Haunted Tree (The Magus Family Chronicles Book 1)

by Scott Robert Scheller

  “Something is very wrong,” he whispered to Sean.

  “Yes.” Sean glanced uneasily around. “None of the men have returned.”

  “Let’s hope they do so and soon. We cannot protect the women by ourselves.” The staffs he and Sean carried were no match for the unwelcome guests’ spears and bows.

  Marc’s mother’s gaze flicked his way momentarily, eyes widening in warning. Seeing her reaction, the leader looked Marc’s way, his lips curling slightly in the corners, the expression remarkably similar to those worn earlier by the wolves.

  “And whom might these two young men be?”

  The man’s authoritative tone revealed an underlying smugness. He wanted something and expected to get it judging by the fact two soldiers accompanied him. That, and his mother’s worried expression, told Marc to be very careful.

  “I am Marc and this is Sean,” he said, stopping next to his mother. The man’s narrow, angular face and large, slightly hooked nose reminded Marc a little of his grandmother, though she did not have his heavy brows or larger ears. While he looked to be about thirty years of age, something in his charcoal gray eyes made him seem much older. When Marc met the man’s gaze, an uncomfortable chill tingled through him, not unlike the sensation of when an arm or leg fell asleep. “Why has the king’s envoy honored us with a visit this day?”

  The leader shifted on his mount and studied him for a time. “Marc. Hmmm. You are Marcus, son of the tanner, Davidus?”

  “Yes, sir, but my father died not quite two years ago.”

  “So I have been told. As his son, you inherit your father’s trade and obligations.”

  The way he said obligations sent a shiver up Marc’s back. “What are you saying?”

  “Your family owes a debt to the king.”

  The red-haired soldier shared a callous, sly smile with his shorter companion, causing Marc to feel even more concerned. Things here were not as they seemed. Hiding his reaction, he shook his head. “I know of no such debt.”

  “Your father had the privilege of being one of the king’s favored craftsmen. For that he was to pay a yearly honorarium.”

  “But he’s dead and can no longer sell any leather—to the king, or anyone else. That privilege is now lost.”

  “Possibly,” the man said airily, almost as if the point were trivial. After several seconds he leaned closer, his features and voice hardening. “Even so, the debt remains.”

  A wash of emotions swelled within Marc—irritation that this person had the nerve to enter his village under such questionable pretenses, disgust that one such as him held the king’s trust, and anger at assuming he could take advantage of Marc’s father’s death.

  “That’s foolish,” Marc said heatedly. “Even if I could pay this... this thievery, I wouldn’t.” Marc stiffened as the man’s face darkened and the tip of his spear dropped to hover just inches from Marc’s chest.

  “You have two choices,” the man growled. “Pay or die.”

  “NO!” Marc’s mother cried, lunging toward him only to be struck in the head with the butt of the black-haired soldier’s spear. Staggering several steps back, she crumpled to the ground.

  Gwen rushed toward her prone form. “Mother!” Gasps of alarm rose from the women and children gathered behind them.

  Unable to move for fear of being impaled, Marc tightly balled his fists and watched with seething frustration as his sister helped her stand. Blood coursed down the side of his mother’s head. At that moment, he would have given anything to be holding a spear of his own in order to plunge it into the black-haired man’s heart, knowing full well the other two men would have killed him an instant later.

  The leader regarded her with naked scorn. “One more word from you, woman, and I will burn your home.”

  “With you in it,” the same soldier added with a sinister chuckle.

  Marc took a step back, greatly fearing for his life and that of his family; he could do little against these bullies. Sean’s grip tightened on his staff, but Marc warned him with his eyes not to act. “I cannot pay,” Marc said, sounding more frightened than he wanted to. “I have nothing of value.”

  Cold and empty of humanity, the black ice of the man’s gaze pierced him through as the muscles of his arms tensed in preparation to use his spear. “Then die,” he said flatly.

  Heart thrumming madly in his chest, Marc backed further away preparing to dodge the thrust when an authoritative voice cried out loudly from behind. “Hold there.”

