The dwarf looked at his axe. The symbols on his weapon reminded him of his people and the courage they had shown in the stories he had read. It began to glow red.
He took many deep breaths and then ran forward, his axe swinging around and around as he ran toward the monstrous form before him. With strength from no source that he knew, he swung his axe at the armored being, but missed.
The weight of the missed blow tore the axe from his hand, and he struck the ground, flipping and rolling over many corpses that lay strewn about.
The being turned, and in its right hand, it held a large hammer. It began to walk toward Slats, swinging its hammer back and forth in front of it. With each step, the dwarf bounced where he lay.
Slats looked to his axe. It was just over to the left of the beast that would overtake him soon. But he could not get to it.
He looked around to the bodies and saw no weapons. He scurried up, flipping the corpses and rummaging until at last he saw the hilt of a weapon. The being was behind him. He could feel the vibration growing with each step. The beast was getting closer. He took hold of the hilt and drew the weapon, closing his eyes as he turned to the armored foe.
He had drawn a broken sword. He looked in horror, dropping the blade, at the being coming toward him.
This is the end . . . But Slats will not die cowering! I will go like my people, like the dwarves of old!
He looked down at one of the bodies and took hold of one of the ribs of the skeleton. Ripping it from the corpse, he then jumped aside from the armored being's axe and went for its knee, stabbing it with the bone. The metal fastener that held the armored leg shattered, and the being took to one knee, roaring in pain. The dwarf looked to his axe and ran for it, taking the weapon of the dwarves in hand.
The axe felt light now. Its head, a mere feather to him. The armored being struggled to turn on its knee, and its hammer dragged behind him.
"Don't even bother!" said the servant.
He ran forward, leaping, this time in full control of his axe. He slammed the axe head into the neck of his enemy, hewing off the head. The dwarf landed and turned as it crumbled into a pile of twisted metal before the entire room went dark and then was lit again, the white torch at the far end of the room now burning.
Slats lowered his axe as another dwarf appeared, only this one was in spirit and glowing.
"Slatnichor, last of the dwarves," the other dwarf said. "Not of battle hardness or weapon-making you come, but from servitude to another. Remember that you are a servant to others in these dark times. May the weapon of our people attend to your needs as it has the dwarf kings before. Avenge us, for we paid a price for the chance you have now."
"Thank you, Master Dwarf," said Slats, taking a knee and bowing. "I am honored to hold this tool of the craft of our people. I will avenge the dwarves of old, of those in Harrodarr, my home, and those lost in the hills of Taria." Slats stared at the dwarf before him. “Master Nurocas, Hammersong of Harrodarr? My teacher?”
The dwarf smiled. “I appeased our ancestors for this chance to speak with you. You have grown well, Slatnichor. Elinathrond has served you well. Go now and remember your people.”
Nothing further was said, and Slats saw his once teacher vanish.
The door behind him opened, and he stood, nodding at the torch and turning. As he rejoined the others, he took his axe and twirled it in his hand.
*******
"A long way from you struggling up the mountain with it!" said Sviska.
"Yes, my sir. I do feel it fits me a bit better now. Just needed to awaken the old blood!"
Sviska looked at the others. He was next. The final task, whatever it may be, would be his own. Garoa still hid his face, and Slats and Berie nodded their heads at him, motioning for the final door.
He approached and the door opened. He entered and the door clanged behind him. He looked around. The room was dark and expansive. The stone floor, cold and unmoving. He walked to the opposite room and to the white torch and then stopped as the white torch erupted into flames.
A man appeared in the center of the room.
"There is no further test needed for Resua, son of Terr. Your deeds, however dark, in combat and your will of change exalted in the city and in defense of Brethor were tested prior. Your heart is worthy by the decree of the temple to continue. The god Wura gives his blessing to you."
Sviska breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you," he replied.
"There is no thanks needed, my son. Only my seeking of your forgiveness for dying before I could be a father for you."
