Sword and the Spell 01: The Grey Robe (20 page)

Inside the one roomed cabin it was dark and smelled of
dampness and cold ashes. Callabris produced a small flame in the palm of his
hand and lit the single lantern, its light barely illuminating the corners of
the windowless chamber. Around the walls were a number of sleeping platforms
complete with rough mattresses filled with old, musty straw. There was a table
with benches on either side and a hearth at one end full of cold ashes but with
a wood pile stacked ready to burn.

They were used to travelling together and had no need
to talk as they set to work quickly, each with their own tasks. Before it was
completely dark outside their cloaks were drying by the fire and they had eaten
a hot stew of dried meat and wild roots which Allowyn had gathered on their
journey. A pot of water simmered over the fire and the aroma of fresh herb was
starting to drive away the less pleasant smell of dampness and decay.

Pushing the empty bowls to one end of the table
Allowyn unsheathed his swords and his knives and one by one honed and cleaned
them, testing each blade for sharpness before moving onto the next. On the
other side of the table Callabris took a leather bound journal from his
saddlebag and carefully recorded what he had found. It didn’t take him long; there
had been just a few booted footprints, some horse droppings and the thick end
of a broken branch where there were no trees growing, which might have been
used as a lever or a prop.

The description of the afterimage he had conjured was
little better; a single dark figure with no distinguishing marks except for the
impression of a double twisted ring on the hand which had held the broken
branch. His report completed, Callabris returned the journal to the saddlebag
and took one of the lower bunks, pulling his fire-warmed cloak tightly around
him. His protector returned his knives carefully to his baldric and placed the
swords in front of him on the table where they could be easily reached and when
his master’s breathing took on a slow, even rhythm he blew out the lantern and
waited.

When the door crashed open late into the night the
first attacker fell instantly with a knife in his chest. The man following
behind dived to the floor but not before another knife had sliced into his face
cutting through his eye and leaving him shrieking in pain and shock. Behind him
another dark figure leapt over the two fallen men swinging his sword in front
of him like a scythe. As his sword swung to one side the upturned table hit him
squarely in the chest sending him staggering back into two more assassins who
had entered the cabin behind him. Before the table had settled onto the earthen
floor Allowyn had leapt across it and had buried his sword almost to the hilt
in the man’s guts. He ripped the sword sideways and grey intestines spilled
from the gash into the screaming man’s hands.

The last two attackers through the door pushed the
dying man aside and struck back, both swords snaking out together, high and
low, towards the protector. Allowyn twisted avoiding the full thrust of the
high strike but taking a finger’s depth of steel in his shoulder instead of his
neck. Blood blossomed on his shirt and his arm went instantly numb making his
sword slip from his fingers. The low strike sliced through his thigh just above
his knee sending Allowyn staggering back over the fallen table, hitting the
ground hard and his sword clattered from his other hand.

Seeing his opponent down, wounded and unarmed the
attacker gave a mirthless grin and raised his sword for the death blow but
Allowyn heaved himself up onto his knees and his attacker’s sword clattered to
the floor with his hand still attached to the hilt. The scream he gave as blood
spurted from his severed wrist was abruptly cut off by the knife in his throat.

Leaving his sword partner to deal with the unarmed protector
the remaining assassin had darted around the side of the upturned table, sword
extended, intent on finishing the target he had been sent to kill. Callabris
had woken at the first sound of battle and had only enough time to sit up
before his assailant reached him and pressed his sword to the magician’s breast
just over his heart. The man leered at Callabris with black broken teeth and
started to speak but froze, his eyes locked with those of the magician.

He didn’t move a muscle as his sword partner screamed
and blood splattered across his arm,
 
nor
when the room became silent except for the groans of the man holding his
entrails in his hands. Only when Allowyn drove his sword into the base of his
neck, down through his chest and sliced his heart in two did he finally move.
As he slid off Allowyn’s blade the protector removed the sword point from
Callabris’s breast letting it drop to the floor along with its dead owner.
Callabris blinked rapidly releasing his spell and Allowyn sat heavily on the
sleeping platform next to him.

“I’m sorry, Lord, with the noise of the wind and rain
I never heard them coming.”

