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instead of a Magistrius. A soulblade could deal with Qazamhor’s dark magic with ease. Arandar had only his steel and his wits.
    Hopefully that would be enough.
    Arandar reached the circle and crouched behind one of the menhirs. Qazamhor stood a few feet away and thrust his staff, more blood-colored fire bursting from its length. A half-dozen men and orcs, Rhaluuskans and Mhorites both, screamed and crumbled into dusty skeletons. Apparently Qazamhor was not unduly concerned with the lives of his followers. Arandar circled around the base of the menhir, his every muscle tensed. To kill a man from behind was dishonorable, but Qazamhor’s sorcery would decide the battle unless he was stopped.
    Qazamhor raised his staff again, and Arandar sprang forward, driving his blade for the shaman’s back. His sword struck the dark cloth of the shaman’s coat, only to rebound from it in a spray of crimson sparks. Qazamhor had armored himself in a potent warding spell. Arandar caught his balance and raised his sword for another strike, but Qazamhor whirled, his free hand hooked into a claw. Red light washed from his fingers, seized Arandar in invisible bands of force, and flung him against the nearest menhir.
    “What’s this?” said Qazamhor in accented Latin. Arandar struggled against the spell, but the bands of force held him fast. “A rat, sneaking behind my back? No matter.” He pointed his staff at the black altar in the center of the ring, and fingers of snarling crimson lightning danced and writhed against the stone. “Mhor is thirsty for blood, and he repays blood with power. I shall feed your entire realm to him, and he shall make me a living god.” His gaunt face twisted into a hideous smile. “Let us begin.”
    He pointed, and Arandar floated towards the crackling altar. He struggled, but the grip of Qazamhor’s magic remained fast. Arandar did not know what would happen when he touched the glowing altar, but he suspected it would not be pleasant. He redoubled his struggles, his boots kicking uselessly at the empty air, and Qazamhor laughed long and loud.
    “For God and the High King!”
    A group of Rhaluuskan orcs charged at the menhirs, Crowlacht at their head. Qazamhor turned and loosed a blast of bloody flame, and the orcs scattered to avoid the spell. The flames struck one of the orcs, withering him to an ancient corpse. Yet as it did, the bonds holding Arandar weakened as Qazamhor turned his concentration towards the new danger.
    With a great effort of will, Arandar ripped free and slammed into Qazamhor. His sword bounced off the shaman’s wards once again, but Arandar’s attack drove the gaunt shaman back. Qazamhor fell backward with an enraged howl, stumbled over the hem of his coat, and lost his balance.
    He landed right upon the glowing altar.
    The lightning coiled up and sank into his flesh, and Qazamhor screamed, his eyes opening wide with pain. The stench of burning meat filled Arandar’s nostrils, and he stepped back as Qazamhor thrashed and moaned. The shaman’s clothes took fire, the lightning blazing brighter, and Qazamhor screamed once more.
    Then the lightning winked out, and the shaman’s burned corpse collapsed to the ground.
    His dark magic, at the end, had not been enough to save him.
    Arandar stared at the smoking corpse, stunned.
    “Ha!” Crowlacht’s booming voice cut into his surprise. The headman stepped into the ring, his armor clanking. “You have survived, yes? A fine stratagem. A bold one. But there is still fighting to be done! These Mhorite dogs have lost heart, now that their shaman is dead.”
    Arandar nodded, lifted his sword, and joined the fray.
     
    ###
     
    A week later Arandar knelt before the dais in the great hall of Castra Durius. People filled the hall – the men-at-arms he had brought from Tarlion, Crowlacht’s warriors, the survivors of Novindum. Stephen and Cora stood with their daughters, watching the ceremony.
    “By my right as Dux of Durandis,” said