Sword and the Spell 01: The Grey Robe

by Clare Smith

  Time meant nothing in his mindless agony. He felt cruel knives tearing his flesh and red hot irons being bound around his hands and feet. Malicious hands beat him to the floor where he stayed on the edge of consciousness but any hurt was insignificant compared to the fire in his mind where the power had been torn from him. When the torture was too much and he teetered on the edge of madness a goblet was forced between his clenched teeth and an icy, syrupy draught poured down his parched throat.

  Slowly the pain eased and he opened his eyes, raising himself from his abasement at the foot of the chair where Sarrat sat. Only a moment had passed and he was unharmed and free of any fetters but a deep, consuming emptiness filled him. He looked with unfocused eyes on the man who was now truly his master.

  "Surely you didn't think I would keep you at my side without having the knowledge of how to destroy you?”

  "No, master," he whispered painfully.

  "Oh Maladran, what have you become?" asked the softest and most sympathetic of voices. "You were my chosen one, the strongest and most powerful, my champion and yet you let yourself be brought to this, and do you know why?”

  "Because I cannot find and kill the princess, My Lord."

  "No, Maladran, because you have betrayed me. You have put your own feelings before mine and allowed them to cloud your judgement. In doing so you have betrayed us both. What do you think the punishment should be for your betrayal?"

  "Death," whispered Maladran, almost pleading for its release.

  Sarrat laughed, a cold harrowing sound which held no mirth. "Your death would be a blessing to you now but it would give me little pleasure. No, Maladran, I won’t deprive myself of such enjoyment. Instead I shall continue to punish you and punish you severely as a lesson to others who put their own desires before their loyalty to me. From this day onwards you will remain in your tower, never to leave its confines and you will continue as my soul searcher, extracting the truth from those I send to you. Only now you will have to work with your own hands, to steep them in the blood of others, bereft of any arcane power. As you work, remember what it was like to have the key to endless power and then having it torn from you, Maladran, for every time you feel some mercy or care for the person you are questioning your feelings will ignite the flame of my displeasure."

  His voice once again became silky and serene. "My poor Maladran, to lose your humanity in the blood of others will be a long, slow torment for you but it will be good for your soul."

  "I was a fool," whispered the magician.

  "You were, Maladran," agreed Sarrat, "but you can become strong again. I was careful not to destroy your mind completely as you once destroyed Yarrin’s. The drug I have given you will keep the madness at bay and, in time, the focus of your power will recover from the violence I have subjected it to sufficiently for you to be of some use to me again. However, you will never be the same, not until I have forgiven you enough to return the torc to you. That will only happen if the Princess dies before the magician's enchantment keeps her forever safe from my vengeance. Think on that, Maladran. A chance to escape the pathetic creature you now are, reason enough to live and learn to obey my will. What do you say, Maladran?"

  "My lord, my life is yours and your will is my command."

  Sarrat smiled in satisfaction but missed the look of defiance in Maladran's eyes and the whispered vow on his lips.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  PART FOUR

  AWAKENINGS

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Betrayal

  Jarrul rode through the gloom of the Darkling Woods, his horse’s hooves crunching fallen leaves and sending small woodland animals scuttling out of his way. Above a sky caller shrieked its annoyance at being disturbed, its call echoing around the closely packed trees. The stiff breeze rattled the top most leaves sending flickering patterns of sunlight across the woodland floor as he rode passed the first lookout post on the outskirts of their camp.

  He knew that his progress was being carefully observed but was pleased that the outpost guard was completely hidden from his view. Twenty paces further on the leaves of a sapling blanchwald parted with a loud rustle and a cheerful face with bright blue eyes and a sprinkling of freckles peered out, giving him a friendly grin and a welcoming wave. He gave a sigh of exasperation; it would seem that some people still thought that this was a game.

