The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) (19 page)

“With a full pardon?” questioned Malingar. Sharman winced again and wished that his lord would have just been grateful and left the king’s offer as it was.

“Yes, with a full pardon,” snapped the King irritably, “although if I find out that you and Rastor have been fighting I will have the heads from all three of you. Now, we have work to do. Rastor, how many prisoners have we taken?”

“Just over three thousand fit and walking wounded who will recover enough to be of use, around three hundred had serious wounds and have been put in the pit with the dead. We have eight officers under guard as well. Do you want me to put them in the pit as well along with Newn’s body?”

Borman thought about it for a moment. “No, I think I have another use for them. I have decided to be generous and let them bury their king with honour. After all, he was my cousin, all be it a distant one. Let them build a pyre and get the other prisoners together to watch so they can say farewell to the last of the royal line of Tarbis. When the fire is going well you may dispose of the officers.

Rastor grinned and looked pleased with himself. “I will see to it personally.”

He bowed and turned to leave but Borman called him back. “Oh, and Rastor, make sure the officers are dead before you put them on the fire, I need the prisoners to fear me, not despise me, when I become their king.” He waved Rastor away and returned his attention back to Malingar. “I have decided to become the King of Tarbis. After all, Newn was never crowned and I do have a legitimate claim, and there is nobody else more suitable. However, I have other plans as well so I want you to take your men and as many prisoners as necessary to act as hostages and secure the throne of Tarbis. As I recall you did rather a good job, at one time, for the Lady Tarraquin so don’t let me down.”

Malingar gave a brief bow and watched as the animated look went from Borman’s face to be replaced by something much darker. He had seen that look before and knew it meant trouble.

“By the way, where is the Lady Tarraquin?”

“I don’t know, My Lord.”

Borman glared at the captain and then turned his attention to Sharman. “You let her escape. You were ordered to bring her back to me but instead you let her go to Tarbis and join up with Prince Newn. She was here with him and I want her back or I want your head.”

Sharman knew better than to say anything but Malingar wasn’t so cautious. He took a step forward putting himself between his steward and the king. “You have already pardoned this man for his failure, Your Majesty, and apart from that it was not his fault, it was Rastor who let her escape.”

“Your Majesty may wish to ask Guardcaptain Rastor about her whereabouts,” offered Sharman, noticing that Rastor was walking towards them having given his orders about the prisoners. “The Guardcaptain had charge of all the Tarbisian prisoners and must have searched where Prince Newn had his camp and the surrounding area most carefully.”

Borman glared at the old soldier and then relaxed. He was right of course; Rastor had complete control of the area and so would know where the woman was. Sharman waited until Rastor was a dozen paces away and timed his next comment to perfection. “The Lady Tarraquin is a beautiful woman so I’m sure that Rastor would want to take care of her personally for you.”

From the look on Borman’s face he thought he had gone too far but the king turned his anger on the Guardcaptain as he came up beside him. “Rastor! What in hellden have you done with my woman?”

The Guardcaptain stepped back in surprise at his master’s sudden outburst and missed the smirk of satisfaction on Sharman’s face. “I’m sorry, My Lord, I haven’t seen the lady.”

“Then you should have done. She was here in the camp with Newn so she can’t have gone far. I want you and every man who is not guarding the prisoners out there looking for her and I want her back here unharmed by sunset. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, My Lord. Abundantly clear.” Rastor bowed and left at a run.

Malingar went to follow but Borman called him back. “Not you, Captain. I need you to go to Tarbis whilst I go north.” He gave a self-satisfied smile. “I’m quite taken with Vinmore and as I’m already here with a large force I thought I might go and check on the throne for size. Vinmore would make a nice addition to my collection and, as I hear that the Queen has thoughtfully disbanded her army, taking Alewinder should be easy.”

For a moment the King was lost in thought, enjoying the mental image of him sitting on the throne of Vinmore ruling all the lands of Borland. Sharman took the opportunity to give his master an urgent look to silence him but it was too late, Malingar was already speaking.

