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

  The alpha wolf, Runka, took point in the group. He lowered down and then in a force that shook the ground, leapt out of the creek bed and howled, long and deep, a sound which echoed through the woods and the valleys of the Taria region. There was a resounding howl from the others in the pack, and Sviska grasped hard on his wolf as it followed Runka up into the woods and began to walk in a quickened pace as the remainder of the pack followed up.

  Another howl came from Runka, seeing that his pack had made it out of the creek, and then Sviska and Garoa both grasped tight to their animals as the pack surged forward, brushing through the woods like winds across the plains. Brethor’s laughing, faint in the air, was strangely comforting to them as the wolves of Taria sped toward the bay.

  The ride was unlike any Sviska had ever taken. Akin to the unicorn in ways of speed, there was no way a horse or any other animal could ran as these did through the dense branches and trees of the woods.

  His hands were tight into the armor of the wolves. Although of bone, stone, or strange metal, he did not recognize their armor itself as anything he had ever seen. His feet felt the pulsating heart of the beast, his legs felt how its massive lungs drew in air, and his whole body experienced the explosive strength of its back legs as they pushed into the rolling woodlands and then the fields of the valley.

  They traveled fast, racing the setting moon and the first light of a new day as they entered another forest and continued the journey north. It was just at the time of the slightly warming sky of red and blue that they made it to a series of large rocks beside the bay. It was a secluded opening in an otherwise forested cliffside. Brethor dismounted and signaled for the others to stay put.

  There was a standing stone sitting near the water. Atop it a circular stone inside a square one, and Brethor placed his hands on it and twisted to the left. Upon doing so, two crystalline stones emerged from the sides, and he took each in hand before turning them to the left. There was a crack and a slight rumbling sound.

  The wolf Sviska sat upon lowered down toward the ground, feeling the trembling beneath its paws.

  Brethor went back to his wolf and pointed for Runka to lead on. The wolf shook his mane and looked down into the water, and then back to Brethor.

  "Go!" he shouted.

  The wolf turned back to the water and plunged in, disappearing. Sviska took a deep breath as his wolf followed after Brethor, who was almost near the edge. In a leap, they followed the splash of Brethor into the bay.

  Water rushed over him in an aquatic flurry of bubbles and force on his face. He opened his eyes and blinked as the cold water covered his face. The light from above was dim, and he looked back to see the other wolves diving in.

  There was further rumbling as an opening in the earth, crowned in glowing crystals, drew in the water as well as the wolves and riders.

  Sviska's wolf hovered in the water, and Sviska pulled slightly forward as he felt the beast tense up. The waters drew them in, and now Runka had disappeared through the crevice. One by one, each disappeared into the hole, the water pulling them down at incredible speeds.

  Above them, glowing rocks gave light as they twisted and turned with the water, at last coming to another expanse of water. Sviska took a deep breath as they emerged from the tides. Shaking his head, he looked around and spotted Brethor on a large rock, whistling as he did before.

  Sviska's wolf clawed onto the rock, pulling them both up from the water. Around them, the other wolves clung to rock as the water receded away from the cavern.

  Brethor grinned as the last of the wolves made it from the water. He took in the disheveled appearance of Garoa and Sviska, who shivered from the cold bay’s waters.

  "Welcome to the intricacies of the Dwarven Tunnels!"

  "What dwarf would create such an entrance as that?" Garoa asked.

  "It was not so much they created it, but accented an already natural occurrence. Hundreds of years ago, there was a cave that would be flooded with the high tides of the bay. They gated the way down, and it just happens that with the waters higher, it is a bit of a game to get in through here."

  "That is not a game! A game is with dice or perhaps chess, if one can find a place to do such, not the sensation of ice being pulled through your face."

  "Chess is a good game," Brethor said, ignoring the further complaints of the Rusis.

  Above them, the glowing crystals hung down, lighting a passage that went further away from the cavern in which they stood.

