Sword and the Spell 01: The Grey Robe (17 page)

Up until that moment he hadn’t thought about what he
would do when he found the trapped passenger, especially if that person was
larger and heavier than himself and for a moment he despaired at the
impossibility of getting the person back out through the window. Resolutely he
pushed the despair out of his mind; he had come too close to success to be
defeated now. He wrapped his arm around the limp figure and called on unknown
reserves of strength to drag the person through the opening.

Once he stood on the coach’s solid side he thrust
upwards with the last of his strength with the limp figure entwined in his
arms. He kicked towards the light once and then once more, feeling the pressure
on him lessen. Now the burning pain in his chest and the need to breathe was unbearable
and before he could break through the surface of the moat his vision darkened
and total blackness wrapped itself around him.

*

Jonderill pushed the small rear door of the magician’s
tower slowly open, hoping that for once it wouldn’t creak or, if it did, the
noise wouldn’t attract the magicians’ attention. He was in enough trouble as it
was but if either of his masters saw him looking like this he would have no
chance to apologise for the morning’s fracas before they would be berating him
again. If he could just wash the slime off and put on his other shirt it would
help but luck wasn’t on his side, the door groaned loudly and both magicians
looked up from what they were doing.

He had regained consciousness on the grassy bank on
the side of the moat with his head buried in wet grass and his shoulders and
back bruised and aching where someone had pulled him out and pummelled his back
to force the water out of his lungs. By the wetness of the grass beneath his
mouth he guessed that he had already coughed up any water he had breathed in,
although he couldn’t remember doing so. He had shakily pulled himself onto
hands and knees, feeling bruised both inside and out and with pains in his
chest like sharp knives. It had taken him some time to stand but when he did the
pains shifted and his stomach churned leaving him with a foul taste in his
mouth.

Once he was certain he was not going to fall over he
looked around for the person he had pulled from the coach at the bottom of the
moat, not certain if they had survived or not. A large crowd stood in a quiet
circle further down the bank, their heads bowed and barely a whisper amongst
them. Jonderill’s heart sank, he had obviously been too late and his rescue
attempt had been in vain.

Tears sprang to his eyes and he suddenly felt both
foolish and useless. He rubbed the wetness away with the back of his hand and
quickly moved away from the crowd, not wanting the ridicule which would surely
be aimed at him for his failure. When he reached the end of the bridge his
stomach finally revolted at the filth he had swallowed and he retched before he
had chance to prepare himself. Brown vomit splattered his wet shirt whilst most
of it puddled around his bare feet. He clutched hold of the bridge railing
whilst his stomach settled and looked for the fruit vendor who had his pack,
jerkin and boots but he was nowhere to be seen.

If he was with the crowd Jonderill couldn’t see him
but it was more likely the man had left, taking Jonderill’s belongings with
him. He could have gone to where the vendor had his stall but it was a long
walk and he didn’t think his legs would get him that far so he despondently set
off towards the tower. Explaining to Plantagenet and Animus how he had lost his
jerkin and boots would be bad enough but he had lost his wand as well and for
that he would not be forgiven for a very long time.

“So you have decided to come back at last have you?”
asked Animus in a voice which seemed far too severe to go with the fat magician’s
cheery features. “And what have you to say for yourself then?”

Jonderill stopped where he was by the tower door and
looked at the floor feeling totally miserable. “I’m sorry about this morning
when I spoke out of turn and upset you, I will try to remember my place in
future.” Animus gave a loud grunt which clearly indicated that the apology was
unacceptable and he wanted more. Jonderill sighed wearily and continued. “I
will accept any chastisement you think fit to remind me of what I am.”

Animus made a more satisfied noise whilst Plantagenet
looked at them both quizzically. Obviously Animus hadn’t told him of their
heated words that morning and for that small reprieve Jonderill was grateful.

“Whilst we are on the subject of apologies and chastisement,”
began Plantagenet, looking sternly at Jonderill, “Perhaps you would like to say
something about your appearance, you look as if you have drunk too much ale and
have been in a tavern brawl.”

“Smells like it too,” interrupted Animus. “It’s that
boy Barrin, I’ve said all along he was a bad influence on Jonderill and now
just look at the boy, stinking drunk and filthy from rolling in the gutter.”

Jonderill wanted to say something in his defence but
his stomach was churning again and he needed all his concentration not to be
sick where he stood.

“Where are your boots, boy and your jerkin?”

“I lost them,” mumbled Jonderill from behind his hand.

“No doubt you were gambling or some other such immoral
waste of time.” Plantagenet shook his head in dismay, his brows furrowing, hooding
his eyes to give him the appearance of a predatory flyer. “You are a great
disappointment to us, boy. This is not what we expected from you when we took
you in as our apprentice. Now go to your room and clean yourself up whilst we
decide what is to be done with you.”

Jonderill didn’t say a word or even look up but obeyed
instantly, praying that he could make it to the privy before his protesting
stomach made matters worse.

*

He’d been sentenced without further trial but at least
his punishment hadn’t been as severe as he thought it might. They could have
sent him back to the Housecharge or, worse still, to the stables but instead
they had decided extra work and a strict regime would deter any further
occurrence of drunkenness. Animus imposed two days of starvation and then a
week on bread and water, the worst possible punishment he could imagine. Plantagenet
had set him the task of copying a treatise on morality in the solitude of his
own room each evening until it was complete, a task which would take at least
two cycles of the moon.

It wasn’t that bad, he had been cold, hungry and alone
before, so neither punishment caused him that much anguish but the magicians’
refusal to replace his boots did. When he’d been a kingsward in the High Lord’s
stables he’d gone bare footed as all his kind did, so it hadn’t mattered so
much but to go without footwear on the streets of Alewinder like some beggar now
he was close to becoming a man would shame him, as he knew it was intended to.