Callabris stood up and pushed the body out of his way
with the toe of his boot before crossing the room and picking his way over the
dead. He quickly closed the cabin door blocking out the sounds of the storm
before retrieving some items from his saddle bags in the corner of the room
where they had been stacked. When he returned to the sleeping platform with a
roll of bandage in one hand and a small tub of balm in the other Allowyn had
already used his remaining knife to cut back his breaches around the thigh wound.
It was deep but the blade hadn’t cut into anything vital so Callabris smoothed
the balm across the gash and wrapped a length of bandage tightly around it.

“It’s not your fault, if it had occurred to me that we
were likely to be attacked on such a foul night in the middle of nowhere I would
have put a ward on the door.” He handed the balm and a pad of bandage to
Allowyn so that he could attend to his shoulder. “Do you know who they were or
who sent them?”

Allowyn stood and looked carefully at the man who had
held a sword to his master’s breast and then inspected the others as he
collected up his bloodied weapons. Finally he stopped in front of the groaning
man whose blood pooled on the floor around him. He nudged him with his foot and
the man opened his eyes.

“Who sent you?”

“Go to hellden!”

Allowyn kicked him hard in the side sending more blood
pulsing from the wound. “Who sent you?”

“Fuck you and your cursed magician!”

The protector turned to Callabris and shrugged
receiving a shrug in return. When he turned back to the dying man he pulled
back his head and his knife sliced through his throat silencing his groaning.
“I’ve seen that one hanging around the castle yard, he does the odd bit of
dirty work for Lord Farrion and these two hang around the river port.” He
stepped over to the man with one hand and picked up the one he had severed at
the wrist. “I don’t know the others but this looks like the twisted ring you
described.”

Callabris frowned and nodded “Do they work for the
prince or his uncle?”

“Either or both, who knows. One thing I do know though
is that it isn’t safe for you to stay in Tarbis any longer.
 
Whoever sent these to kill you may have also
sent them to kill the king and as far as I am concerned that severs any ties or
obligations you have to the Prince or this kingdom.”

Callabris nodded in agreement. “You’re right. In the
morning we leave for Northshield but for now let’s feed these to the sly
hunters and get some sleep, we have a bloody mess to clear up here tomorrow
before we can be on our way”.

Allowyn righted the table and put his weapons on it
for cleaning before dragging the bodies outside into the pouring rain.

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Jonderill
held the stick in his hand and gave it a brief wave in the air, hesitantly
muttering the appropriate words under his breath. He watched the broom intently
to see if there was any change in its position but nothing moved, not even a
bristle. Sighing dejectedly he put the stick onto the table and stared at it in
disappointment. It was not an ordinary stick but the one which he’d spent a
summer and a winter carving with the symbols of a magician’s trade.

Each notch and groove had been accompanied by the
appropriate incantation which he had painstakingly learnt by heart but after
nearly two summers all he had was a decorative piece of the rare golden
weiswald and a head full of meaningless words. As far as magic was concerned,
his one and only ability was the occasional creation of elemental fire. Even
that was not reliable, making him resort to a firestone every day when he lit
the many fires in the magicians’ tower. In fact he seemed to have gone
backwards in the time which had passed since he had been apprenticed to Plantagenet
and Animus.

He left the high stool on which he had been sitting
and collected the broom. The handle was smooth and familiar but without the
slightest tingle of magic, despite all his efforts. Since completing his wand
he’d been trying to make the broom sweep the floor without his assistance but
inevitably he ended up pushing the broom in his daily task of cleaning each of the
five floors of the magicians’ tower. He’d already swept his tiny room at the
top of the tower beneath its tall spire, sweeping around the small clothes
chest, its one rickety chair and the ancient desk.

The only other items in the room were a rug, which
he’d shaken and his bed which he had covered with his solitary blanket. His
room was cold and draughty with no fire grate to warm it but the view from the
small casement window over the kingdom of Vinmore and Leersland in the distance
made up for all his cold and discomfort. Besides, he’d read somewhere that
physical depravation developed ones powers and he was desperate enough to try
anything.

Beneath his room was the guest room, which he had also
swept although it had never been used since he’d taken up residence in the
tower. Today was different though. Today he had made the bed, laid the fire
ready to light and opened the windows to air the room with summer breezes. Despite
his masters’ assurances that the guest they had invited would come he was
certain the magician would never stay in the room or at least that is what he
hoped. Only a master of his trade could test an apprentice's progress towards
being a junior journeyman so it was a master they had invited. When all the
apprentices presented their work at tomorrow's festival Maladran, as the only
master magician in the six kingdoms bound to a king, would be there to judge
him.

