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

by Hogan, Mitchell

  “A pity.”

  “Although I do appreciate your kindness in such an offer. Could I ask your name, so I know who to thank?”

  A faint smile came to his lips as he responded. “I have had many names in the past, but you can call me Savine Khedevis, if you like.”

  Breath catching in her throat, Iselle forced herself to speak. “Perhaps you would accept a gift for such a kind act towards strangers?”

  She lifted a palm on which sat a small paper box. Silver runes glittered on the surface.

  Savine eyed the box warily. “A gift, is it? Perhaps we could come to an arrangement — that is, if the gift is enough.”

  “Oh, I assure you it will be enough.” She knew his own sorcery was likely stronger than hers, and there was only one thing she could think of to try and save her daughter.

  “Well, that looks interesting, but what’s inside the box?”

  “Nothing,” replied Iselle. “Nothing but death.”

  She threw the box high into the air, where it hovered above her head and spun, runes sparkling in the moonlight.

  The box spun faster and faster, its movement through the air creating an eerie keening sound that rose in volume. A sharp crackling noise filled the clearing, and flashes of lightning danced around the box.

  At a gesture from Savine, the men charged towards her with naked blades, howling with alarm.

  With a shriek, Iselle raised her hands above her head. A mounting gale whipped her hair in every direction. Lightning flashed from her hands and shot into the box.

  As the men reached her and the cowering child, the woman collapsed, her limp body and cloak covering the girl.

  The gale stopped suddenly, as if it never was. With a thunderous crack, the box ruptured. Silver lightning showered the clearing and enveloped every one of the men, blistering their skin and turning their veins black. A shock wave launched across the clearing, clouds of dirt erupting in its wake, knocking them to the ground. Screams echoed through the night as each man writhed under the virulence of the energy. Smoke billowed from skin and clothes as they began to burn.

  All movement in the clearing ceased. Misshapen mounds smoldered on the ground in a circle, bodies twisted. Swords remained gripped in the blackened hands of charred corpses.

  The breeze from the approaching storm blew the dwindling smoke from the bodies towards the river. A terrified sobbing came from under the shape in the center. A small voice cried out.

  “Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! Please wake up! Please…”

  With a crackle, Iselle’s body shifted and rolled onto the ground with a thump, scorched grass snapping under her weight.

  Nerissa looked out from under the cloak at the gruesome scene. Moonlight and shadows turned the clearing into a nightmare. Stifling another sob, she put one hand to her mouth and bit down hard on her knuckles, drawing blood in an effort not to scream.

  “Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!… Mama, wake up!” she whispered, reaching out with her other hand to shake her mother. As she touched the far too hot body, she knew she was alone.

  Death had taken all around her.

  Tears streamed from her tired eyes. Without thinking, Nerissa fled into the forest.

  Drawn by the smell of meat drifting on the night air, a pack of wolves warily circled the clearing at the tree line. Hunger warred with caution, the desire for an easy meal greater than their reluctance to enter a place smelling strongly of death. The pack-leader edged toward one of the bodies, senses alert to any danger. One paw after another, the wolf crept towards the center corpse, barely stirring the ashes with each step. As it leant forward, nose scarcely touching the remains, a charred hand latched onto its throat. Snapping and snarling, the wolf strove to break away but couldn’t shake the iron grip. Another hand reached up and traced a symbol on its fur, binding it to the spot.

  The frantic struggles of the wolf ceased, and the pack watched as the blackened body shifted, lifting its head to rest against their pack-leader.

  This form will suffice, for now.

  On the ground, the charred hand sketched another symbol, and power filled the air for the second time that night. Furred strength shrunk, skin molded to bones as the wolf’s vitality transferred to Savine. Taking a breath and covering the beast’s mouth with his own, he breathed out, the wolf’s body expanding back to normal shape. Blackened skin cracked from the man, flaking off in sections onto the earth and revealing a grayish, dry, stretched crust underneath. The skin on one arm sloughed off entirely, leaving bones, which collapsed to the ground and shattered into fragments.

