The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1)

by Michael Wisehart

  But it was no ordinary staff.

  The transferal crystal wedged into the top of the wood brightened as he blocked another of the dark wielder’s attacks. Sparks of burnt orange and bluish-green shot into the air as the flame and wood connected with a searing hiss. The arcane runes interwoven around the outer edge were as radiant as the bulradoer’s sword. Back and forth they parried, striking, lunging, blocking, and circling around to start the cycle over again.

  In one of those brief respites between attacks, Orlyn thanked his father for all those years of training he had been forced to endure as a child. It seemed his instincts hadn’t dulled too much over the years.

  His arms were growing heavy, though. It didn’t help that he hadn’t had a full night’s rest or a decent meal in days, but he was still alive, and with every breath of that life, he was going to keep fighting.

  A few steps away, Veldon and Feoldor fought as a single unit. The portmaster’s fire roared in bouts, and in waves, and sometimes in balls no bigger than the size of his fist, while Feoldor cast volleys of hardened air to block the bulradoer’s returning fire as well as counter-parry their magical weapons.

  Orlyn spun the butt-end of his quarterstaff downward to keep his opponent’s blade from taking off his left leg. He could feel the heat emanating from its fire. Flipping the end back up, he thrust it directly into the man’s face, forcing the wielder to dodge and move back. It was a fairly obvious move, but Orlyn needed time to think. His opponent was much younger and more agile than he had been even twenty years ago. He had to try something different.

  Lowering his staff, he ducked underneath another lunging assault aimed for his neck. He could feel the heat passing overhead. Quickly, Orlyn shook the sweat from his eyes. As the bulradoer recovered his missed swing to prepare for another, Orlyn reached into one of his many pockets and threw a handful of ground valerian into the man’s face.

  As soon as the powder hit his eyes, the bulradoer yelled in pain. His weapon lowered as he desperately attempted to rub the blinding substance with his free hand. Orlyn didn’t wait around for him to recover. Hefting his staff with both hands, he pivoted on his back leg and swung with all his might. There was a loud crack and the bulradoer’s skull split like an old gourd. The dark wielder spit blood and his sword dropped from his hands. Whatever magic had created the impressive blade of flame vanished as soon as it left the dark wielder’s hands.

  The hilt hit the ground, its wielder soon after.

  Orlyn leaned over and picked up the hilt, hoping the weapon would work for him as well. No such luck.

  “Orlyn, behind you!”

  Orlyn spun at the sound of Fraya’s warning in time to see the spiked ends of a large mace swinging in his direction. As fast as he could, he raised his staff, but his counter was too slow. He managed to keep the spikes from embedding in his skull, but the deflection sent it tearing through his left shoulder instead.

  The impact threw him backwards. He cried out as the excruciating pain tore through the left side of his body. Orlyn landed on his face, the air completely expelled from his lungs. With a hit like that, he knew he was done for. Still gripping the rune covered staff to his chest, Orlyn rolled to his back. There was blood pouring from his arm. He could see bone from where the flesh had been ripped away.

  Behind him, Fraya jumped to her feet. She and Reloria had been crouching in front of the barracks’ stables while Gilly was using his magic to do something with the water in the horse’s trough. The young healer ran across the yard, not giving the first thought about what the bulradoer’s weapon would do to her if she got within reach.

  Orlyn opened his mouth to tell her to go back, but he couldn’t catch his breath. He shook his head and tried waving her off, but he knew it wouldn’t do him any good. Above everything else, Fraya was a healer, and like most healers, she put others before herself. Dropping to her knees, she slid to a stop beside him.

  Finally catching his first unhindered gulp of air, Orlyn tried to push her away, but his arms were too weak. “Get out of here, Fraya!”

  “No! He’ll kill you!”

  The bulradoer was only steps away.

  “I’m already done for, child. Get back to the others.”

  Orlyn tried pushing her away again, but she ignored him and instead laced her hands across his gaping shoulder. He hollered at the pain as she released her magic into him. His eyes bulged as he felt a wash of ice flood through his body, nearly taking his breath away all over again.

