The Sangrook Saga

by Steve Thomas

  Braxim ran his fingers across the grain of the journal. Perhaps Orkael’s notes would help him understand. Perhaps there were answers inside. He would choose to remember Orkael as a loving brother corrupted by a sick quest, not the man he had killed in self-defense. He flicked a finger to the edge of the cover, but couldn’t find the strength to open to that first page and mark his brother as dead.

  The second page and the continuation of that sick quest, on the other hand—Braxim had plenty of strength for that.

  ***

  King Colmire’s castle wasn’t much to look at. Kings in those days had two choices: find some sturdy ruin to occupy and renovate, or construct a petty and unimposing wooden fortress. Large-scale construction, like so much knowledge, had been lost after the War of the Gods, despite the Sangrooks’ efforts to rebuild the past civilization. As Windmire had not come equipped with ancient ruins when it was founded, its king sat in a two-story hovel bristling with spikes that begged for a fire.

  The chancellor, the king’s filter against the irritations of the outside world, stood primly at the door, sheltered from the sun under a wooden vestibule, his long gray hair drawn back in a pristine pony tail, his pants and jacket perfectly crisp, and his sleeves immaculately ruffled.

  Braxim approached, his shoulders hunched and his gait loose, making a show of glancing around and eying the guards. Today, he was an outlaw from the swamp, not a scion of a notorious family of necromancers. He’d even tapped into the Pact to lighten his hair from Sangrook raven to a common brown. That was the sort of frivolous use of magic that he’d often berated Orkael for, but this disguise served a greater purpose. Is that how Orkael had justified his excesses? Braxim felt himself starting to shake his head at the thought, but caught himself. He couldn’t break character.

  Aghara trailed serenely behind, wrapped in Orkael’s cloak over her tattered, stained dress. Braxim had decided to re-open some of her wounds and sprain her ankle to make his story convincing. It was a shame after using his magic to heal her, but wasted energy is the punishment for not planning ahead.

  Braxim grunted to the chancellor and, affecting a gruff woodsy accent, said, “I need to see the king. Got something of his.” He tilted his head toward the girl behind him.

  The Chancellor sneered at Braxim, his mustaches twitching in irritation, then he glanced at Aghara. Panic washed over his face while his eyes flicked between Aghara and the various gardeners and soldiers milling about. If Braxim’s guess was correct, Aghara’s disappearance was still a secret and he couldn’t have her standing outside in this state where anyone could see her.

  “Inside. Quickly,” he said. He flung open the door and guided Aghara through. Braxim shouldered his way ahead, just in case the chancellor would try to shut him out.

  They stood in an antechamber lit by a great chandelier. The walls were lined with tapestries and racks of spears. A few swords accompanied the spears; King Colmire wasn’t the sort to allow armed courtiers in his hall. The tapestries were of varied geometric designs, without a sigil among them. The Colmires considered themselves frontiersmen and explorers, and had little patience for the trappings of nobility.

  The chancellor slammed the door shut, spun about to face Aghara, and dropped to a knee all in a single, fluid motion, like a leaf caught in a gust of wind. “Your highness, did this man harm you?” His eyes were fixed on the floor.

  Aghara stiffened; Braxim needed tighter control if she was to be speaking. “No…” Braxim rummaged around in her head for the chancellor’s name. “No, Clandrum, my injuries predate my association with this man. I was kidnapped and beaten by a horrible ruffian in a ransom attempt, but this man saved me.”

  “What about your brother, your highness?”

  Aghara squeezed out a tear. “I am afraid he was not so fortunate as I.”

  Clandrum’s eyes rose to meet Braxim’s face, not without a glint of suspicion. “You will, of course, be handsomely rewarded,” he said. “Name your price.”

  “Oh, I’m a simple man. A hot meal and a soft bed are all I need.”

  “Of course,” said the Chancellor. He hopped to his feet and stomped. Then he lifted his left leg, twisted to face the door to the king’s chamber, stomped again, took four heavy steps forward, and stomped twice. He reached a gloved hand for the door. “And allow me to present you to the king so that he may thank you for his daughter’s safe return.”

