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

  “Sviska, when you were young, I watched you, as all family does. You grew, and you were taken and trained in combat and then used as a pawn to do the Order's bidding. Your training was exemplary, and though you were weary on many nights, my presence was there and I assured your survival."

  Sviska said nothing. Perplexed by what Brethor was saying, he was strangely comforted by his words. He began to calm and breathe easier.

  "The Order wished to use you against me, perhaps as a show of their own power or, as I fear of late, to distract me to other things. But I knew what you sought during the nights alone that you spent in the wilderness. It is what I have sought. A place to be in this world."

  He walked toward the windows and looked out, as if looking for someone. He took another sip of wine and motioned to the others in the room.

  "Your lack of friends, of love, and of family in your life. My city was failing as you walked through the gates, but still I showed you the very best I could in hopes you would begin to love this place and these people as I have for many years."

  "But I came here to—" Sviska began, but was cut off.

  "Let me finish," said Brethor. "The Order has tried many times to assail me. With wild beasts, with assassins, and now with my own blood. By striking me at the heart with the deaths of my people by the hand of my own, the Order sought to drive me mad. There are worse things than an assassin's blade."

  Sviska noticed in Brethor's eyes a welling of tears and sadness.

  "But all have failed, and though I know what they seek is not just the death of the people and myself, I look around this room and I have hope."

  "I am your blood?" asked Sviska.

  "Yes."

  He noticed that the old gypsy now made her way toward him with a large book in hand.

  "Sviska, I am the Gypsy Mother. I keep all records of lineage of those in Elinathrond and keep well the memories of many families. I have long awaited your arrival, as has Brethor," she said, and opened the book. "These markings represent the histories of the clans of the original peoples of the mountain, particularly the chief races.”

  As Sviska looked, he noticed the many listings that branched out from each name in succession, consisting of elves, dwarves, mer-people, Rusis, and a final name, the Dwemhar. For each race, the names were marked off, leaving only one of each. Berie for the elves, Slats, the dwarves, and Garoa for the Rusis.

  But then the simplicity stopped. The mer-people were crossed out, and an arrow pointed to the Dwemhar, which listed Brethor, and then down many crossed-out names, a single remaining name, Resua. The name the man from the tavern, the Priest of Kel, had called him when they first met.

  "I am . . . Resua?" he asked.

  The gypsy closed her eyes and bowed. Sviska turned and looked to Brethor.

  "I am like a great, great, well, many more greats than we have time for, grandfather to you. You are of the Dwemhar, my people. That glowing mark on your hand as you entered the Foundry is not just some trivial sign of an enchanted winemaker. You are a chosen descendant, as you all are," he explained, looking at the others.

  "But I have no power," Sviska said.

  "You had no power, but you do now. Though the changing into a beast like myself is not one of those powers, I took my oath to assure you made it to this point. You will find you are akin to magic of the mind itself, something that you do not know of yet, and there is not time to explain to you."

  The Gypsy Mother made her way to Sviska, embracing him in a trembling grasp.

  "I told you before; you were blessed by the gypsies. I made it so that your eyes could see the demon even though others could not yet see it. I unlocked the dormant powers of the Dwemhar. Had they been opened before your time here, the curse would have taken you. You are blessed that as a young child you were protected from your race’s influence by some means that not even I know as of now. I believe you will find the gifts of your people most useful in times to come, I fear."

  Berie stomped toward Brethor. "Time? What time?" she questioned, completely ignoring the Gypsy Mother and Sviska. "The wine is gone, the curse is upon us, and the city is defenseless."

  She slammed her fist on the table of wines, knocking the bottles to the floor, shattering glass and wine everywhere. "My father did not wish this end for us!"

  "You are right," said Brethor. "He did not. And it is not an end, but a new beginning. The Order has carefully worked toward one goal. The source of all magic is contained within this city. They wished to remove me and all who knew of it, and would you look—I am still here. The temple was assailed by Ustavis, but to no avail. They have but one further choice."

