A Crucible of Souls (Book One of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (58 page)

Amerdan placed a hand on her back and gave a gentle push.

Good. Let’s go.

Chapter Forty-Four

 

In the dark of night, plans coalesced. Silent, malevolent, inexorable.

Bells sat in her cabin with Keys beside her. Two oil lamps lit the room. She held a crafted bell in her hands and another four were spread in a line in front of her. Concentrating, she opened her well, linked to the bells and sent a call into the darkness.

From the seedy slums of Dockside to the perfumed mansions of Parkside, from Deadhorse to the reeking streets of Cabbage Town, muted, cloaked and hooded figures raised their heads as one and stood still. Quietly, they listened to her new instructions, and changes to old.

Some left residences, where they had secreted themselves for weeks or months, the houses of merchants, bankers, nobles and guild masters. Those on the move headed in two separate directions, towards Dockside or Barrows. An empty building greeted the members of both groups as they arrived, each acknowledging their comrades when they entered.

Bells and Keys waited patiently. Midnight came and went. The moon traveled across half the sky as the city slept.

In the light of dawn they emerged on deck. The horizon to the east of the docks darkened with ships. They had furled sails and unshipped oars, powering against the westerly wind with purpose. Each one bore more than a passing resemblance to the huge ship already docked in the harbor.

Alarm bells clanged in the night, rousing the harbor watch and squads of Quivers in the vicinity. Despite their training, all they could do was watch as the harbor mouth filled with dark shapes.

Lights twinkled on the ships, the muted yellow of sorcerous crafted globes. Attached to their bows, partially above the water, were rams of smith-crafted steel, and each ship displayed a fantastic figurehead, gaping toothed mouths under bulging eyes, skin covered in scales.

Quivers on the shore milled in confusion. Disorganized groups mixed as their officers argued courses of action. Messengers were dispatched towards West Barrows, while the rest of the men shuffled out to the wharves. Clammy hands gripped weapons, and wild eyes looked out over the waves to the approaching ships.

It had been hundreds of years since the empire had engaged in any real war. Anasoma itself had never been invaded.

Ships plowed through the swell, surging to the docks. Thick seasoned timber scraped against sturdy wooden pylons. Gangplanks heaved onto wharves with heavy thuds.

Keys grinned with delight, and Bells gave him a disapproving look. She didn’t like what was coming, but it needed to be done. The God-Emperor had commanded them himself.

Armored figures flooded onto the wharves, spewing from ships like ants from a stirred nest. Dawn light and sorcerous crafted globes reflected from polished steel. Soldiers settled into loose formations with an armored figure at the head of each group.

A horn sounded. Booted feet stomped towards the city. They stopped at the disbelieving crowd that had gathered at the docks, blocking their way. Gaping-mouthed citizens stood behind white-faced harbor watchmen and Quivers. Murmurs from the crowd increased in volume.

An armored figure stepped forward carrying a naked blade. Crafted glyphs and sigils covered his breastplate and the steel bands on his forearms.

Light flashed behind the crowd, far to the north, west and south, illuminating the sky before settling down to a subdued blue glow. The crowd milled in confusion. Shouts echoed in the half-light.

Those close to the city walls saw a sheet of blue flame erupt from the fortifications. None of the guards stationed on the walls survived the blast.

At the fore of the invading forces the armored man spoke, his words carrying loud and clear above the noise.

In the name of Kelhak, God-Emperor of Indryalla, I declare this city liberated. No one is to leave until order is restored.

Bells left the soldiers to their work and returned to her cabin. Blood was the price Anasoma must pay for freedom from oppression. She shuddered at the thought of what was about to occur.

 

Caldan woke to scuffling outside his room. Rubbing his eyes, he glanced out the window into the half-light of dawn. Who would be making a ruckus at this time?

He opened his door and poked his head out. At the end of the corridor two men dragged an unconscious master while more men came towards him clad in smith-crafted armor and carrying naked blades.

Stifling a gasp, he retreated into his room, locking the door. Thinking frantically, he scrambled for a blank piece of paper, drew the stopper from a bottle of ink and madly scribed glyphs. As he had done in his room at the inn when he first arrived, he fixed the still wet
crafting
to the door and opened his well, sealing the entrance against all but the most determined assault.

Sounds of struggle reached his ears, punctuated by claps of muted thunder.

Moments later, the latch jiggled. A fist banged on the wood.


Open up!

a voice commanded.

Caldan sunk back against the far wall away from the door. Muffled voices sounded in a strange accent he hadn’t heard before.


… doesn’t matter, we need to clear every room…


…you go. I’ll deal with this… no… we don’t have time…

By the ancestors! If he hadn’t been worn out he might have woken to the noise earlier. If the masters were taken there wasn’t much he could do. Should he put up a fight or go quietly?

Caldan listened intently as footsteps faded. Clothing rustled and there was a scratch at his door.

The scent of lemons reached his nostrils, faintly at first then steadily stronger.

He grabbed his wristband and purse of ducats, shoving them into the sack he had brought back from the clockmaker’s. He yanked his
trinket
off his finger, the bone ring from around his neck, added them to the sack. Two floors below in the garden a row of shrubs ran along the wall. He dropped the sack, praying it would remain hidden until he could retrieve it.

A flash of light blinded him, and an invisible force knocked him back against the wall. His ears rang like a bell. Smoke filled the room and his door fell towards him onto the floor, hinges and lock melted into misshapen lumps of glowing iron.

