EVERET MARTINS
STORMCALLER
Book One of
THE AGE OF DAWN
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Dedication
To coffee and nicotine gum, my faithful stimulants throughout many long days.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1 – Awakening
Chapter 2 – The Lash
Chapter 3 – The Festival of Flames
Chapter 4 – First Draw
Chapter 5 – Choices
Chapter 6 – New Discoveries
Chapter 7 – Running
Chapter 8 – Blackout
Chapter 9 – Lich’s Falls
Chapter 10 – Exiles
Chapter 11 – Peeled
Chapter 12 – Cursed
Chapter 13 – Corruption
Chapter 14 – Pink Caps
Chapter 15 – Death Adders
Chapter 16 – Iron Sharpens Iron
Chapter 17 – Bonesnapper
Chapter 18 – Departures
Chapter 19 – Grimbald
Chapter 20 – Midgaard
Chapter 21 – A New Tutelage
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Chapter 1 – Awakening
“I come to you with open hands, bowed head, and a heart laden with vengeance.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness
Asebor stirred under the crushing weight of the dense lodestone tomb, his Milvorian manacles held tightly to his limbs. The force of life deep within his chest, a flowering lotus, opened into his consciousness, returning the ancient spark of thought to his mind. He flexed his fingers open, white, vicious talons rasping against the side wall like a knife on whetstone. His eyes snapped open, revealing dull glowing violet slits, as he sharply inhaled the first breath of this life. He arched his bony back, stretching his chest as he remembered what it felt like to be contained within a body. The seal of The Age of Dawn must have finally broken. Is it possible?
The agony of a decaying body joyfully wracked his flesh, confirming his return to glorious life. He growled, revealing cascading rows of razor-sharp teeth. He opened his palms and pressed on the tomb’s massive cover. He fought to harness a sliver of the Power of the Dragon, stone dust raining on his eyes. He struggled in the stream of power. Asebor had trials ahead of him, having only a husk of the power he once held. He finally snatched it like a spear through a fish, the Dragon filling his veins with strength and a maelstrom of anger.
He roared and smashed his hands against his cold prison, throwing the tomb lid against the wall. It fissured and crumbled into foot-thick pieces, revealing the inscriptions of the ward that once contained him. He violently flexed his biceps, pulling against the white chains that bound his wrists, the spikes lining the inside of the dense chains spilling his freshly flowing blood.
He extended his bladed right index finger, focusing brilliant green flames of the Dragon at the chain on his opposite hand. He grinned, knowing in time he would be free. In time, the day will be night once again. The only future for peace is war. There is no hatred, there is only retribution, cold, hard, and final. “I will not fail you again,” he said, voice grating.
**
Walter woke from his slumber on his feather-lined bed, listening to the rooster bellow his morning salute. He propped himself up on his elbows, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as the morning sun bathed his face with warmth. Glancing through his bedroom window facing west, he could see it was going to be a beautiful day.
The cumulus clouds from the Abyssal Sea brushed the tips of the Denerian Cliffs, flowing into the green vistas that wound into the already bustling town of Breden. A strong sea wind arced the thin line of towering smoke that puffed from the Ars Volcano, pushing it further west into the boiling sea. A distant eruption rumbled through his window. The volcano had apparently also awoken from its slumber.
The snorts of the hogs waking carried into his room, awaiting their morning scraps. He beamed at the aroma of his father’s morning elixir wafting into his room. He pushed his shoulder-length, honey-wheat hair out of his emerald eyes and behind his ears. He rubbed at his square jaw, tension fading from what might have been the most bizarre nightmare he could remember. I was spinning a metal chain over my head, or was it a lash? He shook his head and rubbed his eyes.
Breden was a small town of about a thousand denizens according to the last survey. Most were elixir-bean farmers or fishermen. Breden was known throughout the realm of Zoria for its fragrant beans, ones that elicited a delightful energy and focus-enhancing effect. Some farmers, such as Walter’s family, were fortunate to have settled in an area with superb soil, yielding a highly sought-after bean variety known as Redbud Beans. They were named for their extraordinarily bright colors. There were only a handful of other farms that could produce this bean type, putting Walter’s family in an excellent position for this nature of business.
He rolled out of bed and onto his feet and let his body hang into a deep hamstring stretch, shaking off the soreness of yesterday’s training. Walter stood at roughly eighteen hands, had a fair complexion, and thick eyebrows that drew to a furrow when he focused. Minutes later, he kicked his legs behind him into a push-up position and started working his muscular body.
He remembered the drawl of his scarred Sid-Ho master Noah: “I’ll make you lads hard wood when I’m through with you.” Being a young man, Walter asked himself if he was taking this too seriously, but sloughed the question off as he continued plowing through the last few push-ups. Just as he finished and was nearly standing, the red cedar bedroom door burst open with a slam. Wiggles the black hound tackled him and smothered his face with sloppy tongue laps. “You crazy dog! C’mon!” Walter laughed while he defended himself from the onslaught of saliva that coated his sun-conditioned olive skin.
