The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) (15 page)

“Good afternoon, young man. May I be of some assistance?”

When the guards had been unable to get into the magicians’ tower to search it, Vorgret had ordered Sadrin to break into the tower, confiscate anything of value and to deal with the two old magicians. Sadrin didn’t like to be told what to do with his magic, not even by his own master. What was worse he’d been told to take a squad of guards along with him, as if he wouldn’t be able to manage on his own, which had really annoyed him. However, he had gone willingly enough being curious to see what the inside of a magician’s tower would look like.

He had, of course, heard all about the two old magicians, but when Plantagenet opened the door he wasn’t at all what Sadrin was expecting. For a start he wasn’t old, he was ancient, by far the oldest person he’d ever seen. He had expected the magician to look like the High Master with dark formal robes and a perpetual scowl, but when he smiled, he looked more like his grandfather. Sadrin remembered his grandfather; he was the only one in his family who had ever been kind to him, and the only one who had spoken up for him when the city guards came to drag him away.

The squad leader, the one who had burnt his fingers on the tower’s door, stepped forward almost pushing Sadrin out of the way and glared at the tall magician. “Get out of my way old man. I have orders from the king to search this place and to collect the taxes.”

He pushed passed Plantagenet and marched into the tower with his squad behind him. Plantagenet watched them troop through the doorway and then turned his attention back to the black robe. “Would you like to come in too? I have just made some fresh herb tea.”

Plantagenet stepped back to let the young magician pass and then followed him into the large living room, resisting the urge to protest at the shambles the room had become. The soldiers were already at work, emptying out drawers and sweeping things off shelves onto the floor, careless of what they broke. So far, nothing had been placed into the sack they carried, and the squad leader was looking frustrated. He went to grab the large book which stood on the table and Plantagenet hurried forward to stop him, but it was Sadrin who stopped the soldier touching the book.

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you squad leader. A magician’s journal is always heavily warded.”

The squad leader stopped with his hands almost on the book. “Well get the old buzzard to tell us where he keeps his valuables, else this goes into the sack even if we have to burn it afterwards.”

Sadrin scowled but looked at Plantagenet expectantly. “Oh dear, I’m afraid I don’t have any valuables. Animus and I never really had a need for them.”

The squad leader gave a dismissive snort and grabbed the book and was instantly thrown across the room where he crashed into the far wall and slithered down it looking dazed. The rest of the squad drew their swords and advanced angrily towards Plantagenet.

“Enough!” commanded Sadrin. “Lord Plantagenet, these men have little patience so if you are hiding anything of value I would suggest that you hand it over now.”

Plantagenet shook his head, certain that Sadrin wasn’t just talking about gold and silver. “As I have already told these gentlemen we have no valuables hidden in the tower of any kind; the royal house has always provided for our needs in exchange for our services.”

Sadrin sighed in irritation and walked to where the journal lay on the table. He put his hand over the book, muttered a few words under his breath and then using a small knife prised the gems from the cover one by one. When he had a small pile in his hand he gave them to the nearest guard.

“Continue your search but be careful what you touch, there may be other things here which are even more dangerous than a magician’s journal.”

The guard nodded as he pocketed the gems and sheathed his sword. He disappeared up the stairs to where the two magicians had their work room followed by the rest of the squad. A few moments later Animus appeared looking hot and flustered. “Plantagenet, can’t you stop them? They are disturbing my experiments!” He stopped as he noticed Sadrin. “Can’t you do something about them? Some of my experiments are very delicate and there are things in our workroom that shouldn’t be disturbed.”

There was a loud crash and a scream to emphasise the point. Sadrin shrugged and tried to keep the smile from his face. “I did warn them.”

He looked around the room in disappointment. He had always thought that a magician’s tower would be exciting and full of interesting and dangerous things, but this place was just like anyone else’s home, a bit grander than some, more untidy and cluttered than others. Even the magicians themselves were unremarkable, just two old men reaching the end of their lives. Vorgret had told him that, if he disposed of the magicians, he could have their tower, but Animus and Plantagenet were harmless and now he had been into the tower he didn’t really want it.

