by Howard Upton
Of Blood and Stone
A Bill Evers Novel
Of Blood and Stone
A Bill Evers Novel
Howard Upton
Copyright © 2014 Kaizen Quest Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Upton, Howard, 1969-
Of Blood and Stone
ISBN – 978-1-937884-12-3
1. Action Thriller. 2. Suspense Thriller. 3. Military. 4. Martial Arts.
™
Kaizen Quest Publishing
What Readers Are Saying About “Of Blood & Stone”
A Tribute to America’s Fighting Men
“Bill Evers is an extraordinary character with real life problems. PTSD is to him what kryptonite is to Superman. This book is a tribute to America’s fighting men and women who have returned home afflicted with this terrible disease.” Kevin Roper ~ Iraqi War veteran
A Spell-binding Adventure full of Intrigue, Action, and Magic
“Of Blood and Stone is a well-spun story of intrigue and international mystery, intertwined with unexpected twists, nonstop action, double-crosses, martial arts, conspiracy theories, and magic. Howard Upton has an amazing talent for pulling the reader into the story and then keeping him wanting more, right up until the very end. He does an incredible job of integrating military knowledge and martial arts with conspiracy theories, history, and magic, and does so in such a way that makes every part of this adventure exciting and realistic. I even found myself wanting to do further research on some of the mysterious facts that Upton so expertly incorporates throughout the adventure. This is a book that you will not want to put down until you get to the end, and then it will leave you ready for Bill Evers’ next adventure.” Dr. Bohdi Sanders ~ award-winning author of the #1 bestseller, Modern Bushido: Living a Life of Excellence
The Words Rattle and Hum with an Unmistakable Magnetism
“Spies, murder, mystery, martial arts action, testosterone packed intrigue, international suspense, a 2300 year old supernatural curse, globetrotting storyline of characters...no detail is spared as the author weaves his natural southern charm and real-world experience into the fabric of his characters in this story. Like the ancient cartouche at the center of the storyline – the words rattle and hum with an unmistakable magnetism as they fly off the paper and into the reader's mind, simultaneously bolting you to the edge of your seat, and locking your eyes onto page after page, with no chance of escape until the end.” Garry Parker ~ martial arts instructor and author of Chanpuru: Reflections and Lessons Learned on the Dojo Floor
What Readers Are Saying About “Of Blood & Stone”
Exceptionally Written and Engaging!
“Of Blood and Stone is exceptionally written and engaging. The steady and intensely paced plot captures your attention and keeps you wanting more. The characters are so engaging; some you hate to love and others you love to hate! I’m anxiously awaiting a sequel!” Dr. Bridgette Hester ~ professor and author of Godwink: On the Wings of Butterflies
It is Thrilling… An Exciting Page Turner
“If you like shamans, magic, incantations and spells then this captivating fiction is for you! Howard Upton has created resilient, stimulating, macho characters that he strategically places all over the world in a race to find an enchanted cartouche. It is thrilling, as a reader, to follow Evers, the core character, through his winding journey to reveal the connection between ancient civilizations, the cartouche and a spell binding ending you’ll just have to read to believe! Of Blood and Stone is an exciting page turner that I recommend to anyone craving a spicy new novel to pass around to everyone they know!” Emily Rees ~ administrative professional
An Adventurous Roller Coaster
“Author Howard Upton sets the reader on an adventurous roller coaster that starts in the Talladega National Forest, climbs one peak in Mexico then free falls across different Pacific Islands before stopping in China. Bill Evers, the story's main character, must hunt for an ancient artifact before the spell it contains unleashes the deadliest army the world has ever seen. Magic, mystery and mayhem will captivate the reader immediately!” Rachel Ham ~ academic professional
Bill Evers Dossier
Name: William Samuel Evers
Aliases: Bill, Will, Buck
D.O.B.: November 2, 1973
Sex: M Hair: BR Eyes: BR
Marital status: S
Last known address: 1220 Hidden Cove Rd, Oxford, AL
Military service: 4th Ranger Battalion
Commendations: Reconnaissance and Surveillance Leaders Course,
1st in class
Selected to Ranger sniper school, top 3 percentile
Theater of war: (Iraq) Mosul, Fallujah, and Najaf
(Afghanistan) Kabul, Kandahar
Paramilitary: Contractual-Liberia, Sudan, Uganda
Unconfirmed: Columbia, Peru
Additional training: High ranks in both judo and karate. Hand-to hand assessment-lethal
Of Blood and Stone
A Bill Evers Novel
Howard Upton
Xi’an, Shaanxi, China
209 B.C., Early Morning
Lu Xiu Chan watched as the fierce soldier beheaded his oldest son as the sword wielding man sat atop his spectacular horse. Blood spurted into the air, his heart still pumping even though his head lay lifeless on the ground. The unarmed Lu Xie Wan had asked the soldier to leave the village in peace, and in response he was slaughtered. Now the elderly Chan stood stone faced, still in shock at the vicious attack Emperor Qin Shi Huang Di’s personal envoy levied on a young man simply requesting no blood be spilled on this day.
