Saints of Wura: Winemaker of the North, Arcane Awakening, Reckoning in the Void (Saints of Wura Books 1-3 with bonus content)
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Contents
Saints of Wura
Author's Note
Winemaker of the North
Winemaker of the North
Map of 'The North'
Chapter 1 Dagger In The Night
Chapter 2 The Road Leads North
Chapter 3 Tar Aval Tavern
Chapter 4 Into the Mountains
Chapter 5 The Lord Of The Estate
Chapter 6 Unfortunate Murder
Chapter 7 Renovations
Chapter 8 Of Elinathrond
Chapter 9 The Asylum
Chapter 10 The Brotherhood and the Priory
Chapter 11 Winemaking
Chapter 12 The Grove and Meredaas
Chapter 13 Of Fae Fading
Chapter 14 Secrets Of The Cisterns
Chapter 15 Of Healing and a Message
Chapter 16 Demon Rising
Chapter 17 Of Remembrance and Tea
Chapter 18 Flagons and Dragons
Chapter 19 Shadows of the Past
Chapter 20 Recovery
Chapter 21 Runhadis
Chapter 22 An Old Friend
Chapter 23 Sna-Sna
Chapter 24 The Guise Discovered
Chapter 25 Four Trials
Chapter 26 Saints of Wura
Chapter 27 Meredaas' Blessing
Arcane Awakening
Chapter 1 Adrift
Chapter 2 Of Herbs and Kidnapping
Chapter 3 Kealin
Chapter 4 Many Chieftains
Chapter 5 Mouth Of The Winds
Chapter 6 Temple of the Sky
Chapter 7 Greeting Party
Chapter 8 A Father's Will
Chapter 9 The Eastern Journey
Chapter10 Of Lucia and Beasts
Chapter 11 Trouble in Tar Mena
Chapter 12 Captured
Chapter 13 Journey into Harrodarr
Chapter 14 Swunock and The Lost Legion
Chapter 15 Narisond
Chapter 16 The Cliffs of Tuonia
Chapter 17 Hallowed Ground
Chapter 18 Ghosts of Elinathrond
Chapter 19 Seige of Srun
Chapter 20 The Gathering of Hawk and Falcon
Reckoning in the Void
Chapter 1 Promises Kept
Chapter 2 The Lost Forge
Chapter 3 Torch of Throka
Chapter 4 Preparing Bait and Sharpening Hooks
Chapter 5 Fishing Trip
Chapter 6 Breaking and Betrayal
Chapter 7 Sweeping
Chapter 8 In the Order's Shadow
Chapter 9 Enemies and Friends
Chapter 10 Declaration
Chapter 11 Secrets of Runhadis
Chapter 12 Well Earned Comforts
Chapter 13 Disruption
Chapter 14 The Cleansing
Chapter 15 Further Shadows
Chapter 16 Roads From Lokam
Chapter 17 Twilight Skies Burning
Chapter 18 The Spoken Word
Chapter 19 Sacrifices
Chapter 20 The Roads End
I Mythos of the Lands
II. Of The Races
III. Arrowfall
IV. Blood of Harrodarr
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Saints of Wura
Books One, Two, and Three
By: J.T. Williams
©2016 J.T. Williams
This is the complete Saints of Wura storyline encompassing three full novels, two short stories, and bonus content that can be found at the very end. I hope you enjoy the story with all of its darkness, magic, and bloodshed!
Thank you for reading this collection! Enjoy!
J.T. Williams
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Winemaker of the North
Saints of Wura Book One
©2014 J.T. Williams
Updated 2nd edition
‘The North’
Chapter 1 Dagger In The Night
Moonlight cast a thin shadow across the floor as a cold night wind rustled Sviska’s cape. He had been silent since ascending the stairwell of the keep, sneaking past numerous men patrolling the halls. The highest level had proved the least guarded, but getting past the last two men without them seeing him was impossible.
Sviska would take only a few seconds, emerging from the shadows moving under bleak torchlight, to be within range. The hour was late and the guards were tired. Within only a few strides from his targets, he went from a sneaking pace to a sprint before leaping into the larger one, driving his dagger into his neck. Turning to the second man, he was surprised when he dropped his spear and cowered, putting his hands out in a motion begging for mercy. A poor guard for his charge in the keep. Sviska slashed his neck causing a bubbling red stream to run down the collapsing body. He glanced back down the hall as he caught and laid the man next to the first one. His killings had not gotten the attention of anyone else in the keep. He glanced at an image on the door before passing into the room, leaving their bodies outside. He would not tarry.
Through an open window across the room, he could hear the dogs barking and their frantic but pointless search.
One of the other bodies must have been found.
He was not surprised given he had to take the main road in and the city was already on high alert due to their rebellious state. He was sent to curb the lord of Tar Mena’s obedience to his masters. The lord had ignored other attempts at peace, and a lesson tonight would teach him to behave appropriately.
