Bronze Magic (Book 1) (12 page)

The prince’s face stiffened with shock.
Autumn Leaves took a deep breath.“I beg your pardon, Your
Highness, but everyone is clamouring to hear what you have been
saying to us. I said as little as I could.” He sat down, unknowingly
offending Tarkyn even further by not waiting for permission. He added
firmly, “I do not think you appreciate how frightened we are for our
forests. How can we keep them secure if we don’t even know how to act
to meet your expectations?”
Tarkyn eyed him, deciding whether to reprimand him for his
presumptuous attitude. Finally, he reminded himself of his decision
to make allowances tonight. “Very well. I will speak once more
on this subject. I will not stand up and make an announcement
but this time, I give you permission to convey my words to all other
interested parties. That will then be the end of it for tonight. Is
that clear?”
Autumn Leaves glanced at Waterstone as he nodded, “Yes, Your
Highness. Quite clear.”
Tarkyn then spoke quietly so only those close to him could hear, but
he paused every few sentences to give Autumn Leaves time to transmit
his message to everyone watching. “Perhaps you were not listening, but
I have just sworn an oath to protect your forests. As you will come to
realise, I am a man of my word. I will not try to ambush you, nor punish
you or your forests, for expectations of which you are unaware. When I
have decided what I expect of you, I will make sure you know. Only then,
will I insist on compliance.”
He took a sip of wine. “I am aware that you feel jarred by my arrival
and by the commitment you have had to give me. That is why I will
not impose any expectations tonight.” He looked around the assembled
woodfolk but continued to speak softly, “While I have your attention,
thank you for your fine food and wine. Please feel free to come up and
speak to me, but do not feel obliged to.”
Little did the woodfolk know, but even this last offer was an enormous
concession from a prince who would normally have had everyone
presented formally to him in the course of the evening.
Tarkyn watched with interest as several people melted into the forest
and the same number swung down out of the trees to take their place.
The newcomers helped themselves to food and drink, and two of them
wandered over to join the prince.
“Good evening, Your Highness,” said a middle-aged woodwoman
whose soft brown hair hung well down her back. “I noticed last night
that your face was showing signs of strain. No doubt being on the run
is bad for the nerves.” She put her plate down on the log, in order to
produce a small phial of dark green liquid. “This should reduce some of
your tension, my lord. I am Summer Rain.”
“Thank you.” Tarkyn took the phial from her and held it up to study it
in the firelight. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw woodfolk exchanging
knowing looks. He turned his gaze to confront Autumn Leaves. “Am I
being made fun of?” he demanded.
“No Sire,” said Autumn Leaves hastily. “Summer Rain’s tonics are
renowned for their efficacy.”
They waited until he had taken out the cork and tossed off the contents
before Thunder Storm, who had just joined them, added, “But they taste
horrific.”
With his face screwed up from the bitterness of the brew, Tarkyn
eyed their grinning faces balefully. Waterstone could see that he was not
pleased. “Sire, we are not laughing at you. We are laughing out of fellow
feeling. All of us have endured Summer Rain’s tonics.”
Creaking
Bough
refilled
Tarkyn’s
goblet
and
smiled
at
him,
“And thank you for putting our minds at rest, Your Highness. The fact
that you even considered our concern gives me the first glimmering
of hope.”
When Tarkyn had regained control of his facial muscles, he said kindly,
“I believe that no one in my acquaintance or service would tell you that
I am a harsh master. I try to be fair. I will always listen, though I will
not always agree. Of course, once the issue is decided, I would expect
my orders to be obeyed without question. And needless to say, my word
is final. But I will listen.” He sipped his wine, blithely unaware that the
smile had slowly died on the woodwoman’s face.
Creaking Bough swallowed, and tears started to her eyes. “Oh, Ypur
Highness. No matter what your expectations, this is going to be so hard.”
Tarkyn, who had thought he was being reassuring, looked at her in
some surprise.
“Your Highness, Ancient Oak told you, but you did not take it in,”
rumbled Thunder Storm quietly. “Other than the two days when your
father was here, no one here has ever taken orders from anyone. Certainly
not as a way of life. We are used to deciding for ourselves. Until today, we
were all equally in charge of our own lives.”
“No matter how fair you are, or think you are,” said Autumn Leaves,
“while you have the final say, you hold our freedom in your hands.”
Tarkyn resisted the urge to retort that that was exactly how it had
always been. In Tormadell, he had held the freedom of all his friends,
acquaintances and staff in his hands. He could have ordered their
imprisonment at any time, on the slimmest of excuses, if he chose. He
could see, however, that these woodfolk were genuinely upset and he
remembered how it felt when his own freedom had been held in the
king’s hands, and Kosar had chosen to crush it. But even though he had
hated it, he had accepted Kosar’s right to do it.
No, that was wrong, he realised. He hadn’t accepted it at all. He had
rebelled and thrown away his whole life to save his freedom.
Suddenly the prince smiled. “Perhaps you and I are not so very
different. I refused to let my brother take my freedom from me. Saying
that, until then I would have followed his orders without question.” He
shrugged. “However, I can see it is different for you. Strange as it seems
to me, you are not used to following orders. But unfortunately for you,
your oath has given you all into my service. So, whether you like it or
not, and whether I like it or not, you do owe me your obedience, and as
your liege, I do have the final say. But I will bear in mind how much it
grates with you.” He spread his hands, “That is the best I can do. Even if
I decide to relieve you of my presence, it is still my decision, not yours.”
Autumn Leaves looked startled, “Are you considering that possibility?
Sire, you can’t. We are sworn to protect you. If you leave the forest and
anything happens to you, the forest will be destroyed.”
“So that’s what you meant when you said that if I place myself in
jeopardy, I risk all of you. It makes sense, now that I know about the
sorcery in the oath.” Tarkyn took a deep draught of wine. “I will not
place you at risk, but I may perhaps choose to live alone somewhere
in the forest until the risks outside subside.” He glanced uncertainly at
Waterstone. “All my life, people have fallen all over themselves to be of
service to me. I am not sure that I will enjoy, or even be able to endure,
being surrounded by people who are serving me under duress and who
resent my very existence.”
The woodfolk were stunned. They knew the prince was not happy
about being trapped in the forest but it had never occurred to them that
he, too, might not relish the consequences of the oath. After a moment,
Waterstone sent Autumn Leaves a sharp glance. “You see? I told you Tree
Wind might have been too unkind.”
Tarkyn waved his hand, “No. All she did was show me her memories....”
He thought back to the hatred in her eyes and added, “...and perhaps a
little of how she felt about them.” He took a breath, “And if you all
feel the same way about it, I may end up preferring my own company.
We’ll see.” Primed by now with several glasses of wine and Summer
Rain’s tonic, he stood up. “And now, I think I must circulate amongst my
reluctant liegefolk. Even if they are unwilling, I owe them the courtesy
of my attention.”