The helmeted man turned his immaculately adorned mount to face Chan, sword dripping with his son’s blood from the razor sharp tip, the sun reflecting brightly off his polished helmet. The powerful steed’s head bobbed up and down as an audible snort rolled from his nostrils. A massive front hoof shoveled at the dirt and his tail shifted and swayed.
“Emperor Qin demands your village’s taxes be paid, old man, or you will find yourself homeless or dead like this idiot,” he said as he pointed at the lifeless body with his chin.
Chan’s gaze bore into the horseman, his voice deadly and ominous.
“You killed my son. The Emperor has now been paid. Kill me if you will, as you have taken everything from me. Do your will or be gone!” His eyes were both intent and stolid and his gaze unblinking.
A strong stench wafted through the air. The acrid smell of iron and death hung in the air like stagnant water infested with mosquitoes and moss. Blood oozed over the ground, seeping into the dirt and creating a strange brown-red discoloration that seemed as though it would be impossible to be washed away.
The soldier considered taking the old man’s head, but didn’t want to explain to the Emperor why he had killed two men and returned with no money. He sheathed his sword and allowed his eyes to wander over the tiny village. Others had stopped to watch the standoff between him and the elder.
He turned his horse in small steps so he could gaze upon those who had gathered. Several similar looking small mud-brick homes sat upon the ground. Their thatched roofs swayed gently in the early morning breeze. Smoke floated from one rooftop as a couple of sheep called to one another from a pen behind one of the homes. The only road leading into the village was wide and well maintained. It appeared that someone took time to occasionally groom the ruts from it, thereby making travel much easier.
“Tomorrow I shall return
to claim that which is the Emperor’s. You would be wise to have the rice prepared,” he proclaimed to everyone within earshot.
“Our taxes are fifty percent of all rice grown and harvested. The village cannot survive the harsh winter on the remaining fifty percent. You and the Emperor know this!” shouted an old lady, watching the scene unfold.
There was no sympathy on the warrior’s face as he reflected on Chan and the other villagers.
“If you return here, you will never leave,” the old man menacingly growled loudly enough for only the warrior to hear. Feet firmly planted and hands by his sides, Chan’s posture was resolute and determined.
The soldier glared at the old man who stood defiant in both voice and stance. Suddenly he laughed and tugged his horse’s reins. “Tomorrow, ancient one, I shall return. If your village’s taxes are not prepared, I will burn the village to the ground.”
The elder’s voice became ominous and stronger than usual, “If you return here, you will not leave. This I promise.”
The Emperor’s soldier laughed once more as his steed turned south and galloped away from the village.
Limping on his aging legs, Chan removed his dusty robe and approached his son’s still body. A single tear rolled down his cheek as he bent down and reverently picked up his son’s severed head and lovingly placed it on top of the body, covering both with his thread-bared robe. Five of the villagers most respected young men walked with bowed heads toward the body. Gently, they lifted the corpse and began the process of an honorable burial while the old man limped back to his thatch roofed home to consider his options.
Chan served as the local leader of the village, along with his duties as doctor. His medicinal skills were rife with incantations learned and practiced by his ancestors and passed from generation-to-generation to him in his early years. But this night his magic would have to be stronger than anything he had ever attempted before if he hoped to seek revenge for the death of his loving son. His village would suffer either way; they didn’t have sufficient resources to pay the tax collector, nor would they be allowed to live should his magic truly work.
He went to work utilizing the small amount of jewelry passed to him by his grandfather. Outside his home the medicine man stoked the fire until the tentacles of flames reached for the heavens. Chan melted the ornate medallion into a shimmering liquid silver that seemed to dance in the moonlight. He then molded the metal into an oblong shape, careful to pour small amounts of water on it so that it would solidify without becoming too hardened to engrave.
For hours, Chan meticulously engraved the object with the required symbols and with the engraving complete, the shaman began the process of crafting the strongest magic of his life. Incense burned and dried roots, flowers and oils were chanted over until an ominous mist appeared and eagerly hovered over both man and jewel. Chan whispered the final incantation only the Gods could hear, and watched as a visible blue aura wrapped itself around the strange adornment.
Outside, a shrill wind howled and screamed. It rolled down the side of the Qin Mountains, entered the village and swirled around Chan’s mud-brick home. He shivered as the gust found its way through cracks and crevices of the house and surrounded him like an unseen blanket. Momentarily frozen by the frigid air, Chan could hear his blood pumping through his veins as the spirits of his ancestors gave him courage. Then, as quickly as the wind had begun, it stopped. Exhausted, he released his remaining breath in a long sigh of relief.
He grasped the jewel and staggered to his lumpy bed with his energy all but drained. His frail body sagged, but soon his enchantment would be imposed and his revenge complete. For now he knew he must rest and ready his mind.
The clip-clop of horse’s hooves woke Chan. Still in shock and overcome with exhaustion and grief, he looked around to see the early morning sun filtering through his home. From a crack in the wood he could see the sun’s rays reflecting off the walls of the massive white pyramid that proudly sat in the distance. Their history did not tell them why it had been built, or by whom, they only knew that it was. Emperor Qin was so drawn to the site, he had decided to make it an armory and base for his incredible army.
