Haunted Tree (The Magus Family Chronicles Book 1)

by Scott Robert Scheller

  “Crowe’s men are nearly there. It’s time we take our places below.”

  Chapter 28

  Marc’s heartbeat quickened. The time had come; the enemy would appear at any second. Taking slow, deep breaths like Oren taught him, he fought off the panic creeping into his thoughts and began walking eastward along the northern edge of the meadow, trying not to look hurried or aware that over sixty well-armed and dangerous men were all but upon him. His starting position had been carefully chosen, putting him far enough from the bend in the western path to be safe from arrows, yet close enough to be clearly spotted. The plan relied on Thaddeus’ hatred of Marc—and possibly Crowe’s as well—to cause them to pursue him eastward to the graveyard instead of proceeding further along the established path toward the village. This action would hopefully fragment the enemy forces by separating the foot soldiers from their leaders, while also tiring the men by running them through difficult terrain. It was also hoped that the attackers would arrive at their destination man by man instead of as a group, delaying the start of combat.

  Those on horseback were the first to emerge from the woods. Hearing their cry of alarm, Marc spun about and pretended to be surprised. Thaddeus immediately kicked his mount into a full gallop. Dashing north into the trees, Marc did not have to work much at pretending to be frightened. If he failed to time things correctly, he would likely be the first of many to die. Fifteen seconds of running time ahead rose the rocky embankment that ran roughly east-west for a mile in each direction. Averaging over twenty feet high, its slope was steep enough that neither man nor horse could readily climb it. Twenty seconds behind followed Thaddeus. Plenty of time to spare.

  Marc had practiced this move while waiting. The woods were thick here and one false move could cause him to fall or dash his head against a branch. Gulping down air, he swung around the large gray oak, under the branch and over the log behind it. For an ordinary man, the embankment would be impossible to quickly scale. But not for a wizard. With a bound, he Floated up and over the edge, landing on his feet just as Thaddeus’ horse skidded to a stop, hampered by the dense growth. Marc sensed the arrow flying past several feet above his head. He’d timed it perfectly.

  “You cannot hide from me, apprentice,” Thaddeus shouted derisively.

  Continuing east, Marc ran along the ridge’s crest, creating a deep furrow in the thigh-high grass. “Of course I can, murderer,” he answered loudly, knowing full well that hearing his voice would draw Thaddeus and the others after him. “I can outrun you or any of your men.”

  Envisioning the meadow, Marc saw Crowe draw up next to his evil cousin and shout, “A hundred silver to the man who brings him down!” while directing the entire column of men after him. Marc felt a surge of satisfaction—and relief—that Oren had correctly predicted their attacker’s actions. At first, Marc crashed through the underbrush and snapped off small, low-hanging dead branches, making enough noise to ensure the foot soldiers would know where to follow him. Those on horseback, however, would have to detour far to the west to get around the impediment. By then Marc hoped to be at the graveyard.

  Running hard, he stretched out his legs, taking full strides, his magic letting him avoid hazards hidden by the deep grass, ones deliberately placed by him and citizens of Oak Creek—many short, sharpened sticks buried vertically in the earth, foot-high ropes stretched between trees, carefully concealed holes and other devious traps meant to injure the unwary. He easily made it to the graveyard before any of his pursuers and saw the adults of the village gathered about a freshly dug grave. Valeria, her face concealed by her robe’s hood, stood with Donald, Garrett and Oren. Nodding at the four of them, he took his place beside the master as the sound of rapid hoof beats approached from the west.

  Bringing their horses to a halt several dozen paces outside the graveyard, the riders held back, apparently waiting for the others to catch up. Crowe and Thaddeus warily eyed Oren, who stood straight and tall, both hands firmly grasping his staff planted vertically on the ground, his stern gaze meeting theirs. A steady stream of soldiers emerged from the trees and clustered behind their leaders, panting heavily. Many bore heavy scratches and deep cuts, especially on their legs, thanks to the traps set for them. Two men favored an arm and a quick Envisioning told Marc those limbs were broken. Only after his men had assembled did Crowe lead them forward.

