The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) (7 page)

He was right though, it didn’t last long. Around him he heard the sounds of steel being drawn and the crowd quietening moments before the guard removed his boot from his pinioned arms and he was once again hauled to his feet. Tallison, backed up by the armed officers who now faced the rows of men with their swords drawn, had the crowd back under control. The mood of the crowd was different now, sullen and resentful and as tense as the drawn wire on a bolt bow. It wouldn’t take much to fire that bow but Tallison was speaking again, his arms held wide as if he was trying to embrace the entire crowd and they were listening intently to what he had to say, the tension easing with every word he uttered.

“My people, my people, do you see what power it is that I have fought against for you. I have taken this magician’s hands and with it his ability to hurt you but even the clothes he wears have been affected by his evil magic, so that they maim and burn your loyal comrades who dare to touch them. I have shown you this so you may understand what it is I have done for you, how I have saved you from corruption and sin. I have left this magic untouched so that you may beat and burn and scour the evil from him, but you may not kill him. A magician must die slowly if his power is not to be passed to another, and his time to die is not yet, but when it is, you shall have him to do with as you please.”

The crowd gave a roar of approval and Tallison beamed at them benignly. “And when the sun sets and you have beaten the last of the magic from his robe, I will show you that he is just a man as any other, and when I have cut his manhood from him, you will know that he is not even a man. Then you will feast and celebrate. There will be meat and wine and fresh bread for all of you.” A huge cheer erupted and Tallison held up his hands accepting it all and seeking silence before he continued. “Talis, may his name be praised, has spoken to me and has told me that on this night, every woman should accede to any man who demands service from her. So when you have feasted and have had your fill of wine, you may seek out any woman who stirs your loins, young or old, married or virgin and you may plant your seed in her to celebrate the glory of Talis.”

The cheering was deafening and Tallison stood with arms raised accepting the adoration for a while and then, when it was at its loudest, he turned his back on the crowd and walked to where Jonderill stood. He leaned forward so only Jonderill could hear. “I will make you pay, Callistares, for trying to make me look a fool in front of my people. I will let them hurt you, Callistares, hurt you so much that you will beg to be put back into your cage, and when you do, I will not let you out again until the flesh rots from your bones.” He handed the chain to a nearby guard. “Chain him to the post and make sure he doesn’t die or you will take his place.” He gave Jonderill a look of pure menace and walked away.

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CHAPTER THREE

Waiting to Die

Jonderill braced his legs beneath him and eased the pressure of the collar around his neck which was cutting into him and threatening to choke him. As the pressure eased he pulled in a gasp of hot air and coughed as it rasped over his parched throat and into his air-starved lungs. He could feel someone pushing at his shoulder, trying to prop him up until he was able to support his own weight and as consciousness returned so did the pain. The blackness receded and he opened his eyes to the brilliant sunlight which beat down on him and threatened to blister any of his pale, exposed skin which his robe didn’t protect.

He had nearly lost it that time. It wasn’t the first time that he had slipped into unconsciousness but they had been for just fleeting moments. Then the slave, the one who called himself Rothers, had been at his side instantly before the collar, with its short chain attached to the post on which he leaned, had the chance to choke him. The difference this time was that Rothers wasn’t there to save him; the girl had come with two guards and had dragged him away. Now he was on his own and the next time he fell would likely be his last.

It would help if he knew how long Tallison was going to leave him there then at least he would have a goal in sight. If his throat hadn’t been so parched he would have laughed; the goal he was trying to achieve was being castrated and returned to the torture of his cage and he had already decided that whatever happened he wasn’t going back there. He had no intention of spending the rest of his time caged like an animal until Tallison gave him to the mob. It would be best if when he lost consciousness next he didn’t fight to live but he couldn’t help it; every time his life dimmed the flame in his mind burnt brighter and stronger forcing him to fight back.

He now had his legs firmly braced and the pain back under control. It could have been worse he supposed. If they had managed to take his robe from him he would have already been cut and his skin would have been a bloody mass of welts and bruises where the mob had thrown stones or had tried to beat him with sticks. As it was he was just bruised and Rothers had done his best to protect him. Surely, now Rothers was no longer there to keep the mob at bay, they would return in force and it wouldn’t take them long to realise that the robe didn’t protect his head or his arms.

The surprising thing was that nothing, apart from that first stone, had touched his arms or the burnt stumps where his hands used to be despite them being exposed and stuck out in front of him. It was a pity the same couldn’t be said for his head, which was cut in several places where stones had hit him. One had come precariously close to his eye and he had only avoided it by a fraction. He could feel the blood from it trickle down the side of his face and the irritation of black buzzers as they investigated the open wound. When he thought about it, he realised that it was that stone which had sent him into unconsciousness, and he wondered who the civil minded person was who had propped him up until he could find his own feet.

It wasn’t Rothers so it had to be someone from the crowd, although that seemed most unlikely. He could hear them now around the post like honey buzzers around their hive. Tallison had played them well, turning them from a sullen, angry crowd into an adoring multitude ready to throw themselves at his feet. To give Tallison his due, he knew how to control a mob, but that wasn’t hard when they were starving and desperate and you were offering food and a moment’s respite from their bitter lives. Once Tallison had left, the mood of the mob had changed again and now the desperation had returned, and with it the anger and the hatred. He could hear the babble of voices increase in volume and could smell their fear above the stench of filth and decay. It wouldn’t take much to incite the crowd to violence and surely, once they started, not even the flame in his mind which refused to go out could stop them.

The thought of being torn to pieces by the mob was not an attractive one but it was no worse than the other things which were going to be done to him and a lot more immediate. He took the biggest breath he could manage with the collar restricting his breathing and screamed a curse at the mob. The sound which left his parched and swollen throat was little more than a croak and was instantly swallowed by the noise of the crowd. He tried to find some moisture to ease his throat and took a breath to try again but a firm hand clamped on his shoulder and a voice whispered in his ear.

