The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1)

by Michael Wisehart

  “Wait? You just got done telling me we should have come for you sooner, now you’re telling us to wait? Make up your mind, would you.”

  “Doesn’t this seem a little too easy? Where’s the lancers? Where’s the rest of the Black Watch? Where’s that sorceress?” He knew she had to be around there somewhere.

  “Sorceress? What sorceress? No one said anything about a sorceress.” Feoldor cast his eyes about the empty yard.

  Just then a wave of heat rose from the passageway behind them. Orlyn followed Gilly by diving into the dirt to escape the inevitable. Feoldor, on the other hand, conjured a wall of air and deflected the flames up and over the rooftops. The crystal in his bracelet glowed pale blue.

  With a little help from Gilly’s strong arms, Orlyn lifted himself from the ground. He looked back down the alleyway and saw a robed figure. Whoever it was they were much taller than the old woman. There must be more than one dark wielder in town, he thought.

  “I’d say we’ve worn out our welcome,” Feoldor tried to point out as the three of them backed up slowly toward the edge of the two buildings, “but that seems a bit obvious.”

  All Orlyn could do was nod before the three turned and raced across the open yard, heading for the north gate. They didn’t make it twenty paces before two more black-robed figures stepped out from the side of one of the buildings and blocked their passage. Their hoods were pulled and their faces well hidden.

  Orlyn and the others turned to run back in the direction they’d just come, but stopped when the wielder who had tried to scorch them a moment ago moved out of the alleyway behind them. To their left, a fourth and fifth were walking across the yard in their direction.

  “It’s the bulradoer,” Feoldor whispered.

  What are the bulradoer doing in Easthaven? Orlyn, of course, knew the answer before he had barely gotten the question out. They had come for Ty. “Well, you two really know how to pull off a rescue . . . Thank you very much.” He tried standing on his own volition.

  “Shut up, you old windbag,” Feoldor spouted back. “I didn’t see you doing anything back there to get yourself out of this mess. We were just trying to help.”

  Gilly remained completely silent during their discourse as the little man’s head shifted from one dark wielder to another. In his right hand he held the large crystal he kept hidden in his pocket. It was pulsing a deep blue.

  “Yeah? Well, the next time you get the notion to help . . . don’t!”

  “I won’t!”

  “Good!”

  “Good!”

  By the time both men finished arguing, the five bulradoer had completely surrounded them. The three council members moved into a defensive formation with their backs to each other, bracing for the inevitable. Orlyn knew they didn’t have a prayer. Even with Feoldor’s gift as a vanti and Gilly’s voda abilities, they weren’t going to be a match for five of the White Tower’s bulradoer.

  Before the black wielders had come to a complete stop Orlyn caught a glimpse of Captain Hatch leading his Black Watch out from behind one of the far buildings near the south gate. This was quite the ambush.

  Orlyn suddenly found himself longing for his wooden seat and rope bindings. He might have even been open to another visit from Mangora as long as there was no kissing involved. He thought he might actually prefer the bulradoer, or even the White Tower, to those desiccated lips.

  “When Mangora told us we could net the entire wielder council at once if we had the patience to wait, I had no idea it would be so formidable a foe.” The speaker was the only one of the dark wielders to have his cowl drawn back. It was the same slick-haired man Orlyn had encountered in his shop earlier that week. The bulradoer smiled. Orlyn had to admit the three of them did look quite the sight—one decrepit old man, one arrogant fool, and a dwarf thrown in for good measure.

  “Or maybe we’ve got you right where we want you?” Feoldor said with a halfhearted smile of his own.

  The bulradoer paused to consider Feoldor’s words before taking a step forward. “Actually, what I think is that if you had a lick of real ability between the three of you, we would have already—” The man’s words were never finished as a torrent of fire flew out of a nearby building and engulfed one of their members. The tall woman inside the dark robes screamed in terror as her body ignited. She ran around in circles, her robes melting to her body as she burned alive in front of them.

