"Why is that? It seems the entire realm is moving against the Grand Protectorate.”
"Correct you are in that assumption, but the Leechers are not of any army or any one province of Taria. If we are not criminals of some sort, we are runaways or otherwise those wishing to not be seen. The Grand Protectorate is an issue that has plagued the lands for a while, and for years there have been movements against them. That is what creates us, a united alliance, if you will. Even our name, Leechers, comes from our desire to leech the power from the Legions, even if it is literally bolt by bolt as it seems to be of late."
Wind blew through the trees, and birds scurried and flew to perches built atop the blacksmith's house above them. The trees seemed to be shifting back and forth, as vines swung from tree to tree.
The Leechers were returning. Around twenty men and women of ages of Garoa's to younger than Asnea began assembling along the different levels of the tree. A group also walked along the bottom level, laden with supplies from their raid.
A man began up the stairwell with a sackcloth bag in his hand. His bow was larger than the ones the others had. It was green, and a carving of a black snake curved around it. What appeared to be horns about the size of a small kitchen knife came off either end.
His arms were bulky, and he seemed more ready for a large ax than a bow. His dark skin was in contrast to the tan cloak he wore, but it helped in hiding him in the shadows. He came to the level of the sitting area and looked and Garoa and Asnea.
"Master Naskin, I see your raid went well," Imia said.
Naskin said nothing as he and Garoa locked eyes.
"Man," Naskin began, "What do you say to this? I head to the tavern of moon and star, the way of good drink and sour pipes. Where must I go to get some bread?"
A smile crested Garoa's lips. "Then I would need to tell you that you might should go to the baker of the red morning, lest you will be as the dead baker's dough and not rise again."
Naskin nodded and said, "Garoa, it has been many years since our days in Lokam."
"Indeed."
Asnea and Imia looked at them both, "You know each other?" Asnea asked.
"Yes, it seems your father has at last came to find you. I knew your mother, child, and when your father left I searched for him, though I knew that he had gone farther than one would go with a bar wench. I found no trace of him. That was after the knowledge that you were within your mother."
"I headed north and there I remained."
"It is well to me that memory disease did not find you. I had feared it when you did not return."
"I was well," Garoa told him, "but now we must find my friend, Sviska. Aside from that, I fear an object of power has fallen into the hands of the enemy."
"You sound of the old peoples of long ago, rambling about magic and sorts; nothing gives power other than ourselves," he said, and patted his own arms. "This is what power you need."
Garoa raised an eyebrow at him, but Naskin said, “Yes, I remember from Lokam. You little spitfire, not big in the arms, but I wouldn’t want to be in a fight in a dark corner with a Rusis.”
Garoa laughed and said, “You might still do well enough with a bow from a far. But of importance now is my friend and a book he carries. If the Grand Protectorate gets it, we will have more issues than worth mentioning here."
Naskin shook his head and said, "Garoa, if there is something that the enemy should not have, then we will do what we can to retrieve it. My consideration is your friend. We saw no strangers within the legionnaires in our raid, though it was a small group."
"The Legions, as well as a man of The Order, was in Tar Mena," Asnea said.
"A battle?" Naskin asked. “And you speak of The Order? They themselves were in Tar Mena?”
Asnea shook her head and said, "There was no battle. There were dark men with them, as well as what seemed to be a ghost in robes. I, too, was surprised by The Order’s presence."
"Now, now, Garoa! You have Asnea talking crazy!" Naskin said.
"She tells the truth. I tell you, we must move quickly to get him."
"Very well,” Naskin said, “but to do so we must find him first.”
Master Naskin made a circular figure with his fingertip and began clicking his tongue. From eyries above came many small yellow birds no larger than an apple.
He clicked more, faster and slower, with varying loudness, and pointed to Garoa. The birds fluttered and flew around him before taking to the skies above and each heading in different directions.
"They will search for your friend. My men and I need rest, but we will leave as soon as they return with word of him."
