A Crucible of Souls (Book One of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (Volume 1) Paperback

by Mitchell Hogan

  “Wait,” hissed Miranda at him. “It’s dark. How can you see down there?”

  He turned to see her edging along a wall guided by her hand, taking the steps one at a time, making sure both feet stood on a step before taking another. Caldan could see her clearly, despite the apparent darkness. Strange. He always thought he had good night vision and had often been able to read well past the time when others would need a light to see by, but this was a surprise. Was his sight much better than Miranda’s?

  “Is it too dark for you?” he ventured.

  “Yes. Don’t you have a light?”

  “Of course.” He opened his sack and pulled out a candle along with his alchemical sticks. He scratched a stick across the wall, and it burst into flame. He lit the candle and blew out the stick. By the light of the candle, Miranda hastened down the remaining steps.

  Caldan gestured at the cell doors. “These are like the ones I was held in, though there’s no one here.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.” He hesitated. “But maybe we can check anyway, to be sure.”

  They went to each cell door and looked through the bars to confirm none were occupied. Empty.

  Caldan breathed a sigh of relief. “At least I know the automaton works.”

  “Wait… you mean you didn’t know it worked properly?”

  Caldan spread his hands. “It sensed the people through the door before, so I was fairly sure. I didn’t have time to test it. Seems like it’s doing fine.”

  Miranda stared at him for a few moments then turned away, shaking her head.

  “I thought it would work properly. No reason for it not to. I’m pretty good at crafting.”

  “Remind me, aren’t you an apprentice?”

  “Almost a journeyman,” sputtered Caldan. “Master Simmon said he would raise me on the basis of the wristband I crafted.”

  “Well… as long as it’s working.”

  “Of course it is. I made it.” He saw Miranda roll her eyes and decided to ignore her. “This place is empty. Let’s find another.”

  This proved to be easy, though the next room they found at the bottom of the stairs proved to be a cellar storing cheeses and jugs of cheap wine. Soon, though, they found yet another set of stairs and another block of cells.

  Despite the distance they had covered inside the Sorcerers’ Guild, they hadn’t encountered anyone. Caldan worried over this. There should have been many more people around, and it was all too easy. Where was everyone? The Indryallans should be patrolling the building or using the place as a base for their operation, whatever that entailed. And where were the sorcerers? The corridors were as silent as a tomb. Caldan shuddered at the association the thought brought to him. Perhaps the Indryallans had found what they were looking for and moved on.

  Clinking on the stone steps, his crafted metal automaton swiftly descended the stairs into the room below. This time it sensed one of the cells was occupied.

  Caldan brought a finger to his lips and gestured for Miranda to be quiet. She froze in place.

  He whispered in her ear. “There’s someone in one of the cells. Move a few steps down, so you can’t be seen from the hallway, then stay there. As far as I can tell, there isn’t a guard, but I want to make sure.”

  Miranda nodded her assent. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered back.

  Caldan gave her as reassuring a smile as he could muster then descended the steps slowly. He gripped his sword and drew a handspan of the blade out of the scabbard.

  Like in the cells where he had been kept, the air reeked of decay and urine. Taking care to be quiet, he crept forward one step at a time. His automaton stood before one of the doors, and he moved towards it.

  Metal clinked against metal. Chains scraped over the stone floor. A sob came from the cell.

  Caldan stood still, heart thumping, breathing as quietly as he could.

  Chains clinked again. Someone cursed. A voice rang out.

  “Who’s there?” a man croaked, the sound echoing loudly after the silence.

  Caldan hesitated. He thought he recognized the voice.

  “I know someone’s there.” The man gave a ragged cough. “Show yourself… or not… It doesn’t matter.”

  He stepped towards the door. Through the barred window, he saw a man on the floor, curled into a ball. His clothes were torn and bloody, face smeared with dirt. Chains led from fastenings in the wall to manacles around his wrists.

  “Master Simmon? Is that you?”

  Simmon flinched. He drew himself in tighter, as if trying to close out the world around him.