  The cacophony of the villagers’ upset voices stilled as everyone turned to see who spoke. A tall, lean man of advanced years strode confidently forward. He wore a long, brown, hooded robe, the hem of which barely cleared the ground. Great quantities of iron gray hair trailed down his back, his beard half the length of an arm. No one had need to ask his name for all knew of the great wizard, Oren the Wise.

  “What reason do you have to do violence against this young man?” the elder demanded of the man threatening Marc.

  Scowling, the leader waved a hand contemptuously at him. “This is none of your concern, old man. Be off with you for we are on the king’s business.”

  The wizard brightened. “Ah. I know the king well. What might his business be with Marcus here?”

  The man bristled defensively. “His family has neglected to pay their honorarium for over two years.”

  Oren’s dark brown eyes narrowed, focusing more intently on the intruder who in turn stared back. Marc wondered if the old man’s gaze involved magic—the same magic that made Oren all-powerful. Never had the wizard been bested in a fight, or so he had heard. Knowing he was safe, Marc relaxed a little and stood his ground.

  Oren’s hand settled lightly upon Marc’s shoulder. “How do you expect Marcus to pay that debt when he has no money to give, Thaddeus?”

  The man poorly hid his surprise that the wizard knew his name. “His father used to pay in leather goods, but I will accept silver—or food.”

  Oren snorted in disgust. “That is the true reason you are here. To rob these people of their food under the guise of collecting an honorarium. You threaten Marcus’ life, counting on the good people of Oak Creek to come to his aid by giving you what you desire.” He looked about, then regarded Thaddeus once more. “And when the men of the village are conveniently absent, too. Have you no shame?”

  The man’s shoulders tightened at that. “A debt is owed and a debt will be collected.” Thaddeus redirected his spear toward Oren. “One way or another.”

  “Dīscinde!” the wizard barked, rapidly stepping to the side, then forward, to seize the shaft of the spear at its midpoint, his motions a blur almost too quick to follow. Snapping it in two as if it were a twig, the elder dropped the halves on the ground and retook his place beside Marc, who looked at him with awe and more than a bit of fear. “There will be no violence done here today. What is his debt?”

  Visibly shaken, Thaddeus glanced in confusion at his now empty hands. “Uh, five silver coins.”

  Oren frowned. “I see. Tell me, whom is your master?”

  “The king, of course.”

  “Do you serve him well?”

  “Yes. What is the meaning of these questions?”

  “I say that you do not serve him well. You serve yourself and your greed for the debt is only three silvers. Does not the king provide a warm place for you and your family? Does he not provide a fair wage and food?”

  Thaddeus nodded, his expression empty of emotion. For some reason, that caused Marc considerable worry.

  Oren subtly shook his head. “Why then must you risk losing all that for some coins? You do not honor your liege by lying to him and stealing from his subjects. I ask you again, what is their debt?”

  Thaddeus lowered his gaze, the muscles of his jaw tightening. “Three,” he grated through his clenched teeth. Rage practically boiled off of him.

  Marc started. How did Oren know what the true debt was?

  From inside his robe, the wizard produced thr
ee pieces of silver and handed them to Thaddeus. “The debt is paid. See to it that it is properly recorded. You would not like me to inform your master as to your disservice. Now, go and steal no more. If I hear it told that you are cheating any others, you will not live long enough to regret it.”

  Thaddeus’ gaze hardened. “Do not make threats you cannot carry out. You are old and feeble; I am in my prime. Break all the spears you want. You cannot protect yourself forever, no matter how potent your magic. One day an arrow or lance will silence your mouth.”

  Extending his right arm, Oren said, “Volitā!” Marc watched in wonder as the front half of the broken spear rose up to float before Thaddeus, the blade a thumb’s width from his throat. “The only one who should be silenced is you. I could kill you with nothing more than a whisper, but now is not your time. I know the day of your death and how it will come. If you knew that, you would beg to die now.”

