The White Robe (8 page)

Jonderill swallowed hard. It wasn’t the first time he had been sold but that had been as a stable hand and then a kitchen boy, being a slave and digging silver in a mine was a whole different matter. He lay back on the bouncing floor, closed his eyes and tried to think of a way out of his situation.

Without any warning he was thrown into the air and then sharply yanked back down again by the ropes around his hands which tethered him to the floor. Around him men screamed as they were thrown around from one wall to another as the wagon rolled drunkenly from side to side in its forward career over the rough roadway. The man he had been talking to was thrown into his side knocking the breath from him and then his legs were whipped away again as he lost his grip on the rings which secured Jonderill to the floor.

On the other side of the wagon there was a scream followed by a crack as another of the prisoners was thrown against the side of the wagon, his head hitting the rough metal side supports. Blood sprayed across Jonderill’s face mixed with the loose effluent which coated the wagon floor.

Jonderill tried to roll away but as he did so his world turned upside down. His body hit the wooden sides of the wagon with a thud that sent spikes of pain through every part of him and then he was yanked downwards with his feet scraping the top corner of the wagon until he was standing on the ceiling with his arms twisted behind his back and anchored to the floor above him. He balanced on his toes as the wagon swayed and settled knowing that his slightest move would break his arms or dislocate them from his shoulders.

An eerie silence settled over the wagon with only the occasional cough or groan to show that there were others still alive around him. Outside of his upside down world there were the distant sounds of clashing steel and the shouts of fighting which faded away into silence.

He really needed to relieve the pressure on his arms and toes but dared not move. Instead he took a deep breath and shouted for help but the rasping croak which was all he could manage was barely loud enough to echo around the wagon. He spat out the blood in his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue and tried again but the cry was still not loud enough to carry beyond the wagon doors. Flickering lights started to dance in front of his eyes and the edges of his vision darkened. Close to passing out he closed his eyes searching for a focus and with the last of his fading energy screamed out for help in his mind.

With his arms being slowly pulled from their sockets he balanced on his toes and fought to remain conscious. Next to him the man who had spoken to him groaned and cursed whilst someone at the far end of the wagon muttered a prayer to some unknown god. Above the noise he was sure he could hear the sound of running footsteps and shouted commands. He held on grimly as the rear door of the wagon was wrenched off its hinges and lantern light flooded the interior of the wagon. Men cursed and pleaded and wept as they were helped from the wagon and Jonderill collapsed gratefully into someone’s arms, moments before he would have passed out, as the ropes which bound his wrists to the rings in the ceiling were cut.

*

Jonderill woke to dappled sunlight playing across his face and an ache in his body as if he had been trampled by a herd of horses. He vaguely remembered being lifted from the overturned wagon and being given something sweet to drink, but after that, there seemed to be nothing. He opened his eyes slowly trying to work out where he was but from his position on the ground, all he could see were tufts of grass and the blurred shapes of people moving around him.

The odd angle made him feel dizzy so he closed his eyes again and listened to the sounds of a large camp. Men talked and called to each other and, somewhere to the right, he could hear horses move as they stood at a picket line. Closer by, a fire crackled, and he could feel the warmth of its flames on his back and the tantalising smell of food cooking on it.

The smell of hot oats and fresh bread made him realise how hungry he was, but more than that, it struck him that he could no longer smell himself; the smell of soot in his hair and the stench that had surrounded him in the wagon had gone. He opened his eyes again and started to mentally check his body for damage which, surprisingly, was very little. Beneath the blanket he was naked except for a cloth around his loins and two strips of linen around his wrists which gave off a vaguely herbal smell. Whoever had rescued him had gone to the trouble of bathing him as well, and apart from the aches and a few minor scrapes which had been covered in balm, he felt remarkably well.

“Good morning, you’re awake at last.”

With considerable effort and a muffled groan as his shoulders protested, Jonderill heaved himself into a sitting position clutching the blanket around him against the morning chill. In front of him stood a man with dark eyes and long dark hair pulled back and tied with a leather thong. He was older than Jonderill and had the build and stance of a warrior. The man was unarmed except for a baldric of small throwing knives across his chest but his clothes showed the marks where armour had recently been fitted. He smiled at Jonderill and held out a bundle of clothing and some boots. Jonderill had the feeling he had seen him somewhere before but couldn’t place him.

