The Sorcerer's Oath Collection

Chapter 12

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 c***k 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.

He looked around them, “I beg your pardon. I lost track of the conversation. Did you ask me a question?”

The wind had dropped. The forest was still, filled with an air of expectancy.

Tree Wind glanced at the set faces around her and her gentle, sighing voice continued, distant and formal, “We accept your explanation. But we are not used to sorcerers and you have a frightening reputation. So, until the issue is decided, will you agree not to use your magic?”

The sorcerer did not hesitate. “No. You know I will not.” He overrode the ripple of consternation that spread through the woodfolk. “Besides, if I am false, my word would be without value.”

“Perhaps instead, you will guarantee not to harm us?” responded Waterstone.

The prince looked around the ring of earnest faces. “Again, I do not see what use my guarantee is to you, until you decide my worth. However,” he shrugged, “I am prepared to make that undertaking, but on three conditions: firstly, that you do not try to use your mind control on me, secondly, that I may leave the forest at any time, and thirdly, that you in turn will guarantee not to attack me.”

“We agree to the first and third but not the second,” murmured Tree Wind.

“Then I will make no guarantee – and I will not allow you to keep me prisoner in your domain.” Before any of the woodfolk could reply, the sorcerer pulled from his pocket a rather squashed berry he had picked a couple of days before and focusing on it, incanted, “Maya Mureva Araya…”

The scene before him faded. Closing his eyes, he felt the sick dizziness of disintegration but then, instead of a gradual return to a new location, he felt as though he had hit a wall and was wrenched backwards. He opened his eyes to find himself lying defenceless and nauseated on the ground with concerned woodfolk bending over him. He felt too sick and battered by the aborted translocation to resurrect his shield.

“Keep away from me,” he snarled.

The woodfolk jumped back, but the voice of Waterstone said gently, “We know nothing of sorcery. We did not interfere with your spell.” He waved his arm around him, “I am not sure why, but the forest appears to be keeping you here to protect you.”

Tarkyn was fighting too hard against nausea and anger to hear a word that Waterstone said. He heaved himself upright, using the rock to haul himself to his feet. He stood there, furious, gasping for breath, his long black hair framing a deathly white face, his amber eyes burning.

As soon as he could control the waves of nausea, he roared at them, “I will not be held prisoner. So now, let us see how the forest protects you against a caged, angry sorcerer.” He swept his arm around in an arc and yelled, “Shturrum!”

The prince glared around at his captive audience. “So what should I do now? Consume you all with a fireball?” In quick succession, he released the paralysis spell and threw a small fireball over their heads to ignite a nearby bush. “Perhaps I should summon a mighty wind and send you smashing into the trees?” Tarkyn flicked his hand and a tree behind them thrashed suddenly in a brief gale. He strode up and down between the stunned woodfolk. “I know… I could lift you all up to the height of the trees and then let you drop so that you smashed on the rocks beside the stream.” With that, he incanted, “Ka Liefka!” and lifted one of the woodfolk and suspended him ten feet above the ground.

The sorcerer allowed his gaze to sweep slowly across his audience. “Should I drop him, do you think?” He paused then his voice came again, bitter and taunting. “Will I drop him, do you think? I am, after all, a rogue sorcerer… And if you value your friend’s life, you will not disappear into the woods.” He shrugged. “Besides, I could set the whole woods alight if I wanted to flush you out.”

Even as he spoke those last words, Tarkyn knew they did not ring with the same conviction as his earlier tirade. His rage had burnt itself out. The woodfolk stood silently, rooted to the ground with fear as Tarkyn gently lowered the woodman to the ground.

With his anger spent, the prince was mortified by what he had done. He placed his hand gently on the shoulder of the terror-stricken woodman and said quietly, “I am so sorry. I had no right to use you thus. I may be outraged at being held in the forest against my will, but that does not justify my treatment of you.”

A voice that sounded like scrabbling claws in the undergrowth replied, “Perhaps not, my lord, but unless I’m much mistaken, your actions now have sealed our fates.” The woodman looked around at his companions who all nodded silently. “You may do with me as you will.” There was no mistaking the undercurrent of bitterness. “You are my liege lord, and these forests are yours – my name is Running Feet”

The prince rocked back on his heels, stunned. “This is my domain? And if so, has it not been forfeited?”

“No one can overturn your father’s will in this, my lord,” answered Ancient Oak, “And we could not accept it, even if they tried.”

The prince slowly surveyed the woodfolk. “I am truly sorry that I subjected you to such unkindness. If, as you say, I am your liege lord, there is even less excuse for my behaviour, not more. And Running Feet, I may not use you as I will, neither by right of might nor by birth right.”

A soft sighing heralded Tree Wind’s voice. “My lord, the issue is decided. The wizard accepted your integrity and now, so do we.” She sounded resigned. “Each word you speak proves it more. You are true.”

Tarkyn frowned in confusion. “Why? How have I suddenly achieved that? By ranting and raving, and throwing dire threats at you?”

“Exactly that,” rumbled Thunder Storm. “Even at the height of your rage and even under attack, you did not harm anyone. If you didn’t hurt us then, we believe that you won’t hurt us at any other time.”

“Oh.” Tarkyn sat down quite suddenly, so surprised was he, by this response.

Thunder Storm heaved a sigh, “And now we must accept that Stormaway will irrevocably bind us into your service at moonrise tonight.”

Tarkyn, who was used to people clamouring to serve him, did not consider this an issue, “And if I insist on leaving the forest?”

“Sire, you cannot stop the process. The spell has already begun to work. Only if you had proved to be really evil could it have been reversed.”

Tarkyn waved his hand, “I am not concerned about reversing the process. I am concerned about my free will. I wish to be able to leave the forest when I choose.”

The woodfolk exchanged glances.

“Your Highness,” said Waterstone, “We did not stop you. The forest did. The forest wards, which are part of the trees themselves, are not letting you leave while the danger to you is so great beyond their borders.”

“We could not harm you, if you insisted on leaving.” Autumn Leaves’ voice was sullen, “But we are sworn to protect you. So, if you place yourself in jeopardy, you risk all of us.”

Tarkyn did not see that this was a logical progression but decided it was pointless to pursue the argument while the forest held him anyway.