In the dark of night, plans coalesced. Silent, malevolent, inexorable.
Bells sat in her cabin with Keys beside her. Two oil lamps lit the room. She held a crafted bell in her hands and another four were spread in a line in front of her. Concentrating, she opened her well, linked to the bells and sent a call into the darkness.
From the seedy slums of Dockside to the perfumed mansions of Parkside, from Deadhorse to the reeking streets of Cabbage Town, muted, cloaked and hooded figures raised their heads as one and stood still. Quietly, they listened to her new instructions, and changes to old.
Some left residences, where they had secreted themselves for weeks or months, the houses of merchants, bankers, nobles and guild masters. Those on the move headed in two separate directions, towards Dockside or Barrows. An empty building greeted the members of both groups as they arrived, each acknowledging their comrades when they entered.
Bells and Keys waited patiently. Midnight came and went. The moon traveled across half the sky as the city slept.
In the light of dawn they emerged on deck. The horizon to the east of the docks darkened with ships. They had furled sails and unshipped oars, powering against the westerly wind with purpose. Each one bore more than a passing resemblance to the huge ship already docked in the harbor.
Alarm bells clanged in the night, rousing the harbor watch and squads of Quivers in the vicinity. Despite their training, all they could do was watch as the harbor mouth filled with dark shapes.
Lights twinkled on the ships, the muted yellow of sorcerous crafted globes. Attached to their bows, partially above the water, were rams of smith-crafted steel, and each ship displayed a fantastic figurehead, gaping toothed mouths under bulging eyes, skin covered in scales.
Quivers on the shore milled in confusion. Disorganized groups mixed as their officers argued courses of action. Messengers were dispatched towards West Barrows, while the rest of the men shuffled out to the wharves. Clammy hands gripped weapons, and wild eyes looked out over the waves to the approaching ships.
It had been hundreds of years since the empire had engaged in any real war. Anasoma itself had never been invaded.
Ships plowed through the swell, surging to the docks. Thick seasoned timber scraped against sturdy wooden pylons. Gangplanks heaved onto wharves with heavy thuds.
Keys grinned with delight, and Bells gave him a disapproving look. She didn’t like what was coming, but it needed to be done. The God-Emperor had commanded them himself.
Armored figures flooded onto the wharves, spewing from ships like ants from a stirred nest. Dawn light and sorcerous crafted globes reflected from polished steel. Soldiers settled into loose formations with an armored figure at the head of each group.
A horn sounded. Booted feet stomped towards the city. They stopped at the disbelieving crowd that had gathered at the docks, blocking their way. Gaping-mouthed citizens stood behind white-faced harbor watchmen and Quivers. Murmurs from the crowd increased in volume.
An armored figure stepped forward carrying a naked blade. Crafted glyphs and sigils covered his breastplate and the steel bands on his forearms.
Light flashed behind the crowd, far to the north, west and south, illuminating the sky before settling down to a subdued blue glow. The crowd milled in confusion. Shouts echoed in the half-light.
Those close to the city walls saw a sheet of blue flame erupt from the fortifications. None of the guards stationed on the walls survived the blast.
At the fore of the invading forces the armored man spoke, his words carrying loud and clear above the noise. “In the name of Kelhak, God-Emperor of Indryalla, I declare this city liberated. No one is to leave until order is restored.”
Bells left the soldiers to their work and returned to her cabin. Blood was the price Anasoma must pay for freedom from oppression. She shuddered at the thought of what was about to occur.
Caldan woke to scuffling outside his room. Rubbing his eyes, he glanced out the window into the half-light of dawn. Who would be making a ruckus at this time?
He opened his door and poked his head out. At the end of the corridor two men dragged an unconscious master while more men came towards him clad in smith-crafted armor and carrying naked blades.
Stifling a gasp, he retreated into his room, locking the door. Thinking frantically, he scrambled for a blank piece of paper, drew the stopper from a bottle of ink and madly scribed glyphs. As he had done in his room at the inn when he first arrived, he fixed the still wet crafting to the door and opened his well, sealing the entrance against all but the most determined assault.