  “I see you found your staff after all, old man.”

  Orlyn recognized the approaching bulradoer as the wielder he had first encountered in his shop the week before. The bulradoer with his slicked-back hair sneered as he let his great mace swing from his side. It seemed to be counting down the time Orlyn had before he met his end. Orlyn struggled to lift his staff, but it was no use. He didn’t have the energy to even shift its weight on his chest.

  “Hate killing something so pretty,” the bulradoer said, sending a lecherous glance in Fraya’s direction, “but we can’t have you healing him, now can we?” The wielder pivoted on his heels to get a better swing and raised the mace over his head. Fraya never even flinched, clearly too determined to see Orlyn healed, even at the cost of her own life.

  Orlyn knew what was coming and closed his eyes. He waited for the impact. But instead of hearing the sound of a sickening thud and feeling the spray of Fraya’s blood across the side of his face, it was the bulradoer who howled in pain. Orlyn opened his eyes in time to see the dark wielder drop his weapon. The conjured end disappeared.

  The bulradoer twisted back around and Orlyn saw that he had a large black-fletched bolt impaled through his right shoulder. Orlyn turned his head to see who it was they owed their life to and found an old, senile looking man stepping out of a nearby doorway with an enormous double-bolt crossbow tucked to his chest.

  “That’ll teach you to meth with my friendth!” Eliab shouted.

  Orlyn’s heart leaped at the sight of the old Harbor House gatekeeper. Eliab moved out of the shadows and limped his way to the end of the open porch and fired off another round. The bulradoer was ready this time. He weaved a quick deflection and sent the quarrel up and off to the right. Orlyn wished he knew how to do that.

  Standing beside the old gatekeeper, Saleena yanked another bolt from his quiver and handed it to him. After the council’s daring rescue of the woman from the Black Watch, Orlyn was surprised to see she had stuck around, let alone was willing to risk her life in a fight that wasn’t really hers, considering she wasn’t even a wielder.

  With the bulradoer’s attention momentarily split between trying to remove the arrow from his shoulder and blocking the ones being fired at him by Eliab, Orlyn, with Fraya’s help, managed to recover enough strength to slowly crawl back toward the barracks’ stables where Gilly was busy watching over Reloria.

  Finally giving up on pulling the bolt free, the bulradoer snapped the shaft in half and pulled the remaining piece the rest of the way through. He leaned over with his other hand and collected the rune-etched hilt of his weapon. As soon as his fingers wrapped around the handle, its fire burst to life and the mace’s spiked ball raised into place.

  Orlyn felt stronger. Whatever Fraya was doing to him with her magic was clearly working. Being the apothecary that he was, he had never before allowed a healer to use magic on him when the use of natural herbs would have sufficed. But now, he was starting to wonder why he’d never tried it before. The pain had lessened and the muscle and skin were knitting back into place. He found he was able to move his shoulder.

  Fraya dropped to her knees beside him and hung an arm over the long trough where the little dwarf was stirring the water with his magic.

  Orlyn tried to help the young healer but was forced aside when Reloria pushed her way through. “Here, I’ll see to her. You go deal with those black vermin.”

  Orlyn lifted himself to his feet and quickly tested his range of motion. He barely had time to s
ee if everything was working before the slicked-hair bulradoer charged their position. Orlyn threw himself in front of the others and blocked the blazing weapon with his staff. The runes pulsed to life. With each strike of the bulradoer’s mace, the ancient symbols brightened, demonstrating their ability to protect him. He hoped their power didn’t run out at some point.

  The dark wielder, even though strong in his own right, had obviously never been taught the finer art of martial defense. And with a weapon such as the one he possessed, it was no wonder. Its magic seemed indestructible. So why would its wielder need to worry about such things as the proper placement of his hands to gain the most momentum while not losing balance, or the suitable width and angle of his swing that would not leave his front exposed, or the way one should implement the natural use of a circular attack as opposed to a choppy, more direct engagement that left its wielder overextended?

