Sword and the Spell 01: The Grey Robe (23 page)

"He may not have been much of a person but he was
my brother," she hissed. Her grip on Maladran tightened but still she
didn’t deliver the death stroke.

In response Maladran's thoughts, echoed through her
mind. "He wasn't even that, he was the High Lord's son but never your
brother."

A new image formed in her mind and she recognised it
as Leersland's throne room but littered with bodies and stained in blood. A
younger Sarrat stood over King Malute’s dead body, a blooded sword in one hand
and a crown in the other. She wanted to see more, to understand what had
happened and why Maladran was showing her these images but she could feel the
strength returning to the magician and his grasp on her mind growing stronger.
Tarraquin shook her head to dispel the image and as Maladran’s grip was
momentarily lessened other images flooded into her mind; memories of that
night's events and the truth about the death of her real father.

"You killed my father.” she spat,
 
“Sarrat held the sword but you held him in
thrall while Sarrat cut him down.”

With a cry of anguish she drove the blade towards his
throat but the edge was deflected by the torc and sliced up the side of his
chin and across his ear instead. Maladran was regaining the use of his limbs now
but in his weakened state he knew he fought a battle he would lose against an
opponent strengthened by hate. Tarraquin pulled the knife back but the moment’s
reprieve had given him long enough to recreate the void in his mind. Now his
power gathered to strike back at his attacker. Sensing his intent Tarraquin
plunged the knife towards Maladran's heart but without releasing her hold on
him she didn’t have the reach to make a lethal strike. The blade fell short of
his heart impaling his shoulder instead and pinning him to the floor.

The sudden flash of pain shattered the void in his
mind at the same instant that he gathered his power ready to strike back. Pure,
undirected energy exploded from him in a blast of arcane power which swept
everything before it. Bed covers, rugs, ornaments and even heavy furnishings
were slammed against the walls, scarring decorative plaster and scouring out
mortar between the stones. Tarraquin, who was closest to the centre of the
explosive release, was flung against the wall like a rag doll, to fall limp and
senseless on the floor. Maladran felt the pain of his lost control as if his
body were being torn apart cell by cell and a spiral of whirling vertigo
engulfed him and plunged him into a blackness which was darker than the unlit
room.

Jarrul had been waiting in a small alcove in the
corridor outside of Maladran's room. He felt the passage of the released power
as a blast of cold energy, which pushed him back into the wall and filled his
lungs with ice. He gasped for air as his breath burnt his throat and chest,
making him double over with the pain. On unsteady legs he staggered to the far
wall and propped himself against it, glad to breathe in the warmer night air. Before
he had completely recovered, his fear for Tarraquin’s life sent him staggering
to Maladran's door, where he frantically rattled the latch and pulled on the
handle. It was firmly locked as he guessed it would be.

For a candle length he had stood guard in the corridor
without the High Lord's permission, or knowledge, knowing that if he were
discovered then it would earn him a beating and cost him his position but what
he proposed to do now would surely cost him his life. Without waiting any
longer Jarrul stood back from the door, braced his shoulder and charged. The
door shook beneath the impact and the delicate fittings snapped. Using his boot
to complete the task he snapped the door open so it crashed back against the
wall.

He took in the chaos of broken furniture, shattered
ornaments and torn bedding before he saw the smears of blood on the floor where
the bed had once stood. Fearful of what he might find he followed the trail to
where Tarraquin lay in a heap by the wall and in three strides he knelt at her
side. With relief he found that the blood wasn’t hers. Urgently he picked her
up and draped her limp form across his shoulder, at the same time looking for
her victim, but wherever the magician was, he was no longer in the room.

Outside in the ornamental garden Maladran regained consciousness
and picked himself up from the grassy bank where his own internal defences had
deposited him after the explosion of power. All those who were masters of the
arcane knew the secret of instantaneous travel, but the energy required to
cover even small distances was enormous. Somehow his mind had used the instant
of explosion to propel himself from imminent danger.

Now he struggled to his feet, his legs shaking beneath
him and blood running unchecked from the three deep gashes and his sliced ear.
The knife still protruded from his shoulder so he pulled the weapon free and
dropped it at his feet. His head swam from the lingering effects of the drug
and loss of blood whilst his wounds stung like fire but they were nothing
compared to the anger which rose within him, a white hot anger which swamped
every other feeling.

