The Sangrook Saga

by Steve Thomas

  “You can’t trust the scum that live out here,” said Braxim. Almondo raised an eyebrow and chuckled. Braxim continued. “I thought you said you could sneak back into the Convergence.”

  “I’ve made some progress, but the knowledge you’re after is above my rank. I can’t go rooting around in the Lord Crusader’s head, now can I? I can barely read into a low-ranking monk without detection. Now, I’ve planted some inappropriate curiosities in a few acolytes, and you can always count on their sort to sneak into the forbidden scriptures, but I can only glean so much information through the Convergence. They’re still watching for me.”

  Braxim shook his head. “That’s not going to be fast enough, either.”

  “How much time do you think you have?”

  “Days,” said Braxim. “She’s resisting. I’ve never seen someone fight so hard against a soulbinding, but she can’t last forever.”

  “The King’s first wife had strong Sangrook blood, perhaps on par with yours. The Pact doesn’t work like the Convergence. The Converged God believes in cooperation and willing participation, a worldwide collective in total harmony and all that, until someone gets branded a heretic. The Sangrook Pact was something older and darker. It operates on subjugation and dominance. We still don’t know what’s at the top of that hierarchy, but it’s something even the Converged God is afraid of.”

  Braxim knew how this story ended. He’d heard it dozens of times, both from Almondo and Orkael. “And the Sangrooks fell, in part, because they bred too widely until the fragments of the Pact stopped recognizing each other as parts of the whole. Orkael is trying to collect up all the pieces of the Pact and graft them back onto himself. I know all this. What does it have to do with the girl?”

  “I suspect that her fragment is trying to defend itself. If her blood runs as thick is yours and Orkael’s, perhaps you’ve met your equal.”

  Braxim considered that. “That’s why he asked me to soulbind with him again.”

  Almondo pointed at Braxim with his glass. “You need to be careful with that.”

  “I know. If he gets into my mind, there’s no hope of saving him. He’ll find out the plan.”

  “It’s not just that,” said Almondo. “He views himself as the one true heir of the Sangrook Pact, on a quest to prune the family tree. If you think he’s going to make an exception for his little brother, you aren’t paying attention.”

  Braxim nodded at this and tightened his cloak around his chest. He had seen Orkael’s obsession first hand, multiple times. He had watched his brother soulbind and murder seven Sangrook descendants thus far. He had seen how his obsession grew with each murder and had watched as his brother slowly faded away from him. Braxim was safe only as long as he remained useful. He knew that. He wanted nothing more than to save his brother, to cleanse him of the Pact, but he was running out of time. Almondo was his best hope and the guardhouse wouldn’t stay secret much longer. They’d have to move on soon, and if Almondo hadn’t found the answers by then…

  He crossed the room, snatching up a loaf of bread as he passed. “I’ll be back in a few days. Light a candle in the belfry if you find out anything I can use before then.” He left the temple behind and trudged home through the swamp beneath the full moon.

  ***

  The guardhouse was quiet when Braxim arrived. That meant Orkael was done with Aghara for the night. It was Braxim’s duty to clean up the mess after these sessions, so he hung up his cloak by the door and descended to the dungeon.

  Blood was splashed about with Orkael’s usual level of sadistic enthusiasm. The girl’s blood-soaked dress lay crumpled at the foot of the stairs. Her brother’s head rested on the table, flopped on its side with the eyes pointed at the princess. A woman’s finger and clumps of hair rested alongside an assortment of gory tools: a spiked whip, a hammer, a knife… Orkael had finally succumbed to his frustration with her.

  Aghara herself hung naked from her wrists, heaving labored breaths. Her right leg was bruised and mangled and bent the wrong way. Her head was bald in spots and one eye was swollen shut. Her chest was a tangle of overlapping runes, and her stomach and back had been scored by the whip. When he turned to her, Aghara sucked in one breath and struggled to compose herself, to display that defiant strength she had projected earlier, but she cracked almost immediately. She strained and wheezed as her lungs pressed against broken ribs. Aghara struggled to straighten her back and to balance on one foot with her arms chained to the ceiling.