  Thaddeus tried to remain stone-faced, but Marc saw the traces of defeat in his eyes. For all the man’s outward bravado, he knew he could not best Oren.

  The wizard leaned closer and whispered, “Ārdē.” Marc flinched and the villagers gasped in awe as the piece of spear burst into blue fire. “If you still wish to kill me, be my guest. Take the weapon before you. Do not fear the flames for you will have an eternity to get used to them in hell.” Thaddeus warily eyed the weapon before him, his cheek twitching in terror as sweat beaded on his brow. “No? Well, you had your chance. Off with you.” Oren pointed southward.

  Thaddeus snarled a curse and batted the spearhead away with the back of his hand. It tumbled through the air coming to rest beneath the tall soldier’s horse. With a snort of alarm, the stallion fearfully scuttled to the side, almost dislodging his rider.

  “We will meet again.” Pivoting his own mount, Thaddeus began to leave.

  “Yes, we shall,” the wizard said with certainty.

  Marc studied Oren’s face as he reproached Thaddeus. A faint fire blazed within the wizard’s eyes—undoubtedly his magic power. That power called to Marc, touching his mind much like how the haunted tree came to him. A wisp of vertigo skittered continuously through his innards, almost as frightening as Thaddeus’ attempt to kill him. He wanted nothing to do with magic, fearing both it and those who wielded its might. Even so, he was deeply grateful for Oren’s protection.

  The short, black-haired man was last to turn his horse about. Oren glanced at Marc, his mother, then back at the man. “Atellus,” Oren said sharply.

  The soldier stopped his mount and looked back at the wizard, a foul expression on his face.

  “Scinde!” Oren commanded while snapping his fingers. With a sudden shout of pain, Atellus clamped his hand to the side of his head. Moments later, blood dribbled down his arm. “That is for attacking an unarmed woman. Be gone, coward.”

  Many of the women cheered as the man kicked his horse into a trot and caught up with his companions. Marc’s savior stood still, watching the intruders ride away. Once they were out of sight, the sensation Marc felt abated and Oren turned to him.

  “I doubt they will return anytime soon.” The elder sounded pleased, even amused.

  “I hope so, Great One.” Overcome with relief and gratitude, Marc fell to his knees, bowing low. “A thousand thanks for my life and that of my family. Tell me how I may repay you.”

  “For your life, or the three coins?” the master of all asked, his voice gentle.

  “Both.”

  “Stand.”

  Fearing him, Marc obeyed, keeping his view averted.

  “There is no need to repay me. Your village has always been kind to me and thus is under the protection of the magic I command. When you saved Sean’s life today, did you expect repayment?”

  A chill came over Marc and his knees suddenly weakened, threatening to drop him to the ground. How could Oren possibly know about that? “Uh, no, I... I did not. But the three silver—”

  The wizard waved his hand dismissively. “Not important. They are merely coins and I have more than I need. Let us discuss this later. For now, retrieve the animal that you and Sean have brought back.”

  Marc glanced at Sean and found him equally surprised. “Master, how did you know that?”

  The old man gave him a faint, almost playful, smile. “The magic around us knows all things. I am most fortunate to have its favor. Now, go, for the sooner you bring it back, the sooner it may be prepared.”

  Marc hesitated, looking toward his mother; she held a bloody cloth to her temple. “But—”

  “Do not worry,” Oren said reassuringly. “I will see to your mother’s injury. Off with you.”

  Marc and Sean ran to where they left their catch and found the wolf had some company—tied next to it was a fine hare, its neck still ringed with one of the snares they had set earlier.

  Stunned, Sean cautiously touched it. “How did this happen?”

  Marc had little doubt. “Oren.”

  “You think so? How would he know one of our snares had caught a hare?”

  “And how would he bring it here? Magic, of course.” Marc gingerly touched the rabbit’s fur, half expecting to feel something out of the ordinary upon it, but it felt normal.

  Sean touched it as well. “Such magic is frightening.”

  Marc nodded, a shiver coursing through him as he again felt the distant tree’s presence. Closing his eyes, he tried to will it away. “I want nothing to do with it.”