  Looking through new eyes, Savine stretched his appropriated animal body. Whimpers echoed around the clearing. Savine shuddered and howled with pain, panting.

  Excruciating, thought Savine, breath coming in short gasps. The pain as his consciousness transferred had been agonizing, almost unbearable, even to one such as himself.

  Savine hobbled a few steps then sank to the ground. After a few moments, tongue lolling, whimpering, he staggered to his feet and stood there trembling.

  Surveying the carnage wrought by the woman, he grimaced. So many brethren slain in the one night by two lone humans, one of them touched, of course, but still…he would have much explaining to do.

  As the remainder of the pack watched, ears back and hackles raised, Savine loped down the trail towards the stone bridge.

  Chapter One

  Gliding sideways across the hard-packed earth, Caldan shifted his wooden sword to a middle guard position. Beads of sweat trickled down his back. Breathing hard after the last exchange, he tried to ignore the burgeoning pain in his shoulder, where he knew a bruise would appear by the night’s end. He squinted to cut the glare of the sun, keeping his eyes on his opponent.

  Her grin, which had appeared when she broke through his guard with a cut to the shoulder, grew broader. Her stance indicated she was ready, sword held high, body still. His sore shoulder would not prompt her to relax in her attacks on him. Quite the opposite.

  She’s too good, he thought. All his training the last few weeks and he hadn’t improved.

  “Again,” he said, moving his guard to a low position then springing at her. He made a rapid series of cuts that allowed her to parry as he tried to tread down her blade. She effortlessly blocked his sword and battered it aside. Penetrating his guard yet again, she slammed her blunted tip into his chest. Grunting, he clutched at his ribs where she had marked him and dropped to one knee, hand touching the ground to steady himself. He drew a slow, shallow breath, all he could do above the pain.

  The Master of Blades, a bald older monk in loose fitting black robes, stepped towards them. He laid a hand on Caldan’s shoulder and slapped him gently, open-palmed, against the side of his head. Caldan bowed before Master Krige, listening.

  “You must always move in the pattern; every movement must be within the pattern.”

  “I’m sorry,” Caldan managed to gasp out. “I guess I am not in the right state of mind for this today.”

  A firmer slap rocked his head to the side.

  “Well, I hope you are in the correct state of mind in your first real fight, otherwise you will be dead.” Master Krige looked at Amara leaning on her sword and still grinning. Sweat from the exertion trickled down her face and soaked her practice shirt.

  “Enough for today,” Krige said, waving a hand to dismiss her.

  She grinned wider and mockingly saluted Caldan as she walked to a rack against a stone wall and replaced her sword.

  Krige turned his attention back to Caldan and sat cross-legged on the ground, expression unreadable. “What did you do wrong? Or more importantly, what did she do right?”

  “I…I’m not sure,” Caldan said. “I was trying to force her down so she couldn’t attack, yet her sword came straight through mine and she hit me. I cannot explain it.”

  “You were trying to defeat her at the start of her attack, trying to push her sword down so she could not rise. But you do know what was wrong: your mind was not in i
t. More concisely, you were treading down with your sword and not achieving the spirit of the attack. You must tread with the body, with the spirit and with the sword. You must achieve the spirit of not allowing her to attack. Since you did not do this, you did not cling to her enough and she cut you. Remember this well, for you must strike with all things in harmony to win, not just with your hands.”

  “She is good, though,” Caldan muttered.

  “Yes, you could certainly use more practice if you want to defeat her.”

  Scowling, Caldan stood, looking down at Krige. “Is that all for today, Master?”

  “Yes. Think about what I said tomorrow, whenever your bruises pain you.” There was laughter in his voice. “Harmony. Spirit and body together. Go now, I am weary of young would-be swordsmen tripping over their own feet.”

