A Crucible
of
Souls
Book One of the
Sorcery Ascendant Sequence
Mitchell Hogan
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A CRUCIBLE OF SOULS
All rights reserved.
Published by Mitchell Hogan
Copyright © 2013 by Mitchell Hogan
First Printing, 2013
Acknowledgements
With love and thanks to my wife, Angela. Without her unfailing understanding and support this book wouldn’t have been possible.
More love and thanks to my mother, Robyn, who introduced me to the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings when I was eleven.
Much appreciation to those kind enough to provide feedback and advice on my early drafts, especially Barney Chambers and Valerie Combes.
There are a few people to who have my humble heartfelt gratitude, Stephanie Smith, Deonie Fiford and Kate Forsyth. Their words of encouragement, though they may not realise it, kept my dream alive for so many years.
Special thanks to the mentors and editors who helped sharpen both my story and my writing, Keith Stevenson, John Jarrold and Derek Prior. Their positive advice and support meant a great deal to me.
Prologue
A trickle of blood oozed down the cold steel of the sword. Drops splattered onto dry leaves, staining them red. Aldrich pressed his back against the old tree’s gnarled trunk, rough bark scratching his skin through his thin shirt. Thirty yards away lay a still-warm corpse, one arm stretched, reaching for a knife discarded in the leaves.
Eyes closed and barely breathing, he waited, sword in hand, listening. Silence reigned.
A faint breeze blew over him, carrying the scent of apple blossoms from a nearby orchard and the cool dampness of an approaching storm. Leaves rustled in the wind.
He ducked his head around the tree trunk, saw no one else had followed the man he’d killed and breathed a sigh of relief. Either stupid or over-confident, and he didn’t think they were stupid. He hurried off to where he had left his wife and child.
“We don’t have much time before they catch up,” Iselle said, voice calm despite the import of her words, “and my creature will not last much longer, especially if it starts to rain.”
A lock of graying hair slipped out from under her hood. Their daughter, Nerissa, a dark-haired girl of six years, clung to her arm, body slumped in weariness. Dust from the road covered their boots and their leggings, attesting to long days on foot.
Sighing wearily, Iselle peered down the road towards a stone bridge, which crossed a narrow river; the light had faded during their short break.
“Patience,” Aldrich said, taking a sniff of the wind coming from behind them, reading in it many things and knowing much would be resolved before the storm hit. Their day had started badly and gone to worse with a speed that had shocked him. It was my decision to spend a night at an inn out of the cold which has led to this, thought Aldrich with sorrow.
“There’s a storm coming, and yes, they are close.”
Releasing Nerissa, Iselle cupped her hands and whispered a few words that were lost in the rustle of wind through the trees. Moments later, from behind them a small dark shape emerged, flying erratically. Landing in her cupped palms, where its paper wings protruded over the sides, the dark green dragonfly looked creased and worn, as if it had flown long and hard without rest. Covering the paper carapace of the insect were tiny black runes scribed on the surface with ink.
Aldrich beckoned Iselle and Nerissa to follow him, and they obeyed, their limbs already stiffening in the cool night air after an exhausting day on foot. One of many since their horses had been stolen.
As they reached the center of the bridge, Aldrich made a decision. Placing one hand on the hilt of his sword he loosened it in the scabbard.
“Keep going into the forest, I’ll join you later.”
“What do you plan to do?” Iselle asked with dread in her voice.
A knot tightened in his gut. He feared she knew already and dreaded the necessity of what he planned. His training to become a blade master had been harsh and thorough, and he had never doubted his abilities, but he had often wondered how he would fare if facing impossible odds.
“They’re too close. We cannot allow them to catch us and take Nerissa. You know I have to do this; it’s more important than they know. Try to make it through the forest. You should be able to avoid any search with your crafting.”
“No! We should stay together. My crafting can keep them at a distance, and we can lose them in the forest.”
Aldrich shook his head. He knew it was time to make a stand. Delaying their pursuers would give them much needed relief, and at least he would be doing something other than running. For a while at least, the hunted would strike back.
He pushed Iselle and Nerissa ahead of him. “Go now! I can hold them for a time, perhaps kill them all, but you need to hurry.”
Tears welled in Iselle’s eyes. She wiped at them with the back of her hand.
“Don’t you…” she croaked, breath coming in harsh gasps. “Come back to me… to us.”
“I will. I promise.” He squeezed them both in a hug and kissed them on the cheek.
Iselle took Nerissa by the hand. “May the ancestors be with you,” she said fearfully.
“And you. Go quickly now.”
He watched them cross the bridge, moving as fast as their exhausted bodies would allow, hastening along the road toward the forest. As they reached the trees, Iselle paused and glanced back. She reached inside her pocket, drew out her dragonfly and threw it into the air. Its paper wings unfolded and it fluttered, hovering above her. She waved her hand and it flew back to the bridge, landing in a tree close to the river. Its eyes glowed as it positioned itself to observe.
