Alora: The Maladorn Scroll (Alora 3)

From his safe location in the forested hillside above Glaenshire, Vindrake observed the action through a sightstone, reasoning the extra effort required would be balanced out in knowing where he needed to push his will. Following specific instructions, the sightstone warrior hung back, remaining on his horse to provide a clear view of the battle outside the Craedenza.

What Vindrake saw through the sightstone evoked a string of curses.

Beginning the fight with enthusiasm, his warriors struck out against the tattered remnants of defenders who demonstrated no aptitude whatsoever with the weapons they held. Yet, each Water Clan warrior would falter after engaging the enemy and turn to slash at their own warriors, despite Vindrake’s sweat-beading efforts to the contrary. Inevitably, the warrior would destroy himself, either by his own blade, or pushing himself onto that of another, despite the fact his bloodbond specifically prevented suicide.

What kind of shaman possessed such power? Vindrake felt a chill of fear, a sensation almost foreign so long had it been since he’d faced an enemy he considered formidable. Having seen this enemy shaman’s magick overpower his own, he didn’t dare to step foot near the Craedenza, for fear he might take his own life as his warriors had done.

He had to find and destroy this powerful shaman. If not, his entire force would soon be dead and the journey would be wasted. And he still would have no way to secure the scroll.

Then Blaggard’s voice invaded Vindrake’s head, adding fuel to his blazing anger.

“Why do you interrupt me again?”

“I’m sorry, Master Vindrake, but something happened tonight in Laegenshire. I thought you should know at once.”

“What? Tell me quickly!”

“Alora was in Laegenshire, bringing a warrior call from Kaevin. She then transported at least forty warriors... to Glaenshire.”

“Glaenshire? Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“Did she transport a shaman from Stone Clan, as well? Nordamen? Bardamen?”

“I know Nordamen is in Laegenshire, for it was he who made the announcement, but I can’t speak to Bardamen’s location.”

“Very well. Your information is useful,” he admitted. “But don’t disturb me again.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Blaggard sounded too smug for Vindrake’s liking. But for now, his presence in Laegenshire was still beneficial.

Vindrake’s mind flew. Alora and Kaevin are here, in Glaenshire. I must find a way to draw them out. And I must destroy that shaman.

With the knowledge that Stone Clan warriors were present, Vindrake edged his way toward Glaenshire with care, following behind his personal guard as they picked their way through the forest. Sensing their proximity to the magickal barrier, he called them to a halt.

He examined the ward with begrudging admiration. Stretching as far as he could see, about twenty strides past the bridge, the ward ran in the same direction as the river. Though its efficacy was proven, not even a shimmer disturbed the air. The power he sensed emanating from the barrier was impressive, to say the least. From a cursory look the ward appeared to be continuous, and evenly distributed.

Vindrake calculated the energy required to erect and maintain such a barrier. To do this and remain alive, I would have to absorb at least one life-force, perhaps two.

And that’s when he knew. No single shaman had created the barrier and the ward that defeated his bloodbond at the base of the Craedenza. Two, three, or even four shamans must be working together. For a town with no shamans in residence, this was impossible. Unless...

They knew I was coming. Glaenshire was forewarned. Someone is spying for Graely.

His fury flared. This is what came of allowing some of his people to operate outside his bloodbond. He would find the traitor and have his revenge.

Yet this was not the time for vengeance. First he must defeat the shamans. To battle three or four shamans with his magick would require too much energy. But no matter how gifted these shamans might be, they were still human and, as such, susceptible to the same bodily harm as every other person.

He localized the power source—a stone watchtower. A smart, defendable position. He might have chosen the same. Still, there must be some weakness I can exploit.

Nearby, someone stepped on a dry twig, which broke with a loud snap, a result of the moisture-less summer that had left the forest floor covered with dead branches and desiccated leaves.

“Be careful,” he rasped. “The forest is...”

The forest is dry! His breath caught in his throat. And the roofs are thatched!

“Quickly! Find a ridged conifer and gather the spiny cones. Twenty or thirty should do. Bowmen, be ready.”