The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) (5 page)

Tallison stepped forward again and gave a derisive laugh. “Well, magician, you’re not so grand and powerful now, are you? How does it feel, Callistares, to be caged like an animal? Are your muscles screaming for release and your bones pushing their way through your flesh to escape their confinement?” He looked down at the maggots crawling over his prisoners flesh and gave another bark of laughter. “I see the vermin have already started to eat you alive, Callistares, but that is only the start. You stink of filth and rot and shortly other larger vermin will gnaw on your living flesh.” He prodded the slave with the toe of his boot. “You, attach ropes to the bottom of the cage so that the gnawers have an easy way to reach their next meal.”

Rothers looked up and wrung his hands pathetically. “Yes, master, and master, may I have some feverbain for the prisoner?” Tallison scowled down at him so Rothers hurried on. “His fever is high and he is likely to die before the gnawers have had chance to eat more than his toes.”

Tallison laughed and roughly pulled Nyte forward by her arm. “See, girl, even this useless cur has learnt that to prolonged pain and suffering is to praise Talis. I have taught him that as I will teach you. Now use your knife and make the magician scream and make it last a long time so that Talis may look down on you with joy.”

Nyte moved forward so that she stood directly in front of Jonderill. He could see the look of anger and hatred in her eyes and something else too that could have been curiosity but before he could capture what it meant it had gone. She pulled her knife and placed its tip beneath his eye, so close that it pulled down his lower eyelid. Jonderill froze, not even daring to breathe.

“I could take your eye magician but then you wouldn’t be able to see what else I can do to you.” She moved the blade slowly down his face, creasing the skin but not cutting it, the coldness of the steel against his burning skin and the fear of what she intended to do to him making him shiver. The blade passed by his throat and rested against the hollow of his hunched shoulders. Nyte looked him in the eyes, smiled savagely and pressed the blade forwards.

Jonderill gritted his teeth against the pain of the blade’s pressure but the tearing of his skin and muscle never came as his robe held back the tip of the blade preventing it reaching his flesh. For a moment she looked startled and afraid and then the anger returned. With a snarl of frustration she whipped the blade back and drove it into his unprotected forearm, twisting it to expose muscle and bone. Jonderill screamed and Tallison clapped his hands in glee.

When the light penetrated his darkness once more he opened his eyes slowly, praying that he was just waking from some terrible nightmare instead of being in the middle of it. The moment the pain hit him he knew his prayer hadn’t been answered. He was still burning with fever and the agony of his missing hands was almost unbearable, but a new hurt had been added. Barely able to move his head he did his best to look down at where the girl had stabbed him, the wound throbbing as erratically as the beating of his heart. Someone had wiped the blood away and had stitched the wound together with big, clumsy stitches. The flesh held together and would eventually heal but it would leave an ugly scar. He laughed to himself almost hysterically; an ugly scar was not going to be a problem for a living, rotting corpse.

Another bubble of hysterical laughter formed as he noticed that the knife blade had cut his kingsward scar in two. Perhaps it was symbolic of leaving his old life behind, or perhaps it was a lucky knife thrust; he had always wanted the scar to be obliterated. He closed his eyes again and forced down the hysteria and concentrated on the sounds in the dark room. Beneath him he could hear something rustling and the scratch-scratch of tiny claws. Gnawers! He had always loathed and feared gnawers from his days in the kingsward compound. The memory of gnawers with their sharp claws and naked tails running and sliding across his skin and their teeth biting into his flesh made him shudder.

He could feel the slight tug on the ropes that the slave had been told to attach to his cage and wondered how long it would be before the first gnawer climbed the rope to feast on his flesh. They would start with his feet which were pressed hard against the bars at the bottom of the cage but were there other parts of him exposed? He couldn’t tell, as his flesh was so numb but even if other parts of his crouching body were not exposed he doubted if his robe would protect him from their sharp, biting teeth for long.