arkyn rolled over, then wished he hadn’t. His head hammered with the
aftermath of last night’s wine. Small twigs and leaves kept landing on
him and annoying him. He pulled his cloak up around his head and

went back to sleep. Not long afterwards, he felt something scrabbling under
him. He jerked in alarm and, without opening his eyes, managed to feel
around and drag out a cockroach that had made its way beneath his cloak.
The red inside his eyelids told him it was daylight so a short time later, he
gingerly opened his eyes a crack to see what effect this had on his head.

The first thing he saw was a pair of boots on the other side of the fire.
When he looked again, he realised they were attached to the legs of a
sorcerer who was sitting watching him from across the clearing. His groggy
brain struggled to work out what was going on. The clearing seemed much
smaller than it had last night and the fire was only the size of the remains of
a small campfire. There was no sign anywhere of the woodfolk.

Looking at the sorcerer’s clothes, Tarkyn judged him to be an emissary
from one of the rich merchant sorcerer’s houses. The next thing he
noticed was that he was within the sorcerer’s pale blue protective shield.
This was not a good sign, he decided.

Tarkyn was just coming to the conclusion that he might be in danger
when rough hands grabbed him from the back and dragged his arms
together behind him. Before he could react in any way, his hands were
bound roughly and he was yanked to his feet. His head pounded in
protest but adrenaline was acting swiftly to dispel his hangover. He shook
his head to clear it but was thumped hard from behind.

“None of your tricks!” growled an unpleasant, gravelly voice from
behind him. For a moment, Tarkyn thought something about the voice
sounded familiar but no-one he knew spoke in such harsh deep tones.
“Keep still, you stinking rogue. One false move and we’ll take you in dead
instead of alive. The reward’s less if you’re dead but there’s no risk then,
is there?”

