‘Very well,’ said Amadeus, when Gamada nodded his agreement. ‘But I think he will know we are following him.’
‘Of course he will,’ Elveria snapped, almost losing his temper. ‘However, he cannot do this alone, no matter what he thinks right now. This journey he feels he has to take will put his life in jeopardy and his daughter’s too; therefore we must help him all we can. Whether he realises it or not, he will help us to defeat Forusian, because he’s the only one who can.’
Chapter 17
Brilliant sunlight streamed through the trees and awoke Bridgemear early the next morning. He had camped for the night in the surrounding woodland, his bed a mere mattress of dried leaves and soft mosses. He cast his gaze upwards to soak up the warmth of the sun’s rays, which fell in ribbons of light on his chilled body, and thought what an idiot he had become.
His anger abated and in its place sat only regret. He had been too quick to judge the king’s reasoning, but what he had done was wrong; to use his daughter in such a way to win his war was a despicable trick to play and he couldn’t get the feeling of betrayal out of his head.
Frustrated, he rolled up his cloak, which he’d used as a blanket, and set to building a fire. He knew he was not alone for he sensed Amadeus and Mordorma watching his back and it gave him some much-needed comfort.
He wasted little time collecting wood and wisps of kindling and used no magic to light it. Breakfast consisted of little more than a few dried crackers and a cup of tepid water. He could have made himself a feast fit for a king if he’d used his magic, but he felt the need to punish himself.
Once he had eaten, he was ready to ride and, heading out, his mind whirled with cunning plans and newly formed ideas. He was no fool and understood that to challenge Forusian on his own turf would not be wise but not impossible. However, he knew he was not alone, Mordorma and Amadeus were with him and if he guessed correctly the other wizards would not be far behind.
Birds sang in the trees overhead whilst others foraged by his feet for an easy meal. The woodland was becoming alive with activity and many animals as well as birds scurried between the leaves along with other woodland creatures. The tension Bridgemear felt yesterday diminished and he rode in the saddle of his horse with much confidence, winding in and out of the dense trees with smooth, natural movements with only his tangled thoughts for company.
A pair of small, brown eyes watched the wizard pass by. The well-camouflaged creature, both inquisitive and meddlesome, chuckled inwardly at finding a new playmate and followed Bridgemear through the forest for most of the day. Fear was not a feature of this creature’s genetic chemistry and with silent footsteps he kept close to the mage.
After several hours, Bridgemear leant over to reach for his water bottle held in a pouch on the rear of his saddle. His hand searched for his drink and he stopped his horse abruptly when he couldn’t find it. He turned his horse and retraced his steps, peering on the ground in search of the container. The path lay empty with no sign of it and, confused, Bridgemear headed once again in the direction of Forusian’s castle. Seconds later, his cup and plate fell from the straps that held them secure and they dropped noisily to the ground, clattering together on impact. The noise startled the horse and Bridgemear’s reaction was to draw his sword, wondering what mischief was about.
A fleeting shadow in the bizarre shape of a wisp of leaves shot past the corner of his eye. Bridgemear became guarded and dismounted. He scanned the undergrowth and thick bushes for an indication of an intruder, but could see no trace. He noted the time of day, twilight. He also recognised the type of trees that dominated the forest. Oak, ash and hawthorn grew in abundance and the telltale signs of his troublesome stalker soon became apparent.
He placed his sword back into its sheath, no longer troubled, and decided to rest for the night. The place he had stumbled upon was quite charming: the soft grass sat like a bright-green cushion on two lush banks of earth and a large brook opened up and created a small, freshwater pool. The water looked inviting, but Bridgemear knew better than to contemplate a swim with something devious hiding in the shadows. Once again he built a fire and waited for his trickster to play yet another prank, knowing this time he would be ready.
As darkness began to descend upon the forest and wrap it dutifully in black, the silence was momentarily broken by Bridgemear using his magic to create a force field around himself. It was not something he would normally do, for to use his magic out of his own realm would be frowned upon and small spells were his usual limit; however, for peace of mind and a good night’s sleep he had no choice but to use a spell that was usually not permitted.