"You are my father?"
The man nodded. "I am Terr. You, Resua, or Sviska as you were later named, are my son."
"I do not blame you for dying or for not being near me. I have not ever understood it, but I feel no anger toward you or my mother. Your deaths are not your fault."
"That is true, but I knew what risk I was taking in those dark days. I still feel the guilt. Even in death, even now as you are about to take a stand against a new darkness in this land."
Sviska took a knee. "I swear by your grave and my mother's, that I will bring the Order down. They are the one's responsible."
Terr bowed his head. "Be careful, my son. Be careful of everyone you meet. Trust only the others in the room behind you. Even those who you believe to be trustworthy may deem themselves deceitful in time. And in the coming world, you cannot afford that. Learn more of us, Sviska, even if it is not until the times after what you are to do, our sacrifice should not be for naught."
In a wisp of wind, his father began to fade away. "Take care, my son."
The voice faded and Sviska was alone. He thought of his father, unsure of how to think of what he was told. He turned to the opening door and exited.
Berie nodded at him. "Very well! We have all completed the tasks."
Garoa was now standing, his face reddened and his eyes watery.
"Are you well, my friend?" asked Sviska.
"I am better—but it does not matter as of now. I know what must be done and will do it." He looked up at him. "We have tasks to do now. Let's go."
The four turned to the final door. The crystals were now all alight, and the door opened. As they entered the doorway, they came to a circular room, unadorned, with a high altar in the center. The dwarf hopped ahead. Pulling himself atop the altar and reaching forward, he picked something up.
He lifted the object up, and others below looked in curiosity. It was a key, a large silver key.
"That must be it," said Berie. "Let us take it to Brethor."
The dwarf tucked the key into his robe and followed the others out. With great haste, they headed down the hallway and ascended the golden steps, the Temple of Trials behind them.
Chapter 26 Saints of Wura
They emerged from the temple. The snowy mountaintop wind swept into the openings in their coats, sending chills down their arms.
Looking down at the city, the Brotherhood of Wura ran about, preparing for the coming battle. For every few scurrying figures, there was a red robe of the Priory of Kel amidst them. Their staves, outstretched and unmoving, awaited their need. Further down, the people of the city who were not staying disappeared into the mountain, looking like ants vanishing under a rock as they fled the coming cataclysm.
With the key in hand, the four rushed back down the mountain. In the distance, they could see billowing black clouds, almost as if smoke was approaching the mountain city from the west. Lightning streaked across the sky and thunder shook them as they made it into the courtyard. The doors of the Estate were open. Entering, they found Brethor standing before the fireplace in the dining room.
Adorned with cloth and fine dishes, the table awaited guests with servings of fruit, vegetables, and prepared meat set out and ready. Chalices filled with wine at each spot were next to silverware, all set uniformly beside each plate.
"So are we killing them now or having a feast with them?" asked Garoa.
Brethor turned and shook his head, lau
ghing, but said nothing as he continued to sip his wine.
"We have the key," said Berie.
"Yes, let’s release the magic," said Slats. "And then the people may not have to leave."
Brethor raised his eyebrows and looked down at his chalice, swirling it about. "I need more wine."
He went to the table and picked up the bottle. Sviska noticed it was one of the ones from the winery that had come with the first shipment. He poured it into the chalice, careful not to overfill, and then sniffed it.
"Delightful," he said. Sipping it again, he took a deep breath and went back to the fire, still not saying anything of the key.
Garoa exhaled through his nostrils and tapped his foot. "I'm sorry we are messing up your wine tasting, but can we please get on with it? I have had enough horrible imagery for this day."
Brethor looked up at him. After tilting his head back to get the last few drops, he nodded at Garoa.
"Just enjoying the last of the comforts of the Estate."
He took another chug and placed the chalice on the table, wiping his mouth with his hand.
"Oh, Berie, I will have you know the gypsies have taken the orphans and will care for them."