  Garrett addressed Crowe as if no threat were evident. “Do you come to pay your respects to the dead, my lord?” Crowe and several of his men laughed contemptuously. Glancing at Oren, Garrett gave him a slight smile then turned back. “No? Then I ask you to leave us to bury our brother in peace.”

  Crowe responded with a cold, inhuman glare, and Marc shivered as the Nothingness swelled within the man, Thaddeus and others around them. The clammy, almost slimy, sensation of it against his spirit felt wrong in every way, as if it opposed everything good, even life itself. An equally cold sneer curled the man’s lips. “We came to give him plenty of company.”

  Like you and Thaddeus, Marc thought hopefully to himself. He watched the two leaders carefully as Oren advanced several steps past Garrett. “Shame be upon you, Simon Crowe. I knew you as a young man. Then you were eager to serve the king and protect us from the invaders from across the sea. He once trusted you. Now you betray all that, destroying his land and people with your lust for power.” The wizard pointed his staff southward. “Leave us, or die this day.”

  The corner of Crowe’s mouth lifted in a dismissive smirk. “So you say, old man. Your magic did nothing to protect the king from his nephew. Now he’s dead and left no heir. Someone must rule and it shall be me. Those who refuse to serve me will feed the worms.” Crowe’s gaze shifted lazily to the village leader. “Garrett, I give your people one last chance. Serve me or die.”

  Garrett looked at his neighbors. “What say you?” A chorus of emphatic noes rose loudly from them.

  Oren pounded his staff defiantly on the ground and thundered, “They will not submit to a servant of evil.”

  Crowe shrugged as if his decision were unimportant. “As you wish.” He nodded at his archers. “Kill the old man first.”

  As one, a handful of men drew back their bows and loosed a flock of arrows. The breath in Marc’s chest froze as Oren simultaneously made a great outward sweep of his arms and calmly commanded, “Mē dēfende!” The shafts halted several paces from the wizard, then dropped harmlessly to the ground amid gasps of surprise from many villagers and even some of the soldiers. Visibly tensing, the archers glanced uncertainly at each other. Oren gave Crowe an unyielding look. “You cannot harm me.”

  Even knowing the master expected the assault, seeing how smoothly his teacher countered the threat amazed and impressed Marc. Outwardly, Crowe appeared unaffected by what happened, but Marc’s magic told him otherwise; only the man’s arrogance—arrogance supported by the evil within—held his fear in check. Crowe already thought himself king, believing he had the right to decide who lived or died.

  Glancing at the fallen arrows littering the ground, Crowe leaned back on his horse, pursed his lips for a moment, then said, “Very well, but the others have no magic to protect them.”

  Struck by the eerie similarity to Thaddeus’s earlier threat, Marc glanced over at the black-clad figure who glared hatefully at him.

  Oren took a deliberate step forward, almost stomping his foot down, his gaze hard iron. “I will protect them.” He faced the soldiers and gestured toward the villagers. “Whomever moves against these people will earn my wrath and that of the magic I command.”

  Thaddeus laughed. He tried to make it sound derisive, but it ended up coming across as hollow. The man deeply feared Oren and—Marc suddenly realized Thaddeus feared him as well.

  “You? Protect everyone here from all of us? Ha. You are too feeble, old man. You are not long for the grave yourself. Why not save everyone the trouble of killing you and crawl into that grave there.” He pointed at the hole next to Sean’s prone body, an eyebrow arched
in query. “Is that for the one I killed earlier? Pity. I meant to kill your apprentice.” The man’s gaze turned back to Marc. “I’ll get him soon enough.”

  Thaddeus’s malicious stare pierced Marc’s spirit like an icy lance; he meant what he said. Some of Crowe’s men gave Marc the same look, the Nothingness about their spirits directing its hateful attention at him, as if it were alive, a being unto its own right.

  With a sickening sense of dread, Marc knew his test had come.

  “Do not mock magic and the dead,” Oren shouted with authority, “for this is hallowed ground. Do evil here and the dead will rise up against you.”

  Warm magic flowed outward from the master, momentarily blocking the evil focused his way. In the lull, Marc now felt many of the men considering whether they should flee, their hatred of their leader evident. He also felt the Nothingness knew this, too, and had just tried to prevent him from detecting it. Maybe it was alive.

