The White Robe (22 page)

“Well, what have we here then? I do believe it’s the Enclave’s new white wizard.” The speaker gave a cynical laugh and dropped his sword belt loudly on to the table in front of Jonderill, who didn’t bother to look up.

“Nah, Dowin, that’s no wizard, from what I heard, the Master of Magic said he was a peasant or a muck digger who’s no better than a low servant.” The second speaker leant across the table and picked up the remaining half of Jonderill’s bread, breaking off a chunk and passing the rest onto his four friends. Jonderill ignored them and concentrated on finishing the rest of his stew as fast as he could. Around him the five young men pulled out the chairs and sat around the table.

“From what I heard Master Tressing say he isn’t even a peasant, but an escaped slave from Leersland.”

Dowin picked up his sheathed sword from the table and prodded Jonderill in the shoulder with it. “Hey, peasant, is it true what they say, that no goods like you get branded in Leersland like some kind of animal?”

Jonderill did his best to ignore them but the second speaker, who had sat down next to him, kicked him sharply in the shin under the table. “Hey, peasant, my friend here is talking to you.”

He looked up and recognised three of the young men as the acolytes who had been in the room of instruction with him earlier in the day. The others were younger but clearly of the same mould. He looked from face to face and decided it was time to leave. Jonderill went to stand but the two acolytes on either side of him pulled him down and pressed his forearms firmly to the table. Dowin pulled a thin knife and laid it on the table close to Jonderill’s left hand. He tried to push back his chair but realized now that his choice of seat had been a poor one and he was trapped in the corner.

“Now peasant, is it true what they say, are you a branded slave?”

Jonderill said nothing but when Dowin gave a slight nod the two acolytes who held his arms pulled back his sleeve revealing the faded kingsward scar.

“Well, well, well, so the rumours are true. Now what is the High Master up to trying to teach a dog like you magic tricks?”

“Perhaps we could get the dog to do some tricks for us,” suggested the acolyte sitting next to him. “How about getting him to beg?”

“Leave me alone,” growled Jonderill as he tried to pull away but the two acolytes either side of him held him fast. They looked to their leader with expectant grins.

“Why not? Come on, peasant; let’s see you on your knees begging for us to leave you alone.” Jonderill said nothing. “Chaslin, see if your knife can teach this dog to obey his betters.”

Chaslin, who picked up the knife, gave a wolfish grin and leaned over the table. With a laugh he carved the letter ‘D’ into Jonderill’s forearm with the tip of his knife. Jonderill gritted his teeth and blood dripped from his arm onto the table. Dowin nodded again and Chaslin pressed the tip of his knife into Jonderill’s arm once more.

“What in hellden’s name is going on here!” bellowed the innkeeper. Chaslin slipped the knife underneath the table and passed it to the youth sitting next to him as the others released Jonderill’s arms.

“Nothing. It’s just a little game,” said Dowin, giving the angry innkeeper a warm, confident smile. “We were just initiating our friend here into the acolyte brotherhood, weren’t we Jonderill?”

Beneath the table Jonderill could feel the knife tip prod him in the ribs encouraging him to nod in agreement.

“Well you’re not doing any of your magic stuff in my inn, so out, the lot of you and don’t come back, ever.”

The innkeeper stood with his arms folded scowling at the five acolytes with his pot boy hovering behind him. He waited until they had gathered their swords and cloaks and watched them weave their way through the crowd and out of the inn before turning his attention back to Jonderill. The pot boy had already given Jonderill a clean cloth to press against his cut arm and was wiping up the spots of blood with a well used rag.

“Not all the acolytes who study at the Enclave are like that, but they are an unpleasant bunch. If I had known that Gellidan had reserved the table for their use I would never have let them in. It used to be that only those dedicated to the goddess were allowed into the Enclave, but lately anyone can come if their father’s got enough coin or a title. That lot are all youngest sons of one lord or another and you would be well advised to keep clear of them, particularly if what they were saying about you is true. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a full inn tonight and I need that table, so if you could drink up and leave I would be much obliged.”