Berie raised her head and went to speak, but Brethor raised his hand. Sviska looked at him as he wondered what was happening.
"I am confused," he said. "I thought that with the key, we were releasing the magic to restore the city. We just need to find where to put the key."
"Yes. And I know where that is, but there is no saving the city." He clapped his hands together, rubbing them. "I only wished to give you four some hope before you faced what you did. My apologies."
At that time, the door of the Estate swung open and Captain Runa and other Brotherhood of Wura appeared. Sviska noticed that now they wore not white robes, but steel armor. Their helmets had large spikes that curved down from atop their heads, reaching in front of their mouths. The shoulders of the armor extended upward nearly to the middle of their helmets. Their breastplates had engraved etchings of the polar lights, and their pants were thick with fur coming off the sides. Of particular strangeness for Elinathrond, swords hung at their waists and they held large curved spears.
"Lord Brethor, we have news!"
From behind them, two guards brought a woman, her face bleeding and numerous cuts and slices across her body. Sviska noticed at once that it was the woman from the warming tavern when he first came up the mountain.
"Gemanc," he said.
The woman looked up, her eyes tearful and her body weak.
"Where is your husband?" he asked.
"D-d-dead." She shook now. "So cold."
They laid her down on the floor near the fire as Brethor draped a blanket over her.
"What happened?" he asked.
"A storm cloud. We thought it was just going to pass. But . . ." She paused. Her mouth quivered and then stilled. Her eyes were still open but no longer moving. An emptiness was now upon her.
Sviska shook her. "Gemanc!" he shouted. He shook her more, but she did not respond.
Captain Runa came to his side and placed his hand on his shoulder.
"She is gone."
Sviska stood and stared at her face.
The captain then looked to Brethor. "When we found her, she was crawling toward the gate. She screamed of men with blue emblems on their chests of a fish and a trident."
"The Legion?" asked Sviska.
"Do you know of them?" the captain asked.
"The Legion is men of the Grand Protectorate’s control. They are the outward armies of the Order. They are the principal fighting force of men in the lands."
Brethor laughed again. "And in the clouds ride the Order, no doubt bent on hellish destruction. We shall soon have a wonderful time here."
Grabbing some apples from the nearby table, he took a crunching bite out of one of them. He then looked to Runa, tossing one to him and then offering more to the others. Captain Runa looked at the table, scanning the food and well-set silverware.
"Lord Brethor, with war on our doorstep, you are having a feast?"
Brethor said nothing and simply smiled.
"Have you lost your mind?" he asked him.
"Yes, indeed I have. But I think of it more as a loosening of my mind. The freedom! The burden of my lordship finally relieved!"
He abruptly began out of the room. Captain Runa looked at Sviska, who shook his head in unknowing and followed after the others who were behind Brethor.
"Winemaker, how strong is this Legion?"
"Their numbers are made up of most of the land. I cannot guess, but can say they will have brought twice as many as they felt they might need. If a single legion, five-thousand men."
"We do not have the men to repel an attack by this Legion, much less the Order," Runa said.
Sviska’s eyes widened, and he sighed, looking at the captain. "Brethor says things are going the way he wishes. I feel we must trust him."
Sviska's words did nothing for himself or for the comfort of the captain. He had no idea to what Brethor was doing.
As they left the Estate and began across the courtyard, the crunch of the snow under their boots and the gusting wind from the west taunted them to go back. It brought an uneasy feeling that turned their stomachs. The billowing clouds were now setting low before the city. Streaks of lightning struck at random near the lower level in the desolated area.
The captain and Sviska stopped at the archway. The gypsies had brought their carts in a tight circle and were gathering every object they could in the center. The children spotted Berie and went to her.
"What is going on, Berie?" a little girl asked.
"Yeah, they say we're leaving," another child said.
Berie knelt down to them. One of the boys looked at her bow.