His force field was invisible to the naked eye and whilst Bridgemear wandered the grassy area surrounding the brook, it travelled with him. He bent over and cupped his hands into the sparkling water, splashing it on his face and washing away the dust and grime of the day. Once refreshed, he settled on a broken log, eaten away and crumbling with old age. Hunger bit at his empty belly and soon after he had ample meat roasting on a spit.
From the seclusion of the trees, two watchful eyes were becoming irritated and impatient. Whilst time ticked slowly by, temptation became too much for the intruder to bear. He had waited as long as he could muster, eager to strike and steal whatever he could from the weary traveller. There came a rustle in the undergrowth and then a painful howl exploded into the forest, frightening a pair of nesting birds.
Bridgemear felt no alarm when the painful screech penetrated the night air and he sat eating his meal, whilst a slow smirk danced at the corners of his mouth. At his feet a small creature lay in a daze outside the force field, its nose bleeding and its front tooth looking slightly loose.
‘Good evening, wood sprite,’ said Bridgemear, allowing a stern note to creep into his voice. ‘I hope you haven’t done any serious damage to yourself?’
The wood sprite, his vision blurred from the blow to his head when he crashed into the force field, was speechless for only a matter of seconds before regaining his high-jinx attitude. Standing up on his wobbly legs, he pressed his hands on his hips, his lip already swollen and his face swelling at one side.
He was a mere three feet high and of agile stature. His small eyes were clear like glass and his mouth fixed in a firm grimace. Wood sprites are created by Mother Nature to protect the foliage and live within the heart of the trees. They are made of plant tissue and sap runs through their veins instead of blood. The lines on their faces coincide with the shapes of leaves, and their skin is green and made of living matter. Wood sprites are renowned for their mischievous misbehaviour and exasperating habits, and anyone with an ounce of sense did not intentionally get on the wrong side of one.
‘Are you talking to me?’ the wood sprite asked, pointing a finger that looked like a stick of asparagus to his chest.
Bridgemear carried on eating, finding him easy to ignore.
‘You’re not allowed in these parts,’ the sprite insisted, shaking the same finger crossly, ‘and what’s more, you’re certainly not allowed to use that kind of magic in here.’
‘Oh really?’ said Bridgemear, glancing up and raising an eyebrow. ‘So how do I stop thieving little sprites like yourself stealing my supper?’
The sprite appeared shocked by his words and displayed a wounded expression on his leafy face.
‘If that’s for my benefit, I wouldn’t bother,’ said Bridgemear, gnawing hungrily at his food. ‘I have met your sort before.’
The sprite moved his shifty gaze and wandered around the force field, measuring the width of it, using his feet to calculate the length.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Bridgemear, watching his every move.
The sprite looked up. His feet were in an odd position and the ends of his shoes curled up in a strange way.
‘Nothing,’ he said, looking rather sweet, ‘I was just curious as to how big your force field is.’
‘What does it matter?’ asked Bridgemear, becoming irritated by the spiri
t’s presence.
‘Well,’ he replied, touching his chin, ‘you know you can tell a lot about a wizard by the size of his force field!’ Bridgemear almost choked.
‘Why, you cheeky little pile of compost.’
The sprite giggled, showing a row of bright green teeth; it was clear it gave him great pleasure to taunt new visitors to the forest.
‘Be off with you!’ commanded Bridgemear, already bored with the rude little fellow.
The sprite ignored him; this was more fun than sitting by himself watching the woodworms digging holes in his favourite tree. He sat down adjacent to the wizard. He clicked his fingers and a beautiful mass of fireflies buzzed golden around his head, their glowing bodies lighting where he sat like someone had just switched on a stadium of light.
‘What’s your name?’ probed the sprite, always burning with curiosity.
Bridgemear pretended not to hear him and took a drink from his cup which bore a sharp dent in the outer rim from its fall earlier.
The sprite caught his gaze and used it to his advantage.