"You can speak with birds now?" Garoa asked.
"I always have been able to. I have actually taught some here to do it. Animals are wonderful spies and guardians of areas such as this. Rabbits, snakes, even beetles watch the surrounding woods and give me word of their sightings. In fact, it was a lone tree toad that told me of the legionnaires near our borders."
"Well," Garoa said, surprised. “I thought I knew you well."
"You do. But I never brought it up in Lokam back then. That would've been a bar trick that I never would of not been able to do being around the old group!"
Garoa nodded along, “That is true."
Sviska struggled to keep up with the cart. As they passed the gateway of Tar Mena, it was clear that no sudden rescue would come from Asnea or Garoa. Not that he wanted it, but in some hope, he had thought it might happen, and he would not have minded.
It was soon as an hour after they had been walking that he could no longer keep up. He slipped and was dragged by the cart that had no plan of stopping. The legionnaires behind him laughed and pointed at him, even while he struggled to stand.
Rocks and dirt scraped against his stomach and legs, tearing his skin and tissue. Larger rocks, stepped over by the horses, became like fists striking his face repeatedly. His mind pondered the Galhedriss Arcana taken by The Order, as well as Kasis and the strange man that was unlike any he had seen. It baffled him, but then fell from his mind as the pain over his body surged.
He worked to twist his arms in their bindings. By twisting and further tearing his skin on the rough ropes, he could at least have his coat, the garment from Brethor, take the brunt of the scratches and scrapes.
The horse slowed as they rounded a corner, a welcome pause. A whip snapped, followed by neighing to get the horse to pick up its pace. Sviska gained just enough time to snap his hands around and make it to his back. He still felt the bumps and scrapes, but they were not as bad now.
He watched the sun traverse the sky, which told they had been traveling for a while. The sound of a horse galloping from the opposite direction up the road caused the entire column to stop.
“Get him off the horse,” a voice said.
Sviska looked ahead as a man was pulled from his horse. He wore the garb of the Legion, but he had two arrows in his back. The others supported him as he coughed blood and pointed.
"Do . . . not . . . go . . . this . . . way!" The man couched again, “we . . . we were . . . attacked.”
The carriage door opened, and the Order Hand stuck his head out and questioned, "Attacked? By whom?"
"The trees . . . from the trees . . . sent for reinforcements at Lokam, but for now . . . do not go this way."
"We turn south then."
"But master, there is nothing in that direction that can help. It is just wilderness."
"My young man, if you know where to look, that is not so true. Driver, take us to Tuonia."
The man of The Order sunk back into his carriage, the door shut, and they began again. The horse made a circle in the grass lining the road and began south off the road and over hilly terrain into the valleys of the mountains.
It was a long path, crossing meadows overgrown with bushes of all kinds and streams that poured from the mountains. To Sviska’s dismay, the path got rockier. The further south they went, the stone turned a reddish color. The trees
all seemed to be dead, or nothing but sad frames of the beings they once were.
A path ran along the edge of the mountain and the horses made their way to it. Between his legs, Sviska watched the nearly invisible path. It was an old road, and one would have missed it if not looking for the stony climb up the edge of the cliff side.
Sviska looked down toward the legionnaires as they ascended. How far they had walked he did not know, but it gave him a slight pleasure to see them wincing in pain as they struggled to march up the steep embankment.
The path was straight, but then would turn and began the opposite way, leading further up. They were high upon the cliff side when the path at last widened, and Sviska turned to see a black citadel, built off the face of the cliff behind a sealed gate and large shiny wall that ran from the mountainside off the wall of the cliff. More cliffs ran above the structure, making any escape from the mountainous hideout impossible, save through the main gate.
It was difficult to see in the dwindling light what was going on. The carriage door opened with a loud slam. The Order Hand stepped out, speaking just out of earshot before the carriage began to move and the scraping sound of the gate opening permeated the stillness.
