The Sorcerer's Oath Collection

Chapter 15

Tarkyn 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 c***k 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 country 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, making him gash his cheek on a rock and then he 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.