“These are for you. We’ve washed your robe which is still drying but, in any case, I think you will probably be more comfortable travelling in these.” He put the clothes and the boots next to where Jonderill sat. “When you’re ready come to the fire and eat.”

The man turned away and went back to the fire where a group of men were gathering around a large pot of food. Jonderill recognised the slave from the wagon who had spoken to him and was pleased that he had survived. Some of the others had clearly been the occupants of the other wagons by the way they were wolfing the food down, but most were young men dressed in grey uniforms who reminded him of his friend Barrin.

He dropped the blanket, pulled the soft green shirt over his head and then stood to pull on the slightly too large breaches which he fastened with a finely tooled leather belt. The leather jerkin and boots which had been left for him were made of good quality leather with fine stitching, and Jonderill smiled to himself at the absence of a sword. Clearly his rescuers were happy to clothe him, but giving him a weapon was another thing entirely. He walked to where his rescuer sat on a log by the fire, two bowls of hot oats dotted with the crispy rashers he’d smelled cooking and a pile of hot flatbread already waiting by his side.

“Thank you,” said Jonderill as he took the proffered bowl and sat. He slowly scooped the hot food into his mouth with the flatbread being careful not to eat too fast despite his hunger. The food was a delight and neither spoke whilst they downed the first bowl. Before he had quite finished a young man took the bowls away and replaced his with another bowl of oats, this time flavoured with a dollop of honey. The man bowed to them both before returning to the others around the fire.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” began Jonderill once the edge of his hunger had been sated. “I thought I was going to die in there.” He shuddered at the memory of what had happened. “Who were they and who are you?”

“So many questions!” the man smiled at Jonderill. “Fubrig was a slaver, not an official one mind you; slavery is frowned upon in the six kingdoms. He traded in men and sometimes women who were homeless and wouldn’t be missed and for a price relocated them to places where their labour and eventually their lives were stolen from them. He won’t be doing that again.”

“You killed him?”

“Yes and his cronies; they won’t trouble the roads anymore.”

“Is that what you do, stop slavery and the like?”

“No, although having seen the misery which Fubrig’s trade causes I almost wish it was my job. No, this was something special. I was sent to find you and to bring you into the safety of the goddess’s temple before your ignorance got you killed.”

Jonderill looked surprised and put his unfinished breakfast on the ground. “I don’t understand. Who are you?”

“We have met briefly before. My name is Allowyn and I am Callabris’s protector. My master is away in Tarbis at King Borman’s command and I have been using the time to visit Federa’s temple and renew my vows. It was the Goddess’s servants who sent me to find you.”

“I remember you now. You were at my apprentice day testing.” Jonderill reddened slightly at the embarrassing memory. “How did you know I was in trouble?”

“I didn’t but the Goddess did. She told her servant, the High Master, that it was time for you to discover your true calling and so they sent me and these armsmen to find you.  Tomorrow, after you have rested and eaten your fill, we’ll leave for the Enclave and the goddess’s temple.”

“And what if I don’t want to?” asked Jonderill hesitantly.

Allowyn raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You misunderstand. You don’t have any choice in the matter; you belong to Federa now.”

~   ~   ~   ~   ~

Players

He stood in front of the full length mirror and studied the figure looking back at him. It wasn’t the first time he’d done that but today was different, today a king stood in front of the mirror and instead of the king’s heir, the new ruler of Essenland looked back at him. Apart from the crown nothing much else had changed though. He was still shorter than average with thick arms, hands and legs. His neck was still too short and so thick that there seemed to be no distance between his heavy shoulders and his jutting, square jaw. His skin was still pock-marked from the red plague which had almost taken his early life and his nose was still nearly flat from a mistimed sword stroke by a guard who later died as a slave in his silver mines.

What made all the difference was the crown he wore on his head. He might not have the lean body and type of looks his brother had, which made women lust after him, but he too had enough bastards to populate a small town. Laughing to himself he smiled at his reflection and decided that whilst he didn’t have his father’s ingratiating smile or diplomatic skills, nobody would dare ignore his demands. Like his mother before him, what he lacked in looks and grace he made up for in a belligerence and dogged determination that neither Porteous nor Pellum could ever rival.

