Bronze Magic (Book 1) Read online

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.”

  The tatty man finished his beer thoughtfully and followed the path of the bounty hunters down to the docks. From within the shadow of a huge stack of cargo waiting to be loaded, Stormaway watched the two lords vent their frustration on their hapless guide as the scruffy little ship disappeared into the middle distance. Finally, they turned on their heels, leaving the guide in a huddle on the dockside. As they passed within feet of the wizard, he could hear them still muttering angrily. Once he was sure that they had given up the chase, Stormaway heaved a sigh of relief and turned his footsteps to his waiting horse and the long trip back to his liege.

  he world seemed to rush at him and then recede through a sea of pain. Sometimes he tried to move but something was restraining him and he couldn’t summon enough strength to resist it. Each breath sent a searing pain up his back. From time to time, gentle arms lifted his head and some sort of thin broth was poured between his lips. Tarkyn dreaded these times because he could not control his swallowing and would end up coughing. Then as the pain became excruciating, he would collapse back gasping for breath and drift back into oblivion.

  As the days and nights passed, his awareness of the world gradually expanded beyond the pain. He realised his movement was restricted by a strap that held his right arm close to his chest. He became aware of people coming and going, talking quietly. There was one woodman in particular who spent many hours sitting quietly beside him, but Tarkyn had no desire even to acknowledge him. He could not summon enough energy to engage in a game of courtesy with an unwilling liegeman.

  Tarkyn’s body slowly recovered but his spirit sank deeper into isolation. He had spent all his life surrounded by friends and liegemen, ostensibly well-liked. He questioned every past image. Would he have been so popular, had he not been the king’s son? Obviously not. But how far did that go? And now none of those friends, even if they had remained true to him, was available to him now. He relived over and over again his mistreatment at the hands of the bounty hunters. It wasn’t the physical pain that had disturbed him. It was the experience of being regarded as nothing more than a commodity. Nothing in his life, not even his arraignment, had prepared him for being treated with such malice and contempt.

  Sometimes in the night, Tarkyn would hear the sound of running water and realise that a woodman was talking quietly to him. The sound was soothing and gradually, as his strength returned, he began to take in the stories the woodman was telling him – old stories of the history of the woodfolk, mythical legends and newer stories of the day-to-day events that were taking place outside the shelter. The woodman did not seem to require any response from the ailing young man.

  Finally, Tarkyn asked, “Are you the healer?”

  “No, my lord. I’m not. With food, water
and rest, your body is healing itself now.”

  “Are you guarding over me?”

  “No, my lord. Others outside are keeping watch.”

  There was a long pause. Then the prince said, “Nothing in that wretched oath compels you to sit here hour after hour.”

  “No, Sire. But not all actions are governed by oaths and people don’t act only under compulsion.”

  Tarkyn turned dark, haunted eyes to regard the woodman. The man was older than he, strongly built with a square jaw and firm mouth but kind eyes “Then why are you here?” Tarkyn croaked, his voice dry from lack of use.

  “I am here because I choose to be.”

  “Oh.” Tarkyn closed his eyes while he thought about this. A few minutes later, he asked snakily, without reopening his eyes, “I suppose you feel sorry for me? Are you one of those do-gooders looking for a pet project?”

  A rippling laugh greeted this sally. “I think you must be feeling better. You’re getting tetchy.”

  Tarkyn opened his eyes and glared at the woodman.

  “And in answer to your question,” continued the woodman mildly, “yes. I do feel sorry for you. I would feel sorry for anyone who had been bashed around as much as you have been – severe concussion, at least three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, multiple bruising….”

  Tarkyn waved a feeble hand to tell him to desist.

  The woodman smiled and kept burbling, “And I like to think that I am reasonably kind, although do-gooder might be an exaggeration.”

  Tarkyn waved his hand again and mumbled, “All right, all right. You’ve made your point.”

  He closed his eyes again and took a few slow deep breaths. When he had recovered, he looked once more at the woodman.

  “However,” burbled the woodman before the prince could speak, “I think it is fair to say that you are my pet project.” Then, with a grin over his shoulder, the woodman was gone.

  For the first time since his accident, Tarkyn thought about something other than his isolation and misery. The woodman had intrigued him and he didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed to find that he had become someone’s pet project.