The White Robe (72 page)

Had the land been solid rock or packed earth, the release of power would have ripped it apart into deadly splinters of rock and shattered stone but it wasn’t, it was sand, and once the shock waves had passed, the sand settled again as if only a breeze had rippled its surface. As the dust cloud cleared horses milled around in panic, some had bolted and some had fallen, their legs broken by the shifting ground. They had fared better than the men, coughing and choking on the dust, lying on the ground crushed and trampled by the horses or wiping blood from their faces where the sand had scoured away exposed flesh. At least half were out of action but that still left more than fifty, far too many for one man to stand against, even a protector.

Jonderill searched inside of him trying to find something else to defend their position, a spark, anything, but there was nothing there. Tissian stepped in front of him giving him a grim smile.

“Stay behind me, master. It’s my fight now.”

The first of the riders, those who had managed to stay on their horses when the ground moved beneath them, charged. Four hit the ground with metal bolts embedded in face or chest and the fifth, a huge warrior who closed with Tissian, missed his stroke and lost his leg, as the protector cut it from him just below the knee. He galloped by screaming with blood pumping down his horse’s flank. Tissian quickly reloaded his bow and waited for the next attack. Behind him Jonderill peered around his side, trying to ignore the nausea caused by the magic’s backlash, and the threat of the men with curved swords who had moved back into their semi-circle formation. He concentrated on the small group to one side where a dark-haired man was directing the attack. If he could just find something in his magic to take him down then the attack might falter.

They charged again, all at once this time, but on foot. Tissian fired his double bow three times missing with only one bolt and used three of his knives on the far end of the line which was in danger of encircling him. Men went down screaming and the line faltered and then retreated. The screams of their leader, as he berated and threatened his retreating warriors, could be heard above the groans of dying men, so Jonderill concentrated on him, forming a compunction spell which he had worked once before with some success.

He released his power and watched as the man staggered backwards, his shouting turning to a terrified shriek. A slight figure in some sort of flimsy gown, which Jonderill couldn’t quite make out, stepped in front of the man and the shrieking instantly stopped. A moment later the magic’s backlash hit him making him cry out, stagger and go to one knee. Tissian took a pace back to cover him.

The warriors charged again and Tissian used his last four bolts and two more of his knives to deadly effect before the charge faltered but this time they didn’t retreat. Tissian dropped his bow and pulled the first of his swords from his back daring them to come on. Behind him he heard the distant rumble of horses galloping across hard ground and knew their time was running out. He threw his last three knives in quick succession bringing down two warriors but only slicing the arm of a third. With his free hand he drew his other sword and waited.

The noise of the horses behind him became louder, barely a score of paces away and he could feel Jonderill trying to stand. There was a shout and the sound of horses snorting as men dismounted on the run and charged. The warriors in front of him reached him first their curved swords cutting the air around him whilst Tissian danced in the way that only a protector could, his blade rising and falling and cutting flesh with every movement.

He felt the impact of the men behind him and heard Jonderill’s scream of warning. Tissian tried to turn to protect his master but rough hands were already pulling him away. He reached with his blades, taking two lives with one sweep, but no man can defend themselves when they are surrounded on all sides, and he went down in a welter of blood.

Jonderill screamed and fought as they dragged him across the ground by his arms and shoulders, neck and hair. Behind him he could see Tissian’s last stand, his swords making his devotions to his goddess and then there was just descending blades and blood and he was gone. The warriors dragged him to where the dark man with the mad eyes waited with a curved sword in his hand. He saw the man smile and the flash of the descending blade but not his own blood as it stained the sand scarlet.

*  
~  
*

He knew he must be dead, everything was black and cold and his mind was as empty and as raw as if someone had scraped it with a rusty knife. His eyes were sealed shut, their lids too heavy to open and the lashes held together by dried tears. And he couldn’t move. Every muscle was frozen in place, held there as if the weight of the world was pressing him downwards and inwards until there was nothing left but a small hard ball of what he used to be. Inside the ball something moved, a tiny, fluttering heartbeat and in that instant Jonderill knew he was alive.

Then the pain hit, a searing, burning fire of agony that tore through his fingers and ruptured the skin into blisters. His hands burst into flame and he screamed, tearing his eyes open to shatter the darkness. They were gone. The long fingers with their clipped nails, the palms with their calluses from years of hard work, the hands with their fine tracery of blue veins, all were gone. In their place were two stumps, black and charred, burnt and bleeding.