Sounds of struggle reached his ears, punctuated by claps of muted thunder.
Moments later, the latch jiggled. A fist banged on the wood.
“Open up!” a voice commanded.
Caldan sunk back against the far wall away from the door. Muffled voices sounded in a strange accent he hadn’t heard before.
“… doesn’t matter, we need to clear every room…”
“…you go. I’ll deal with this… no… we don’t have time…”
By the ancestors! If he hadn’t been worn out he might have woken to the noise earlier. If the masters were taken there wasn’t much he could do. Should he put up a fight or go quietly?
Caldan listened intently as footsteps faded. Clothing rustled and there was a scratch at his door.
The scent of lemons reached his nostrils, faintly at first then steadily stronger.
He grabbed his wristband and purse of ducats, shoving them into the sack he had brought back from the clockmaker’s. He yanked his trinket off his finger, the bone ring from around his neck, added them to the sack. Two floors below in the garden a row of shrubs ran along the wall. He dropped the sack, praying it would remain hidden until he could retrieve it.
A flash of light blinded him, and an invisible force knocked him back against the wall. His ears rang like a bell. Smoke filled the room and his door fell towards him onto the floor, hinges and lock melted into misshapen lumps of glowing iron.
He coughed and raised an arm to protect himself, his eyes watering as he saw a blurry figure approach.
“You little bugger, made me waste a flash.” A hand cuffed Caldan roughly around the head then grasped his shirt, dragging him across the floor on his knees.
Caldan drove a fist into the man’s groin. He yelped and dropped like a stone, clutching his plums. Pain exploded in Caldan’s head, and he fell to the floor. He blinked and shook his head to clear it. Above him stood the man’s partner, a club raised to strike again.
“I wouldn’t do that again,” he purred. “We’ve orders not to harm anyone… too seriously.” He nudged his partner with a toe. “Get up, you lazy bastard.” He laughed.
“Piss off,” the man moaned. “You take a punch to the plums and see how you feel.”
The other man laughed again. “That’s something I don’t plan on doing.” He watched, amused, as his partner levered himself to his knees, breathing deeply and wincing.
“Come on, we don’t got all day.”
With short shallow breaths the man gingerly rose to his feet, hunched over, hands on his knees. He muttered something under his breath. Turning to Caldan, he drew a dagger.
“Now, now,” his partner said. “Don’t do anything stupid. Keys will kill you, and Bells… well, she don’t need to kill you.”
The man with the dagger gave Caldan a hateful look, then drove it deep into Caldan’s thigh and twisted. He screamed, burning pain shooting up his leg.
“Castens, you stupid bastard! How’s he going to walk now?”
“He punched me in the plums. He deserved it.”
“He’s bleeding everywhere.”
“So?”
“You’re an idiot. Here, help me bandage him up.”
“I ain’t helping.”
“You’re going to help, and you’re going to help me carry him.”
Caldan clutched his leg. Warm blood leaked through his fingers. “Please,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Shut up, you deserved it.” A foot pressed Caldan’s hands into his wound. Pain flared.
“Stop that, we need to get him locked up as soon as possible. Time’s a wasting.”
Castens cursed then wiped his blade on Caldan’s pants. The other one removed a rolled bandage from a bulging pouch attached to his belt and wrapped it tightly around Caldan’s leg. Even in his pain, Caldan realized they were professionals, despite their roughness, prepared for contingencies and organized.
They dragged him to his feet. “Oof! Not so little, are you?” One hand held his shoulder tightly while another frisked his clothes, searching for something. Caldan wiped his eyes, blinking to clear them.
“No mark of rank,” said Castens. “No craftings and no trinkets. Bugger, why do I get all the duds?”
His companion laughed. Neither wore the smith-crafted armor he had glimpsed in the corridor, but each wore a number of crafted items, rings, medallions and one an earring.
“Apprentice, are you?”
