Saints of Wura: Winemaker of the North, Arcane Awakening, Reckoning in the Void (Saints of Wura Books 1-3 with bonus content)

by J. T. Williams

  A single hastily inscribed word was on the parchment. Drink.

  He looked to the bottles, holding each to the light.

  The first bottle did not appear to have anything in it but red wine. The second, third, and fourth were all the same. He picked up the final bottle. Holding it to the light, the wine settled from shifting, and he noticed what looked like a tiny glass vial within the wine itself. It was difficult to see, but he could make out the outline against the bottom of the bottle. He needed to open it.

  Worried of making a mess and of someone hearing, he altered his initial thought and did not just break the bottle. After a quick search, he found an abandoned corkscrew in a box with other random objects they had found while cleaning, and screwed into the cork. After a firm pull, the cork made a faint sound that echoed within the winery. The wine bottle was able to breathe. He then heard approaching footsteps.

  Slats.

  Knowing his assistant wanted a drink and could not wait for it did not surprise him. As the approaching footsteps got closer, he tucked the parchment into his pocket and pushed the broken box to the corner again. Just as he did, Brethor appeared in the doorway, covered in snow and holding two clean wine glasses.

  "I was hoping to have a taste of the sample stock I assumed would come with the shipment. Do you care to share some?"

  Sviska still held the bottle in his hand. Brethor, of course noticing, set the glasses on the table and sat down. Sviska reluctantly brought the bottle and sat down. He poured each of them a glass, being careful to assure Brethor did not see the vial.

  "So tell me of this wine, Turmin," he said, sniffing the glass before taking a small sip.

  "It is from the Ruda Grape, a traditional wine of my home. This is a red wine and can be warmed and mulled if preferred."

  Sviska did in fact know this. The familiar aroma sparked his memory, and he remembered from his time working with the wines as a child the nuance of details in winemaking.

  But what he had told Brethor before of his family was not true. He had no family. The orphanage he lived at as a very young boy was no more now than a memory. He had worked on the vineyard to help bring in extra money for the family group. The old winemaker there had no son and enjoyed teaching him of the process as much as Sviska loved working with the plants, the grapes, and he felt immense delight as a new bottle was procured after months of hard work.

  But that memory had burned. The vineyard, the orphanage, the only home he knew. The Order found him then, and taught him to kill. The only lessons he received after that time were to kill.

  "So, family," said Brethor. "I did not come down here just to have a drink. I spoke with Cusis, and he told me of your observation of my lonely Estate."

  "I did not mean an insult by it," Sviska explained, noticing the slight slowing of tongue with the word “lonely.”

  "No, Turmin, I do not find it an insult, but yet a sad state of things. There is much you need to know of here, secrets of this city that, unfortunately, due to the death of the last winemaker, will become more evident once you brew the new wine. Do you care for a midnight walk in the city?"

  Sviska was tired but agreed. At least with Brethor he would manage not to get into more trouble. Leaving the winery, he hurried to his room and put on an additional layer of clothes and his large coat. He met Brethor, who stood in a black coat accented with metal along the shoulders and the arms, in the foyer. He also held another coat of similar fashion.

  "You don't need all that," he stated, offering him the black coat he held.

  Sviska took the coat and took off his second layer. With just basic clothing on, he slipped his right arm into the new coat, noticing immediately the softness of the interior. Pushing his arms in the rest of the way, he noticed it was a perfect fit. Not only that, it was warmer than any coat he had ever worn.

  "Thank you," he told Brethor.

  "Do not thank me," Brethor insisted, "but the snow dwarves of this mountain. They were makers of many things, but most useful to daily living here, these coats. Crafted from the under-feathers of a phoenix and strewn together with dragon skins. Not only beyond rare in what it is made of, it is warm and will shield you from most dangers—that I can assure you."

  He opened the doors.

  The night was quiet, a waxy moon hung behind the clouds, and the snow was glowing almost bluish. The phoenix coat lessened the coldness of the night, and Sviska was not as weighed down as he had been before. In truth, he felt like he was garbed in a simple cloth and that winter was far away.

  That memory faded as snow crunched under his feet.

  Brethor pointed around them. "The snow dwarves crafted this entire place. They were the first peoples to occupy this land and were of great use at making many defenses, both of stone and of crystals."

  "Crystals, as in the Watchers?"

  Brethor laughed. "I see Slats has been telling you of some of our secrets already. That is fine; this is your home now, and I want you to feel secure."

  Passing through the main square, they walked in near silence. They were taking the center road through the city. The Mirenor road.

  Sviska glanced up, admiring the trees that grew in the center of the stone promenade. The trees stood tall, reaching higher than the three-story buildings that lined the road on either side. The glowing flower petals that gleamed white in the moonlight outshined their bark, a silver color. He was in awe.

  "Some of the last elven trees still alive in the world. There were times when there were entire forests of these, sparkling over rolling hills by still lakes caught in the starlight. I swear to you, Turmin, you could look out over a field and would see there were two skies at nighttime." Brethor stopped, looking for a moment at the boughs above.

  "That is no more." He shook his head forcefully and continued walking. "The name of the road is even elvish, named after one of their woods from time ago.”

