Haunted Tree (The Magus Family Chronicles Book 1)

by Scott Robert Scheller

  Now that it was freed, he again put a bubble about the tree, but this time it took all of his effort, his magic temporarily weakened from using the Blade so much. With perspiration beading his brow, he completed the task and could not help but grin as it ponderously rose and slowly drifted to his side of the creek, the shadow of its bulk falling over him as it passed. After it fully cleared the creek’s bank, he released the bubble and the tree fell hard, landing with loudly snapping limbs and a deep thump he felt in his bones. Once the wildly swaying branches calmed, he walked up and placed a hand upon the thick trunk, half-doubting what he just accomplished. He grinned again thinking how pleased the master—no, Oren, his friend—would be. So, too, would Valeria. He wanted so much to share this with her right now.

  Remembering his duty, Marc put that desire aside, tempered his thoughts and Envisioned the area to the east and northeast. Those approaching from Oak Creek were past Broken Rock, putting them about fifteen minutes away. To the north, he found Gildas and those from the northern villages twice as distant. But Thaddeus and his men were about to emerge from the woods east of the falls. His stomach soured. What if his plan did not go as expected? What if Thaddeus or one of his men did something unforeseen? Marc knew the danger of making the face-off with his enemy into a grand show, especially with as little experience at being a wizard as he had. One false move could mean his own death. He had to trust himself and Oren’s training. Dropping to his knees, he crossed himself and said a quick prayer for strength and wisdom.

  Now in the clear, the three men spotted him and rode his way. As they drew near, the Nothingness flowed out ahead of them, its rank corruption fouling his senses. Marc fought down the chill of fear rising within him; such evil must not be allowed to live another day. And yet doubt continued to pull at his conscience, his reluctance to kill as strong as ever. The conflict grew until Thaddeus dismounted and stood across the creek from him. Inspecting the depth of the creek and its sheer, rocky banks, the man glanced up and down its course.

  “Well, Marcus, we meet again. Unfortunately, we cannot cross over here.” He looked at where the fallen tree had been, studying the depressions in the soil on either side. Shifting his gaze, he saw where it now lay. “It seems you removed that tree,” he said mockingly, pointing at it. “Afraid, are you?”

  Concealing his inner discord, Marc casually leaned on his staff. “Not in the least. I have no need of a bridge. If you wish to enter the Forbidden Vale, make another. But do so at your own peril.” Marc met the gazes of Rutilus and Atellus, and hardened his voice. “To enter here is to forfeit your life. I warned you not to return.” The men heard every word.

  Thaddeus threw back his head and laughed. “Brave talk for a lowly apprentice.”

  Marc gave him a loose smile and nodded his head toward the fallen tree. “An apprentice with magic enough to hinder your progress. You command some magic, Thaddeus. Please, return this tree to its resting place and cross over. The sooner you die, the better for all concerned.”

  Hatred, pure and hot, poured into the man’s eyes. “Do not mock me, boy. It will be you who dies this day.” Spinning about, he strode angrily downstream, his dark brown hair fanning out behind him like a lion’s mane. His men shot Marc a guarded look and followed.

  “Flee now and live,” Marc told them. “Remember Tomar at the graveyard?” Making a slicing motion in front of his neck, Marc perceived only mild apprehension come from the companions. Strange, he expected a stronger response. Stranger still, their emotions rapidly changed to a sense of smugness about… what? Trying to probe deeper, he found no immediate reason for it. In fact, he sensed far less information from them than expected, and that disturbed him. Was something wrong with his magic? Smiling, the men turned and followed their master.

  Walking south along the bank, Marc kept up with them. They selected a tall, narrow pine much smaller than the tree he removed—at most three hands across—and began hacking at its trunk with their swords. Slow work at best. Moving a safe distance away, Marc sat upon a large rock and watched them, ever alert for an arrow or spear sent his way. During this time his magic regained its strength. Several minutes into their labors, Marc felt a very subtle sensation come over him, much like being Envisioned, but somehow different. If he had not been idle at the moment, he doubted he would have noticed it at all. Could someone be watching him? He knew without a doubt it was not Oren or Valeria for their magic had a bright, clear feel to it, even when they tried to conceal their Envisioning. This magic felt wrong in some way. Very wrong.