Just as he passed the gateway, the carriage stopped and the gate closed. Those of the Legions were not allowed in.
Sviska glanced around as footsteps aroused his attention. A sack went over his face, and he could see no light. The same person whom had veiled his eyes flipped him around. A metal object cut his bindings. He fell to the ground and again they began drag him along the ground.
“What of the ones from Taria?” a voice said.
Another voice answered back, “Kill them. We have no use of their wretched forms.”
Shrill screams filled the air as those of Tar Mena met their fates.
Sviska shuddered as he felt himself ascend rocky stairs and then into colder air. He was now inside the citadel.
There was chanting in the air: deep and thunderous, like the mountain's moaning from the depth of forgotten caves spewing forth the filth of time echoing in repetition. It was familiar to Sviska, like something heard in a dream and now forgotten.
He felt himself moving upwards in a circular way, dragged until at last the ascent ceased. His face struck the ground, a door slammed, and then nothing.
Some time passed and it was nearing night when a lone yellow bird flew through the branches and leaves above, folding its wings inward to speed down to the old dwarven fort where Garoa and Naskin went through items in the armory.
It landed on Naskin's shoulder, tweeting to him things of which Garoa could only guess. In a sudden flutter, it took to the air again, vanishing into the woods.
"It is well you found a sword to your liking," he said to Garoa. "Your friend was taken to an old fortress in the mountain. Tuonia, in the old world languages."
"Then we must go."
"There is much evil in that place. It is an abode of old magic. A sect of men inhabited it at one time, and now it is rumored that a vein of magic burns in a furnace that the elves used to craft weapons long ago. I have seen people enter, but none leave. I do not even know of what use it has now, but it is a place so foul that birds are even afraid to fly over it."
Asnea had seen the yellow bird and came up the stairwell.
"Word of Sviska?" she asked.
Garoa nodded.
"Prepare everyone. We will need every arrow that can be loosed to rescue this man."
Asnea went back down the stairs to wake those that were sleeping.
"I thank you, Naskin. I did not expect to find you here."
He winked and smiled at his old friend. "I am happy you did, as well as return for your daughter. You will have to tell me someday of how you found out of her."
He nodded, "Someday."
In moments they were ready, a group of thirty five men and women, bows upon their backs and anxious to go. Garoa and the Leechers followed along the forest paths in haste toward Tuonia, unknowing if Sviska was still alive, or what horrors or torture The Order had done against him. Under the light of the moon, they ran.
The distinct sounds of chanting echoed in Sviska’s ears. His hands now free, he reached up and pulled the covering from his head and looked around. He was in a narrow, circular room. A tower, from the looks of it, he thought. Windows lined the upper portion of the room that was no more than twice his height. Moonlight shined in, painting the floor with a faint glow. He looked down at his legs and observed his tattered clothes. They were blood stained, and his forearms displayed bruising and scrapes. The rash along his stomach burned. He felt over the rest of his body cautiously. He was sore, but alive.
He went to the door, but it would not budge and there seemed no way to pick the lock. The windows above him were too small to attempt escape, even if he had the energy to do so. The moon passed out of sight, turning the room dark. He propped himself against a far wall, shivering.
The shadows of the room began to twist and change. A darkness grew in the corner and parted as a figure appeared.
“Sviska,” the voice said.
“Kasis?”
Red eyes lit up in the darkness and then darkened. Kasis stepped from a wisp of shadow.
“I had thought I would not see you again after Elinathrond, but then in Lokam I felt your presence.”
“You waste your breath,” Sviska said. “I am no longer your brother.”
Kasis ran toward him and gripped him by his shirt. The Dark One’s hands burned against Sviska’s chest. Kasis shoved him into the wall.
“In all my time, I had thought if we were to be free of our tasks it would be together.”
“Then you were mistaken.”