With a sudden scrabbling of claws and squeaks of alarm the gnawers scurried away. There had to be someone else in the pavilion as he could hear movement behind him and the swishing of cloth rubbing against cloth. A harsh grunt of pleasure and a small whimper made him open his eyes in surprise. By the sound of it there were two people in the room, a man and a woman the one enjoying himself and the other not. Another grunt of pleasure and a corresponding whimper came followed by a loud crack as flesh met flesh and after that there was just the grunting coming in a rhythm, faster and faster until there was an exultant hiss of breath and a groan of pleasurable release.

For a short while there was silence and then the sound of a slap, not as loud as the earlier one but sharp enough to convey the man’s displeasure. There was the rustle of clothing, the patter of feet and the sound of the pavilion’s door cover being moved and then nothing until the man’s snores filled the silence. He drifted back into his fevered sleep but the sound of someone moving outside of his cage made him open his eyes again.

In the gloom he could just make out the form of the slave standing in front of the cage and looking nervous. He glanced over his shoulder to where the snoring man must have been and then stepped as close to the cage as he could without touching it. In his hand he held a pot and a spoon and taking care not to spill a drop he held a spoonful out for Jonderill to drink. If he could he would have resisted so that his end would come that much sooner but his body’s need for water was too great.

Jonderill swallowed each mouthful of the bitter liquid until it had all gone and still craved for more. He went to speak, to beg for more but the man held his finger to his lips to silence him. The slave leant forward as close to Jonderill’s ear as he could and whispered so low that he had difficulty hearing what the man was saying.

“Lord, I’m sorry that the gnawers alarmed you but I cannot come near to chase them away when the demon is here and awake but I will protect you the best that I can until your power returns. In the meantime you must drink what I bring you, the feverbane will break your fever and I’ve added some red poppy seed to ease your pain and make you sleep.”

Jonderill could already feel the effects, a numbness which stole across his body taking away all feeling and across his mind threatening to extinguish the small flame which was all that was keeping him alive. He panicked as he felt the flame dim and fought against the influence of the drug, pushing back the encroaching darkness until he had built an invisible barrier around the flame. Only then did he succumb to the red poppy seed, slipping into a deep, painless sleep.

When he woke it was daylight and the burning fever had receded leaving him weak and desperately thirsty. He listened for sounds of someone being in the pavilion with him but everything was silent. His need to drink was desperate and to do that he needed to attract the slave’s attention but in doing so he might attract the attention of others, his captor, the one the slave called a demon, or the girl. Both meant pain but that couldn’t be helped, he needed to drink.

“Water,” he croaked. The plea sounded like a whisper in the silence so he tried again, louder this time.

“Water.”

There was the sound of footsteps behind him and the girl walked into view. His heart dropped as she stood in front of him, her eyes full of hate and anger. She looked even more dishevelled than she had before with her long hair tangled and uncombed and a large bruise darkening one cheek. Her sheer silk robe had gone and instead she wore a thin band of cloth which barely covered her breasts and a short wrap which exposed her legs and thighs. There were bite marks on her neck and long scratches on her thighs. She looked little better than the slave and despite his own condition he felt sorry for her.

“Why did you do it?” he asked, the question coming to him without him thinking about it.

“I gave you to him because I wanted him to love me.”

“And does he?”

She thought about it for a time, her pale green eyes never moving from his. “No. But if I make you scream for a long time and beg for death he will.”

Jonderill swallowed hard and pushed his fear down within him. “No he won’t, he’ll just use you again and then discard you as he did last night.”

It was just a wild guess, but by the look of hatred which flashed across her face he knew he was right. She took a belligerent step forward and drew the knife which was hidden beneath her brief wrap. Perhaps if he provoked her enough she would use her knife to end his life; it wouldn’t take much, his neck was exposed so a quick slash would put him out of his agony.

Instead she smiled. “No, magician, I’m not going to do what you want me to. It’s your kind that has destroyed my life and for that I’m going to make you pay.” She sheathed her knife and clicked her fingers and the slave scurried into view carrying the water pot and spoon. Jonderill did his best not to look as desperate as he felt but couldn’t help pushing himself against the bars of his cage. “Give him enough to moisten his lips but not enough to ease his throat.”

