The White Robe (11 page)

“First blood!” called one of the armsmen who had come to watch.

They circled each other again and this time Jonderill stepped into the attack with a head cut but before the strike could make any contact, Allowyn had moved behind him and the broadside of the sword landed with a thwack on his exposed back making him stagger forward and stumble.

“Second blood!” called the same armsman to a ripple of laughter from his comrades who had joined him.

Jonderill retook his defensive stand, his face flushed with embarrassment and his mouth set in a firm line determined to do better. He’d thought that he was good with a sword but he’d been a fool trying to show off his meager skills in front of this expert swordsman. They circled again and this time he concentrated on looking for the small signs of attack like the tensing of muscles before a lunge, but there weren’t any

When the attack came it was all he could do to catch the blade on the hilt of the sword and hold it there against Allowyn’s pressure. Instead of increasing the pressure to force him backwards as he expected, Allowyn took a step back, slid his blade upwards and with a deft flick sent Jonderill’s sword tumbling through the air and onto the ground. Jonderill followed its flight and when he looked back the tip of Allowyn’s sword rested in the hollow of his throat.

“And out!” cried the armsman to a round of applause and some derisive laughter.

Allowyn withdrew the point of his sword and turned to glare at the laughing armsmen. There was instant silence and they all hurried away back to their duties. He walked to where Jonderill’s sword had landed, picked it up and handed it back to Jonderill. “You’ve been well taught but you’re a bit out of practice and dangerously overconfident.”

Jonderill grinned sheepishly. “Not to mention piss stupid and arrogant.” They both laughed.

“Let’s just practice some forms, shall we?” suggested Allowyn

Jonderill nodded in agreement and for the next candle length they practiced together with Allowyn working alongside Jonderill and correcting his movements as each form changed. Jonderill settled into the steady rhythm of the exercise, relaxing with the familiarity of what he’d been taught by the Cadetmaster and Swordmaster Dilor. When the last form had been completed and they had saluted each other he was gasping for breath, sweating and steaming in the cool night air like a horse after a long race. Next to him Allowyn was barely breathing any harder than normal.

He smiled at Jonderill and slapped him on the back. “Well done, we’ll make a swordsman out of you yet. Now go and wash up and grab some food before my men eat it all and leave you with nothing but the bones, horns and hooves.”

Jonderill staggered away to the stream and when he returned to the fire, Dozo had saved him several thick slices of hot meat and spiced wild onions piled on a platter of fresh flat bread. He sat next to Allowyn and devoured the food as if he had never eaten before and washed it down with gulps of sweet red wine from a large skin which was passed companionably around the circle by the armsmen. When he dozed off and nearly fell off the log backwards they all laughed and two guards helped him to where his blankets had already been laid out for him. He went to protest about taking his turn on watch but he was asleep before the armsmen had chance to respond.

*

He woke to the sound of the camp being broken up and realized that today he would be escorted by Allowyn and his men to Federa’s Enclave to face a future he didn’t really want any part of. For a moment he thought about leaving whilst everyone else was busy and just walking in the opposite direction but there was little point. He had nowhere else to go and his experience so far of travelling by himself was enough to put any sane person off walking the roads of the six kingdoms alone.

Jonderill rolled out of his blankets and did his best to smooth down his crumpled shirt and breaches. He wasn’t going to make a very impressive sight arriving at the Enclave like he’d slept under a hedge for a seven day. His shirt had a hole in the side and was stained with the dried sweat from the sword practice of the previous day and there was a grass stain on the knee of his breaches. He sighed to himself and thought how useful it would be if his clothes were made of the same stuff as a magician’s robe, then they would never need cleaning or mending. The idea made him think about his old grey robe and he wondered what had happened to it. Perhaps Allowyn or Dozo would know.

Jonderill folded his blankets and carried them across to where the pile of spare blankets had been. Now they were neatly rolled and strapped ready to be loaded onto the horses. The armsman in charge took the blanket from him and left Jonderill staring around the remains of the camp, which seemed a totally different place than the night before. The central fire had gone although the stones surrounding it remained. What was left of the ashes, which had been dampened down, were being carried away and tipped into the now exposed latrine pit. Two guards stood nearby with shovels ready to fill the pit in with earth and replace the cut turf.

Most of the horses were saddled and those that were not were having a last brush down. The remains of the slaver’s wagon had been chopped up for firewood, which had been stacked next to the empty ring of stones waiting for the next traveler to camp there. Dozo stood on the other side using the stump of a tree as a table, wrapping packages of last night’s meat and flat bread into leather pouches for the journey. He saw Jonderill and waved him over pushing a chunk of hard cheeses and some travel bread in his hand before returning to his task.

With all the activity he hadn’t noticed that the only person who wasn’t involved in the preparations for departure was Allowyn. He looked around the camp site and was surprised to see him alone and fully armoured in the centre of the practice area. Jonderill wandered over and squatted on the ground nibbling his cheese and watched as the protector went through his exercises. Each movement was familiar to him; they were the same ones that all swordsmen practiced but he had never seen them preformed like this before with such speed and precision.

