The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) (4 page)

As he searched the refuse heap with his eyes he felt the old anger rise within him. It was a trait he had shared with his sister, a barely controlled passion for fairness and justice which, if allowed, spilled over into a need for revenge. When they were children it had caused them untold problems and endless chastisement, until they had learnt to control their anger and channel the energy their passion gave them elsewhere. His sister must have let her control slip to do what she had done and now, standing there, he too felt his grip on his emotions slide away from him. He clenched his fist around his sword hilt and thought of how the blade would feel sliding through Tallison’s black heart.

The blade was drawn a hand span from its scabbard when another hand covered his and pushed the steel firmly back into its place. “Brotherlord, keep your anger hidden, you are being watched.”

Tozaman blinked back the red anger and eased his hand away from his sword hilt as the words of warning restored his control. He looked at the speaker and recognised the brother of his sister’s dead husband, the one he had asked to keep an eye on his sister. His anger flared again. “Why did you let her do such a thing, Oraman?” he said accusingly.

“You knew your sister better than I. Could you have stopped her doing anything on which she had set her heart?” Tozaman glared at him and then let his anger at him flow away. He was right, his sister’s spirit had never been broken, as had happened to other women, and in any case, his anger was better directed elsewhere.

“I’m sorry, Tozaman, I did try to watch her, but I didn’t realise how desperate she had become.” Oraman hesitated for a moment. “Why do you think she did it?”

“To save the children from Tallison’s hands or because she couldn’t live like this any longer.” He gave an ironic laugh filled with bitterness. “She isn’t the only one, Oraman. Just look at what we have become; savages living in a pack and preying off each other, animals that fight over scraps that our leaders leave us, shitting in the streets, fucking in public. We don’t even bury our dead anymore.”

He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. “What happened to our culture, Oraman? What happened to our philosophies, our art, the stories we used to listen to and the things we believed in? They’ve all gone; we have let one madman and his evil god destroy what we are. He’s killing us, Oraman, as surely as he killed those two innocent children, and one day, we will wake up and there will be nothing left of us, and it will be too late to do anything about it.”

Oraman looked around nervously, frightened that someone might hear his friend’s incautious words. “You’re right, Tozaman,” he whispered “And you aren’t the only one who has lost their family and their faith. There are other brothers who grieve and would share their grief with you.”

“I don’t want their grief; I have enough of my own. What I want is to change all of this, to go back to a time when we lived in peace with each other and our children had a future which didn’t include being raped and murdered by the man who rules over us. I have to do something about this, Oraman, before it’s too late. Now I must go and offer the required sacrifice to Talis for the safe return of myself and my armsbrothers, but if there are others who grieve enough to put an end to this, then they would be welcome at my campfire tonight.”

He gave a grim smile and left Oraman standing at the edge of the refuse mound staring after him.

*

Oraman led four other brotherlords out of the darkness and into the light around Tozaman’s fire. They nodded to him in silent greeting and took a seat and the bowl of oats and meat which he offered them. All were known to him and had once played as children together on the roof top gardens when life had been much different than it was now. They were all older than he was, and each had once had a family but like him, their families had died and they were alone except for the companionship their fellow brotherlords gave them. As he passed the food around Tozaman wondered if he looked as sad and as tired as the brothers around him.

They ate in silence relishing the taste of fresh meat. His trackers had killed a desert buck on their return to Tilital and whilst all meat belonged to the Rale he had been permitted to keep a haunch to sacrifice to Talis. He was glad he had decided to put it to better use. When they had all eaten, he passed around a skin of ardas, the fiery spirit made from the desert bush which burnt their throats and could send a man blind if he drank too much of it. It was difficult to know where to start; they knew each other well, but trust, even amongst brotherlords, was in short supply. So he started by telling them about his sister’s death. They knew about it of course, but no one talked about those who died any more. When he had finished they each spoke about their own losses until it came back to him again.