‘My name is Bracken,’ he revealed, with a wide grin, ‘so aren’t you gonna tell me yours?’
Bridgemear kept silent and moved to the sanctuary of the water’s edge. Naturally, the wood sprite followed.
‘It’s Bridgemear, now sod off!’ the magician bellowed, becoming ill-tempered when Bracken continued to follow him like a stunted shadow. ‘I do not want your company this night or any other night come to think of it, so get lost!’
Bracken was unfazed by the wizard’s grumpy attitude and simply skipped from one slippery stone to the next, following him everywhere he went. Happily toying with the idea of falling into the water, his aim was to grab the wizard’s full attention but Bracken decided against it because he didn’t fancy having to dry out and besides that it would make his skin crisp and flaky.
The forest was settling for the night and Bridgemear decided to do the same. Perhaps in the morning the sprite would have tired of his latest victim and moved on. The evening was one of beauty. The night sky was not quite pitch-black and the stars twinkled their existence to anyone who wished to peer so far. There was no wind to blow the phantom shadows away and so they sat alone, unable to dance in the moonlight.
Bridgemear extinguished the fire with a hard stomp from his metal-plated boot. The fire fought to stay alight, but he grounded the flames into the dirt, cutting off the oxygen supply until it crackled and eventually died away. He used his cloak yet again for a blanket and settled down in a spot near the water’s edge. He listened to the gentle tinkling of the water as it ran by and brought with it gentle memories of the waterfall in Raven’s Rainbow.
The sprite was disappointed with the wizard for wanting to retire so early so he sat with his legs crossed on a mossy patch, which overlooked where Bridgemear lay, and hoped he would change his mind.
‘Do you mind turning off your fireflies!’ shouted Bridgemear, still sounding cross. ‘Some of us are trying to get some sleep.’
‘Oops, sorry,’ Bracken said, chuckling to himself, ‘I forgot all about them.’
He turned his head and blew gently on his halo of light, and each fly touched by his breath immediately vanished.
‘Is that any better, grumpy?’ he yelled, when darkness descended, but Bridgemear merely grunted and wrestled with his covers, concerned only for his comfort throughout the night.
Bracken noted how much frustration engulfed the wizard and sensed he needed to find inner peace. As Bracken sat watching the wizard settle for the night he decided he would tag along for the next few days and see what mischief he could unravel. He knew every nook and cranny within the forest and could live in any woodland of his choosing as long as he had one of his sacred trees to hide inside. He felt confident to admit he could be an invaluable asset to the mage whilst he journeyed through the forest, so with this in mind he snuggled inside a bed of leaves and drifted off to sleep.
Mordorma and Amadeus watched with amusement from their hiding place amongst the shadows before creeping away and returning to their own camp. They had watched the little sprite wind Bridgemear up as tight as a coiled spring and they’d half expected him to be turned into a pile of wood shavings for his efforts.
They hadn’t retired early, unlike Bridgemear, and instead talked until the early hours of the morning, a bond forming between them through their mutual understanding of each other’s dire situation. They would not let any harm come to Bridgemear; he may have acted hot-headedly on more than one occasion, but his heart was good and his loyalty to his realm undisputed.
As dawn broke and a new day beckoned, they each rose from their beds, aware that Forusian’s castle was only one more day’s ride away.
Chapter 18
It wasn’t until he heard the hollow footsteps behind him that Voleton realised he was no longer alone in the Tower of Leddour. It had been agreed between the remaining three wizards that he would be the one to ride to the tower covered by a powerful spell, a spell which changed him into King Gamada’s double.
Voleton spun round, vaguely aware of a pair of unfamiliar eyes watching him from close by.
‘Show yourself,’ he demanded, drawing his sword in anticipation and staring into the semi-darkness. The clip of the intruder’s heels sounded out across the bare stone floor and he held his breath in expectation.
‘My lord,’ came the reply, ‘what are you doing here?’
Voleton was confused; the person who had walked from the safety of the shadows was not a young girl as he expected and he was unsure whether Forusian was using the same kind of spell in an effort to trick Voleton into admitting his own true identity?