  Bending to pick up a twig, he surreptitiously looked around for someone else in the area, but found no one. Reaching out with his mind, he immediately collided with the unknown force and the sensation instantly swelled in strength, revealing a malicious intent to the magic. Then, just as quickly, it vanished leaving no Trace for him to follow. A brief Envision from high above showed no one unexpected in the area. Someone possessing strong, wizard-level magic just spied on him. But whom? Thaddeus had a little magic, but nothing like what he just felt. Did another wizard live nearby? Might it be one of the people coming from the north? He had no clue. Maybe Oren would know, but now was not the time to be thinking on other subjects. He returned his focus to his enemies. Vigilance.

  When Thaddeus and his men had cut a quarter-way through their tree, Marc saw the people from Oak Creek come into view. With them were the survivors of Fox Glen and the soldiers who renounced Crowe. Leading the way, Garrett waved at him. Returning the greeting, Marc pointed to the north with his staff. Nodding, Garrett turned the column that way. Moments later, he felt the comfort of Valeria’s presence.

  —I see I am not too late to witness murderers become woodsmen,— she Linked.

  His tension did not allow him to share in her levity even though he knew she meant to lighten his mood. —I moved the bridge to delay them. Would you mind guiding our friends from the village to the viewing place we agreed upon earlier?—

  —My pleasure. I’ll keep them at a safe distance.— Her demeanor turned more serious, communicating her concern and love. —Be careful.—

  Marc continued to watch the men whittle away at the tree until Gildas’ group entered the meadow and joined those from Oak Creek several hundred paces upstream. By now the uncut portion of the trunk was about a hand’s breadth wide, small enough for him to Blade. Standing, Marc approached the creek. “I tire of waiting. Move aside.” When they complied, he raised his staff high and brought it down in a chopping motion as he loudly commanded, “Scinde!” At the same moment, he cleanly severed the remainder of the trunk with one blow, then pulled the upper part of the tree toward him so it fell across the creek in a shower of dust and needles. Thaddeus’ men looked uneasily at Marc.

  —It begins, Val.— He beckoned to the three, his voice foreboding. “Come, enter my realm.”

  Marc backed away, watching them closely. Thaddeus motioned for his taller companion to go first. After a slight hesitation, Rutilus held his spear high and made his way through the now vertical branches jutting from the tree, breaking off several lesser boughs blocking his passage. Once he was safely across, Thaddeus and the other man followed. Immediately thereafter, Marc lifted his hands, palm up. “Volitā!” The tree Floated up and over to the far side of the water, eliciting gasps and cries from the witnesses, though muted due to the distance. His enemies watched the tree’s movement with nervous interest. Once it settled, they looked at him questioningly. “I insist you stay.”

  Assuming aggressive postures, the men spread out wide and circled around him, inching closer. Marc had anticipated they would try to attack him simultaneously from different directions, thinking he could only handle one attacker at a time. “Confident, are we?”

  Atellus, the short, dark skinned man, pulled an arrow from his quiver and put it to his bow. “The wolves will scavenge your carcass before the sun sets—unless you yield to us.”

  “Yield? Why would I do that?” Again, Marc felt that same smugness emanate f
rom him.

  “If we die, so do your sister and brother.” A wicked smile spread across his face revealing stained and broken teeth.

  Marc immediately Envisioned the crowd of villagers gathered across the creek—the act taking far more effort than normal for some reason—and found Gwen was not there. He did see his mother and Stella wandering around, searching for something. Coincidence? He quickly tried Envisioning Gwen and got—nothing. It was like she didn’t exist. What about viewing something else, like the village? Straining, he barely sensed anything. What was happening?