Caldan nodded, leg throbbing. Who were these men? Where were the Protectors and sorcerers?
“Bit old, aren’t you? Slow learner?” Both men laughed.
Hunching his shoulders, Caldan nodded.
“And dumb as well. Curse this, let’s get him locked up and keep searching.”
“Mostly done by now. I think their higher up sorcerers,” he sneered the word, “have been taken.”
“Best we get this lump stored then find their workshops and libraries. Should be some good loot there.”
They marched him limping along the hall and down a flight of stairs to the main building, then along a corridor Caldan had not yet explored. Through a heavy door bound with steel bands, then down another three flights of stairs. The air grew cold and damp. They entered a cellblock, one Caldan had no idea existed. Why would one be needed? Maybe the Protectors used it for captured rogue sorcerers.
Stone cells lined both sides of the room, each with a moldy wooden door with a window, the opening blocked by two thick, rusty metal bars.
Caldan strained his neck as he was marched past closed doors but couldn’t catch a glimpse of the occupants, if they had any. Without a word, he was thrown into one of the empty cells, falling to his knees. Pain flared from his leg. With a thud, the door slammed shut behind him. He heard a key slide into the keyhole and the lock clicked into place.
Damp and musty, the cell was barely six paces on each side, the floor covered in dust and dirt. Moldy straw littered one corner along with a scrap of what looked like a dirty rag. The bed, he assumed. In a back corner pooled a puddle of water. From the window in the door leaked a faint yellow light, which Caldan recognized as characteristic of a sorcerous crafted globe, though a weak or old one.
Caldan stood and wiped his hands on his pants, though some grime from the floor remained. He shivered and rubbed his arms. Cold but not too bad, as long as he wasn’t here for long. He didn’t know what had become of the masters, journeymen, and apprentices. It was safe to assume most, if not all, had been taken prisoner, though he couldn’t imagine any going without a fight, as long as they weren’t surprised. The commotion he’d heard earlier meant there had been some resistance.
He grasped the two bars covering the window in his door and looked outside, seeing no one around. Taking a deep breath, he strained against them, grunting with effort. After a few moments, he released his hold then strained again, to no avail. Cursing, he backed up and kicked the door with a solid thump, hurting his foot.
“By the ancestors.”
Caldan clenched his fists in anger. What was going on? Why would anyone attack the Sorcerers’ Guild? Or were they only after the Protectors? Surely Simmon would have realized what was happening and rallied the masters and as many journeymen and apprentices as he could. Though, judging from the crafted armor and the soldiers’ search of his body for craftings, they knew what they were doing. Well-informed and drilled. This wasn’t a raid. Imprisoning them meant a longer-term plan, one that meant keeping them alive for some purpose.
He eyed the door of his cell again. Despite its age, the timbers were solid and the rusted bars still effective. They must have known the cells were down here, which meant excellent knowledge of the building, probably a spy. Or someone high up was working with them, which was a disturbing thought.
Caldan stood quietly at the door, listening. Silence, except for the drip, drip, drip of water somewhere behind him in his cell.
“Hello?” he whispered into the gloom, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard in the other cells. “Is anyone there?” He waited a few moments. “Hello. If you can hear me, say something or make a noise.”
“Hello back,” came a woman’s voice. “Who are you?”
“Caldan,” he replied. “What… what’s happening?”
“Huh… no idea. I was fast asleep when some men jumped me. Roughed me up and stole my craftings. The ones I had on me, anyway.” Caldan heard the woman cough before continuing. “Sorry,” she said. “My name’s Senira. I’m a journeyman. I’ve heard of you, but you probably haven’t heard of me.”
“No, I haven’t, sorry.”
“No need to apologize. It’s a big place. Anyway, what have you seen? Do you know what’s going on?”
Caldan shook his head before realizing she couldn’t see him. “No,” he said. “I was in my room but managed to craft a lock on the door when I heard fighting outside. They…” Caldan thought about the crafting they’d used on his door. Senira wouldn’t know about destructive sorcery, unless she was a Protector.
