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

  Chapter 19 Shadows of the Past

  The night was quiet. He drew his dagger. The metallic scraping and him throwing his hood over his head was the only sound to be heard. Not even the mountain winds brushed through the dense trees as he opened the first of the two doors.

  Pushing open the second, he peered in. The tavern was alight with dim torches, little splashes of sunset chasing the blackness of shadows that failed to hide what was within. He heard no shouts or jubilant laughing like before. He did not know what hour it was, but the rank of blood and flesh was strong in his nostrils.

  He crept into the tavern, hugging the wall as he did. Knocked over glasses of ale and wrecked tables were strewn about the room. The patrons of the establishment lay in puddles of their own blood, their weapons still sheathed. In one part of the tavern, a small fire was burning where a lamp had been broken. There were edged slices in the flat part of the bar, flesh of men caught in the notches of the wood. These people had not been dead for long. He expected a roving patrol from the village at any moment. He hurried.

  There was no torchlight near the stairwell, and above, no lights were in the entire rest of the upper floor.

  Taking the lone remaining torch off the wall, Sviska began up, stepping carefully to not make more sound than necessary.

  The library was in shambles. Books were torn, their spines ripped and in pieces. The chair where he had napped prior to ascending the mountain was broken. It was here, slouched backward over the table, that Sviska found the barkeep.

  He checked for signs of life but then noticed his neck was open like a hastily filleted fish. Sviska searched the books for the one he had read while here but could not find it in the rubble.

  "Priest of Wura, I need your help!" he said.

  He waited, but there was no answer. He peered around, noticing the altar near the back of the room had a small ray of light shining on it. He stood and quickly ran into the secluded room. The wall had a crack that ran from the ceiling to the floor where the light behind it barely came through.

  Sviska pushed with very little effort and the wall slid back, revealing a stairwell. Cobwebs hung low off intermittently lit torches that spiraled downward. He grimaced and then stepped to the first step, attempting to peek around the corner. He saw only further darkness.

  The stairwell wound around and went deep into the earth. He followed it under the tavern until finally reaching another door. This one, too, was cracked. He pushed it open, his dagger in front of him, ready to immediately strike if needed.

  He had come to a single large room. Torches lit the walls, splashing light onto the stone floor. As he took a step in, he tripped, falling forward. He caught himself on his hands but now saw what had tripped him was the old man from before. His face was mere inches away from the man's beard.

  He recoiled at first, thinking the man was dead. The breeze from the man's mouth was warm, and from cracked lips, the man spoke.

  "Tell the lord that I have failed, Resua."

  Resua. That was the name he called me before.

  "Resua, I can no longer uphold my order from Wura. The chest. The Dark One . . . sought that chest." He pointed into the room.

  Barrels lined the one wall to his left, but to the right, there was a stone chest in the center. In the far part of the room, the living quarters of the priest consisted only of a single bed and shelves of old books.

  "I have long waited for my watch to end. The fires destroyed much, but I could not risk the journey to the city, and I could not contact the lord. Please, ask him for forgiveness for me."

  "I will, Priest. What has happened here?"

  It was then the torches of the room darkened, and the door behind him swung shut. In the center of the room, a figure now stood.

  The Priest of Wura convulsed, grabbing his throat, choking. Sviska leaped forward. His blade swung into the figure, but it vanished. He peered around in the darkness but was struck in the back. He fell to the floor, a dull pain in his spine.

  Listening to the last breaths from the old man, Sviska watched as the priest burst into white flames. He was standing now, his gray beard billowing in the flames and his hands outstretched. A wall of white light erupted from his palms, and the dark figure was pinned against the far wall.

  "The book, Resua! The book!" he shouted.

  The dark figure bellowed in agony, snarling and screaming a horrid sound, his body flailing about.

  Sviska ran to the stone chest, and as he touched it, symbols appeared on his hand and then on the chest. He then lifted the stone covering and noticed a large book, the one he had before read when he first came to the tavern.