  Braxim pulled up a chair in front of the woman. “Those are some serious wounds,” he said. “Fatal, I’d say. I should probably be cleaning up and sharpening the knives, but let’s have a discussion. You see, I know my brother wants you to soulbind with him, and I know you’re strong enough to resist. I respect that. I’m impressed, really, and I hope that when he comes for me, I’ll be able to resist half as long as you have. It would help a lot if you decided to soulbind with me.”

  Aghara managed a contorted sneer and spat. “Never.”

  Braxim slapped her. “Save your energy, princess. I wasn’t talking to you.” He looked into her eyes, looked through her eyes and into the soul behind them. “My brother and I were raised by a fortune teller. She claimed she could communicate with the spirit world, and maybe she really could. With her dying breath, she told me and Orkael that we were descended from the Sangrook clan, that we were the heirs to the Sangrook Pact, dark masters of the Fell Forest, but the Pact was spread thin, weak, diluted. Orkael made it his mission to consolidate that power and I helped. He’s my brother, after all, and we thought that if we could make him strong enough, we could take back everything that once belonged to our family.”

  Aghara’s breathing slowed and her eyes grew cloudy. Was she dying, or was the demon inside her focused on his words? “They say that the Sangrook family is cursed, that our every endeavor ends in death. Orkael has embraced that belief. Look at Aghara’s brother. We could have ransomed him or used him as a thrall, but Orkael killed young Colmire when he was already subdued. It’s not about restoring the family anymore. It’s about, well, this,” Braxim gestured toward the death and dismemberment adorning the dungeon.

  “He enjoys the hunt and the killing too much. A king’s son is a valuable thing, and yet my brother saw him as expendable because he wasn’t a Sangrook heir. We’ve done the research and he wasn’t on the list. We’ve crossed off a few names over the years, but you’re the biggest challenge so far. You’re strong. You’ve resisted. It could be you talking to me if Aghara had learned who you are and gotten a head start. But what do you think will happen when she succumbs to her wounds? She probably won’t last the night, and then you’ll fracture, and all us Sangrooks will become a little bit stronger. Or you can soulbind with me and we’ll both double our strength. Then we can do what Orkael won’t. We’ll take back the family legacy.”

  Aghara hung limply from her manacles, her chest heaving and her one good leg shaking. Her neck spasmed and her head drooped. She had either lost consciousness or the demon inside her had taken control. It didn’t matter which. Braxim pulled the Colmire sword from his belt and sliced a gash across the palm of his left hand. He pressed the cut against Aghara’s chest above the heart, letting his own blood seep into her wounds, into the incantations carved onto her chest.

  He chanted the words of soulbinding. “Your blood to my heart. Your heart to my will. Your will to my soul. Your soul to my blood. Your blood to my heart.” He chanted the words over and over, feeling her blood flow into his veins, feeling his own heart commanding hers. There was no resistance, no contest of wills. Her fragment of the Pact had agreed to join him.

  His blood poured into her, linking their minds. If he stopped now, he’d retain the ability to read her thoughts and plant suggestions at his leisure. But he pressed on. His blood poured into her, taking command of her magical faculties. If he stopped now, he’d retain the ability to use her as a vessel for his own magical strength. But he pressed on. His blood poured into he
r, wiping clean her own thoughts and desires and replacing them with his own. She was a thrall now, an extension of his will, with no more independence than his own left hand. Princess Aghara Colmire belonged to Braxim now, completely.

  For a moment, Aghara’s wounds glowed an unearthly crimson, then the gash on Braxim’s hand closed and it was over.

  Braxim patted Aghara on the cheek. She stared back at him blankly, her eyes empty and drool dripping from her mouth to dilute the blood on her chest. “That was easy enough, princess. I was hoping he’d be reasonable. I do apologize if this has been painful.” He pulled on the strings of her soul and sucked all the strength of the Pact from her, then let the slightest bit trickle back into the shell of her being, still under his control. “The irony of all this is that if you’d received a bit of training, you could have healed yourself, broken your chains, and walked away while my brother and I were asleep. I suggest you take the magic I left inside you and heal yourself. I’ll find a use for you tomorrow.” He psionically commanded her bones to mend and her flesh to close, then ascended the staircase.