Removing his cloak, Aldrich threw it behind him where it would not get in the way. Drawing his sword, he sat cross-legged in the middle of the bridge, facing back the way they had come, preparing for the approaching encounter. Pommel and guard worn and chipped but blade still strong, the sword had seen him through many a confrontation and not a few battles. Etched along the first third of the blade from the guard were crafted runes of potency. Without these the blade was merely exceptional; with the runes it was worth a small fortune. Closing his eyes, he opened himself to the night, calming himself and clearing his mind.
Time passed. The moon broke through the clouds. Back along the dirt road a shadow moved, then another.
Aldrich opened his eyes. Forty yards away stood a strongly built man dressed in dark gray, cloak and hair rippling in the wind. To the blade master he looked solid, denser than normal, as if in another dimension or out of phase with this one.
“Greetings,” called the stranger. “I see the two ladies have gone ahead without you. Never mind. I’m sure they have not gone far. We can catch up with them later.”
A shadow detached itself from a tree on one side of the road, solidifying into another denser man, moving in behind the first.
I guess there to be at most five, Aldrich thought. Please let that be the case or I may fail in my obligation.
A woman joined the two men before the bridge. More shapes left the concealment of the trees. In front of him, the group grew until he counted there to be thirteen, spreading themselves in a half circle around their leader.
Taking a deep breath,
Aldrich achieved a state of calmness within himself, and the nightscape became clearer, its details sharper. For all his life he had followed the Way of the Sword, and the one thing he dreaded was to die having failed. His masters always said if you were resolute and your spirit strong you could not fail. Correct in theory, but reality has a way of turning you on your head and making a fool of you sometimes.
You will not fail if you accept death. I do not fear death, only failure.
Adjusting his stance, he moved into an upper attitude guard. Taking another deep breath he released it through his nose, becoming one with his spirit. Bearing unmoving, he radiated purposefulness…and death.
“There is no need to fight,” called the leader. “You are but one man against all of us. You will lose. The light from the moon is hardly enough to see by — at most you may kill one or two of us, and for what? Why throw your life away for nothing?”
As he spoke, his followers shifted, drawing their own swords, ready to cross the bridge at his signal.
He does not know, Aldrich crowed inwardly. Too little light. They should have guessed by now from the chase we led them. For this mistake, they’ll pay dearly.
“Sorry, but I cannot let you pass. I am sworn to guard them with my life, and if I die here then so be it. A bunch of ruffians like you should not be a problem. Perhaps it is you who should turn tail and flee.”
Aldrich hoped to deceive them further. If he could create a loss of balance and throw them into confusion when he attacked, all the better.
Their leader smiled, baring his teeth. “Kill him,” he said to the darkness, and his followers flowed around him onto the stone bridge.
Knowing there would not be much time, Iselle tried to hurry Nerissa, but after many long days of pursuit her daughter no longer had much strength. The forest path hindered their steps with its roughness. Roots snaking from nearby trees seemed to spring up in the dim light to tangle their feet. Lifting the child, Iselle cradled Nerissa in her arms, moving further into the trees. She knew, as a blade master, Aldrich was without peer and prayed he would survive to join them soon.
Aldrich leaped across the intervening space between him and his attackers in a heartbeat, faster than any normal man could move. His shape blurred in the night, blade shifting fluidly. He beat through the guard of a stocky man and sliced open his throat, moving onto the next before they had time to react.
The leader cursed in a harsh tongue Aldrich couldn’t understand. He gathered they realized what they faced now.
“’Ware the human,” the leader shouted to his brethren, “he’s Touched!”
Spinning first to the left then right, Aldrich cut one arm to the bone, then drove his sword through another’s guard into his chest, yanking it out before three more closed in. As he’d planned, the width of the bridge restricted his opponents to coming at him no more than three at a time.
Stupid. No time for thrusts. Keep cutting. Blade moving in a blur, he held the three men off for a moment, searching for weaknesses in their style. There.
Aldrich stepped in to meet the closest man. Sparks flew as swords clashed. His opponent stepped back, as if to withdraw, then sprang in with his sword. Aldrich twisted, avoiding the blade. He expanded forward, flowing like water, and his attack sliced the side of his opponent. A heartbeat later, two more were down from wounds, dead or dying. Aldrich cut left and right without giving the denser men a chance to take the initiative, trying to drive them together where they hampered each other. A sharp pain and spurt of warm wetness warned him of a cut along the ribs.
They are good, but my spirit is stronger. Don’t give them room to move.
He danced forward boldly, fluidly, adopting the lower left attitude as the next denser man attacked. Blade swooping up to clash against another sword, he parried to the right. His return stroke from above buried itself deep between a shoulder and the neck, his opponent dropping lifeless onto the bridge.
A blade sliced deeply into Aldrich’s thigh. He gasped at the burning pain. Pressing closer, the denser men rushed in to attack. Despite his greater strength and speed, he clutched at several wounds as their blades passed through his guard. He struck out vainly before his whirling sword cut across a face. Abandoning defense, Aldrich threw himself at them. Moving in all-out attack, he split an arm open, wrist to elbow, then drove his sword tip through the jaw of another into his brain.
