The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) (69 page)

“If the Enclave were to pledge its support, then we could stand together and rid the six kingdoms of the Goddess’s enemies.”

Well, that seemed reasonable enough to him. “Have no worries there. The Enclave will be pleased to support you.” Behind him he could hear the old man gag and stagger out of the pavilion.

Borman stopped pacing. “And you, High Master. Will you use the gift the Goddess has given you to purge these dangerous heretics from the land?”

He supposed Borman meant his flames. “Of course.”

The king sighed. It was a little theatrical, but not enough that the pyrocaster would notice. “If only I could be certain.”

Sadrin stood looking pleased with himself. “Have no doubts about that. My fire and my flames are yours whenever you need them, and to prove that you have my full support I have brought you a gift.”

The High Master hurried out of the pavilion almost tripping over the groaning figure of the crouching man just outside the pavilion’s ring of light. Borman watched him go in bemusement; all he wanted was for the pyrocaster to give a brief demonstration of his power, so he knew where to place him in the battle line. Still, a gift was always welcome. The boy, who was clearly as gullible as they came, could demonstrate his abilities in the morning. He poured himself another goblet of wine and looked up just as Sadrin escorted a young woman with a baby in arms into his presence.

“I believe you have met the Lady Tarraquin, but I don’t think you have yet been introduced to your daughter.”

*

Sharman felt like frozen horse dung. What he thought had been a bad dose of the snuffles had turned into a cold fever taking his breath away and making him shake like autumn leaves in an early winter storm. He hadn’t eaten since his master had insisted that he stayed with the army, so he could ride in one of the wagons and enjoy the relative comfort of Borman’s camp. His throat was so swollen that he couldn’t swallow, and he couldn’t remember when he’d last had more than one or two sips of water. On top of that, the pain in his side was so intense that he could barely stand, and the red poppy seed only just numbed the outer edge of his agony.

Despite that one fleeting glimpse of the Lady Tarraquin and the bundle she carried was enough to override all his troubles and send him running, crouched low, towards the horse lines. Twice they had convinced the king that Tarraquin was dead, but there was no way he was going to disbelieve the evidence of his own eyes. If Malingar returned they were both dead, and whilst he had no concern for himself, certain now that his remaining time was only measured in days, he cared about what happened to his master. He never thought he would. As far as he was concerned lords were all the same, arrogant, demanding and untrustworthy, but Malingar deserved to live. Underneath it all he was a good man, and there weren’t many of those about.

The situation was desperate. Once Borman had recovered from his shock, he would be missed, but if he could crawl to the picket line and take a horse there might be hope. He set off on his hands and knees, but when he reached where the army’s horses were tethered, he realised that he’d underestimated the size of his problem. There were over a thousand horses picketed, all of them big beasts trained for war which would instinctively trample anything or anyone they didn’t recognise.

He thought his best bet was to go to the end of the picket line furthest from the camp. At least then he wouldn’t be trampled by two horses at once, and leave a bloody mess on the grass which the guards might have difficulty recognising. Before he reached there, he heard more horses in a small corral to one side, whinnying nervously, so he headed in that direction instead. These were different from the horses at the picket line, thin and neglected as if they had been passed from one uncaring master to another. Their coats were unkempt, their hooves split and their dispirited heads hung low.

For some strange reason he felt an unexpected sympathy for them. These were the ones which had been selected for the cook pot and were unlikely to live any longer than he was. They were all hobbled, so the gate to the corral wasn’t guarded. He eased his way through with the intention of stealing the sturdiest and making his escape, but he never got that far. A big bay horse head-butted him in the chest, knocked him backwards and then snorted all over him. For a moment he thought the hungry beast was going to eat him but instead it stuck its nose into the palm of his hand, forced his arm to one side and burrowed its head under his arm.

