The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) by Clare Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

them, but I won’t, not yet at least. Have no fear, magician, you have a lot of dying to do yet before I give you to the mob.”
    He yanked on Jonderill’s chain and the procession moved forward again. As they reached the edge of the crowd the guards drew their swords making a passageway through the mob but doing nothing to lessen their screams of hatred. The noise battered at Jonderill’s ears, beating down on him like a physical force, making him bow his head and keep his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him. He had tried to see into the crowd, to understand their hatred of him, but all he had seen were desperate women being driven by something more than just their loathing.
    When the first stone hit him on the shoulder he recoiled in shock. The impact was nothing compared to his other hurts but it was unexpected and with it came a change in the tone of the crowd, now they had found a target on which to focus. Another stone came and then another, hitting his body and bruising his skin but never once cutting through the protection of his robe. The shouting of the crowd became more piercing as they called for his blood and their target changed from his body to his exposed arms. One cut into his newly stitched wound and despite himself he screamed with the sudden pain. The crowd roared its approval and more stones were aimed at his exposed wounds. His fear of what would happen if the stones cut into his burnt wrists tore through his being blocking out every other thought and making the flame in his mind burn more fiercely. He closed his eyes and staggered onwards waiting for the impact but miraculously it never came.
    Failing to draw further blood from his exposed arms the crowd changed the direction of their thrown missiles. When a sharp edged stone hit Jonderill just above the temple making him stagger to his knees with blood pouring from the jagged cut the crowd roared in excitement, pressing forward in their eagerness to reach him. Then the screams changed in tone becoming more frantic. Jonderill shook his head trying to clear the blood from his eyes and listened as the screams changed to those of fear and panic. He glanced to the side and stared in horror at the bleeding bodies at the edge of the crowd where the guards had charged using their curved swords indiscriminately. They were still there, hacking and slicing into the crowd which fought desperately to escape their deadly blades.
    Jonderill struggled to his feet and moved on hoping that the guards would be forced to follow. He heard the screams diminish behind him and wondered what sort of monster would slaughter his own people. Another change in the tone of the crowd broke through his confused thoughts as the high pitched calls of the women receded and the more rhythmic sounds of men shouting to some order took their place. He shook the blood from his eyes again and did his best to look around him. Men stood in ranks on either side; thousands of them, dressed in the loose robes of the desert peoples, and chanting well rehearsed lines of adoration for their leader. Apart from the officers, who stood at the head of each file, the men were unarmed and from the few he could see they looked sullen and less enthusiastic than their loud chanting would suggest.
    In front of him Tallison waved at the crowds like some idolised commander, but it was not that which caught Jonderill’s attention. Beyond him was a high stone platform and below that, a lower platform with a thick stake driven through it into the ground. Between that and the procession, there was a double column of men, about twenty on each side, each armed with a thick cane. He closed his eyes and prayed to the Goddess to give him strength to face what he guessed was to come. The flame in his mind burnt stronger but the Goddess didn’t answer his prayer as the first blows fell across his back and shoulders.
    The shock of cold water hitting his face brought him back to consciousness, that and the pain from