  The second outpost was as poor as the first one had been good and he was only grateful that he wasn’t being followed or else they would have been in trouble. When he reached camp he would have to have strong words with the boy who so easily gave his position away, although he knew it was unlikely to make much difference. Still bristling with annoyance, he automatically stopped his horse at the edge of a fast moving stream that ran to the east of the encampment and waited patiently whilst the guard from the final outpost checked that he wasn’t being followed. After a moment or two the low call of a tree leaper sounded from behind him giving him the all clear to proceed.

  Next to him, on a sturdy black mare, sat a stocky man who sighed repeatedly at the long delay. His thick, beringed fingers clutched the saddle horn, helping to keep his balance whilst his eyes blinked uncomfortably behind the dark sack which acted as a blindfold. The man’s gaudy silk breaches and shirt rippled in the breeze and looked out of place next to Jarrul's huntsman's leathers. The bright red cloak he wore, with the arms of his house embroidered on the back, was better suited to a parade ground or a ballroom rather than in the woodlands and his empty scabbard hung forlornly at his side. Lord Tulreth of Leersland had made this journey half a dozen times with news for the rebels about Sarrat’s grip on the land and the movement of troops and each time the wearisome security precautions irked him more and more.

  "Is this really necessary?" he grumbled, his voice muffled by the rough woven sack over his head. "Surely I’m one of you by now and can be trusted?"

  "It’s for your own protection. What you don't know, Sarrat's soul searcher can't get out of you," replied Jarrul, purposely answering the first part of the question only. If he’d had his way they would have sent the fat lord packing with a sword up his arse the first time he had contacted them with information about Sarrat’s movements. However there was no denying that the information he’d passed on had been useful and, so far, accurate. Saying that, Jarrul didn’t trust him, there was something sly about the man which made his skin crawl.

  A boy in woodland green stepped from the shadows behind a broad tree trunk and waved them forward, darting back into cover as soon as they moved. Jarrul led Tulreth's horse by the reins upstream for a short while and then up a slight rise out onto a stony bank where no hoof prints could be left. A dozen paces further on, the thick screen of everleaf thinned and opened out into a large forest clearing dappled with sunlight. A circle of huts made from interwoven branches, mud and debris from the forest floor marked the perimeter of the clearing.

  Each hut opened into the centre of the camp where strips of wild forest buck dried over smoking fires. The oldest huts, built when they had first set up their camp over four summers ago, had moss growing on the roof whilst the newest still had green leaves attached to supporting branches. Children played in the central area around the frames of drying meat and those people who were not out hunting, guarding the camp or tending the woodland grazers were employed in making weapons, or clothing or some other item needed to sustain the life of the growing woodland community.

  Normally Jarrul's return would cause little excitement; most of those who lived there were used to him coming and going. At most one or two children would run forward to take his horse or, if he’d been hunting, some of the women would be ready to take his kill but today was different. Today he had brought Tulreth and that meant important news and most likely action.

  He pulled his horse to a halt and passed both sets of reins to a waiting boy in tunic and sandals before dismounting and helping Tulreth to clamber awkwardly out of his saddle. The blindfolded man was disorientated and stumbled into Jarrul
's arms only to be roughly pushed away. As far as Jarrul was concerned he tolerated the lord because he was useful but his sickly perfume and jewels and unpleasant sexual preferences turned his stomach.

  He pushed the lord roughly forward towards one of the larger, older huts, giving someone else the disagreeable task of removing the sack over Tulreth’s head which would be lined with his slobber and spittle. As soon as he’d passed the lord onto someone else a small thin man, who barely reached his shoulder and had a face like a weasel, slapped him on the shoulder and thrust a goblet of watered wine into his hand. The man grinned and Jarrul returned the greeting of his best friend almost as if he were his brother, punching him playfully on the arm.

  "'Owsit go brother? I sees the slime crawler didn'a do owt yer could spike 'im fer."

  "Tulreth's our friend," reproved Jarrul without conviction, "and if you're not careful he'll get one of his flunkies to spike you for calling him names."

  "I wish 'e'd try. I jus’ need an excuse ta stick ‘im good an’ proper."

