The White Robe (51 page)

He knew the blade would work almost before he touched the door, and as the door swung open he was grateful that there was enough torchlight to find his way down the stairs, but not enough to blind his already bedazzled eyes. The guard hadn’t been joking about it being wet at the lower level. Half way down the stairs the walls began to leak water and by the time he reached the bottom he was paddling through water a finger length deep.

There were only two cells, neither with grills and both were locked. He held the old blade wrapped in its blanket to the left hand door and when it swung open he thrust the torch inside. A large man, the size of the guard he had felled and with a similar beard sat on a stone bench by the wall with his head in his hands. He looked up in confusion trying to shield his eyes from the light but said nothing.

Jonderill backed out of the cell and used the blade on the second door, careful this time not to flood the cell with torchlight and blind the prisoners within. This cell held two men, both of them standing in the water with their manacled hands chained tightly to the wall above them. Both looked as if they had been beaten and one was having a coughing fit which sounded like a death rattle. As he entered the cell, the younger of the two prisoners glared at him, and tried to move protectively in front of the other.

“I’ve come to get you out,” whispered Jonderill. “Can you walk?”

“We can if you can get these off of us,” said the younger man rattling the manacles holding up his hands.

Jonderill nodded and stepped forward hoping that the blade would work as well on manacles as it did on door locks. As he leant over to press the blade to the iron bands the older man looked up.

“Jonderill?”

“Jarrul! What in hellden’s name are you doing here?”

“Do you two know each other?” asked Istan curiously.

“Jonderill is a friend of mine and this is the second time he’s rescued me from a cell. Jonderill, this is Lord Istan, leader of the council, or at least he was. I’m really pleased to see you, but what are you doing here? Last time we met you were on your way to rescue a princess.”

“It’s a long story and we don’t have time for it now. I’ve knocked the guards out up top, but I don’t know how long they’re going to be out for. The other problem is that I haven’t worked out how I’m going to get you out of here. I’ve brought some uniforms to use as a disguise but I don’t think that’s going to get you very far.”

He unlocked the last of the manacles and helped them both outside of the cell, glancing back at the man who was still sitting on the stone bench and making no effort to escape. “Who’s he?”

“That’s the Guildmaster of the carters’ guild. That blasted magician has done something to him, the same as he did to me I think but he hasn’t recovered yet.” Istan stopped and thought for a moment. “Let’s take him with us and bring a set of manacles. I’ve got an idea.”

A short time later, when they passed through the main doors of the fortress’s cells, they appeared to be three guards escorting a manacled prisoner. Istan led the way hoping that nobody would notice the poor fit of his uniform and the small hole with bloodstains around it in the back of the jerkin. The Guildmaster, still under the influence of the enchantment and with a blank look on his face, followed behind, his hands chained in front of him with Jonderill and Jarrul bringing up the rear. Behind them the door was locked, but unguarded, whilst on the lower levels, lying in puddles of water; four guards occupied the cells they had once guarded.

As they passed by the upper level of cells Jonderill stopped, wanting to release all the prisoners, but Istan held him back arguing that if they released them all they would be quickly spotted and the alarm would be given all the sooner. He reluctantly agreed knowing that their chances of escaping were not very good as it was. They looked disreputable, even for soldiers; Jarrul coughed incessantly, he carried a blanket instead of a sword and Istan had bare feet. It wouldn’t take a close inspection for suspicions to be raised. On the positive side Istan knew the fortress well and led them through passageways which were only used by scared servants who quickly scurried out of the way of the three armed guards and their prisoner.

He couldn’t believe their luck when, in a relatively short time, they’d walked through a servants entrance hidden below a flight of stairs and found themselves in the corridor which led to the throne room. This was the tricky part of the plan. If the throne room was occupied, then the game was up, but if not, there was just a chance that it might work. They marched up the corridor in formation expecting to be challenged at any moment but their luck was in and nobody was about.

Jonderill moved quickly forward and touched the iron blade to the door which opened just enough to let them slip through into the throne room. The room was dark inside with the only light coming from the small decorative windows high above the double row of columns. It was also silent, so that even though they trod as quietly as they could, the noise of their footfalls echoed around the chamber. Jarrul’s hacking cough sounded like an explosion and every time he coughed they surrounded him, trying to smother the sound, until he had it back under control.

Istan led the way past the throne to the rear wall where a long tapestry hung from ceiling to floor. He pressed himself against the wall, stepped sideways and disappeared, returning almost immediately holding his hand out to Jonderill. “The passageway is open and, as long as Malingar hasn’t posted guards at the far end, we’ll be able to get outside the city walls. If the alarm doesn’t sound, we will wait until dark before crossing the open ground and disappear into the forest. Once there we’ll have a good chance of getting away without being recaptured.”

Jonderill shook his hand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more to help, perhaps if I had been able to organise horses or something.”