Sharman could have cried. He’d only ever become attached to two horses in his life, his vicious old nag out at grass on Malingar’s estate, and the horse his master had gifted him and had then given to the lady. It looked like both of them had seen better days. He untied the hobbles, took hold of the horse’s halter and led it out of the corral. Ignoring the protests of his aching body, he hauled himself up onto the horse’s hard spine and repressed a groan. The last time he had ridden without a saddle was when he was a boy. He remembered his balls had ached for a seven day afterwards and time had made the experience no better. Hesitantly he squeezed his legs and was relieved when the horse moved away into the darkness, miraculously avoiding the sentries and outlaying scouts.

As dawn broke, they crested one of the many small hills that separated the uplands of the Silver Hills from the river plain. This one led down into a shaded valley and he caught the undisguised aroma of a hot wood fire, sizzling rashers and fresh bread. The smell made his stomach turn, but he still managed to smile to himself as he clung to his horse’s mane. His master had taken his advice and ensured the loyalty of his men by filling them up with a good hot breakfast. He was going to need all the loyalty he could get today. Whilst his master’s force was made up of his own Northshield men and his closest retainers from Leersland, that didn’t mean they would all want to follow Malingar into exile, especially if Borman offered a big reward for his capture.

He let his horse walk slowly down the hill in full view of the camp so that the scouts and sentries would recognise who it was and not run him through. When he reached the camp, he fell from his horse and would have hit the ground hard if two of his lads hadn’t caught him and carried him to the fire. One fetched a blanket and a skin of grain spirit, whilst the other went to find Malingar and the healer. The rest of the men hovered around looking anxious until he chased them away.

By the time Malingar arrived he was feeling stronger, but still didn’t know how he was going to tell his lord the news that he had lost everything. He watched his friend stride across the camp towards him and came to the conclusion that there was no easy way to deliver bad news, so he had better just spit it out before his master said anything. Malingar didn’t give him the chance.

“What are you doing here old man? I thought I told you to stay with Borman and rest.”

Sharman shrugged. “You know me, never did know how to follow orders.” He took a deep breath. “Apart from that we’ve got a bit of a problem; Borman knows that Tarraquin is still alive.”

Malingar looked at him in disbelief. They had always known it was a possibility, but how could Borman know that Tarraquin wasn’t dead camped in this largely deserted land five day’s ride away from civilisation?

Sharman read his thoughts and decided that this was a good time to amend the truth slightly. “The High Master told him. He said that she was wed to one of the Enclave’s coin counters, got a big house, servants and a child too.”

The Guardcaptain sat heavily on the log beside his friend looking like someone had stuck him with a pike staff. “Perhaps it’s not true.”

He’d guessed right then, his master did have feelings for the lady. Not that he blamed him; if he’d been thirty summers younger then he would have fancied her too. “Don’t really matter, Borman thinks it’s true and that is all that counts. If we ride into Borman’s camp we are both dead, horribly, so I suggest we turn around and ride as if hellden’s hounds are after us until we reach Shipside, and then we take the first available sail across the Great Southern Ocean and start a new life.”

Malingar was quiet for a long while staring into the fire. Running was the sensible thing to do, but that was for cowards and the weak. “No, I cannot do that. My father never ran away from anything, and I have come too far to leave everything behind and start again.”

“That’s all well and good and noble like, but it won’t do you any good when Borman catches you, and he will. He’ll string you up over a hot fire with a pike up your arse. Now think straight and come up with a better plan than that.”

He hated to admit it but Sharman was right. “If I have to retire to a foreign land, I will at least take what I can with me and enough to set up those who wish to remain loyal to me and serve me in a new land.”

Sharman wasn’t too surprised that his friend had seen sense. “What will you do?”

I can’t chance going south and running into Borman, so I’ll head overland and cross into Northshield by the Deeling Bridge and then on to my estate. We will gather what we can and let those who have ties in Leersland have the chance to say their goodbyes. Then we will go to Shipside.” Sharman nodded his approval. “Will you come with me, old man?”

Now there was a question. It was a seven day ride to Malingar’s estate and he wasn’t sure if he had that much time left, but he had a thought to see his old horse again and perhaps be buried in the field where the bad tempered old nag would spend its last days. “Just try stopping me.”

