With an effort, Stormaway brought his attention back to the prince’s confusion. “I thank you for taking care with your shield, Sire.” He waved his arm in invitation. “Why don’t you come back and sit by the fire so that we can discuss this further?”
“I would know your intentions first. There is some sorcery here that I do not understand. And are you planning to turn me in, despite your assurances? You have me surrounded,” said Tarkyn stiffly, “so is your request an invitation or an order?”
Hand on heart, Stormaway bowed low, “I would not presume to issue an order to you, Your Highness. You are free to leave if you choose. I am hoping your curiosity will get the better of you.”
“Humph.” After careful consideration the prince returned to resume his seat at the fire, while the people surrounding him remained watching him, faces impassive.
“This is very unnerving,” Tarkyn muttered to himself.
“These people are the woodfolk, Sire. Although unknown to the sorcerers of Eskuzor, they inhabit these forests. And they have been here all evening. It’s just that you can see them now.”
“That’s even more unnerving. They could have attacked me at any time. I’ve been completely unshielded.”
The wizard gave a low chuckle. “Now you know how high the stakes were, when you told your story.”
Tarkyn mouth tightened. He took in a deep breath and composed himself, as he thought back over what he had said.
“Don’t worry, Sire. You have acquitted yourself well.” The wizard gestured. At his request, a couple of the woodfolk brought them goblets containing an oaky silver birch wine.
Tarkyn gazed in bemusement at the goblet in his hand. After a moment, he sniffed it surreptitiously before trying it. His brow cleared as he said, “This is an excellent wine. I’m sure I’ve tasted similar before.”
“The woodfolk supply wine to many great houses in the country, including your own.”
Tarkyn looked up from the wine and asked, “And what was this final test of yours? That I accepted responsibility for the deaths?”
“No, although that was one of them. The final test was that you held to the truth of your tale, when you no longer cared for my good opinion.”
The prince frowned as he considered this.
Stormaway leaned forward, “You do understand, don’t you? I had to be sure you weren’t lying to gain my trust.”
Tarkyn scowled, “Oh I understand, all right. I’ve been played like a fish on a line from the start. You couldn’t lie straight in bed.”
“I do apologise, Your Highness. However, I have found that being devious provides a much more accurate estimate of character than straightforward questions and answers.” The wizard sipped his wine and looked at Tarkyn over the rim of the goblet. “And now, at least to my satisfaction, I have established your integrity.”
Tarkyn looked at him long and hard. Then in a sudden movement, he clicked his fingers and the shield winked out of existence. “It seems I am in your debt. I thank you for giving me the chance to explain myself to you. I hope I will not disappoint you in the future.”
He waved his hand to indicate that he was also talking to the woodfolk, only to find he was waving at empty space. They had disappeared. Tarkyn scanned the woods around him then turned back to the wizard.
“Where have they gone?” he demanded in hushed tones. “Or are they still here and I just can’t see them?”
The wizard was chuckling quietly. “I think waving your arm around on such a short acquaintance and with such a dire reputation as yours may have pushed the friendship a bit far at this stage.”
“Oh lord! I’d better not drink any more wine then, if people are going to run for cover every time I gesture.”
Stormaway did not try to reassure him, “I think it would be wise to be careful. They have no reason to love you… And anyone branded a rogue sorcerer is bound to be feared.”
“What!” Tarkyn was stunned. “Is that what they are saying? A rogue sorcerer?”
“I’m afraid so, young man.”
Panic flared in the young prince’s eyes. “But I’m not a madman. I defied the king but the rest… the rest just happened.”
“So it would seem – but the evidence against you is quite damning. You fled, leaving a pile of corpses behind you. The popular belief is that you went berserk in the Great Hall and lashed out at everyone in sight.”
The colour drained from Tarkyn’s face. “No! No. I thought the truth was bad enough… It’s bad enough being branded a traitor. But a rogue sorcerer!” He dropped his eyes to the fire and said in quiet despair, “They will proclaim it across the kingdom, you know. I will be hunted down like a rabid dog.” After a few moments, he frowned, “Why didn’t you kill me as soon as you knew who I was?”