  Caldan gave a slight, painful bow and shuffled gingerly to a water barrel near the south wall of the practice ground.

  Removing his sweaty and dirt-stained shirt, he cupped his hands and splashed cold water over his body, then scooped another handful over his face. The pain lessened, and he bent over the barrel to drink a mouthful of the cool water. As he did so, a hand grasped the back of his neck and dunked his head under the surface.

  Taking a breath and squinting water out of his eyes, Caldan came face to face with a smirking Jemma.

  “Anything interesting down there?” she asked, releasing her hold and folding her arms across her chest. She leaned back against the wall.

  Caldan took another breath, all of a sudden conscious of how pretty she looked, folded arms tightening her tunic, sunlight brightening her face and emphasizing her dark eyes.

  Stop it, he told himself. She only wants to be your friend. Then why did he have the feeling whenever he turned his back that she stared at him? Aware of his bare chest and Jemma’s frank appraisal, he pulled his shirt back on, not wanting to take the time to dry himself off first.

  Jemma looked at the barrel and picked at a splinter with a fingernail, a faint glow in her cheeks.

  “Thank you for the dunking. I needed one after that workout.”

  “It looks like you managed to get hit a few times. What happened?”

  “Nothing, just a lack of concentration. My worries about what’s going to happen to me have started to affect my performance.”

  Jemma snorted. “Since when have you ever lacked concentration? You are one of the most single-minded and stubborn people I know!” She brushed his arm with her hand. “Is there anything wrong? Something you have not told me?”

  Caldan shook his head. “No, it’s probably the pressure the masters keep piling onto me. I think I need a hot soak in the baths, a good meal and some wine to relax and take my mind off things for a while.”

  “And good company, I hope,” she added.

  “A game of Dominion tonight? I reserved a board for a few hours, even managed to get one of the more secluded ones. I was going to practice a few things on my own, but if you would like a game…”

  “That sounds great! I’ll see you after the evening meal, then.”

  Caldan watched as she sauntered off. Why did life have to be so complicated? Her brother Marlon would scorn him even more if he thought they were seeing each other. Marlon cared for nothing but himself and how people saw his family.

  Scratching his head, Caldan noticed the state of his shirt for the first time: dusty, sweat-stained, creased and wet. He would have to find a clean one before the evening. At least he had a few silver ducats to spare for anything he needed, enough for basic expenses.

  He was not as bad off as some of the poorer families in the city, though he would never be considered as fortunate as the students, or as one of their equals. As he walked away in the direction of his room, he realized it was also the first time he’d cared enough about Jemma’s opinion to try and make a good impression.

  “Caldan? Are you there?”

  Caldan peered around the door of his wardrobe and saw a shaven-headed young monk, one of the lower ranked monks at the Monastery of the Seven Paths. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun, which shone through the only window of Caldan’s small room and reflected off the polished floor. Sheets of paper lay scattered over a thin blanket covering a narrow cot, and at the monk’s appearance a shape wobbled in his direction towards the edge of the windowsill, a lion created from many precise folds of a dark brown paper. Tiny black runes dotted the animal, whose steps faltered then stopped.

  “Yes, Brother,” replied Caldan. “What can I do for you? Sorry about the mess, I was just looking for something.” He gestured to the pile of clothes on the floor.

  The monk glanced at the clothes, then the paper lion, before returning to Caldan. “The masters would like to see you tomorrow, before the evening meal. Please make yourself presentable, and remember you are here on their sufferance, so behave yourself.”

  The young monks liked to point out his position any chance they could. He was not part of their Order and therefore an outsider, though he had been living at the monastery longer than they had.

  “Thank you, Brother. I’ll try to make a good impression.”

  The young monk hesitated, weight shifting from foot to foot. “The masters have not been in a good mood these last few days. Perhaps they want to discuss your place here once you come of age in a few months, but I cannot say.”

