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

  “Soon you will have your desires. I sense your mind, Rusis, beware such thoughts.”

  Garoa seemed more annoyed after the Kealin’s words. He shook his head as the half-elf walked away.

  Berie looked to Sviska, “He is angry and maybe too angry. I think you should talk to him and try to calm him. I sense he is barely in control of his own thoughts.”

  “His daughter was taken saving me. I feel that even I walk between angering him and helping with simple words. I hope his emotions will turn to a wise zeal when the time for fighting comes.”

  Garoa walked past the two of them, continually shaking his head. He took a seat in the boat and picked up a paddle; turning, he shouted back to the others.

  “This boat isn’t going to row itself into the bay.”

  The others took their position and Kealin laughed. “I should keep you four around more. Makes less work for me when it comes to getting dis boat out.”

  “Don’t expect a dwarf to be at home in water though!” said Slats, “although the salty air is nice, I prefer my feet on earth rather than floating above it.”

  Sviska stuck his paddle into the water, pushing the water back in semi-unison with the others; they floated near the gate and the two guards watching outward atop the wall.

  “Good friends of Kersa!” Kealin shouted.

  The two guards above turned to see them and nodded. With clanking gears and rattling chains, the portcullis lifted out of the water.

  The boat passed through and into open water.

  “No toll now?” asked Slats.

  “The Island Nation is free of the Grand Protectorate and, if dey fight well, will be free of them forever. At least for the times that pass now, no gold for the risk of opening the gate for the half-elf is needed.”

  They came to the stone border of the village and stopped paddling. As before, Kealin reached into his pocket and took out his silver hammer. He reached over the side of the boat and began tapping.

  The waters bubbled, and the narwhal of Kealin, Tulasiro, emerged from the cold depths. Sviska noticed immediately that a red gash was on her back. The narwhal came alongside the boat and Kealin patted her back. From a bag in the boat, he pulled out a small jar and stuck his fingers in a prepared salve, before rubbing them along the gash.

  “My good friend, de Legion will pay for de pain you have now.”

  “What happened?” Sviska asked. He had not noticed Tulasiro injured when they attacked the Legatus’ ship before; however, it had been very dark.

  He looked up, a concerned look as he closed his eyes.

  “My friend was attacked as I worked to break the siege of the Island Nation. Two bolts missed but a third grazed her.” He paused, petting Tulasiro. His lips curved and he smiled, “I removed the eyes of the two behind the cruel bolt. I then killed all on the ship except them. I tied one to the mast of the ship, his neck noosed with a rope I attached to the other man’s neck, whom I left unbound but without hands or feet. I then pointed their bolt-casting device towards the horizon and after securing the rope to the bolt, I punished them for their sins against my friend.”

  Sviska was oddly comfortable with the punishment Kealin had enacted.

  Kealin crawled to the front of the boat and let the ropes for Tulasiro out. The narwhal circled and took its place at the bow of the boat. The others said nothing to Kealin for, after his description, there was nothing left to say.

  He tucked himself into position and laughed, “You do not hurt my friends. Is that not the truth, Tulasiro?”

  The narwhal blew up a spray of air. Sviska smiled. The bond between Kealin and his narwhal was evident.

  “To the island of the Dwarven forge, my friend!” Kealin shouted.

  As the sun sank and the sky became dark, the boat made a sharp eastern turn and pushed into the darkness. It went for a long while, the moon floating up above them. Its light was pale but comforting as the occasional splash of water alongside them caught shimmers of light.

  Slats and Berie both had drifted to sleep, the rhythmic rocking and the toil of the previous week’s stress heavy on their body. Sviska was awake, Garoa also, but he was staring outward and not looking around as Sviska looked back to Kealin.

  Kealin was staring at the sky but then looked down, Sviska turned forward and then felt the half-elf lean near his ear.

  “You can ask me a question; I am a friend to you all.”