  "Take it! Fly with it!" the old man shouted.

  Sviska followed his command. Grabbing the book, he turned to the dark figure and noticed the white light from the old man was beginning to dim.

  He went to attack the being, but the priest grabbed his coat.

  "Go!" the priest screamed. He shoved him toward the door.

  He ran up the stairwell. In what sounded like thunder behind him, he heard a roar and then the screams of the old man. There was a gust of wind behind him. He ran for the ledge that overlooked the tavern, gripping the banister and twisting himself over the edge.

  His body shattered a table and he rolled, coming to rest against one of the pillars of the tavern.

  A shroud of blackness appeared on the banister.

  "You will not escape!" hissed the shadows.

  Sviska went toward the open door of the tavern. Passing into the night, the crunch of the snow beneath his feet, he turned to see the shroud of blackness form the dark figure again. Sviska took the charm given to him by Brethor and blew into it. From all around him, from the nothingness of the icy air, bats began to swirl in a whirlwind swarm.

  The figure screamed and drew a curved blade, but faltered in his attack just before the outline of the swirling bats.

  "Sviska! The winemaker! Do not continue to defy those who the Order commands! Do not betray us!"

  The figure turned back into the black shroud just as the bats that swirled about him blocked his view. He felt his body lifting and the cold night wind blowing around him. His stomach felt a sensation of being pulled into his body, and he felt himself flying, rushed through the air. The prickly wings of the bats scratched all over him, their claws digging deep into his clothing.

  Another rush of air and then he felt himself falling. The bats released their grip, and he fell a few additional feet onto an icy, snowy surface.

  Wiping his eyes, he blinked and looked around. He was on the roof of the Estate. The city was below him, the twinkling of torchlight against snow laced into the buildings.

  He stood, wondering of how he would get down, when he noticed the smell of smoke. He looked around and wondered of its source, and then the wind blew a billow of blackness about him. He coughed and his eyes burned. He slid down the side of the roof and leaped onto the snowy ground below, landing just in front of the door. There was a fire burning on the side of the Estate.

  He began around the corner of the building and found Brethor, Berie, and Captain Runa standing above a dead Prior. Brotherhood of Wura members were throwing water on the building, fighting the fire on the side of the Estate.

  "It seems my assumptions were correct, Brethor," said the captain. "A Prior did set that fire in the winery, but why would they try this?"

  He pointed at the side of the Estate that was still smoldering. "The fires are on the stones. It is a waste of effort," he sneered, kicking at a body on the ground before them.

  The corpse was extremely pale, nude, and had a single stab wound to the chest. The blood was dark and thick.

  "This body is old. This person was not alive to start this fire," said Berie, her finger inside the wound. "It must've been placed here." She rolled the body over.

  "I know this man," Captain Runa said, his eyes widening. "But this man died many days ago. He said he had felt ill and then convulsed at the Temple of Wura and—
Ustavis!"

  The captain stomped the ground. "The man died just inside the temple, and Ustavis arrived to help with the body. He said he would take him to the Priory so that they could give him last rites.”

  "Brethor, could he have—?" began Berie.

  "Yes," Brethor said. He knelt down, and rolling the body, he pulled something from under the man's tunic.

  "Another mask?" asked Sviska, noticing the object that Brethor was holding.

  "Ustavis," Brethor whispered. “Yes, Turmin, except this man was dead, not alive like the first one who attacked you." He looked around them suddenly.

  It was then the body began to move, first a leg, then an arm, and like a puppeteer's puppet, it rose from the ground, its mouth gaping open.

  Those around stepped back as he raised his hand. A green fire alighted in his fingers, and his hand flipped, releasing a spell toward the ground. The snow blasted up, knocking the four of them down.

  Sviska drew his blade but could not see the beast. Steam rose from the earth in a large billowing cloud, and the next thing he heard was Brethor shouting. The creature had him.