Sviska tiptoed forward. His boots made little noise as he passed across the darkened room. An image of a tree and two stars, as well as mention of a medallion worn by his target, accompanied the message that had ordered him from the desert of the south to this far northern wooded town. Upon the door of this very room, he saw the identical image.
A sleeping form awaited their death.
Stepping around a rocking chair and then onto a rug that ran before the canopied bed, he could see in the gleam of the moon a sheen metal upon the chest of the person. In the blankets, the person moved and something fell out of the bed, rolling into Sviska’s path. He stepped on it, looked down, and found a doll wearing a blue dress under his dark boots.
What is this?
He moved his hand from the hilt of his dagger and reached down to pick up the doll. Its stringy hair was caked with blood from the underside of his boot. The guard near the front gates had required additional silencing, and Sviska’s foot had worked well to quiet him.
He dropped the doll and then leaned over the bed. He had expected a woman or a man, but instead, wrapped in blankets and slightly snoring, he found a little girl sleeping. Her arm was above her head, and her hair fell down her face in braided strands.
Why a child? This cannot be.
However, the child was marked with the medallion as his task stated she would be. His masters would not take failure lightly. The Keepers, the assassins of the Order of men, were not allowed to choose to accept or not. They were to simply comply with the wishes of the Order.
His hand gripped his dagger, but his heart thudded and he shivered with chills. He could not draw blood from a child. What crime would a child be guilty of? He had no choice.
It was a moment later when the heavy thud of metal boots preceded the door to the room slamming open. A form appeared, holding a torch and a large hammer. It was a large man, taller than Sviska, and swift, much
swifter than the veiled assassin expected.
Sviska went for his sword, sidestepping the arching blow from the hammer, which cracked into the floor just near the bed of the child. He tripped over the rocking chair and rolled toward the wall.
The man shouted out, “Guards! To the room of my daughter! I have found him!”
The child began screaming in a deafening pitch. The figure swung the war hammer again as Sviska made it back to his feet. The iron-spiked head of the hammer just missed him. He ran near the window edge, but the blow of the hammer came again, striking his sheath against the wall and forcing him around to face the man. Multiple guards entered the room, and Sviska felt behind him at the open air of the outside. He glanced down but saw nothing but the ground. He attempted again to draw his sword, but he could not. He gripped his dagger.
“I will help you out of my daughter’s room!” the man yelled before charging him.
He stepped forward, attempting to spin around his attacker, but found himself with the wooden handle of the war hammer against his neck and jaw. The back of his legs were against the bricks of the window. He struggled to push back, but the man had him. With a shout, the angered father of his victim pushed once more, forcing him over the ledge.
Sviska closed his eyes, feeling the wind around his body, awaiting his end that he deserved for his many tasks. He had become tired of his own deeds. The Order had become senseless in their targets, and now, after this one, he welcomed death. But that was not his fate.
He smashed into a cart of hay and grains, the sting on his back vibrating throughout his body. The muffled sound of shouting propelled him to get up. He rolled off the cart and struggled to keep his footing. He reached for his dagger but found it missing. Struggling to compose himself, he heard a voice shouting and a loud bell ringing.
“All guards to the keep! All guards to the keep!”
The clamor of boots coming up the main road from behind him spurred his continued search for his dagger. He looked down and spotted it in the mud. Somehow, as his eyes were still bouncing around and his sight was narrow, he grasped the hilt.
“Die!” he heard to his left.
He moved his dagger in a sideways parry and caught the wooden edge of a spear by chance, sending the shaft upward over his shoulder. He swung forward, seeing the eyes of his attacker and splitting the man’s neck from one side to the next.
He breathed deeply, and his focus returned.
Two more were upon him, and each parried in turn before he drove his dagger into the soft spot under their arms. These foes were well armored and trained. Fighting them had already caused him a certain degree of difficulty. He saw more men coming from down the way he had come. His horse was that way, but he could not return to it. Before his intrusion, he had studied the village, and now recalled that dense woods surrounded it and a small gate lay to the east of the keep. He could escape that way.
Sviska began to run, cutting between rows of stables to an alleyway that ran behind a string of structures. He began to hear the swish of arrows, and a few he felt along his cheek as he drew closer to a low wall. He cut back north, using another building as cover as he knelt down to hide behind a stack of barrels. The guards of Tar Mena hastily ran past where he had turned. He could hear more shouting and the neighing of horses.
“Lock the gates. We have more men coming from the south to secure these walls. We will run the assassin down from atop horses.”
This is proving to be a worse night than I expected.
Sviska could see the walls from where he was. Atop them, archers with bent bows walked back and forth, awaiting a single sliver of him to appear. He felt along his chest. He had three throwing knives remaining. Standing, he hugged the wall and made his way to the edge of the building. He saw no one immediately near him but could see two guards atop the wall and a few more down the way. They pointed to where he had been moments before, and it seemed that had captured their attention.
His path was clear. He would sprint from where he was to the stairwell leading up the wall. Dagger or throwing knife first—it would depend on who saw him. With luck, he could take the first man before the second even saw, and then perhaps take the second as he went over the wall. It would hurt falling again, but no less than a spear or sword, as was his enemy’s intention. He placed his head against the wall and looked up, closing his eyes. Sviska was ready.
