The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) (39 page)

For Jonderill’s idea to work he had to capture the attention of the crowd and make a powerful first impression as he approached the altar. In his mind he had imagined the crowd parting to let him through so that he could confront Tallison, but there was no way that was going to happen. The mob were too tightly packed and too mesmerised by Tallison’s performance. Compared to what was happening in front of them, his presence was as insignificant as a grain of sand in the desert.

On the platform Tallison raised his arms soaking in the crowd’s adoration. This was the moment he had lived for, the moment when all his people worshiped him, and he and Talis became one in their minds. He had been born to be Rale, born to be the nation’s leader and now, in one magnificent demonstration of power, he would finally become their god. All he had to do was to remove the two obstacles to his omnipotence. The first would be the brotherlord, screaming his life out on the god’s altar whilst Talis revelled in his pain, and then the magician who would scream even louder as he cut him and gave him to the mob. He clicked the fingers on both hands and his guards, those who were most loyal to him and knew what he planned, ran to do his bidding.

Tozaman was barely conscious as Tallison’s guards released his wrists from their chains and dragged him to the altar. He tried to struggle against them but he was too badly beaten and too weak from being exposed to the sun to escape. Close by, his two fellow brotherlords tried to reach him, but more guards came, clubbed them down and chained them to the empty post before they had taken more than two steps forward. The two guards who held his arms pulled him over the altar, scraping his lacerated back against the rough stone and leaving a trail of blood. Desperately he tried to fight them off but one hit him across the face making his vision dim, whilst the other strapped his arms and feet in place at each corner of the stone.

Above him Tallison leered and raised the sharp, curved knife, turning it so it caught the rays of the setting sun. Behind him in a place of honour he could see Dravim dressed in fine robes and looking extremely pleased. He turned away sickened by the betrayal and not wanting to see where the first knife cut would fall. This wasn’t going to be a good way to die, but then again he supposed no way was. He only hoped that he could deny Talis his screams and not disgrace his father and brothers who had gone before him.

Beyond the crowds, Jonderill had seen the guards prepare the brotherlord for sacrifice and knew that his time was fast running out. He needed a distraction and now would be a good time for Rothers to act, but as he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the pavilion there wasn’t even a wisp of smoke. Anxiously he looked back and was relieved to see that the guards he had seen leaving the platform, were at that moment streaming down the side of the crowd on their way to the pavilion to fetch him.

Resisting the temptation to shout and wave his arms in the air to attract their attention, he waited with as much patience as he could muster until the guards at the front of the line saw him, hesitated for a moment, and then changed direction, making towards where he stood. He should have felt fear at their approach, but instead he just felt calm and determined. His image as a powerful magician should awe them to caution, but if that wasn’t enough then he knew he now had the ability to defend himself, and even kill if he had to, although he had no idea how many he could take down before they overwhelmed him.

As the first guards approached and slowed he could feel their hesitation; they might be huge men and armed to the teeth but they were afraid of him. They were scared to touch his robe which could blister skin. They were confused about his presence there and unsure about his powers. He waited until they had gathered around him in a rough circle and then moved forward, forcing them to keep pace as he approached the back of the crowd. At first the people at the back didn’t notice him and his escort, but as the armsbrothers stepped away to let him pass the crowd parted, expanding outwards to let him through.

Beside the altar, his knife raised above the sacrifice, Tallison scowled in annoyance. Moments before the focus of the mob had been exclusively on him but now they were turning away, drawn to the disturbance in their centre. The crowd were fickle and easily distracted but this was his moment, his glory and he wanted their attention now and for all time. He considered beginning the sacrifice, knowing that the first cut would have the brotherlord screaming and would win back the crowd, but the sight of the magician stopped him cold.

The magician should have still been in his cage and even if he’d escaped it shouldn’t have been possible for him to walk unaided. He’d been caged and starved and weakened so much that it should have been impossible for him to stand. But it didn’t matter, if he’d regained enough strength to walk, his power was still nothing compared to the power of Talis. He lowered his knife and waited for his guards to bring Callistares to him.