  Caldan looked at the brother in surprise, reading the thinly veiled hint in the young man’s words. On a few occasions, the masters and he had argued over what he could and couldn’t do as a ward of the monastery and not one of the initiates. The masters were invariably soft spoken and firm in their logic. It sounds like they’ve come to a decision on my place here.

  “Thank you,” he replied, standing and giving the monk a bow.

  The brother nodded then turned to walk down the corridor.

  Caldan considered the pile of clothes on the floor and sighed. Bending over to pick them up, he decided that whatever the masters wanted, it must be important; he was never called to a meeting with them if they didn’t consider the matter significant.

  Stuffing the clothes into the bottom of the wardrobe, he moved to his table, on which sat a basin filled with tepid water. He washed his hands and face, drying off with a towel, and ran his hands over his shaven scalp. He had always followed the monks’ convention and shaved his head. He felt it showed them how grateful he was for their assistance.

  He wondered what they had decided regarding his place here. He performed all the duties they assigned him without complaint, and in the classes he had time to attend he showed good progress. His skills in the practical arts were progressing solidly — a few of the masters had already hinted they would be pleased to continue his instruction after he came of age, if he was willing.

  Reflecting on the last few years spent at the monastery, he was not unhappy with his lot, but he thought there should be more to existence than spending his life on Eremite, one small island separated from the world.

  Lost in thought, he almost failed to notice a wisp of smoke appear from his paper lion. A flame erupted from the surface, rapidly spreading until the animal was engulfed.

  “By the ancestors!” he cursed, waving the smoke away while fumbling with the window latch and pushing it open. He grimaced at the smoldering pile of ash. The fifth one that’s burnt out within hours. He was missing something. But what?

  “I can’t quite get it right,” he muttered under his breath then swept the remains out the window.

  A bell sounded four times, indicating the hour. Hurrying out the door, he hastened to meet Jemma, rubbing at the ash staining his hands.

  Sparks were flying, but the noise of the spitting fire went largely unnoticed by Jemma. Firelight danced around the room, twisting shapes and distorting perspectives. Jemma’s friend Yasmin had tagged along, and she knelt by the fire poking at the burning wood in the grate. As Dominion wasn’t one of Yasmin’s strengths, the game between them held little of her attention. With her f
air hair and pale skin, she was one side of a coin, and Jemma was the other.

  Head tilted to the side and brow furrowed in concentration, Jemma’s thoughts focused on the game board. Three-tiered and four paces to a side, veneer squares of three shades of wood, hand-high game pieces of carved obsidian and also clear, rose and smoky quartz in the shapes of mythical creatures and stylized humans, it was an impressive sight.

  After his last two moves had staggered her, leaving her plans in ruins, Caldan had left to find refreshments. She was unsure what tactic she could effect to get out of this mess and aware her position was extremely fragile in the long run.

  “Curse him! Why does he have to be so good at this?” Jemma exclaimed. She chewed on a fingernail, glanced distractedly at Yasmin. She took a step closer to the side of the board for a better angle. She had only one extra move left, while Caldan still had five. He hadn’t bothered using any yet.

  “It looks to me like he has a hold on you. In the game, I mean, of course.”

  “Next time you can stay in your room and study on your own, for all I care.”

  Yasmin sniggered. “Don’t get nasty because you’ve been outplayed. You’ve never won against him. Besides, I’m glad I came. You’ve been spending much too much time in Caldan’s company lately, and with his reputation, I’d think you’d be more careful as to how often you are seen together.”

  “There is nothing wrong with him,” Jemma said with heat. “What happened to his family shouldn’t have any bearing on who he is or how others treat him. He was only seven when they were all killed in the fire.” She shuddered at the thought, grateful such a tragedy had not been visited upon her own family, hating to think how it had affected Caldan’s childhood. Even without the rumors of demon worshipping, it was bad enough. If she ever find out who started those rumors they’ll find out how hard she could be.