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

  “Lord Brethor is here!” shouted Berie.

  From the area where the waterway turned to that of a waterfall appeared those of the wilds of Taria, the Leechers. Master Nusian and his host of archers began to clear the southern paths of the city, their bowmen holding the lower portion as men of the cities of Tar Mena, Tar Aval, and Tar Sol, in the colors of their lands, filled the walkway near the statues, climbing the path taken by the Leechers.

  The wolves began moving into the city as the main city gates were opened and Lord Utros and others of the hierarchy of Taria rode in under fire from the city walls and the legionnaires that had yet to join the main fight below.

  The Wolves of Taria were crafty, as they and Brethor worked to clean the walls and even rooftops of buildings, as more and more soldiers struggled to find ground where their enemy was not springing like a leak in a giant dam.

  The horsemen ran down the alleys and roadways, striking the enemy that engaged the Island Nation along the western bank. As they rode the perimeter, supported by the wolves and ground forces of Taria, the western portion of the city was falling as a host of legionnaires surrendered in fear and the confusion of the attack. More of those Brethor brought swelled into the western part of the city from the northern gateway. The shielded spearmen of Taria set a line on the bridge pointed east, supported by the Leechers.

  Brethor had made it around to the middle island and joined the line where Tvila, Garoa, and Berie stood.

  “Lord Brethor,” she said, tears falling from her eyes.

  “Berie, I am glad you are well,” he told her.

  The others had descended from the keep.

  “Brethor of Elinathrond?” questioned Knasgriff. “I see you received our message.”

  “Yes, you are correct. It took convincing to get those of Taria to join us, but they have arrived. It seems to me your plan has worked well thus far.”

  Kealin approached Brethor, “I say de work of the saints has been great. Plans do sometimes work, or so you would say in the many years before.”

  “My good friend, it is well to see you after so long.”

  “Dey will be time to talk when we are dead, for now, let us bleed our enemy.”

  A horn sounded from the tower, and the doors at the top of the causeway opened.

  Emblazoned in black and silver, men of great stature with high spiked helms and large scythed staves, formed up ten men wide and many more deep. They marched to the midway point between the tower and the island. Their first rank dropped to one knee, the one behind it placed their blade points on the front rank’s shoulders.

  “Tower Guardians,” said Garoa, “They will not give that ground easily.”

  “Why do they even reveal themselves?” Berie asked.

  “They sense magic, they sense my blood.”

  Garoa approached the causeway, between his hands a raging fireball undulating and sparking. He tossed the spell towards the guardians.

  The flames struck the shield line, their shields glowing blue as the flames split and ran off the shields. Not one man gave ground.

  “Berie!” he shouted to the elf, pointing towards the lines on the causeway, “Send them an elven greeting”

  “Happily,” she smiled.

  Berie pulled back on her bow; setting an arrow to string, she exhaled a breath of frost as she spoke the word for ice. Her arrow flew, striking the first rank, an explosion of snow and ice, and the shields of the first rank fell, the men exposed as spears and Leecher arrows from the southern bridgeway found their targets. The front rank fell but the next rank took their place.

  “Again!” Sviska told her.

  She felt for an arrow but fumbled her fingers feeling two, “I cannot for much longer. I have loosed many arrows. I must wait for the quiver to restore.”

  Again an arrow struck its target, the line of men dropped their shields, the frost and ice nipping at their hands. The arrows of the Leechers were relentless in their barrage but were not enough

  Brethor stood upon the walls of the fortress, even as arrows whizzed near him from fired from the eastern district still ripe for fighting. With a loud whistle, he called the Wolves of Taria. From atop the outer walls and from parts of the western district, howls echoed within the walls of Lokam. At first, they spotted just one, a single form running down the road to the area where the Leechers fired arrows in a barrage at the encroaching legionnaires from the east. It howled, alone. Brethor knew it as the youngest. With a leap, it went for the causeway, the wind blowing through its fur, a terrible sight for those in its path, as it snarled and struck the ranks of the Tower Guardians.

  The formation broke, some falling to their deaths, the others facing the teeth of the wolves. Garoa sent spells towards the ranks as the wolf slapped at the enemy who thrust their blades into its mane causing a bloody cascade from its body.

  The other wolves were now coming down the road, the pack alpha, Runka, in front, howling as he gained pace seeing his brother in trouble.

  With thrusts of their pointed lances, the Tower Guardians forced the young wolf from the causeway with a horrid howl. His brothers leapt the gap at the next moment, pummeling into the shattering shield line.

  Kealin ran past Garoa and jumped into the line of Tower Guardians, “Forward, Island Nation!”

  Leading with his red blades, the half-elf passed between the wolves, cutting into those that had yet to be mauled by the canines of the beasts.

  From the east side, a renewed assault began on the center island. Formed from trees of the east side and hastily so, a battering ram had been crafted as the legionnaires sought to take back the center island. A counterattack struck the lower bridges, as well, engaging the lines of Taria and the Leechers.

  As many men that had gone with Kealin, more turned to the welded gates to the east side and formed a shield wall. The gates were faltering.