"So you would dare stand against me, you witch!"
he screamed into the night.

He raised his arms level with his shoulders and
emptied his mind as he called on all his power to give him vengeance. The
blood-red rubies embedded in the engraved golden torc glowed brilliantly and
their power surged into him, expanding and burning until he could hold it no
longer. He opened his hands and his eyes.

"Those who stand against me must be destroyed!"

With a scream he opened his mind and hurled the power
from within him. Instantly the High Lord's magnificent mansion exploded into a
sheet of flame.

Tarraquin watched in horror from the far edge of the
garden as her home disintegrated in a ball of fire and with it a life which had
all been a lie. The ferocious heat, sufficient to melt stone and turn
everything else to ash, beat against her face, drying her tears as they fell.
Jarrul turned her around so that her tears could fall unhindered against his
chest and she was protected from the sight of the burning building. When her
sobs had quietened he gently but insistently led her away from the scene of
destruction and into the nearby forest.

~
   
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King
Borman pulled his horse to a halt at the top of the rise and eased himself in
the saddle, tired after eight days of travelling with very little respite and
seven nights spent in uncomfortable, flea infested inns and way-houses that had
seen better days. He was a fit man with broad shoulders and muscular arms and
legs from his daily practice with sword and lance but he was also used to the
comfort of his palace. It had been a long time since he’d spent days in the
saddle and slept in hard beds. He missed the good food that his personal cook
prepared for him and the fine wines from his own well stocked cellar. After a
week of eating the poorly cooked food that seemed to be the lot of those who
travelled across the southern parts of Tarbis he was thoroughly sick of
travelling.

Behind him Guardcaptain Rastor came to a noisy halt,
the constant rattle of assorted weapons against his mail surcoat silent for
once. Close behind him four of the honour guard gratefully stopped and the ten
war horses they led, all of them stallions, milled around in bad tempered
disorder. Lord Rothers, King Borman’s cousin, brought up the rear. At first he’d
been honoured to be included in the king’s party on their visit to Vinmore.
He’d even felt pleased when he was told he would travel to Tarbis with his
cousin but now he was feeling abused and put upon, relegated as he was to the
position of personal servant.

His fine, multi-coloured clothes were covered in dust
and his carefully manicured hands were rough with having to wait on the king.
He muttered under his breath, complaining to himself about the inconvenience of
riding for days without the benefit of a coach and baggage train. The two pack
horses he led were totally inadequate and nearly all of his own belongings had
been abandoned so that one of the pack horses could carry the king’s personal
belongings.
 
On the other horse, where
his baggage had once been, was a large assortment of weapons wrapped in leather
bundles which would be enough to equip the king’s honour guard ten times over.
It just wasn’t fair.

Borman wiped the sweat from his face with the back of
his hand and studied the land in front of him. Burnt ochre stone and red sand
stretched as far into the distance as he could see. The land appeared to be as
flat as a table top but shimmered slightly in the late morning heat. With the
borders of Tarbis a morning’s ride behind them and the Blue River winding its
way westwards towards the Great Southern Ocean the kingdom of Sandstrone was
dry and barren all the way to the distant sea.

He rose slightly in the saddle, searching for some
signs of life or habitation but the only life which existed in the desert
kingdom depended on the natural wells scattered across the land. As far as he
could make out there were none visible for a day’s ride all around. It was
obvious though that people did live in Sandstrone as a single path had been
cleared of loose stones and boulders to act as a crude roadway and in the
distance a small dust cloud was heading towards them. He waved Rastor forward
to join him, ignoring the irritating clatter of his weapons.

“What a godless forsaken hole this is,” commented
Rastor, leaning forward in his saddle and resting his hands on the raised
pommel.

“And that’s where you are wrong Guardcaptain. This is a
god’s own land and the people are doubly blessed by their devotion to the one
true faith. Or at least that’s what their king, or should I say their Rale,
believes.”

“Then he must have sand for brains. This place is a
bloody wasteland.”

Borman scowled in irritation. “Don’t let him or his
people hear you say that. In fact when you are with them don’t say anything at
all, just bow like you mean it and for hellden’s sake keep your hands off their
women, unless you want to be castrated, and that goes for your men as well.”