  “Go away. Get out of here.”

  Caldan fumbled in his pocket for the chalk and hastily scribed patterns on the lock. “I’ve come to rescue you. We can get you out of here. Do you know what’s happened to the other masters?” He accessed his well and the lock opened with a sharp click.

  Simmon grimaced. “I know.” His voice barely carried to Caldan. “I know what happened to them all.” He turned his head away.

  Caldan drew open the door and knelt over the master. Simmon reeked. He had soiled himself and lay in his own filth. What could have left him like this?

  “It’s all right. We can get you out of here.”

  Simmon laughed, weakly at first, then stronger as it went on. After a few moments it dissipated into a coughing fit. The master levered himself up to a sitting position, blank eyes staring through Caldan. “No,” he croaked. “I don’t want to leave.”

  Caldan frowned, confused. “I’ve opened the door. We can get you somewhere safe, away from here.”

  Simmon shook his head. “No. I can’t. I don’t deserve to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I should stay here.”

  From behind Caldan, Miranda spoke. She must have come down the steps when she heard their voices. “Master Simmon,” she said softly, all calm and reason. “What happened to the other masters? You said you knew.”

  Simmon let out a despairing groan and squeezed his eyes shut. “I…” he gasped. “I couldn’t help it. I didn’t mean to.” He screamed, “I watched.”

  Caldan and Miranda exchanged a worried glance. She stepped over to the master, who flinched at her approach, and knelt beside him.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “Did they have you bound and force you to watch?”

  Master Simmon’s breath came in ragged gasps. “Nooo,” he whimpered.

  Caldan turned his gaze away; he couldn’t bear to see what this man he respected had become.

  Miranda put a hand on Simmon’s shoulder. “But you watched…” She frowned, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

  Simmon met her gaze. His eyes were dull and devoid of reason. His tongue flicked over his lips. “They made me do it. I was here.” He punched the side of his head. “But I couldn’t stop myself. I killed them. The masters. Me but not me. I couldn’t stop myself. I had to watch.” He slumped to the floor and curled up into a ball, weeping.

  Caldan couldn’t believe what he’d heard. It didn’t make sense. How could Master Simmon kill all the people he respected, worked with, fought for as a Protector? He wiped damp hands on his pants. Part of him thought he’d heard wrong, that Simmon couldn’t have done those things. Then he remembered the body of Jazintha in the circle. Killed by someone much more skilled with the sword and able to overcome a master with potent craftings.

  Still, it didn’t make sense. Unless… he had been controlled with coercive sorcery. If that were possible. He couldn’t rule anything out.

  He looked again at Simmon lying helpless on the dirty stone floor. Broken. His mind shattered. It seemed all too possible. What better way to infiltrate the Protectors than to control one of the masters then use them to dispose of the others when you needed to?

  Caldan took Miranda by the arm and pulled her away from Simmon, who she was vainly trying to console. If Simmon had been controlled using sorcery and forced to do horrific acts, then he would take a long time to recove
r, if he ever did.

  “Listen to me,” he said harshly, then relented. Miranda’s eyes were moist and filled with fear and distress. “We have to leave. If what he says is true, then all the masters are dead.”

  “But… but why?” whispered Miranda.

  “I think I know. It’s part of what the Protectors are. Explanations will have to wait.” He ran a hand through his short hair. “We won’t find anyone left that can help us. There’s no one, unless they escaped, in which case they’ll be hiding somewhere in the city. There’s no point searching here any longer.”

  Miranda nodded her agreement and wiped her eyes. “We free Simmon and get out of here.”

  “Yes.”

  He examined the manacles around Simmon’s wrists. They had been riveted closed, no lock, as if his captors would have no reason to release him. “I should be able to get them off. The hinge on the other side is the weak point.”

  “Do it,” said Miranda.

  Caldan nodded. Crouching over the master he spoke softly to him. “Master Simmon, can you hear me? We’re going to get you out of here. Free you from the chains. Do you think you can walk?”