  Keeping his momentary flare of concern from showing on his face, he assumed the man only bluffed. After all, Marc had no brother, so Atellus had to be lying in order to upset and confuse him. Just to be sure, Marc probed his mind—or tried to. His efforts only yielded a weak sense of the man’s state of mind and emotions, but enough to learn Atellus spoke what he believed to be the truth. A heaviness settled over Marc. Why did his magic almost fail him twice now, much like it did after Sean died? The Almighty caused the latter, he believed, but what, or who, caused this current lapse? Had he displeased God somehow? Should he have dealt with Thaddeus at the graveyard yesterday? Was this a punishment for that failure?

  Unsure, Marc tried using other forms of magic. Looking past the men, he easily moved a branch on the newly fallen tree. Relieved, he found making a bubble about himself had not changed, either. But when he tried reading the Traces upon his father’s whistle hanging about his neck, the images were much harder to draw out, as if his magical abilities had lessened. Apparently, only those gifts associated with reading and sensing were weaker. Strange. Trying to set his worry aside, he pressed on.

  “How will that happen if you never leave this place, Atellus?”

  “They are all but dead now.” Rutilus hefted his spear, watching him closely.

  “They do not lie,” Thaddeus said with more than a touch of ridicule. “Your magic should tell you that.”

  Marc instantly realized Thaddeus said your magic, not the magic. Did he know the truth, or only suspect it? Or was it just the turn of a phrase? “What do you hope to gain by telling me this?”

  Thaddeus’ steely gaze locked with his, the black of his eyes matching the stain upon his soul. “If you want them to live you have two choices—leave here and never return, or let us kill you. We will be swift and merciful.”

  Marc tried reading Thaddeus’ thoughts but got even less from him than from Atellus. It reminded him of—of course! Oren could shield his thoughts and emotions from others. Marc, along with Valeria, were just beginning to learn that skill, but surely Thaddeus did not posses enough magical strength to do so. Or did he? Unsettled, Marc turned to Atellus, prompting him in order to bring memories to the surface.

  “I hope my brother at least put up a good fight.”

  Immediately, the man recalled several indistinct flashes of Gwen and James, the boy from Fox Glen, being clubbed unconscious, bound and thrown over horses. If Marc had his full strength he could have gotten more detailed information from the man’s mind.

  Bitter anger welled up inside Marc, an unquenchable fire that demanded the injustice visited upon his sister and James be answered with swift, merciless wrath. Barely keeping his temper, he again tried very hard to Envision Gwen and felt only the vaguest sense of her existence and nothing else. About James he got nothing. Why had his magic forsaken him? Despair festered in his heart. Gwen’s life was in danger because of him; a fool who thought his magic could solve everything. He was no wizard, only a feeble pretender. If Gwen died, it would be his fault. His failure.

  Thaddeus pivoted his sword in swift, tight circles, his lustful smirk revealing he thought himself near victory. “What will it be, apprentice? Banishment, or death?”

  For a moment Marc’s hope faded as the temptation to cede to them grew strong. Then, suddenly realizing something didn’t seem right about his shifting emotions, he struggled to center his thoughts and suppress his passion. Nothing was ever hopeless, Oren had told him that many times. A solution could always be found if one looked hard enough. Bolstered by that thought, he straightened his back, firmed his grip on his staff, and decided that now was not the time to give up.

  “Neither. You know I cannot abandon my people to your kind. That would make me as cowardly as you.”

  “Then they die,” the tall man said, his soulless grin partially hidden behind greasy red locks.

  Marc shrugged. “If they must.” Narrowing his eyes, he slowly extended the end of his staff toward the man and said with calm power, “But I promise, you will die before they do.”

  Rutilus spat on the ground, hate radiating off him as he jutted his chin toward Marc. “Empty words. You will not let them die. You are weak.”

  “I am stronger than you know. It is you who are weak. Three against one,” Marc said with contempt. “Does it make you feel strong to strike down unarmed children and steal away with them like a thief? Tell me where they are and I will be merciful.”