Stormaway picked up a branch and stirred the fire. “Ah. I thought you might ask that.”
“And the answer?”
“Well, to be perfectly honest with you…” began the wizard.
“No, Stormaway. Please,” said Tarkyn wearily. “Don’t lie.”
The wizard scowled at the prince and said sharply, “I don’t think, young man, that you are in a position to take your welcome for granted. A little civility would be appreciated.”
Oh ho. So now the claws are out. “In case you hadn’t notice, Stormaway, I said, ‘Please.’ Frankly, I am too confused and too overloaded to cope with any more of your games tonight.”
“You are too smart by half, my young buck,” snapped the wizard. “I think you should consider your position very carefully. If I send you away from here, what chance will you have of survival?”
The prince lifted his head from his contemplation of the fire and raised supercilious eyebrows. “I would say that depends very much on whether you choose to kill me once my back is turned. Other than that, I am prepared to take my chances. At least I now know what I’m up against. And I can assure you that I have no intention of becoming a slave to your every whim to buy myself safety.”
The wizard grunted. “Stinking Tamadils! So stinking arrogant! You’re no better than the rest of them, that’s obvious.”
“You’re no shrinking violet yourself,” retorted the prince and then added for good measure, “except when you’re prevaricating!”
They locked gazes for so long that it became a battle of the wills.
Finally Tarkyn said quietly, “Stormaway, I find your behaviour towards me offensive. You may have the right to be master of your hearth and forest. But you do not have, nor ever will have, the right to be my master.” The young prince drew his cloak around him and rose to tower over the wizard, sending bizarre shadows dancing up into the trees. “You will treat me with respect, or not at all.”
Then he strode off into the dark, leaving Stormaway to contemplate his words.
The wizard’s eyes narrowed in appreciation, “He’s his father’s son, that one.” As the minutes ticked by and Tarkyn did not return, Stormaway started muttering to himself. “Oh well done! You wait for years to see him and then you antagonise him. Brilliant! Your age is really serving you well. Now you’ve got him up on his high horse –and let’s face it – it’s all because you didn’t like him rumbling your tactics. He’s pretty sharp. You’re going to have to do better than this if you don’t want to lose him.”
A resounding crash made the wizard jump as a branch landed on the fire, thrown from behind him. Stormaway swung around to find Tarkyn standing behind him, casually leaning against a tree, arms and legs crossed and looking as though he had been there all evening. Even more disconcertingly, he was grinning.
“Come on then. Out with it! Why don’t you want to lose me?”
Mindful of the prince’s stricture, the old wizard began to scramble to his feet but was waved to stay where he was. Reassured, Stormaway said grumpily, “Blast you, Your Highness! You shouldn’t eavesdrop on a man’s conversation.”
The grin broadened. “I agree. I apologise. Still, the question remains… given that I did
overhear you…Why don’t you want to lose me?”
The wizard looked distinctly flustered. “To be perfectly honest with you…” he began. In response to the prince’s delicately raised eyebrow, he re-iterated firmly, “To be perfectly honest with you, Sire, it’s complicated and will take a bit of telling…and to be perfectly honest,” Stormaway continued with a challenge in his eye, “I would rather tell you when you have a better gauge of my calibre.”
“I see,” said Tarkyn slowly, “At least, I don’t see but I will accept that you don’t want to tell me yet. Frustrating, but at least honest.” He grinned, “And at least someone doesn’t want to lose me. That has to be an improvement.”
6
Tarkyn woke to a cold grey dawn. The fire had long since died and the cold was seeping up through his cloak. He could feel a sharp stone digging into his thigh. He reached out and felt under his cloak to remove it. Feeling stiff and poorly rested, he hunched his shoulders against the cold and tried in vain to go back to sleep.
After a few minutes, it dawned on Tarkyn that he was alone. He sat up abruptly and looked around. There was no sign that anyone else had even been here. He scanned the woods carefully trying to spot the elusive woodfolk but, as far as he could see, there were none.