“Quiet, magician, your time to die is not yet and not by the hands of these people who deserve better than your pointless death.”

Jonderill swallowed back the curse he was trying to shout and turned as far as the collar and chain would allow him so he could look at the man who had spoken. He was tall with skin darkened by the desert sun and black hair tied in warrior fashion. His robes were full and clean and he wore a curved sword at his side. He was an officer then; one of those who had drawn their swords to quell the mob earlier. The man gave Jonderill’s shoulder a slight squeeze of encouragement and then stepped forward to face the crowd. Four others, similarly dressed, stepped up beside him and slowly the angry shouting subsided until just a shuffling of feet and a tense silence remained.

The man took another step forward and addressed the crowd in a voice loud enough to carry to the back row of the gathered men. “Return to your dwellings, there is nothing more for you here; you have done the mighty Tallison’s work and have shown this man your anger and disdain. To do more would cause his end and would deny Talis his pain. Return to your shelters and enjoy the bounty which your Rale has provided for you.”

There was a disgruntled muttering amongst the crowd but when the five men stood their ground the crowd slowly began to disperse. Jonderill watched them leave not certain whether he was disappointed that his chance to die had been taken from him or relieved that he would live for a little longer. Perhaps if his saviour turned back to him he could ask him what he thought. It was such an absurd thought that an almost hysterical laughter bubbled up inside of him erupting as a choking grunt. The noise made the man turn and Jonderill watched as he bowed briefly to the men who had stood by him.

“Thank you, brothers, for your support; I will guard the prisoner now.”

The eldest of the four, a man with silver streaks in his dark hair, stepped forward and spoke in a low voice that Jonderill could barely hear. “Tozaman, what do you think you are doing? Tallison will have your skin flayed from your back for this.”

Tozaman shook his head. “I don’t know, Oraman, I had a sudden thought, an idea but it’s gone now.” He looked at Jonderill and frowned. “But what I said to the magician is true, it’s not his time to die yet. Tallison has commanded that the magician should not be killed by the mob this day and I have just carried out his wishes so he will not harm me. Now go, please, it is best that we are not seen working together or he will become suspicious.”

Oraman nodded in agreement and led his brothers away, leaving Jonderill and Tozaman studying each other. Tozaman was the first to turn away, a frown on his face as if he wanted to ask a question but couldn’t think what the question was. Jonderill watched him move out of sight, trying to ignore the black buzzers which crawled across his sweating, bloody face as he thought about what had just happened. It was difficult to think straight but he was certain that things were not as simple as they seemed. Why had this warrior saved him? The reason he had given to his comrade was a good one, but he was sure there was something else, there had to be or why had the man supported him the last time he had fallen.

“Magician.”

Jonderill opened his eyes and blinked to focus on the man in front of him. He was slightly older than he was, perhaps by three or four summers with hard eyes which had seen too much. Any thoughts he might have had that the man had saved him out of compassion disappeared like mist on a summer’s day.

“Magician. If I touch your robe will it burn me?”

How was he to know? The man had touched it before and it hadn’t burnt him but that didn’t mean that it wouldn’t react again; the robe had a magic all of its own which was beyond his understanding. He shook his head anyway. Tozaman stepped forward and pulled back the neck of the robe slightly so he could reach the collar releasing and resetting one buckle and then the other so Jonderill could breathe freely.

He tried to thank the man but the best he could manage was a croak. Tozaman turned away and then stepped back again holding up a water skin and making Jonderill stagger slightly with his overwhelming need to drink. He supported Jonderill by the arm whilst he swallowed down three gulps of water and then poured some over the end of his burnoose and wiped the blood and sweat from Jonderill’s face. Finally he pulled the hood of the robe over Jonderill’s head protecting him from the burning sun.

Jonderill sighed with relief. He would have liked to ask the man for some more water but wasn’t certain what his reaction would be. As if he had read his thoughts the man held up the water skin allowing him to take another three precious gulps of warm, gritty water. Now his throat wasn’t so parched he could thank the man, but froze when the warrior pulled a long knife from its sheath at his side.

“Magician. If I free your arms will you swear not to use your magic against me?

Jonderill gave a low bitter laugh. “There’s no chance of that. Don’t you know that a magician with no hands has no magic?”

Tozaman looked at him intently. Of course he knew that, his father had told him the same and Tallison had boasted that he had taken the magician’s power when he took his hands. Then why didn’t he believe them? He shook his head. “No, I don’t think that is so. If it was you would not have survived this long.” He took his knife and sliced through the leather strips which bound Jonderill’s arms. “I think there is magic within you still waiting to be released, magician.”

Jonderill shook his head and gritted his teeth against the spikes of pain as blood flooded back into his unbound arms. “You are mistaken and the name’s Jonderill.”

“You are not Callistares as Tallison claims?” Tozaman asked in surprise.

“No. Although I could have been called that at one time, but now my name is Jonderill and believe me, I have no magic.”

Tozaman shook his head again. It didn’t make sense but he was convinced that he was right. “Your name doesn’t matter, only the magic which burns within you. My father told me of your kind and the power which lives inside of you and he should know, he was there when magic built our city from the sands of the desert. He told me that magic could be used to do good, and if that is so, it cannot be destroyed so easily. He didn’t believe that magic was evil as Tallison preaches to our people.”

“Do you believe that too?”

Tozaman thought about it for a moment. Until today he hadn’t believed in magic at all, the same as he didn’t believe in the Goddess or Talis. They were just stories people told to keep others in line. Even his father had used the threat of the Goddess’s disfavour to make him an obedient child. “I have no belief in anything which I cannot see or hear or touch.”