  Braxim held back a smirk. All that stomping and marching was most likely a signal, and Braxim doubted it meant, “Prepare for an esteemed guest.” This was a trap. The king’s bodyguards were probably drawing their swords already. Why give a forest ruffian a meal and a bed when they could slit his throat and feed him to the pigs? “I must respectfully decline,” said Braxim. “A man like me is unworthy to stand in the king’s presence.”

  “I insist,” said Clandrum sternly.

  Aghara swept in thanks to a slight pull of the strings. “Don’t be crass, Clandrum,” she said. “This man saved my life. We shouldn’t insist he do anything more for us.”

  Before she even finished talking, Braxim slipped out the door.

  He didn’t need to meet the king. He’d already met Princess Aghara, and she’d be queen soon enough.

  ***

  Shortly after her father’s untimely, tragic, and sudden death, Queen Aghara Colmire called off the search for the man who kidnapped her, just as she ended the fruitless search for her missing brother. Furthermore, all travel in and out of the Fell Forest was banned due to a rash of disappearances. These were necessary actions to refocus her resources on bringing peace to the city.

  They also allowed Braxim Sangrook to continue his residency in the old guardhouse free of unwanted attention. As the months passed, his home swelled with the bustle of fresh servants. Six of the Sangrook scions on Orkael’s list were a family of masons, and they worked continuously to restore his home. A weaver spun him new bedding and clothing, and set to work lining his walls with tapestries that bore the crest of the raven and scenes of wizards lounging on thrones. He had hunters and a cook to keep him well-fed. The Sangrooks had bred well in Windmire and the surrounding lands, and Braxim had captured every name on his list.

  His hair was starting to gray and his shoulders to droop, but thanks to all the thralls fueling his magical reserves, he was aging more slowly than his brother had. His well was deeper, and he’d reclaimed more power than Orkael had dreamed of spending. In fact, after his latest acquisitions, he had stopped aging at all. Perhaps, once he’d consolidated enough of the Pact, he’d even begin to extend his lifespan.

  Braxim leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. His mind never truly rested these days. He was always probing about, managing his thralls. Even in sleep, he was dreaming through their eyes and directing their actions. But the Pact kept him strong. If only it could also teach him. The Sangrooks had once ruled a vast empire through incomparable magic, and yet all Braxim had to guide him were the shattered minds of his enslaved cousins. He didn’t even have his brother to talk to, to study and explore with.

  He glanced at the journal on the table. He knew it was time to move on. There were no Sangrooks left in Windmire, but there were more names in other cities. There was still work to do, and just when he had made a home of this dilapidated guardhouse.

  He’d keep Windmire under his thumb. Queen Aghara was of course a valuable asset, but he’d leave many of his servants behind to act as spies and guard against the Convergence. Rumor had it that the Templars were advancing east from their seat in Vestige, and he would not allow them to erode his only foothold.

  Through the eyes of a hunter, he saw a candle glowing in a temple window. Had Almondo at last discovered something, a way to break the Pact? Braxim hadn’t spoken with Almondo since the night he killed Orkael. He didn’t know how he would tell his only friend that he was a murderer. He didn’t know how he would face a man he respected.

  But he had to push those feeling aside. He
couldn’t leave Windmire without making one last visit to the old priest. He rose from the table and scooped up Orkael’s journal. He’d flipped it open to the second page so many times that there was a permanent gap beyond the first page with his and Orkael’s names. The book weighed down the pocket on the inside of his cloak as he stepped into the night.

  He dipped into the Pact to trot lightly over the festering mud and gurgling waters of the marsh in a direct line toward Almondo’s temple. Nothing, not even the bloodsucking flies and mosquitoes, crossed his path. Soon he was at the temple steps. He crossed through the ruined temple until once again, he stood at the door to Almondo’s study. He rapped against the graying wood and the old priest swung open the door.

  “I saw your candle,” said Braxim. “Do you have information for me?”

  The old man’s eyes hardened at the sight of Braxim. “You’ve been using magic,” he said. “Often, by the look of you.”

  “It became necessary,” said Braxim.