  “It’s not the weapon that makes the warrior,” his father used to say. “It’s knowing how to wield it.” Orlyn waited for the man to come back around with another wild swing. When he did, Orlyn was ready. He dodged to the side and hit the man in his exposed sternum with a swift jab. The bulradoer doubled over, gasping for breath. Orlyn spun his staff and landed a precise strike to the top of the man’s wrist, forcing his hand to go lax and open. The mace fell from his fingers and winked out just as Orlyn swept his legs out from under him and sent him to his back with a heavy grunt.

  Orlyn raised his staff, but before he could spear thrust the butt-end into the man’s face, he was stopped by a single lash from the female bulradoer’s whips as she reached for his head. It sounded like a crack of lightning as the tail end connected with his staff. The unexpected attack forced Orlyn back toward the others, giving the downed bulradoer the chance to retrieve his weapon.

  Veldon and Feoldor were slowly herded back alongside Orlyn by the other remaining bulradoer. The man on the right struck from one side with his sword while the woman struck from the other, looking for an opening in Feoldor’s shields.

  Her long black hair wafted around her face as she sent her strips of flame swirling through the air. The sound of her whips as they cracked was deafening. They were long enough to reach any one of them, including the three women.

  This time it was Gilly’s quick reaction that saved their lives as he raised his blue crystal and created a sheet of ice to block the attack.

  Reloria screamed. The bulradoer’s whip had just skimmed the top of her pink bonnet and snapped one of the porch’s post railings in half, bringing down part of the barracks’ roof.

  The female bulradoer whipped her arm back for another try.

  Orlyn moved to block the strike but was forced backwards when his mace-wielding opponent decided to attack while his back was turned. Orlyn dodged the first swing and spun to the left in order to draw him away from the others. Over the bulradoer’s shoulder, Orlyn could see Feoldor send a fist of air careening into the side of the female bulradoer. She was sent tumbling sideways into the building whose porch she’d just collapsed. She unleashed a single swing before crashing though one of the front windows. Her whip caught him in the back.

  Feoldor hollered and went down.

  Orlyn angled his staff and deflected the mace away from his head before coming back around with another strike that forced the bulradoer to take a couple of awkward steps to the side to miss getting struck in the face. Orlyn took the brief break in fighting to glance at his friend. He couldn’t tell how bad the injury was, or if indeed Feoldor was still alive.

  Reloria shrieked as she pushed her way past Eliab to get to Feoldor. The old glassblower might have been one of the most ornery, uncouth men Orlyn had ever known, but Reloria seemed to care a great deal for him.

  In the quick glimpses afforded Orlyn while he struggled to keep his rune-covered staff moving to block his assailant, he could see the others dragging Feoldor’s body back toward the stables and away from the immediate battle. On his right, Veldon was struggling to hold the other bulradoer back as Fraya knelt to work on Feoldor. The look in the portmaster’s eyes said he wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer.

  They had been pushed nearly all the way back to where the others were huddled in front of the stables. Orlyn could see Gilly out of the corner of his eye keeping his trough of water moving, waiting to raise another protective sheet of ice if needed.

  Orlyn swung low, and this time, the bulradoer was barely able to block as he managed to catch the tip of Orlyn’s staff with his mace. The man was favoring his injured wrist. Orlyn had no qualms about taking advantage of that fact as he forced him to defend his weaker side.

  There was a loud cracking noise, like the sound of wooden planks being bent under too much pressure, followed by an explosion of glass and debris. The fighters broke off their engagement to shield themselves from the flying fragments as the female bulradoer emerged from the building she had been thrown through. Her face was bruised and bleeding, and when she saw Feoldor lying on his back near the side of the barracks, she reignited her whips. She wiped the blood from her mouth and headed directly for the fallen man. Vengeance radiated with every step.

  There was nothing Orlyn could do. He swung his staff back around and blocked an attempt on his side, then angled it up to keep the large mace from caving in the top of his head. He struck the weapon away with the end of his staff, and was about to back-swing and catch the bulradoer on his injured side, when a loud shrill pulled him back.

