THE VAULT OF SOWDEK

THE VAULT OF SOWDEK, by Seth Skorkowsky

 

Keeping to the cover of trees, Ahren followed an earthen trail toward the shadow stretching across the moon-lit orchards. The heavy rope coiled beneath his cloak might have made him appear hunchbacked if there were anyone to see him at such an hour.

Cricket song filled the air, chorused by wind-rustled leaves. Passing beneath the shade, Ahren stopped beside a gnarled tree and lifted his gaze. The great silhouette of Sowdek Fortress loomed atop the nearby cliff, motionless, save the fluttering banners. Orange flickering slits studded the great, tiered tower. Pale light glowed from the arched barracks windows beside it.

In its five hundred years, no invader had ever infiltrated Sowdek’s walls. Countless soldiers had tried, only to be dashed onto the rocks below. But Ahren wasn’t a soldier, and in the decades of peace, laziness had taken root, much as the weedy shrubs now clinging to the once barren cliff face.

Continuing toward it, he eventually reached the bank of shattered rocks that skirted the cliff. The local children made a game of scouring the rubble, searching for rusty arrowheads and other treasures. Ahren wondered if any of the guards might throw some down on occasion, something to accompany the bottles and refuse they normally discarded.

Mindful of the broken glass and sharp rocks with his glove-leather shoes, he crossed the debris field. Once at the cliff, he pulled off the cumbersome line and dropped it beside him. He removed a ball of twine and affixed one end to the rope. The other, he tied around his waist, securing it with a firm knot. Once, years before, he’d been sailor. Knots and ropes were a way of life. Now, as the Black Raven, they served a different, yet equal importance. He cracked his knuckles, then pulled on a pair of tight gloves. Taking one last look up the seventy-foot face, he drew a breath, released it, and began to climb.

*****

A soft breeze floated down the fortress passage, clearing away the torch smoke. On still nights, the oily haze became unbearable. Despite the freshened air, Captain Jimmet Dothren coughed. Smoke was now the least of his worries. His children, his wife, they needed him. His death would leave them destitute. True, the army would pay his widow five silver zlads for every year he had served, but how long would seventy-five zlads last? Pushing the thought away, he swallowed the bitter phlegm and continued down the hall.

Three weeks ago, his daughter, Faina, began coughing up the green, tell-tale mucus. Within days she was bedridden, her blankets soaked in sweat. Yellow sores speckled her chest as her breathing weakened. Unlike other plagues, this one had a cure. But the elixir was rare and costly. Desperation had led him to seek it by other means. Dothren had spent near a month’s wages on a single black-market vial, only to learn it was fake. The next night, the potion swindler was found hanged in an alley, his thieving profits stolen.

With nowhere else to go, and no coin, Dothren had turned to the church. He prayed to Saint Udo, who healed plague with his sacred tears, pleading him for help. There, on his knees, a candle pressed between his trembling hands, he had heard a voice.

“For whom do you pray?”

Startled, Dothren turned to see a cloaked figure standing just beyond the prayer booth’s low wall. Blue eyes gazed back from behind a leather doctor’s mask, its squared jutting mouth packed with herbs and scented flowers to protect the wearer from foul air.

Dothren wiped the tears from his eyes, embarrassed of them. “My…my daughter.”

The stranger regarded the altar. “She is ill?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “She has the green cough.”

“The sickness is quick. Many have fallen to it. But there is a cure.”

“For a king’s ransom!” Dothren hissed. “I cannot pay it.”

The stranger nodded. “How old is she?”

“Four years,” he said, nearly choking on the words.

“So young.” The stranger set a tiny bottle onto the ledge between them. “For your daughter.”

Dothren stared at the black liquid inside, sealed beneath crimson wax. Salvation. How dare this man taunt him. “I cannot afford that.”

The man cocked his head. “I would not charge to save a child’s life. You may have it.”

Shocked, Dothren met the stranger’s eyes. Men had killed for such a cure and now this man was giving it to him? “Pardon me?”

“It’s yours. But speak of this to no one.” Without another word, the masked doctor turned and left.

Thanking the saints, Dothren took vial and ran home. Faina was so weak he had to pour it drop by drop between her dry lips, careful not to spill even the smallest bit. By morning, her fever had gone and the blisters had begun receding.

Three days later, his son developed the cough.