Tarkyn decided the question was rhetorical and didn’t answer. He
was busy thinking furiously. What had happened to the woodfolk?
So much for protecting him. He peered around at the surrounding
trees. They all looked healthy enough. The woodfolk could not have
abandoned him, then. This made him feel a little more hopeful,
although what arrows could do against sorcerers’ shields he didn’t
know. He wondered what would happen when they reached the edge
of the forest. What could the forest or the woodfolk do to prevent
him from being dragged away?

He was returned to the present by a hefty shove in the back that nearly
sent him sprawling.
“Get moving. We don’t want to stay in this dreary forest any longer
than we have to.”
Suddenly, the last thing in the world Tarkyn wanted to do was to
leave the forest. Yesterday he had hated the forest’s protectiveness. Today,
faced with the brutality of these men, it was borne home on him that a
countryside full of vengeful sorcerers was not a tempting prospect at all.
For four hours, Tarkyn was force marched along forest paths, moving
awkwardly because his arms were pinioned behind him. He was belted
hard on the head from behind each time he stumbled. In the end, his
vision began to blur and the cycle of stumbling and being hit became
more frequent as he began to lose his balance. He dimly realised that
his captors were taking pleasure in inflicting pain and that no matter
how hard he tried, he would still be punished. He wondered if there was
anything he had done to them that could justify their treatment of him.
He hadn’t recognised the sorcerer he had seen, and the other two were
careful to stay out of his field of vision.
Finally, when Tarkyn thought he would have to collapse and endure
a beating, they turned off the path into a small clearing. Before he could
look around and get his bearings, someone lifted one side of the shield,
kicked him in the back and sent him flying to land at the foot of a large
pine tree. He twisted in mid air so that his shoulder, not his head, hit the
tree with a sickening crunch. Even so, the pain was severe and he lay there
gasping for breath. No one came near him and he was given nothing to
eat or drink. Tarkyn could hear them setting about lighting a fire and
making themselves a midday meal. They were paying him scant attention
but they probably knew he was too spent to move.
Suddenly he felt a small object hit his hand. He felt around on the
ground behind him and closed his fingers around an acorn. Tarkyn
frowned in perplexity. Was that the object? He gazed blearily around and
realised that he was lying deep within a stand of pine trees. The acorn was
definitely out of place. How could an acorn help him? Did it have some
mystical properties that the woodfolk thought he would know about?
Then Tarkyn knew. He checked the sound of his captors then tried to
twist his hands to the side so that he could focus on the acorn. To his
frustration, his hands wouldn’t reach around far enough for him to be
able to see them. He thought hard then dropped the acorn and twisted
himself around so that he could see it lying on the ground. He knew he
needed to hold it and to focus on it for a re-summoning spell to work. He
turned onto his stomach and picked it up in his teeth. By manoeuvring
it to the side of his mouth, he could, with one eye, just see it sticking out
of his mouth. The next challenge was incanting clearly enough without
dropping the acorn. Before Tarkyn could begin the incantation, he heard
the sound of a sorcerer coming over to check on him.He pushed the
acorn inside his cheek and tried to act semi-conscious. Considering how
he felt, it wasn’t difficult.
The sorcerer yanked the prince’s head up by the hair and brought
his face up close. “Not so fearsome now, are you?” Tarkyn wisely
decided not to reply. “We’re leaving soon. You can look forward to
another four hours of forced marching. I hope you can keep your feet
better this time….That should just about get us back to civilisation
and a good night’s sleep in a comfortable inn. Not for you, of course.
Floor’s good enough for you.” He threw Tarkyn’s head back down,
gashing his cheek on a rock and stomped away to join the others.
Tarkyn could hear him saying, “The weak bastard is almost gone
already. You might have to lay off a bit if we want to make it to the
inn in time for dinner.”
A voice in the distance that seemed almost familiar replied gruffly,
“Don’t go soft on us, Fallorick. You’re supposed to be the professional.
We’re not going to let that pampered, arrogant Tamadil slow us down.
If he’s fit enough to win that tournament, he’s fit enough to make the
distance. Don’t let him fool you. He’ll be able to cope with a little more
punishment. Just watch and learn.”
Ignoring his bleeding cheek, Tarkyn manoeuvred the acorn back into
