The White Robe (62 page)

Sharman was disappointed. Whilst he hadn’t wanted to see such a skilled swordsman die he hadn’t expected the protector to turn tail and run, although in similar circumstances he would have done exactly the same thing. He watched, almost in amusement, as the line of well spaced horsemen funnelled themselves together, jostling to be first on the bridge and having the honour of planting their lance in the body of the magician and his protector.

The first three were galloping across the bridge when it disappeared. One moment it was there and the next it was just a thick cloud of wood splinters and torn bodies. From his position he couldn’t see the detail, which perhaps wasn’t such a bad thing, but by the way his men were hurrying away from the river bank, he guessed that what had happened on the bridge hadn’t been a natural occurrence. He shouted to his signalman who waved his banner to call the stand down.

Jonderill retched and retched again, his insides being squeezed by a giant fist and his head pounding fit to burst. He could feel Tissian pulling at his arm, urging him to stand but there was no way his legs were going to hold him up. Callabris had told him that his kind couldn’t use their magic to take a life, but nobody had told him why. Now he knew. This was worse than his aversion to weapons; much, much worse. Next to him, something soft and warm carefully touched his face and he shrieked and vomited again, as new spikes of pain seared through his head and stomach. Whatever it was withdrew rapidly, leaving him in a groaning heap.

Across the river, Sharman waited for the dust and debris to settle, his two squads standing about and talking in two groups; Northshieldmen in one, Leerslanders in the other. If more than one squad leader had remained to keep them in order, the men would have been in nice neat rows, but the second squad leader had been on the bridge when it exploded. It didn’t take too long for the dust to settle and when it did, he couldn’t believe his eyes, the magician and the protector were still there, just across the river and within bow range, except they hadn’t brought any bowmen.

Why the idiots hadn’t made a run for it, as they now had a horse with them, was a mystery but one which he was going to use to his advantage. The other amazing thing was the state of the bridge, or at least what was left of it. Whilst the floor and the down river hand rail had gone the four support post and the upstream cross poles with their entwined weeper branches were still intact easing the flow of the river. It was going to be a wet crossing but who in hellden cared.

Sansun called the alarm and butted Tissian so hard in the back that it sent him sprawling over the semi-conscious body of his master. He rolled off the body as it began to convulse weakly beneath him, grateful that Jonderill had at least stopped shrieking.  As he glanced across the river, he cursed at the row of bobbing heads in the water, using the remains of the bridge as protection against its flow. It would take some time for them all to get across, but it wouldn’t take all of them to take him and his master out in the open.

It was no good; Jonderill was going to have to move. Sansun obviously thought so too as he folded his legs beneath him so that his master could crawl or be heaved across his back. Tissian wasn’t sure if Jonderill could hear him, but he told him what he was going to do anyway as he lifted his shaking body and draped it across Sansun’s saddle. It wasn’t very dignified and it wouldn’t do Jonderill’s head much good, but it was better than waiting for the swimmers to arrive and butcher them. Sansun stood as carefully as he could, Tissian took his trailing reins and they ran.

Sharman scrambled out of the water just in time to see his quarry leave. He could have galloped after them, but as only two others had crossed, he didn’t fancy his chances against the protector. In any case, they weren’t going anywhere fast, probably only as far as the stone bridge, or perhaps Crosslands Gap if they were foolish enough to try that crossing into Tarbis. No, he would wait for the fang hounds to cross and send them to harry his quarry, and then the Northshieldmen could finish them off. The hounds were coming out of the river now, spraying stinking water in a wide arc from their long, coarse hair. He raised his hand and their lead handler trotted over.

They could see the bridge and the others waiting for them, but it was going to be a close run thing. At least Jonderill had managed to sit in the saddle with Tissian behind him propping him up, and Sansun was doing his best to keep up speed with the weight of two men on his back. Behind him the six fang hounds, huge creatures baying for their blood, were gaining fast. Further back still, the squad of lancers, minus those who had died on the bridge, were gaining ground too. Sansun skidded to a halt at the stone bridge and Jonderill slid off his back into Jarrul’s waiting arms.

Tissian jumped off the other side and threw his last two knives almost before his feet had touched the ground. Both found their mark and the first two hounds went down bowling over another and breaking its neck but that still left three. One leapt at Sansun’s throat and had its skull crushed by the horse’s iron hooves. The other two leapt at Tissian. The first impaled itself on Tissian’s side knife and howled as it fell to one side taking the knife with it but the other sank its fangs into Tissian’s shoulder, twisting him around and pulling him off his feet.

