She didn’t have time to see if he took her advice, for the wagon had arrived. A man leapt off ahead of the others, tears streaking through the dirt on his face. In his arms, he cradled a child’s limp body.
“Please! Where’s the healer? He must save Karinda.” He kicked the healing house door open with his foot. “Wellabae! Come quickly!”
“Wellabae isn’t here,” Meravelle answered, taking a deep breath to calm her palpitating heart. “He and the other oath-bound are up there, defending the Craedenza.”
She didn’t add that she’d seen the healer struck by a sword and doubted he was still alive.
“We have no healer?” The despair in his voice tore at her heart.
“I’m the healer, now. I’ve assisted Wellabae many times.” She tried to sound confident, though her experiences with the healer had been limited to treating fevers and an occasional broken arm or accidental cut. Never before had war or violence darkened the town of Glaenshire.
Please, God... help me.
**************
“But Master Vindrake, it’s not possible to create a ward strong enough to strip a hundred warriors of their gifts.”
The sallow-skinned shaman trembled, a natural enough reaction to Vindrake’s lethal anger, but somehow as irritating as a seed stuck under his gums. Not for the first time, Vindrake regretted bringing Amon on the journey, having done so only because he expected little or no resistance upon reaching Glaenshire.
The other shaman who’d accompanied them had spoken with too much arrogance one evening, about a seven-day into the trip. Expecting appreciation, he commented that Vindrake was fortunate to have him—a shaman of great skill—since the Water Clan ruler was apparently in a weakened state from some sort of overexertion.
He did not receive the expected accolades.
Vindrake had killed the man on the spot, absorbing his energy. Afterwards, he’d felt strengthened and no distress whatsoever at the loss of the supercilious shaman.
Until now.
“And yet, Amon, standing before us are some forty of my warriors who left but two fingers ago and have returned giftless.”
“But Master Vindrake. That could only happen if a shaman were here in Glaenshire—a very strong shaman. You said there were no shamans in Glaenshire.”
“No... I said Glaenshire did not have a shaman. You were charged with detecting the presence of a shaman, a task you failed,” Vindrake hissed through gritted teeth, considering whether the man would have more value as a wendt.
He’d already been forced to create a second wendt, when the Glaenshire citizens slew the first monster. By what miracle these powerless villagers had managed to destroy his killing creature, Vindrake couldn’t imagine.
Creating not one, but two wendts, had left him fatigued, inhibiting his ability to effectively wield his bloodbond. Amon wasn’t worth the effort required to create a third wendt. He’s so spineless, a wendt made from his essence would probably cower at the cry of an infant.
The presence of an enemy shaman was but a small impediment to his goal. No shaman in all of Tenavae had the strength to withstand his power when he was fully refreshed. Not even Nordamen of Stone Clan, whom he knew for a fact to be in Laegenshire this very day. His spy had scratched the information in the dirt for him to see.
Spinning back to face his retreated fighting force, he screamed out, “Go back and fight, you cowards! Finish the battle with your skill and training. Surely you can overpower these inept villagers, even without your gifts.”
“Yes, Sire.” The female commander hesitated, glancing at her comrades. “However, there is more hindrance than a simple lack of gifting. Our balance and speed is altered, such that our aim is impeded.”
“You will have to compensate.” He was losing what little patience he had remaining.
She cleared her throat. “But, Sire, what about the other matter? Our front-line warriors began the battle at the Craedenza, striking the enemy with success despite their lack of gifting. Yet after a few breaths, they stopped attacking the defenders and turned against us, until they took their own lives. This is why we retreated, Master Vindrake, not because we lost our gifts. Our bloodbond compelled our return when a third of our warriors had perished.”
“I will extend my will through your bond rather than letting it work passively, as before. Have no fear... no measly shaman’s magick can compete with the dark power of my bloodbond.”
Of course my reserves are almost depleted. I will need to sacrifice one of my personal guards to renew my power.
His eyes roamed across the nervous warriors who remained behind to assure his safety. Which one to choose... Had one irritated him more so than the others?
Then his gaze fell on the unfortunate shaman, shaking like a lone leaf in autumn.
Vindrake smiled.
~14~