Stormcaller (Book 1)

by Everet Martins

  “They’re like rats here,” Walter said dismissively.

  Lillian caught up, walking beside him. He nodded at her. This armor seems to be providing limitless endurance. He should have felt weary with sore muscles by now. It took some getting used to, hearing yourself clink as you walked. With this armor, you don’t need stealth. Baylan wants it, he wants to steal it from you. Lillian will slay you for him. If you killed Baylan, you could have Lillian. She would be yours to do whatever you wanted. Her flawless skin and perfect breasts – he cut himself off.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he whispered aloud. Lillian looked at him with her thin eyebrows raised.

  “Was that a question for me?” she quizzed.

  “No, never mind, it’s been a long day,” he said wearily.

  They arrived in Breden just before sunset, pink rays illuminating the horizon. Walter was half expecting a battle upon arrival but found entering the town comfortingly uneventful. They passed through an intricately carved archway reading “Breden Embraces All”, signifying the town entrance. “Now what do we do?” Walter said. He began to feel overwhelmed at the reality of being home. “I’m actually here,” he said.

  “Revealing who you are and your intentions would be a good start,” a gruff voice said from behind a large tree. Two figures stepped out from behind the stocky tree, silhouetted by the now pink and amber sunset, leveling loaded crossbows at them.

  “It’s Walter Glade – my father produced elixir for the town,” he said hurriedly.

  “Walter? Is that really you? We all thought you were dead,” the first man said, lowering his weapon and stepping into the torchlight.

  “Hassan? Is that you?”

  “Aye, boy,” Hassan replied. Hassan was a bulky man with a flat face and a beard shaped into a point. He wore the traditional city guard armor, a hybrid of leather and plate. His shoulder had four golden knots, indicating he was the Captain.

  Walter ran to him and embraced him, “It’s great to see you, sir!”

  “That’s some interesting armor you’ve got there, boy,” Hassan said. Walter looked at Baylan, who met his eyes with irritation. “It’s a long story for another day. Hassan, these are my friends, Baylan and Lillian. You can tell Kaleb to lower his weapon. They mean no harm, I swear.” Hassan nodded to the tired-looking Kaleb, who promptly complied.

  “You keep company with strange folk,” grunted Kaleb, turning away and lighting a pipe with a torch in the archway.

  “Hassan is, naturally, the Captain of the city guard and was a close friend of my father’s,” Walter said, before growing quiet.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” said Lillian, offering her hand. Hassan took it awkwardly.

  A refreshing breeze from the sea ruffled her hair. I never thought I would feel that again, Walter thought.

  “How many people did we lose?” Walter asked.

  “Fifty-two civilians dead, nineteen from the guard – and many others were gravely injured,” Hassan said, exhaling with the weight of all of that tragedy.

  Walter opened his mouth, and then hesitated.

  “Out with it, boy, it’s alright.” Hassan beckoned.

  “We found a camp, about four miles from here. We investigated it and found four of the creatures that attacked us, well, we managed to kill them.”

  “By the Phoenix, the three of you killed four of those monsters? It took over fifty of us to slay eight here,” he said, incredulous, with narrowed eyes.

  Walter nodded. “We got lucky. The good news is we didn’t see any others. Hopefully that’s the end of it.”

  “I sent a messenger, Carlin, by way of the Helms East Road to request support from Midgaard. You didn’t perhaps see him, did you? He’s thin, long scar over the eye.”

  Walter nodded, “He’s dead, I’m afraid. These beasts – people they capture – they torture them, feeding from their pain.”

  “Bastards, fucking bastards!” Hassan said, stomping his boot into the ground. He tugged at his beard, working the conical shape. “You should go to your estate, son. We’ve taken care of your parents. They’ve been buried in your family’s cemetery, as is proper.”

  Walter’s face grew dark.

  “You should have let me bury them,” he said tersely.

  “I know you must be angry, son, we all–”

  Walter interrupted: “Stupid city guards, not worth the tax crystals my father paid to employ you.”

  Hassan looked to the ground, unsure.

  “Sleep and food would be a great start,” said Lillian, taking in the town’s outskirts. She placed her hand behind Walter’s neck, leading him off. “He’s had a hard day, thank you, gentlemen.” Baylan nodded to the men, following Lillian’s lead.