“My Lord, I think you should know that King Vorgret has had the same idea and has already deposed Queen Daun and her consort and has taken the throne of Vinmore for himself.”

“What! How do you know all this?”

“We ran into some refugees fleeing Alewinder on the way here. They said that Vorgret rode into the city with a large army and took the throne without opposition. Apparently his army are still there enjoying the delights of what Alewinder can provide.”

Borman screamed in frustration and looked for something to kick but when he couldn’t find anything he stamped his foot in temper. “How dare he take what was going to be mine!” He glared at Malingar as if it was his fault. “How big is this army?”

“I didn’t see them, My Lord, but the man I spoke to said there were around five or six thousand mounted troops.”

Borman compared the numbers and didn’t like the answer. If he could have relied on the surviving troops from Tarbis he might have chanced his luck, but it was too soon to expect them to be loyal. However, when he had stamped his authority on that country he would have more than enough men to remove the pretender and claim Vinmore as his own.

“I have changed my mind. Vinmore is not as attractive as I thought it was.” He gave a vicious laugh. “And by the time my troops have marched through it on the way to Tarbis, Vinmore won’t be anywhere near as attractive as Vorgret thinks it is either. That can wait though until the Lady Tarraquin has been returned to me.” He looked at Malingar and scowled. “Why are you still here? I said that everyone was to search for her and bring her back to me and that includes you. I have some unfinished business with the lady which I will undoubtedly enjoy much more than she will.”

Borman laughed; made a crude gesture he had learned from Rastor and retired to his tent leaving the two men to stare after him.

*

Tarraquin rolled beneath the heavily laden wine berry vine and did her best to pull the large green and golden brown leaves around her without crushing any of the berries and giving her position away. It wasn’t an easy task and was made all that more difficult by the fine grass which grew between the ordered lines of mature vines. She had done her best not to flatten it but a good tracker would spot it easily. Her only hope was that the mounted men who were searching for her would miss the signs and pass by.

She could hear them coming now, the rhythmic thud of horse’s hooves vibrating through the ground to which she had her ear pressed. There was the other sound too; the one she really dreaded, the sound of swords slashing at the vines, chopping them and anything within them to small pieces. So far she had managed to evade her pursuers by scurrying from one row to another but now she had run out of rows so if she ran again it would be into the open and that would be fatal. It wasn’t much of a choice; if she stayed where she was it was likely that she would be chopped into pieces, but if she ran it was likely to be worse. She had heard Rastor’s voice commanding the search parties so she could guess what her fate would be if she were captured by him.

Tarraquin made her decision, closed her eyes and tried to control her racing heart. If she had done what she had been commanded, she probably wouldn’t have been in this mess, but she had never been good at doing what she was told. Newn had commanded her to stay in the main camp where the dozen guards who had been assigned to her would protect her if anything went wrong. He had been barely out of sight before she’d had enough of the guards and wanted to be somewhere else.

So she had retired to her tent on the excuse that she had a headache, slit the rear of the tent with her knife and slipped passed the guards and out of the camp. It would have been quicker to take a horse but she had thought it might have been missed. So instead she ran as fast as she could to the ridge that separated the camp from the battlefield and crawled the last dozen or so paces so she could see what was going on, but at the same time couldn’t be seen above the sky line.

The battle was at its height and whilst she couldn’t see Newn in the crowds of fighting men it seemed to her that Tarbis was winning. If it hadn’t been for the fact that she was lying on the ground and had felt the vibration of the galloping horsemen she probably wouldn’t have heard them above the noise of the battle until it was too late. As it was, she had felt them coming and had run, and she had been running ever since. She had run through fields and orchards to get as far away from the battle as she could and then, when she had realised that Borman’s men were scouring the countryside for those who had escaped the battle, she had run through the thick wine berry vines hoping to hide.