He began sprinting just as he planned, but a plan rarely went as wished—this night had proved that. He made it nearly to the stairwell when the further guard of the two shouted. It was too late for the guard at the top of the step. Sviska was upon him, and instead of the dagger, his hands worked well to break the man’s neck. The twanging of the guards’ bows filled the air, and he shielded himself with the body of the guard. Two arrows whizzed near him, and another struck the guard. He shoved the guard away and reached for his throwing knives. He flung two down the wall, and each struck their target, causing them to fall to the ground gasping as his blades obstructed their ability to breathe. From behind him came another trio of men, and he threw his final knife, causing the leading man to stumble and fall backward and knock the other ones down as he tumbled.
Sviska threw himself over the wall, rolling as he struck the ground and grimacing at the pain in his left arm. He grasped it and ran. Behind him, a guard on the wall shouted, and then he could hear the approaching thunderous hooves of horses. The road was further south, so he would head north and hope he could stay hidden the entire way. Dawn was coming, and getting as far as he could before then was his only chance.
******
He wondered if he was safe, if he had run long enough. On horseback, he would've been surer of himself, but those at Tar Mena had not given him a choice. It was morning now, and a dusky sky above gave way to sunlight. The cool winds of early winter rushed over him as he continued sprinting into the hills of northern Taria. The brush along the road was tanned, and the trees more bare. Snowflakes began to fall but only drifted through the air, not yet sticking to the ground.
Ahead he could hear a brisk river. Somewhere there was a waterfall, but he could not quite see it. He came to where the dirt turned more stony and then trudged through the swift river. Scampering up the bank, he went to run again but stumbled. His knees buckled, and he collapsed in a dripping mess of sweat, water, and mud. The clang of his dagger bouncing off the nearby rocks startled him. He glanced around, gasping to breathe as he searched for where it had fallen. Spotting it, he swallowed his spit and began to crawl.
His knees were sore, and his chest burned with each breath he took. Reaching his dagger, he grasped the hilt. The blade was caked with dried blood. He held it and slumped down sideways on the ground, closing his eyes. Brushing his hand over his face, he wiped at the tear that had slid down to his nose, and whimpered. A bird called in the distance, and his eyes sprung back open.
Rolling over and peering across the river, he stood as uneasily as he had fallen. Sparse foliage and trees lined the opposite side.
He took a deep breath, drawing in the pine air before exhaling and looking at the dirty blade. He went to the river. Scanning the opposite bank again, he sighed in relief with the hope that he had lost his pursuers. He needed to get the blood off his dagger and keep moving.
He dipped the blade into the current that rushed past, the waters twisting and turning around rocks before passing under thick overhanging trees further downstream. The clotted blood and tissue broke free from the blade and clouded the water. He ran his fingers over both sides and then held it up to the mid-morning sun, checking it for any other residue, all while watching the woods on the opposite bank.
His mind was racing, and the night before had become cloudy. He had never had a task go as awry as that one did.
Grasping the hilt of his sword still at his waist, he forced it out. It snagged on the scabbard as he pulled. He gave it a jerk to pull it free, but instead it cracked, dropping shards into the river. In a fury, he attempted to grab them be
fore they disappeared, but standing on the slick bank, he fell forward into the water. The water was a shock to his disheveled composure. He pushed himself back up, coughing.
From a child to a man, he had been of service to the Order. The Grand Protectorate was the outward ruling authority, but his masters were the supposed true keepers of peace in the world, the dispelling force and bane of the cursed and sickened magic peoples of long ago. In truth, it was more often that Sviska and others like him were the real reason for peace.
Sviska knew the Order would know of his failure of the task, but he was done. He did not wish to do this anymore. The task of killing another for little reason other than because of a command had drained him of resolve and drive to continue on such a senseless path.
His hand slid to his right side and rubbed along the leather loops in his armor, and then he shook his head, remembering that he had used all of his throwing knives. The main road before the keep had forced him to use many more knives than he was used to.
Foolish. I was foolish to go that way.
He recounted the night in his head but saw only blurs and his ears rang with the sounds of barking dogs.
Now standing still along the river's edge, he slid his dagger back into the sheath. He dropped the hilt of his sword on the ground. It was useless now.
Turning north, he went into denser woods. There were many places he could avoid watchful eyes if he wished it, but for now, he needed to avoid any place where an errant rider could announce his description to the local villages.
Making his way to a rocky outcropping atop a hill surrounded by trees, he found a spot for camp. There was a good view of the surrounding areas from high above, and the lack of any nearby village lights or wandering hunters’ campfires assured him he was in a desolate enough place to rest.
He lit a small fire to chase away the cool winds blowing from the north He nibbled on a piece of cured meat he had retrieved from beneath his cloak, and thought of the events from before. The memory of the little girl haunted his mind. He questioned the Order’s motive, struggling to understand.