  "How does Kasis have magic?" asked Sviska.

  Brethor turned from Berie and looked to him. "The Order has always had magic in a form, but none dared used it. Something has changed. Perhaps they are no longer worried to have to avoid the curse. I do not know. But dark magic awakened in any form within the land is not a good thing for us."

  He turned his gaze back to Berie and then to Slats, as well as Garoa. "I believe they are becoming desperate. The Order is losing control somehow. They will come here. All of them. With the city's magic is all but depleted, they will burn it to the ground. I knew that this may have been the way things played out, and so hoped for the wine to help the people as they went out from the city, but with the Order's possible loss of control, maybe the curse is no longer in play?"

  "Kasis said the Order could not wait, I agree," said Sviska. "An attack is overt for the Order, but given the circumstance of their wishes, it could be right.”

  Brethor smiled. "Well, if it is to pass, it will. There is but one pawn left in this old lord's arsenal, and it is about to change the game."

  "A bit chipper there, aren't you?" asked Garoa. "The death of everyone looming about and you smile at the thought. I should go. There is no reason for me to be here."

  Garoa stood and began out, but Cusis raised a small staff and tapped him on the shoulder. "You are here for a reason. Sit down."

  He went to continue on, but Cusis tapped him again.

  "Now."

  Garoa went back to his seat, shrugging his shoulders. He leaned back in his chair, flicking mud off his boot and onto the floor. He furled his coat, now garbed as Sviska. Slats, too, was dressed the same.

  "At least I have a new coat."

  Brethor nodded. "That coat is a gift from those who founded this place. A trivial object in the task to be set upon you all, and you are right, Garoa. I am a bit chipper, but with all that I have seen and been saddened by, and to have my plan to still come together, I cannot be sad. There is still hope!"

  He stood from his chair and lifted his chalice. "To the heirs of the five races!" he shouted. "May your lives be yet blessed! The hopes for all of us have become as the Founders sought!"

  Taking a final drink from his chalice, he threw it against the wall. It shattered, wine running down the wall like melting ice. Cusis started to clean it up.

  "Cusis, leave it for the Order! They will be making more of a mess of things anyway."

  The head servant continued on, picking up the cup and setting it on the table. "And when they get here, I shall give them a lesson on manners. I take it you would like a feast prepared?"

  "Yes, I am sure they will be hungry." He looked to the others, who had not moved from their places. "Come!"

  Garoa and Slats followed Sviska, and Berie slowly brought up the rear as they followed Brethor to the front of the Estate.

  "Do you know what he is talking about?" Garoa asked Sviska.

  "I wish I did. This plan of his makes no sense. He is making a feast!"

  "Perhaps he's losing his mind?"

  The riot outside had grown, and rocks were now being thrown through the glass windows. As Brethor opened the doors to the Estate, a vicious onslaught of curses and yells belched out from the crowd.

  "He has betrayed us!"

  "The winemaker has poisoned us!"

  "You want us all dead.
"

  Brethor raised his hand, and the roar quieted to just a rumble of disgruntled people in the far back of the crowd.

  "To your first accusation, no. The second, also no, and, well, don't drink the wine! And if I wanted you all dead, I would not be trying to do what I am, and quite frankly, you would be dead. Besides, I have a gift for you all beyond the dwarven doors that you will like, I am sure."

  The crowd was now quiet and staring, unmoving. They waited for Brethor to speak.

  "Now that I have you all more calm, I have further distressing news. The city is no longer safe. The magic that defended us has all but faded. The Order of men will move against us."

  The crowd began to become uneasy again, talking amongst themselves.

  "As of now, all previous restrictions on magic are hereby lifted. You may do whatever you deem necessary to defend yourselves."

  A person near the front of the crowd stepped forward. "What of the curse? And what of our loved ones in the asylum?"

  Another person shouted, "What of the gifts in the Dwarven Tunnels?"

