Bronze Magic (Book 1) Read Free

the guard like a stone.
Pandemonium broke out. Tarkyn held his focus, knowing nothing
could touch him, if he held firm. But now, every guard in the room
attacked. Swords, arrows and beams of magic drove at the beleaguered
prince from all sides. Every arrow or shaft of power that struck the bronze
dome around him reflected back at a different angle, ricocheting around
the Great Hall, injuring and killing guards randomly.
The air fizzed with a maze of dazzling colours as shafts of magic zigzagged crazily around the Great Hall. All around him guards died, either
killed by reflected power or arrows. The constant assault of ricocheting
power pockmarked the vast cream walls of the Hall, sending chunks of
plaster spraying down on the unshielded guardsmen. But still the guards
kept up their attack. In the midst of it all, Tarkyn simply stood there,
stunned into immobility but rigidly holding his focus, as arrows, beams
of magic and masonry assailed him from every side before careening off
his shield to add to the bedlam.
Then cracks began to appear in the ceiling and pillars. Within
moments, aggression turned to fear. Anyone left standing turned tail and
ran. With the imminent collapse of the Great Hall, the guards’ desperate
efforts to save themselves thrust all other considerations aside.
Dimly, Tarkyn realised that while the guards were preoccupied, he had
to find a way out. Unnoticed, he crawled beneath the huge wooden table
and finally released his shield. He strained his mind to remember the
words of the re-summoning spell he had read, desperately hoping that
he could make it work. He drew a deep breath and, focusing his will on
his surcoat, muttered, “ Maya Mureva Araya. ...” Between one breath and
the next, he felt himself disintegrate into oblivion before landing
nauseated but safe, at the origin of his clothing in a tailor’s shop near the
edge of town.
or some little while he lay there, wrestling with the shock of the ‘
disintegration that he had endured in the course of his translocation.
He nearly vomited at the thought of it. But as he recovered, he felt
a certain satisfaction that his spell had worked. The events in the Great
Hall crowded at the edges of his mind, but he could not yet allow himself
to think about the scene of devastation he had left behind.
Once the feeling of sickness had passed, Tarkyn realised he was lying
on a long wooden workbench. He rolled off the bench to land cat-like
on his feet, then stood up slowly, grasping the edge of the bench for
support while he regained his sense of balance. A strange combination
of dull orange light from a street lamp a little way down the road and
moonlight, picked out vague shapes in the darkened workroom. As his
eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he realised that the mounds
in the corner were in fact neatly stacked piles of cloth. Completed shirts,
surcoats, cloaks and leggings hung in racks along the rear wall. It was
the middle of the night and the workmen were all at home in their beds.
It seemed no apprentices slept on the premises. He let out a sigh, thinking
that luck was with him.
“Oh, very lucky!” he said sourly to himself.For a moment, the enormity
of his situation threatened to overwhelm him, but he resolutely kept his
mind in the present, knowing he could not afford the luxury of reflection
until he was well away from Tormadell.
Although his own surcoat had been made here, he had never been to
this workshop himself. All fittings were done at the palace. So he had no
idea where he was. As he sat on a pile of cut cloth wondering what to do
next, he gradually became aware of distant shouting. Several times, he
heard running footsteps on the cobbles outside the factory. When the
shouting drew nearer, for horrified moments he thought that the guards
had worked out his location. But no. It was merely townsfolk regaling
each other with the drama of the Great Hall’s collapse and urging each