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

  Children from the city were sitting huddled together with legs crossed and with wide eyes for the show before them. Sviska wondered if this was some sort of traveling fare, but then he looked at the wheels of the carriages, seeing where they had been worn down and were beginning to rot. Weeds grew underneath each of them, and deep snow hid most of the rust that had well eaten away the metal supports and latches for a horse.

  Surely these people do not live in horse carts.

  But live in them they did, it seemed. He walked around one of them and looked in. A curtain of beads and a steady cloud of smoky incense rose up into the sky. The smell was sweet and unlike any he had smelled before, as a dizziness came upon him.

  It was then he noticed her. Sitting without saying a word and wringing her hands back and forth over a table set in front of her, an older woman was staring at Sviska. He glanced around him, wondering if someone else had caught her sight, but she was staring at him and her gaze was set.

  He looked at her, and she looked down, pulling a stack of cards from her sleeves, motioning with her free hand for him to come toward her.

  He warily agreed and went toward her. Underneath a canopy that extended out from her purple cart, she sat. A small chair directly in front of her waited for him. He passed through a curtain of red beads, noticing a string with drying herbs that hung along the side of the cart.

  "Welcome, sir. Sit down, would you for me?" The old woman smiled. Her gray hair covered her shoulders. Her wrinkled hands shoveled the stack of cards before laying them out in the pattern of a circle. Then smiling, she turned two cards over in the center.

  "You are new here," she said.

  Sviska was already annoyed. Of course he was new here, and he wondered what she was doing with the cards.

  He bit his tongue at any comment that came to his mind and figured a neutral answer would serve his purpose better.

  "Yes, I am."

  "The cards tell me you are of a troubled past. A lonely past." She hovered her hands over the center cards. There was an image of a single flame and a shadow. "Many troubles."

  Sviska had not seen anything like this before. Was this some sort of tavern trick, a way to swindle his money?

  "Dear lady, if it is money you want, I have—"

  She placed two fingers over his lips.

  "I have not asked you for anything, except to come to me. You are not what you say you are. The stars have told me of you and your purpose."

  "Is this magic?" he asked sternly, and sat himself back from the table.

  The woman shook her head no. "This is not magic but a gift to those of my kind. I am attuned to the spirits of nature and of the sky. But I cannot roam. We, the gypsy, can no longer roam as we once did. It is not safe anymore. Much like you, we have found our safety with Brethor."

  "I am the new winemaker, nothing more."

  The woman smiled and began flipping the cards that formed the circle. "You were not close to your mother and father. You felt alone since you were a young boy."

  A fish swimming in a pond away from a school of other fish, he could make out on one of the cards. She moved her hands over to the last card she had set down, seeming to skip over the other ones. She flipped it and then immediately picked it up. She looked at him and then looked at the card.

  "Doom, doom to what is our life is near." She looked down and then gasped, closing her eyes. She gripped her chest. Another woman nearby, much younger than her, ran over.

  "Mother?" she asked.

  The old woman reached out and touched the other woman, who Sviska presumed was her daughter from her greeting.

  Her eyes struggled to open and then slowly she looked back to the table of cards.

  "I believe we are done here, sir!" the young woman yelled to Sviska, her face red. The old woman pushed away her daughter and reached for the card again.

  "It is not you, sir. Here, I want you to keep this. I believe you will find meaning in it," she whispered, placing the card into his hand. She was calmer now. He tucked it away in his tunic and stood.

  "Thank you for your time," he said.

  The old woman nodded and smiled, but then grimaced as if in great pain. The daughter looked down to her mother and then sent a glare of disdain back to Sviska. He backed slowly from the wagons and headed further into town.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the card. Flipping it over, he found it was blank. No colors, writings, or any image at all. He began to drop it on the ground and leave it but, instead, did not. He shook his head and placed it back into his pocket. The old woman wanted him to keep it, and there was no harm to holding on to it.

  It was peculiar to him that gypsies would be in the city. He had heard of them from books but had never seen one. It was common knowledge that the gypsies were destroyed when magic was no more. But alive they were, here in this mountain city. What else was hidden here from the thralls of the rest of the world?

  He walked toward the northernmost street that ran along the side of the mountain, making his way through the stalls, looking at the wares of jewelry, clothing, many herbs, and incenses. More than once, he had to shake off with a polite smile the many offerings made to him as he went on.

  There were robes displayed in nice stacks next to carved statues and figures. As he went, he found it very strange that there were no weapons, for sale or otherwise. No swords, knives, or bows. No guards watching over the stalls or patrolling about to advert the sneaky would-be pickpocket. Even the guards at the gates held only wooden staves. How could such a place be free of the necessary items of civil society? Even if this city had no crime, what of outside forces?

  As he went about, he noticed many different types of people. Some were short, much like Slats. Their faces were colored dusty silver, and they did not seem to speak a language he understood.

  Others wore feathers all over their body and seemed to be chanting to themselves as others around them beat small drums. Tall people, at least three times his height, bellowed about, looking down at him as he passed, with faces as white as the snow of the mountains. They scanned him with a particular curiosity.