“They disabled my crafting with sorcery,” he half-lied.
“They must be sorcerers. If they can open your lock, then they’re at least journeyman level.”
“Do you know what’s happened to the masters? Did they fight? Were any wounded…killed?”
“I didn’t see anything, though I heard sounds of fighting in the garden. They wouldn’t let themselves be captured without putting up a fight, though.”
Caldan frowned. The invaders meant business, and from the look of things knew the layout of the place and had potent craftings to help them. He would bet the crafted armor was at least as good as the Sorcerers’ Guild could make. He thought of the rogue sorcerer the other night. Maybe better.
If Simmon and the other Protectors were going up against them, he wished them luck, though the assault had come in the dead of night and most would have been caught unawares. He sighed.
“Are you there?” Senira called.
“Yes.”
“Sorry. I got… scared. It’s cold down here. Is it just us?”
“Some of the other doors were locked, but no one’s said anything yet. Well, it can’t hurt to try. Hello?” he called. “Anyone else there?”
They listened in silence for a few moments. No one replied.
“Hello?” called Caldan again, to be answered with more silence. “Maybe they’re unconscious or…” His voice trailed off. They could be seriously hurt. An assault like this wouldn’t end without some bloodshed.
“Do you think they’re… alive?”
“Yes,” replied Caldan with as much conviction as he could muster. “Maybe just knocked out or tied up. There wouldn’t be any reason to have them here otherwise.”
“Oh. Of course.”
“Listen, did you manage to hide anything on you, a crafting or anything like that?”
“No,” she replied hesitantly. “I didn’t think to hide anything. And what I have…had…wouldn’t be of any use.” She began to weep.
“Shhh. Don’t worry. If they were going to hurt us they would’ve done so already. They imprisoned us because we’re useful in some way. I can’t think why, but maybe they were only after masters.”
Senira continued to cry, muffling her sobs. Caldan closed his eyes. She isn’t going to be much help. It’s up to me to protect her.
What could he do? No craftings or the means to make anything. A quick search of his cell
revealed nothing useful. Not that he was expecting anything, but even a nail or leftover spoon would be better than nothing. He shook his head at the idea of overcoming a guard with a spoon. The pain in his leg had stopped, and he assumed that was a good sign. Blood had stained the bandage red, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t bleeding anymore.
At that moment, a light appeared at the top of the stairs, sending long shadows down to the cells. Three more men appeared, dragging an unconscious figure, a man, head lolling.
“Hey!” yelled Caldan. “What are you doing? His injuries need to be looked at.”
“Shut up or I’ll come in and shut you up myself.”
“Why are we here? We haven’t done anything.”
“I told you to shut up!” The voice changed tone, murmuring to another person. Footsteps approached, followed by a tinkling. A pale-skinned woman, tall and slender with long dark hair falling to her waist came into Caldan’s limited view. Woven into her hair were tiny silver bells of different sizes, the biggest no larger than a thumbnail. On her hand she wore a number of crafted rings. She tilted her head and gazed at Caldan. Black eyes pierced his.
“Mistress,” a voice behind the woman called. “This one’s locked up. We should get back now.”
“In a moment,” she replied, warm voice carrying in the quiet of the cells.
“Mistress, please…” Caldan could hear pleading in the man’s voice. “The others will be…”
She turned to glare at the man, who trailed off into silence. For a few moments, she stared at him before turning back to Caldan.
“I thought we were only bringing the apprentices and journeymen down here,” she questioned loudly.
Caldan frowned at her, puzzled.
“We are, Mistress. All the masters are accounted for, the ones we managed to capture and those still on the run.”
She tapped a cheek with one hand and pursed her lips. “What’s your name?” she asked Caldan.
He clamped his lips together firmly and shook his head.
“Mute, are you? Or just stupid?” She waited a moment for his response then breathed out a long sigh. “Your well is remarkable, so smooth and stable.”
A Crucible of Souls (Book One of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (Volume 1) Paperback Page 44