Vorgret turned to present his other profile to the mirror, the one where a puckered scar ran from his ear to his chin and caught sight of the reflection of his father standing behind him. He still burnt with anger whenever he thought of how his father had always dismissed him in favour of his younger brother. As usual his father wrung his hands and grinned like a boy who had won a treenut competition. Porteous, Steppen and Hormand had ruled half of the six kingdoms with a soft skin glove, allowing the peasants to do as they wished, but now it was his turn. He would show them all that he wasn’t the compliant idiot they all thought him to be. Readjusting the crown on his head so it sat straighter and further forward he smiled at his father’s refection.

“Ah, my boy, the crown looks good on you but never forget it’s only a bit of metal. What’s really important is the way your people see you and the love that your people have for you. If you can keep a kingdom peaceful and prosperous as Steppen and I have done since before you were born then you will truly be a great king.” Porteous hesitated for a moment when his son didn’t respond; it was such a pity that Vorgret was his eldest child; Pellum would have made a much better king. “I know it will be difficult for you to understand everything that you are supposed to do as king but don’t worry, I will always be here to advise you.”

Vorgret swiped the crown from his head and threw it onto the table with a clatter before turning on his father. He took a threatening step forward. “You are a stupid, old fool. Do you think that doing nothing except fucking the wife of your best friend is the way to secure a kingdom? Don’t think for one moment that I don’t know that Daun’s my half sister and that you made sure that your son married her so that the two kingdoms would be joined by blood.

“Well, listen to me, I’m not like Pellum; there’s no way I am going to fuck my own sister to secure my throne. If it wasn’t for me there would be no bloody throne. You used the kingdom’s wealth to make your life easy and the people happy but without me and my mines and the slaves I own, you, my prick of a brother and the happy peasants would be nothing. Now that you’ve gone I’m going to have everything. I’m going to be a real king and people are going to do what I say. I’m going to take the power of Federa’s servants and make it work for me. I’m going to take the Western kingdoms including that of my bastard sister and make them my own and I am going to do all of this without you or your advice or even your presence.”

Porteous stared at him in utter shock and disbelief.

“Guards. Take this bag of ancient bones and blubber and dump it outside of Essenland’s borders with a grey plodder, a bag of scraps and six silver gellstart. If he tries to return across the borders of my kingdom I will pay an equal bounty for his head.”

Porteous made to protest but four guards in his son’s new, black livery had already surrounded him and were bundling him out of the audience chamber before he could recover from the shock. Vorgret picked up the crown from the table and placed it back on his head before once again contemplating his reflection in the mirror. Yes, he thought, they all believed he was some sort of idiot to be confined in the north and away from court, but he had his own court with his own guards and his own followers.

Whilst his father and his pathetic brother had been bowing and scraping to Vinmore and the rest of the Western kingdoms, he had been creating the wealth which would make the other kingdoms grovel at his feet. He despised them for their weakness as much as they mocked him for being the heir that his father didn’t want, but he would show them. Sarrat had turned Leersland into a powerful kingdom and he had everything that Sarrat had and more besides. He looked again into the mirror and smiled in satisfaction as a dark figure reflected back from behind him.

“Ah, Sadrin, the black suits you as I said it would.”

The young magician stepped forward, his robes almost black except for the fleeting grey shadows which swirled around him like a maiden with her first ball gown. “Your Majesty,” he said, tasting the words on his tongue to see how they fit. “Your Majesty, the kingdom is yours and I am your loyal servant.”

“Yes, I know you are and together we will be great, far greater than even Sarrat and Maladran are. However, before we can show the rest of the six kingdoms just how great we can be, we need to turn this kingdom’s greedy nobility and lazy peasants into productive workers and obedient soldiers, willing to die for their king when asked. For that we will need a change in attitude and coin, lots of coin. To get that coin we need men with special skills and in the same way as I have chosen you and have nurtured your skills, I have been developing others to rise to the challenges before us. Are my guests waiting outside?”

“Yes, My Lord, and I assume by the way they are snarling at each other they are strangers and have not met before.

“Yes, that is so, so this should be interesting. Show them in.”

Sadrin walked to the plain door of the audience chamber and opened it. He beckoned the three men in whilst Vorgret took an ornately carved ebon seat with deep red cushions on a raised dais where he could look down on people but still see his reflection in the mirror. The three men lined up in front of him with Sadrin slightly behind them and all four gave brief bows.

“Kneel before your king,” commanded Sadrin, seeing a scowl cross Vorgret’s face at their lack of respect. Two responded immediately but the third hesitated until a blow from behind knocked him to the floor.