  The two men laughed at their own private joke and ducked through the leather door flap and into the hut, their arms around each other's shoulder. It was a strange friendship, the broad huntsman and the slight thief but one which was bound by their mutual appreciation of the other's skill and their unswerving loyalty to the leader they served. Both bowed briefly and took their seats on one of the levelled logs which acted as both benches and tables in the dimly lit hut.

  Lord Tulreth, free at last from his blindfold, blinked in the dull light of the single lantern suspended from a roof beam and slowly focused his eyes on the young woman who sat on the raised platform of furs and hides opposite him. He bowed deeply in his best courtly manner and gave her an ingratiating smile, glancing furtively around to see who else was there. It was the same group as before; two escaped slaves, a condemned village elder, a disgraced foreign mercenary, an exiled lord, the huntsman and his sly friend and of course the woman.

  He bowed again to her and then gratefully sat down at her invitation on the log opposite, mopping his sweating brow on a flimsy piece of fabric with a lace edge. A girl of about ten summers, with brown curly hair and bare arms and legs entered carrying a tray of clay goblets which she passed from person to person. Tulreth followed her with avaricious eyes and licked his lips in anticipation. When she handed him his goblet he let his hand stray onto hers, keeping it there for longer than was necessary.

  "What have you got for us this time?" asked the woman sharply, her disgust at his lechery undisguised.

  "News of the upmost importance, Your Highness," replied Tulreth, returning his attention to the Lady Tarraquin. Four summers of living in the Darkling Forest had added a wildness to her beauty but he wasn’t attracted to her; his hostess was too old for his tastes, he preferred his bed partners to be younger, much younger.

  "Well, are you going to tell us or are you going to sit there all day?" She shared Jarrul's feelings of dislike for the perverted lord but, like Jarrul, she tolerated him because he was useful.

  "You know I wouldn’t impose on your generous hospitality unless there were sudden changes which could benefit us both and fill my poor treasury at a time when it’s a shadow of its former self.”

  "If the information is worth it we’ll pay your usual price."

  "And perhaps the girl as a bonus?" he asked, looking to the door flap where the child had just disappeared. The sound of the thief drawing his knife brought his attentions back to those in the room and he sighed in disappointment. "It was only a thought."

  "Well don't think about it again," snapped Tarraquin. "Now what do you have for us?"

  Tulreth smiled slyly and looked from face to face to make sure his audience was listening attentively. "Sarrat’s finally had enough of the nomad’s raids on his southern border and is going to deal with Tallison personally. He’ll be leaving within days and he's taking his army with him."

  A look of amazement and surprise touched everyone, even those who usually remained cynical about such rumours. To one side of the hut the two escaped slaves started muttering quietly to the foreign mercenary. Tulreth was obviously pleased at the effect his information had on the group and sat back looking smug.

  "How do you know this isn't just another rumour?" asked Jarrul cautiously.

  "I know, dear boy, because Sarrat has given me the odious and expensive task of guarding Tarmin and in particular his fortress whilst he’s gone. That means I, and of course my dear friends, have unopposed access to wherever they or I want to go whilst he is away on his little escapade."

  For a moment there was stunned silence and then a barrage of questions exploded, some genuine and some intended to trip him up if he was lying. By the time he’d finished satisfying them that his information was genuine another two goblets of wine had been served and drunk and Tulreth's voice was hoarse from talking over the voices of the others in the hut. Tarraquin called for silence at last and the leaders of the rebel band sat trying to digest all they’d heard, looking at each other with a mixture of anticipation and disbelief. They all knew better than to make any comment whilst Tulreth was still amongst them but the tension was like a strung bow ready to be released.

  "The information you have brought us is of great interest so we’ll pay you your outrageous price but without the bonus.”

  Tulreth smiled slyly and licked his lips. “That’s a lot of coin for you to find here in the woods so I’ll be happy to take the girl in part payment.”

  “We’ve enough for our needs without selling our children to the likes of you” snapped Tarraquin.