Jonderill’s progress through the crowd was too slow as people pressed around him and he could feel his small reserves of energy begin to fail. By the time he reached the top steps of the platform he was breathing hard and his legs wobbled unsteadily beneath him. If he fell now the image he had created would shatter and Tallison would have him. Then it would all be over but he wasn’t going to fall, he had a task to complete. He waited for the crowd to fall silent and the guards to shuffle aside, hoping that his voice was strong enough to be heard by all, and that this time Rothers would be ready with his flame.

“Tallison, your time in Sandstrone as tyrant and oppressor of the people is finished. Release this man and submit yourself to the justice of the brotherlords.”

Tallison laughed, a harsh mocking sound which made Jonderill’s words sound like whispers. “Why should I, Callistares? I am the chosen of Talis and the rightful ruler of Sandstrone whilst you are nothing; less than nothing, a powerless shell not fit to stand in the light of the mighty Talis, may he rule forever.”

“You are wrong, Tallison. A tyrant has no right to rule as Talis has no light to shed on this land, only darkness.”

He took a deep breath, prayed that Rothers recognised his signal and released the spell he had formed. Out in the desert, beyond the city of Tilital, the fine desert sand stirred, flowing off the tops of the dunes like spume from the crests of the waves, and spiralling upwards driven by the wind devils of the desert. Slowly the sun, still half way above the horizon, faded beneath a dense cloud of sand and darkness took the place of the evening sunlight. The crowed called out in alarm and pulled back in fear and Jonderill had to raise his voice to a shout to be heard.

“People of Sandstrone, you have no need to be afraid Look, the Goddess will give you light until the sun returns again.”

Jonderill gestured in the opposite direction and Tallison, the guards and the crowd all turned to watch. He held his breath and kept his pose but nothing happened, not a spark or a glimmer. Continuing to hold his arm out his heart dropped and the angry muttering of the crowd grew like swarming buzzers disturbed from their nest. Tallison gave a cynical bark of laughter and took a belligerent step forward, his knife a finger’s breadth from Jonderill’s heart.

“You are nothing, Callistares, as your Goddess is nothing. Behold the power of Talis, the one true god.”

It was Tallison’s turn to gesture, holding his hands up high to where the dust cloud covered the sun. The dust swirled and turned and darkened and the people screamed in terror as a face formed, the blank eyes staring and the gaping maw lined with sharp, pointed teeth. The face writhed and twisted like a demon and the crowd cringed in fear, dropping to their knees.

“You have no power, magician, I took that from you when I took your hands and now I will take your life. Guards! Take him and bind him.”

Two guards, emboldened by the sight of their god rushed forward and grabbed his arms whilst another went to wrap his arm around Jonderill’s neck in a strangle hold but a brilliant flash of light and a roaring sound like the breath of the gods made them stagger backwards using their arms to cover their eyes as a huge column of fire shot into the air and exploded in a dazzling ball of light. All the guards on the platform dropped to their knees and the screaming crowd pressed forward retreating from the intense heat of the towering pillar of fire behind them.

Tallison was the first to recover, screaming for the guards to stand and use their swords on the crowd who were starting to clamber onto the platform to escape the crush. The guards may have been as terrified as the crowd, but their fear of Tallison was greater. They obeyed instantly, charging towards the edge of the platform and swinging their blades indiscriminately at the people closest to them, cutting into defenceless bodies and forcing them back over the edge until the platform was once again clear.

They stood at the edge of the platform, their swords drawn and daring the mob to advance whilst the crowd cringed in fear caught between the Goddess’s burning sun and the dark god’s writhing image. Jonderill could feel the heat of the burning pavilion begin to fade and its light dim as Tallison turned back to face him, his eyes red from the reflected flames and his face twisted in hatred. Behind him the guards were also turning away from the crowd now that the danger had passed and started to close in, eager to bring him down. He had very little left to give and his final spell wasn’t ready but in desperation he released it into the air.