Jonderill watched as Allowyn moved seamlessly from movement to movement without any hesitation, firstly with a single sword and then with sword in one hand and his long, wickedly sharp knife in the other. His strange leather and bronze armour glistened in the early morning sunlight, and sword and knife flashed and blurred with the swiftness of cut and thrust. At the climax of the movements, when a swordsman would usually hold the pose of the final thrust before winding down, Allowyn thrust forward with his knife burying it at waist height into one of the four posts which had been erected in the practice area.

Then he was gone again, moving fluidly into a new set of movements. This time the movements were delivered at an even faster speed as Allowyn attacked the posts, cutting from every direction but with such control that each blow stopped fractionally short of its target. With each turn Allowyn pulled a knife from his baldric and threw it at one of the posts until each post had two knives buried in their wood at head height.

When the last knife had left his hand he drew his second sword from the scabbard at his back and without slowing repeated the forms. The final climax, when it came, was delivered with such violence that Jonderill took two steps back and stared in awe as the swordsman stood with crossed swords held a fraction from each side of a post at head height, his muscles quivering with the need to complete the move.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Dozo at his shoulder making Jonderill jump. “And you are privileged to see it but you’d better let him be for a while; it’s dangerous to go near him until he’s come fully back to himself from his devotions.”

“Thanks for the warning.” He turned back and stared at the protector who still held his pose, his body completely still, but every muscle tense.

“When he’s ready he will need a hand off with his armour and these.” Dozo pointed down to the towels, clothes and water skin at Jonderill’s feet and a large bag containing rags and oil.

“Should I help collect his knives or something?”

Dozo gave a bark of a laugh. “Only if you want one buried in your throat, young man. Nobody touches a protector’s weapons and lives, not even their magician. Just keep an eye on him until he recovers and make sure he towels off properly; protectors have been known to sometimes neglect such matters and I don’t want to have to treat him for a chill before we get back to the Enclave.”

He gave Jonderill a friendly pat on the shoulder and walked back to what was left of the camp site. Jonderill turned back to the practice area and could already see a change in Allowyn. It was as if oil was draining from a small skin, each part relaxing as the oil drained away. After a few moments Allowyn stepped back from his stance, gave the post a brief bow and sheathed his swords. One by one he acknowledged each post with a brief bow and retrieved his throwing knives and finally his long fighting knife.

When he reached Jonderill he didn’t say a word but waited patiently whilst Jonderill fumbled with the unfamiliar straps and lifted the heavy armour from his body. Underneath the metal strips the padded jacket was soaked through with sweat and he helped to pull it free of Allowyn’s body before handing him a towel and using the other one to wipe his back. His whole body was covered in thin white scars like spiders’ webs which criss-crossed each other and other scars which were larger and faded with age.

“Thank you.” croaked Allowyn between rasping breaths. He took the water skin, poured half over his head and drank the rest, and then pulled on his shirt and leather over tunic and piled his armour into his bag.

“I think I will just have time to clean this before the others return from their errand.” He smiled at Jonderill. “Have you eaten?”

Jonderill nodded. “Have you?”

“Not yet, not before my devotions, but I expect Dozo will have something ready for me; he’s a bit of an old woman like that.”

He led the way back to the remains of the camp site and dropped the bag of armour beside the log around the empty fire ring. Before he’d finished cleaning the first piece, Dozo approached with bread and cheese in one hand and Jonderill’s grey robe draped across his other arm. He held it out for Jonderill to take.

“It took a bit of drying but all the stains have come out.”

Jonderill held it up and studied the garment. “Many thanks for having a go at it. I think the sun has bleached it a bit but apart from that it looks as good as new.” He folded the robe in half and rolled it into a ball.

Dozo gave the protector a quizzical look and turned back to Jonderill. “Aren’t you going to wear it?”

Jonderill shook his head. “No, not unless you want these clothes back which you lent me.” He looked between the two of them. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” said Allowyn, “Unless…” He was interrupted by the sound of approaching horses which drew their attention.

Around the camp the men stopped what they were doing and ran into a defensive line with Allowyn at its centre and Jonderill behind. A piercing whistle in the near distance followed by another announced the arrival of friends and the whole line of men relaxed their grip on their sword hilts. A dozen grey clad armsmen rode into the camp, tired, lathered and dusty and in the middle of them trotted a silver-grey stallion a hand and a half taller than any of the other horses. It barged its way through the escort using its teeth when one horse and rider were slow to move out of his way and walked up to Jonderill giving him a playful head butt in the chest.

Jonderill staggered back a step and then threw his arms around the horse’s neck. “Sansun! Am I glad to see you.” The horse gave a gentle whicker in reply.

“Any problems?” asked Allowyn.

The man at the front of the troop, who Jonderill thought was one of the leaders that had rescued him from the slave caravan, shook his head. “None at all. The guards at the river crossing were easily persuaded that it was better to return Jonderill’s things than to be dead. They were a little more reluctant to pay interest or damages but in the end they saw sense.” There was some laughter amongst the rest of the troop.

“We had no problem finding the horse, in fact, he found us and as long as we didn’t try to mount him or lead him the horse was happy to come along.” He looked at Jonderill who was gently stroking the horse’s nose. “That’s a very special horse you have there; you need to be more careful about where you leave him.” He beckoned to one of the armsmen who came forward with a large bundle which he handed to Jonderill. “I think these belong to you.”