Again, at the altar to Saint Udo, the doctor returned. On hearing of Dothren’s boy, he gave him a second vial, once more under the promised payment of silence. But by the time the blisters and dried and flaked from his son’s chest, his wife, Elacha had developed it. But again, the stranger appeared and gifted him the precious medicine.

Then, three days ago, Dothren began to cough.

Once more he returned to the church and prayed. Once more the blessed doctor answered.

“For whom do you pray?”

Dothren turned to him, no longer ashamed of his tears. “For myself. The plague has found me.”

The doctor sighed. “But I have no more juice to give.”

“No!” Dothren sobbed. “No. My family. I can’t… What will they do?”

The doctor’s blue eyes studied him, emotionless and cold. “There may be a way. But it won’t be free.”

*****

Dothren stopped before an arrow slit overlooking the valley. The three-foot thick walls gave the wedge-shaped window a deep sill. Names and crude drawings decorated the stone, etched by bored sentries. He fingered the star-shaped pendant around his neck. The commander had entrusted him to wear it whenever he was away. The medallion had never left Sowdek’s walls. It was always worn by the highest-ranked guard.

He thought of his family, scared to death of what might happen to them. He’d do anything for them.

Surely it would be safe for the duration of a single watch. The window was seventy feet to the ground below. How would the doctor even know he had performed the strange request? But saints know all, and Dothren knew the stranger to be one.

*****

Ahren stood on the narrow ledge, watching the shadow at the window beside him. Why wasn’t it moving? He didn’t have time for the captain’s second thoughts.

A wet cough, then the rattle of chain, and the shadow moved away.

He waited a count of ten before risking a peek through the slit. The medallion was there. A thin smile curled at his lips. Glory and honor in war was an admirable death, but even the bravest man cowered before a sickly end.

He removed a bottle of gelkah juice from a padded pouch. The berries from which the tincture was made were common in distant Mordakland. But tax embargos had neutered shipping to near nothing. The Tyenee, the criminal cabal that Ahren owed his allegiance, had made a fortune smuggling the vials. It was one of the few instances they had earned more profit by saving lives than by taking them. Ahren set the bottle on the sill and retrieved the medallion.

He slipped it into his pouch, then carefully side-stepped along the wall. While the shadows hid him from casual eyes, they made navigating the tiny ledges and cracks near impossible. A sudden gust hit, whipping his hair. Ahren pressed himself to the wall until it had passed.

Once he’d reached the wide tower, Ahren inspected the flat stones. Much of the ancient mortar had crumbled, giving ample finger holds. Licking his lips, he peered up, mapping the best path.

A single bell tolled, signaling the change of the guard.

No time. Ahren dug his fingers into the shallow gaps and began the climb. He had five minutes, at best.

Dust and grit coated the tiny gaps, making them treacherous. He kept his movements concise, never allowing less than three points of contact at any moment. Sweat beaded his forehead, threatening to run into his eyes. Ahren dabbed it with the back of his hand.

A lip of pale stone ran the perimeter of the first tier, just below the battlement teeth. Ahren reached toward it when the twine at his waist pulled taut, nearly wrenching him off balance. Surely it wasn’t out of length yet. Must’ve snagged. Gritting his teeth, he lowered back down, then pulled at the stuck line.

A door squeaked above, followed by muted voices, their words lost in the breeze.

Ahren popped the cord and yanked. It gave with a sudden jerk. He climbed up the last few feet and onto the rounded ledge and blew a relieved sigh.

Braving a peek, Ahren spied the two sentries prattling near the balcony door. A taller one stood near the entrance, his back to Ahren. The other, a wide-shouldered man, scratched his bearded cheek while the other one spoke.

After a few minutes, the taller man left, closing the door behind him. The bearded guard sighed and started his shift. While his back was turned, Ahren removed a small cloth bag from his belt. Rising, he tucked them into the corner of a merlin, sure to be seen. Ahren crouched and waited.

A few minutes later, the guard’s strolling boot steps came closer. Ahren held his breath, listening. They steps slowed, stopped. The guard gave a chuckle, then the steps continued away.

Ahren stole a quick glance, verifying the bait was gone. The sentry stood at the far side, staring out over the fields below.

Only time. Grinning, Ahren lowered.

The guard didn’t move for some time before starting another circuit. Ahren tensed as the clacking steps stopped beside the wall, not five feet from where he hid. The guard stood there, whistling some tuneless melody, then moved on.