  Orkael was waiting for him, hunched over the table. His eyes were heavy and his posture unstable, betraying a recent and sudden awakening. “I felt you performing magic,” he said. “Did you have any luck with the girl?” There was a roughness in his voice, somewhere between irritation and malice.

  Orkael had been asleep when Braxim returned to the guardhouse, and Braxim knew it was no coincidence that he was awake so soon after the soulbinding. It was never a coincidence with Orkael. Braxim leaned against the doorway, trying to disguise his unease. “Yes,” he said. “I completed the soulbinding.”

  Orkael’s eyes lit with jealousy. “Good! Good. You should soulbind with me, then, and pass along her power.”

  Braxim shook his head. “You know, we used to share, back when we first started doing this.”

  “It was foolish to split our winnings when the goal was always to consolidate power. If I had insisted that I alone carry the Pact from the beginning, I could have overpowered Princess Colmire.”

  “And you would have done it the hard way. All I had to do was talk to the demon and convince him that joining me was in his best interests. You’ve gotten too dependent on the magic, on the brute force.”

  “Don’t presume to lecture me,” said Orkael with a sneer. “Everything we’ve done, we’ve done together. You like to play the innocent younger brother resisting corruption and keeping me in check.”

  “I never—”

  “Don’t. I don’t need to soulbind with you to know your thoughts. I know you’ve been cavorting with a Converged priest and studying how to undermine me. But you aren’t committed. You never were. That’s why you balked at killing a man, as if it’s somehow more merciful to steal his very soul and to let him stumble around as a thrall until you command him to starve to death. As if leaving a woman mad and mutilated in a dungeon is somehow kinder than slitting her throat.” There was a groan from the basement, and Orkael chuckled to himself. “You really didn’t kill her, did you? Oh, I left her in such a state for you, but I suppose you’re even more soft when it comes to a pretty face and a nice pair of breasts.”

  Braxim struggled to maintain his composure, still leaning on the door frame. This wasn’t the first time Orkael had unleashed a tirade against him, but it stung nonetheless. Orkael was born with a cruel streak, and the Pact only amplified it. “Of course I didn’t kill her. She is a princess of Windmire. Why waste a resource?”

  Orkael laughed. “You only ever plan one step ahead. You have no vision. I don’t care about royal families and their petty thrones. When I ascend, I’ll slaughter the lot of them. There will be no kings. Only thralls.” His mirth vanished in an instant and he slammed the table.

  “Be careful now,” said Braxim. When he saw Orkael’s eyes narrow, he tapped into the Pact, drawing forth strength in case he would need to defend himself. “You’re changing your story. Last time, you said you and I would rule as equals with the aid of soulbound Sangrooks.”

  Orkael scowled. He hesitated for the briefest moment, then rose to full height and threw the table to the side. “You’ve become an obstacle, brother. You will soulbind with me tonight, right after you watch me kill the girl.” A red aura flared around him him, the form of a smoky demon shrouding Orkael’s body. He lashed out with a crimson whip, but Braxim had already set up a ward and it cracked benignly upon his chest. Orkael reared and dashed forward, but Braxim nimbly stepped aside, then spun and pushed with his magic, hoping to send his brother tumbling down the stairs.

  But just as Braxim had evaded Orkael’s attacks, so did Orkael defend against this. He deflected the push and levitated over the stairs. In a fluid motion, he twisted his body around and spewed forth a jet of flames. Braxim raised a barrier and watched the flames sputter and die inches from his face.

  He had every advantage. Standing at the top of the stairwell, he had the more defensive position. Orkael, while more practiced, could not know just how strong Braxim was now, and he had flown into an irrational rage. He would be aggressive and careless. Most importantly, he was wholly focused on Braxim, but Braxim did not fight alone.

  So Braxim fought defensively. He allowed Orkael to expend spell after spell, and either dodged or deflected each assault, only taking the offense often enough to keep Orkael from getting too close.

  Just as easily as he commanded his left hand, he commanded Aghara into action. Her body was healed now, her chains broken. She staggered to the table and collected up the bloody whip, then crept up the stairs. She waited patiently while Orkael conjured his next assault and Braxim rose two fresh sets of wards.

