Sword and the Spell 01: The Grey Robe (32 page)

The kingsguard stopped beside Maladran and for a
moment hesitated to touch the magician until Sarrat scowled threateningly at Guardcaptain
Gartnor. Maladran saw Sarrat give a signal but was still taken by surprise when
the guards at his side dared to take hold of his arms and twist them painfully
behind his back. He looked up and hissed at Sarrat, focusing what little power
he had left to repel the attack from the kingsguard. His magic was slow to
respond and before his power could focus Gartnor grabbed his hair and roughly
dragged his head back allowing Sarrat to rip the golden torc from his throat.

Instantly all thought was shattered and the void where
his power was gathering exploded in blinding white light. Maladran screamed in
agony as searing flames burnt in his head and shrivelled his eyes. He could
think of nothing except the pain as the torture continued intensifying with
each jolting step taken by the kingsguard as they hauled him to his feet and
dragged him across the stone floor to take him to the dark cells below the
ancient tower.

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.

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AWAKENINGS

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 back 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.