Disarmed, Tissian pounded at the hound’s head with his fist trying to get at its eyes and making the creature pull back, its teeth still buried deeply in the protector’s arm. He screamed feeling his arm being ripped apart, and screamed again as the creature jerked sideways, its head separated from its body. Tarraquin stepped back gripping a bloody sword leaving Tissian to pull the beast’s fangs from his arm and stagger to his feet. Ignoring the blood and torn flesh, he pulled his sword from its scabbard with his other hand and together they faced the charging squad of lancers.

Sadrin galloped to the foot of the bridge with Nyte just behind him screaming for him to hurry. He thought the cursed woman must have had eyes that could see through stone because he couldn’t see anything over the arch of the bridge. He yanked on his horse’s reins and slid to the ground, swearing as he stumbled on a loose stone and nearly fell. With Nyte still screaming behind him, he hitched up his robe and ran, hoping there wasn’t a bowman on the other side of the bridge just waiting for his head to come into view. When he reached the top he abruptly stopped. This wasn’t what he was expecting at all. Instead of the white robe and his protector there was a whole crowd of people. One man, who looked like the white robe, was down with a woman attending to him and two men, a girl and a horse were lined up in front of them making a stand.

A bloody mess of dead hounds lay at their feet and barely twenty strides away, their lances lowered for the kill galloped more soldiers than he had seen in his entire journey through Vinmore. Vorgret would have loved this. He would have watched and laughed as the lancers skewered the defenders and trampled the white robe into the ground, but he hadn’t come all this way for someone else to take his prize. Sadrin took a deep breath, raised his arms so that his outstretched fingers were pointing at the charging lancers and released his power.

Sharman watched the charge with the rest of his men from Leersland around him feeling uncomfortable with the way this was going to end. He still wasn’t sure what he was going to do when the Northshieldmen had finished their work, he supposed it depended on how many of them were left. Wanting another opinion, he turned to talk to the man behind him, a good man who he had known for years, when the wave of heat hit him. His terrified horse reared almost throwing him from the saddle and around him the other horses did the same causing chaos until they were brought back under control. He cursed and turned back to watch the charging lancers but they were gone, every single one of them. Nothing was left but a dark, greasy smudge in a line in front of their quarry and the stink of burnt flesh.

On the bridge someone in black lowered their arms and started to move forwards. He had seen the likes of that one before, at Sarrat’s court, and had no intention of waiting around to see what else he could do. His mind was made up; if Borman wanted the white robe, he could come and get him himself. Sharman turned his horse and rode away. Right now, anywhere away from here was a good place to be, and his men must have agreed because they followed him without saying a word.

~   ~   ~   ~   ~

Revelations

They stood, stunned, staring at the space where only moments before, thirty or so men and horses had borne down on them intent on bringing death. Now there was nothing, just a black, greasy smudge on the grass and the smell of tortured air after a lightning strike. They hadn’t even seen their attackers die; there was just a bright flash of light and, in an instant, they were gone.

Tissian was the first to recover, turning quickly around to face the bridge and readying his weapons. Whatever it was that had killed their enemies, could just as easily turn on them, so he was going to be ready, not that he knew what he was going to do. If the force attacked them, a sword wasn’t going to be much of a defence against that sort of power, not even a protector’s sword. Jonderill staggered to his feet and went to stand next to his protector pushing Birrit behind him. He had no doubt that what had happened had been caused by magic, but it was no kind of magic that he had ever seen before. The air around them crackled as if there was lightning in the air, and his skin crawled with the tension.

On the bridge, Sadrin dropped his hands to his side, flexed his shoulders and gave a deep, satisfied sigh. It was a long time since he had done anything like that, especially on that scale, and he had forgotten how alive it made him feel. He smiled to himself; Vorgret would have been very impressed. Next to him, Nyte looked stunned, her green eyes wide open so the whites showed, and her lips parted as if she was going to say something but had forgotten what it was.

Sadrin smiled at her too, pleased with the effect his magic had on her. He gave her a quick wink and started walking down the other side of the bridge, watching to see if the group who were waiting for his arrival were equally impressed by what he had done to save their lives. Nyte followed behind leading the horses, her mouth in a grim line and her cold eyes fixed on the white robe.

