parasites killing that old oak and then destroying each tree, one after the other. Think how that infestation nearly destroyed the forest in one fell swoop by making Rushwind hurt Tarkyn. Feed your anger into your images and then throw it all at him. Send him a view of you all working with him against these parasites.”
On the ground below them, Tarkyn’s body was awash with grey parasites. With a sickening lurch, the sorcerer realised they were changing direction and were slowly but surely converging on his brain. Tarkyn threw up a small magical barrier inside himself at the base of his skull but didn’t know whether, or for how long, it would hold. The thought of having his mind taken over filled him with fear, which almost instantly converted to outrage. He steadied his inner core then slammed outwards along his own blood vessels in rage at the grey parasites. His anger-driven life force picked them off one by one. But there were so many of them. He could feel his power holding its own, but the mental energy it was taking to maintain the anger was beginning to tell. Suddenly an incoming wave of horror-filled, angry images assailed him, igniting a deep fury within him. Tarkyn’s face contorted as the visions of the forest’s demise reached him. He dug deep and, reacting to the woodfolk’s images of destruction with every ounce of his strength, thrust a blast of power through himself that fried every parasite in its path. As his blood literally boiled under the attack, he screamed in pain, writhing on the ground before the eyes of the horrified woodfolk.
He had no strength left to heal the burning. He lay curled up in agony. He opened glazed eyes and struggled to form the words against the pain of his muscles, “Waterstone. Help me. I need a tree. A healthy one.” Then he closed his eyes and surrendered to the pain.
The woodfolk looked at each other uncertainly.
“I thought we couldn’t touch him,” said Falling Bough.
“He wouldn’t ask us to do it if it wasn’t safe. Something must have changed,” replied Waterstone firmly. “Let’s go.”
But when they touched him, the contact with him burned their hands. The woodfolk stripped off shirts and, wrapping them around their hands for protection, raised his contorting body.
Tarkyn didn’t feel them lift him and carry him to a tree, well away from the spreading infection. He didn’t feel his palm being placed against the trunk of a healthy tree and he was unaware of the worried faces above him. All he could feel was the pain of the burning in every part of his body. After a while, he began to shudder uncontrollably as his body went into shock.
“Quickly,” shouted Stormaway. “Get water. We have to cool him down.”
“But he’s already shivering.” objected North Wind.
“That’s shock. Not cold. You feel him. He’s burning up.” Stormaway looked down on the suffering young sorcerer who lay juddering against the trunk of another oak. He frowned. “He’s beginning to go into spasm. Some of you get water. The rest of you, gather around him. We’ll have to feed him some of our life force. He can’t focus enough to draw on the tree’s strength quickly enough. Someone will have to put their hand on his shoulder. It will hurt, I’m afraid.”
“I will do it,” said Summer Rain in a voice that brooked no argument, “It is my fault he is in this predicament. I told him it was safe.”
She placed her hand firmly on his shoulder, ignoring the slight hiss as it touched his skin. Her mouth tightened but other than that, she gave no indication of the pain she was enduring to keep her hand in place. The other woodfolk placed their hands on her shoulder and, under instruction from Stormaway, closed their eyes and reached down into their very essence to bring forth the stream of their life force. They channelled their combined strength through Summer Rain into their suffering forest guardian. A green vortex of power swirled lazily in the air
On the ground below them, Tarkyn’s body was awash with grey parasites. With a sickening lurch, the sorcerer realised they were changing direction and were slowly but surely converging on his brain. Tarkyn threw up a small magical barrier inside himself at the base of his skull but didn’t know whether, or for how long, it would hold. The thought of having his mind taken over filled him with fear, which almost instantly converted to outrage. He steadied his inner core then slammed outwards along his own blood vessels in rage at the grey parasites. His anger-driven life force picked them off one by one. But there were so many of them. He could feel his power holding its own, but the mental energy it was taking to maintain the anger was beginning to tell. Suddenly an incoming wave of horror-filled, angry images assailed him, igniting a deep fury within him. Tarkyn’s face contorted as the visions of the forest’s demise reached him. He dug deep and, reacting to the woodfolk’s images of destruction with every ounce of his strength, thrust a blast of power through himself that fried every parasite in its path. As his blood literally boiled under the attack, he screamed in pain, writhing on the ground before the eyes of the horrified woodfolk.
He had no strength left to heal the burning. He lay curled up in agony. He opened glazed eyes and struggled to form the words against the pain of his muscles, “Waterstone. Help me. I need a tree. A healthy one.” Then he closed his eyes and surrendered to the pain.
The woodfolk looked at each other uncertainly.
“I thought we couldn’t touch him,” said Falling Bough.
“He wouldn’t ask us to do it if it wasn’t safe. Something must have changed,” replied Waterstone firmly. “Let’s go.”
But when they touched him, the contact with him burned their hands. The woodfolk stripped off shirts and, wrapping them around their hands for protection, raised his contorting body.
Tarkyn didn’t feel them lift him and carry him to a tree, well away from the spreading infection. He didn’t feel his palm being placed against the trunk of a healthy tree and he was unaware of the worried faces above him. All he could feel was the pain of the burning in every part of his body. After a while, he began to shudder uncontrollably as his body went into shock.
“Quickly,” shouted Stormaway. “Get water. We have to cool him down.”
“But he’s already shivering.” objected North Wind.
“That’s shock. Not cold. You feel him. He’s burning up.” Stormaway looked down on the suffering young sorcerer who lay juddering against the trunk of another oak. He frowned. “He’s beginning to go into spasm. Some of you get water. The rest of you, gather around him. We’ll have to feed him some of our life force. He can’t focus enough to draw on the tree’s strength quickly enough. Someone will have to put their hand on his shoulder. It will hurt, I’m afraid.”
“I will do it,” said Summer Rain in a voice that brooked no argument, “It is my fault he is in this predicament. I told him it was safe.”
She placed her hand firmly on his shoulder, ignoring the slight hiss as it touched his skin. Her mouth tightened but other than that, she gave no indication of the pain she was enduring to keep her hand in place. The other woodfolk placed their hands on her shoulder and, under instruction from Stormaway, closed their eyes and reached down into their very essence to bring forth the stream of their life force. They channelled their combined strength through Summer Rain into their suffering forest guardian. A green vortex of power swirled lazily in the air
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