  Runka shook his mane, panting and looking around, and then his ears perked up as he heard something out of sight. A deep moaning and a screech rattled the air, and caused the hairs on the wolf's back to raise. He gave a low growl.

  "Specters of old,” Brethor said in a comforting tone. "They are but spirits, now, my friend."

  The wolf did not seem comforted, and the rest of the pack seemed to share his sentiment.

  "Let us continue on — there are no more watery depths to traverse now. Only stone and dim lights toward the mountains, and then to Elinathrond. We shall travel quickly."

  They mounted the Wolves of Taria once more, and Runka took lead again. Sviska gripped the fur of his wolf as they sped off, following the Dwarven tunnels further north.

  The path they followed was large and open, up hills and down, turning to the left for a while and then right. They traversed under the bay and began to ascend upwards steadily as now the roots of the mountains were at their sides. The dark green sea stone that had been lit by the glint of light now was a cold gray. Splinters of ice jutted above that long-untraveled, subterranean path.

  It was sometime later when Brethor halted the pack. Sviska could understand if it was rest they needed. His own wolf drew breath in with great force, its veins pulsating with the work its body did to supply the animal with the agility and endurance it had.

  Brethor dismounted and rubbed Runka's head. "Rest, friend," he whispered.

  "Come on," he said to Garoa and Sviska, "we go the rest on foot for now. Wolves are not the best when trying to avoid being seen."

  Sviska and Garoa both dismounted. The wolves were now laying down, curling up near one another in the chilly air that caressed the stones around them.

  Sviska noticed a path leading upward, but also another headed deeper into the mountain. A door to the latter way was shut and had markings and cracks within it.

  Brethor pointed, “Our people escaped, and pursuit was not possible. Bless the Snow Dwarves.”

  "How much further to the city?" Garoa asked.

  Brethor looked up from where they were and pointed toward a snowy path that led out of sight on the edge of the rocks. It was no more than a few hundred paces, and it was from there that the cold drafts whirled in. Fresh snow flurries fell through the partially cracked doors above.

  Brethor threw some additional meat treats to the wolves one by one before throwing his hood over his head.

  "This way, but quiet." He hovered a finger over his closed lips.

  They jogged upwards toward the snowy entrance. There were flashes of light that caused even the wolves below to perk up and look uncertainly. The winds howled, and as they came to the near top of the ramp, Brethor fell against the wall, motioning with his hand for the others to follow.

  The crunch of approaching boots proceeded nonsense talking and laughing of two men posted at the entrance to the dwarven tunnels. Unable to close the great doors of the mountain that were enchanted by their own regard, the Legions had found it better to watch it with what men it could pull from the main walls and other duties.

  However, it was more an act than anything. Neither legionnaire gave much mind to looking down the path where Sviska and the others hid. They both lit pipes and turned away, looking back out toward the city.

  Sviska began to draw his dagger. His desire to relieve those of the First Legion of their burden of life wailed up within him, a slight smile curved his lip.

  Brethor was already standing, his curved blades gleaming in the p
ale light. He placed his arms between the two guards and before they could react, pulled back sharply, his blades removing their heads and splashing the snow with a spray of red.

  He looked outside, stepped between the dead men, and scanned the surroundings. He motioned for the others to join him.

  "We must hurry, for I fear we have little time!" he said to them, his eyes widening as they began into the city.

  The snowfall of many nights had doused the smoldering ruins of Elinathrond. The warm presence the city once had was no more.

  In the far western area of the city, a large orb of light glowed in a weary way, and a rolling fog was about the city. Its source was unseen but Sviska guessed it to be of the Itsu Priest somewhere within.

  Wailing accented in the air as unseen voices cried, moaned, and begged.

  “Ghosts?” Garoa asked.

  “Not yet,” Brethor said to him.

  Long-stricken of their strength to fight, the sufferers’ words reverberating across the mountain was their only protest. The many prisoners of The Order could do no more at this time.