  “I’m sure it has with Orkael hounding you,” said Almondo. Either he didn’t know that Orkael was dead or he faking ignorance. The former was more likely. The man was a hermit and any news he could have heard would have involved the disappearing townsfolk. Orkael was the obvious suspect, and Braxim had always presented himself as a reluctant accomplice. “I’ve discovered how to cure him. Come in, please.” He shuffled around the table, stopping to pluck a decanter and two cups from the cabinet on his way to his chair. “I should warn you, it wasn’t clean.” He poured both cups of wine and slid one towards Braxim’s usual chair. Braxim sat down, but didn’t touch the wine. “They caught me in the end, and they’re sending a squad. I suspect I won’t be here tomorrow.”

  That explained the rumors of the Convergence sending agents to Windmire. Braxim forced a smile. “Seems like every time we meet, one of us is on the verge of skipping town.”

  “Indeed. Indeed. I’m just glad you noticed the candle.” He wobbled, then slid into his chair, wine sloshing. Braxim had to wonder whether this man ever allowed himself to be fully sober. “I managed to sneak an acolyte into the Inquisition’s library and found a book on old heresies. There was a priest named Cuthren some centuries ago who taught that through the Convergence, we all became equal to the gods. He was executed, of course, but the same heresy kept cropping up over the subsequent decades. The inquisitors traced every heretic to Cuthren.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?” asked Braxim. “He preached it.”

  “No, not through teachings. Through soulbinding. Cuthren was executed along with whichever of his pupils refused to disavow the heresy. All his writings were burned and only the upper echelon of clerics were allowed to discuss his teachings. The knowledge should have died with him. The later generations of heretics consisted of people soulbound to Cuthren, or soulbound to people who were soulbound to Cuthren, and so on.”

  Braxim leaned into the table. “So even though he was dead, he survived in some way within the Convergence.”

  Almondo nodded. “That sort of thing had been speculated before Cuthren, and this was another shred of proof. The inquisitors eventually devised a way to excise his soul from the Convergence. It wreaked a bit of havoc on the church hierarchy, but that was better than a heretic whispering blasphemy across the rest of history.” The old man slid a scrap of parchment across the table. “This ritual is as onerous as it is unpleasant.”

  “A human sacrifice from his line of influence?” asked Braxim, reading from the page.

  “It gets worse. Since Orkael is still living—” Braxim froze his face to avoid giving away the truth. Almondo continued, “You’ll have to excise the next highest soul in the line, either by soulbinding or, in the case of your Pact…”

  Braxim sighed. This is where it would become too easy to slip, to reveal himself as the new heir of Sangrook, to betray his complete lack of need for this information. “But I’m an orphan. How would I even find my parents? How would I recognize them?”

  “Follow the threads,” said Almondo.

  “And I’d lose my connection to the Pact as well.”

  “A price you must be willing to pay for your brother’s soul.”

  Braxim tapped a finger on the ritual, thinking of the network he had begun to form. “That’s a high price.”

  “The last time we talked, you would have welcomed it.”

  The last time they had talked, Braxim was trying to survive his brother’s bloody ambitions. Now he was the master of them. What would happen to his thralls? Would they throw off his control, then go home and return to their old lives? Would they remember him, and would they be angry? With Aghara on the throne, the risk was too high. He’d have the resources of a city state looking to burn him at the stake.

  Of course, none of this mattered. He wouldn’t be needing this ritual. Orkael was dead and Braxim had no use for arcane rituals to destroy the Pact. He only needed to escape this conversation without raising suspicion.

  “There’s more,” said Almondo. His furrowed face was full of worry. “This isn’t as simple as cutting a thread. You’ll come face to face with the souls of your parents, and you’ll have to slay them. You need to be prepared for that, though I can’t imagine how.”

  “We weren’t close,” said Braxim. Now this was a prospect that intrigued him. He had one last opportunity to speak with Orkael, to clear his conscience of the murder, to apologize or demand an apology. “But I have to admit, I’d love an opportunity to see him again. My father,” he added hastily.