  He looked upward. Unseen hands held the lord of the Estate against the wall. Brethor struggled, choking and unable to breathe as he grabbed at his throat. The creature hovered high above.

  Berie pulled back on her bow, propelling an arrow shining in flames toward the creature with a twang, striking its chest.

  It wailed in response, sending another volley of green fire at the ground. The explosion covered the elf in steam. Berie screamed as the steam burned her arms. Sviska could not see the creature, but he still heard Brethor struggling to breathe.

  A shout came from the archway of the Estate. From the distant side of the courtyard, a red fireball erupted through the night air, the sizzle as it passed through the snowdrift getting louder as it struck the creature in the back. The creature burst into flames.

  The creature wailed, and Brethor fell to the ground, released from its grasp. Sviska ran to him, the lord coughing as he held his throat and breathed heavily. He was shaken but alive.

  Berie let fly another bolt, this one striking the burning creature in the back of the head. However, unstopped, it continued to hover above them, throwing random balls of green fire to the ground.

  From the archway of the gypsies came Garoa and many Priors rushing to the aid of their lord. The Prior’s staves were alight in white, and they held them high, stunning the creature.

  Garoa brought forth his glowing hands once more. An orange and yellow core grew between them, and a red flame erupted, turning white, before he let fly another ball of flame. The magic engulfed the creature as swirling fires relentlessly scorched it. It stopped in midair, wailing a final time, and then fell to ash, blackening the snow below.

  The Priors spread out around the courtyard, each scanning the ground to secure the area.

  Berie and Sviska pulled Brethor to his feet. They both took note of her burned arms, but she shook her head.

  "Do not worry. The fairies will mend this injury with ease."

  Garoa began to sink back from the courtyard. With the danger gone, he planned to go back to his home. Brethor shouted to him.

  "Come here, Garoa!"

  Garoa took a knee before the lord of the Estate. Berie and Sviska looked on as the lord dropped down to his level.

  "Please forgive me for using my powers," Garoa said in a somber tone. "But I felt it necessary. I knew another body had been found after some of the Priors spoke of it passing me in the street."

  "I wanted to thank you, Garoa. Your magic was indeed the source that saved me this day."

  Garoa stood.

  Brethor turned to the captain. "Captain Runa, are you well?"

  Runa was motionless, looking at the ashes. "This was my fault. It was a lapse in my own judgment, and I take responsibility."

  "Such things can be dealt with at another time. Do not worry of it now. Ustavis is responsible." Brethor scoffed and looked about the sky.

  Sviska kicked the ashes, looking to Brethor. "But Ustavis is dead. Did the demon do this?"

  "No, this was something else."

  Brethor looked back down just as the ground began to rumble. The earth ripped around them. From the center of the courtyard, a figure came from the ground. Smoke poured from the earth, and the smell of rotted flesh filled Sviska's nostrils.

  "I have returned," the being moaned. Its arms were stretched into the air.

  Its eyes were white as hot fire, and the body was once a man but no more. There was a glow that caused his blood vessels to surge, and he was twice the size of another man. The earth was caked to his body, and worms grew from his face and arms. Its face was reminiscent of someone they all knew, but Brethor was the first to confirm their thoughts.

  "Hello, Ustavis," he said.

  The Priors surrounded the being who was once Ustavis, their staves forming a circle around him. Sviska looked as Berie set an arrow to her bow. Notching it to the string, she placed her fingers around the feathers.

  She quivered and looked down at Sviska. "It is a Lich, a being of death and pure magic." She turned her gaze back to her target, pulling the string back slowly.

  "No simple pleasantries this wonderful night, old friend?" said Brethor. "Or perhaps you've lost all respect, being dead, as you are."

  The Lich laughed and raised its clawed hands. The ground rumbled again, and from the snow emerged more hands, rotten and blanched.