  "Of those in the asylum, there is nothing that can be done. That place is sealed. But as for the curse, it has become known that the Order may be no longer able to continue its effects. It perhaps still exists, yes. But of its strength, we can hope it has faded from any lethal effect. The gift I have for you behind the locks of the mountain door is indeed a gift that I cannot describe but show you.

  “Prepare for your exodus, my people. When this city is attacked, those who wish us dead will destroy it. Have courage and look toward to the future."

  With that, he shut the door and brought down a bar to seal the doors.

  "I've never locked that door," he said, pointing at it, "in all my time at this Estate. Well, it should assure no one tries to bother dear Cusis with any pent-up anger while we are gone."

  He signaled for them to follow him again, and they began down the western corridor toward his quarters.

  Sviska ran to catch up with him. "Brethor, I am sorry of my deceit. I should have told you sooner."

  "All is forgiven, my friend. I know of your stand in the woods against Kasis. Although Berie saw nothing but your association and was angry, I will not seek any further forgiveness from you. Please forgive me for not telling you what I knew before, but you understand. I had to wait until the appropriate time and to assure that no further plots were to appear. It is a careful thing, you see, deceiving the Order."

  Reaching the passage to Brethor's room, the group ascended the stairs. Across the room and toward the balcony, Brethor opened the door and held it for them as they began to the cave.

  "I've been in the Estate so long, and never have I known of this place!" said Slats.

  "You worry about that? You people in this Estate have been living good for the past years." Garoa stopped on the bridge and looked out over the mountains. "This sure beats the view from my home!"

  "Your home has no view," Berie pointed out. The elf approached Sviska. "Winemaker, I do not know which name to call you, but my anger, although present, is stayed. We must work together now and—"

  "More than you can guess. You all will need each other," interrupted Brethor.

  He opened the way into the mountain, and Sviska looked again at his hand. An anvil, a star, and the markings of the polar lights surrounding both, appeared on his hand. He looked to Garoa's hand, and the same mark was upon him.

  Looking around as they entered the room, he noticed that Berie and Slats also had the same marks. There was a thud as the stones moved back into place, sealing the door behind them.

  The furnace in the room was now ash red and no longer a roaring fire as before. Brethor took a large poker and stirred the embers. "The heart of the mountain has ceased its eternal beating."

  He threw the poker on the ground and then went to the altars. The others followed. Standing side by side, they looked around the room.

  Brethor looked up to a statue near the ceiling. "Disi, your heir is here!" The statue was of a dwarf. After his short comment, he turned and lifted the axe from the pedestal.

  "Slatnichor, come here!" Brethor shouted.

  The dwarf tucked his head down and scurried to Brethor. "Yes, Master?"

  "You are relieved of your servitude."

  "But?" he asked, his voice trembling.

  "Take this and do well not to lose it." He shoved the axe hilt at the dwarf. Slats slowly gripped the hilt, and Brethor released it. The axe head swung down and cracked the ground as it struck.

  The dwarf looked up hastily to Brethor, who shook his head. "That axe has hewed the head of many. May you hew more!"

  "I do not hew heads anymore, Master," Slats said, peering at the axe. "A bit rusty now, at the least."

  Brethor ignored him and went to Berie. Embracing her, he smiled. "The bow of your ancestors will sing truest for you always."

  He nodded at Sviska, who held the dagger of Meredaas by the hilt. "Sishan has already served you well. Assure you also serve it.”

  At last, he came to Garoa.

  "Well, so you thought I didn't like you and just restricted all of your power for fun?"

  "You could say so." Garoa tapped his foot and brought his hands to his hips. "It just seemed that every attempt I made to join the Priory of Kel was stopped for whatever reason."

  "Blame the other three Founders. They didn't like your people. But they also saw the need of your power in the future. You are not held back by the need of a staff."

  Garoa brought his hand up, summoned a flame on his palm, and then closed his hand. "No."