“We sit and we talk about our loss and hide our grief inside of us, in case someone should see it, but we do nothing about it. We watch our land and our homes being turned into ruins and our people being destroyed in front of us, and still we do nothing to stop the destruction. We see everything we believe in being turned to dust by Tallison and his false god, yet we turn away and pretend that this is the way things should be. Brothers, I’ve had enough of grieving and pretending and doing nothing. The time has come to bring the people together and to stand against this evil. I would do this with you beside me, my brothers, but if you are unable to stand with me, then I will do this thing alone.”

Oraman shook his head. “What can you do? You are one man and there are spies everywhere. The people are terrified, Tozaman; they are terrified of Tallison’s brutality and the wrath of Talis and without the people behind you, anything you try to do will be doomed to failure.”

The other brotherlords nodded in agreement but said nothing as they stared dejectedly into the fire.

“I know you’re right,” said Tozaman in a low voice. “But there has to be a way to bring the people together and end this. I don’t know what it is but I will find it.”

He stood and threw the dregs of his ardas onto the fire and watched as it hissed and spat sending brightly burning sparks into the air. The others did the same and when the small, crackling display had died down they went to say their farewells but stopped when shouting broke out in the distance. Torchlight flared around Tallison’s compound and the sound of excited voices and running feet reached their small camp. The brotherlords instinctively reached for their swords but waited as a figure ran towards them. It was Dravin who Tozaman had posted on the edge of the camp to ensure they were not disturbed. His eyes were wide with excitement as he slithered to a halt forgetting to bow.

“Tozaman! Brotherlords! Come quickly. The mighty Tallison has returned with a magician as his prisoner. With Talis’s aid, may his words live forever, he has defeated the magician in single combat and now holds him in a cage. You are all to come and celebrate your lord’s triumph over the evil of magic.”

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CHAPTER TWO

The Cage

Something jabbed him hard in the ribs, sharp and demanding, hard enough to break through the blackness and let the pain come roaring in. He tried to ignore it so that he could return to oblivion where there was no pain, no memories and no thoughts of a slow, agonising death, but the jabbing at his side was too insistent. The blackness receded and the light which flickered across his eyelids increased in brightness until he could fight it no more.

His eyes flickered open and the pain hit him like a raging forest fire. Flames engulfed his hands from fingertip to wrist, crisping his skin and turning bone to ash. He tried to push them away from him, away from the heat which radiated from his body like a furnace but he couldn’t. However hard he tried he knew he couldn’t move them because the bars of his cage wouldn’t allow him to; they pushed the seared stumps of where his hands used to be to his tortured, burning body in an inferno of agony.

At least this time he didn’t scream. The last time he had been pulled from the blackness he had screamed from when the first flicker of light had crossed his eyes until the blackness took him again. He didn’t scream because his throat was parched and raw so he whimpered instead, closed his eyes and prayed to the Goddess for death to take him, but the Goddess didn’t hear. Instead, something jabbed him in the ribs again forcing him to open his eyes. It was the girl, the one who had betrayed him and the one who laughed when they took his hands. She had been there when Tissian was slain.

If he had any magic he would shatter her into more pieces than there were stars in the sky and then watch in satisfaction as each piece was blown away by the wind. But he had no magic, how could he? A magician with no hands was no magician. Instead he stared back at her putting all the hate and loathing that he felt for her into that stare. It did no good; all she did was laugh and click her fingers to the shadowy man who stood behind her. It was the man he had seen earlier, the one who had knelt at his captor’s feet and acted and smelled like a slave.

He had thought that the man was only slightly better off than he was but he was wrong, the man wasn’t trapped inside of a cage and he still had his hands. The slave stepped forward with a pot in one hand and a spoon in the other and turned to the girl waiting for her nod of approval. When it came he dipped the spoon into the pot and held it out to where the prisoner’s face was pressed against the bars of the cage.

It was water, brackish and stale but wet. It trickled down his parched throat and eased the rawness and he whimpered in gratitude, opening his mouth and begging for more. Another spoonful came towards him and for an instant he could feel himself pushing against the bars in his eagerness to reach the liquid and then he stopped. The water wasn’t being offered to him as a kindness, it was there to keep him alive so that his agony could be prolonged another day. He shut his mouth tightly and closed his eyes, fighting against his body’s need to drink.