Sadrin turned to the squad leader who had recovered enough to pick himself up from the floor and was standing by one of the chairs looking slightly dazed. “Get your men down here; there is nothing in this place which would interest my master.”

He waited for the squad to troop down the stairs and to gather in the ransacked room. By the look of it the guards hadn’t found anything as they all looked annoyed, except for the one who had touched something he shouldn’t have, and was looking cross-eyed and vacant. Undoubtedly the squad leader would report back to Vorgret, so he had to ask the question for appearances sake.

“Did you find anything?”

“No, Lord, there was only the magician’s work room and sleeping room and a disused attic right at the top of the tower.”

Sadrin had guessed as much so he gave them the command to leave and waited until the last guard was through the door before turning to follow them. As he did so his hand touched the arm of the soft chair in which the Queen had sat. He stopped suddenly and looked down at the chair with a deep frown on his face and then stepped back to study it, missing Plantagenet’s and Animus’s exchange of anxious looks.

Sadrin ran his hand over the back of the chair. “You have had a visitor recently?”

“Yes,” said Plantagenet without hesitating. “One of the serving girls from the palace brought us dinner from the kitchens.”

“Why did you use magic on her?”

“She was upset. Her young man was in the Royal Guard and has not returned. I did what I could to calm and comfort her.”

Sadrin nodded slowly, removed his hand from the chair and continued walking towards the door. When he reached it he stopped but didn’t look back. “You need to be careful, my master is not a forgiving man. If he finds that you have acted against his interests, he will command me to destroy you and your tower, and I will have no option but to obey. If you will take the advice of one who knows Vorgret well, you will do nothing to bring yourselves to his notice. Stay in your tower and keep your magic to yourselves, for the next time I have reason to come here, your wards will not slow me and your magic will not prevent me from killing you.” The black robe stepped over the threshold and the door slammed shut behind him.

Plantagenet and Animus both gave deep sighs of relief and turned quickly towards the stairs, Plantagenet taking them two at a time and Animus puffing and panting behind him. They climbed the stairs ignoring the wreckage in the rooms they passed and reached the very top of the tower, where a wooden stairway suddenly appeared leading to an archway into a small windowless room. The last time they had been in this room it had been full of gold and silver sculptures, but now it contained four chairs and a table with a pot of herb tea at its centre and four mugs around it. Rosera sat in one of the chairs and smiled as they hurried into the room.

“It’s changed, hasn’t it?” She lifted the pot and began pouring the tea, filling the room with the comforting fragrance of herbs.

“Have they gone?” questioned Barrin anxiously.

“Yes, they have gone, but I don’t know for how long. I think the black robe suspected something; he must have sensed the remnants of our magic working and guessed the rest. I don’t wish to hurry you, my boy, but I think you and Rosera should leave here as soon as you can.”

“You’re right and I have things planned. If we could stay here until dark my friends will come for us, that’s if you wouldn’t mind us using the small door through the wall?”

Plantagenet raised his eyebrows in surprise wondering how Barrin knew about the hidden door; he supposed Jonderill must have told him. “Of course you can stay and we will help all we can, but where will you go?”

“I’m taking the Princess back to her father in Shipside; she will be safe there until we can do something about removing Vorgret from her throne. Now all I need to know is how to change Rosera back into the Queen.”

He looked from face to face as the two magicians looked dumbstruck. “What?”

“We forgot to include a qualifying spell!” squeaked Animus in alarm.

When Barrin looked confused Plantagenet explained. “A qualifying spell lets you break a spell at a later date. I’m afraid without that, the Queen is stuck as Rosera, forever.”