  Sviska didn’t actually have a question in his mind but, given his company, the wisdom of the half-elf was not as well-known as perhaps it should have been.

  Kealin whispered, “I have traveled by many roads, just as you have, however my blades have not been aligned with the Order. There was a trouble about Garoa that I can feel but I sense a deeper one in you.”

  Sviska thought of his time in southern Taria, the curse placed on him by the Order as an almost-punishment, surely the half-elf did not know of it.

  The half-elf was still at his ear, his warm breath blowing on his shoulder. Sviska would not mention the curse but given what he did not know of the half-elf, he had conjured a question.

  “Do you know if the Itsu Priest, or of the Itsu?”

  Kealin sighed and sat back away from Sviska.

  He looked down at his feet and then back up. Garoa had taken interest in the conversation and was now looking his way.

  “I know some of those called Itsu. I know not of what you call a priest, but there were some at one time that tried to assail the northern gods in secret. There was a man then. My siblings and I faced him in battle. By the might of the northern gods we chased him from the winds of the north, but I am bound not to speak of further things involving them.”

  The half-elf closed his eyes again and laid back. The boat still split the water and the narwhal turned them further north, an icy crosswind shuffling the boat to the side as the powerful tail of the sea creature pounded the water underneath them.

  It was nearing midnight when the narwhal slowed its pace. Sviska sat up, noticing the lack of wind, and peered out from the boat. He spotted a tiny crag that appeared as not much more than a black shadow against the horizon. There were no lights or torches marking its location.

  “A tiny dagger in the sea, to make the tools so others will bleed,” Kealin said with his own tune to his voice. “The dwarves had long left this place but its furnace and tools were of great use when they were found.”

  The others awoke at this time with a sharp kick from Garoa who had sat up just as Kealin finished speaking. Slats and Berie both looked around.

  “We are almost there,” Sviska said, pointing towards the island.

  The boat slowed, passing through a stone archway lined on either side with spiked crags running off as far as they could see in the dark water. As the boat pulled through the archway and towards a forest of stony structures in the water, Kealin leapt to his feet, a small shell in his hand.

  With a loud blow, he caused a deep sound to burst from the shell three times. A single torch lit up on the island in the distance and calls went out along the water. From one of the larger ruins emerged a black mass, low to the waterline and moving towards them fast.

  Berie went for her bow, an arrow just passing the rim of her quiver when Kealin put his hand on her back.

  “Do not worry, elf.”

  Chapter 2 The Lost Forge

  The dark mass drew closer, it seemed to sway in the water. A shout came from the blackness.

  “Kealin, we did not expect you at this hour.”

  He replied in a low voice, “Dat is not why I call you. Why did my ship breach the barrier of the island without being stopped by you? Does your ship not row at night? Can the winds not fill your sail once the sun is down?”

  The black mass disappeared as torches burst into light, revealing what could just be seen as a low-lying ship with a large white sail. From behind a row of shields and spears, a man stood. He had a large scraggly beard covered in ice.

  “We have been sailing the perimete
r every hour but our spotters did not see anything approaching. Your ship is not the easiest to see.”

  “But you must be keen to see what is not easily seen. Der is not time for dis folly. Keep better watch. We head to de forge.”

  The narwhal began pulling them as the men on the ship watched them pass.

  “Dey will learn how to guard this place better. It was not a problem before but those men that used to guard this place were left in Srun, these new ones must be taught how to watch for de Grand Protectorate ships.”

  The narwhal led them closer to what seemed a monolith of stone jutting up into the sky. Passing along the northern side of the island, it turned into a dark narrow opening. Following the passage, there was a single torch in a curve of the cave before the waterway opened back up and a large open sky met them. Around them torches lit up shadowy buildings and figures that began to appear around them.

  The narwhal pulled up to a dock and let go of the ship’s reins, disappearing under the water with a splash of its tail.