High in the desert where the wind devils swirled the sand into the image of Talis the heat of the moving dunes created a new vortex sending the columns of sand tumbling and flowing into new forms, twisting the god’s fearsome image into something softer. The face of a young woman, her eyes closed and her lips parted, smiled down on the people of Sandstrone. The crowd gasped in awe and amazement and those who had fallen to their knees leaped to their feet as a new excitement swept through the crowd.

The guards, almost within sword reach of Jonderill, stopped and stared at the image in wonder and then looked to Tallison, not certain what they should do next. Tallison, his knife raised to strike, turned to see why they had stopped and stared in disbelief on the face he knew so well. This was no Goddess, but the whore who had begged him to take her and who his guards had used for their amusement. He swept his arm through the air and the image shattered into a million grains of falling sand.

Jonderill staggered slightly as the spell collapsed and his strength faded to nothing. “Now. Magician,” Tallison hissed, “You are mine.”

He raised his knife once more oblivious to everything except the enemy in front of him and the ring of guards preventing the magician’s escape. Callistares had cheated him, had taken away his moment of glory when he and Talis were to become one, and now he was going to make him pay with every piece of his flesh and every last drop of his blood. He stepped forward to make the first slice into his enemy’s body when a scream ripped through the silence. He felt the movement of air at his back and spun around to face the new danger.

As he did so he plunged his knife deep into the chest of the young woman who had thrown herself at him. Nyte’s eyes went wide with shock, and in the stunned silence, the knife she held dropped unseen to the stone floor from her lifeless fingers. Tallison staggered backwards under her weight, and for a moment he held her, almost as if they were lovers caught in an embrace. From across his shoulder her pale green eyes swept the crowd and she smiled at them as the life left her. Then, as if she was a worthless scrap, he pushed her aside so she fell at Jonderill’s feet.

Jonderill had nothing left. He had gambled his magic and all his strength on this one throw of the dice and he had lost. The best he could hope for now was a quick death. He knelt at Nyte’s side to close her dead eyes exposing his neck and making himself an easy target. He waited for the blade to fall or for him to be dragged away by the guards. Instead everything around him exploded into a chaos filled with screams of terror as the people of Sandstrone poured over the platform and tore the bodies of Tallison and his guards limb from limb for the murder of their Goddess.

*

Jonderill had bathed twice. Not in a bucket with muddy water but in a stone trough where the water ran clear, pulled by a wheel from the wells deep underground. It was cold and sparkled in the sunlight as it cascaded into one end of the trough and flowed out the other back into the ground again. The device was once owned by Tallison, not that he used it much, but now it was owned by the brotherlords and one day it would belong to the people.

That was some time off yet, but the time would come when the people of Sandstrone would own everything and the brotherlords would be the guardians of their freedom. It needn’t have been like that. He could have taken the throne and become their king if he’d wanted to, such was their gratitude, but magicians didn’t become kings, and in any case, he’d been adamant a country belonged to its people, not just one person.

In the confusion following Tallison’s death the people had chanted his name and as their saviour, had begged him to become their king. He didn’t remember much about it though; his strength had been completely spent and all he could do was sit on the stone platform with his back against the altar holding the bleeding body of Nyte in his arms whilst the people tore their oppressors into bloody scraps. Whether they would have then turned on those left alive on the platform or on each other is a question nobody wanted to ask, but fortunately Oraman and his fellow brotherlords arrived with enough armsbrothers to restore order. They too had asked him to become their king, but it hadn’t taken much thought to turn the offer down. He thought of the kings he knew and decided he didn’t want to be one of them.

It had been the right decision. Once the euphoria of the tyrant’s death had passed, there was the huge problem of feeding the starving people and bringing relief to their desperate lives. Such a problem would have been beyond him, but the brotherlords had a long tradition of caring for their tribes and already life was changing. When he’d last walked through the tented city with Tozaman and Rothers at his side, the tattered open-fronted shelters had been replaced with hide tents, families had been reunited, and men and women once again lived together. Even the grim task of cleaning away the refuse and decaying bodies had begun. Things were still difficult, but they were getting better.