Bronze Magic (Book 1) (9 page)

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, no one was there.
“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 drowsed, 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 beside 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 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 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, 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 crack 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 ensorcel 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.
usk was gathering as four woodfolk strode into the clearing, carrying
a long twisty branch, from which hung a slain deer.
Ancient Oak nodded at them, “There’ll be some fine spit
roasted venison tonight.” The woodman had spoken very little, and
seemed at a loss to know what to talk about, most of the time. Tarkyn
suspected that the task of entertaining him had fallen to this particular
woodman because of his injured arm. Ancient Oak turned to the prince,
and spoke formally, “Tonight we will honour your arrival among us,
Your Highness. We have long awaited the day when you would come
to claim your own.”
The four hunters handed the deer over to a waiting group of woodfolk
who immediately set to skinning and cleaning the carcass. Meanwhile,
others were tidying the clearing, gathering firewood and setting the fire.
If the prince was disturbed by the woodman’s cold tone, he gave no
indication. “I am honoured by your kindness, Ancient Oak,” he replied
with equal formality. He was seated on the ground next to the woodman,
his back leaning against a tree. “Tell me, are your homes nearby? I cannot
see them.”
“They are all around us, my lord, scattered through the nearby
woodland, although the untutored eye cannot distinguish them.” Did
the prince discern a note of derision in the woodman’s voice? “Each
dwelling is constructed within a thicket of shrubbery. Branches from the
growing plants are woven into a small dome that is lined with grasses and
mud to make it waterproof.”
“I see, or rather I don’t see because, as you so rightly point out, I am
untutored in your ways.”
“That is how I injured my arm,” said Ancient Oak, in a sudden burst
of confidence.
“I beg your pardon?”
“One of the saplings we were using to build a shelter was not secured
properly and flicked back into my arm.” He gave the prince a shy smile,
“It’s not broken, you know. Only bruised. But if I don’t have it in a sling,
I might forget and climb into a tree and then find my arm unable to
support me when I need it.”
“You climb trees a bit, do you?”
Ancient Oak smiled at the prince’s lack of knowledge, “All our lookouts
are stationed up in trees. We spend nearly as much time in trees as on the
ground, especially if there is a potential danger.”
“Interesting.” Tarkyn was watching another group of woodfolk prepare
vegetables to be roasted in the fire. “And I suppose you can quickly
obliterate all of this, should the need arise?”
Ancient Oak nodded, “Yes. The lookouts will warn us of any outsiders’
approach. We can pack away the food and put out the fire, then scatter
leaves and forest debris to disguise our presence within minutes. By the
time outsiders arrived here, they could walk across this clearing and never
know we had been here.”
Tarkyn studied his companion. Ancient Oak was not old, as might
have been expected. He was named purely for the qualities of his voice.
Tarkyn was beginning to be able to differentiate the woodfolk from each
other. At first, the similarity in their stature, dress, hair and eye colour
had made them all appear alike to him. However, as they became more
familiar, he could discern differences in hair length, shade and style
and in facial shape and expression. Ancient Oak was young but more
fully grown into manhood than Tarkyn. He wore his hair straight and
shoulder length and sported a small goatee. Now that Tarkyn knew him
better, he couldn’t imagine how he had ever been unable to tell him from
the others.
“So when will your leader present himself... or herself to me?” asked
the prince. “I would have expected to be introduced by now.”
Ancient Oak raised his eyebrows, “But Your Highness, did we not
make it clear? We have had no leader until now.”
“Don’t play games with me, Ancient Oak. You know what I mean.
Who organizes the lookouts and the arms practice? Who adjudicates
arguments? I haven’t been here. There must be someone who leads you….
and why have they not presented themselves to me?”
Ancient Oak looked distinctly uncomfortable at Tarkyn’s sharp tone.
“We don’t have leaders. Different people tend to direct different activities
depending on the knowledge and skills needed....” He trailed off.
The prince merely waited, keeping his eyes fixed on the woodman’s
face.
Ancient
Oak
was
watching,
with
slightly
unfocused
eyes,
the woodfolk hanging garlands of flowers in the trees around the
clearing. Finally, he glanced at Tarkyn. “Your Highness, there is
no-one
to
dispute
your
claim,
if
that’s
what’s
concerning
you.
We have known for years that you would one day come to claim
our fealty.”
“Yet, despite this,” said Tarkyn dryly, “my arrival has been greeted with
hostility, not welcome.”
“I do not see why knowing about something for years should make it
any more welcome,” retorted the woodman.
Tarkyn raised his eyebrows. “You have a bit to learn about being a
liegeman, Ancient Oak. That is not how you speak to your lord.”
The woodman’s cheeks tinged with colour, not with embarrassment
as Tarkyn first assumed, but with anger. “I beg your pardon, Your
Highness. I had not realised that dishonesty would be a requirement of
serving you.”
Tarkyn was completely taken aback. No one spoke to him like that.
And yet, he found himself in a quandary. He did not want dishonesty
from his liegemen and women. He had never enjoyed the guiles of court,
so why recreate them here? On the other hand, he would not countenance
impertinence.
“Ancient Oak, I expect the highest standards of courtesy and honesty
both from my liegemen and women, and from myself. This does not
necessarily mean that I will rub unpleasant truths into people’s faces.
Perhaps you could also learn to avoid that practice.”
Ancient Oak’s mouth tightened but he gave no response. Again, his
eyes lost focus.
The prince frowned and looked away quickly. Watching the
preparations for the feast, he mulled over its significance. The woodfolk
had agreed not to use mindpower on him. So if it wasn’t that, what was
it? The woodfolk may have declared their intention of trusting Tarkyn,
but he was a long way from trusting them in return.
