The White Robe by Clare Smith Page A

breath.
     
    ~   ~   ~    ~    ~
     

CHAPTER FIVE
    The Enclave
     
     
     The smell of roasting forest runner broke into his dream, out of place in the solitary darkness of a cold cell where he was chained to the wall. He licked his lips which should have been dried and cracked from being a prisoner for so long but instead they were moist and his mouth watered at the promise of food. At least his hunger made sense and his stomach tightened with the need to eat. He strained against the chains which held him and rolled onto his side as the iron manacles from his dream disintegrated and his nightmare dispersed like morning mist.
     
    Unfortunately the ache in his back and shoulders was real enough but when he opened his eyes, speckled sunlight filtering through the everleafs lit up a large clearing alive with sounds and smells and activity. Jonderill blinked away the confusion and slowly sat up, ignoring the complaints of aching muscles and bruised flesh. He struggled to dispel the last remnants of his unpleasant dream, which still played at the edges of his mind, but the bustle of the campsite was pushing it further away.
     
    The smell of roasting meat was coming from the fire at the centre of the camp, where two men in grey livery attended to a spit which held the carcass of the small forest runner. They took turns turning the spit and basting the meat with the contents of a small skin which made the fire spit and crackle as the surplus fell on it. On the other side of the fire another man in the same livery threw a handful of dried leaves into a pot of steaming water, stirring it gently. Beyond the fire a group of men with rolled up shirt sleeves brushed the coats of the horses or combed out manes and tails whilst one worked his way along the string of horses checking legs and hooves.
     
    To Jonderill there seemed to be less horses there than there had been the night before, but as his recollection was a bit hazy he couldn’t be sure. A clash of weapons from the other direction made him start and he turned to watch six lightly armoured men face off in pairs going through the movements which the Cadetmaster had taught him and which once had been so familiar. They were good, very good, and he could almost hear Swordmaster Dilor calling out the moves. Instead Allowyn, minus his bronze armour and formidable array of weapons, called out corrections as the moves were repeated again and again.
     
    Jonderill pulled himself to his feet, rolled up the blanket with which someone had thoughtfully covered him and took it to the neat mound of blankets stacked under a waterproof covering. His new shirt and breaches were crumpled from having slept in them, but apart from that and his stiff muscles, he felt better than he had done for several days. He picked his way over to the fire and took the proffered bowl of herb tea from the man by the cauldron. It was hot and bitter and hit the back of his throat like grain spirit, but by the time he had finished the bowlful, his head was clear of sleep and the echoes of his dream had disappeared.
     
    Seeing Jonderill awake, Allowyn dismissed his men and joined him by the fire. “Good evening, I hope you are feeling better?”
     
    Jonderill looked a bit sheepish. “Yes I am thank you. I’m sorry; I don’t usually fall asleep straight after breakfast, I don’t know what came over me.”
     
    “Don’t think anything of it; it wasn’t your fault anyway. Dozo put a sleeping draft in your second bowl of oats. You needed the rest and some time to recover from the beating you’d taken.” Jonderill looked suspiciously down at the dregs of his herb tea and Allowyn laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s not something Dozo does often but as well as being our cook he’s also our healer. He would have asked your permission if he thought you would have given it so instead he asked me. I hope you will forgive us this once, I promise I won’t let him do it to you again.”
     
    Jonderill nodded