  Simmon moaned incoherently then stiffened. His hands covered his face. “I can’t. Leave me here. I deserve it.”

  “We can’t. You will recover. We need to get you out of here.”

  “No. You don’t understand. Leave me here. And leave me a blade.”

  Caldan swallowed and looked at Miranda. Her face screwed up in anguish. “I… can’t do that. Don’t ask me to.”

  Simmon grasped Caldan’s arm. His eyes shone with determination. “Leave me a blade and run. Get away from here. Someone must survive.” He released his grip and sunk back to the floor. “Get to the capital. The other Protectors must know.”

  For a long time Caldan stared at Simmon lying there, chained to the wall. He hastened to Miranda. “Give me your knife,” he said flatly.

  Miranda stared at him then shook her head. “No.”

  “Please. He isn’t in any condition to go anywhere, and he wants this. He’s… broken.”

  “I can’t. I won’t.” Miranda took a step back then edged towards the cell door.

  “If we leave him, he’ll die anyway. We have to do this. It’s what he wants.”

  “I don’t care!” screamed Miranda, and Caldan raised his hands to quiet her.

  “All right,” he conceded. “Go outside. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  With a final glance at Simmon, she turned and fled the cell.

  “Master Simmon, I don’t have a knife, but I have this.” He unbuckled his sword belt and laid the blade at the master’s feet.

  Simmon opened his eyes for a second then closed them. “Thank you,” he murmured.

  Caldan took a step back. For a few moments he stood there, silent.

  “I…” He broke off shaking his head. “Goodbye,” he said.

  “Caldan, you’ve given me your only weapon. I can’t let you go without a replacement.” The master struggled to his knees, hands groping for the sword Caldan had left. “It was mine, passed to me from a long line of Protectors. I used it to… to betray them. I know it wasn’t me… Still… it was. I didn’t deserve it anymore. Unworthy. In the training yard. The well. After I… Jazintha… I hid it there. They took everything else. I couldn’t let them have it.”

  “A sword?”

  “Take it. Return it to the Protectors. Warn them about what happened here. You must get word to them, and the empire.” Simmon’s eyes grew distant. He drew the blade and stared blankly at the bare steel. The belt and scabbard he tossed towards Caldan. “Go,” he said.

  With a final nod, Caldan picked up the belt and scabbard and left the master in the cell. Chained. Alone. Shattered.

  They leaned over the stone well in the training courtyard, looking into the depths of the hole. A wooden bucket tied to a length of rope sat beside a half-full barrel next to the well. Behind them was Jazintha’s corpse, and Caldan’s automaton stood near a door, waiting and watching.

  Caldan grimaced at the smooth stones in the wall of the well. They looked to offer no purchase whatsoever for climbing down.

  “Oh, wait,” he exclaimed. “Here, under us. We couldn’t see them because they were directly below us. Some of the stones have slots carved into them. Whoever built it must have realized one day someone might want an easy way down, for repairs, I would guess.”

  “The reservoir at the bottom is probably fed from the aqueducts, so it makes sense.” She looked around the courtyard, avoiding the master’s corpse which kept drawing her focus. “Can you hurry up please,” she pleaded. “I don’t like being here with that… body.” She shivered and rubbed her arms.

  “Hopefully, this won’t take long.”

  Caldan removed his boots, decided to leave his wristband and trinket on, then tugged off his shirt. He sat on the lip of the well and swung his legs over the side.

  “Wait here, and if you see anyone, yell. I will come up as fast as I can.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” She crouched behind the well, making herself as inconspicuous as possible.

  Caldan descended into the darkness. Close to the top of the well the stones and air were dry, but the further he descended the colder and damper they became. The slots in the stone made the going quick and painless, and soon he saw a glimmer of water below him. Perched above the surface, he peered into the depths.

  Under the water, one side of the wall opened up into a tunnel, which had to lead to an aqueduct, but directly below him he spotted what he was looking for. Metal gleamed in the pale light, and he made out the shape of a bare sword.