  "So if all magical creatures and peoples have come here, why have you never tried to leave? You could move out in force for support and protection. At the very least, you could talk with the villages by the lake."

  "We tried," Brethor replied, his tone short and monotone. "It worked. We built buildings, had our festivals, and lived beside the normal folk. But then the curse found us. To cure the mania that ensued, they murdered and burned all remains of our peoples from the village. It was then we became even more reclusive." He took a deep breath, bringing his coat up around him better. "We have to remain here. The curse cannot as easily reach us here."

  Sviska wondered of this curse that Brethor spoke of. Never had he heard of any curse before and was surprised that such lore would not have at least been rumored in the southern lands.

  They came to the wall of the city that separated the actual "living" city from the ghost town of the lower portion. As Brethor came to a small wooden door, Sviska noticed that it was obviously not the same gateway he had used when he first arrived.

  From his pocket, Brethor pulled a single silver key and placed it in the keyhole. He turned and jerked the key. A clank sounded, and then the key turned freely. They entered, and Brethor locked the door behind them. He checked it before he pointed to another door, unlocking it with a second silver key.

  They were again outside, but there were no buildings. A rocky outcropping in the center of a walled area was all that he could see. Atop the walls surrounding them, the crystalline statues looked inward. They appeared as beasts, blackened, but of glass.

  "They look toward us?" Sviska asked, staring about at the vast number that occupied the walls.

  "Watchers, as you know. That is their name to the people, but their true name is the Black Shards, ancient protectors. Of craftsmanship older than most in the lands. They were a gift from the lord of the snow dwarves to the city when I was taking over the Estate and he was on his deathbed. They assure no unwanted people or things can pass into our city or into areas we do not wish them to be, like here.

  “For further security, the Brotherhood
of Wura, the white tunic guards of the city, is made of normal men. Like you, they are no more magically inclined than a simple stone. They are the voice of the Black Shards. The Black Shards are of the Brotherhood of Wura. Between the two of them, we rest easy. There is much to protect here, and I love my people."

  "Wura, as in the thief god you told me of?"

  "There is irony in the fact of a thief god being the name of an order designed to protect, isn't there?" He smiled and began toward the rocky outcrop. "The god Wura has a very personal blessing over this place."

  Sviska wondered of the desire of Brethor to tell him so freely of such things. It was strange that although most seemed free to do what they wished within the city, there were still secrets to keep from public knowledge. Why were there two locked doors and crystalline sentinels looking toward an empty courtyard? This area of the city that was dark, cold, and away from the otherwise peaceful areas of the city. What was here that any would want?

  Now closer to the rocky outcropping, Sviska could see the stones surrounded two large pillars and a stone door covered by a metal grate angled into the ground.

  Brethor placed his hand on the door, and a pale light shone around his hand. The metal grate slid down.

  The stone door had a glowing seal in the shape of two stars rotating into each other, preventing it from being open. A series of runic inscriptions were just below the stone seal.

  In a sequential order, Brethor touched each seal, and the stone door rolled open. Sviska followed Brethor down a dark stairwell. Behind them, the door closed and a clicking sound resealed the door.

  They came to a large open hallway with a torch basin in the center.

  "Take a torch," said Brethor. "The way to the holy place is dark, and pitfalls are not uncommon."

  Sviska reached for a torch and lit it in the fires. An orange glow parted the darkness, and they walked down the dank and musty hallway. Strewn about were broken pillars and bones of previous occupants. They were past the state of decay; their white bony remains gawked outward. With periodic crunching under their feet, they left the torch basin and continued.

  "This place, too, was built by the dwarves many ages ago. It was the first way into the mountain, and as you will find, it is good at keeping many unpleasant secrets of our city. This is indeed a sad place. We wish to keep those here hidden as well as keep others from the city out."

  Looming before them now was a large stone door. Torches on either side lit the hallway, giving a bit more light, but still the room was dank and cold.

  Sviska peered into the corner of the room and took a few steps to investigate further. The floor gave way beneath his feet, and he jumped back, just making it to the center of the room as the stones crumbled, falling without a sound.

  Brethor raised his eyebrow. "The main path is safe, but the edges of the rooms on this level are unstable at the very thought of wishing to wander off. I told you it was unsafe."

  The large stone door was not like the door at the entrance. Brethor gave a firm two knocks.

  There was a clanking sound, and the rattles of chains and groans of the earth belching the sealed air rustled the dusts of the passage as the gate rose upward. They stepped forward, and a man in red-hooded robes met them at the doorway.

  "You have returned, Brethor," he said. "So soon?"

  Chapter 9 The Asylum

  Brethor embraced the man and then turned with a sway of his arm, presenting Sviska. "This is our new winemaker, and I hope he will procure the wine before too many others must join this place."

  The man bowed before Sviska, his red robe swaying with his gesture. "Then you are all of our hope. I am Roega, gatekeeper of the asylum. I bid a fond but dreary welcome to this place."

  "Thank you," said Sviska. "I am Turmin."

  Roega nodded and then turned and began to walk. Brethor was beside him as they went.