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CHAPTER SEVEN

Defeat into Victory

Borman stood behind his map table staring at the scene with a mixture of anger and horror. Across the river the remnants of his army waded through the shallows, their blood colouring the water with long red streamers. Men staggered through the knee high water propping themselves up on pike staffs or clutching comrades for support whilst trying to stop blood pumping from their wounds. Closer to shore, those who had run first were pulling themselves out of the water and collapsing onto the dry land like so many beached fish. They were less bloody having seen the way the battle was going and making a hasty withdrawal before the enemy were in amongst them.

On the far side of the river the real soldiers still stood their ground holding back the enemy which stood ten deep. The foot soldiers with their long shields and stabbing swords still held the centre and mounted guards still protected the sides but it was hopeless, despite his plans. In the end it was numbers which had made the difference.

He watched as the front line began to withdraw, pulling back step by step and leaving a line of wounded in front of them to be finished off by the advancing enemy. It was difficult to work out what had gone wrong, what he could have done differently. The attack had started well enough. His conscripts had marched grimly across the shallows and then charged the last hundred paces with their long wooden boards protecting them from the enemy’s bolts and throwing spears. They had been in amongst their lightly armed opponents in no time at all and had cut them to pieces before the enemy could rally.

It would have been best if they had withdrawn then, but he had let them carry on for some time, they were expendable after all. Then he had sent in the heavily armed foot troops supported by the mounted guards which had pushed Tarbis’s army back up the slope, slaughtering the lightly armed soldiers and charging down the mounted troops. They had been unstoppable, trampling the enemy underfoot and leaving a swathe of bloodstained grass and hacked bodies behind them as they crested the rise.

It was the classical strategy which his tutor and all the books he had read told him would give him a victory. Unfortunately Gadrin and Newn must have read the same books. Before he knew what was happening or could send in his few reserves, his men started staggering back over the hill with the enemy in pursuit. Two figures, who he presumed were Gadrin and Newn, now commanded the ridge with a dozen or so flagmen directing the army which was pushing his own back down the slope and into the river.

There was no way it should have happened like that. Rastor should have come up behind the enemy and caught them unprepared. It would have split the Tarbisians in two, and fighting on two fronts would have given him the victory. The only problem was that there was no Rastor and he cursed the man for not being where he should be at the appointed time. When he got hold of him, if he ever did, he would make sure the fool never let him down again.

His retreating troops were now half way across the river, up to their knees in bloodstained water and fighting for their lives. If he didn’t do something soon he knew they would be overwhelmed and Newn’s horsemen would be in his camp. Once they realised that the thousand uncommitted men were in fact a thousand stuffed uniforms the game would be up. As much as he hated the thought of all that blood and dirt, there was a time when even a king had to show his metal. He called for his horse and his helmet and rode to where the Royal Guard waited already mounted and eager to be released. They parted as he rode through their ranks and for a moment he halted his horse enjoying their cheering. Then he drew his sword ready to give the command to charge.

In front of him his retreating army scattered out of the way. Soldiers with gaping wounds and clutching at spilling guts staggered out of the way, or were dragged to safety by the fortunate ones who had the sense to retreat before Tarbis gained the upper hand. Others, some with broken bones or missing limbs or just splattered with blood and gore fell, and couldn’t get out of the way. Goddess, he hated this but it had to be done. He raised his sword high and gave the order to charge.

Gadrin sat on his horse and knew he was dying. He had known it since that morning when stomach cramps had sent him scurrying to the latrines and bright red blood had poured from him. At first he thought it might have been the flux, there is always someone in an army camp who has the flux, and he had been told that his personal servant had gone down with it only the evening before. But he knew that it wasn’t. He knew what it was as he had seen others die like this, it was shredded sand crawler skin and there was no cure. Not that he hadn’t tried; he had eaten as many dried oats and had drunk as much water as his stomach could hold, following it down with thick corn oil. He had spent a candle length in agony as the concoction purged through him, but it was too late, the damage had already been done.