Bronze Magic (Book 1) (18 page)

When they broke for lunch, there was notably less restraint in the
attitude of the other woodfolk. The work continued deep into the
afternoon until Waterstone noticed that the branch he was trying to secure
kept wavering out of place. He sent a mental image of the problem to
Tarkyn and received back such a weak response that he immediately sent
an urgent query to Sparrow. Sparrow transmitted an image of Tarkyn’s
face, which was deathly white with dark smudges under his drooping
eyes. As one, the woodfolk descended from the trees to return to Tarkyn’s
side where he was seated, leaning against a tree.
Waterstone passed the exhausted sorcerer a drink. “Why didn’t you tell
us you were tiring? I didn’t realise you would be tired, just sitting there
sending up shafts of light.”
Tarkyn blinked owlishly up at him, almost drunk with tiredness. “In
case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been lifting tree branches and holding them
up in the air all day.”
“Doesn’t the magic do that for you?”
“Yes and no. But where do you think the power comes from?”
“Oh dear,” said Waterstone, “We’ve made another wrong assumption
about your magic, haven’t we?”
“I believe we have tired you excessively, Your Highness,” rumbled
Thunder Storm.
“You look like a corpse,” observed Autumn Leaves, with his
characteristic lack of tact. “Do you have enough strength to walk?”
Tarkyn leant his head back against the tree and closed his eyes.
“I don’t know. Maybe in a while.” He opened his eyes and gave a tired
smile. “At least we’ve repaired a lot of trees, haven’t we? I’m sorry
I can’t keep going but I’m afraid that’s the end of the road for me
today.”
A gentle chorus of forest sounds let him know that they were all pleased
with what had been done and reassured him that they were all tired too
and ready to stop for the day anyway. With a satisfied sigh, the overtaxed
young sorcerer drifted off to sleep.
Tarkyn woke to find himself in the dark, still leaning against the tree.
In that moment of disorientation between sleep and wakefulness, his
mind jolted with alarm as the memory of the last time he had awakened
out in the open in the forest flooded through him.
“Whoa,” said Waterstone as he received a wave of Tarkyn’s reaction,
“It’s all right. We’re all here. We haven’t left you on your own this time.”
As Tarkyn became wider awake, he realised that a fire was crackling
cheerfully a short distance away and there was a lovely aroma of roasting
meat wafting through the air. He hauled himself up and wandered over
to join the woodfolk sitting at the fire.
He turned a perplexed face to Waterstone.“Where are all the others?
There were many more people here when I first arrived in the forest.”
“We don’t usually congregate in such large numbers,” explained the
woodman. “We were all gathered for your welcoming feast. But aside
from that, most of the gatherer woodfolk have gone up to the east of the
forest to harvest the blackberries. The harvesters are collecting the last
of the summer flowers and will soon move further north for the sweet
chestnuts and hazelnuts. And the rest of the wanderers could be anywhere
by now, gathering information and taking wares from one group to the
next as they go.”
Tarkyn took a few moments to absorb this then asked, “But aren’t
there blackberries here? My shelter is in the middle of a big patch of
them. Why aren’t the harvesters still here?”
Waterstone nodded. “The best crops are in particular areas. So the
harvesters and gatherers tend to move around with the seasons to gather
the best harvests.”
Autumn Leaves brought him a cup of wine. The prince thanked him
and asked, “So how many of you have stayed here?”
“There are twenty of us still here, my lord,” replied Autumn Leaves.
“Ten men, six women and four children.”
“And on what basis did you people choose to stay rather than go with
the others?”
The woodfolk all looked at each other, then eyes went out of focus as
they conferred mentally with each other. Tarkyn picked up a feeling of
embarrassment but no explanation.
“Well?”
“Well… ” said Waterstone, clearing his throat, “It was done on a
voluntary basis. Basically, those of us who were least frightened or least
resentful of you stayed to look after you and protect you.”