Ahren’s patience had begun to strain by the third circuit. He’d hoped to pull the job without witnesses or bodies. A perfect crime. But time was short. Eventually the captain would return to the window below and find the medallion gone.

He slid a hand to his dagger. Just one thrust and twist was all it’d take. His mind set, he started to rise when he caught the scent of pipe smoke. The tension receded. Finally.

During his two weeks of surveillance, the guard had always lit his pipe after the first patrol. Ahren had imagined the added enticement of fresh Mercińan tobacco, presumably forgotten by the previous sentry, would have hurried that along, but eventually the temptation had worked.

Within a minute, there came a groan and clatter. Ahren lifted his head to see the guard laying on his back, the spilt pipe beside him. Grinning, Ahren crawled over the wall and stretched his cramped muscles. Taking the twine at his waist her reeled the coiled rope up from below. He tied one end to the parapet, securing it with a firm slipknot. He then dropped the rope and twine back over the side.

When he was ready to leave, Ahren would simply climb down the rope, stopping briefly to return the medallion, and then at the bottom, pull the twine, releasing the slipknot and leaving no trace of his presence behind.

He searched through the drugged guard’s purse and removed the tobacco bag. With luck the man would wake before the morning shift, otherwise his relief would simply think him drunk. Captain Dothren would never admit to his part in this, and no one would ever know.

Ahren pulled off gloves and opened the tower door. He stepped into a wide room. The tapestries and fine desks were more suited for the home of country lord, rather than a remote outpost. But few knew the fortress’ true purpose.

Cautiously, he made his way through several rooms before reaching the tower stairs. He crept up to the highest floor, his soft shoes silent on the stone steps. Ahren knelt before an ironbound door and removed a doeskin roll from his belt. Laying it out, he selected a pair of picks and worked them into the lock.

He found the simple catch and eased the bolt shut with a soft clack.

Ahren pushed a small wooden bead into the keyhole and using a pick, worked it into the mechanism. If alarms were raised, the upper tower sentry would find the lock jammed and himself trapped. Satisfied, he returned the tools to his pouch and hurried downstairs.

The bottom floor opened to a curved hallway, lined with graven busts. He followed it around to a pair of metal outer doors etched with a battle scene. Hinged oaken beams stood on either side. Careful so they wouldn’t scrape loudly, Ahren lowered them into place.

Turning, he approached the elaborate inner door, set within a rounded alcove. Swirls and geometric forms latticed its face, blossoming out from an elaborate star-shaped lock. Admiringly, he ran a hand across the face, not finding even the faintest seam. The Quellish craftsmanship must have cost a fortune. Nothing in Ahren’s tools could come close to opening it. A secret masterpiece hidden from the world. Thankfully, coin and gelkah juice had loosed enough tongues to not only revealed the fortress’ secret, but also the method to enter it.

Ahren slid the captain’s pendant sideways into the strange keyhole and pressed.

He felt, more than heard, the faint click. Ahren twisted the medallion around, rotating the star. Unseen gears ticked and clacked with the movement and the door opened. Beyond it, a tapestry-lined stairwell led down into darkness.

Ahren removed one of the three lamps inside the door and lit it off a nearby torch. Holding it before him, he descended the steps. They circled thrice before opening up into a wide room. Thick pillars extended outward as far as his light could reach, rising like a stone forest. A maze-work of polished cabinets ran between them, their only adornment being a brass number on each of their square doors. Ahren paused, marveling at the chamber’s size. They’d said the vault was big, but this was incredible. Releasing a shallow whistle, he descended the last three steps and began the hunt for locker 5290.

Centuries before, the Nadjancian rulers had realized that knowledge, above gold, was power. Their spies infiltrated every facet both in and outside the great city. Decree required that all contracts, shipping manifestos, deeds, wills, and any other important documents had to pass through the palace. There, an army of scribes copied and added them to the archives. Paranoid of rival spies, the palace only employed illiterate peasants, none ever copying consecutive pages, and only hired for two months a year. Eventually, the archives filled an entire palace wing. Then a single fallen candle destroyed it all.

Fearing a second fire, scribes then made two copies of everything. The first was housed in the new palace, the second was moved to a secret vault, hidden to where the elements could never harm it. But no secret was forever.