Given a choice he would have liked it to have been
Animus or Plantagenet as they wouldn’t be too hard on him but he had been told
that a master couldn’t judge their own apprentice so it had to be Maladran. Jonderill
already knew what Maladran would have to say about his efforts. The thought of
the festival added to his gloom. At fifteen summers he would be the oldest
apprentice there and the most inept. Whilst those who had seen eight or nine
summers presented hand crafted tools or soft leather bridles or rabbits from
the morning’s snares he would present a poorly carved stick without any power
and a broom which wouldn’t move.

He could already feel the shame of people laughing at
him when the black-cloaked magician shook his head and turned his back on the
apprentice to announce failure and rejection. An apprentice who failed their
first test was no longer an apprentice so that would be the end of it all.
There would be no more listening to the two elderly magicians telling tall
stories into the early hours of the morning, no more hot toddies and horror
stories on cold winter nights and no more laughter at the spells which went
awry. He would have let them down and exposed them to more ridicule than they
already received from people who saw them as no more than two bumbling and
inept old men. That hurt more than the thought of him being publicly shamed and
far more than knowing he would return to being a bound servant, perhaps in the
kitchens if the Housecharge would have him back there but more than likely in
Tarris's stables.

Without any enthusiasm and with his mind on tomorrow's
ceremony he swept the workroom floor, moving stools out of the way and sweeping
around the many strange objects and containers which cluttered the room but
which he dared not disturb. Normally he would leave this room until last,
tending to his masters’ sleeping quarters first and then the living area on the
floor below but he had wanted to try the broom spell one last time before he
admitted failure to himself. He didn’t know why he kept trying, the broom had
never moved but he’d hoped that something might have changed at the last
moment. It hadn’t.

Perhaps he could have done better if his masters hadn’t
been so old and decrepit but Animus would get half way through explaining a
spell and would suddenly remember he’d lost something and the rest of the day
would be spent looking for it. Plantagenet was little better, with his mind
drifting away almost as soon as lessons began. He supposed he should have been
annoyed at them but they were always so sorry and apologetic afterwards that
all he could do was smile and put water on to boil for tea. Putting the pan of
water on to boil seemed to be his prime responsibility, that and making the
huge jugs of herb tea which the three of them consumed each day.

During the past few weeks, with the test looming
closer, he had thought of telling them about his past relationship with
Maladran but the memory was still too painful and he’d never found the courage.
He’d even thought about running away but he had nowhere to go and in any case
his masters would only worry themselves sick about him. His only hope was that
King Sarrat would refuse to allow Maladran to preside at an apprentice's
presentation, in which case he needn’t even attend.

He heard the outside door creek open and Animus laugh
at one of Plantagenet’s dry witticisms so he placed the broom against the wall
and put the water back on the fire to heat. When Animus opened the door fully
the little pile of sweepings he had carefully gathered were once again
scattered around the room. He scowled at the wasted effort just as Animus
turned to talk to him. The rotund magician blushed, stuttered and then launched
into a catalogue of profuse apologies. Jonderill poured the boiling water into
the prepared pot of herbs and smiled to himself; if he didn’t stop Animus soon
the small magician would give himself a sore throat.

"It's all right, there's no harm done,"
interrupted Jonderill, "I've nearly finished anyway so I can easily sweep the
floor again."

"No, no, my dear boy, I wouldn't dream of it
after you've worked so hard to get the place ready for our exalted visitor.
After all, we don't want to tire you out when it's your big day tomorrow."

Animus took his wand from his belt and with the merest
flick sent the broom scurrying around the floor to sweep up every speck of dust
and dirt. Jonderill turned away, disheartened by the ease with which even the
old, inept magician had controlled the broom. He didn’t have to touch it to
feel magic pulsating through every fibre of the brush.

Plantagenet peered over the rim of his tea bowl and
gave the broom a disparaging look. "You really shouldn't do that you know,
using your power on such a trivial matter is a waste of effort."

"It was no effort," replied Animus brightly
and then looked guiltily as he caught the look on Jonderill's face. "Don't
worry my dear boy, tomorrow will be fine. I am sure Maladran will be very
patient and he won’t expect too much from your first apprenticeship
presentation so don't be nervous."

"I remember my first apprenticeship
presentation," put in Plantagenet. "I was so nervous I turned my
assessor's black hat into a bat instead of a cat and it flew away over the
market place never to be seen again. It cost me six months’ allowance to buy
him a new one but he passed me all right."