Tarkyn picked up a wave of consternation rolling around the campsite in
the wake of Waterstone’s words. The sorcerer raised his eyebrows and swung
his eyes slowly around the group. “Don’t worry. I know where I stand with
you people, particularly after talking with Waterstone earlier about your
experience of sorcerers. I can appreciate what a courageous decision it was
to stay anywhere near me. I don’t think my behaviour on the first day in
the woods did anything to improve matters. I can only say that I am not
usually in the habit of throwing my weight around as I did that day.”
Unexpectedly, Thunder Storm came to his support. “Prince Tarkyn
was very careful with his use of power yesterday when there was a need
to calm Waterstone.”
“No one was fearful today when you were using your power, at least
not once we became used to it,” added Grass Wind.
There was a lull in the conversation as the roasted meat was taken off
the fire and thick slices were handed around with small, soft loaves of
warm bread.
After a period of silent concentration on eating, the prince looked
around the group thoughtfully then asked, “So what would you do next
time if another group of sorcerer bounty hunters threatened me? What
can you do against sorcerers’ shields?”
“You’d probably know the answer to that better than us.” Waterstone
pointed out. “What can we do?”
The sorcerer shrugged. “Not much with bows and arrows, and you
can’t break through their shields and grab them.” He paused while he
thought about it. “A shield takes power and focus. Most sorcerers can’t
maintain them for long, if at all. Those who can, would eventually run
out of power but possibly not for a long time. It’s not as hard to maintain
a shield, as it is to lift tree branches, for instance. If you could hold the
sorcerers somehow until they went to sleep, they would be vulnerable.
We can’t maintain our shields while we’re asleep.”
“What about using nets or misleading them so they can’t find their
way out of the forest until they tire?” asked Rustling Leaves.
“Yes. That would work.” Tarkyn frowned. “But what would you do
with them once they were asleep? If you kill them, mightn’t someone
come looking for them?”
“For that very reason, killing them would be the last resort,” said
Waterstone. “Keeping you hidden is the simplest solution. It works for
us. We may need to teach you some of our camouflaging techniques.
How are you at climbing trees?”
The sorcerer smiled, and incanting “
Mayareeza Mureva,
” rose gently
into the air and drifted into the nearest tree. “Not bad,” he said, grinning
down at them.
“Good. That’s sorted then,” continued Waterstone with a completely
straight face. “So now we have to deal with your hair…” He broke off
and stood looking up at the sorcerer with his hands on his hips, laughing.
“Get down from there before you fall down. You’re too tired to go
mucking about in trees tonight.”
Tarkyn floated gracefully back down, staggering slightly as he landed.
“Whoops! You may be right, at that.”
Waterstone grabbed his arm to steady him. “I think you’ve had about
enough for your third day out of bed. Why don’t we help you back to
your shelter now, to save us having to carry you later?”
Tarkyn’s smiled tiredly down at him and nodded.
he prince suffered no ill effects from his over-exertion and for the
next three days, the sorcerer and the woodfolk worked hard on
repairing the damage caused by Waterstone’s rage. By the afternoon
of the fourth day, most of the repair work that could be done had been
completed. Tarkyn was sitting under a tree directing two shafts of power
up into the last group of trees that they had decided was worth working
on.
Suddenly, a booming voice rang out from behind him, “What on
earth do you think you’re doing?”
Tarkyn jumped and both branches juddered out of place, unbalancing
Waterstone and Autumn Leaves in two separate trees.
“Tarkyn!” yelped Waterstone, “Help!”
Ignoring the intrusive presence behind him, the sorcerer refocused
his will and steadied both woodmen in their respective trees. Then he
maintained steady shafts of power to hold the boughs in place until
they were secured, despite the reproachful voice behind him that grew
in intensity as it insisted on knowing what had happened to his sense
of consequence. Once the branches and the woodmen were safe, the
sorcerer released his power and without looking around, said politely,
“Good Afternoon, Stormaway. I am sorry. I was concentrating. Could
you repeat that, please?”
The wizard stomped around, to stand glaring down at the young
prince. “Where is your sense of propriety?” he demanded. “A prince
of the realm is not a gardener. A person of your consequence does not
lower himself to working on manual tasks in the company of common
woodfolk.”
The prince hauled himself up from the ground until he stood looking
down at the wizard from his superior height, his amber eyes blazing.