  "I do not take well to uninvited visitors at my Estate."

  Brethor burst from his spot, and in a fury, dug his arms into the ground where the first hands emerged. He took hold of the undead being that was being summoned, brought it up by its decaying arm, and tore it apart, tossing the pieces before Ustavis.

  The Lich laughed again and raised his hands higher. Piles of snow built upon themselves, and more of the undead appeared. The Priors let fly orbs of white fire toward the Lich, but with a laugh, he raised his hand, stopping them moments from striking him. He held them in place before looking down and propelling the orbs at the castors, throwing the Priors to their backs.

  Berie's arrow flew, striking him in the shoulder. A moment later, the same area was immolated with a fireball from Garoa. The creature hissed. It ran toward the Rusis, but Sviska ran forward as well. His dagger met the side of Ustavis as they passed each other, its flesh torn open by Sishan.

  The Lich hissed again.

  Another Prior raised his staff, an orb of light forming at the end.

  Brethor tore another undead apart and shouted, "No! The magic of Kel is feeding him!"

  The Prior heard, but it was too late. The white ball flew near Ustavis, and he turned, catching the orb in his hand. Floating toward the Prior, he held the white orb at his head and the man screamed, his body melting into the ground.

  Ustavis picked up the Prior’s staff but was pelted again by the combined attacks of Garoa and Berie. It recoiled, throwing the staff before spitting black fluid on the ground. From the earth came bones, rushing together in the center of the courtyard, stacking and fusing with a crackling sound.

  Berie and Garoa turned their attacks. The fireballs and arrows had no effect on the bones of the giant forming before them. Undead continually erupted from the ground, and soon the courtyard was a field of walking corpses. The Brotherhood of Wura was now in the fray, and they struggled to make it past the boned entity, striking with their staves against its body.

  The monster was much larger than the Lich. Its eyes were as black as the essence of death. It smashed the ground with its fists, throwing snow and men as it did.

  From the Estate emerged Slats. His eyes widened and fear struck him.

  "What . . . is . . . that?" he stuttered.

  Brethor looked up at the doorway. "Lock the doors. Do not let them into the Estate!"

  But the bony entity was already moving toward them, unaffected by the attempts of the many warriors trying to stop it.

  Brethor tried to move
forward but was among so many undead that he could not make it in time. The creature was now at the doors.

  Although simple, the doors were defended more than anyone there, save Brethor, knew.

  "Wura, may your guardians now come!" he shouted, pointing to the motionless statues at the door.

  Sviska turned, hearing the shouts and watching as the two statues, who before had been as he expected a statue to be, stretched out their staves. Green fiery scythes erupted, and the statues rushed forward, leaping upon the bony beast, cutting and slashing at its ethereal form.

  The Lich shouted and flew upward, rising up with no help of wings or other discernible strength. He reached toward the night sky. In his hands, black fire flew down, setting the bony form aflame. In a flash of white flames, the bony giant seemed to grow larger, but the two warriors of Wura simply climbed further up its back. The flailing hands of the beast could not reach them.

  Their scythes to its neck now, they both spun in the air. The head of the beast was heaved and it fell, the bones sounding like stones falling from the cliff of a high mountain.

  The two guardians were now among the undead. Their scythes sliced the bodies as they jumped around, almost as a dance of blades, knocking all of the Lich's minions back to the earth.

  Soon the courtyard was quiet and the Lich was alone. The guards returned to their place and became motionless. Their scythes now appearing as simple staves again.

  The Lich began to back away. Berie let fly another bolt and Garoa another fireball. The Lich turned and fled, climbing up the wall of the Estate and to the mountainside as the spell and bolt missed.

  Brethor ran in pursuit, leaping up onto the mountain, grasping into the ice and stone that crunched with ease. He followed straight up the sheer cliff with unnatural strength, disappearing as he crested the summit. Sviska did not know what to think of what he had just witnessed Brethor do.