With the pain came the memories and he closed his eyes to block them out but they were still there, the only images which had not been seared from his mind. Memories of Tissian fighting to protect him, his swords moving so fast they were streaks of silver in the air. Memories of hands pulling at him, dragging him away and Tissian fighting to get to him. Memories of Tissian surrounded, bloody, beaten and hacked to pieces under a dozen descending swords.

He opened his eyes again hoping that the light would burn the images away, but they were still there along with the agony of his missing hands. Desperately he tried to move, to shift his shoulders and push the tormented stumps away from the heat of his body but he couldn’t flex a single muscle. There was a weight pressing down on him and around him as if he were bound in his own coffin. Panic joined the pain and the torturous memories and he struggled against them fighting to be free until he was once again plunged back into darkness.

When he opened his eyes once again the pain and the memories were still there, but the panic had gone, extinguished by a tiny flicker of light which burnt in the darkest corner of his mind. He was in a cage; he could feel the bars pressing against him, digging into his feet, curling over his head and holding him down. Crouching in a cage which swayed slightly from side to side he was unable to move, hardly able to breathe, with his stained robe around him, his missing hands on fire and his memories seared into his mind. He closed his eyes and prayed to the goddess for death.

Voices penetrated his darkness, voices which perhaps would bring him some relief from his torture. He opened his eyes and blinked away their wetness until he could focus on the three figures before him. The one kneeling on the ground was a stranger to him. He smelled of fear and filth and abuse. A slave then, only slightly better off than he was. The woman, dressed in transparent silk and bangles looked different than the girl he remembered, the look of hate changed to one of triumph. Only the eyes remained the same, the pale green of sea ice, the same as his own. The other one’s features were imprinted on his soul, small and dark with the eyes of a madman. He smelled of perfume but with the sickly smell of rot beneath the cloying scent. Tallison, the one who had taken his hands.

“Welcome to my home, mighty magician, I hope you are finding your accommodation comfortable and to your liking. My friends here will serve you and cater to your every need.” He laughed viciously, put his hand around the back of the girl’s neck and moved her forward slightly. You already know the beautiful Nyte; she was the one who gave you to me in exchange for my favours. She hates your kind, almost as much as I do, so you will forgive her if her attentions are not always of the gentlest kind. This,” he kicked the kneeling man, “Is Rothers, cousin to King Borman and he has been charged with keeping you alive. When you die, he dies.”

Jonderill stared at the man as the words filtered through his pain in a jumble of confusion. His mind was too raw to understand what was being said, but if he asked, the man might set him free. He struggled to clear his thoughts, to put his memories aside and to put the right words together. When he had them all in one place and in a line, he croaked them out through parched lips.

“Set me free.”

Tallison gave a cackling laugh. “Oh no, Callistares, I have waited a long time to have you in my power.”

That didn’t make sense at all, he wasn’t that person, he was someone else; there had been a terrible mistake. He would have shaken his head if it had been possible but the bars prevented even that movement.

“I’m Jonderill.”

Tallison gave another cackling laugh and nodded to the girl. She took a step forward and placed her hand on the prisoner’s exposed arm, just above the blackened stump. Instantly the pain was gone and with it the fear and confusion. It was like the sun coming out after a thunder storm or stepping into daylight after being in dense woodland. Only the memory of Tissian’s bloody body remained.

“I’m not the one you think I am. I am Jonderill,” he repeated again, as much for himself as his tormentor.

Tallison shook his head and chuckled, his eyes bright and piercing. “No boy, you have it wrong. I know who you are and where you come from. Your name is Callistares, son of Coberin the white who died in that cage. You are the one named after Callistares, the great magician who, along with Coberin, murdered my father, and placed my younger brother on the throne instead of me. Now the throne is mine and so are you, and you, Callistares, are going to die.”

“Then kill me,” pleaded Jonderill.

“Oh no, I’m going to watch you die little by little, piece by piece. I will keep you alive just enough so that your spine will crumble to sand, and your bones will scrape the bars of your cage, just enough that your flesh will melt to nothing, and your skin will rot from your body. I am going to watch whilst vermin eat you alive, and I am going to listen to you scream, Callistares, and beg for death.”

He smiled at the girl and Nyte removed her hand.

Jonderill screamed.

*   ~   *

If you have enjoyed The White Robe

tell your friends, they might enjoy it too.

Coming Soon: The explosive end to

The Sword and the Spell

Book 3 - The Black Robe.