  "And as it is"—Brethor turned to another pedestal and picked up a set of gauntlets—"You will find these assist you in your casting of spells. A Rusis of regard came many years ago to my gates with a wound and was brought into the Estate. In the final hours, his wound proved to be a mortal one, but he left these here. He went by the name of Rungar."

  "Rungar?" asked Garoa.

  Brethor nodded. "Imparted in those gauntlets is the knowledge of the Rusis Elders of the time of the grand city of Rinagres and of the time of the elf Strife. If you know of Rungar, you know that these gauntlets will not impart their power for just anyone, and that in time, you may gain more advanced spells, but at a minimum, they will make your casting stronger and your stamina greater."

  Garoa slipped the gauntlets on and balled his fingers.

  "Thank you."

  "I only held them for a time, as wished. Now, enough of this talking. We have a task to complete."

  "Wait!" Sviska said.

  Brethor turned and glared at him, his foot tapping impatiently. "Yes?"

  "The black gauntlets that were here before, where are they?"

  The four of them stared at the lord, who pointed and shook his head with a wry smile. "Observation, an important trait. I knew I liked you!"

  He said nothing else and turned, leading them out of the Foundry at a rapid pace. Back through his room, down the corridor, and to the foyer, Brethor unlocked the doors.

  Swinging them wide open, they noticed immediately that the rioters had well cleared and the city seemed very active

  They spotted Captain Runa running through the entry of the courtyard, but Brethor took no mind as he hurried toward the pathway up the mountain at the opposite side of the courtyard.

  "Lord Brethor!" he shouted.

  Brethor abruptly stopped and turned. "I find myself quite busy. What do you need?"

  The captain seemed suddenly taken aback. "Well, the city is in uproar! People are everywhere hurrying to pack, and some have demanded the opening of the gates. It is all my men can do to deny them!"

  "Details," said Brethor. "Have the people assemble near the Dwarven Tunnels. It is time for me to give them their promised gift. Set guards to all walls and spotters in the woods. Anyone willing to fight to defend the city, use them. Oh, and open the weapon vault of the old city district."

  "The vault?" he said, an uncertain tone in his voice.

  "Yes
, put down your glowing staves and pick up some real weapons. You will draw blood this night. There is no time for further secrets, and you know of what I speak! Go! Unless, of course, you would rather run, tail tucked, like a snow bunny into the woods."

  The captain took a step back, nearly stumbling. "It will be done, Lord."

  "Good. And don't forget you do owe me a deed for the Ustavis incident. I may need you."

  The captain bowed and began back into the city.

  The group headed up the snowy path. Slats fell behind, the axe weighing him down. Sviska went back to assist him.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Yes, my sir. Just a bit heavy, this axe you know." He was out of breath, and his lips pursed as he struggled to breathe. "Not quite used to one of such size!"

  Sviska kept a firm hand on his back as Slats ran to keep up with the rest of the group. They passed the two large torch basins and trudged up the snow-covered steps. They were now at the summit, the ruined structure around them towering upward.

  "This was the citadel of the dwarves," Brethor said.

  He removed the Annuals of Eclipses from his robes and opened it. He then held it above him and looked into the sky. "Wura, it is time for the test and the way to be opened. May you deem them worthy!"

  From high in the sky, the green and blue polar lights danced, circling atop the mountain. The book began to glow a grayish hue, hovering above Brethor's hands.

  Berie, looking up at the polar lights, closed her eyes as the colors swirled about her. They paused before in turn, surrounding each of them and then dissipating through the summit of the mountain. A ghastly strong wind overtook the mountaintop.

  The gust tore at them from all sides. The snow swirled as trees, cowering from the normal icy winds in crevices, ripped away from their resting places and into the air. The mountain quaked.

  "I take it we are not worthy?" asked Garoa.

  Slats and Sviska both had dropped to their knees, and now even Berie's eyes jerked from side to side, looking around and then to Brethor, who stood with his feet planted, a small smile on his face.

  From the center of the summit, the snow was melting and a large stone block was emerging, a radiant gold against a palate of white.