“The enemy cannot attack what they cannot find.”
Photo credit: Mark Dollner
Arana set the witcher wheel beside the crossroads. Her other eye examined the nahjans placed around it. She chanted, touching each corner in turn, weaving them together.
Arana painted the scene in her mind, like a treasured memory, no detail too small. Finally, she cast the directions: north, east, south, west, earthward, skyward. The spell rained up, blanketing the village in her vision.
The band of drovers clanked into view. Closer, they smelled of smoke, stale sweat, dried blood. Arana held her breath as they stomped within arms’ reach — seeing only trees, hearing only birds — and were gone.
Word count: 100. Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers challenge. Thanks as always to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting. The original prompt photo is below — very cool image, but your guess about what the statue is of is is as good as mine.
Photo © Jennifer Pendergast
Historical Eneana note: The drovers were gangs of disaffected soldiers who had survived and supposedly won the War of the Tandonni — driving off the hated magruk invaders — only to find that the war had devastated the Pyanni Empire and they had no homes to return to. They roamed what was left of the countryside, looting and pillaging and generally making it harder for anyone trying to save the empire and rebuild civilization.