The innkeeper returned to the bar and Jonderill watched as the pot boy cleared away his half eaten meal and disappear back into the crowd. If he had any doubts about leaving the Enclave his mind was now firmly made up. Carefully he lifted the cloth and looked at the cut on his arm which had stopped bleeding. It was a shallow cut and with any luck it wouldn’t scar. He poured the rest of his wine into his goblet and drank it slowly, watching the other customers eating and drinking with their friends. It occurred to him that they were all craft workers, mainly from the smithies but with a few weavers as well. He couldn’t see any armsmen amongst them which was a bit odd considering the name of the inn. There were definitely no other acolytes in the room and he wondered why his five tormentors had picked this inn for their evening’s entertainment.

When his goblet was empty he made his way slowly to the door but before he reached it he felt an urgent tug on his shirt sleeve. He looked down to where the pot boy stood behind him holding an old, cracked scabbard with a simple, iron cross-hilted sword sticking out of the top of it. “Me master says ter gives yer this ter show them toffs that you knows how ter stick ‘em if yer ‘ave ter. ‘e says ter bring it back when yer done wiv it.”

The boy thrust the sword into Jonderill’s hand and disappeared back into the crowd. He watched the boy go before stepping out into the night and closing the door behind him. After the brightness of the inn the unlit pathway seemed extra dark; even the light from the torch lit square barely reached the door of the inn. He turned to the left and followed the wall along and then turned again to reach the stairs to his room.

“Hello peasant,” said a deep voice out of the darkness. Two small balls of elemental fire lit up the darkness and Jonderill’s heart dropped as he recognised the five acolytes from earlier. “We have some unfinished business. My friend here wants to see you do some tricks and Chaslin has some carving to finish.”

Dowin and his friend, Jeb drew their swords and Chaslin unsheathed his knife and held it out in front of him whilst the two younger acolytes, who held the elemental fire, stepped back to give their friends more room.

“Why don’t you just go away and leave me alone. I don’t have anything you want and I don’t want to fight you.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong. Jeb here wants to see you beg on your knees, Chaslin wants more of your blood on his knife and I want you back in Leersland and chained up or whatever they do with slaves there.”

Jonderill sighed in resignation and pulled the old sword from its battered scabbard. It felt heavy and cumbersome and awkward in his hand. He had never held a cross-hilted sword before and, as he struggled to grip it, he wished that he had his own sword in his hand instead of which he’d foolishly left it upstairs.

Jeb attacked first with a cross body slice which Jonderill parried but the impact sent a shock through his wrist and arm making the heavy sword twist in his grip. He had barely regained his hold on the weapon when a reverse cut came back at him knocking his sword to the other side. He retook his stance and tried to remember all the things that the Cadetmaster had taught him. When Jeb advanced again with a number of chest height thrusts he was ready for them and was able to push them aside. Jeb repeated his cross body slice which Jonderill caught on his blade and held it there, hilt to hilt until Jeb retired with a grin on his face and Dowin stepped forward making practice swings through the air with the ease of a well practiced swordsman.

Jonderill parried his first two moves but the third thrust slipped past his guard and pierced his shoulder by a finger’s width. The Acolyte stepped back and saluted whilst drops of blood appeared on Jonderill’s shirt. Jeb took Dowin’s place and with little style bludgeoned at Jonderill’s sword until he lost his grip and the weapon spun from his hand. Jeb stepped back and Dowin moved in again piercing Jonderill’s other shoulder. This strike was slightly deeper and blood immediately blossomed on the front of his shirt.

“You can make this easy by getting down on to your knees and begging for mercy in which case Chaslin will just finish his carving or you can pick that sword up and we’ll teach you a lesson and then Chaslin will still carve you up. So, what’s it to be, slave dog?”