  “Knasgriff, we need your blade here,” Tvila shouted to him.

  On the causeway, Kealin had reached the tower and Garoa was just behind him.

  Berie turned her sights towards the east as the gate began to give way and more legionnaires swarmed the bridge. Leechers crossed from the southern walkway, over the ships, and to the island. Their bows began to sing next to her. More forces of Taria swelled the battle line.

  Sviska went to Brethor, “I am glad to fight alongside you this night.”

  “As I you,” he said. “They may have taken our city, but we will restore all that was lost in time. Now, let us retrieve our book and the staff of the war god.”

  Brethor charged up the causeway with Sviska following. There were still a few Tower Guardians that needed dealing with. As he and Brethor finished off the last of those and joined the others at the doorway to the tower, he looked up at the sky. The lights of Wura were above them as the sun began to rise. The sky was a mix of red and black smoke.

  Chapter 6 Breaking and Betrayal

  It was near the early morning and the sun had not yet risen. Already the warriors were awakening, at least, those that had found sleep possible. Slats paced the edge of the encampment with Ruir. They were both silent. Slats wondered of Lokam and if his message had been reacted to as he hoped. He thought the attack should be happening now there and he only hoped that the Legions would have committed soon enough so to not simply return to Lokam and break the attack by the Island Nation.

  It was then he saw a dim blue light, a glowing ambiance hovering over the farthest field. He was weary and felt at first peace but then he recalled Sviska’s and Garoa’s account of before. He thought of snow and of the remains of Elinathrond and imagined what was witnessed many nights ago. The First Legion was now upon them.

  “Rally! People of the Island Nation, pick up your axes and shields! They crest the hills!”

  “To war!” Ruir bellowed out. He looked to Slats, “We are fortunate, to have so many of the bastards to kill!”

  Slats laughed, but to say his stomach did not stir at the events ahead, would be a lie.


  In what could be called an organized panic, the battle lines assembled. Their beds and tents abandoned, they hurried to form the ranks they had worked to perfect in secret before the time of open rebellion.

  A line of round shields held shakily before them, they formed around Ruir and Slats.

  Ruir grumbled, “Steady, you are warriors of the Island Nations. Do not tremble, unless it is from your pulses at the thought of bloodshed forced upon the enemy.”

  They formed one line along the edge of the Highland hills towards the more southern plains. A second line formed along the highest hill where Slats stood. A half-moon and a stronger defense. If they began to retreat, their only escape was the beach on their flank or to fall further back into the rocky grounds east. If forced to the sea, he was not sure if they could actually escape. However, dwarven war chronicles of ages past had said to never attack an enemy with their backs to the sea. It was considered folly among those that knew of war.

  In the distance, the First Legion advanced. Even, uniformed, and without haste, they approached with banners held high.

  To either side, as if they needed more than the numbers of a single Legion, the forces of the two other Legions advanced. A unified battle line of ‘Blessed Legions’ meant to smite the rebellion that presented itself. From the bluish glow of their eyes to the smoke from their armor, they appeared as an army of burning warriors.

  “Legions of Ethonia,” said Slats.

  “What is Ethonia?” Ruir questioned.

  “A southern land, that of the Itsu gods.”

  Ruir shook his head, “It would be simpler if they were only of the Grand Protectorate. No matter, they will die the same.”

  The Legions halted their advance and a single man took three steps in front of the forces.

  He was tall; a plumed helmet of fire was on him. A harsher version of the centurions of the legions. The blue fiery warrior drew his sword. A shuffling along the ranks of the Legions proceeded before a volley of short spears tossed high into the air flew with haste towards the Island Nation.

  A sharp wind blew in from the north, gusting near the crest of the spears’ arch and the jagged points were blown from their deadly track, littering the field.

  The man, the commander of the front and unified leader of the First Legion, tightened his fists. The Legion would attack but it was not custom for them. The men behind him drew their swords and a glimmer along the lines told Slats the approach would be soon.

  With several sudden and thunderous horn calls, they began forward.

  “Archers!” said Slats.

  What few archers had made up those of the Island Nation ran forward. Their bows were of lower quality than those of the Legion, but still they would try. They drew their arrows and loosed a volley towards the marching lines.

  A few fell but it was hard to see. As they drew near, volleys of spears flew towards the Island Nation warriors. A shriek rumbled from the approaching men. A deafening sound that sapped the air of warmth and thrust fear upon them.

  “Stand men!” commanded Ruir, “Do not fear them!”

  Slats looked to Euso who stared ahead. The Island Nation stood only five deep along their entire line. Those in the back line did not even have shields; instead, they held what weapons they could muster. The Legions were encroaching near the archers, at least, in terms of spear range. The men fired their bows as they fell back behind the lines.

  The banners of the Legions on the right flank turned their paths, breaking from the center lines of the First Legion, they were to engage the sides where Slats stood. The Island Nation began to shout, an uproar of clamor as they battered their shields with fury at the approaching Legion. Slats raised his ax. Taking steps ahead of the rest, he sprinted forward, the Blessed Legion almost upon them. With a wide and unforgiving swathe, he hammered his ax into the shield line.