The slave hesitated for a moment and wrung his hands. “Your master said I was to give him feverbane to prolong his life, mistress.”

Her hand shot out catching him hard on the cheek and knocking him over backwards, the precious water spilling on the floor and soaking away. “You will do as I say, slave. Now wet his lips with what remains.”

The man stood and ran his finger around the inside of the pot and then dabbed the dampness onto Jonderill’s cracked lips. He tried hard not to whimper but his need was desperate. She laughed, kicked the cringing slave and sauntered away. Jonderill heard the sound of the heavy fabric being moved as she left the pavilion leaving him and the slave alone together. After a short while he heard the slave move away and when all was silent again he closed his eyes and prayed to the Goddess to release him.

A light touch on his arm just below the knife wound and the stump where his hand had been brought him back abruptly from his futile prayers. It was the slave again, but this time with a look of determination on his face, not the usual pathetic cringe. He gave Jonderill a nervous grin, looked over his shoulder to the door and then held up a skin with a spout at one end. Jonderill opened his eyes wide in surprise.

“I stole it!” The man looked extremely pleased with himself. “I took it from the brotherlords’ camp, and if they find out they will kill me, but if not, you will live. In either case I will be free.”

He pulled the stopper out of the spout and Jonderill didn’t need to be asked to open his mouth. The water was warm and stale and wonderful. He took three deep gulps before the man stopped pouring and took a small sip for himself. Then he dampened the ragged sleeve of his robe and dabbed lightly at Jonderill’s stumps, knocking off the remainder of the maggots. Jonderill gritted his teeth against the pain, concentrating all his thoughts on his life flame. When the man had done Jonderill opened his eyes and dared to look at the results. The stumps were blackened and scabbed but the yellowish hue and the smell of rot had gone. He looked at the man who smiled back in satisfaction and held up the skin for Jonderill to take another three gulps.

“Thank you, my friend.” It wasn’t what he wanted to say. He wanted to curse the man for keeping him alive, but he looked so pleased with himself that Jonderill didn’t have the heart to knock him down. Apart from that he was curious. “You’re not one of them?”

“Good Goddess no, my name is Rothers, Lord Rothers of Northshield, heir to the throne.” For a moment he stood a little straighter and looked almost proud until his shoulders slumped once again. “I’m Tallison’s slave and his whore when he’s not fucking children.”

Jonderill frowned in confusion; he had been to Northshield and knew there was no heir. “I don’t understand.”

“My cousin, King Borman, the treacherous bastard, left me here to die. I tried to escape once and they didn’t even bother to come searching for me. You see there’s nothing but desert all around us, so I had to come back again, but now you are here you can use your magic to get us both away from this place.”

Jonderill closed his eyes for a moment, trying to find a way to make his new friend understand that he had endangered himself for nothing, but before he could sort out the right words there was shouting from outside the pavilion and Rothers scuttled away out of view. He heard the door flap of the pavilion being drawn back and the shouting increased in volume filling the pavilion with noise and anger. Above the other sounds he recognised Tallison’s high pitched shrieking but the other voices, deep and urgent, were new. He didn’t know how many people there were in the pavilion but there had to be quite a few; he could tell that by the heavy footfalls and the creak of leather holding steel.

In amongst the confusion there was the light tread and fast breathing of the girl. She left the others arguing amongst themselves and came to the cage glaring at the prisoner and scowling down at the abandoned water skin. It was her scream of rage which silenced the raised voices. Tallison hurried forward, coming into Jonderill’s field of vision and standing next to the girl, his face contorted with rage.

“He’s been given water,” she screamed. “I gave orders that he was to thirst but that slave has allowed him to drink!”

Tallison silenced her instantly with a chopping motion of his hand. “That’s unimportant; we can deal with that cur later, for now we have more urgent matters. I will show my disbelieving people that I, the magnificent Tallison, beloved of Talis, have the power of life and death over the mightiest of beings. Only I, Tallison, can humble a magician and bring him to his knees. I will show them what I can do and they will tremble at my feet.” He turned to the men who had gathered behind him. “Get him out.”