Jonderill looked down at the sword, took a deep breath and knowing it was the wrong thing to do he picked it up. It felt heavier than ever and the wound in his shoulder made his arm ache. He took up a defensive stand and backed up against the wall of the inn with the tip of the sword wavering unsteadily in front of him. Jeb came at him from one side and Dowin from the other. He parried Jeb’s high cut which would have taken his arm off at the shoulder but could do nothing about Dowin’s thrust which pierced him in the side. Jonderill gasped as he felt the steel blade being withdrawn from his body and dropped the sword to grip the bleeding wound.

“Painful but not fatal,” said Dowin. “Now get down on your knees, slave dog.”

Jonderill stood defiantly with his back to the wall and blood dripping through his fingers. He’d lasted this far so he wasn’t going to give in now. Dowin gave an irritated sigh and thrust his sword towards Jonderill’s thigh but the hit never landed as his sword was deflected downwards; its tip scoring a line in the dirt by Jonderill’s feet. Dowin stepped back and raised his sword to attack the newcomer but before he could do so his attacker had scored two thin cuts down the length of one forearm. As he looked in astonishment at the blood marking the torn edges of his sleeve his opponent’s second sword flicked his wrist sending Dowin’s sword spinning from his hand.

Jeb charged forward swinging his weapon in a vicious head slice and from the shadows Chaslin threw his knife at the new attacker. The swordsman caught Jeb’s downward slice and deflected it to the side, trapping it with his sword hilt whilst his other sword knocked the knife from the air sending it bouncing harmlessly against the wall. In a fluid motion he turned the blade broadside and smacked it against Jeb’s ribs. Jeb gave a scream of pain, dropped his sword and stumbled after his retreating friends leaving the alleyway in darkness.

“If you can manage it a little bit of light would be helpful.” said Jonderill’s rescuer from the darkness.

Jonderill moved his hand away from the wound in his side and produced a weak ball of elemental fire that waved unsteadily at the end of his blood covered fingers. Opposite him, with a sword held in either hand stood the young man who had given him his cloak when he had first arrived at the Enclave.

“They’ve gone and I don’t think they will be back.” He sheathed his swords in the crossed scabbards on his back and stepped forward to drape Jonderill’s arm over his shoulder supporting his uninjured side. “Let’s get you up to your room and then I’ll go and get you some help.”

Taking most of Jonderill’s weight he helped Jonderill up the stairs and into his unlit room sitting him in the room’s only chair. He looked around the small chamber but couldn’t find what he was looking for. “Where’s your lamp?” Jonderill pointed in the direction of the slop bucket and his rescuer glanced inside at the crumpled robe and broken lamp. “Oh. You stay here then and don’t move. Dozo was in the inn when I left and he’s bound to have his kit with him.”

Tissian left and Jonderill closed his eyes and let his elemental fire fade away. The wounds in his side and shoulder were still bleeding and he was starting to feel light headed. Now that the shock of the attack had passed and the adrenaline was fading, he was feeling cold and was starting to shake. He needed something to keep himself warm, but didn’t want to get blood on his blankets so he pulled the slop bucket towards him, shook out the broken glass from the robe and wrapped it around his shoulders. The thing didn’t even smell of lamp oil let alone burnt fibers or soot. It was surprisingly warm though so he closed his eyes for a moment and drifted into sleep.

He jumped slightly when the key rattled in the lock and Dozo came into the room clutching a small bag followed by the young protector carrying one of the inn’s oil lamps and a bottle of grain spirit. Together they helped Jonderill remove his shirt and Tissian waited anxiously whilst Dozo cleaned the wounds with the grain spirit. Ignoring Jonderill’s protests at the sting of the strong spirit, he smothered the cleaned wounds with a white paste, which smelled of herbs, and bound them with clean linen from his bag. When he’d finished they helped Jonderill onto his bed and Dozo left, promising to return to change the dressings in the morning. Tissian poured the rest of the grain spirit into two pots and handed one to Jonderill. He shook out the robe and laid it over the clothes chest and removed his two swords before sitting in the chair.