“Hmph,” he grunted, in disappointment. He wandered down to the stream to splash his face and freshen himself up. Then he sat down on a rock and watched the water running by. The sun had risen and golden shafts of light spread between the branches and leaves of the trees. For a time, Tarkyn amused himself by sending flat stones skimming across the water. Then he just sat in the sun and dozed, all the while mulling over the events of the previous night. Maybe he’d dreamed it but he didn’t think so. That conversation had been too convoluted for him to dream up.
A short time later he noticed a grey heron working its way methodically along the edge of the stream. He sat very still and watched it prodding its beak in amongst the reeds. Slowly it made its way along the bank to where he was sitting then, to his amazement, came to stand on the rock next to him, now and again jabbing its beak into the water and occasionally coming up with small fish.
Tarkyn moved position very gingerly and started to talk softly to the heron. “Well, I’m still alive and still have nowhere to go. So not too much has changed since yesterday. I’m back to being by myself which might be safer, all things considered, but also, to be honest, a bit lonely. I quite liked that wizard even if he was as slippery as an eel…and grumpy. Still, I think he must be some sort of bigwig around here. Those clothes he was wearing at the end of the night wouldn’t have been out of place at court…What? Yes, I agree with you, perhaps a little overdressed for sitting around a campfire but no accounting for taste…and I suspect he was making a point…What do you think?”
Tarkyn fell silent for a few minutes as he watched the heron surveying the stream. After a while he gently continued his one-sided conversation. “You know they’re saying I’m a rogue sorcerer? Do you know how bad that is? My nursery maid used to make me fear the woods by telling me that I might meet a rogue sorcerer. Now I’d be frightened to meet myself.” He shook his head, carefully so as not to startle the big bird, “That doesn’t make any sense, does it?”
The heron eyed him, spread his wings and rose slowly into the air.
“Hmph. So much for that.”
Tarkyn could feel a pall of melancholy settling on him. He bent over the stream to splash his face and shake himself out of it. Suddenly there was another face besides his, staring up at him.
He yelped and sprang back, throwing his arms up in shock.
Next thing he knew, he was sprawled on his back with an arrow tip pressed firmly against his neck. He stared wild-eyed at the person behind the drawn bow. Tarkyn lowered his hands very, very slowly and tried to calm his racing heart.
As he gazed up into the implacable, hate-filled green eyes above him, the sorcerer considered his options. He could summon a ball of air and blast the woodwoman backwards but he did not want to provoke an attack from other nearby woodfolk. He couldn’t raise a shield unless there was a gap between the arrow tip and his throat, which, at the moment, there wasn’t. He could feel his hand touching a leaf that he could possibly use to translocate but that would take him to the source of the leaf. That might be in the bough of a great oak, at the top of a spindly sapling, or at a point only feet from where he was presently. Worse still, he would arrive there disoriented and unable to protect himself for several seconds.
As he lay pinned down, Tarkyn began to relax. A scattering of dead leaves fell around him. Gradually, he began to feel that the woodfolk would know what to do and he could simply follow their directions. The best course was simply to do as they wished. Suddenly he realised that his will was slowly drowning in the green eyes above him. Outrage at such a violation came to his rescue and as the anger surged up, he regained enough control to close his eyes and break the contact.
Immediately, he felt the arrow tip press harder and felt a sharp pain as it pierced his skin. A sudden eddy of wind picked up dust and leaves and sent them with unexpected force across the clearing. Tarkyn could feel the skin on his face stinging under the onslaught of sand and swirling leaves.
“You may kill me,” he whispered, “but you will not control me.” He waited. Nothing changed so he continued to speak softly, even though he could feel the arrow cutting into him as his throat moved. “I would sooner die than subvert my will to you or anyone else. So, go ahead. I have little left to lose.” Another silence. Still the arrow pushed into his throat but no deeper than before. “But I could offer you my friendship, or at least a truce, until we become better acquainted.”
Tarkyn opened his eyes to see a ring of faces above him, their owners gesturing to each other in silent communication. They seemed to be having some sort of altercation. As soon as they saw him watching, they stopped. He let his gaze travel around the six pairs of green eyes, taking care not to stay focussed on any particular one. No one moved.