"You have a weapon?"
"Yes."
"I can fight."
His own bow was a stick with some twine. She smiled at him.
Another boy and another even, as well as the girl before her, all stood straight.
"We can all fight," the girl said.
The others nodded with her.
"Go with the gypsies, children," she told them.
The elf turned and then hurried to catch up to Brethor, who was well ahead.
Sviska and the captain had watched the interchange, and the children looked to them.
"What is going on?" they asked.
"You will be fine," said Runa. "Just do as these gypsies say."
The children went toward the carts again.
Runa placed his hand on Sviska's shoulder. "To whatever end, friend."
"Indeed."
The captain gave a nervous smile, and both he and Sviska ran to catch up with the others.
The silver helms and tall shields of Brotherhood of Wura formed into a wall, shielding the outside door of the temple. In their eyes, Sviska could see the worry.
The two in the front fell back as they approached and opened the door. The four each took their own turns entering the temple, and as each passed in, the men shouted, "Wura! Wura!"
Sviska turned to the captain. "We will be back out in a moment."
"Hopefully whatever the lord has planned will help us," the captain replied.
With that, the doors shut and Sviska turned to find Berie and Brethor at odds.
"I am not leaving!" she yelled, her eyes slanted and her fist shaking in his face.
"You will do as you have to. Your father would not have trusted another with this task."
"Did I miss something?" asked Sviska.
Garoa crossed his arms and looked at him. "It was quite random actually. As soon as we got in here, she started yelling at him."
Brethor turned to them. "Slats, the key."
The dwarf approached Brethor. His axe upon his back still seemed odd to Sviska.
Brethor took the key from him and went to the altar. He took hold of the center stone affixed to the altar and pushed it, revealing a keyhole. He ins
erted and turned the silver key, causing a clanking and slight rumbling underneath.
There was a harmonious tone within the temple, and then the walls were alight in gold flames that engulfed the room. The key shattered and turned to dust. With a rumbling, the center altar cracked and split open, revealing a passage and another door adorned with crystals.
They looked up around them. Flames licked the ceiling, and an unnatural heat emulated off the fire.
"How are we to get out?" shouted Slats.
"Don't worry," ensured Brethor. "The fires are to keep others out, not us in."
He began down the stairs and to the door. With his right hand, he pushed on the door. The symbols on the door began to glow, as did the symbols on his hand.
"Everyone, your right hand. Do as I am."
They each took their place by the door and then pressed their hands against it. In the center, an effigy of the polar lights appeared, shifting and swirling. The door then dropped down, and a large room, white and shining, was before them. A fuzzy veil covered the doorway.
Brethor entered. As he did, his image behind the veil became blurred.
"Come on," he shouted, beckoning the others in with a waving hand.
As Sviska entered, he felt a deep chill to his body, as if he had just fallen into an icy lake. The hair on his arms stood up, and his heart raced.
Walking down a path lighted by glowing stones every few paces, Sviska looked around at the blackness around them. It seemed as if stars glimmered in the distance, and he could see no end to the room. The only floor was the ground they stood upon, and although they had descended from the temple above, it felt as if they were high above the world.
"We have entered the ethereal world between that of men and of the gods. Find yourself blessed to be in this holy sanctum," Brethor said, bringing his robe about him to try to shut out the chill.
Down the pathway on an altar sat a single object. As they approached, Sviska could make out that it was a golden book with a silver border, bound in blue gems with green emeralds.
Brethor placed his hand on the book and looked up to the skies above.
"Great god Wura, let them take this book to a safer place. I have failed in the protection of the city, but I have found your Saints to protect it from this time forward. Lest it be as was our decree that the city shall ever be protected until the time the book departs. These four have passed your trials and now take on the burden I was so trusted with before."
Saints of Wura: Winemaker of the North, Arcane Awakening, Reckoning in the Void (Saints of Wura Books 1-3 with bonus content) Page 24