Photo © Janet Webb
Barallae stirred the liquid slowly, smoothly.
In town, the drovers burned the spellbooks, confiscated the wizards’ expensive components. His sister’s Guild would be almost helpless, shorn of their weapons.
Here they let the villagers wander, to farm and make their food. And Barallae needed no book.
He stroked the empty wasp nest. The luckiest of lucky finds. Pouring three drops into each hole, he sang the spell until it glowed.
To think, what this tiny army could do against their drover infestation.
Barallae smiled, imagining returning his sister’s chiding for following the old ways, daring to hope she yet survived.
Word count: 100. Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers challenge. Big thanks to our wonderful hostess, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields! Click here to see the other stories written inspired by the photo above.
For those of you keeping track of the history, the drovers are the bands of dispossessed soldiers returning from the great war that destroyed the Pyanni Empire, who savaged already war-torn lands, contributing to what would later be called the Age of Chaos. Witcher is the term used for those who follow the old witching ways, versus the more “modern” wizard techniques. You can read more about how one wizard in particular fought off the drovers during this same period in Eneana history here: From the Table’s Eye—Table 5.