  And she struck with that barbed whip. Her first blow tore into Orkael’s back and disrupted his spell. He howled and spun, and she slapped him across the face, then sunk her fingernails into his left cheek to tear it out. Impotent flames burst from Orkael’s body and she struck again with the whip, this time binding his hands. She pulled and he stumbled, dropping first to his knees, then flopping to his side as he slid down the stairs. At last, his head cracked against the stone floor. Braxim could still sense his brother’s aura, but it was already pulling away from him.

  Braxim cautiously descended, drawing the Colmire family sword. “I truly hoped I could have prevented this,” he said. “I wanted to break the Pact and free you of this madness, but as they say, a Sangrook’s every endeavor ends in death.”

  Braxim Sangrook stabbed his brother three times in the stomach, then crouched down and grabbed hold of Orkael’s head. He stared into his brother’s eyes, stared through his brother’s eyes. “Those are some serious wounds. Fatal, I’d say. Aghara, be a dear and fetch me the knife.”

  ***

  When it was over, Braxim, still crackling with energy from the soulbinding, flung open the door to Orkael’s bedchamber. His brother wouldn’t need it any longer. There was little to be found within those bare limestone walls since they had always traveled light. A black cloak hung from a peg on the wall. Aghara could use that, but Braxim was after something more valuable. Where was it, and why had Orkael felt the need to hide it from him? Braxim had never set foot inside his brother’s room, and yet there was nothing on display aside from the cloak on the wall, a blanket on the bed, and a candle on the table. He dropped to his stomach and peered beneath Orkael’s bed.

  There it was, a burlap sack lumpy with books and scrolls. Orkael’s research. He dumped the bag onto the bed and sifted through the various birth and marriage records, stolen from tax men and temples in their travels. Lying underneath a letter about King Colmire’s first wife, Aghara’s mother, was Orkael’s journal. If every other document were to burn away, this journal would protect their research. It contained the names of all known Sangrook heirs along with their suspected cities of residence. Braxim and Orkael had started the book together, each writing the other’s name as Sangrook heirs on the first page before flipping to the second and beginning their research. This is how he would tra
ck the rest down.

  Braxim sat on the bed, clutching the vellum pages to his chest. Was this how it had started for Orkael? Had he gone directly from murder to murder without a moment’s contemplation or mourning? He’d just left his own brother a lifeless husk in the dungeon, and his first thought had been to gather up the research. He sifted through notes and family trees while his own brother’s blood still stained his hands.

  Of course, he had to be practical. The thought was at once his own and foreign, like something he had said in a dream. He had to protect himself. He had to continue the quest. There were other Sangrooks out there, and what if another was consolidating power? There couldn’t be two like him. He had just killed his own brother so there wouldn’t be two like him. The Pact wanted, needed to be rejoined. He had to…

  He had to bury his brother. Orkael was cruel and twisted, yes, but he was also right. They could have ruled together if only Braxim had been more cooperative. It hadn’t needed to happen. Even Aghara Colmire could have been saved. Maybe he could still save her. If Braxim could just make it to Almondo one last time…

  But there wasn’t time. All the armies of Windmire would be upon him soon, and Braxim wasn’t ready. Perhaps he was strong enough to fight an army now. Perhaps the magic of the Pact could protect him, but he wasn’t well-versed or well-practiced. And what good would Almondo, a fallen Converged priest, do for him? The Convergence was the great enemy. They were jealous of the Pact and would see it wiped away. That was the only reason Almondo was pretending to help, pretending to…

  Braxim closed his eyes and tottered onto the mattress. He’d killed his brother. It had felt like self-defense at the time, but he’d always felt conflict brewing between them. He’d thought about how he’d do it, if he had to. He’d started gearing up to fight as soon as he found Orkael waiting for him at the table. This wasn’t a crime of passion, or an act of defense. This was fratricide. And yet Orkael had still pushed him into it. Did that mean Orkael had been planning to kill him all along, like Almondo had warned? If so, could it have been the Pact’s influence and not Orkael’s heart?