position, focused his will, and hoping devoutly that someone would be
there to catch him, incanted, “Maya Mureva Araya!”
The familiar swirling nausea of translocation swamped him. Next
thing he knew, Tarkyn was lying sprawled along a large branch of an oak
tree. Twenty feet below him, he could see a crowd of shocked upturned
faces. Even as he watched them galvanise into panicked activity, Tarkyn
felt his weight sliding off to one side. He tried to grapple with his legs
but with his hands tied, he was unable to fight the inexorable pull
of gravity. Helpless, Tarkyn thumped down through the great oak,
crashing from one branch to the next. He was unconscious long before
he hit the ground and so, was unaware that the last part of his fall was
cushioned by several woodfolk who were borne to the ground under his
plummeting weight.
last him! He’s gone!”
Fallorick stood staring at the empty space under the tree with
his hands on his hips and growled disgustedly, “Oh you stupid
bastard! How far do you think you can get with your hands tied behind
you? You’ll fall over the first log you come to.” He yelled across at the
other two, “My lords, he’s bloody run off. Come on. We’ll have to find
him. He can’t have got very far.”
Just as the other two arrived, the sound of something crashing through
the undergrowth directed their attention to a figure moving awkwardly
away from them through the trees.
“There he goes!” exclaimed Fallorick. “Follow him!”
The three of them plunged through the sharp, dense brush towards the
retreating figure. As they came closer, they realised their prisoner had now
managed to undo his bonds and was picking up speed. They redoubled
their efforts to gain on him but always the figure with the black flowing
hair remained the same distance ahead of them.
“You see?” panted one of the lords, as they struggled to keep up
“He’s as fit as a fiddle. You should have hit him harder. Now look what’s
happened!”
As the figure neared the edge of the woods, he glanced around quickly
and then raced off across the fields towards a village with the bounty
hunters in hot pursuit.
Stormaway stayed in disguise until he had run loudly past the village
pub of Wooding Deep, making sure people had time to catch sight of him.
The wizard kept looking over his far shoulder and puffing loudly so that
he generally made it obvious that he was being chased. In actual fact, he
really was beginning to tire at this stage so the puffing was quite genuine.
Once people emerged from the pub to see what was happening, he ran on
to the other end of the village until a curve in the road took him out of
sight. Then he reverted to his own colouring and clothes and doubled back
to join the crowds. By the time the bounty hunters had arrived, Stormaway
had the villagers convinced that they had seen the prince cutting across the
fields towards the next village of Woodland Nearing.
His actions at Wooding Deep were just the first of the wizard’s
deceptions. While the sorcerers followed the villagers’ reported sightings
of Tarkyn on foot, the wizard procured a horse and reached Woodland
Nearing by a circuitous route, left the horse tethered outside the village
and played a repeat performance. Over the next six days, he lead them
through a series of villages way up to the far north west of the country to
the seaport of Westsea.
Stormaway left the horse tethered outside the town in a disused
barn. Once more, he assumed his disguise of long black hair, creating
an increased sense of height and hauteur. He kept his eyes averted or
shadowed by a hat wherever possible because although they were more
yellow than his own, his eyes were by no means the electric amber of
Tarkyn’s. He judged he had about three hours’ lead on his pursuers so
he took his time finding the docks and seeking out departure times of
the vessels moored there. Stormaway entered a seedy dockside pub that
rejoiced in the name of the Leaky Barrel. He pulled up a stool to the bar
and asked for a beer. The barman, a short stocky man with thinning red
hair and a grand moustache, stared suspiciously at him while he complied
with his request.
“Not from around these parts, are you?” he asked slowly.
Stormaway kept his eyes on his beer mug as he answered carefully,
“I would have thought most people passing through here weren’t from
these parts.”
The barman shrugged, “No offence meant, I’m sure. Just making
conversation. You planning on hanging around or are you waiting for a
ship?”
“Don’t know yet. Haven’t decided.”
The barman leaned in towards him and said quietly, “There are some
very nasty rumours circulating at the moment. Now, I’m not saying
whether I believe them or not but I’ll tell you for nothing that a young
man looking like you would be wise to get on a boat and get out of here