  The battle had begun. The Legion had engaged down the entire line, but neither side seemed to waver in ground. The dwarf was well into the battle. With Ruir beside him, they fought to disrupt the formations of phalanx lines. These ‘Blessed Legions’ did die, but not with the blood splatter and the crushing of bones. Slats slammed one of them down, its scream like that of a squeal from a furnace back in Harrodarr. They indeed were creatures of flame and fog, their human forms almost gone. As he cut into its neck, flames whipped out, until his boot stomped its head, breaking its neck and extinguishing its fire of life. He looked towards Lokam for a moment, praying they did not fight just for their own deaths.

  The strange horns of the Falacar sounded in the distance. The tribes of the horseman swarmed the left flank of the enemy, showering them with arrow fire.

  Slats and the Island Nation fought to hold their ground. Shields pressed against them, they staggered back behind the Island Nation line.

  The Falacar had fought to the rear of the legions, the attack unlike what was customary for the horse archers but the lines were going to falter if the enemy was not softened up. Many horseman dismounted once the enemy had bogged them down. They could fight as well off their horses as on them. The horses too fought, kicking and fighting, their courage bred to something beyond that of normal horses. From the front and rear of the Legion lines, the forces of the Island Nation faced those of Lokam but their numbers were beyond count and the Island Nation were committing themselves to an unavoidable massacre.

  The doorway of the tower loomed before them. Its two massive doors sealed after the Tower Guardians marched out. They could not find a lock or handle, not even a crease where the door could be pried open.

  Of the men that had guarded it, no prisoner still breathed life to tell them how to open it.

  Brethor leaned over the edge of the causeway, looking at the side of the tower.

  He jumped for the tower, grasping the eaves and stonework that decorated it. He vanished from sight.

  Moments later, as unsure glances took those that waited by the door, he returned.

  “A way in, it is around the side, it is narrow and small but I believe the wolves can get us there.”

  One by one, the half-elf, Garoa, and Sviska took hold of the fur of the wolves; all seemed calm except for Kealin.

  “Dis is not my sea friend!” he told them.

  Brethor laughed, “It makes no difference! Now jump, Wolves of Taria!”

  Sviska squeezed the wolf between his leg as he laid his head on its side. The muscular form of the wolf leapt onto the wall. The sounds of tearing and scratching of its claws filled the air.

  The men of the Island Nation stayed on the causeway to guard it. None of them could believe the sight.

  The wolves tore more into the tower, rocks and rubble running below them as, in another jump, they made it to a narrow alcove below a passage with multiple small windows. Kealin and Garoa crawled in first.

  They looked each direction. Orange carpeted halls with ornate torches and plants, went on in either direction.

  Brethor and Sviska climbed in next, the wolves sent back down by Brethor to assist in the battle. He shook his head as he smiled, “It was good I was here.”

  The tower rumbled. From above them, shifting rocks and an unholy shriek of deep and high resounding bellows danced in the otherwise empty halls of the tower.

  As they went to their left, they entered a grand room. A spiral stairwell lining the walls climbed upwards. The lower portion of the tower was cracking as repeated pounding shook the walls. They began up, Brethor running ahead and looking upwards as they ascended higher.

  They came to the top where a line of windows looked out across to an identical structure that had already cracked and shattered sometime before. They also spotted another ramp leading outside and another stairwell.

  “Dis way!” said Kealin, “We must go dis way.”

  “He is right,” said Brethor, “The storm clouds and lightning are not of the natural source. There is an incantation in the works.”

  Garoa scanned the room and spotted a lone torchlight and a figure lying belo
w it.

  “Here,” he yelled, running madly that direction. Sviska followed, noticing the feminine figure laid out on the rocky floor. He paused as he noticed the Galhedriss Arcana on an altar at the center of the room.

  Garoa dropped to his knees, taking the woman in his arms.

  “Asnea!” he shouted.

  Bruises and gashes covered her body. She had been abandoned like a chained dog, next to a measly amount of rotten food, with an empty pail filled with only residual water.

  Sviska looked at the altar and found numerous other books and garbs of the Order. He looked around. There was a room off the side of the main room with an ornate bed upturned and empty. There was no one here.

  Asnea opened her eyes, looking at her father.

  “You… came…?”

  “Yes, yes!” he pulled her face into his.

  “It beat me, and beat me again for trying to escape with the others.”

  “Beat you? The Order?” he asked.

  “No. He is a Priest of the old god. I had thought such tales were just stories. He is of an evil unlike any I have ever known. Only when the attack began, he stopped. It is the beast, the god, he is soon to break free of his chains. The others fled in fear, but I could not escape. The Priest wants to use him to destroy all of you.”

  Her eyes were heavy but she struggled to stay awake.

  “Asnea!”

  Her eyes jerked open, “Go up. They release Kel to thwart you all.”

  Sviska touched the Galhedriss Arcana, wondering of his old master.

  “Where is the Order Hand?” he asked.

  She looked to him, supporting herself on her whipped arms.

  “He fled,” she told him.