Walter’s father Aiden sat sipping a cup of black elixir at the heavy barn wood table, eyes focused and clearly lost in a tale from Thieves of Gold. His mother Isabelle turned and beamed at Walter when he entered the kitchen, her blue eyes sparkling in a morning sunray. She prepared eggs and mouthwatering ham that incited grumbles from Walter’s stomach.
“I hope you guys are hungry, the girls are cranking out eggs faster than usual,” Isabelle chuckled and she flipped a sunny-side-up egg.
“I’m ravenous!” Walter said, getting plates from the cupboard.
“Are you boys excited for the Festival of Flames tonight?” Aiden asked, dog-earing a bookmark in the tome and pushing it to the edge of the table.
“Absolutely! We’ve been waiting for it all year! I’m going to meet Juzo at his dad’s, and then we’re going to pick up Nyset on our way,” said Walter, eyeing the frying ham slices from across the room.
“Alright. Well, make sure you harvest at least two baskets of elixir cherries today and set them for pulping. I need to get a batch to Shipton for the goats Hal sent us last week,” said Aiden. He took another quaff of his aromatic brew and allowed his gaze to rest upon Walter. “I had the strangest dream last night,” Aiden said. He rubbed his scruffy chin and then the back of his neck.
“
Oh yeah?” said Isabelle.
“Yes, there was an army that stretched as far as the eye could see, not entirely composed of men, but also of the most bizarre creatures, not quite human. You stood at the head of this battalion, Walter. Your face, however, was much older, contorted by years of – well, suffering. You seemed wiser… and harder, with deep lines like a worn stone.”
“Are you saying I’m not wise now?” Walter said. Aiden rolled his eyes, returning to his book.
“It was such a vivid dream. It’s been a while since I’ve had one that felt so realistic.”
Coincidence? No such thing, Walter thought.
Isabelle bumped Wiggles out of the way while deftly placing three fried eggs and a large piece of ham on Walter’s plate. “Don’t forget to bring the goat cream to Mrs. Camfield,” said Isabelle. Walter groaned, “Is that all? I’m really looking forward to such a relaxing day.”
“Character building. One day you’ll thank me,” intoned Aiden.
Walter decided it was prudent to remain silent for the rest of morning supper, and avoid negotiating with his father today. He really did want to go to the Festival of Flames. John, one of his father’s hired workers, should be around, and he would certainly be useful if convinced to help.
On his way out of the kitchen he pilfered four honey buns from the silver tray, stuffing them in his pockets. He leaped down the stairs, whistling as he exited the beautifully wood- and iron-constructed house. He turned, looking up at the fascia, inspecting for more woodpecker infiltration. Damn woodpeckers. The intricate swirls and spirals carved into the trim were a marvel. He reminded himself to ask his father who in Breden could teach him how to craft something so striking.
Walter turned towards the farm. He paused, taking in the beauty of the expanse of perfectly aligned elixir plants stretching to the edge of the Mission Road. He looked into the clear sky, observing the gradients of sea-foam green stretching from the horizon. The faster I get this done, the quicker I can see Nyset.
He found John in the pulping house. Shortly John was licking his fingers, the sticky remnants of a honey bun lining his thin lips.
“There are three more of those for you on my dad’s workbench if you can help me pick elixir cherries today. What’d ya say, you old lug?”
The stout man raised an eye at Walter, wiping crumbs from his broad chest. “I’ll help you pick one basket, but after that I need to do what Mr. Glade asked,” he said, crossing his arms.
“Deal! I’ll get more of those for you next time, as a bonus of sorts,” said Walter, meeting his wide eyes.
John snickered, peering over Walter’s shoulder. “Your mother sure has sweet buns.”
“John, please don’t make me kill you. I would hate to spend the rest of my days in the stockade.” Walter smirked, punching John’s beefy arm. “Don’t you have some work to do?”
Isabelle smiled at them from the tomato garden, tucking a stray lock of light brown hair behind her ear. She waved, and then bent over and resumed pulling the weeds leeching nutrients from the tomatoes. Walter sighed, and put his hand on top of John’s head, turning the man’s body from the direction of his mother.
They sauntered over to the northeastern side of the small elixir plantation, where the cherries were ripe for picking. Walter wished he’d had a cup before they started working. It was amazing how much more energy one had after a cup of the stuff. The key to picking elixir cherries is to leave the unripe cherries on the plant. One can easily tell they’re ripe by gently squeezing the fruit and feeling for a slight softness that will give under moderate pressure – like a man untrained in combat, with an over-inflated ego, master Noah had said.
Walter started raking the felled cherries into piles, taking a deep breath of satisfaction. The warm sun beat on his back and the cool breeze evaporated the sweat on his neck. He stared into the abyss of various shades of cherries as he raked them into a pile, his gaze fixated on the main pile he was working.
His peripheral vision guided his rake pulls toward the central pile. He slowed and deepened his breath, allowing the muscles not working to relax. He softened his gaze and smiled. The world around the mass of red and pink shimmered and blurred, peripheral vision melting away. The reds and pinks deepened and their textures were enhanced. One cherry had been nibbled by a grub, another by a bird, and three were prematurely picked.