Sviska felt a shock to his stomach and gasped. He fell to his knees, and then a fist struck his mouth. He spat blood and collapsed to one side.
“Is this it? Are you to torture me to my death?”
Kasis laughed. “No, not until your death. The Order Hand does not even know I am here.”
Kasis kicked him again.
“I do not know what is planned for you, but I laugh to think you actually believed you good enough to escape. I told you once, brother, our power was growing. You should have joined us then.”
Soon footsteps approached the door. Sviska looked up as it opened. Veiled monks of some sort brought in a table and chair, their faces devoid of features — they had not noses nor eyes, and the skin was wrinkled and pale. How they could even see where to go he did not know.
Moments later, the Order Hand entered the room, holding the Galhedriss Arcana. He looked at Sviska and Kasis.
“Be gone with you, Dark One,” he said. “This one has deeds beyond retribution for betrayal.”
Kasis sneered and turned to shadow. “I return to my master.”
The Order Hand slapped the table twice.
"Sviska, join me here."
Sviska struggled to stand. The Order Hand stood and made an upward motion. Sviska floated into the air and stared weakly at him.
“I cannot have you so near death.”
With his other hand, he made a circular motion and Sviska felt his wounds heal. He was put back on his feet and felt no pain at all. The man of The Order had used magic.
“Now join me here,” the Order Hand commanded again, tapping the table as before.
Sviska went to the chair. This was the man from Elinathrond, the same man who candidly spoke to Brethor in obvious disdain and teasing. He had a wound to the side of his head still healing and bandaged that Sviska had not seen back in Tar Mena.
"Seems you have an injury," Sviska said to him.
"As does it seem you did also," he said, staring him up and down. "I am the Hand of The Order. I am he who does as the council of The Order seeks, as well as gives commands to lower levels."
"I have seen you once before."
"Your blade has touch me, young one. But Brethor is no more now. It seems you forget your purpose in this world, assassin."
; "Winemaker, actually."
The Hand looked up. "Excuse me?"
"That is the job I was given, to make wine and to await orders. I was unable to poison the wine because it was not ready yet."
"Do not attempt to fool me further, Sviska!" he yelled. "We knew of your betrayal by word of Kasis well before now. He is one that The Order can trust. When you were unable to do as we asked we sent him, but by then it had been decided that a more direct approach was needed."
"You couldn't wait. You wanted it done faster and direct then?"
"Yes, we did."
"Why?"
It was clear to Sviska that the Hand was becoming uncomfortable with his return questions. An amusing occurrence, given The Order and their reputation.
“Tell me of Wura. What does the old god want?” The Order Hand tossed the sheath of the dagger of Meredaas on the table. “What dealings have you had with the one of the sea?”
“I am but a lowly assassin. I know not the will of the gods. I had thought gods did not exist.”
“I have little time for you to mock me further.”
“Forgive me. I spent too much time with Brethor. Perhaps you should tell me of why you worry? Why don’t you seek out the Lord Utros’s daughter? She still draws breath, or do you not care?”
"It does not matter to you," the Order Hand replied, gritting his teeth and leaning forward. "I do not know what other truth your mind has to tell me, but I will. You will be subjected to the Rites of the Damned, and then your mind shall be extracted and every memory will become knowledge to myself. It is here in Tuonia, this mountain temple of old, where there is but magic deep below that you will spill your secrets to me.
“That is the least you should worry, for after the Rites of the Damned and your sharing of knowledge, you will be as a reborn one of death, useful as a puppet against the friends with whom you escaped from Elinathrond. You will find yourself unable to help them when it comes time for greater deeds. You will be blessed to be unable to deny the will of The Order!"
Sviska shook his head, "I would rather die."
"Die you will, my son. As will all of your brothers in the coming war. When our masters return, it will be damnation for all of you!"
Saints of Wura: Winemaker of the North, Arcane Awakening, Reckoning in the Void (Saints of Wura Books 1-3 with bonus content) Page 47