  “Like I said,” Feoldor exclaimed, more than a little bewildered at the horrific sight, “right where we want you.”

  A door to one of the side buildings opened and Veldon charged into the fray, sending balls of fire in all directions and yelling like a man possessed. The ring on his right hand pulsed bright red.

  The bulradoer conjured shields to stave off the unexpected attack as they scrambled to join ranks. Feoldor unleashed a hammer of wind, throwing two of the wielders at least ten feet before they hit the ground and rolled to a stop in the dirt.

  Fraya rushed out behind the stocky portmaster, with Reloria bringing up the rear, holding a pink bonnet to the top of her head as she ran for the three men.

  What were they doing? Neither one had an ounce of defensive magic.

  Not letting a clear opportunity pass, one of the bulradoer sent a fist of flame directly at the two helpless women as they crossed the open yard. Feoldor, seeing it coming, turned and threw a gust of air into the fire and sent it off course. It was just enough to miss them, but not enough to miss setting the front of the building they had just exited aflame.

  “Here!” Fraya shouted at Orlyn. “Thought you could use this.” Out of her hands flew his rune-covered staff. Orlyn caught it in midair. “Found it lying under one of the overturned shelves in your shop.” A surge of power rushed through the wood and into his hands as the runes—carefully interwoven throughout the decorative vines—awoke with green radiance. He could feel his energy returning as he turned back to face the bulradoer.

  No one said a word as the two groups of wielders faced off, ten long paces between. Even the Black Watch had enough sense to stay back for this one.

  Orlyn’s eyes scanned the now unhooded assembly before him: three men and a woman. He knew better than to take any of these wielders lightly. They had no need for transferals. Their powers came through the spoken word, incantation, and runes, something they had certainly been studying and perfecting for years. Each of them was no doubt trained in warfare, unlike the Easthaven Council whose members had never been required to use their gifts in such a manner.

  No one moved as both sides waited to see what the other would do. And of course leave it to Feoldor to be the first to speak. “So, who’s laughing now?”

  Orlyn rolled his eyes as he watched the bulradoer raise their arms. “Ah, chicken stink.”

  Chapter 85 | Adarra

  ADARRA, NEVER HAVING witnessed real combat before, other than what she had read in her books, nervously cracked her knuckles as she watched the horror of battle taking place outside her window. Little by little, they were losing ground. “There’s too many of them.” Her mother glanced her way from where she stood behind the front door. She held the only sword they had left after Lyessa took the other to defend Ty.

  Adarra turned around and looked at Aiden. He was sitting in the corner. His sword lay across his lap. “They need your help!”

  He tilted his head. “Don’t look at me. I’m not going out there and getting myself killed. It’s Ty they want.”

  Adarra had been a bit smitten with Aiden since first having seen him during their last Performance Night. He was tall with dark hair, a strong chin, and green eyes like her father and older brother. Unfortunately, even the most despicable of people can look good at a distance, she supposed. But after spending any amount of time in the same room with him, Aiden’s outward beauty quickly dissolved as his inward mannerisms shone through. What Lyessa saw in him was beyond her. Adarra figured it must have been her father’s choice. Although, after Aiden’s show of cowardice earlier
, Adarra doubted that even Lord Barl could overlook such actions for the sake of his family’s name.

  “Are you really that stupid? They can’t leave any witnesses to this. You heard the witch. They’re going to kill us all!” She pointed to his lap. “You have a sword, go use it!”

  “I can’t!” Aiden’s eyes bore a slight look of humiliation as he turned away.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know how!” His face was as hot as stoked embers. Adarra wasn’t sure whether it was due to rage or embarrassment. “I wear it for decoration, alright!” His eyes hopped from her to her mother and then back to his lap. “I thought it made me look . . . courageous.” Adarra shook her head and stared at him, and not for the reasons she would have normally done so before. For once, she was without words. “Besides,” he said, “it’s not exactly a real sword.” He held it out for inspection. “It’s completely dull and would probably break the first time it hit something.” He bowed his head and stared at his feet.