  He drew a breath, let go and plunged into the cold water. A few strokes and he had the sword hilt in his grasp, then he turned and pushed off the bottom. With the blade in one hand, the ascent was harder, but before long his head poked over the top of the well and into the sunlight.

  Caldan wiped his face with his spare hand and levered himself over the well and onto the hard-packed dirt.

  Miranda stood and stared.

  Caldan held the sword up and let out a low whistle of appreciation. The blade was a ribbon of silver in the moonlight. It was double-edged and perfectly straight, a handspan shorter than the standard swords he was used to practicing with. The hilt looked plain, scratched in places with a few spots of rust, leather grip worn, but the blade… smooth and even, as if forged and polished yesterday. Engraved along the first half of the blade were crafting runes. Some were filled with a reddish metal Caldan didn’t recognize. He traced a finger over one of the patterns, having no idea of their function. The end of the blade, which was without crafting runes, was covered in random minute patterns of banding and mottling reminiscent of flowing water.

  Miranda’s eyes traveled along the blade. “It’s crafted, isn’t it? Someone spent a long time working on that sword.”

  Caldan nodded. He wiped a drop of water from his nose and opened his well, attempting to link to the blade. He frowned. He couldn’t link to anything. There was nothing to attach to.

  “I can’t link to it. And the metal of the blade… I couldn’t begin to understand how it’s been forged. It isn’t smith-crafted, at least not in any way I know. It’s a trinket.”

  Miranda’s mouth opened in surprise, and she covered it with her hand. “That’s incredible,” she gasped. “I’ve never even heard of a sword as a trinket before.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone willingly letting this go. It must be important to the Protectors. Simmon must have been able to break free of the sorcery controlling him… enough to enable him to hide it.”

  Miranda met Caldan’s eyes. “And now we have it.”

  He held the sword out for her to hold so he could put his clothes back on. She grabbed it, and the instant he let go, the blade dropped from her hands, hitting the dirt with a thud. Miranda cursed, struggling with the sword’s hilt.

  “It’s heavy. Why didn’t you warn me?” She lifted the
blade a hand’s breadth above the ground then dropped it back down, cursing again. “You must be stronger than you look,” she muttered.

  Caldan drew on his shirt and boots and picked up the leather scabbard and belt. “Here,” he said, and grasped the sword hilt. With relief, she let go and he slid the blade into the scabbard. “Not a good fit, but it works.”

  With the blade concealed by the scabbard, the hilt looked unremarkable, battered and plain. Perhaps that was the point. Hands working swiftly, he buckled the belt around his waist and gathered up his sack.

  “Wearing a sword in the city is prohibited, remember?” said Miranda.

  “I don’t think there are many Quivers or harbor watchmen around anymore. And the Indryallans… we’ll be trying to avoid anyway. It should be safe.”

  They retraced their steps back to the garden. Sending his crafted automaton ahead, they safely crossed the space and found themselves back at the door to the outside.

  Moments later, they were heading straight for Dockside.

  In the center of the garden inside the Sorcerers’ Guild, Bells crouched on the grass. She turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes. Listening. Sensing. Feeling.

  Keys remained quiet next to her. They waited, perfectly still, the only movement stray strands of Bells’ hair tugged gently by the wind. To her right, a mouse crept across dry leaves under a tree, nose twitching as it hunted for insects and seeds.

  “There,” she said, pointing to the ground in front of another tree. The mouse froze at the movement then disappeared into some leaves in the blink of an eye.

  Bells strode over to the tree, stopping at a pile of ash mixed with fragments of charred paper. She knelt and rubbed ash between two fingers, bringing the residue to her nose and sniffing. She poked with a finger at the ragged scraps of paper.

  Keys stepped over and waited silently for her response.

  She glanced up at him. “Crude but effective.”

  He grunted sourly. “As with most of the sorcery here.”

  She nodded, tiny bells tinkling. “I recognize the flavor of the sorcery. I only had a brief taste but… The same as the young man who broke out of his cell the other day. A remarkable feat, considering.” She wiped her soiled fingers on her pants.