Suddenly, Autumn Leaves and Tree Wind appeared on either side of them.
“Go on, Ancient Oak,” said Autumn Leaves, waving his hand. “You’re
needed to help mind the children. Creaking Bough needs a break.”
Tarkyn frowned as the woodman left without his dismissal, but
decided that he could not spend the entire afternoon berating him. And
although he had not seen Ancient Oak gesture, he was fairly sure that the
arrival of the two woodfolk was not coincidental.
“Had enough of enduring my company, has he?”
A glint in Autumn Leaves’ eye acknowledged the prince’s acuity. He
smiled, “We try to be fair in apportioning onerous tasks, my lord.”
“And exactly how did you two turn up so fortuitously?”
“Sire, since you value honesty, I will tell you.” Tarkyn frowned in a
suspicion that was confirmed by Autumn Leaves’ next words. “Ancient
Oak relayed your conversation to us and asked us to come.”
“How dare he share with others his private conversation with me?”
Autumn Leaves shrugged disarmingly, “Sire, we all do it. We speak
with our minds, as much as with our mouths.”
“Perhaps you do, but I do not appreciate having an unseen audience
to my conversations.”
A tense glance passed between the two woodfolk. At a slight nod from
Autumn Leaves, Tree Wind cleared her throat and said in her sighing
voice, “Your Highness, would you be kind enough to walk with me
awhile? We have some time before the food is ready and the moon is not
due to rise for another hour.”
Tarkyn stood up and inclined his head, “It would be my pleasure, Tree
Wind.”
The prince and the woodwoman walked away from the bustle of the
clearing into the quiet gloom of the forest.
Tarkyn murmured, “
Lumaya,
” under his breath. Slowly a gentle
radiance spread around them allowing them to find their way beneath
the huge overhanging trees. “You must let me know, Tree Wind, if the
light may endanger us and I will extinguish it.”
The woodwoman nodded but said nothing. Tarkyn glanced at her set
face and wondered why she had offered to walk with him if she felt so ill
at ease in his company. Finally, he said, “It seemed to me that there was a
point in time this morning when my fate held by a thread. I would like
to thank you for resisting the impulse to kill me.”
Tree Wind pushed a strand of hair back from her face and forced herself
to look him in the eye. “I apologize for reacting so hastily. I understand
from Stormaway that it is a heinous crime to attack a member of the
Royal Family.” There was no vestige of warmth in her soft voice. “Besides,
in hindsight, it was not warranted by your actions.”
Tarkyn looked at her quizzically. “No, but at the time, you thought it
was. You thought I was placing a spell on you. Why did you not kill me?
I could feel it. Every fibre in you wanted to plunge that arrow further into
me and yet you held.”
“If I had been able to kill you with impunity and save us all from
the future that lies ahead of us, I would have done so. But if you
remember, Stormaway reminded us that only he could make the final
decision. And only if you were totally corrupt, would the binding
spell not take hold. If we had killed you and you were true, we would
all have perished.” The woodwoman drew herself up. “In the end, the
forest saved you.”
Tarkyn stopped walking to look at her. “It did?”
“Don’t you remember the wind that sprang up? The swirling leaves?”
Tarkyn thought back and nodded slowly.
“Our oath to you is bound in sorcery to the welfare of the forest and
therefore to our own welfare. The effects of the binding spell had already
begun to work. Because I was threatening you and your claim was just,
the binding spell was threatening the forest.” She continued impatiently,
“It is not yet autumn. No leaves should have been falling. Fey whirlwinds
do not spring up in the middle of the forest.”
The young man raised his eyebrows. “No, I suppose they don’t.”
Tarkyn frowned in an effort of memory, “So when did you swear this
spellbound oath to me?”
“Twelve years ago, my lord. My people and I made a solemn vow to
your father that we would protect you and recognize you as our liege,
should you return to the forest.”
Tarkyn brow cleared. He looked around the overhanging trees of the
surrounding woodlands. “I’ve been here before, haven’t I?” he said slowly.
“I vaguely remember coming into the woods for a long ceremony of
some sort. A long time ago, when I was very young. It is one of the last
vague memories of my father.”
Tree Wind considered Tarkyn for a moment then offered, as though
the idea had only just occurred to her, “If you wish, I can show you. You
will need to look deeply into my eyes so that I can share my memory
with you.”
She must have known that Tarkyn would be wary of her mindpower
but she did not offer any reassurance. He thought it unlikely that she
would try to control his mind again and he felt reasonably sure that,
if necessary, he could resist as he had before. So, after a slight
hesitation, the prince agreed.Nevertheless, it took a leap of faith to
look into her eyes.
“So, stand relaxed and focus deep into my eyes,” instructed Tree Wind
calmly, “Now let your mind drift and allow the images to form. You will
not lose your own self awareness. You will simply gain the awareness of
my images and feelings.”
The night is bitterly cold. I can feel my legs stiffening up. We have been
warned of their arrival at the forest edge half an hour ago and we have
been waiting in readiness. I can hear the jangle of harnesses as they draw
near: now the quiet thudding of horses’ hooves on the forest floor. Three
riders emerge from the gloom. A large burly man with black hair and
beard mounted on a strong black horse. He is wearing deep burnt orange
robes and cloak, richly embroidered in silver thread. Behind him on a
grey pony sits a much smaller, slighter, beardless replica of the first, whitefaced and swaying with fatigue. There is a shimmering light around
them, possibly a shield of some sort. The third rider is Falling Rain, one of
our number who has been missing for over a week. He is slumped over the
neck of his pony with his wrists tied to the pommel of the saddle. Outrage
ripples through those of us waiting. Many people notch arrows ready to
attack as a fourth rider appears.