  Wow. That was unexpected. That was probably the most honest statement she’d heard come out of Aiden’s mouth. She almost felt sorry for him, sitting there with his faux sword, looking as helpless as a lost puppy. If only he wasn’t so ridiculously good looking, she mused, she could find it a lot easier to hate him and his flimsy sword.

  A loud crash in the kitchen brought everyone around with a start as the back door flew open. Pieces of splintered wood slid across the kitchen floor. Aiden hopped to his feet when two men in rough leather and patched furs stepped inside. The shorter man on the right held a sword Adarra recognized, from her book of weaponry, as a falchion. Its wide blade curved at the end. The ugly Northman let it swing loosely at his side.

  The enormous man on the left wore a half-mask with black markings. It looked as though he had dipped his fingers in some kind of ink and smeared them across the white bone. Besides the single-bladed axe he toted over his shoulder, the savage also bore an impressive array of knives at his waist. Adarra counted five that she could see from the front.

  “I told you I saw ‘m headin’ in here, Jonas,” said the lanky man on the right as he pointed his blade in their direction. They stepped out of the kitchen and into the great room where the other three were huddled. Adarra was having a difficult time understanding the garbled speech. It was unlike anything she had ever read about.

  The big one on the left said something to his comrade and then wiped his large hand down the sides of his hardened face. He went on to say something more but his words were even less understandable. He ended the short conversation with the word “Damar.” Adarra figured it must be the smaller man’s name. She might not have understood what he had said, but his body language spoke volumes. He stared at her and licked his lips in the most explicit way. It was the most attention any man had ever given her.

  The smaller savage, Damar, must have agreed with whatever was said because his face widened into a lewd grin as well. “I love mine warm and full of fight.”

  “How dare you!” Aiden bellowed uncharacteristically as he took a very small step forward. “You will not touch a single hair of their heads or . . .” He puffed out his chest as far as it would go. “Or I’ll be forced to run you through.” He ended his statement by brandishing his not-so-real sword.

  Damar laughed. “Would you look at that, Jonas. It’s a fella. He’s ‘bout as purty as the rest of ‘em. Just look at that beautiful hair.” Aiden’s long brown locks were a feature Adarra had admired as well, but for quite different reasons.

  “You will pay for that, you dirty savage!” Aiden shouted back, his face as red as his crimson vest. He started forward but didn’t make it halfway to the dining table in his pursuit of justice when Adarra’s mother grabbed hold of his outer jacket and jerked him backwards.

  “Get back here, you fool, before you get yourself killed!”

  Nilla held her old sword out in front of her. “You stay back.” She pointed it toward the two Northmen slowly easing their way further into the main room. “You hear me.” Ignoring her warning, they took another step forward. Their eyes passed over each of them in turn as if inspecting a hard-earned prize. “Don’t you come any closer! I’m warning you!”

  Adarra grabbed the only spare weapon within reach—one of her father’s sickles. Her knuckles turned white when the thought of what was possibly going to happen took hold. Her hands were shaking almost as much as her legs. There was no one there to rescue them. Everyone with the ability to fight was outside. They had no idea what was happening to them.

  “Or what? You’ll cut me?” the smaller man jeered. They were now within swinging distance. Adarra noticed Jonas staring at her sickle, no doubt calculating his options if it should be used against him.

  “Take another step and find out,” her mother countered, daring either one of them to take her up on her offer. Damar was the first to move.

  “I like ‘em with spirit,” he said as he took up her challenge. His eyes danced with eager anticipation, danced with ravenous hunger, danced with sudden concern as her mother’s blade flew at his face. Damar blinked, but his reflexes took over and his angled blade went up.

  A loud clang was heard as her mother’s sword was stopped mid-swing by the force of the Tallosian’s block. Reaching out with his free hand, he grabbed the front of Nilla’s top and jerked her forward, ripping off a few buttons in the process. Pulling her close, he forcibly tried kissing her.