  One by one, they each disembarked and stood on a shifting dock before the dock workers assisted them to a stone platform. Slats immediately went to a large stone shining in the moonlight from above.

  He stood for a moment, his finger tracing the runic writings. He then turned to Kealin.

  “I have not read in the history of the dwarves of any island built by dwarven arms, no palaces of the sea or ice, but yet I read of this place and know it was built by the dwarves indeed and is much more than a forge in itself.”

  “The time of the world before was that of ice and water alone. It is the blood of existence and a part of all of us be you man, elf, dwarf, half-elf, and so forth as you deem appropriate. There is much history to be found beyond the books and it is why I wanted you to come here. But more of dat later. This is the peak of an old mountain, well before the common histories were kept.”

  Slats nodded, “The dialect of the runes seems distant to what I know, yes.”

  A man appeared from a stairwell above holding a lamp in his hand, “Kealin, it is good to see you, sir. What word from the Island Nation?”

  The man was tall, slender, but had strong arms and a small scraggly beard. He brushed his hands on a tan apron and looked at Slats. “Are these the ones?”

  “Dey are.”

  The man bowed and knelt, “Saints of Wura, welcome to this place of old. We are honored to have you.”

  “Go now, up the stairs,” said Kealin, “dey are in need of rest and a warm meal tomorrow.”

  “I will see to it,” the man said. “Come this way.”

  Kealin pointed for them to follow the man and they ascended a stairwell. At the top, they came to a platform where a large torch basin burned brightly. A sheer wall was before them, unadorned, except for a single small door.

  Sviska noticed that in the center of the door were runes similar to the ones at Elinathrond that led to the asylum. He felt an uneasiness at the thought.

  The man pushed open the door and they passed into a large atrium. He shut the door behind them and took a torch from the wall.

  “My name is Gwyur; I am one of the master blacksmiths and a friend of Kealin. I know you all as the Saints of Wura. There is Berie the elf, Slatnichor the dwarf, Garoa, the one of magic and Sviska, keeper of the mer-blade?”

  They each nodded.

  “Good then. I remembered.”

  He turned them down a narrow hallway that opened up to their left. In the distance, they could see a large pool of water, with a center island built up with pillars rising out of the sea. A large fire burned in the center of the columned building and they spotted workers moving around it.

  They passed again into a stone corridor. Adornments of carven shapes and spiked and curved stones lined the wall. Two wooden doors were opposite another passage that contained a stairwell leading downward. Gwyur took them to the double doors and opened them with a firm pull.

  Two large tables ran the length of a long room. A fire burning at the far end cast a faint glow as they moved in between the two tables and to a side room.

  “You can stay here for the night. A meal will be ready at first light tomorrow. When you have finished, exit through the double doors and descended the stairwell directly in front of them. I will be awaiting you there.”

  Slats nodded, “It is well to be in a place of the dwarves and to see it alive.”

  “As much as it can be, given the rising seas. To find such a place intact and not rampant with the rabble of the Grand Protectorate was a monumental find. But it is truly Kealin that has secured it for us. I leave you to yourselves.”

  Gwyur smiled and bowed before exiting the room.

  The four of them said nothing as they removed their coats and settled in for the night. Slats took a seat upon a stone pillar near the fireplace and began to smoke as Sviska watched Garoa sitting on his bed casting fire spells between his hands.

  He whispered to himself, creating a tiny flame before rolling it around his fingers. His gauntlets surged with a white light as he created another flame in the opposite hand, joining the two in the air before him.

  Berie looked over to him and then Sviska.

  “This place is old but I still prefer the trees,” said Berie. “A mountain is not too unhappy if given the right company.”

  “Aye! The mountain is the best!” Slats piped in from the other room.

  Garoa grasped the flame and flipped it into his right hand before creating a sparkle of water in his left, a swirl of ice chilled the air.

  “I need practice,” he said.