The girl laughed; a scornful, vicious sound and then she jabbed him in the ribs with her sheathed knife. He grunted at the sudden pain but kept his eyes firmly close. It was a feeble act of defiance but it clearly annoyed the girl as she jabbed him twice more before cursing loudly. He felt surprisingly elated at his small victory and waited to see what she would do next. He didn’t have to wait long. This time the hilt of the knife came down hard on the burnt stumps where his hands used to be. Thoughts of victory or defiance disappeared as his eyes shot open and a scream he couldn’t hold back tore his raw throat and then mercifully the blackness took him again.

It was a small white flame in the corner of his mind that brought him back to consciousness, although he had tried his best to extinguish it. He didn’t want to return to his miserable existence where every cramped muscle screamed for release and the heat of his fevered body radiated out like a bakers oven. At some time during the blackness he had soiled himself and the smell clung to him making him gag.

As he opened his eyes the room swung dizzily in front of him. He knew he had a fever, it burnt within him, a raging fire out of control and he thought that he had to be delirious as the burnt end of his wrists shimmered and moved. Trying to focus his eyes he stared at them and then whimpered in horror as the maggots on his bleeding stumps crawled between the infected, rotting flesh. It was impossible, he knew, to push the stumps away from him but he tried and with every futile push his whimpering became more panicked.

Before his whimpers turned into a scream a shadow passed in front of him and he looked up, his wide eyes pleading desperately for help. It was the slave, his drawn face pale with worry and his eyes wide and fearful. “Shush! Quiet, Lord, in case you bring those demons down on us.” Jonderill whimpered and tried to turn his sounds into words but the man held his finger to his lips to silence him. “Quiet, Lord, or they will come and punish me for what I have done.” He looked down at the squirming maggots and then back up giving Jonderill a brief, nervous smile. “I put those on your wounds; they are all I have but they will clean the infection and help you heal. When the wounds are clean I will take them away but until then you must bear them crawling over your flesh.”

If he had been able to shake his head Jonderill would have but instead he gathered his thoughts and put what words he could into line. “Want to die.”

“Yes, I know you do. Believe me I know what it’s like to wish for death’s release but have it denied to you, but whilst you are alive there is always hope, even if that hope is very small. For the moment, until you can regain your strength and power, I will do what I can to keep that hope alive for you.”

“Why?”

“Why, Lord? Because you are my only hope of ever getting out of here. I cannot do it by myself but with your magic I could be free.”

Jonderill made a sharp guttural noise that, in any other situation, might have passed as laughter. “I have no magic.”

“No, Lord, you don’t have any magic now but when your fever has gone and your wounds have healed your magic will come back to you, I know it will.”

“Fool,” Jonderill whispered. “Don’t you know that a magician with no hands is no magician?”

“Yes, Lord, I have heard of this but I know your magic will come back to you. It must.”

Jonderill would have responded but a noise at the other end of the pavilion attracted the slave’s attention and he instantly dropped to his knees out of Jonderill’s limited field of vision. He guessed who the new arrivals would be and felt both fear and anger rise within him. His guess had been right as his tormenter came into view and stood in front of the cage, a smirk of satisfaction on his face and triumph in his eyes. He glanced down at the slave at his feet and Jonderill heard the thud of boot leather against flesh and an involuntary grunt of pain.

It was the first time he had seen the man since the day he had woken in his cage, but he remembered him well enough and the things that he had done. The small flame inside of him which kept him alive burnt hotter, clearing the confusion from his mind and easing the pain sufficiently so that he could glare at his tormentor with all the hatred he possessed. The smirk left Tallison’s face and he took a step back to stand by the girl. She looked different now, somehow diminished and more sullen, more shabby. His sudden feeling of clarity and strength lasted only a moment before the pain and the fever returned.