‘Oh it’s you,’ Voleton answered, not wishing to give the game away. ‘Why are you here?’
The soldier hung his head in shame before answering whom he thought to be King Gamada.
‘Sire, I do not know why I am here. I was captured by Forusian’s men and thrown into a chamber awaiting my demise, and then I was told I was to be released. I had no idea you would be here waiting for me, my lord, indeed I am deeply ashamed I did not manage to bring Amadeus back to you.’
Voleton’s neck almost snapped when he raised his gaze to scrutinise the soldier who spoke of Amadeus. This just wasn’t making any sense; why had Forusian not appeared for the gold and instead sent one of King Gamada’s own men in the place of Crystal?
Oh no, he thought in horror, this was just a decoy.
He stared wide-eyed at the soldier. ‘What’s your name?’ he shouted, replacing his heavy sword in the sheath and retracting the spell which would turn him back to himself.
The soldier’s face flooded in confusion and he backed away from the mage, becoming afraid.
‘Where’s the king?’ he shouted. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I am a friend of the king,’ Voleton explained. ‘I am the wizard Voleton and your king is now in great danger. I ask you again, what is your name?’
‘My name is Phaphos,’ the soldier answered, placing his hands unclenched by his side.
‘Then we must return to your kingdom, for I fear Forusian is there already.’
Without another word uttered between them, they raced down the stone steps, tripping and jumping two at a time. They both flung themselves out onto the sand which surrounded the single stone tower, but to Voleton’s horror his horse was nowhere to be seen.
‘Damn Forusian,’ he cursed. ‘He’s taken my horse as well as the gold. Now I have no choice but to use my magic and get to the kingdom as quickly as possible. Phaphos, you will have to go on foot; I’m sorry, but I cannot take you with me.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Phaphos pointing to the horizon, ‘I can run the distance. I may be too late to assist you, but I will make it back.’
‘Very well,’ said Voleton, nodding his head. ‘I can cast a spell which will give you the energy to run as fast as the wind.’
Voleton touched the soldier’s shoulder and the magic flowed from his h
and and straight through his body, giving Phaphos a sudden rush of adrenalin.
‘Go swiftly,’ Voleton urged, ‘for we have much to do.’
He closed his eyes, muttering something under his breath, and he mutated into a magnificent, golden hawk, his wings already outstretched and he flew high into the sky.
Phaphos sneered outwardly when he watched the mage fly away. It had been so easy to trick the wizards and now he could return and resume his traitorous activity as a spy for King Forusian. With evil intent running through his veins, Phaphos made his way back to his realm, a realm he had so cunningly betrayed.
*
Elveria and Amafar were keeping watch at the top of an outward-built turret for the return of Voleton, assured that Forusian’s greed would be enough to make the exchange. King Gamada was resting in his chamber, believing none of it. He had been consumed with an overwhelming guilt ever since Bridgemear’s display at his table and his thoughts were consumed by his only daughter, whom he had not seen since Crystal’s birth. He had never expected Amella to give the child the amulet therefore stopping her returning home. How he wished he could turn back time, but no magician, no matter how powerful, could ever do that.
He sat on his bed and pulled his legs up to rest them on top of the satin cover; then he lay down and stared up towards the colourful ceiling. Beautiful paintings of cherubs and young maidens stared back at him.
At least they do not judge me, unlike so many, he thought to himself, still feeling miserable.
He barely heard his chamber door open and at first did not register the slight draught which drifted his way. Busy wallowing in his own self-pity, he didn’t raise his head to see the figure drawing closer to the bed, and when a gloved hand pressed against his mouth, his fingers were slow to react.
With lightning speed there came a shimmer of cold steel whilst the sunlight cast itself upon the blade. A king with as much magical power as Gamada could not be killed with an ordinary sword, but his assailant carried no ordinary blade. His murder happened within the briefest of minutes, the cold metal flashing a fatal warning before the Sword of Truth burnt a searing arc of pain into the king’s lower abdomen.
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