  "I'm afraid there has been no improvement in the newest accursed. Already they have been moved to the second level, and I have assigned more Priors to care for them from the first level. The newest are becoming more of a problem for both the temple and for us down here. Since there is no more wine, the curse is more rampant than before."

  Brethor sighed. "I know. The skepticism in finding another elixir is slowing what research is being done to inhibit the effects. It seems without the cessation of the curse, we will have little else we can do. The elven wine must be made again."

  Sviska knew nothing of what they spoke, nor of any elixir. There were no curses in the rest of the world. There had been plagues that killed many, but that was well before his time and there were common medicinal ways to prevent those.

  They came to a long hallway that was open on one side, overlooking a large crevice. Above the crevice, the cavern opened up, with large hovering orbs of light illuminating the grounds below. Resting on the ledge, they looked down to lines of rooms built into the rocks. People, many of them restless, walked quickly with no destination. As they reached the wall, they would turn and go back the same way.

  A few Priors, dressed in similar dark red robes as Roega’s, stood amongst them, occasionally having to separate those who would begin swinging at each other like drunken vagabonds.

  Between some, the peace only lasted moments before tragedy. Too few Priors were available to prevent fighting, and Sviska was surprised at a sudden clamor as Priors rushed over to help a man who was being stomped in the head by another.

  The man's face was bleeding, and his body convulsed wildly. A monk descended from a high stone chair, previously unnoticed by Sviska. He went to the convulsing man. Holding a staff at his head, a white glow shined, and the shaking stopped. The man who had been stomping him was taken, screaming and flailing wildly, to a gated area away from the sight of others, dragged further into the mountain.

  The monk with the glowing staff ascended to his chair again, and the mindless activity continued.

  "What is wrong with them?" Sviska asked.

  Brethor answered in a solemn tone. "That is the second level. It is there that many live their last days still in the light, if mage lights can be called light. We will go to the third and fourth later."

  "This asylum, the curse, what is all this?" asked Sviska.

  Roega coughed. "Well, it is the curse that causes the disease. I believe it is termed something specific away from the mountain."

  "Memory sickness," stated Brethor. "The asylum is a place where sufferers can be offered some peace and a last bit of time as themselves before the later stages affect them. If they were not in Elinathrond, men of the world would kill them." Brethor shrugged and walked ahead of them.

  "I know of what you speak," said Sviska, "but that was many years ago, well before my time. Those people were a danger to others, and no known cure ever existed. But it is not widespread anymore. Memory sickness is very rare. This must be something else."

  "Very rare in your world, perhaps," said Roega, "but here it is not. We must separate these people from the rest of the city in order to prevent panic. You will find that everyone here is highly susceptible to the curse. Those of your lands that the curse affects have but a taste of magic in their bloodlines. Some never develop into the later stages but function well with only bouts of insanity. In the attempt to purge all of the magic in the world, many innocent and non-magical people were murdered when the cause was not the curse but simple diseases of men, faultiness in their own bodies. Be thankful that those of pure magic are gone in your world, lest your people would still be suffering with only the most minor sign of sickness. It was a dark time."

  They passed through an archway and came to an area with stone seats where many Priors sat one on one with people, talking and helping them get dressed and eat.

  Some of the people here were still doing simple tasks on their own, while others were beginning to show the similar signs as those in the second level. There were at least fifty people that Sviska could count.

  "Did you know that fairies live in trees?" s
aid one as he grabbed Sviska's arm. Sviska pushed the man’s hand away, and he then went to Brethor.

  "Did you know that fairies live in trees?"

  "Why yes, I did, but thank you for telling me," he said.

  The man smiled and then went to another person, saying the same repeatedly.

  "The curse was made to draw out those of magical origin so that they could be purged from society," said Brethor. "What Roega told you was true. Normal men were left unaffected, but if even a small portion of your blood was of magical origin, it would affect you."

  Roega nodded and looked around. "Very few were in this level before, and even fewer in the second prior to the curse finding its way here. The entire first level of the city, the bleak area past the first walls, have given its occupants to the asylum."

  He urged them forward. At the other side of the room was a door. On either side, Priors stood, hooded and unmoving.

  "We descend deeper," he said.

  The Priors opened the door, and Roega led them through. A narrow stairwell twisted and snaked downward. They came to a plane that went out toward the second level.

  They did not stop. Their descent continued, and darkness enveloped them. The monk brought forth a staff from his robes, and a whitish glow lit the way as they went into a much more cave-like area. There were more Priors here compared to the first level.

  Looking through large stone openings carved into the mountain, he saw gate cells gleaming from the glow of the monk's staff. Sviska thought he could see movement from one of the cells.

  Another man sat at a plain wooden table. He was busy inscribing names in a book. Picking up a sheet of parchment from a stack, he would glance at it, write down the name, and then burn the parchment in a torch basin to his left.

  "What is the number now?" asked Brethor.

  The man looked up at Brethor slowly and then looked back down at his book.

  "Thirty," he said, "since you were here earlier."

  "Thirty?" Brethor asked in disbelief. He rubbed his hands through his hair and then walked forward, down one of the corridors. Sviska followed him.