"I remember mine too," continued Animus but
the glazed look in Plantagenet’s eye told him his mind was travelling far from
his body again. He turned his attentions back to Jonderill. "I turned the
king's favourite slyhound into a goat and then couldn't turn him back again.
The king was furious and my master had to rescue me the following day from the
public stocks. Fortunately the king became quite proud of his sly hunting goat
and forgave me. Still I hope your presentation is going to be less dramatic
than either Plantagenet’s or mine were.”

"You can count on that," assured Jonderill,
feeling worse than he did before.

*

Jonderill woke suddenly with the sun shining in his
eyes and a sick feeling in his stomach as he escaped from his reoccurring dream
of the dark magician. He pulled the blanket over his eyes and tried to pretend
it was still night but all that happened was that his stomach felt worse and
his head began to pound in time with his rapidly beating heart. With a groan he
pushed back the blanket and lay shivering in his bed. Even in summer the room
was cool but surely not cool enough to make him shake. For a moment he wondered
if he was sickening for something, perhaps a chill or a summer fever. He pulled
the blanket back around his neck; if he was going to be ill the best place for
him was in his bed not sharing his illness with everyone else.

For a short while he lay still in his bed and then
threw the blanket off again. It was no use pretending, he wasn’t sick or at
least not physically; he had to get up and face the day however awful it was
going to be. He made his bed wondering where he would be sleeping tonight and
dressed in his best shirt and leggings. His masters were rather forgetful about
clothes, never needing to replace their own, ageless, arcane robes. As a consequence
he still only possessed those clothes he had come to them with two summers
previously and the spare set the Housecharge had provided. None of the four
garments fitted very well since he’d grown rapidly during the winter and spring
and all of them were patched at the knees and elbows but at least his best set
were clean and free of stains.

Jonderill washed in the basin of water he had carried
to his room the previous night and wondered what the other apprentices would
wear. None would be allowed to wear the clothes of their trade until after
their presentation had been accepted by their assessor who would then hand them
their traditional garments; a leather apron or baker's whites or huntsman's
leathers. He wondered if Plantagenet or Animus had thought about a robe for
him, he doubted it would have crossed their minds, not that it mattered. Even
if he could make the broom work for him Maladran would fail him.

The thought of facing the magician again after all the
time which had passed and having to stand in front of all the other apprentices
whilst he hid his feelings made him start shivering all over again. Maladran
wouldn’t know it was him until he entered the testing ring but he knew the
master magician would not share his emotional difficulty. The man had no
feelings and would remain ice cold but he was not sure if he could face
Maladran and hide the hurt he still felt.

Sitting on the rickety chair which wobbled
precariously beneath him, he wondered again if he should tell his masters that
Maladran had once been like a father to him, that was until he sent him away
without a word. He pulled the cloth from the tray of food he had brought to his
room the night before and decided against telling them. This was an ordeal he
had to face by himself. It was going to be hard enough on the two old magicians
when he failed the test without them confronting Maladran beforehand, as he
knew they would if they learnt about the way Maladran had treated him.

He looked at the bread and cheese, both of which had
gone hard overnight and the two withered apples, the remainder of last summer's
crop. The sight of them reminded him of other breakfasts in the High Lord's
stables before Maladran had rescued him and he dropped the cloth back over the
tray, pushing back unpleasant memories. He settled on the small jug of watered
wine for his breakfast feast and sat miserably waiting for his summons.

When the door to his room eventually opened his mind
was as calm as it was going to be and his hands were steady, which was more than
could be said for his masters’. Animus's rosy cheeks were as pale as uncooked
bread, whilst Plantagenet’s usually dreamy eyes darted nervously around the
room like a condemned man looking for the executioner. Their appearance was not
encouraging. He wanted to ask if Maladran had arrived but couldn’t find the
courage. Nervously he left the table and pushed his wand beneath his belt and
then, feeling like a prisoner going to meet the hangman, he walked between the
two silent magicians as they made their way to the city square.

It had never occurred to Jonderill that this was a
very special day for the apprentices and the citizens of Vinmore so the noise
and press of people took him completely by surprise. People had come from all
over the kingdom to see sons and cousins and nephews make their presentation
and be accepted as junior journeymen into their guilds. All the craftsmen from
each guild which had an apprentice making a presentation had come to see their
new member whilst those who had no relatives or guild involved in the ceremony
came along to offer their encouragement.