When he reached the small group Sadrin stopped in front of the white magician, who he assumed was Jonderill, and gave him a small formal bow. The fact that Jonderill was about the same age as he was surprised him, he had expected someone older with a white beard and a look of superiority, but he was just a young man, much like himself. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the colour of the robes they wore, they could have been brothers. He suddenly felt uncomfortable with the idea of killing him.

“Good morning, brother. I hope your friend there with the sword is not angry with me for taking his kill but he did look a bit overwhelmed.”

Jonderill returned the formal bow. “This is Tissian, my protector, and no, he’s not angry, his weapons have already tasted our enemy’s blood today.” He smiled and held out his hand. “I’m Jonderill.”

The black robe took his hand and smiled. “I’m Sadrin, and if you don’t mind me saying so, I think you should move away from here. There’s another squad of soldiers lurking close by, so I think you would be safer over the other side of the bridge and into Vinmore. You’ll find a much nicer class of person over there. Apart from that, your gallant protector appears to be dripping copious amounts of blood onto the soil and is in need of some urgent attention to his wounds.”

Jonderill looked down at the pool of blood forming on the ground beneath Tissian’s arm. He nodded in agreement and instantly everyone sprang into action. Jarrul and Tarraquin recaptured the horses, which had shied away from the bloody corpses of the fang hounds, and Birrit bandaged Tissian’s wounds sufficiently well to prevent him from dying from blood loss before they made camp.

They crossed over the stone bridge into Vinmore leaving the dark stain, which had once been thirty or so men, and the six dead hounds on the grass behind them. Sadrin chatted to Jonderill, telling him about his journey through Vinmore, and Jonderill gave the occasional nod or grunt just to let his talkative rescuer know he was listening. He wasn’t though. His mind was full of the thirty men who had died in an instant, and trying to fathom out what sort of man could wield such power without showing the tiniest bit of regret or remorse.

After riding for about a candle length, Sadrin led them off the beaten pathway they were following into a small coppice with a brook running nearby. It was where he had camped the previous night, and there were still warm embers in the fire ring which Nyte used to relight the fire. They were a sorry looking group, battered and exhausted, but it was Tissian who was in the worst condition. The long deep cut on his arm was open and bleeding, but it was nothing compared to the mangled flesh where the fang hound had mauled him. He sat by the fire as pale as river ice.

Jonderill used the last of the grain spirit to clean the wounds making Tissian hiss and shudder. Then Tissian closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as Tarraquin started to sew the torn skin and flesh back together again with small, fine stitches. He would have passed out if it hadn’t been for Nyte, who came and sat by his side and pressed her hand lightly against his injured arm until his teeth unclenched and he relaxed. When Tarraquin had finished her work, smothering the wounds with balm taken from Tissian’s saddle bags, Nyte removed her hand and the pain came back with a rush.

Now Tissian sat by the fire with a blanket wrapped around him against the shock, carefully cleaning his long knife, which he held between his knees with his one good hand. They had shared their supplies with the black robe and his slave, and Jarrul had caught a pair of fat wood cluckers. Nyte had baked them in mud by the fire so that when she pulled the baked clay apart, the feathers came away with it, leaving hot succulent meat. Jonderill brought their last skin of wine to the fire, but Tarraquin, Jarrul and Birrit declined his invitation to join him, preferring to sit under a nearby tree and talk amongst themselves.

He was surprised and a little hurt that they didn’t want to join him, but supposed that it was the presence of the black robe which made them unusually unsociable. Nyte watched her master closely from beneath the tree where the horses were picketed and waited for him to invite her to the fire. He had done that every other night of their journey, but Sadrin ignored her, as if she wasn’t there. When it became obvious that there would be no invitation, she gave Jonderill an undisguised look of jealousy and hatred, and retired to her own blankets.

Jonderill sat by the fire and passed Sadrin the wine skin. “I never thanked you properly for your intervention. I think even Tissian might have struggled against thirty charging horsemen armed with lances.”

Sadrin shrugged. “It was nothing; I was pleased to help a brother.”

Jonderill would have liked to ask him what he was doing on the bridge, but thought it might sound ungrateful, so instead he asked Sadrin who he was and where he came from.

“Who am I? I’m nobody really; the son of a peasant farmer with a patch of land in north Essenland too small to support him, his wife and seven children. I was the middle one; too young to be any use on the farm, and too old to be my mother’s baby. If that wasn’t bad enough I was odd too. From the first day I can remember I hated the farm, the mud, the smell, everything about it. I wanted to do something with my life, to be someone others respected and looked up to, not just a dirt grubber like my father to be kicked around by anyone who had two gellstart to rub together.