  Sviska followed Brethor as he ascended a ladder that put them on top of the buildings. The path was precarious: damaged alcoves, fractured ceilings, and gaps in the architecture made their way one of sudden jumps and careful footwork.

  Garoa followed behind, not used to being so agile, but careful to follow as quickly as he could. They were above the tavern, not that he was on the roof and able to recognize it, but because the center pillar running across the top of the ceiling was one at which he use to throw knives after a few hours of drinking ale. The burned out frame below was otherwise barely recognizable.

  Dropping from the high place, they ran along Ichor Road. Brethor burst into a sprint, his blades out. In a passing slash, he took down three legionnaires that walked in a line toward the Estate. Their bodies slumped to the ground, blood pumping rhythmically from the gnashes in their necks. Brethor turned to his left. The ruins of the Temple of Wura were now before them.

  Sviska and Garoa leapt from the high place, rolling in turn to catch up with Brethor.

  Sviska looked at the armor of the dead men. They did not have the fish and trident emblem on their armor. This was a different Legion.

  Brethor turned and began running again, cutting west through the alleys and roads. They followed, but the blades of Sviska and Garoa were not needed, though many legionnaires fell as Brethor left a number of quivering, bleeding bodies in his wake. A few screamed just as he was upon them, but to the trio’s fortune, the deep chanting now permeating the city helped to drown out their calls for help.

  Crossing the Mirenor Road and into another section of buildings, Brethor was now stumped by a large wooden wall built along Tareh Way. He turned to the others, who stared past him at the wall.

  "Up," Garoa said. "The building behind us will get us above this wall and we can see what it is that is happening here."

  Brethor began ahead again, passing each of them and rushing up the stairwell.

  Sviska followed as he could, looking through the now dilapidated walls to see long, arching, white flames that spun above in a strange circular pattern. They crossed up to a third floor and up a partial staircase to a landing that looked through a stone archway over what were the ruins of the Priory.

  The desolation of the city was but a small distraction compared to the stacks of people that were crammed into the shattered walls of the temple and the road reaching out. On the other side of the recently build palisade, more people stretched along the walls, a mass that extended into the courtyard before the stone archway where the gypsies had been. Above them in wooden towers, legionnaires watched.

  A newly constructed altar of stone and wood now stood before the ruins of the Priory. Standing nearby, a large man with a metal hook slung wood onto a large fire erupting from the earth, casting red embers into the skies. Slain animals, fresh for sacrifice, awaited their burning in honor to the old gods.

  It was the ruins of the Priory itself that stood out the most. The Staff of Kel, placed in stone and awaiting a rightful taker as decreed by Brethor, was washed in a light from the heavens, wrapped in a grasp of lighting. Before it, the Priest of the Itsu, bound in his gray garbs with a hand outstretched, was in a trance. The swirling fogs around him whished out and slapped the white-robed members of The Order, each of them prostrate before the Itsu priest.

  The stone in which the Staff of Kel rested burned a bright red, and the fogs of the Itsu priest seemed to try to cover the stone, but were repulsed. The priest turned toward the bowing monks, as well as a host of legionnaires that had assembled before the ruins. Garoa scanned the grounds for Asnea, but did not see her.

  "It is time for such things to now be done," the priest said in a thundering voice. "May the gods of old pick those whom they wish to embrace the fires first!"

  A crack emerged before the altar, followed by rumbling in the mountain. A deep orange glow erupted from the crack with a plume of black smoke. The fogs of the priest swirled outward, wrapping around those of the people taken from all over the land.

  As the foggy arms of the ethereal being grasped them, their bodies went limp as unseen forces, parting the crowd with their bodies, pulled them in.

  Shouting and screaming ensued. An even deeper wailing joined the chaos as those closest to the emerged pits watched the people fall in droves to their fiery deaths within the crevice.

  Thirty or so of the mass of people were now dead. Sviska estimated it would be that four hundred remained squeezed together within the confines of their prison. An unknown amount awaited in the lower regions of the city.