A thrust from the side plunged deep into his stomach. Weakness rose in him.
Aldrich slumped to one knee, sword dropping from fingers numb with pain and blood loss. Every breath hurt. He felt like red hot pokers were inside his wounds. He placed a hand on the ground to steady himself, then looked into the eyes of their approaching leader.
Forgive me, I have failed you both.
Steel flashed, and his body collapsed onto the cold stones, head hacked from his shoulders.
Prodding the corpse with his toe, Savine surveyed the carnage that had been wrought in the time it had taken them to overwhelm the lone man. Eight of his brethren dead or wounded.
“Touched by the ancestors. What ill luck.”
He would have to explain this mess to his unforgiving masters. The man had obviously been a blade master or he could not have taken three or four of them, touched or not. His masters would not be pleased at such a loss, the cost of which would be extracted from them one way or another. His remaining followers gathered around him, standing next to the corpse steaming in the cool night air. He reached for the sword, but his hand stopped short and he hissed, feeling the virulence of the force in it and recognizing some of the runes. It seemed some of these primitives remembered crafting, as they called it here, however imperfectly. He slid his boot under the blade and lifted his foot. The sword sailed over the side of the bridge into the water with a splash, sinking without a trace.
“Come. We still have to catch the woman and child.”
Two denser men loped away while the rest helped the wounded to bandage their cuts, and threw the dead and dying over the side into the cold water below.
Sensing the life force leave the man it had been told to observe, the paper dragonfly’s rudimentary intelligence determined it was time to report back to its creator. It bunched its folded paper legs and launched itself into the air. Circling the bridge once to gather information through its crafted eyes, it took in the crimson auras of the denser men then flew towards the forest, passing the two sent on ahead.
Breath coming in harsh gasps, Iselle pushed Nerissa ahead of her as fast as she dared. There was barely any moonlight to see by, and a twisted ankle at this stage could mean their downfall. They entered a clearing, where a fire pit ringed with river stones lay off to one side. She paused for a moment to work out where the path started again on the other side and to catch her breath.
Her dragonfly veered around the last few tree trunks and landed on Iselle’s shoulder. She sketched a shape in the air that glowed for an instant then vanished, triggering her creation to report its knowledge of what had happened on the bridge.
Tears flowed as the knowledge hit home. She shuddered and swallowed, suppressing sobs, wrapped in grief. After a few moments, she drew herself up.
“Nerissa, come closer, we have a problem. Stay close to me for the time being. I’ll tell you what you need to do soon.”
“Yes, Mama,” the girl replied, voice quivering with fear.
As they turned to run again, Iselle stopped. Two dark figures stood between them and the path on the other side of the clearing. They did not move, clearly satisfied she would not try to escape. She knew that to flee blindly into the forest now would be no use, and their pursuers would capture them with ease. Acting calmer than she felt, Iselle removed her cloak and wrapped it around Nerissa, warding her from the night’s chill.
She’s too young to be caught up in this, Iselle thought.
She knelt and looked into her daughter’s eyes, stroking her cheek with a thumb, feather light.
“When the bad men come I will distract
them. Then you have to run as fast as you can. Can you do that for me, Nerissa?”
She removed two rings from her fingers, one silver covered in knotwork patterns incorporating two stylized lions, the other made of bone carved with runes. Threading both onto a thin chain from around her neck, she placed the chain over Nerissa’s head and tucked the rings under her clothes.
“Hold onto these. Whatever happens, you must keep them safe.”
“Yes, Mama. I can run,” Nerissa replied with a grim smile. “I’m ever so tired, though.”
“Don’t worry, little one, when the time comes I’m sure you will be able to run like the wind. Stay close, and remember what I’ve told you. Run as fast as you can when you think they’re not looking. Follow the path and do not stop, even if I am not with you. I’ll catch up with you later.”
She reached into her shirt and removed a sheet of paper. Jet black, its surface was covered in patterns of tiny silver runes that ran along straight lines. Every master sorcerer who passed the tests knew this crafting. It was one of the last tests that had to be passed, the making of a finality. With practiced deftness, Iselle began folding with nimble fingers, all the while murmuring under her breath.
More men emerged from between trees, entering the clearing, moving to surround them. She looked around frantically for an escape then stopped as a broad-shouldered man pushed between two others and took a few paces towards her. His air of confidence and the way the others looked to him marked him as their leader.
“What have we here?” he said. “Perhaps you are lost and in need of some assistance? My brethren and I would be only too glad to help.”
Iselle’s mouth went dry with fear. “No thank you,” she replied, still folding.
His use of the word brethren revealed to her far more than she wanted to believe. Her crafting would require much more energy than she had first thought, and might take too much from her once it was released.
A Crucible of Souls (Book One of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) Page 1