  Crowe looked questioningly to Thaddeus who shook his head. “The wizard is only bluffing, my lord. The dead do not rise.”

  Portaeus emerged from the ranks and, after a worried glance Oren’s way, dropped to one knee before his commander. “He’s a powerful wizard, my lord. He once broke my sword with only a twig and two demons serve him. Please, my lord, let us leave here now.” For a moment, Marc hoped Portaeus’ plea might find a receptive ear. Then the man suddenly stiffened, eyes bulging, then fell lifeless to his right, an arrow protruding from the left side of his chest.

  Gesturing with his bow, Thaddeus glared malevolently at his men. “Any other traitors among you?”

  Worry began to gain a foothold in Marc’s mind. Oren’s edge had vanished—the men now feared Thaddeus more. Seeing that as well, Crowe began to gesture for his men to attack when Oren raised his voice once more.

  “Spirits of Justice, come inhabit the body of our murdered Sean so that he may bear witness against his killer. Take the evil soul of that man to the lake of fire where his flesh will be seared for all time. Come now, for I, Oren the Wise, command it!” —Now, Marc,— his teacher Linked.

  Marc watched as all eyes shifted to look upon his friend’s corpse. Doing his best to conceal his grief and revulsion at defiling his friend’s remains, Marc reached out with his magic and, with great effort and concentration, manipulated Sean’s body, making it sit up, open its eyes and look at Thaddeus. Even though he had practiced this before heading to the meadow to wait for Crowe’s army, the effect did not look anything like a body coming back to life, its movements too jerky and uneven. A gasp rose up from both the villagers and soldiers. Crowe’s eyes widened as Sean stood and walked stiffly toward him, the villagers hastily parting as he passed. When Sean stood beside Oren, Marc had the body first look at, then point to, Thaddeus.

  Oren directed the end of his staff toward the accused. “By his own admission, and by the direction of the spirits within Sean’s body, Thaddeus is to be condemned to eternal death. Those who follow him will earn the same fate.” The wizard slowly swept his staff toward the soldiers. “Do further evil here and all the dead will rise. And not just those dead resting here, but those of Fox Glen and everyone you killed in the past. They will pursue you night and day, never stopping to rest. You cannot escape them. Ever.”

  Close to panic, the soldiers muttered excitedly amongst themselves, anxiously glancing between Oren and Sean. Thaddeus gave out a thin, nervous laugh, his hands tightening on his mount’s reins. “Do not let this concern you, my lord. It is all a trick. Oren cannot command that sort of magic. No one can. The boy is alive, I tell you. Watch.” He put an arrow to his bow and pulled it far back, letting it fly. The shaft pierced the chest clear through. Of course, Sean did not flinch, and Marc had him look down at the arrow and slowly shake his head. Breaking off the tail, Sean cast it aside and trudged toward Thaddeus, an accusing arm raised, finger pointing out his killer.

  Thaddeus’ mouth hung open in disbelieving shock.

  “He doesn’t bleed,” one of the soldiers exclaimed in terror.

  “We should heed the wizard’s words,” said another, his voice wavering.

  “Poor Thaddeus,” Oren said sadly, turning to the men, his arms out to his side in a gesture of appeal. “Escape his miserable fate. Save yourselves. Turn against him and Crowe.”

  Highly agitated, the men fearfully looked about at each other, close to making a decision, one way or another. With a snort of disgust, Crowe pulled out his sword and held it up. “Atta—!” With a cry of surprise, he found he no longer held the weapon, which now flew through the air toward Oren.

  Catching its hilt, the wizard directed the tip at the previous owner, the sun glinting off the blade and into Thaddeus’ eyes. “You did not heed my warning, Crowe. Pay the price.” Raising the sword above his head, Oren swung it down upon a large stone, concurrently cleaving it in two with his magic Blade. “Rise, all you dead,” Oren bellowed with righteous anger. “Rise up against the evil that mocks your sleep. Rise up and take them to the grave.”

  Marc Linked to Valeria, —Hold Sean upright while I make Portaeus move.— When he felt her magic take hold of their friend’s remains, he made the dead soldier stand, pull his sword and lurch menacingly toward Thaddeus. Tomar and two others stepped before their leaders, swords at the ready. All three reeked of Nothingness.

