The White Robe

by Clare Smith

  Jonderill took his place in the line but when he reached the old woman she pulled the platter of hot flour cakes out of his reach. “Where’s yer bit?” Jonderill looked blank and the old woman sighed in irritation. “What yer put in the pot, boy?”

  “Nothing,” muttered Jonderill.

  “Where’s yer coin then?”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Then bugger off, this aint no charity fer bleedin’ beggars.” She shoved Jonderill out of the way and offered the platter with its hot flour cakes to the next person in line.

  Jonderill went to protest but looking down at his bare feet, legs covered in dirt and poorly fitting robe he realised that he must have looked and smelled like a street beggar. He walked away with as much dignity as he could muster and made his way to where the bigger wagons and caravans were parked for the night hoping that someone would take pity on him. A number of small fires had been lit and pots of stew hung over several of them.

  Others were tended by men or women who pushed wrapped bundles into the ashes to cook and one fire had a spit on two iron posts over it on which a pond wader roasted, dripping sizzling fat into the fire. Everyone turned their backs on Jonderill as he passed by and ignored him except for one fat merchant huddled in a richly embroidered blanket and flanked by two armed guards. He followed Jonderill with his eyes as he passed and then spoke softly to the guard on his left.

  Dejectedly, Jonderill walked to the edge of the camp and sat with his back propped up against a large everleaf; close enough to the camp to benefit from its protection but far enough away that the smell of hot food wasn’t a torment. It was a long time since he had been very hungry but he remembered the unpleasant feeling and the unhappy memories which went with it. He almost jumped when a tall figure coughed loudly beside him and he looked up to see one of the fat merchant’s guards standing next to him, relaxed but with his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword.

  “My employer would like a word with you.”

  Jonderill shrugged but didn’t move. “What does he want?”

  It was the guard’s turn to shrug. “Don’t know, he don’t tell me his business but we’ve got a dozen wagons and not enough hands to manage the merchandise so perhaps he’s got a proposition for you.”

  Jonderill looked across to where the caravan was parked well away from the others with its covered and guarded wagons. There seemed to him to be lots of people in the encampment, most of them armed. The camp’s fire was the largest he had seen and two huge cauldrons were suspended over it cooking more food than could be eaten by those he could see. The guard followed the direction of his gaze and gave a rough laugh.

  “Stews about ready, could be that the merchant will exchange some of the surplus for a bit of hired help.”

  His stomach rumbled again making his mind up for him. “Lead the way,” he said as he stumbled to his feet.

  He followed the guard to the edge of the camp and then through the gap between two covered wagons grimacing at the smell of rotting flesh and animal waste as he passed by them into the light of the fire. The merchant sat in a portable chair as far away from the wagons as he could get. When Jonderill reached him the merchant looked him up and down with small beady eyes almost hidden in between heavy eyebrows and fat cheeks. He tapped a fat finger bedecked with rings against his painted lips and smiled. Instantly Jonderill knew he had made a mistake and took a step back into the guard behind him who gave him a shove forward closer to the merchant.

  “Nice, very nice,” muttered the merchant. “Pity about the dirt but that’ll wash off. Is he alone?” The guard behind Jonderill gave a brief nod. “Good, I think I have a buyer in mind who would be pleased to purchase a strong young man.”

  Realisation of what the smell had been from the wagons and what the merchant traded in suddenly hit Jonderill and he turned to run but the guard made a grab for him, catching his robe at the shoulder and at the same time hooking his bare feet from under him. Jonderill hit the ground hard and rolled, wrenching his robe from the guard’s grip and scrambling to his feet. Behind him another two armed men closed in blocking his exit.

  He turned to face the new threat and in desperation threw two balls of flaming elemental fire at the approaching men. One of the guards knocked the ball away to one side with his sword but the other ball of flame hit the second man in his chest, igniting his tunic. The man screamed and rolled in the dirt to put the flames out and Jonderill took his opportunity in the confusion to run, but before he had taken two steps, a brilliant light and intense pain exploded in his head followed by total darkness.

  *

  Jonderill regained consciousness with a groan, his head throbbing in time to the beating of his heart. Wherever he was it was moving and his body and head was being jostled against a hard wooden floor. He came to the conclusion that he must be in one of the wagons he had seen in the merchant’s camp. When the wagon suddenly tipped into a pot hole his head banged sharply against the floor almost making him pass out again. His stomach roiled against the pain and the stench of the other bodies and their filth closely packed in the wagon. He tried to roll over and get to his knees, but his hands were firmly tied to rings in the floor so instead he turned his head to one side and vomited bile onto the wagon floor.

  “Agh, puke, more stink,” croaked a voice next to him.

  Jonderill turned his head away from the reek of his own vomit and tried to focus his blurred vision on the man who had spoken. “Where are we?”

  “In Fubrig’s caravan on the way to Essenland’s silver mines, that’s if any of us live that long.” The speaker gave a hacking cough and spat red phlegm on the floor.

  “But how? There’s no slavery in the six kingdoms.”

  The man gave a cynical laugh. “Yer got anyone who’s goin’ to miss yer, boy? See, this is ‘ow Borman gets rid of those ‘e don’t want in ‘is kingdom; the ‘omeless and the beggars. ‘E sells them ter Fubrig and ‘e sells them to Essenland to work in their mines. Turns enough profit fer everyone ter turn a blind eye ter what’s goin’ on.”

  “But King Porteous would never allow that to happen.”

  “Where you been ‘iding mate? Porteous, the old windbag, don’t know owt about it, it’s that bastard Vorgret that does it an’ now that Porteous ‘as abdicated an’ Vorgret is king, there aint no stopping ‘im.”

  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.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  CHAPTER FOUR

  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 look
s 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.