My pa said I had something wrong with my head, and perhaps he was right, for one day something changed in me and I found that I had a gift for burning things. I started small on twigs and scraps of wood, and then went onto bigger things. I burnt a whole tree down once.” He took a swig from the wine skin and passed it back to Jonderill. “Then I moved on to live things, you know, gnawers and squeakers and then my sister’s kittling. It just sat there on a wall looking all smug so I pointed my fingers at it and it burst into flames, the smell was incredible.

“Unfortunately my sister saw what had happened and started to scream, so I pointed my fingers at her too. By the time my pa missed her, her ashes had blown away on the wind. I was a bit more careful after that, but got caught eventually trying to cook the family grunter whilst it was still alive. Pa nearly beat me to death for it, and sent for the prince’s guard; he said I was demented. The upshot was I was sent to the Enclave to be tested.” Sadrin laughed and shook his head at the memory. “I nearly burnt the school of learning down without even trying. They said I was a freak and tried to block my magic, but it didn’t work; every time I got angry, something would go up in flames.

“Eventually they found out how to control me. If they kept me weak, beaten, starved and abused me, I couldn’t call on the fire within me, but I found that there are other ways to kill those who torment you. It would have been kinder if they’d done away with me there and then, but their kind don’t do that sort of thing, so they sent me to Essenland’s silver mines instead. I was put into one of the deepest mines where they work you without rest until you drop, and then they beat you bloody to make sure you’re not faking.

“Prince Vorgret found me there and gave me back my life. He gave me a safe place to live, time to learn how to control my gift and encouragement to develop other talents. He gave me the robe I wear, the slave who attends me and everything else that I have. In return I deal with his enemies for him, I go where he says I should go, and most of the time, I do what he tells me to do.”

He threw a branch on the fire and watched the flames leap upwards with a look of wonder. “Not a very edifying story is it? It’s not the life I always dreamed of, but it’s better than any sort of life that I’ve had so far. What about you, Jonderill, is your story any better? How did you come to the exalted position of wearing the white and yet be under attack and fighting for your life?”

Jonderill shook his head. “My story’s not much better. I was a kingsward, rescued by a magician and sold as a slave. Rescued again by two old magicians, captured for a slave and ended up at the Enclave, where my experience was only marginally better than your own. Callabris of the white took me in, and for a while, I was the property of King Borman. I didn’t like what he was or what Callabris did with his magic in the name of service to his king, so I left and took these others with me.” He looked over his shoulder at Tarraquin and her friends deep in conversation by an everleaf tree and wondered what they were talking about so earnestly.

Sadrin gave a small ironic laugh. “You know, you and I are much alike; unwanted, abused by others and having to make our own place in the world. It seems that Borman is very much like Vorgret. He wouldn’t let his possessions get up and walk away without trying to get them back either, but I’m surprised that Borman sent guards to kill you and not Callabris to fetch you back.”

“Callabris would have refused; he wouldn’t do anything to harm me.”

“Don’t be so sure, he comes from a family of turncoats who are renowned for doing almost anything for their own prestige and comfort. What do you say, protector, you must have heard some of the rumours about Callabris and his family when you were training at the Enclave?”

Tissian shook his head and stared at the fire. “It’s not the place of a protector to talk about a white robe or their family.” He looked up at the expectant faces of one magician and then the other and shook his head. “But it’s strange that Borman didn’t send him after us, especially as he sent Callabris to track down Istan and the others. From what Jarrul says it was only by luck that he survived.”

“You see what I mean? You need to be careful, Jonderill, Callabris may wear a white robe but that doesn’t make him pure and clean.”

He took the wine skin which Jonderill held out to him, hesitating as he noticed the scar on his arm. “I see you wear the mark of a kingsward. I knew one once, we were chained together for a while until they beat him to death. He was a big bear of a man, full of fight when he first came to the pits with his number branded on his arm, but they broke him, like they did all the others. He told me his pa was quartered as a murderer but didn’t say much else, so I’ve always wondered what being a kingsward was like.”

“It’s like being in hellden’s halls. A filthy compound where they put orphans and the children of felons until they’re raped and murdered, die of starvation or are old enough to be worked to death.”