“Thank you, Sadrin, it was so good of you to remind my guests of their manners. Now gentlemen you may rise.” The three men stood and the one who had been knocked to the ground by the magician’s spell looked over his shoulder and glowered at him before returning his attention to the king.

“As my black magician has announced, I am now King of Essenland and it is time that the three of you repaid the investment I have made, in making your life more comfortable than you deserve and developing your individual talents. If you work hard you will all be very rich men with enough land, slaves and whores to keep you happy for the rest of your lives. On the other hand if you disappoint me or even dare to think that you would like to sit in this chair with a crown on your head, Sadrin will burn you alive from the inside out. Do I make myself clear?”

The three men nodded.

“Captain Bant.” The man on the left in the black uniform came to attention and saluted. Even without a sword at his side he looked dangerous; massively built with the scars on his arms and hands gained from a life as a mercenary. The calluses around his wrists identified him as a onetime slave.

“You will take command of my army. Take your men and dispose of the high command starting with Commander Stanis who was a favourite of my father. Make sure their heads are on pikes outside each barracks before the guards parade in the morning. When the first man complains I want the men in that unit decimated, messily, and then work the rest until they drop. If there is any dissent after that, execute the dissenter and his family. Once you have their loyalty you are to train them to be real soldiers in your image, not the dressed up fops my father allowed.”

Bant gave a sadistic grin and saluted again.

“Quim, you are my tax collector. You will go to every dwelling in the city, starting with the nobility, and assess their wealth. I want half of it as a first payment by the time the next moon is full and, as from now, all their warehouses and their contents belong to the crown. When you have finished with the city you will move into the towns and do the same with the merchants. Whilst you are doing that you will send your men into the villages to deal with the peasantry. You may dispose of anyone who objects unless they have any worth as slaves.

Quim, tall and thin with sharp, pointed features and a scraggly beard on the end of his chin, bowed. He too had slave marks on his wrists. The third man, even more massively built than Bant with a patch over one eye under which an angry scar ran from hairline to ear looked eagerly at his king.

“Dorba, you’re my enforcer. You and your thugs go with Quim and make sure my decree is put in force. By the time you leave the city I want half the male population to have been conscripted into the army and any dissenters sent to the mines.”

Dorba grinned and slapped Quim on the back almost knocking him over.

“Well, what are you waiting for? You have your orders now get going! I want this kingdom changed and ready to go to war by the end of next winter.” The three men saluted and left.

“What task do you have for me My Lord?” asked Sadrin who had stood by without saying a word.

Vorgret stood and walked back to the mirror where he readjusted the crown which had slipped slightly. Behind him, reflected in the mirror, he could see Sadrin studying him closely. He looked too young to have so much power: young and innocent. The magician was young and naïve but he would change all that. The slave girl he had given him, a gift from Borman, would be able to teach him what he should know and when she’d finished with him there would be others who would develop his skills.

“Your job is simple, Sadrin, you protect me. You protect me from the army, the nobility and most of all, you protect me from those three thugs. When I need to teach them a lesson you will provide a display of power that will convince them that I am unassailable and when I no longer need their particular talents you will kill them.”

“And in return?”

“Don’t be greedy, magician. Being alive and serving me should be sufficient reward. However, when I’m king of all the Western kingdoms, I will do as I promised and make you High Master of Federa’s Enclave, then you can take your revenge on all those who mocked you and ignored your talent.”

*

“Put more wood on that damned fire!” snapped Borman, pulling his thick cloak around him and staring morosely into the flames. Rastor stepped forward from where he’d been waiting at the far side of the ornamental stone hearth and jammed another cut log into the already crowded grate. For a moment sparks shot upwards and flames licked around the edges of the smouldering logs then everything settled back to how it had been before; glowing embers and grey smoke. Rastor refilled his king’s goblet with cold red wine and returned to his place by the hearth.

“I hate this place,” grumbled Borman. He took a swig of the red wine, pulled a sour face and thumped the goblet back onto the table. Red wine sloshed over the side and pooled around the goblet’s base.

“It’s cold and miserable and full of peasants and fishermen. I should have let the northern raiders have the land and be done with it, but instead I ride north with my army and play the hero. And what have I to show for it? Half the army with holes in them or worse, the other half down with the flux and me stuck here freezing my balls off.”