Ahren stopped before an iron door imbedded in the granite wall. ‘5290’ adorned the center. Twin keyholes stared back at him. No one had said there were two. Was there an order to which he opened first? Were they to be simultaneously unlocked? Maybe one was a trap.

Holding the light closer, he leaned in, inspected them. They appeared simple enough. Neither showed more sign of use than the other.

Ahren rubbed his chin. He hadn’t the tools or time for a thorough investigation. If one was a trap, he just needed to outthink its maker. His natural instinct when picking two locks would be to start with the right one. He chose the left.

He hung the lamp from on one of the many wall hooks, selected his tools, and began to work. The lock was more complicated than he’d first assumed. Six levers. Ahren chose a new pick and slid it in between the other two. Eventually he found the correct combination. He held his breath, then twisted the wire cluster around. The loud click echoed through the room.

Releasing his breath, Ahren tugged and the door smoothly opened. Thin shelves lined the bottom half, each stacked with parchments. Above them, scrolls filled a honeycomb of round slots. Ahren smiled, and reached inside. Then the door mechanism clicked again, and bells began clanging somewhere above.

Damn it!

*****

 Captain Dothren sat at his desk, his eyes unfocused on the requisition report before him. He’d been staring at it for a quarter hour. Dothren touched his chest, feeling where the medallion should have been. The weight of its absence grew stronger.

A cacophony of bells erupted outside.

“Alarms!” someone shouted.

But the alarms weren’t from the watch. The vault! Dothren jumped to his feet, knocking the chair over. He wrenched his door open to see a pair of guards fumbling into their sword belts, the pot from their card game forgotten on the table.

“The tower!” he ordered.

The men scrambled out the eastern door as Dothren hurried through the north exit.

Rapier bouncing against his hip, he ran down the passage. Stopping at a heavy door, he jammed his key into the lock and threw it open. His breath rasped as he raced down the narrow hall. Please be there. Please be there. Please be there.

Dothren’s boots nearly slid out from under him as he came around the corner. He froze. A wax-capped bottle rested on the slit sill before him. The medallion was gone!

He doubled over coughing, then spat a mouthful of green phlegm. They’d hang him for this treason. His family would get nothing. Dothren snatched the bottle and ran back toward the tower. The thief couldn’t escape.

Rhythmic pounding echoed up the eastern hall. Ahead, five men battered a wrought-iron torch stand against the great double doors.

Karvad, a pinched-nosed corporal, turned as Dothren came beside them. “The door’s barred, sir. There’s no way through.”

Dothren frowned then coughed. “Follow me, men.” He turned and hurried down the curved hallway.

A large mahogany cabinet stood against one wall. Dothren pressed a panel on one side and pulled. It swung on unseen hinges, revealing a narrow passage. “This way!”

The men followed him into the tunnel. The counterweighted door pinched shut behind them, plunging them into blackness. Blindly, Dothren felt his way deeper along the rough, dusty wall until he came to a wooden lever. He pulled it and a sliver of light opened before him. Pushing the secret door, he emerged out from behind a large painting inside the tower.

Drawing his rapier, he raced around toward the vault. His chest ached with every breath, but he couldn’t let that slow him. He turned at the alcove and the icy dread of his failure seized his heart. The vault doors stood open.

Panting, he looked at his men. “You three, go inside.” He pointed to a pock-marked private. “You stay here and guard the entrance. Karvad…” Dothren lifted his gaze to the ceiling. The thief had to have climbed in. It’s the only way he could have reached the arrow slit. He’d most likely leave the same way. “Come with me.”

*****

Frantically, Ahren rifled through the locker’s contents, flipping through stitched ledgers and loosed pages. Starting at the top, he drew a leather scroll tube, uncapped it, scanned the contents, and returned it before starting the next. Metallic thuds echoed upstairs, cadencing his pounding heart. The tower doors were designed to stop invaders. Surely they could hold back the garrison.

Ahren unfurled a new scroll, and held it to the lamplight. The field report from Sergeant Giggory Hadakir. He checked the pages, all rife with misspelled words and backwards letters, compliments of the illiterate copiers. Why a fifty-year-old scouting report was held alongside espionage records and assassination orders wasn’t Ahren’s concern. His orders were to collect it at all costs. Once confirming all the pages were there, he tucked them into his pouch and removed a long black feather. With a little grin, he slipped it into the tube before capping and returning it to its niche.