as quick as may be.” He hesitated for a minute then added, “And I’d be
tucking that long hair of yours inside your collar.”
Stormaway stared fixedly into his beer. “Why would you not give that
young man away?”
The barman gave a short grunt of laughter, “Because I always liked the
youngest prince and it’s my guess that his brothers are out to discredit him.”
Stormaway risked a quick glance up then returned his gaze to his beer.
“And what would you say if I told you that some of those rumours may
be true.”
“Oh, there’s no smoke without fire, young sir. I’d say there’d have to be
some truth at the bottom of those rumours but I’m not ready to condemn
a man out of hand until I hear his own story.”
The barman moved off to serve some other customers but returned
as soon as he was free. He leaned in again and said quietly, “There’s a
small ship called the Roving Seadog that’s due to sail on the tide. That’s
in about two hour’s time. It’s not the flashest vessel at the docks but if
you tell them that Beer Barrel Benson sent you, they’ll take you on.” He
leaned even closer and whispered, “But I’d lose that hair, if I were you.”
“Thanks,” said Stormaway gruffly, drank down the rest of his beer and
left.
Once outside, the wizard wandered along the street towards the docks,
loudly asking directions to the Roving Seadog from several people he
passed. He wandered into another pub, the Sailboat on the Sea, and
asked loudly for directions in there too. Stormaway saw a few frowns and
at least two people slipped quietly out behind him.
The wizard judged it was time to leave. He ducked into an alley and
returned to his own shape and size, turning his cloak inside out so that
the green lining became the outer surface and then sauntered back out
into the street. A group of four soldiers was just entering the Sailboat on
the Sea.
Stormaway wandered down to the docks and, when he had located
the Roving Seadog, assumed his Tarkyn disguise once more and headed
purposefully towards the shabby old trading vessel. He glanced around
the dockside. The last of the stores and cargo were being loaded onto the
Roving Seadog.
He reached the bottom of the gangway and remarked to one of the
dockers, “Good to see she’ll be well stocked. I wouldn’t want to go hungry
halfway through the journey, now would I?”
The dockers glanced impatiently at him, clearly thinking his comments
inane. Stormaway wandered off, waving over his shoulder, “See you in a
while.”
He rounded the corner of a loading shed then let the long black hair
shorten and fade back to brown and his eyes resume their natural green.
He switched the cloak inside out and his return to Stormaway Treemaster
was complete. He sauntered back along the docks and found a sheltered
spot from which he could watch the Roving Seadog completing its
loading. He waited until the gangway was drawn up then turned away.
At the edge of town, the bounty hunters had arrived. It was immediately
apparent that their enthusiasm for each other’s company had worn very
thin.
As they trudged heavily along the roadway, one of the lords said to
Fallorick, “You’re a hopeless bloody tracker. We’ve been travelling after
this elusive character for a week now. We had him in the palm of our
hand and you let him get away.” He waved a hand around him, “Now
look where we are. A seaport. No prizes for guessing what he’s planning
here. And how far ahead of us is he?”
Fallorick cleared his throat nervously, “I’m not sure, my lord. But we
must hurry. Let’s see if we can get word of him. I suggest we head straight
to the docks.”
A speaking glance passed between the two lords as they grudgingly
followed their guide. A few enquiries lead them to the Sailboat on the Sea
where there had been a reported sighting of the prince. The three bounty
hunters strode into the bar.
Without any preamble, Fallorick demanded, “Has anyone seen the
fugitive prince?”
A seedy looking character sitting in the window alcove answered
roughly, “Yeah. We seen him. Someone even called the soldiers but they
were too late. He was looking for some ship…. I’ve forgotten what it was
called.” He looked around. “Anyone remember?”
A tatty individual with wispy light brown hair stammered, “It w-was
the R-roving S-seadog, milords.”
“So, anyone know where this ship is?”
“Try the docks!” yelled a would-be comedian.
Everyone sniggered. The barmaid raised her eyebrows, “If you’re quick,
you might just make it.” As the door shut behind them, she turned to the
crowd in the bar and said innocently, “Oops. I forgot. Isn’t that the ship
that’s sailing at full tide?”
Among the guffaws that greeted this, the tatty individual frowned at
her, “Are you a s-supporter of the p-prince then?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she replied with a significant glance around
the bar. “But I don’t like seeing anyone used as currency.”