Rastor sighed and watched the dust cloud draw closer.
“Are you sure, My Lord, that this journey is absolutely necessary? These people
are nothing but savages and they cannot be trusted.”

“Oh they can be trusted all right. These people live
to fight, it is the way they prove their manhood, so all we need to do is to
provide them with the means, and point them in the right direction.”

Rastor turned to the king and frowned and Borman sighed
in exasperation. Rastor was a good commander and an outstanding swordsman but
had the political acumen of a pond hopper. If he ever found someone who was
good with both his sword and his brains, Rastor would have to disappear.

“I need to keep Sarrat occupied and his thoughts of
expansion into the kingdoms of the west turned in another direction. Unfortunately
I have heard that my ally in Leersland, who was fermenting a nice little plot
against Sarrat which would have kept him busy for the next year or so, spoke
out of turn and got himself killed by Sarrat’s magician. So now I need to
create another diversion to keep him occupied.”

“The High Lord Coledran was your ally?”

“Yes the High Lord was but now he’s dead and I need a
new ally. Now go and make sure that no one draws a sword, utters a blaspheme or
so much as waggles his eyebrows at a woman or we might find ourselves having to
fight our way out of here. Oh, and tell Rothers to set up a welcome for our
visitor. Tell him it has to be something special that will impress him.”

Rastor nodded and dropped back to pass on the command
to Rothers and his men whilst Borman watched the dust cloud getting closer. He ignored
the sounds of activity behind him until Lord Rothers crept up beside him
whispering complaints, wringing his hands and bowing low.

“Cousin, I have everything prepared as best as I can with
what little I have but it’s woefully inadequate and not at all what it should
be and I don’t know if it will impress anyone but if only I had more time and
some drapes and …”

“Enough!” Borman looked his dusty and dishevelled
cousin up and down and sighed. “I’m sure you’ve done very well. Now, the man
who’s coming to meet with me is the king of this land and I need you to be my
noble courtier who’s honoured to wait on your king.
 
This is a very important guest so you and I
are going to deck ourselves out in the finest clothes we have with us and then
treat him in the courtliest manner we can until I have what I want and he heads
back to his hole in the sand.”

He took Rothers by the shoulders, turned him around
and pushed him firmly in the direction of the small canopy which had been
erected to provide shade for him and his guest from the noonday sun. By the
time Rastor and three of the guards had intercepted the group of horsemen at
the top of the rise they were ready for them. Borman, dressed in clean leathers
and a soft cream shirt, was lounging in the shade on a pile of richly
embroidered cushions with a goblet of wine in his hand. Behind him Rothers
stood sweating in the noonday sun dressed in a long robe with spiral patterns
around the cuffs and hem, and with a tray of goblets waiting to be filled from
the wine cask on the low table beside him.

Rastor dismissed the guard who had been sent to invite
the Rale to the meeting and led the four horsemen to where Borman waited. Two
were clearly guards of some sort with long curved swords and thick leather
armour only partly hidden by flowing robes. The other two were also armed but
with much finer blades and armour and with robes so fine that they shimmered in
the sunlight like the scales of a rainbow fish. Both had dark skin and dark
eyes and the elder of the two had a neatly trimmed beard and wore jewelled
studs in his ears. The younger was a boy in his early teens who stared around
him with open disdain at what he saw.

“Your Majesty,” began Rastor, “This is Prince Kremin,
the eldest son of the Rale and his younger brother Prince Isallin.”

Prince Kremin gave a perfunctory nod and Rastor
bristled with indignation, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. Kremin
ignored the implied threat. “Greetings king from the northern lands. My
illustrious father, Tallison the Magnificent, the Rale of Sandstrone, bids you
welcome to his kingdom and requests that you join with me in prayer to the
almighty Talis, the one true god, may his name be praised.”

“Your Highnesses are welcome to my travelling palace. You
will excuse me if I miss out on the prayers but Federa is a jealous goddess and
would be offended if I bowed the knee to another. Please be seated in the shade
of my pavilion and my cousin will pour you some wine.”