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CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Stalemate

Despite Jarrul’s quiet fuming, Jonderill’s decision to use the southernmost bridge across the Blue River had been a good one. For a start, the road from Wallmore to the Deeling Bridge was broad, hard packed and well marked, and their progress had been much swifter than his journey from the Two Kingdom’s Bridge to Wallmore. It just felt wrong though to be going back to where he’d already been.

On top of that he worried about the journey through Essenland, especially how they were going to find Dozo’s camp, but Allowyn had seemed confident enough so he would just have to leave it to him. The other advantage, or so he had been told, was that the Deeling Bridge had already been secured and a large quantity of stores had been placed there. That meant they had been able to leave Wallmore within a day, and without the need to take slow moving supply wagons with them, they had made excellent progress.

Warily he glanced across at Jonderill sitting straight in his high-backed saddle, which had been specially made for him, and felt the familiar sick lump knot his stomach. He hadn’t worked out yet how he managed to guide Sansun without reins, but he was just grateful that he could so he didn’t have to lead the horse. It had been the least he could do to offer to care for his friend and the man who had saved his life on more than one occasion, but after only a day he knew it had been a mistake. There seemed so little left of the Jonderill he once knew. The friendly young man who had always been so uncertain, had been replaced by someone who was sure of himself, aloof and so much darker.

He knew that serving Jonderill would help him overcome his loss of Birrit but, quite frankly, the black magician terrified him. No less frightening was the man who rode on Jonderill’s other side. He’d never seen anyone carry so many weapons. Allowyn had introduced himself as his master’s protector, but by the way Jonderill deferred to him, he was much more than that. It wasn’t just Jonderill who listened when he spoke either; every man in their small force looked on him with awe.

There were over two hundred in their small army, all well armed and trained in the use of sword and the short range bolt bows they carried attached to their saddles. They were all volunteers and there could have been twice that number, but Allowyn would not leave Wallmore undefended. If it hadn’t been for Allowyn’s confidence that he could reach the camp in time and the fact that he owed Dozo his life, he might have just ridden away and left them all to it. He wasn’t a soldier, just a simple woodsman. The decision to stay with them was one he was already regretting but he had offered his services to Jonderill, and he wouldn’t go back on his word.

Allowyn had ridden this roadway many times in his life, but never before without Callabris at his side. He had a different pathway to travel now and a different master to protect, but he couldn’t help but miss the white robe he’d served since the first day he’d become a protector. Their bond had run deep and it was only the belief that Callabris would have wanted him to help his brother’s son, that had stopped him taking his own life and joining his master in Federa’s embrace.

The parting would not be long though. Jonderill didn’t need his protection as Callabris had, and once the Goddess’s peace had been returned to the six kingdoms, he would leave for good. Until that time he had a purpose to fulfil and a job to do. He looked up at the highest peak of the Deeling Mountains shrouded in cloud which hid the late afternoon sun, guessed that four candle lengths must have passed since the sun was high in the sky and estimated their position.

“We will see the Deeling River when we crest the next rise, master.”

Jonderill scowled in irritation but said nothing. He had told both Allowyn and Jarrul that they were free men and they shouldn’t call him master, but it made no difference. “Will we make camp when we reach the bridge?”

Allowyn shook his head. “If the light holds, I would like to pick up the supplies from the bridge camp and press on. There looks to be rain coming and there is a small wood about a candle length north which would give us a sheltered stopping place for the night. It will give us a good start when we set out north at first light.”

Jonderill nodded. He hadn’t told Allowyn that once they had crossed the Deeling Bridge they would be going their separate ways. His path would take him west towards the Pillars of the Allkinds and the Goddess’s temple, not Borman and the people of Essenland. Allowyn would be put out, but he would follow orders because that was what protectors always did. Jarrul on the other hand would stay with him, because he was looking for a reason not to return to the camp where people he knew would fight and die. It wasn’t that he was a coward, it was just that all the fight had gone out of him.