  — o O o —

  Sean brought the animals back for the women to prepare while Marc hurried to his mother’s side. He found her sitting upon a bench outside the cookhouse, the left side of her dress stained with blood. Oren, Valeria and his sisters stood beside her.

  He dropped to one knee and carefully reached out to cup her cheek in his hand. “Mother. How are you?”

  He tried to inspect her injury, but she smiled and pulled him into a one-armed hug on the clean side of her body. “Well. Oren kindly healed my wound.” She touched her head just above the left ear. The wound was gone save for a faint pink line.

  Grateful beyond words, Marc bowed to the wizard. “Again, my thanks.”

  “None is needed for I am here to serve.”

  Marc found the wizard’s statement confusing. Something must have shown in his face for Oren cocked his head and let out a little grunt of doubt.

  “You seem unwilling to believe me.”

  Scrambling to collect his thoughts, Marc said, “I do not understand why you say you are here to serve for you possess great power. We should be the ones serving you.”

  The wizard smiled, lightly stroking his beard. “I see your point. Yes, I do have much power at my command. But that does not mean I am supposed to rule the lives of others. Our Creator tells us from those who have been given much, much is expected.” Oren placed his large hand on Marc's shoulder and gently squeezed. “Let’s pretend you had some of the magic power I possess, power enough to protect the innocent from those who serve evil, or—” He nodded at Marc's mother. “The power to heal. Would you demand fealty or payment for using that power to help others, or would you share it freely?”

  While Marc would never desire such abilities, he understood the master’s point. “Freely, most certainly.”

  Letting out a warm chuckle, Oren nodded. “Indeed.” He turned to Marc's mother. “How are you feeling now, Judith?”

  Her broad smile gladdened Marc's heart. “Much better. The headache is all but gone. God bless you.” Leaning forward, she gave the wizard a hug, then kissed his cheek.

  Looking a bit embarrassed, Oren winked at him. “Now that is a payment I am happy to accept.” Several of the nearby women laughed.

  Valeria eagerly touched Marc's arm, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “You should have seen how his magic healed her. The wound closed up before my eyes. Wouldn’t you love to have such magic? I would.”

  Marc gave her what he hoped looked like an agreeable, yet noncommittal, smile. The notion of having magic further invade
his life unnerved him but he wisely did not voice those thoughts for she would invariably try to convince him otherwise. Instead, he hugged his mother again. “I’m pleased you are better.” As her arms embraced him, he heard excited voices to the south—the men had returned. Helping her stand, he turned to see Garrett approach their visitor and greet him with a warm handshake.

  “Oren the Wise. Welcome. What good fortune brings you to our village?”

  “I came to see how the crops are growing.”

  “Well. Very well, in fact. The rye and wheat are longer than my fingers already. If the weather does not turn against us, we should have a bountiful harvest.”

  Oren nodded slightly. “All signs are you will.”

  “Wonderful. Please, share our meal. It’s not much but what we have is yours.”

  “You will have a good meal this day thanks to Marc and Sean.” Oren nodded at Marc. “Tell him of your day’s adventure.”

  Marc did, leaving out the parts about the mysterious man, his odd feelings and being near the Vale. “—and when we went to get the wolf out of the tree, we found a hare had been added to it.”

  Sean nodded in the wizard’s direction. “One we didn’t bring with us.”

  Garrett’s eyebrows rose as he looked at Oren. “Your handiwork, my friend?”

  Oren gave him a thin smile. “I am also here for another reason. I need help around my home. Some chores, repairs—things I am getting too old to do.”

  “Whatever you need, just ask, my friend.”

  “I will bring it up after the meal.” Oren stood silent for a moment, idly playing with the cuffs of his sleeves. “Tell me, Garrett, have you ever met Thaddeus?”

  “One of the king’s men?” At the wizard’s nod, Garrett’s expression soured. “Yes, several times. A most unpleasant fellow. I don’t know what the king sees in him.”