  “Dead or not, you will not pass,” Tomar growled. While the man’s voice sounded firm enough, his eyes nearly glowed with fear.

  —When they draw near, swing Portaeus’ sword at their weapons and arms,— Oren said as Tomar cautiously inched closer.

  When the man got within range, Marc acted, his manipulation of the man’s body slow and awkward, but when Portaeus’ blade touched Tomar’s, the other’s weapon broke in two with a loud clang thanks to Oren’s magic. Jumping back in surprise, Tomar let the other two men have a go. As if repeating a often-practiced move, they simultaneously plunged their blades deeply into Portaeus’ belly. Taking advantage of their positioning, Marc immediately swung the sword at their extended arms while Oren severed them. Shrieking in pain and terror, the men retreated behind the others and jerked around in pain. Spitting out a foul curse, Tomar seized a spear from a nearby soldier and hurled it at Portaeus’ corpse, piercing his neck. Marc had the body reach up with its left hand, extract the shaft and flip it over into a throwing grip. With the two weapons still impaled in his chest, Portaeus advanced on Tomar, spear and sword held high. While sickened by the necessary mayhem, Marc found himself grateful it had the desired effect—Crowe’s grip on his men was loosening.

  —Throw the sword at him,— Oren Linked.

  Marc flung the sword and sensed Oren take control of it. The blade sang as it flattened out and sped toward the man’s neck. An instant later Tomar’s head tumbled with a crunch into a nearby bush as his limp body fell backward toward Crowe, spraying the leader with a shower of blood. Many of the soldiers let out shouts of alarm. The weapon circled back to Portaeus and Marc had the body’s hand catch it. As a group, the soldiers began to creep backwards, horrified gazes fixed upon their former comrade-turned-undead executioner.

  “Rise, RISE! dead of the village,” Oren said, his booming voice rich and sonorous.

  Panic flowed from Thaddeus like a gust of chill wind—his men were going to turn. From thirty paces behind, Marc sensed seven bodies emerge from their graves. Arms outstretched before them, the dead staggered slowly forward, soil and debris flaking away from their shroud-bound bodies. The villagers screamed and retreated while Crowe’s men also recoiled, bunching together in wide-eyed terror.

  Oren Floated six feet into the air, his deep green robe fluttering in the wind like a battle flag. “What do you fear more? Thaddeus’ bow, or the wrath of the dead?” He pointed Crowe’s sword at the two leaders. “They must die now if you are to escape this fate.”

  With a great, bestial roar, the bulk of the men charged Crowe and Thaddeus, the crushing intensity of their emotions nearly overwhelming Marc’s senses. Those who remained
loyal—each steeped heavily in the Nothingness—tried to fight them off. Feeling a sudden sense of danger, Marc’s back clenched tight as he found an arrow suspended in the air several feet before him. As it fell to the ground, he looked beyond and saw Thaddeus lowering his bow, cursing. Giving the man a look of cool disdain, Marc inwardly regretted his foolishness at letting the mêlée distract him. This was the second time he dropped his guard today. The second time someone else saved his life.

  —Keep vigilant,— Oren said flatly, landing nearby.

  Glancing hastily about for further immediate threats, Marc answered, —My thanks, Master, and my apologies.— Resolving to stay better aware of his surroundings, he returned some of his attention to Crowe and Thaddeus, whose followers had retreated to form a semi-circular shield about their leaders. Marc guessed their number to be a little under one-third of the total force. Crowe sat upon his mount, closest to his men, with Thaddeus behind him, furthest from the threatening forces. Thaddeus’s gaze caught his for just an instant, and in that moment, Marc knew the man was about to run. Incensed, Marc had to stop him, but how? Other than the knife on his hip, he had no bow or spear. Casting about, he spied one of the piles of hastily made spears concealed beneath some bushes. Releasing his hold upon Portaeus’ body, which crumpled limply to the ground, Marc uttered the unneeded spell and brought one of the spears to him with his mind. He heaved it at Thaddeus, who easily parried it with his sword. Retrieving another, Marc was about to try again, but could not get a clear shot because his target constantly moved due to the fighting around him. As he spotted an opening, Marc drew his arm back to throw only to be nearly knocked off his feet by Donald slamming into his right side.