  “You must have a rich backer then, perhaps someone with an interest in seeing you on the throne of Leersland instead of Sarrat. Now I wonder who that could be?”

  “Those who support my claim are none of your business, Lord Tulreth. Now answer me just one last question and believe me you had better answer it truthfully if you want to keep your perverted manhood intact. Why have you told us all of Sarrat's plans when it’ll be obvious to him who has betrayed him?"

  "The same reason you oppose him; hatred, my lady, pure and simple. As you know I was a strong adherent of your late father's, may the heavens keep his soul, and I’ve remained loyal to his memory and of course to you ever since." Tarraquin looked cynical. "Also Sarrat’s fines for my one time indiscretion have ruined me. It’s therefore a matter of expediency to see his plans thwarted and do what I can to see you restored to the throne, which is rightfully yours. This is the best chance you’ll have of taking the fortress and Tarmin and without those Leersland will never be yours. In return all I ask is the restoration of my treasury and the pleasures he has taken from me and, of course, a place on your council when you are queen of Leersland."

  "You know what we’ll do to you if you are playing us false?" said the scarred man who Tulreth had identified as the disgraced foreign mercenary from his place by the two escaped slaves.

  For the first time Tulreth looked nervous and swallowed hard. "I can guess but that won’t be necessary. I swear on all that is sacred every word I have said to you is true. Sarrat and his army will leave and with my help by the time they return you will be in control of Tarmin and Tarraquin will be sitting on the throne of Leersland with the support of the people behind her."

  "We accept your word to be the truth," said Tarraquin suddenly rising from her seat. "But your price will only be sent to you if we decide to act on your information."

  Sweat rolled down Tulreth's brow. "And will you act on my information?"

  "That is yet to be decided."

  "But I need to know. You will need me to get you passed the guards and into the fortress and I will need to plan that carefully," he said almost desperately.

  "If we need your assistance you’ll be informed. Until then you will keep your mouth shut and keep out of Sarrat's way in case he smells the stink of your fear."

  She nodded to Jarrul who heaved Tulreth up by the shoulder of his silk shirt and roughly pulled the sack ba
ck over his head. He pushed the lord outside and handed him to the guide who would take him back to Tarmin. If it had been up to him Tulreth wouldn’t have left the camp alive but it wasn’t his decision so he walked back into the hut. He could tell by the grim smiles on his companions’ faces that they had already decided to act on Tulreth's information but he was not so sure about it.

  "Well, what do you think? Did he tell the truth or not?" Tarraquin looked from man to man, waiting for their answer.

  "The slime crawler's too scared to lie," sneered the mercenary with a mocking laugh, “he was sweating like a mud grunter.”

  "Yes but scared of who?" asked Jarrul. "What you would do to him if he betrayed us would be nothing compared to what Maladran would do to him if he betrayed Sarrat."

  "He's too greedy not to tell the truth," said the elder rubbing the rope burn scar around his neck where he had been condemned to death for speaking out against Sarrat's taxes but had been rescued from the hanging tree by the rebel band. "His type will sell their soul for gold."

  "Our gold or Sarrat's gold?" questioned Jarrul, receiving a sour look from the older man.

  "His information has been good in the past," put in the mercenary.

  "And I remember that his support of King Malute before his murder was absolutely genuine," added the exiled lord.

  "Do we have any option?" questioned one of the two escaped slaves. They were twins and had been taken from the back streets of Tarmin by Sarrat’s tax collectors and sold to Essenland. Both bore deep scars from the lash across their backs and the callused red circles made by the slave rings they had worn around their wrists.

  "If Sarrat's journey results in a victory over the southern nomads there will be no curtailing his ambitions. There will be nothing to stop him from attacking Vinmore’s borders on his return and there will be no hope of that country defending itself. The kingdom will fall quickly and Sarrat will become so powerful we’ll never be able to oppose him. With more slaves to sell to Essenland’s silver mines he will be able to equip an army large enough to wipe us out of this and every other hiding place."