“Jonderill, you’ve done more than we could have ever hoped for; you’ve given us a chance to escape and live. Thank you, my friend. If Jarrul and I live through this, you will always be in our thoughts.” He shook Jonderill’s hand one last time and stepped behind the tapestry taking the Guildmaster with him.

Jarrul stepped towards the tapestry and then took one last look back. “Good luck, Jonderill, and thank you.”

“Good luck, Jarrul, I hope our paths will cross again someday.”

*

“Well, that went well didn’t it?”

King Borman sat in a chair covered in leather by the fire with a goblet of good Vinmore red in his hand and surveyed his new domain. He had taken over the Queen’s apartments and had been surprised at just how unfeminine they were. With a woman in residence he had expected there to be lace and painted walls, and the furniture to be fine spindly stuff of no practical use. Instead the rooms were mainly wood panelling or stone walls softened by tapestries. Apart from the room he currently sat in, everywhere else had polished stone floors, which gave the fortress an austere feeling almost like a prison. He supposed that as Tarraquin had only been queen for a short while, there had not been enough time for her to remove Sarrat’s masculine influence.

The place wasn’t really decorated to his taste, but he would soon change that. One thing he wasn’t going to change though was the bed. Sarrat had been known for his sexual appetites and the bed certainly lived up to his reputation. It was big enough for three or four people to fit in comfortably and had two sets of manacles embedded into its decorative ends. He licked his lips at the thought of whom he could fill them with and the entertainment he could then have with them.

Rastor interrupted his thoughts by refilling his goblet. He scowled at his Guardcaptain and then changed it to a smile as a thought crossed his mind. “Did you take many prisoners?”

“We have all the council, My Lord. They and the city’s leaders are held in the fortress’s deepest cells.”

Borman turned to his other captain. “Malingar, is the city secure?”

“We have a curfew and have already made some examples which the citizenry will see hanging around in the morning; there won’t be any trouble.”

The king raised his goblet in salute. “You’ve done a good job, Captain Malingar, as I knew you would. Your preparations were thorough, your plan excellent and your delivery outstanding. I think the time has come for you to be more than just a captain. How about being a lord? There are a number of estates in Leersland now with nobody to lord it over them. Lord Malingar; it has a certain noble ring to it don’t you think?”

Malingar bowed looking pleased. “You do me a great honour, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, I do, don’t I. What do you think Rastor, do you think the captain deserves to be a lord over a rich estate with hundreds of peasants to bow and grovel at his feet and the pick of the women and boys for two day’s ride in any direction?”

“The decision is yours, Your Majesty.”

Borman laughed maliciously. “Why the long face, Rastor? You wouldn’t know what to do with an estate if I gave you one; it takes brains to run an estate, not just a big prick. But you too should have a reward, but a more fitting one.” He thought for a moment tapping his finger against his pursed lips. “I know, you can take your pick of the women and boys you hold in the city.”

“Any?”

“If they are under your guard you can do whatever you want and with as many as you want.”

“Thank you, My Lord.” He gave Malingar a satisfied grin.

“What about you, Callabris? What do you want as your reward for your part in this conquest? If it hadn’t been for your magic, we would probably still be fighting in the streets instead of sitting here enjoying the fruits of your labour.”

The magician bowed slightly. “I need no reward, My Lord. I am bound to your service.”

“Is that a tone of disapproval I hear?”

“Not disapproval, only concern for the well being of a conquered people, particularly those who are vulnerable and cannot defend themselves. I would rather your men took wives and adopted orphans than turn those who have lost husbands and fathers into whores and catamites.”

Rastor gave a bark of disdainful laughter. “You’re too prim and proper, Callabris. Why would a red-blooded soldier want to take a wife or a squalling child when he can fuck whoever he wants and then walk away?”

“A wife will give him sons and heirs to live after him, a whore will just give him bastards and nobody to carry on his name.”

“You’re crazy old man. The whores I take don’t produce bastards or at least not ones who live to be birthed.”

“No,” interrupted Borman thoughtfully. “Callabris is right. Whores and bum boys are fine for entertainment but a man needs a wife to bear him sons and carry on his line. Captain Malingar, do you think that the Lady Tarraquin would make me a good wife and bear me strong sons?”

Malingar looked unhappy and put his goblet of wine down on the table. “I don’t know, My Lord. She’s young and healthy but is unlikely to be willing to marry you after you’ve taken her throne by force.”

“She doesn’t need to be willing, just compliant. Once I’ve planted my seed in her and she carries my child she will see the sense of being my wife instead of just another whore. What about it Callabris? Can you direct Malingar to where she’s being held and have her released into his custody?”

“It can be done, Your Majesty, although I would caution against telling the Queen of your intentions until you have her within these walls. I hear she is a very determined and resourceful young woman.”

“Yes, that’s good council. Malingar, you’re to leave immediately, not in the morning but right now. When you return with the lady I’ll make you a lord and find you an estate in north Leersland. Beware though, Malingar. If I find that you’ve sampled the lady’s charms before you bring her to me I’ll have your balls cut off and give you and her to Rastor for his entertainment.”