She was tired of running and tired of hiding. She was tired of being hungry and thirsty and, most of all, she was tired of being afraid. As she lay amongst the vine leaves listening to Rastor and his men coming closer she thought about the way Sheevar had died, and decided that a sword thrust was preferable. She just hoped that it would be quick. Behind her she could hear the vines being slashed apart and she could feel the tug of the vines above her as supports were cut away. One of the supporting poles was pulled over and fell across her body whilst the pole it was attached to crashed across her legs dragging the thick vines with it as it fell.

A sword slash above her carved a swathe through the remaining vines showering her with torn leaves and smashed wine berries. Through the shattered vines she could make out a horse’s hoof just by her head and she waited for the rider’s blade to descend. It cut through the air with a sigh, down through the tangle of vines and into the support pole above her, pushing it into her back and then dragging it up towards her shoulders as the cursing soldier tried to remove his trapped blade and she tried not to scream. The soldier cursed again and yanked his blade free whilst all around him there were derisive whistles and laughter before the soldier moved on.

Tarraquin lay still for a long time wondering if the searchers would return, or if they would have left a rear guard to follow them some time later to capture anyone who thought they might have escaped. She dozed for a time and woke sick with hunger and with a desperate need to get away from where she lay. Cautiously she pushed the tattered leaves away from her, eating any of the wine berries which had survived the destruction, and crawled out of her hiding place like a field squeaker out of its nest. Rastor’s troops had done a good job. The once shoulder-high vines were now battered and, apart from the pile she had just crawled from beneath, none stood taller than knee high.

That left Tarraquin with a problem. She could either crawl slowly away keeping herself almost hidden, but risk the soldiers returning on their way back to camp, or she could run and hope that nobody spotted her before she found somewhere else to hide. Running seemed like the best option. She checked to see if anyone was around, stood, and then ran as fast as she could. It is likely that she would have made it to safety if it hadn’t been for the two rear guards that Rastor had placed hidden amongst the shattered vines. They spotted her before she had taken a dozen paces and were after her like hounds after a long eared hopper.

Tarraquin saw the movement out of the corner of her eye and instinctively swerved away from the approaching man but in doing so she changed her path towards the other soldier who was running to intercept her. She leaped over the remains of the last row of vines and into open country, hoping to outrun her pursuers and reach a small coppice where she might be able to lose them. Running as fast as she could with her breath ragged from exhaustion and her heart pounding in fear she zigzagged across the open ground trying to evade her pursuers. She was tired from running and hiding and the big men were fresh and eager for the hunt, not to mention the rewards it would bring them.

Half way across the meadow they caught her; the shorter of the two running across her pathway whilst the other, a big brute of a man, dived and caught her ankle. Tarraquin went down hard, knocking the breath from herself. She tried to roll away but the smaller of the two, who was still twice her weight, was on top of her, pinning her shoulders to the ground with his knees and one hand and tearing at the front of her shirt with the other. Desperately she tried to heave him off but he had his hand inside her shirt and around her breast squeezing hard and laughing as she pushed against him.

The bigger of the two men had a firm grip on her legs and was pulling at her leggings. She tried to kick him, catching his thigh with the heel of her boot and making him grunt with pain. He growled something crude and punched her in the stomach making her cry out. The man continued to pull on her leggings until they and her small clothes slipped down her thighs and he threw them away. He undid his own breaches exposing his swollen manhood, pushed her legs apart with his knees and thrust himself inside her. She cried out, pleading with him to stop but he thrust again, harder this time.

He withdrew and thrust again, ignoring his comrade’s shout; the little runt would have to wait his turn, he’d never fucked a queen before and he was going to enjoy this. Giving her an evil grin and showing a row of brown, broken teeth he went to thrust again but instead collapsed on top of her, his spine cut in two by the downward slice from the sword of the galloping horseman. The second man was already up and running but only made a dozen paces before the war horse knocked him to the ground and galloped right over the top of him.