  He came to a shop that sold what appeared to be glowing plants. He paused and watched as a woman took two of the plants and placed them in a stone bowl. She sprinkled in some tiny mushrooms and began to beat the two substances with a rock. Soon, they became a liquid that she poured carefully into a glass bottle, before sealing it with a cork. The green glow of the fluid was unlike anything he had ever seen, and shaking it, she tagged it with a ribbon and parchment, which she inscribed with ruins that he had not seen before. Due in part to the strangeness and otherwise odd fact of what he saw, he wondered if there was anything normal in the city.

  Where is the tavern?

  He figured that, at least, would be a place of familiarity. Besides, there were only so many ways to serve an ale. The smell of roasted meat suddenly hit his nose, and his stomach churned. At last, a sense of normalcy in a desert of oddities.

  He followed an alley and began to hear the boisterous sound of singing mixed with heartening shouts. Peering over crowded shoulders, he saw the comforting site of a warm tavern nestled in the corner of buildings.

  The rhythmic tones of flutes whistling and drums beating in rhythm greeted him. Fresh meat sizzling as it roasted over an open fire basin at the entrance stirred his stomach that grumbled from the rather unsatisfying breakfast from earlier.

  He began forward but stumbled over an unseen boot protruding from a table. Bumping into another patron, he cringed as a sharp stab pierced his back. The pain seared into him, and wincing as his back trembled, he fell forward, knocking over a table. The feelings of normalcy and warmth fled his mind as his hand reached for the spot where he ached.

  A weight seemed to release from his back, and the pain ceased. Rolling over, he saw what looked like a large lizard with many jagged teeth, clawing the tavern floor. Splintered wood in its claws filled the air as it jumped, growling and snapping at Sviska�
�s face. It climbed on his chest; its claws scratched deep in his shirt.

  He swatted at the beast, and from its back appeared large, scaly wings as it recoiled and took off, flapping the air.

  The music stopped, and now everyone around him was staring. He was not looking at them to notice. The only thing in his concentration was this creature flying toward him, silver claws gleaming and open. He grasped a nearby stool and swatted the beast. With a crack, the creature flew into a nearby pillar. A smear of red blood trailed the creature as its lifeless form slid to the ground.

  "His first day out and now he is dead!" a voice shouted.

  The man he had bumped into was in his face, leaning over him. "You startled him! He was scared! And now he is . . ." the man stuttered. "He is dead!"

  The man's face was red, his eyes curved and set on Sviska. He and the others in the tavern were now encircling Sviska.

  "He's not one of us," someone said.

  "Then this won’t hurt me as bad."

  The man, who before had nothing but empty hands, was now holding a glowing red orb that hovered above his right hand. It was like living fire, but it did not burn him. He brought his hand up, and it began to glow brighter when a rush of the white tunic guards came flowing in, shouting, their wooden sticks now glowing brightly at the tip with a white glow.

  The man brought his hand down, and the flame released toward Sviska. He saw only bright light and then nothing.

  Chapter 7 Renovations

  Sviska was on his back. He tried to open his eyes but could not.

  "Perhaps a little more warning was needed," a faint voice said.

  Sviska could not see, at least not at first. He struggled to open his eyes. He could now see a sliver of light.

  "Those little ones are loyal to their masters, not so much like their bigger cousins. They are the last of their kind and are rare indeed. It was only protecting his master and would have stopped if you would have just been calm yourself and patted it on the head."

  That voice again, he knew it. It was familiar. At last, his memory came to. It was Brethor.

  His vision cleared, and he was able to see he was still in the tavern. It was night now, and all the patrons seemed to be gone. The white guards stood in a circle around him.

  Brethor smiled and pulled him up to his feet. "Are you well?" he asked. "Dragons are quite shocking to see, I'm sure. But I forgot it would be your first time seeing many things."

  He stared down at the ground, noticing a burned spot. That man had nearly roasted him.

  "Dragons?" Sviska asked, looking back up and still feeling dizzy. He felt himself falling and then felt arms around him just before he hit the ground.

  "Let’s get him to the Estate."

  His mind was fuzzy. Carried up the snowy path, his hand dragged the ground, and though he was trying to pull it up, it was useless. He gazed up with his eyes and saw Brethor, but Brethor was not looking at him. He saw the door of the Estate pass by him and heard the trudging sounds of boots as they went to his quarters. With a toss, he landed on his bed.

  "Let him sleep it off," he heard as his mind faded to sleep.

  In what felt like only a few moments, he awoke again to a singing sound. He opened his eyes to see Slats sitting on the floor. Humming a tune to himself, the servant was engrossed in a book and had not noticed he was awake.

  "What happened?" he asked, rubbing his head. His vision was blurry, and his head pounded like the drums from the tavern the night before.

  "It seems that you had a run-in with a dragon. Well, a little dragon, but a dragon still." He slammed the book shut and stood up, stretching his arms above his head.

  Sviska felt he had hit his head much harder than was evident. "I understand this is a strange place, but do you expect me to believe you when you say it was a dragon?"

  "Well, if it wasn't a dragon, it must have been a flying dog! Turmin, you are a strange man!" Slats laughed at himself. "Brethor says your confusion to our way of life is because you are not from here. It makes sense to me. Well, it's time for breakfast, somewhat later than normal, but Brethor wished another audience with you as soon as you were awake. I will tell him you are coming."

