To find a magick defense against Vindrake’s vile killing creatures would be a prize worth researching in the archives. If we survive this night—an unlikely occurrence—I’ll convince Raelene we should remain in Glaenshire somewhat longer than planned, to allow more time to study the manuscripts.
From his position at the top of the tower on the tree-covered hill, Bardamen looked down on the town, expecting the streets to be deserted. To his surprise, however, a group of some twenty or thirty citizens stood near the entrance to the Craedenza, clearly visible in the waning light. A few appeared to be holding blades, but many were empty-handed, using only their bodies as barriers to the Craedenza entrance. Hopefully, the four Stone Clan warriors who’d accompanied them to Glaenshire would provide some protection for these men and women who foolishly risked their lives to guard the archives with no gifting or training as warriors.
His stomach wrenched as a wave of magick rolled through the sky, settling over Glaenshire—terror and despair. Anguished cries arose from the Craedenza crowd, and Bardamen knew the same was happening where the citizens cowered inside their homes.
Bardamen pushed at the dark magick with his mind and found little resistance. Closing his eyes, he blew a long, slow breath, picturing the darkness swirling away in the wind.
“Thou hast not given us a spirit of fear.”
The terr
or was gone, replaced by an eerie calm.
Vindrake has brought a weak shaman. Certainly, this is not the work of his chief. I wonder why he doesn’t use his own shaman power. Perhaps, though he has many gifts, he hasn’t the energy to wield them all at once.
A shout arose in the distance. Drums. Horns. The warriors approached on horseback, a small number—perhaps eighty or a hundred. But compared to the motley crew of Glaenshire villagers, plus the four Stone Clan warriors, it might as well have been a thousand. The group split in two, the majority riding toward the bridge that led to the Craedenza, while the other group circled to the bridge below, taking the direct path toward the town center.
Vindrake intends to frighten the town into submission, believing they will easily capitulate.
He almost wished Vindrake’s plan would work. But if Mera’s attitude were any indication, these people would sacrifice everything to protect Glaenshire. As much as Bardamen didn’t wish a victory for Water Clan, he also didn’t relish the idea of watching these good citizens die in a vain attempt to defend the Craedenza.
How can I protect them? We will surely be defeated, and many innocents will die—children in their homes. If only the town had a wall...
The idea came to him all at once.
It would take all his power and concentration, but Bardamen could encircle Glaenshire with a magickal wall. He couldn’t create a shield strong enough to prevent physical entry, but he could stretch an invisible barrier that would strip the power from all who passed through. He had done a similar thing before, but never on such a grand scale.
After passing through his wall, the Water Clan warriors would only be able to use their normal strength and training, rather than gifts of weapons, strength, and agility. The effect would be temporary, but Bardamen would hold the gifts in the absorptive barrier with every last ounce of his strength. At least the Glaenshire citizens would have a fighting chance to survive, and Mera might not be killed.
Perhaps she will find a way to escape with the most valuable writings.
A blood-curdling screech announced the return of the wendt. This terror was real, not magickal. Bardamen could do nothing to stop the vile creature. But he could weaken the approaching Water Clan warriors.
Head bowed and eyes closed, he called on his gift, stretching out his arms and speaking the summoning words. When he opened his eyes, the air shimmered in the rapidly dimming light, far away, just inside the river. A few breaths later, the air cleared, but he knew the barrier was still there.
Just in time.
The first four warriors rode through the invisible wall. The pull on Bardamen’s strength dropped him to his knees. Each successive warrior sapped his energy until he collapsed, gasping for breath, barely hanging onto consciousness. The shield would only hold the enemy gifts while Bardamen was awake to assert his will. His breathing slowed, as did his heart. He blinked, his eyelids as heavy as sodden blankets.
In a desperate attempt to remain awake, he slid his knife from his sheath, jabbing it into his thigh. Pain shot through his leg, bringing his heart back to life, hammering against his ribs. He welcomed the pain and the alertness that came with it. Each time he felt his consciousness fading, he twisted the blade, reawakening his mind.
Again and again, he wrenched the blade, holding the enemy gifts at bay, until the twist no longer elicited pain.
It was then he knew for certain he would not survive the night. That he would never have the opportunity to tell Meravelle of his feelings.
Please, God. Let her live.
**********
“At least Markaeus finally learned how to make a portal,” Charles yelled above the din. “It could be a good thing. It might actually go to Glaenshire like he claims.”
Kaevin rubbed his tired eyes. “I don’t know how Father lives like this, day after day,” he mumbled to Alora, as the excited arguing continued all around them. “I’ve only been responsible for Stone Clan for a few hands, yet I’m already exhausted.”
“Want to transport to your dad? See what he thinks?”
“I’d like nothing better than to ask Father’s advice, but I don’t wish to disappoint him. And also, I don’t wish to burden him. Father didn’t relish his duty in visiting Rivershire. He fears—no, he knows—what he sees there will be sickening.”
Though she only squeezed his hand, Kaevin felt a surge of courage and strength.