Chapter 82: A Bloody Divination

Within the Asa forces, there remained a handful of seasoned druids adept at the art of “natural spellcasting.” Even while transformed into falcons, they could unleash nature's miracles, collectively casting “Firestorm” to bombard the withered fiends. Flames rained from the sky, igniting each exposed withered creature and reducing them to ash.

“Snakeshand” Shaman watched the swiftly deteriorating battle with a darkening expression. According to the original plan, the withered legion’s mission was to draw the main Algonquin tribal forces away, creating an opening for the Ogre Warriors led by “the Clever King” Shrek. The strategy had begun well; the news from the “Soul-thief Sprite,” Chaniqui, indicated the Ogre army had breached Powhatan Village, forcing Victor and Matoka to lead five hundred Asa cavalrymen back in a desperate rescue. Shaman had planned to seize this moment to launch a counterattack with the withered legion, hoping to annihilate the leaderless enemy force after Powhatan and his wife left the front. Yet things had not gone as planned. Over fifteen hundred Asa cavalry remained, far outnumbering the withered creatures. The two high rangers who took over as frontline commanders were steady and cautious, leaving Shaman not the slightest chance to strike back. At this rate, the withered legion would be utterly wiped out within two hours at most.

Shaman grew anxious. His own presence was now the only trump card the withered legion held. Apart from the Powhatan couple, no one in the Algonquin tribe could match him. With them gone, he was confident he could kill any one of the enemy’s leaders. But true battlefields had no room for duels—no matter how powerful he was, he could not withstand thousands of enemies alone. If encircled, escape would be nearly impossible.

As Shaman hesitated over whether to act himself, a sudden, violent heart-palpitation struck him. After a moment of disorientation, he realized his servant, Chaniqui, was dead.

Just as nature-worshipping druids could tame beasts as animal companions, the “Witherer” path of the fallen druids granted a similar power. But their companions were not animals—they were undead or wicked fae aligned with their own darkness.

The “Soul-thief Sprite” Chaniqui was Shaman’s contracted companion. With its death, their pact vanished, and Shaman sensed its end at once.

He knew better than anyone how cunning his servant was. Even creatures more powerful than the sprite found it hard to catch, let alone kill, that devious fae. Yet the truth was undeniable: the sprite was dead, its soul utterly destroyed in the instant of bodily death. Not even the mightiest resurrection magic could restore it now.

Who could have killed the sprite—and so mercilessly annihilated its soul?

The more Shaman pondered, the greater the chill that gripped his heart. Foreboding clouds darkened his mind.

After several moments of contemplation, Shaman swung down from his horse. The gray steed, relieved of its burden, nickered in contentment—the happiness would be short-lived. Suddenly, Shaman flicked his left arm. The venomous snake attached to his elbow flashed from his sleeve like a bolt of black lightning, sinking its fangs deep into the horse’s neck. Venom flooded the veins as the horse, panicked, tried to bolt but collapsed before it could take a step, foaming at the mouth, pupils dilating rapidly.

Retracting his snake-hand, Shaman drew a short blade and mercilessly slit the horse’s belly. Impassively, he watched blood and viscera spill forth, his gaze fixed on the tangled, blood-soaked entrails, eyes glinting with calculation.

The coiling intestines, a crimson maze, had fascinated the “prophets” of savage tribes since ancient times, who believed the future could be divined from their winding paths, developing entire systems of fortune-telling from their study.

Now, “Snakeshand” Shaman employed this brutal, primitive method. The spasming entrails offered him hazy portents, and the sense of looming crisis intensified in his heart.

He still could not guess what had happened at Powhatan Village, nor who had slain the sprite, but the divination was clear—his plan had failed utterly. If he did not escape the battlefield at once, even his own life would be forfeit.

“Damnation!” he muttered in frustration, pulling from his pocket a small wooden token etched with runes. Softly chanting the activation phrase, he caused the token to blaze with orange light, engulfing him from head to toe. In a column of radiance, he shot skyward, vanishing without a trace.

…

At the very moment “Snakeshand” Shaman used teleportation to escape the battlefield, far away in Powhatan Village, King Shrek too sensed the tide turning against him.

The Well of Wisdom—Yggdrasil—lay within sight, yet Shrek’s dreams were crumbling. Impenetrable walls of thorny barricades and phalanxes of animated plants barred his way, while Asa reinforcements closed in from behind, trapping him and his warriors in a deadly encirclement.

Shrek had clung to a final hope: that “Snakeshand” Shaman would arrive with the withered legion in support. But as the sun tilted west, neither Shaman nor his messenger, the “Soul-thief Sprite” Chaniqui, had appeared.

A clarion horn sounded in the distance. Shrek recognized at once it was not from his own troops. The jubilant cheers from the Asa warriors confirmed his fear—Victor and Matoka must have returned at the head of their forces.

“Your Majesty! Enemy reinforcements are nearly upon us. If we don’t retreat now, it may be too late!” Cassio urged anxiously.

Shrek’s face was grim. He nodded. “I’ll give the order to retreat. Lead the men out of Powhatan Village as quickly as possible—I’ll hold the rear and stall the pursuers!”

Moved to tears by Shrek’s resolve to remain behind, Cassio raised his lute on the battlefield and sang a song in praise of the king’s valor, swearing to fight and die at his side.

But halfway through the impromptu hymn, shouts and the whistling of arrows erupted behind him. Cassio froze, tongue-tied with fear. He raised his lute as a makeshift shield against the incoming storm of shafts. Dust rose across the woods as the thunderous drumming of hooves drew rapidly closer.

Poetic inspiration gave way to cold reality—realizing the pursuers were nearly upon him, Cassio knew he could hesitate no longer. Facing the threat of death, he suddenly felt that, as a scholar and poet, it would be a tragic waste to throw his life away meaninglessly on the battlefield. One more martyr would not change the desperate plight of the Ogre Warriors, but the world would be poorer for the loss of a true poet.