  "Now, through the power of the Itsu, emerge, those chosen as the First Legion of Ethona, lord of fogs and shadows. Give homage to the gods, and by the sacrifice here may the staff be released!"

  From the darkness unseen, the Legion emerged, but it was not simple men in armor as before, when they fought in the fall of Elinathrond. The men killed by Brethor and those who stood guard around were not as these foes.

  Bearing the banners, as did the First Legion of the Grand Protectorate, the men marched forth. Their eyes were fiery blue pits, their armor accented with wisps of smoke that rose in curls from their shoulders. They walked in a single file line, fencing in the quivering people and forming a wall impenetrable by any force.

  “Ethona,” Garoa said. “I have heard the term in legends. A land to the far south. A haven of the old gods of the Itsu.”

  Sviska knew it too, but in no more reference than what Garoa had.

  “We must act now,” Sviska said.

  Brethor said nothing. The Priest of the Itsu raised his hand toward the altar, and a white light shined upon the bones of past sacrifices and the bleeding flesh flew into the fiery pit. A great wind cleaned the altar, and the closest member of the First Legion took hold of a man nearest to him, throwing him upon its bare surface.

  "With the power of his life force depleted shall I negate what magic holds this staff here! The time of magic is returning, for the East has now been made alive and the powers of old returned!"

  "Brethor," Sviska said, "Berie and Slats have done it! They have returned magic, if it is true what the priest says."

  Brethor still did not reply. His eyes were solemn, and he appeared lost in his thoughts.

  The priest reached out toward the stone with his other hand. The fogs swirling around rushed toward the altar and then back toward the priest. In a blackness that darkened the staff there was song of metallic clinging and cracking stones that shook even the building in which Sviska and the others hid. The priest drove a knife into the man on the altar, and blood poured from him.

  "Begin the purge!"

  The First Legion began to march together, pushing and forcing the people — women, children, and men alike — into the pits, casting a black smoke up into the air. Wails, shrieks, and screams, in the cruelest deaths of the times remembered or even forgotten by the oldest of creatures of the day, rose in the
night air.

  The people pushed back in a hopeless attempt to stop their deaths, but as they did, the fogs from the priest reached out, smacked them, and pulled the resistors into the pit ahead of the rest. As such happened, some woefully ceased their struggles, caring no further of their fate.

  Sviska tapped Garoa, flipping his dagger in hand. Garoa drew his sword.

  "We go down," Sviska said. "Brethor, you and Garoa will distract them; I will go for the priest and end this. I have not had a lifetime as an assassin for no reason. This is my fate."

  Brethor's eyes were set on the staff. "Brother of Kel, do not let them have this, do not let this loss continue."

  "We do it alone, then," Sviska said to Garoa, who looked at him uncertainly, unsure if what they planned was possible.

  They both looked down below to the palisade, and Sviska saw his path. Down from the third floor he would catch the guard below with his dagger, breaking his fall as he rolled forward. He would just come out of the roll when he would spin and catch two additional legionnaires in their necks.

  In a careful leap up, he would traverse the ruined wall before leaping onto the stone archway and running toward the altar.

  The large man with the hooked staff would be his next step. Grabbing his arm he would flip up and bury his dagger in his hand before pushing off and rushing up the stairwell through the door frames and to the priest that stood before the staff.

  He looked to Garoa, and then a sudden shout pierced over the screams.

  "Cease the sacrifices, now!"

  The First Legion halted the advance that shoved those who remained into the flames. The people looked around in discord, terrified but enthralled that the horror had stopped for now. The First Legion raised their shields, cowering.

  Brethor looked up to the sky. Ribbons of green and blue encompassing the skies above as the polar lights shined down.

  The large man with the curved pole fell to the ground groveling.

  The Itsu priest raised his hands, and the fogs around him swell up, reaching over all of the prisoners up to the very building that hid Sviska, Garoa, and Brethor.