him into a spoilt and selfish child and his father’s
blindness to his faults has led the boy into having no morals.”

“He had no right to talk to you as he did, master, nor
to speak of your brother as he did. Will you stay with the boy or will you take
up King Boreman’s offer and accept his patronage?”

“Federa’s will bound me to his father and as long as
his son does nothing to break that bond then I must stay with him. I would stay
anyway for his father’s sake although I think life is going to be more fraught
than it was. What about you, Allowyn, will you stay? I know you have no liking
for the boy and he has none for you either.”

“My loyalty is to you, master. If you stay then I will
stay too but if he attempts to harm you or shows you disrespect then I will
take you away from here and the danger he poses even if it’s against your will
and the will of the goddess.”

Callabris smiled and turned away from his review of
the ravine to look into the earnest eyes of his protector. “He won’t try to
harm me, Allowyn but if he does you have my permission and Federa’s sanction to
take me as far from here as you think is needed to keep me safe.”

Allowyn nodded in acceptance and then studied the
darkening sky with concern. “If you have finished here we had better get to the
way house before it gets fully dark. This road is known to be treacherous at
the best of times and it looks to me as if there is a nasty storm brewing.”

He turned and led the way back along the road to where
the horses waited, tethered to a scrubby bush poking out of the loose soil of
the hillside. The wind started to pick up and blew dust and loose twigs around
their horse’s hooves as they rode together back towards Dartis until they
reached the way house. It was a small wooden cabin rather than a house built in
a hollow between two giant boulders. The boulders deflected the prevailing wind
from the sod and stone roof and left just enough space for a lath shelter for
the horses.

They led the tired horses into the shelter and
scattered some dried grass and some oats for them to eat. By the time they had
unsaddled them, fetched water from the rain barrel and rubbed them down the
rain was pounding on the roof and the wind was whipping the overflow in
horizontal eddies. The two men made a dash for the cabin door and dived in,
slamming the door behind them before the rain could soak through their cloaks.