He coughed and raised an arm to protect himself, his eyes watering as he saw a blurry figure approach.


You little bugger, made me waste a flash.

A hand cuffed Caldan roughly around the head then grasped his shirt, dragging him across the floor on his knees.

Caldan drove a fist into the man’s groin. He yelped and dropped like a stone, clutching his plums. Pain exploded in Caldan’s head, and he fell to the floor. He blinked and shook his head to clear it. Above him stood the man’s partner, a club raised to strike again.


I wouldn’t do that again,

he purred.

We’ve orders not to harm anyone… too seriously.

He nudged his partner with a toe.

Get up, you lazy bastard.

He laughed.


Piss off,

the man moaned.

You take a punch to the plums and see how you feel.

The other man laughed again.

That’s something I don’t plan on doing.

He watched, amused, as his partner levered himself to his knees, breathing deeply and wincing.


Come on, we don’t got all day.

With short shallow breaths the man gingerly rose to his feet, hunched over, hands on his knees. He muttered something under his breath. Turning to Caldan, he drew a dagger.


Now, now,

his partner said.

Don’t do anything stupid. Keys will kill you, and Bells… well, she don’t need to kill you.

The man with the dagger gave Caldan a hateful look, then drove it deep into Caldan’s thigh and twisted. He screamed, burning pain shooting up his leg.


Castens, you stupid bastard! How’s he going to walk now?


He punched me in the plums. He deserved it.


He’s bleeding everywhere.


So?


You’re an idiot. Here, help me bandage him up.


I ain’t helping.


You’re going to help, and you’re going to help me carry him.

Caldan clutched his leg. Warm blood leaked through his fingers.

Please,

he said.

I’m sorry.


Shut up, you deserved it.

A foot pressed Caldan’s hands into his wound. Pain flared.


Stop that, we need to get him locked up as soon as possible. Time’s a wasting.

Castens cursed then wiped his blade on Caldan’s pants. The other one removed a rolled bandage from a bulging pouch attached to his belt and wrapped it tightly around Caldan’s leg. Even in his pain, Caldan realized they were professionals, despite their roughness, prepared for contingencies and organized.

They dragged him to his feet.

Oof! Not so little, are you?

One hand held his shoulder tightly while another frisked his clothes, searching for something. Caldan wiped his eyes, blinking to clear them.


No mark of rank,

said Castens.

No
craftings
and no
trinkets
. Bugger, why do I get all the duds?

His companion laughed. Neither wore the smith-crafted armor he had glimpsed in the corridor, but each wore a number of crafted items, rings, medallions and one an earring.


Apprentice, are you?

Caldan nodded, leg throbbing.
Who were these men? Where were the Protectors and sorcerers?


Bit old, aren’t you? Slow learner?

Both men laughed.

Hunching his shoulders, Caldan nodded.


And dumb as well. Curse this, let’s get him locked up and keep searching.


Mostly done by now. I think their higher up
sorcerers
,

he sneered the word,

have been taken.


Best we get this lump stored then find their workshops and libraries. Should be some good loot there.

They marched him limping along the hall and down a flight of stairs to the main building, then along a corridor Caldan had not yet explored. Through a heavy door bound with steel bands, then down another three flights of stairs. The air grew cold and damp. They entered a cellblock, one Caldan had no idea existed. Why would one be needed? Maybe the Protectors used it for captured rogue sorcerers.

Stone cells lined both sides of the room, each with a moldy wooden door with a window, the opening blocked by two thick, rusty metal bars.

Caldan strained his neck as he was marched past closed doors but couldn’t catch a glimpse of the occupants, if they had any. Without a word, he was thrown into one of the empty cells, falling to his knees. Pain flared from his leg. With a thud, the door slammed shut behind him. He heard a key slide into the keyhole and the lock clicked into place.

Damp and musty, the cell was barely six paces on each side, the floor covered in dust and dirt. Moldy straw littered one corner along with a scrap of what looked like a dirty rag. The bed, he assumed. In a back corner pooled a puddle of water. From the window in the door leaked a faint yellow light, which Caldan recognized as characteristic of a sorcerous crafted globe, though a weak or old one.

Caldan stood and wiped his hands on his pants, though some grime from the floor remained. He shivered and rubbed his arms. Cold but not too bad, as long as he wasn’t here for long. He didn’t know what had become of the masters, journeymen, and apprentices. It was safe to assume most, if not all, had been taken prisoner, though he couldn’t imagine any going without a fight, as long as they weren’t surprised. The commotion he’d heard earlier meant there had been some resistance.

He grasped the two bars covering the window in his door and looked outside, seeing no one around. Taking a deep breath, he strained against them, grunting with effort. After a few moments, he released his hold then strained again, to no avail. Cursing, he backed up and kicked the door with a solid thump, hurting his foot.


By the ancestors.

Caldan clenched his fists in anger. What was going on? Why would anyone attack the Sorcerers’ Guild? Or were they only after the Protectors? Surely Simmon would have realized what was happening and rallied the masters and as many journeymen and apprentices as he could. Though, judging from the crafted armor and the soldiers’ search of his body for
craftings
, they knew what they were doing. Well-informed and drilled. This wasn’t a raid. Imprisoning them meant a longer-term plan, one that meant keeping them alive for some purpose.

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