  “Sorry,” Walter said sheepishly.

  It had been three days since Walter had been here. From the outside, his house looked very much the same. The ornate woodwork and bountiful garden belied the evil that had recently transpired. When they reached the front entry where a door had once been, it all came rushing back in vivid detail. The door still lay skewed in the main hall. A line of dried blood slashed it diagonally.

  Walter followed the trail of blood from the door to the expansive kitchen. It would have been a welcome sight if not for the bloodbath. It looked like someone had attempted to paint the kitchen walls with gore. Two of the large windows were blown apart, glass shards littering the marble floor. In one corner lay a heaped Cerumal that appeared to have been incinerated. In the middle of the floor another armored hulk had three gaping holes in its chest.

  Walter nodded, wide eyes observing the scene. “She was a brave warrior. My mother sacrificed herself to save us.” A tear slid from the corner of his eye.

  Baylan placed an arm around his shoulder. “I am deeply regretful for your loss, Walter. She was a true warrior,” He led him out of the grisly kitchen. They reached the top of the stairs, leading to the bedrooms. Walter felt sickness, weariness, and a sense of heavy defeat bearing down upon him. I failed her, I should have stayed to fight. Juzo was right, he thought. The familiar scent of the cedar stairs reminded him what home smelled like. It should have felt warm and comforting. Now it reminded him that safety and peace were transient.

  “I’m a coward. I could have saved her.” He sniffled, falling to his knees, armor gouging the soft wood.

  “You did what you had to, Walter. The past is an illusion, immutable,” said Lillian, dumping her small satchel in one of the guest bedrooms.

  “The past is an illusion? Are you serious? Those are your consoling words? Callous bitch,” he barked. Hurt contorted her face.

  “I’m sorry, Walter, I didn’t intend offense,” she said.

  Walter’s eyes flashed like black coals for an instant. “Don’t sleep on my mother’s bed.” He trudged to the end of the hall and slammed the door. Walter’s bed creaked with the stress of the added weight of his armor. Finally, I can rest. Images of the last three days spun and blurred through his mind, disjointed, fleeting and terrifying. He overheard Lillian and Baylan before he crashed into sleep.

  “Did you see his eyes? The armor is already changing him. Evidently his mother really could invoke the Dragon power,” Lillian whispered.

  “That must be partly why he can use the Dragon power,” surmised Baylan. “It’s astounding, really.”

  “It doesn’t really explain why he can, though. Only women can, as far as you know, right?” asked Lillian.

  “As far as I knew, but that was of course recently proven false.” Baylan flipped through his leather-bound notebook. “Perhaps he uses the weapon with the Phoenix.” He resumed working on a charcoal sketch of Walter in a battle stance, Stormcaller waving in the air.

  “Perhaps,” Lillian replied, yawning. “Using Dragon power can be exhausting.” She crawled into a cushy feather bed, melting into sleep. The scraping of charcoal on paper reminded her of being home in the Silver Tower, where the sounds of people taking notes and sketching findings were the normal way of things. />
  **

  What am I? Walter wondered, watching a tiny Dragon soar within the flaming sphere in his mind’s eye, awaiting his use.

  He turned on his side and looked out the window. Clouds billowed across the dark sky. Thunder cracked loud enough to break the world in half. His room was briefly illuminated by the flash of forked lightning as violent wind whistled through openings in the house. Rain fell like the Abyssal Sea was dumped from the sky, cascading from his windowpane. He turned from the window to the ceiling, enjoying the tumult.

  The flaming sphere changed and became a pillar, then a blade, a spear, and finally an all-encompassing wall. Walter listlessly observed its sudden shape-shifting nature, too tired to care as exhaustion overcame him.

  Chapter 14 – Pink Caps

  “I danced upon the waves of life and death, the wave of immortality.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

  Walter knelt in the recently disturbed, wet soil before the two heaping mounds where his parents lay. Atop each mound was an honor wreath, fashioned from pink roses to protect the dead from malevolent forces in the afterlife. He stared at the roses. Thin rivulets slid from the corners of his eyes. Lillian and Baylan stood behind him on either side with their arms behind their backs, paying their respect to the fallen.