Fall was always chilly in northern China, but this day was particularly crisp. Although the wind wasn’t blowing, there were few clouds in the sky to insulate the Earth. Chan stoked the fire he had built the night before then threw a couple of small logs on top. Flames anxiously chewed at the new wood and small embers floated haphazardly through the air. The cold air gave way to the warm, and slowly but surely Chan’s old bones silently thanked him for the reprieve.
As he warmed himself by the fire, he realized he no longer had the jewel in his hand and desperately began searching for it – it had found its way into the folds of his old silk shirt while he slept. A feeling of relief swept over him as he held it tightly in his left hand, his right holding onto a staff he was forced to use when his legs hurt more than usual.
Chan draped his heavy mountain sheep shawl over hunched shoulders. He had exchanged a medicinal prayer and an elixir for the shawl to an ill Mongol a local clansman had brought to his door. The warmth that the blanket provided his old bones was very comforting. He leaned on his staff and limped to his door as the rider and came to a stop outside his shanty. He clung to the oval piece of silver in his hand as the warrior stared directly into his eyes.
“Well, old one,” he sneered, “have you gathered the required taxes or do I burn your village? I relish the chance to set flame to this hovel and to burn it to the ground. The smell of dog and pig is so strong here it upsets my stomach. Is it the dogs and pigs I smell or is it you, old man?” He smiled and continued to taunt Chan as he reached across his hip and wrapped his fingers around the well-worn leather wrapped hilt. Smirking, he drew the sword two inches from the scabbard, with the exposed blade glinting in the bright orange sun.
Chan closed his eyes as he began chanting quietly, the jewel held in his outstretched hand. The tax collector furrowed his brow curiously, wondering if the old man had lost his mind. He pondered why was the old man was standing there, eyes closed, extending his hands with his gnarly knuckles tightly squeezed shut. He shook his head in bewilderment, let the sword slide completely from the scabbard and swung it above his head as he bellowed a blood curdling scream.
The old man didn’t flinch, his chanting growing more audible. The jewel felt hot as a blue-white glow emanated from his hand while his arm began to shake. His chant grew even louder and the rider’s face became confused as he closed the distance on his horse.
Just as he started to cleave the old man’s head from his shoulders, the warrior turned to look at his own hand brandishing the sword. Horror crossed his face, his eyes widened, as his arm turned gray and immobile. He watched as the grayness spread across his shoulder, down his chest, to his legs, and finally up his neck. A scream of terror formed in his throat, but lodged itself in his lungs just as they stopped working.
The warrior sat astride his horse frozen in time, never realizing the same fate had befallen his steed.
Chan continued to recite the spell not knowing, or even caring, that the other villagers had gathered to witness the ghastly turn of events. As soon as his chanting stopped he collapsed to his knees in sheer exhaustion. In the distance the wind screamed an unknown language across the Qin Mountains and wound its way toward the village.
He looked upon his countrymen, many of them relatives. “We must leave this place forever, or we will surely perish.”
Valladolid, Yucatan, Mexico
July 7, 2013, 12:30 P.M.
The shadow of the large nineteenth century Catholic Church loomed over the restaurant as the older white gentleman entered the eatery. A busload of American tourists turned into a parking lot across the street. Peddlers, well aware of the bus schedule and those utilizing the bus service, appeared along the sidewalks to sell their wares to those more fortunate.
Glancing left and right as he walked into any establishment was a habit
the veteran operator could not, and would not, change. His large brimmed hat was pulled low to conceal his features. He took a seat at a table in the back of the large room and waited while a skinny, flat-chested young senorita took his drink order. She handed him the menu as he ordered a beer. His unobstructed view allotted him a visual of the entire restaurant including the entrance. Speaking in Spanish he told her, “Estare esperando por un amigo.” The shocked look on her face told him that she was impressed with his flawless Spanish and perfect pronunciation.
“Si, Señor, I will bring another menu.” she replied with a warm smile glancing over her bronzed shoulder.
“Senorita,” he called, “Por favor, asegúrese de que hace frío,”
“Por supuesto, señor,” she replied with a coy glance back at the indignant Americano, assuring him that his beer would be cold.
He nodded his approval and kept an eye toward the door for his “friend” who was habitually late to any and all meetings. As he brushed off the day’s dusty car ride in the excessive heat from his pristine white cotton shirt and pants, he reminded himself that this would be the last job this unprofessional asshole would ever do for him. Removing his hat, he ran his fingers through his graying hair, which was in dire need of a trim.
My entire existence relies on this one fucking thing, and the guy I ask to help procure it can’t even show up to a meeting on time. This douchebag will never work for me again; in fact, he will not ever take another fucking breath after this thing is done, he thought to himself. He had to remind himself to keep his composure. The damnable Mexican heat was almost too much to bear and he couldn’t risk showing any emotion at this time of great importance – a time which potentially could change the balance of power in a perpetually screwed-up world.