  Almondo took a long swill of wine, then shuffled to his feet. “I’m too late, aren’t I?” Braxim took in a deep breath. He could salvage this. He and his friend could still part peacefully. He slipped the ritual instructions into Orkael’s journal and pocketed it. Before he could speak, Almondo continued. “I’ve heard the rumors. Disappearances, the king’s sudden death and the new queen’s mysterious loss of interest in pursuing her captors. And her newfound cruelty. One look at your face told me everything I needed to know. You’re too far gone. Too far gone to save your brother or yourself, but together...”

  Braxim growled under his breath. “I have a destiny. I have a birthright. Sit down and I’ll forget what you just said. I have nothing to gain by fighting with you.”

  “Who said anything about fighting?” the old man asked with a weary smile. “I want only want to help. I studied the Sangrooks when I was a younger man. You do not want their birthright. Your Pact is a curse that brought nothing but evil and tyranny.”

  Almondo stepped toward him, a blue aura gathering around his person. His eyes were gentle, but how could Braxim know his true intentions? Perhaps he’d summoned the squad to attack Braxim. Perhaps he planned to force Braxim to sever the Pact. The Pact… The strength of the Pact welled in Braxim, a primordial consciousness that felt threatened and was rising to the challenge.

  He stood, and in a surge of magic, flung the table across the room. It flipped and spun and slammed into Almondo. Together they crashed against the wall, and the old priest slumped to the floor, broken and bloody. It had all happened before Braxim’s mind could catch up with his instincts.

  Regret filled him like a cup of wine. Braxim rushed to Almondo’s side, but the bulging eyes and protruding ribs told him that the priest was already gone. A Sangrook’s every endeavor ends in death.

  Braxim plodded through the marsh in a daze. He’d killed again. How easily he slaughtered those closest to him, and after all his protests. He thought back to Aghara’s brother, and how incensed Braxim was that Orkael would kill a man for no purpose. He thought of Aghara, how he had tortured and mutilated her at his brother’s bidding. He thought of his thralls. What right did he have? Some family legends? Some imagined legacy? Who were the Sangrooks except a house of depraved warlords corrupted by dark magic? Who was he except an outlaw latching onto his brother’s madness, the brother he had murdered. None of that was practical. None of that was sane. He had no right to claim he was any wiser than any other killer in thi
s swamp. He wasn’t any better than Orkael.

  It wasn’t too late. He could free himself. He could take back control of his mind. He could leave the Pact. It was time to find a new purpose. It was time to give up the Sangrook name and carve out a life of peace and solitude. It wasn’t too late to release his thralls.

  Well, he could release all but one. He had to be practical, after all.

  As he neared his guardhouse, one of the thralls was hard at work gathering firewood. With a thought, Braxim summoned him. “Sit down and await my command,” he said. The man wordlessly sat on the ground.

  The ritual was much simpler than Almondo’s notes described, once Braxim filtered out the elevated loquaciousness, theological asides, and dire warnings. He stood over the thrall, a middle-aged man named Harlin. He was one of the town’s woodsmen, a simple-minded brute whose youthful head of hair had dripped down to his cheeks over the years like a melting candle, who had split his time between hunting and felling trees. Easily replaced. Braxim had no use for lumber and a surplus of food. One last act of cruelty would set him free.

  Braxim knelt and placed his left hand on Harlin’s shoulder. He conjured a magical spike around his right hand, but hesitated. He felt an odd urge to speak to the man, to explain why he was about to die. To talk to someone who wouldn’t judge him or demand he take part in some bid for power. It had been so long since his last honest conversation.

  “I killed my only friend today,” he said. “I’m not even sure why. I just…lashed out, like my own mind wasn’t even commanding my body. He was trying to help me save my brother. Of course, he didn’t know that I’ve already killed my brother. He and I, we were going to become kings in the shadows. We were going to rule the world through thralls, and I killed him because I thought his version of the plan was too violent.” He chuckled. “I’m more efficient than he was, sure, but that didn’t stop me from murdering Almondo. But I’m thinking clearly for the moment. I need to act before it wears off. I’m going to sever myself from the Pact. That will either free the rest of the thralls or kill them all at once. Almondo’s notes don’t really say. I’m going to have to sacrifice you to do it. I hope you understand.”