  Growling, the man stepped menacingly toward him and Marc blasted him with a wave of magic, knocking him off his feet to tumble to a stop fifteen paces away. Spinning about, he did the same to Thaddeus and the other man. “Follow me to the other side of the hill if you choose.” Floating rapidly skyward, Marc tried again to seek out Gwen. Her presence came to him, but still much weaker than it should. Gladness filled him. As he drifted higher and to the north, his sense of her grew clearer and more potent—she was east of the village. It appeared Thaddeus himself somehow affected his magic.

  Marc found that she and James were in a dark place, tied at the wrists and ankles. Laying in a foot or so of water, neither moved. Pulling his perspective back, he saw they were in an old, shallow well. He recognized the place. A skin had been stretched over the opening with dozens of tree branches piled on top. Straining hard, he probed Gwen’s mind and found her groggy, cold and in pain. James was unconscious and a dried trickle of blood lined the side of his head. Both needed help right away.

  Anxious, he started to Link to Oren for advice, but then stopped. As the wizard being tested, he was expected to meet all challenges alone. So, what could he do to help his sister? Maybe he could wake her up. But how? An unexpected hunch made him think of Linking to her. Was that possible? She’s destined for magic and her aura is fairly strong, but was it too soon for her gifts to come forth? No harm in trying. Clearing his thoughts, he attempted to Link with her mind.

  —Gwen? Gwen, can you hear me?—

  He felt no reaction from her. He repeated the effort several more times with the same results. By now the Great Tree lay directly below him. Maybe its power could help. Dropping swiftly to the ledge, he ran up and hugged its trunk. With a resonant thrum, the energy of the place entered him, prickling the hairs on his arms.

  —Gwen?—

  —Who... ?— came her weak reply.

  He let out a breath of relief as the Link firmed up. —It’s Marc. Magic is letting us talk.—

  —Marc?— Her emotions spiked with both hope and alarm. —Help me. Help us.—

  —I will. Try to be calm. How is James?—

  —He fought bravely, trying to protect me, but got hurt. Thaddeus and some men took us.—

  —I know.—

  —My head hurts bad. It’s dark and very cold here. We’re sitting in water.—

  —Yes, you’re in the old well east of the oat field.—

  —Free us.—

  —I will, but it will take time to get someone to you, so be patient. Now hold still.— Marc examined the ropes about her. At first he thought about Blading them in two, but worried that even if he could sever the bindings from so far away, the distance may not allow him the control needed to keep from injuring his sister. Even with the power boost from the Tree, it took much effort and time to untie her hands. When the rope dropped into the water her anxiety ebbed. — Undo the rope by your feet then free James.—

  —Can’t you do it?—

  —I don’t
have time. The men who took you are trying to kill me right now.—

  —Kill you?— Her fear rebounded sharply, but this time it was felt for him.

  —Trust that I will prevail. Help is on the way. Try thinking this way to Val or Oren. They should hear you. I love you, my sister.—

  —I love you, too, Brother. You’re going to win,— she added after a moment, pride infusing her Link.

  He hoped so. Releasing the tree, he ran north down the path to the area near Hell’s Gate. Could he contact Valeria or Oren now to dispatch help, or did he have to wait until after the test? Gwen and James might not last that long. He’d rather fail the test than put their lives in jeopardy. Trusting his hunch, he Linked to his former master.

  —Oren, may I instruct others to do something not directly related to my test?—

  —Indeed you may.—

  —Thank God.— He explained the predicament Gwen and James were in. —Can you send several men on horses to rescue them?—

  —Gladly. And your mother has been in a panic over Gwen’s absence. I will allay her fears. Well done.—

  Oren’s compliment did little to ease Marc’s concerns, his plans falling more into ruin with each passing moment. Glancing across the creek, he saw the crowd gathering by the water’s edge with Valeria and Oren at the forefront. All would witness his success or failure. Having so many depending on him for their freedom weighed him down, and yet their faith in him also gave him strength. A curious contrast. Seeing that the wind came out of the east, he ran to a point fifty paces east of Hell’s Gate, then watched his foes approach from along the shore of the creek.