  “I should have come earlier, what’s wrong with me? Did I really think sleeping was more important than paying my final respects to my parents?” Walter said aloud. You’ve gone soft, need to stop being so selfish. This should have been the first thing I did.

  The cool wind was welcome in the heat of the morning sun. It blew Walter’s long hair to his shoulder, exposing his neck. Lillian’s breath caught when she saw the back of Walter’s neck. The skin on the right side had changed, becoming marbled with undulating ashen lines. Baylan nodded to her in understanding. Walter rubbed at the transmuted skin, feeling its thickened texture, detecting their eyes on him. He violently pulled his hand away.

  “It’s really happening now.” He stood with terror in his eyes, looking to Lillian and Baylan.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Baylan. “I wonder if I can help,” He reached a hand toward Walter, cupping him behind the neck. Worry crossed Walter’s eyes.

  “Trust,” Baylan smiled. Walter hesitated a moment and then nodded sharply.

  Baylan’s body glowed with a faint white light, almost invisible in the day. Walter felt soothing warmth envelop his body. He noticed a tingling in his hand and observed as the skin around a deep scratch pulled together, closing before his eyes. Walter felt other minor scratches and abrasions healing, his body rapidly mending. Baylan grew brighter, a white aura now clearly visible. Walter closed his eyes and the wound in his shoulder ejected small fragments from both the entry and exit points. That explains why that still hurt, Walter thought.

  Baylan grew brighter still, almost unbearable to look at.

  “Not so much, Baylan!” Lillian cautioned.

  “It’s working, just a little–” Baylan broke off as he was thrown off his feet. A ring of jet-black mist exploded from Baylan’s hand, rippling around Walter and sinking to the ground. Baylan landed on his back, sliding in coarse gravel, stopping a pace from Walter. Writhing in pain, he clutched his right hand, the one that had been on Walter’s neck. Smoke rose from his blackened hand. It had been reduced to a cinder. Baylan stared at it, screaming.

  “Ugh, it’s too powerful! Such darkness!” he heaved, eyes closed tightly.

  Lillian gaped, and with a wave of her hand the water from a deep puddle leaped on Baylan, assuaging the heat. The dousing had caused the ashes of his hand to flush away, revealing finger bones and small patches of sinewy flesh.

  Walter shook his head. “It has to be amputated to prevent infection.” He grabbed at the armor, angrily pulling. “Come off!” he screamed.

  “We’ll get it off in Midgaard, Walter. Malek is a hell of a wizard,” Lillian said, putting her body under Baylan’s shoulder to help him stand.

  Malek, I hope you know about this curse. Walter took a deep breath, gathering himself. “OK, OK, let’s get that hand taken care of.”

  Walter used his mother’s surgical supplies to amputate Baylan’s hand. It seemed that Baylan was unable to feel – Walter was forced to use the bone saw without anesthetic. If she was here she could’ve told me which anesthetic to use. I couldn’t have risked it, too much could kill a person, she had said. Walter wrapped Baylan’s stump in layers of thick gauze and Ribwort oil to promote healing and stave off infection.

  “Thank you for trying, friend. I’m sorry about what happened, about putting on the armor – I hadn’t realized it wasn’t normal armor,” Walter said, leading Baylan to a sofa in the living room to rest.

  “I was so close. I could feel the curse lifting. I could see your skin changing, and then… then the armor, it attacked me. It must have a defense against Phoenix power, or perhaps Dragon power as well. I need to write this down. Can you get my bag Lillian?” Baylan asked.

  Walter chuckled. “What are you writing, a history book or something?”

  Baylan waved with his intact hand in the direction of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, made of a deep brown wood. To the left of the bookshelves was a large, beautifully illustrated map of the Zoria realm. The adjacent wall held dozens of glass jars containing dried elixir cherries, sorted by color. “All of these tomes, how do you think they were created?”

  “Are you saying I’m going to be in a book?” Walter raised an eyebrow.

  “Walter, I don’t think you understand the magnitude of what’s been happening. The Cerumal raids, a Black Wynch!” he said excitedly. “A man – you – invoking the power of the Dragon. This is extremely rare, it’s legends that will surpass the ages. It all must be documented. The world and our children must know about these times.” Baylan waved his hand enthusiastically.