Of course he could have explained the reason for the
state of his appearance and the loss of his boots and jerkin but there didn’t
seem to be any point. If they’d decided to send him away he might have spoken out
in his defence but only if they were sending him to the stables where his life
would be of little value. Anyway, he felt that the punishment was justified,
he’d failed to find his focus of power, he had failed to create magic when he
needed it most and he’d failed to save the passenger’s life. All in all the
sanctions were light and he deserved much worse. In fact he had already decided
to add his own discipline, although he hadn’t yet decided what that was to be.

“Jonderill.”

He jumped, startled from his thoughts by Plantagenet
standing in the doorway and calling his name. Quickly he slid from the stool
where he had been scribing by candlelight and bowed in deference, tensing his
muscles to hide his shivering. He kept his eyes on the floor, missing the smile
on Plantagenet’s face.

“Come with me, Jonderill, you have a visitor.”

Jonderill followed behind the tall magician, his heart
racing. For Plantagenet to allow his solitary punishment to be interrupted it
would have to be a highly ranked visitor but he knew nobody of high rank who
could possibly want to see him. The only other alternative was the matter had
to be of great importance, like his wand being found. That thought made him
shudder in dread wondering what would happen next and his palms began to sweat
whilst the rest of him froze.

If he wanted extra punishment for his failures this
would surely earn it. He moved into the warm comfortable room where he usually
sat with his masters in the evenings and immediately recognised the regal
bearing of the king’s Swordmaster, the finest swordsman in the kingdom and
revered by his loyal men. Jonderill bowed low and with a sinking feeling caught
sight of his pack, boots and jerkin which lay in a heap at the man’s feet.

“I believe these belong to you?” Swordmaster Dilor
began with a beaming smile on his face.

“Yes, sir.” He glanced sideways and tried to see if
his wand had been given into the keeping of either of the magicians.

“Then it is you who I have to thank for saving the
life of my nephew.” The Swordmaster crossed the room in three strides and grasped
Jonderill’s hand, pumping it up and down with enthusiasm.

“Why didn’t you tell us what had happened?” asked
Animus kindly.

“I thought I was too late,” stammered Jonderill. “They
were all standing around him without saying anything so I was certain he was
dead.”

“Lias is very much alive thanks to you,” said Dilor, “He’s
sore and shaken and has been sick as a hound from the filth he swallowed but he
will be back at practice within a day or two.” Jonderill smiled happily,
feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from him. “A large man in a
striped apron gave me these and told me who you were and what you had done so
as soon as I knew Lias was going to be all right I came to find you. As you left
the scene so quickly I assumed you didn’t want your name made public so I have
told the man to keep his mouth shut but if you have no objections I would like
to tell everyone of your bravery and daring.”

Jonderill blushed, he felt embarrassed enough with
just these few people beaming at him as if he were a hero, he didn’t think he
could stand any more admiration.

“I would rather others didn’t know what happened, I am
just happy that your nephew is alive and well.”

The Swordmaster looked questioningly at the two
magicians who shook their heads and then shrugged. “I suppose considering what
you are it would be sensible not to be too much in the limelight. However I
insist you accept some sort of reward from me, you can ask for anything you
like which is within my power to give.

“I don’t need any reward, sir, Lias being alive is
enough.”

“But I insist, such courage should not go
unrecognised.” Jonderill still shook his head. “I wish I had more like you
amongst my men then we would have the finest guard in the six kingdoms.” He
paused for a moment thinking. “Young Barrin has told me that you are interested
in learning to use a sword so how would you like to learn to use a sword like a
gentleman? You would have to start with the cadets of course but when you come
of age I will teach you myself.”

Jonderill looked up, his eyes gleaming and his longing
almost tangible. Dilor turned to the magicians, still beaming broadly. “What do
you say, my friends, can you find the boy time to attend practice now and then?”

“I won’t have a weapon in this tower!” claimed Animus
heatedly, purposely avoiding Jonderill’s pleading look. “A magician uses his
magic and doesn’t need to fight with a sword.”

“What rubbish!” exclaimed Plantagenet. “Spells are
powerful but every magician should know how to wield a sword, why even I know
how to do that much and the fresh air and exercise will do the boy good, he
spends too much time moping around here.” Animus looked at him in shocked
surprise. “Besides, he can borrow a weapon if it offends you that much to have
a weapon in the tower. Do you want to learn swordcraft, boy?” Jonderill nodded
vigorously, unable to believe his good fortune. “Then it’s settled, you can start
tomorrow.”

*

The practice yard was larger than Jonderill had
anticipated as he stopped beneath the entrance arch feeling pleased with
himself but nervous and self-conscious all at the same time. It was midmorning
but the courtyard still remained in cool shadow, protected from the sun’s rays
by the high walls which surrounded the enclosed area. Jonderill glanced around
the walls noticing the decorative balconies which overlooked the practice area
and one in particular, draped with bright flags and decorated with the royal
crest of grapes and vine leaves. He had heard that the king himself came to
watch the knights practice and occasionally joined in a bout with the
Swordmaster whilst his family watched. That honour was of course reserved for
the nobility of Vinmore; he doubted that anyone would want to watch cadets, or
at least he hoped not.

Across the practice yard, beneath the overhang of the
royal balcony, a group of youths lounged against the wall and others stood in a
small group laughing and talking in a relaxed and easy manner. Most were the
same age or a little older than he was although a group of four, who stood off
by themselves, were considerably younger and were obviously being treated with
disdain by the older boys. Despite their difference in summers they were
dressed the same as their elders; white shirt, leather-fronted tabard with the
king’s crest above the right breast, tight scarlet hose and leather boots which
shone like silk.