  The little man scampered out, humming as he did.

  Sviska sat up. The Order must know of this place but had not ever mentioned it. Dragons had long been extinct, but how else could he explain it? Did a small winged snake attack him? He had never seen such an animal nor a man hold fire, not to mention summon it from air. He wondered too of the glowing staves of the white tunic guards. He was perplexed and amazed but yet fearful now. He wondered where he was and what else he was to learn.

  Shaking his head before testing his feet on the floor, he felt like he did after a heavy night of drinking after some drunken state of remorse between tasks from the Order. He felt nauseous but did not know if it was what happened to him before or hunger. He began toward the dining room.

  Out the windows of the Estate, the snow was coming down heavily. The sunlight, shrouded by the waves of white winds heavy with snow, was no more than a faint glow. As he made his way into the dining room, Brethor immediately stood.

  "Turmin!" He smiled, his arm open for an embrace. "When I said explore the city, I was hoping you wouldn't find the need to get in a fight with a dragon! However, indeed, you are a stranger to this place. I do not expect one of the southern realms or much less, the rest of the lands, to understand what it is I rule here. Please forgive me."

  Brethor was holding a large silver chalice and drank a red wine of sort as he paced back and forth along the table.

  Sviska caught himself before his normal words. He wished to tell of the folly of magic and its illegality within the rest of the realm, but out of respect, or perhaps fear, he chose to remain quiet.

  "I tell you now because you need to know. It was some time ago," Brethor began, "many hundred years ago, when it all started. The land was populous with people and creatures of all sorts. Dwarves, fairies, magic, and even dragons were a normal everyday part of life. No more than the tavern keeper as a server of drinks to today's world, than was a healer a witch who used the powers of the earth to calm the suffering."

  He stood beside Sviska now, the smell of his wine pungent and thick on his breath as he pointed out toward the windows at the far end of the dining room.

  "This way," he said.

  He led Sviska to the windows. Gazing out, he saw tiny lights dotted over snow-covered bushes. Balls of radiant light flew over the ground.

  "Fairies, like tiny friends, buzzing about, singing joyous music," Brethor told him. "To us, like a barn cat or a simple pet dog. They do not care to be handled, though. Their bodies are sensitive to all but the purest of life forces."

  "I know of magic and of the wars. The peoples of magic used their powers against men," Sviska said. "It is why magic was outlawed."

  Brethor laughed. "But I doubt you know what else went on. To hear but one side of a story that spans the lands of many and believe it alone is folly. What isn't common knowledge is that the gods of the land battled also. The gods of the North and the ones of the South, the Itsu, fought within their own world but eventually the war spilled into ours. The Itsu seduced men and their overt desire for continued life, power, and immortality, and used them as pawns against the Northern gods. In trying to defeat the Itsu, the Northern war god, Kel, became a horrible deity—even by gods' standards.”

  Sviska nodded slowly. “I know only of the magic being the source of the issues of the world.”

  “None were safe, and it was not magic alone. Mankind and magical creatures alike were slaughtered by his plaques and diseases as he attempted to curve the growing power of the Itsu. He knew what was happening when the Order formed and began killing all cultures of enchanted races and banning all magic, taking it as far as to destroy any object they could find that was of possible power by elven, dwarven, or any other design other than men. However, even as powerful as Kel was, he could not see everything at
work. The Order sought a parlay with him. The Itsu had hidden from his sight, and to Kel, it appeared men wished for peace. In knowing that the suffering should end, he listened and went before the people.

  The Order, which had become a shadowy, swindling brotherhood who had aligned themselves with the Itsu, managed to trap the war god. The Order originally formed to stop magic and all of its use, but the Itsu had swindled them with the sacred Galhedriss Arcana, a book of power with the spells of the world of the gods. With it, the incantations to rule over all were within the grasp of men. From that point on, they have been at war with all of magic other than their own and thus have destroyed most of all magic beings, but some have found refuge"

  "That is this place," said Sviska. "Those of magic are here now."

  Brethor smiled. "Yes, as lord of the Estate, I act as a steward over them. There is magic in this city; it is hidden and safe. The powers of the city protect all of us."

  "If these Itsu are as powerful as you say they are, why have they not come after you?"

  "Wura, god-thief and the god of mischief, is a sly one and daring. While all the Itsu used their powers to subdue Kel, not an easy feat, Wura went to their temple and stole the Galhedriss Arcana. He hid it away from them, and in doing so, prevented further use of the powers within. Without their book, further Itsu mages could not be trained. The Order is all that openly remain, and very few know of that openness. Through ill fortune on their part, they were killed one by one, as they searched the lands for their lost book. I know some must remain, but they are quiet and reluctantly patient."

  He chewed on his tongue as he said that, shaking his head.

  "You have not worried that they would find the city?"

  "I have. But the Founders, ancestors of the people here, set the law in regards to weapons and magic." Brethor took a few more logs and tossed them onto the fire, each log casting up a dust of embers and ash when landing. The new wood crackled as it began to burn.