Time slowed to a crawl as he watched the cherries tumble over one another with each pull of the steel-tined rake. Warmth radiated through his body and washed over his mind, slipping into Warrior’s Focus. Inhale. Exhale. That is all that is, and was. He felt as though he could predict the trajectory of each cherry’s movement from the main pile as they were swept towards the center.
Something painfully bit his ear, snapping Walter out of his daze, Warrior’s Focus vanishing. He turned to see John staring at him, innocently rubbing his stubbly chin. “Hey, crazy! Can you hear me now?” asked John, smiling. He slung another elixir cherry at Walter’s face. Walter easily avoided it and counterattacked with a volley of three. John expertly caught one in his mouth, proceeded to chew it, and then spat it out in disgust.
“You need to roast them first, dummy. C’mon, we’re done here, let’s get these back and get on with the day.” John laughed.
“Woo-hoo! We’re done!” John hooted. “Oh wait, now I can start on the tasks your dad gave me.” John’s expression quickly darkened, and then just as quickly brightened. “Well, every man needs to earn his keep,” said John resolutely.
“I suppose so,” said Walter, hefting his basket. “Let’s get these to the pulper before my dad loses his mind.”
Walter and John ambled down the worn dirt path toward the barn house. “You know what the problem with this type of work is?” asked Walter.
“The pay?” John smirked.
“At least you get paid,” retorted Walter.
“Oh yeah? So tell me, how much does the money changer ask you each month for the payment your dad makes every month for the house?”
Walter crinkled his nose, “Point taken. No, the problem is that this type of work is just so unsatisfying.” John glared at him.
Walter entered the barn and started pouring his basket of cherries into the pulper, while John cranked the three-spoked wheel to turn the drum that ejected the stones from the cherries.
“I don’t know if this type of life is for me. I crave adventure, excitement, something bigger, more than this. My father has done well with this business, but it’s not for me. Not to mention it’s practically the opposite of exciting – did I mention it’s boring? Maybe I’ll join the Midgaard Falcon when I’m older,” Walter said dreamily, peering in the direction of the capital.
“Don’t let your dreams die, kid. I tried to get in, they wouldn’t have me, bastards. I guess I was just too slow,” John grumbled, appearing distant.
“It might help if you laid off the honey buns for a day.” Walter chuckled. “I have to get going to lash practice, can you finish up?”
John looked daggers at him. “You owe me, lad.”
Walter exited the barn, swinging his arms as he walked. “Garden looks great, Mom,” he said as he passed her, smiling.
He gazed across the farm at the woodlands three hundred paces off lining the farm, his sharp eyes catching a bizarre sight he grappled to comprehend. He froze mid-stride, staring into the distance, eyes focusing. His heart pounded through his chest and head with explosive beats, blurring his vision at the shock of such a sight. It looked like a man, but he instinctively knew it was not. It was as thin as his petite mother, except with gnarled, brown skin and bearing a strange hand. The hand had unnaturally long talons extending from fingertips that wrapped around a tree.
He closed his eyes and rubbed them vigorously, hoping that when he opened them the horror would be gone. “It’s an illusion, a dream of my imagination, reading too many stories at night,” he told himself. He opened his eyes with a sharp exhalation and there was nothing. No horrors in the woods.
Everything was fine, just fine. He really needed to start getting more sleep. “This staying up all night and reading was not good for my sanity,” he whispered. The image lingered in his memory as he tried to shake it off.
Walter marched up the oak stairs, passing his father Aiden. “Something wrong, Walt?” he quizzed.
“No, why? Everything is great! Can you believe this weather?” said Walter. He clenched and opened his fists and cleared his throat.
“Are you sure?” Aiden asked. “You seem like you just looked for your own reflection and realized you didn’t have one.”
“Very cute. It sounds like you’ve been reading too many tales too,” said Walter. He stumbled as he reached the top of the stairs, and caught himself before falling. Aiden met his eyes for a long moment, then carried on.
Walter trudged down the hall and bumped open the door to his room, avoiding the long stick Wiggles had evidently dragged into the house while he was working. The culprit had naturally already departed from the scene of the crime. He scanned his room, thinking about how nice it would be to take a nap on that cushiony feather bed right now. Invoking some of his will, he grabbed his leather bag for Sid-Ho training – it contained a light set of armor and his training lash – and cinched it to his back. “I won’t be home until late tonight after the Festival of Flames. Is there anything else I need?” he asked the unresponsive bedroom. He grabbed a small gem pouch from his sock drawer, stuffing it into his pocket. He then retrieved his two simple boot knives, sheathing them out of sight. One can never have too many knives.
He took a deep breath. “Armor, training lash, marks, knives, that’s it, right?” He dropped his bag and re-opened it. “Armor and training lash are in my bag, OK. They’re fine, they’re good.” He said. He felt either side of his boots again. “Knives are there, OK, good. Do I have everything?” Yes, you have everything, by the Phoenix, stop the madness.
His mother stopped him before stepping out the main door. “You might want this. You’re going to be hungry after training.” She draped a filled waterskin over his shoulders and handed him a small satchel containing nuts and dried meat, and lastly the cream for Mrs. Camfield, Nyset’s mother.
Stormcaller (Book 1) Page 1