He’d just closed the locker when he realized the pounding had stopped. Were they inside?

Quickly, he worked the picks, relocking the iron cabinet door.

Voices shouted above.

Damn. Ahren looked back toward the entrance. Orange light moved down the stairwell.

Before it reached the bottom, Ahren removed his hanging lamp and hurried deeper into the vault. The stairs’ light grew brighter and boots came into view.

Ahren hung the lamp onto a random hook. It swung, casting moving shadows along the ceiling and cabinet aisles. Keeping low, he ran down a side row and into the darkness of the great chamber.

Three soldiers emerged from the stairs. Two held chained lamps, the other a torch.

“There,” one said, stabbing his rapier toward the swinging light.

The men fanned, each taking a separate row, and started toward the lamp. Their combined lights gave Ahren a few seconds’ glimpse of the cabinet maze. He mapped a quick route, then dropped.

Keeping to his hands and toes, Ahren hurried along a side row, pausing briefly as the guards’ light passed overhead. Once it had, he blindly hurried down the lane, then felt his way to the stairwell.

He crawled up the steps, just as the three lights closed in on his swinging decoy.

Hugging the inner wall, Ahren moved up in quick bursts, stopping only to glance up each stretch before hurrying to the top and checking the next. The pounding above resumed, thumping like a dull bell.

A new dread quashed any joy at knowing the tower doors were still locked. How had those men gotten inside the tower? What had he missed? How many more were there?

“Stop pushing it!” someone yelled. “Hold on!”

Ahren reached the open bronze vault door to see a young guard across the hall, fighting with the dropped cross-bars. Muffled shouts came from the other side of the tower entrance.

“Stop pushing!” the man repeated, driving his shoulder up against the bar.

Drawing his dagger, Ahren crossed the hall in four quick steps. He threw an arm around the guard’s shoulders, then drove the dagger point into the soft spot at the base of his skull.

The man jerked then stiffened. His sword clattered to the floor.

Sorry, friend. Ahren released the now twitching corpse and withdrew the bloodied blade. The guard had removed one of the two bars from the iron door, and the other was almost lifted from its cradle. Ahren slammed it back into place, and then returned to the vault door. Grabbing it in both hands, he pulled it closed. He slipped the captain’s medallion back into its slot and twisted. The locks clicked, sealing the men inside.

Time to go. Ahren retrieved the dead soldier’s rapier and raced toward the tower steps as the pounding resumed behind him.

He ran up the stairs, taking them two a time, and then sprinted through the luxurious reading rooms. Cool night air hit his sweat-streaked face as Ahren threw open the balcony door. He turned toward the parapet and froze.

The escape rope was gone.

*****

“Stop!” Dothren ordered.

The thief wheeled around, his eyes locking on Dothren’s extended blade. A spritz of blood stained the man’s stone-gray attire. Who had he killed?

Karvad moved up to his side, blocking the tower door. Wind fluttered his tabard.

“Surrender, thief.” Dothren stepped closer.

The intruder looked at Dothren, then Karvad, and lifted his sword.

“So be it.” Moving as one, Dothren and Karvad closed in, rapier tips before them. The thief stepped back to the wall, then dove forward. He knocked Karvad’s blade aside with sharp clang and thrust toward his face. The corporal parried the blow and attacked.

 

 

Feinting a sweep, the intruder spun and kneed Dothren in the side, knocking him back. Dothren stumbled and a coughing fit took hold. Doubling over, he tried to catch his breath as steel rang before him.

Karvad caught the thief’s sword against his own, then slid it up to the cage-like hilt. He twisted, hooking the blade and wrenched it from the man’s hand. It sailed off the battlement wall and out into the night. He punched the thief it the jaw, knocking him to the ground.

Dothren spat a bitter wad and stood up. “Good work, Corporal.” He extended his blade. “Surrender.”

The intruder glanced back toward the wall, lips tight.

“There’s no escape,” Dothren said, stepping up beside Karvad.

The thief’s desperate blue eyes met his. Dothren froze, the terrible realization blossomed in his gut. The saint!

The stranger crawled back until he met the wall. Karvad followed, keeping his rapier locked toward the man’s chest, but Dothren didn’t move. Reaching back, the thief grabbed the parapet and hopped up onto the wall. Wind rustled his shoulder-length hair.