Borman gestured to the other cushions beneath the
canopy and both princes sat whilst their guards took up position behind them
opposite the king’s guards. Lord Rothers stepped forward with the wine but was
waved away by Prince Kremin. “We are not permitted by our god, may he be
praised, to touch the food and drink of unbelievers.”

The king raised an eyebrow. “As you wish, Your
Highness. I had hoped that your father would have been able to respond in
person to my invitation to meet rather than send a delegation. I have brought
him gifts of horses and weapons and a proposition which he would find
beneficial.”

“The illustrious Tallison does not care to leave the
temple of Talis, may his name be praised, to consort with unbelievers. However you
may give the gifts to me and I will pass your words on to my father.”

Borman did his best to hide his irritation but it was
difficult. “Rastor, bring the gifts so that his Highness can see them. Your
Highness, I am sure that the gifts that I have for your father would reach him and
you would relay my words exactly as they were spoken but as you can see the
quality of the gifts are such that I couldn’t release them to anyone but the
Rale himself.”

Prince Kremin turned at the sound of horses
approaching and watched in open admiration as the ten stallions were paraded in
front of him. When they were taken away again Rastor unrolled the bundles of
weapons and handed the prince one of the fine swords by its blade. Kremin stood
and tried it for balance and then passed it to his younger brother who tested
its edge with his thumb before handing it back to Rastor. The princes nodded to
each other in a silent exchange.

“Whilst Tallison the Magnificent does not care to
leave the temple and soil his feet on the ground where unbelievers have stood, I
believe that my father would be pleased to accept your gifts in person. If you will
accompany me you may have the honour of joining him in prayer to the mighty Talis,
may his name be praised, at the holy temple. Your men must stay here though and
you must leave behind all ungodly thoughts and belongings before you step onto
our holy ground. That includes any of your weapons which are not to be given as
gifts to my illustrious father.”

Rastor went to protest but Borman put a restraining
hand on his arm. “Prince Kremin, I accept your illustrious father’s welcome
with humility and gratitude and will ensure that nothing will defile the purity
of your holy land. However, it would be unseemly for a ruler of the six
kingdoms to visit another unaccompanied and I would not wish to insult the Rale
of Sandstrone. May I suggest that I am accompanied by my Guardcaptain and my
cousin, both unarmed of course? ” Prince Kremin nodded in agreement. “There is
one other matter; I will need some guarantee of our safe return.”

“You do not trust our father?” asked Isallin angrily.
Prince Kremin glared at him and the boy turned away and sulked.

“Without wishing to insult you or your family, young
Prince it is difficult to trust a man who kills his own brother in order to
take a throne.”

Isallin turned back and started to draw his sword but
was stopped by his elder brother who held up a placating hand to his guards who
had also reached for their swords. “What you have just said is insulting and
dishonourable but they are not unexpected words from a heathen and an unbeliever.
If it is your wish to have a hostage Prince Isallin will stay here until you return.”
The young prince glared at him in shock and then clamped his mouth firmly
closed. “Come, we must leave, the temple is a quarter day’s ride away and it’s
best that we get there before dark.”

“I bet it is,” muttered Rastor following closely
behind his king.

*

King Borman hadn’t been to Tilital before and his
anticipation to see the fabled ‘Diamond City’ was as keen as the moments before
he took a reluctant woman.
 
He remembered
his father telling him about the smooth, pure white walls with their sixteen
magnificent towers topped with golden domes which dominated the countryside.
Then there was the black gate, higher than two men, as thick as a sword’s
length and bound in solid silver, which had been a gift from his father. The
sight which stood before him had little resemblance to his father’s
description. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Kremin’s assurances that this was
the city of legend he would have thought he was in the wrong place entirely.

For a start the walls were no longer white but a dirty
grey, pock marked and crumbling. In places metal stakes had been driven into
the stone and rust coloured streaks, the colour of dried blood seeped beneath
them. Only two of the towers remained above the height of the wall, their gold
covered domes long since gone leaving the remains of beams exposed like old
bones. What was left of the other towers lay in piles of rubble at the foot of
the walls in amongst the piles of stinking refuse which had been left there to
rot. The black gates with their silver binding had gone and through the open
gap where they had once been he could see a crumbling and deserted city with
desert creeper entwined between broken windows and missing doors.