  “Ahh!” The savage’s head lurched backwards. He shouted something in his own language and backhanded her with a closed fist across the face. Nilla’s head spun around and she landed in a heap on the floor. She didn’t move.

  Damar’s hand reached for his mouth. “She bit me!” He wiped at the blood now running freely from the ragged teeth marks in his lower lip.

  Adarra gripped her sickle even tighter as she listened to Jonas bellow out a hard laugh at his comrade’s sorry luck. He said something to the little man which she could only guess was meant to humiliate him even further.

  As big as he was, Jonas kept himself back and away from what he must have perceived as his friend’s conquests. He appeared only too happy to let the little man do all the fighting while he watched the entertainment.

  Adarra took a step closer to her mother. She dug deep to find the courage she needed. She certainly couldn’t rely on Aiden. Her mind raced as she fought to recall any of her previous reading on weapon’s combat. It was one thing to read about something, but quite another to actually apply the information in practical form.

  After having been belittled in front of the other Northman, Damar looked ready to reclaim his supposed manhood. “You want blood?” he spat. His spittle rained down across her mother’s unmoving body. “I’ll give you blood!” He raised his falchion over his head.

  Adarra was out of time. She angled her sickle and was moving to block his strike when someone came roaring past her.

  “Yahh!” Aiden held his sword high as he rushed the Northman head on. Adarra was speechless. Aiden’s attack left Damar with no other option but to pull back from his original target and attempt to block the unexpected foray before Aiden was on top of him.

  The two swords connected.

  Adarra couldn’t tell who was more surprised by the outcome, Aiden or Damar, when Aiden’s sword burst into a dozen pieces and flew across the room, leaving him completely open to Damar’s quick backswing. It sliced deep into his chest. Aiden staggered backwards with a look of unmistakable horror as he looked down at the flow of blood staining the top of his beautiful silk shirt.

  The angry Northman didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and plunged his sword into Aiden’s gut. Adarra barely had time to react. She screamed in rage and struck while the savage was preoccupied. Her weapon seemed such a light thing in her hand as her adrenaline kicked in, bringing her mind into focus.

  The Tallosian’s eyes widened as he struggled to pull his sword from Aiden’s torso in time to stop her attack, but Adarra knew he wouldn’t be ab
le to. She knew exactly where to strike to do the most damage. Unlike a sword or dagger, her sickle couldn’t be used for thrusting. It had to be wielded in a cutting fashion. The newly honed edge sliced straight through the soft underside of Damar’s stomach like a hot knife through butter, carving out a thick portion to spread.

  Damar’s face paled and his sword dropped from his hands as he tried holding his insides in. He fell with a thump to the floor. His body convulsed. His gut had been split wide, revealing a mass of entrails. Adarra was transfixed at the sight. It was the first time she had ever taken a life. As sick and horrified as she felt about it, she couldn’t seem to overcome her academic perspective as she studied what came out.

  Jonas used the distraction to get behind her and swing his axe at her head. Catching the movement, Adarra dove to the right and rolled under the blade’s swing. She could feel the wind of its force as it flew past. She rolled to her back in order to block the next attack. She had nowhere to go.

  The savage grunted something under his breath and raised his axe. She raised her sickle but already knew it was a useless effort. His axe would split it like kindling, and nail her to the wooden floor in the process.

  She closed her eyes and waited for the end. There was a groan and a heavy thump beside her that forced her eyes back open. She glanced to her left and saw the head of the axe buried in the floorboard next to her face. Looking back at the Northman, she noticed an arrow protruding from his right shoulder.

  “Move!” her mother yelled from somewhere near the front door. She must have made it over to one of the men’s discarded bows while the Tallosians were focused on Aiden and Adarra.

  Quickly, Adarra rolled to the side as Jonas reached for his axe. He barely had time to get his fingers around the hilt when her mother smashed the back of the big man’s head with one of her skillets. The impact rang like a bell, and the rough-looking Tallosian pitched over on his face, his jowls wobbling the whole way down. His bone mask split into pieces when it struck the floor.