There was a long silence. When Tarkyn finally spoke, his voice was
pitched low and was shaking with anger. But the anger in his voice was
nothing compared to the blast of rage that silently hit Stormaway’s mind.
“I believe you forget yourself. It is not I but you who have forgotten my
consequence. I will spend my time as I choose, with whom I choose. You
may offer me advice but you may not dictate to me and above all, you
may not insult these people.”
The wizard stared back up at him for a moment. Then his stance relaxed
and he bowed low, hand on heart. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness.
I am pleased to see that you have not forgotten your status completely.”
The prince merely raised his eyebrows as he sent an image of his staff
to Sparrow. When it arrived, Tarkyn broke eye contact with Stormaway
to look down at Sparrow. He smiled and thanked her as he took hold of
his staff and leant heavily on it. “Come,” he invited the wizard, “Let us
get settled at tonight’s firesite. You must need some food and drink after
your journey.” Tarkyn noticed that the woodfolk had melted away into
the surrounding woods. He sent out an image of a firesite coupled with
a feeling of uncertainty to Waterstone and received back an image of a
nearby clearing. “This way,” he said as he altered the direction of his steps.
As they walked, the prince commented, “I believe I have to thank you for
your efforts on my behalf.”
“A pleasure, Your Highness, a pleasure. Come on. I’ll tell you all about it.
Once they were comfortably seated at the firesite, wine in hand and
food on its way, Stormaway began his story.
“By the time the sorcerers returned to collect you, I was waiting nearby
in the forest, making a lot of noise to entice them to chase me.”
“How did they think I had managed to free my hands?”
Stormaway shrugged, “I don’t think they did, at that stage.” He took a
sip of wine and gave a satisfied sigh before continuing
Tarkyn frowned, “Weren’t you worried they would capture you
instead?”
The wizard raised his eyebrows. “Have you so little faith in me?”
“I hardly know you,” retorted the prince tartly.
“Hmph. Well, be that as it may, I was never in any danger. I didn’t let
them get anywhere near close enough to attack me. I just let them catch
tantalizing glimpses of me running off through the trees, long black hair
streaming out behind me!”
Tarkyn put his head on one side. “Go on, then. Show me how you do
the hair!”
It wasn’t just the hair. Right before his eyes, Stormaway’s body
slimmed down; his face grew longer, his cheekbones higher and hair long
and black. His eyebrows blackened and swept upwards in pronounced
arch. His eyes became yellower but were still greenish and nothing like
Tarkyn’s extraordinary amber ones. Overall, however, there was a clear
resemblance that would certainly have passed muster from a distance,
even more so from the back view.
The prince laughed, “That’s pretty good!”
“I can do better if I spend longer on it. I can even improve the eye
colour but no one I have ever met other than you and your father have
those amazing amber eyes and I just don’t seem to be able to replicate
them.” The glamour faded and the wizard’s real form re-emerged. He
took another sip of wine. “Ah, that’s better. Can’t really relax when I’m
maintaining a disguise.”
The sorcerer nodded slowly as he absorbed this information then
asked, “So what happened after you left the forest?”
Stormaway settled down to telling the story of his escapades with the
bounty hunters.
The prince’s smiles of appreciation did not reach his eyes. He was too
busy trying to gauge the calibre of this disingenuous wizard. When there
was finally a gap in the wizard’s flow, Tarkyn asked, “But didn’t all this
take place over two weeks ago? Where have you been since then?”
“I kept leading them further away until we reached the northwest coast.
A false trail to the docks led them to believe you had left the country. So
they gave up the chase.”
The younger man frowned “That won’t bring them back through the
forest, will it?”
The wizard raised his eyebrows. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t put in
all that effort otherwise. No. They will travel back home well to the north
of the forest edge.” He regarded Tarkyn thoughtfully. “Outsiders don’t
usually venture into these woods unless they are in large groups or have a
particular reason for doing so. Those who live near the woods know that
many who have ventured in, have failed to come out.”
Tarkyn looked at him sceptically. “But I thought it was very rare for
woodfolk to need to kill outsiders. They’re so good at staying hidden that
the need rarely arises.”