This stranger had saved his children, his wife. The precious vial in his purse was intended to save him, and now the same stranger faced death. The army would have let Dothren die of his sickness, but a thief chose him to live. It wasn’t right. He owed this man his family’s lives. But if Dothren’s treason became known, they’d live destitute. He couldn’t fail them. Clenching his jaw, he stepped forward and drove his sword into Karvad’s back.

*****

Ahren flinched as the captain thrust his rapier straight through the other soldier’s body. The man’s own sword fell from his hand. He stumbled and collapsed. Gurgling, he rolled toward Dothren in confused terror.

Dothren stared blankly at the dying man. “You have my medallion.” He met Ahren’s gaze. “I would have it back.”

Slowly, Ahren reached into his purse and withdrew the pendant key. He held it out.

“You were the doctor.”

Ahren nodded. “Yes.”

The captain coughed and accepted the medallion. He squeezed it so hard Ahren suspected it cut his hand. “In the second room there’s a tapestry of a stag. Behind it, a door.” Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. “Go.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Dothren looked up at the stars. “Just go.”

Ahren stepped off the wall. He picked up the dying man’s fallen sword and moved to the tower door. Turning to thank the Dothren, he froze, seeing him now standing on the parapet wall.

“Wait!”

Without looking back, Dothren lifted his arms and went over the edge. Ahren stared at the spot he’d been. Then the distant echoes of soldiers battering the downstairs doors pulled his attention away. Thank you, Captain.

Ahren ran inside. In the second room, behind a colorful image of a golden stag, he found the hidden door.

A crash boomed downstairs, followed by shouts and cries. Ahren slipped into the passage and hurried down a crevice-like hall as dozens of running feet charged up the tower stairs.

The passage led deep into the building, seeming longer than the tower itself. Feeling his way in the dark, Ahren nearly fell down a short flight of steps. They turned twice before ending at a wooden wall. Trapped! The tower was crawling with soldiers. There was no going back.

Blindly, he felt along the wall, discovering a latch that opened a low door. Tile shingles stretched before him, lit in pale moonlight. He looked around, finding himself on a roof alongside the tower.

Shouts and bells rang in the courtyard below as men hurried into the fortress. Keeping low, Ahren followed the roof’s spine to the opposite side of the complex. Silver moonlight lit the southern face. He scrambled down and escaped into the night.

*****

Elacha woke to darkness. Frightened, she felt the covers, finding her children still there. Just a dream.

A soft knock echoed from downstairs.

She looked to the window, seeing only stars. Who would call at this hour?

It was like this when they’d come to tell her of her husband, rousing her from bed to shatter her world. Six days and she still half-expected him to return home. But he never would.

The knock repeated.

Pushing away the bitter memory, Elacha slipped from beneath the blankets and hurried downstairs. “Coming.”

She opened the door and yelped, seeing a black figure in the doorway. Beneath its hood, pale eyes stared out from a plague doctor’s mask. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to still her racing heart. “Yes?”

“Elacha Dothren?” the stranger asked.

“I am.”

“I knew your late husband. He was an honorable man.”

Elacha nodded. Jimmet didn’t know any doctors. Who was this man? She thought of the medicine her husband had brought home, never revealing where he’d gotten it. “Are you collecting a debt?”

“No, ma’am. Repaying one.” He offered a cloth bag. “This is for your family.”

Unsure, she eyed it. Then accepted it from his gloved fingers. It weighed more than she’d expected and the sound of coins jingled inside. “What is this for?”

“He saved my life.” The stranger turned and began walking away down the empty street.

Puzzled, Elacha pulled the purse open and gasped. Over twenty gold bishkas rested inside, glinting in the faint light. She looked again, but the stranger, the saint, was gone. She held the bag to her breast and wept. “Bless you. Bless you.”

END

________________________________________

Raised in the swamps and pine forests of East Texas, Seth Skorkowsky gravitated to the darker sides of fantasy, perfering horror and pulp heroies over knights in shining armor.

His Black Raven pulp character debuted in Flashing Swords magazine in 2008.  Seth has since released two collections of Black Raven Adventures with Mountain of Daggers and Sea of Quills.  He also writes urban fantasy.  His fourth Valducan novel was released in 2018.

When not writing, Seth enjoys cheesy movies, tabletop roleplaying games, making YouTube videos, and travelling the world with his wife.