  “His head is already big enough, don’t you think, Baylan?” Lillian said, eyes twinkling.

  Baylan looked hard at Walter and started. “Walter, your face, your eyes!” Baylan squinted. Walter’s eyes widened and his pupils contracted. He strode to the nearest washroom and saw himself in various sizes in the cracked mirror. His left eye was now a deep black, no clear separation between pupil, iris, and sclera. The left side of his jawline had gray skin creeping towards his face.

  “I need to go see my friends, to see if they’re still – Lillian, please stay here and watch him to make sure he is OK.” Walter said. Lillian naturally agreed, seeing the urgency in his face. Walter retrieved a long forest-green cloak from his father’s closet to shroud his armor, and a thin cream and red lined scarf to hide his neck. Some would recognize the armor style, and that would not bode well.

  **

  Walter made the mile walk to Breden Square in solitude. The chaos of the last few days fell away, leaving him with a sense of desolate peace. I can kill, I have killed. The thought lay isolated in his mind, tossed and examined from all sides.

  The wind blew refreshing air through his clothes and the upturned tree leaves, exposing the latter’s light green undersides. I am a bringer of death. A brown and white spotted hawk screeched overhead, riding the thermals. He watched it as he walked. I will avenge my parents with honor. He realized something within him had changed, grown a little colder and harder. Scars forge character, his father had once said to him over a Silver Fish dinner. I didn’t make enough time to get to know you, he thought bitterly.

  He arrived in Breden Square, where the Phoenix idol from the Festival of Flames remained intact, still unburned. The square was uncharacteristically empty for this time of day. People were presumably mourning the heavy losses and likely still fearful of this place. I don’t blame them. The city guard had been doubled in the square, activating the guard reserves. A few brave souls still browsed the square, buying groceries and other wares. A scant amount of orange fabric still flapped in the breeze from the mostly-neglected shops.

  A pair of guards passed him, eyeing his bulky f
orm. “Can never be too prepared, right?” Walter said nervously, looking down so they didn’t see his eyes, and feigning deference.

  “Right,” one of the guards said, furrowing his brow at Walter as he walked off, continuing his rounds.

  Seeing the hanging wood carved bowl for Casey the chef’s store was like a sucker punch to the gut. That chef – time for some answers. Noah, he was the only one who had realized what he’d done. Casey probably told everyone it was something else, he thought. He had to restrain himself from sprinting to the door. He walked, hoping he appeared casual. An artery in his neck jumped with every beat.

  He sauntered in, observing Casey making a sale. The chef exchanged glittering marks with a stout man. His right hand was wrapped in reddish bandages in dire need of changing. Walter circled the store, sniffing the aromatic soups, waiting for the stout man to depart. It was a simple business. Six stock pots filled with soups of various colors bubbled on an iron hearth.

  “Casey, how are you?” Walter said, cocking his head and widening his eyes. He parted his cloak behind his shoulders, unveiling the menacing armor. Walter peered into the back room. No apprentices, good.

  “Well, well, Walter, I’m j – ju – just swell,” he stammered. His eyes scanned the room, resting on the door. He rubbed his hands together, shifting his weight to his right side.

  Walter snickered, gazing at Casey’s wounded hand. “I’m glad to see you’re alright.” The chef managed a toothy smile. Blood from his wounded hand smeared onto the other from his overzealous rubbing. He noticed it then, wiping red onto his characteristically soiled apron. Walter flipped the “OPEN” sign on the front door to “CLOSED” and slid the bolt, locking it with a resounding click.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Casey demanded. Walter stared into the chef’s eyes, ambling towards him.

  Walter shook his head. “There is nowhere to run,” he said, mouth in a sadistic grimace, his eyes becoming black as night. Casey’s jaw dropped open, eyes filling with tears. “Guard–” Casey was cut off as Walter reached across the counter, his hand sinking into the squishy skin around Casey’s larynx and squeezing it between his fingers. Casey’s hands grasped at the fingers around his neck. Walter was like ice as the pallor of Casey’s face became tomato red.