  Garoa stood as Sviska and Berie both adjusted themselves to see him better. Looking towards the bare wall on the far side of the room, he let fly a ball of fire. A smoldering trail of black smoke followed the flames until they struck the rock, leaving nothing but a seared mark. He shot ice with his other hand; the crash of the crystallizing spell shattering like glass followed by another blast of fire and series of fireballs. The wall became alight in red flames.

  “I think that is enough,” Sviska said.

  He moved closer. Another series of fireballs, fired in quick succession followed by a wave of both hands, a line of flames and ice struck the wall like whips. The sounds reverberated in the room.

  “Garoa, that is enough,” said Sviska again, raising his voice this time.

  Still Garoa continued, moving closer and casting his spells. He reached to his side; drawing his sword, he heated the blade, a red flame took the metal as it went from the sheen of silver metal to a red glow. He thrust the sword into the rocks and it bent and broke. He dropped the broken sword on the floor and turned to look at them.

  Slats now stood in the doorway, his pipe at the edge of his mouth. Sviska stood with his arms crossed and Berie turned her attention to her bow and quiver, incessantly adjusting the straps.

  “That is enough,” Garoa said, “Forgive me for not being as good with weapons as you all are. I have not been alive for more than a hundred years or an assassin trained by the Order.”

  He stomped past them and went towards the wooden doors. Sviska ran after him, shouting.

  “Wait.”

  He stopped, but did not look at him. His eyes were dead-set ahead and it seemed he held back tears in the corners of his eyes.

  “I do not know what has become of your calmness and even with Brethor, you understood what path we must take,” began Sviska. “But acting reckless and treating everyone as if they are below you is not the way to do it.”

  Garoa held his glare and then exhaled, before shaking his head. “I know and I will try, friend. But I am not the type to be idle.”

  “I know and I am glad of that. But take care to show others that you are calm and have purpose in your action.”

  “Very well.”

  The two stared at one another for a moment.

  “I am not tired.” Garoa told him, “A walk will be nice. But you all should get some sleep,” he nodded towards the bedroom.

  Svis
ka nodded his head, agreeing, and patted his back.

  “Thank you, Sviska. And I meant no disrespect when it comes to your past.”

  “None was taken. That is my past and I will put those skills to use to save your daughter and retrieve the staff. It is not all a waste.”

  The two parted and the wooden doors shut.

  “He is reckless, I fear,” said Slats.

  “Reckless, perhaps.” Berie agreed, “But his zeal is unmatched and only weakened as he casts the spells; that effect is lessened by his people’s gauntlets. In the old days, his people were a force to face and perhaps that is why they were killed so readily in the wars against magic. The gauntlets of his ancestor will serve him well.”

  “He is a father searching for his daughter, with the power of the elements within his own hands. Given the situation and the power, I believe he would burn this entire world for that one person, if it was needed.”

  Sviska nodded to his own words, “And before the end, it may be. I go to lie down.”

  None remained awake much longer after that. Berie and Slats talked of nonsense before a last smoke by Slats and they each headed to their respective beds. Garoa came back sometime later. He held a parchment in his hand and an inkwell he had picked up some time ago. He had not written in a while and he found calmness in the flowing of words he had in his mind.

  “A father of new, I find my mind closed,

  For with the withering of my one, I gained this new rose.

  Little you know me, and of that I regret,

  But I deny not the choice of this path I have chose.”

  I will succeed in all.

  He whispered the words to himself before he folded up the parchment and sealed the inkwell. His mind would not quiet and he would not find peacec until Asnea was safe.

  The morning came with the clanging clamor of something breaking in the sitting area. Berie, already awake, headed in, followed by a sleepy Slats, Garoa and Sviska who each awoke following the resounding sounds. Sviska noticed a plate rolling across the floor.

  A large man had his back to them. He squatted down, grabbing the dishes. A second tray had already been set down and had salted meats and a steaming broth ready for them to enjoy. Luckily, it was the chalices that had broken.