Lying on his back under the weight of a woodwoman with an arrow sticking into his throat, Tarkyn was becoming impatient. He thought of another option, waved his hand and muttered, “Shturrum!”
He saw the eyes widen in shock as the woodfolk realised they couldn’t move anything else. In a split second, the sorcerer had reached up and pushed the woodwoman off his chest. He scrambled to his feet and, in quick succession, released the woodfolk from their paralysis then raised his shield.
He now found himself surrounded by a sea of angry faces. At least forty woodfolk had appeared, each with an arrow aimed straight at his heart. None of them made a sound, and the silence seemed to intensify the hostility they exuded.
The sorcerer stepped back slowly to seat himself on a rock by the stream. The angle of forty arrows followed his movements to stay aimed directly at his heart. His skin crawled, even though he knew he was safe behind his shield as long as he had the energy to maintain it. He could hear the wind brushing through the trees and the dry leaves dancing through the air to settle on the ground around him.
“We seem to have reached an impasse,” observed the prince. “Do you have a spokesman or is Wizard Treemaster the only person who communicates with outsiders on your behalf?”
A sound like the susurration of wind through pine trees reached his ears. After a few moments, he realised that the woodwoman who had held the arrow to his throat was speaking, “We may speak for ourselves if we choose, but we are not used to speaking with strangers. My name is Tree Wind.”
A voice like rustling leaves cut in. “No one who has seen us leaves the forest alive. My name is Autumn Leaves.”
“If you prove false, we will kill you before you reach the forest’s edge,” sighed Tree Wind eerily, her arrow aimed steadily at his heart.
“But if you prove true, and stay amongst us, our lives as we know them will be at an end,” rumbled another woodman despondently, “I am Thunder Storm.”
“Then, to preserve both you and
myself, I will have to prove myself true and leave.”
A young woodman, whose arm was in a sling, gave a slight, sympathetic smile. When he spoke, his creaky heavy voice issued incongruously from his lithe body. “No. If you prove true, you cannot leave the forest. My name is Ancient Oak.”
“So, either you kill me or force me to stay within the forest?” Tarkyn felt a rising panic threatening to overwhelm him. He had come all this way simply to exchange one prison for another. Without conscious effort, his shield strengthened against the threat. Dimly realising what was happening, Tarkyn said urgently, “Don’t shoot at me! The shield is changing! I can’t control it. I think your arrows will rebound and kill you if you shoot.”
A babble of voices followed this pronouncement, and then suddenly no one was there. Even as Tarkyn blinked in surprise, a lone arrow streaked towards him. He flinched automatically but the shield held and, as he had suspected it might, sent the arrow flying back out into the woods. In the distance, Tarkyn heard a large branch crack and crash to the ground. Around him, whirls of leaves spiralled to the ground.
Tarkyn could hear the sounds of the forest increasing in volume. Then suddenly the woodfolk were again surrounding him. His heart thumped in fear until he realised that this time their bows were slung on their shoulders and their arrows were back in their quivers.
The sound of water running over pebbles resolved itself into a fifth voice, “We thank you for your warning. My name is Waterstone. Why did you try to ensorcell Tree Wind?”
“I didn’t,” replied the sorcerer flatly. “I am not casting a spell every time I move my arms. Look!” He waved his arms around and took perverse pleasure in watching the woodfolk cower. “I simply threw my hands up in fright, just as you would if you were startled. Nothing more or less.”
A symphony of forest sounds broke out around him and continued for several long minutes. Tarkyn sat listening with little understanding. Each different voice took so long to tune into that by the time he did, another was speaking. They seemed less hostile, so he flicked out his shield while he was waiting. As his attention wandered, the young prince put his hand to his throat to feel out the damage caused by the arrow. His fingers came away sticky with blood but the cut beneath was disappointingly small. After all, this was his first real combat wound. He gradually became aware that the woodfolk had fallen silent and were watching him expectantly.
Bronze Magic Page 7