  Just behind him, Reloria leaped to her feet from where she had been trying to nurse Feoldor and charged the oncoming bulradoer. The look of surprise on the dark wielder’s face at the sweet shop owner’s unexpected rush was nearly a match for his own. Reloria was like a screaming banshee—her arms flailing all over the place, pink hat flying from her head, locks of hair waving out behind her.

  Orlyn didn’t want to watch what he knew was coming, but he couldn’t seem to pull himself away. Orlyn’s opponent, having the same inclination, also waited for Reloria’s gruesome end before continuing his attack.

  The female bulradoer lifted her arm. Her whip flew through the air, ready to cut Reloria in half. She was halfway through her swing when a huge spear of ice flew past the sweet shop owner and impaled the bulradoer through the chest, nailing her to the ground some ten feet away. Her body slid backwards down the end of the frozen spike until she reached the dirt and went still. Both whips died in her hands.

  Orlyn heard the little dwarf clap in victory.

  The two remaining bulradoer surged forward with a voracity that seemed unstoppable, no doubt desperate to put a quick end to the battle before another of their number died.

  “Gilly, behind you!” Reloria barely had time to warn them when Orlyn heard Eliab’s crossbow ring out. While they had been focusing on the bulradoer, the Black Watch had managed to sneak in behind them. Orlyn heard the expected grunt of a man being pierced by one of Eliab’s bolts, followed closely by the thud of his body hitting the ground.

  The rest charged.

  Orlyn deflected the bulradoer’s swing and smashed the top of the man’s foot with a direct thrust, causing the wielder to lose balance. He countered with a hard strike to the side of the man’s bad arm. The bulradoer dropped his mace once again and the fire winked out.

  The dark wielder dove for his weapon, but Orlyn beat him to it as he brought the full force of his quarter staff down across the top of the man’s head, dropping him unconscious into the dirt. Orlyn grabbed the man’s flameless weapon and stuffed it in a pocket inside his robe before turning back to help the others.

  The trough was empty. Apparently Gilly had used what water was left to create his spike. Other than Eliab’s short sword and Gilly’s small dagger, not one of the others had a weapon.

  The Harbor House gatekeeper and the unsociable dwarf bravely held the line, but not for long. Gilly was the first to go down. His shortsword was raised to block one strike, but at the same time was hit by another. The poor dwarf didn’t stand a
chance.

  Eliab, on the other hand, wielded his blade like a master swordsman. The former captain of the Sidaran Guard slit the throat of one guard and skewered another before catching a thrust to his side. He cut the leg out from another before finally going down.

  “No!” Orlyn glanced over his shoulder to see Reloria clutching her jeweled pendant in one hand. She raised her other in the direction of the oncoming rush. The armed men froze. Some of them actually tripped and went down as they spat, hacked, and vomited on the ground in front of them. Many were rubbing their tongues with the sleeve of their overcoats. Orlyn could only imagine what someone as angry and as desperate as Reloria had caused them to choke on.

  Unfortunately, Captain Hatch wasn’t long fooled. “Get back in line, you sons of goats!” he hollered and kicked the dwarf’s body out of the way as he rushed forward.

  Orlyn changed direction and ran to protect the women. There wasn’t anything he could do for Gilly or Eliab now. Reloria and Saleena stood in front of Fraya as she worked to heal Feoldor, blocking her with their bodies. Just behind them, Veldon was still in combat with the remaining bulradoer. Both men looked to be near exhaustion.

  Orlyn managed to get in front of the three women just as the first of the Tower’s guards reached them. He fought them off, at least those in front. He had a magical staff, but it was a weapon best used to defend against a single opponent, not ten. He took a cut to the arm and almost dropped it. A couple rocks flew past as the two women desperately reached for anything available. Orlyn swung back and forth, trying to hold the men at bay, when a small dagger flew through the air and hit him in the shoulder. His staff dropped from his hands and he went to his knees. He could hear both Reloria and Saleena cry out behind him.

  Orlyn couldn’t believe it was going to end like this. He was proud of their council, though. They had fought against unbelievable odds.