Stormcaller (Book 1) (12 page)

Walter listened quietly, absorbing the magnitude of what they said. “Why are you telling me this?” Walter asked.

“There was an attack in The Nether in Bluffs End, a small town like yours two weeks ago,” said Baylan.

“Cerumal, but they’re often called other names in different locales,” said Lillian.

“We tracked rumors that led to Breden about a similar attack,” said Baylan.

Walter inhaled deeply. “So you’re not really surveying, you’re really following leads on this prophecy?”

Lillian and Baylan shared a glance. “Yes, we weren’t sure if we could trust you with this information. There are many who would call us heretics, or label us madmen if they knew. Given your Dragon-forged weapon… and your ability to use it… well, we decided we could trust you.”

Everything Walter knew had changed in the past few days. He found it strange that he felt more content knowing a sliver of why his family was killed.
There’s been too much death. It’s true that killing is harder than the innocent suppose
,
he thought grimly.

They made camp a mile in from the road, navigating the dense thicket. It paid to be cautious traveling these sordid roads, given the dangers involved. With a wave of her hand, Lillian tossed a white spark into the kindling for their campfire. Baylan lounged against a mossy stump, nibbling on dried bread procured from a large pack he carried. Lillian worked an ornate wooden comb with a small red gem through her dark silky hair.

Walter’s eyes were glassy against the amber flames. He spoke with a deep exhalation, “It started during the Festival of Flames…” He recounted his past tribulations, baring all with his new friends. He spoke of the raid by the Cerumal, his and Juzo’s capture by Mar, their journey through the Shiv Fang tunnels and the disturbing loss of Juzo. They listened quietly, absorbing his tale. Baylan shared a flask of Ginger Whiskey with Walter. The strong spirits didn’t do much to numb the pain of reliving the previous days.

Chapter 11 – Peeled

“Harnessing the cosmic vibration of life, I resurrected the deadened wires of fallen child.”
–from
Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

Walter soared through the eerie night air, thick jets of flame and air entwined from his palms propelling him onward. He felt free and pure, turning his childhood dream of flight into reality.
I’m really flying
, he thought. He looked to the moon, its massive white plate engulfing him. He gazed down upon the tiny clearing of birch and pine trees, seeing Baylan and Lillian peacefully sleeping together.

The shadows around them waved and shimmered. A hulking figure appeared in dull plate, not casting a reflection from the dwindling fire. It brandished a spear and held what looked like the remains of a severed head in its other hand. Walter darted back to solid earth, landing on a knee with a graceful thump.
Why does this feel as normal as breathing?
The Cerumal set its black eyes upon him and snarled. Walter gasped, realizing the head in its mail-covered hand was his father’s. His father’s eyes had rolled back in their sockets, showing only their whites. The jaw was abnormally pulled free from one side, tattered skin along the cheek revealing teeth.

Walter screamed, seizing not a ball of fire, but a waving dragon that swam before his mind’s eye. The torment of seeing his father’s body defiled ravaged his soul. The dragon split into thousands of jagged shards, infusing his essence with its torrent. Light exploded from Walter’s eyes and the Cerumal shielded its face with its spear hand. Walter nonchalantly raised his right hand and a spiraling cone of white flaming coils erupted from his palm, surrounding the creature and burning it to ashes. Not even the armor remained.

Dozens of others emerged from the shadows, carrying the heads of people he recognized. One had Juzo’s, one Nyset’s, and another Janelle the fruit seller’s.

“No! Stop! Why are you doing this?” he yelled, tears sliding down his cheeks.

Walter’s hands burst alight with seething flames. He looked over his shoulder, impossibly finding both Baylan and Lillian sound asleep. “Wake up!” Walter screamed at them. “Wake up! Now!”

Something smashed into his abdomen. He turned, looking down, and discovered a massive spear lined with jagged thorns through it. “No,” he whispered. The pain was much worse than he’d imagined being run through would feel. A trickle of blood started dribbling from the entry wound. Several more spears pierced his body, dropping him to his knees beside the campfire. The waving fire surrounding his hands extinguished into wisps of smoke.

The deep-brown-skinned creature with the massive bladed helmet stepped into the campfire light. The same bastard that had injured him and Juzo. Walter felt himself give up, willpower draining from his body. A blood pool formed around his knees. The gnarled-skinned monster waved its threatening metallic talons at its side.

With massive internal hemorrhaging the restoration of blood volume to maintain tissue oxygenation is necessary for survival
, said his mother’s voice in the recesses of his mind. Glimmering chains of golden light wove from the first Cerumal’s angular helm, passing through each one, linking them together.

“What are you?” Walter choked. A bloody bolus popped from his lungs, streaking his chin.

The ground around them faded, becoming an island in an endless sea of red and pink fire. Walter’s vision wavered in and out of focus. He looked into the burning sea far below the island, containing now only him and the lithe horror. It wasn’t just fire, but millions of nude, burning people fighting against currents of liquid fire. One short-haired man with a square-cut beard reached an arm towards the surface, locking onto Walter’s eyes. A thick black arm lined with thousands of barbs wrapped around the man’s neck, ripping him back into the depths.

“Weaver of the full power, I am your reaper,” the creature rasped. It floated to him and extended a talon, and disappeared behind him. Walter wanted to fight, but couldn’t move anything but his eyes, as the spears had passed through his body, firmly pinning him. He felt the icy cold of steel against his neck, goose bumps forming down his arms. The talon dragged across his neck, severing both carotid arteries. He released a gurgling roar, a blend of anger and terror.

His eyes snapped open and he gasped for breath, hands protectively reaching for his neck. He looked into the big moon filling the night sky. He exhaled slowly, realizing it was a nightmare.
Or was it?
He scanned the surrounding trees and saw nothing amiss under the dim moonlight. Lillian and Baylan lay spooned together.
It was just a terrible dream, a terrible night terror.
He rolled onto his side, wrapping his left hand around Stormcaller.
Get back to sleep, weaver of the full power
,
he sullenly told himself .

**

They started early after a morning supper of sweet cakes and dried beef that Baylan was traveling with. The sweet cakes were wonderfully invigorating and delicious.

“What I wouldn’t do for a cup of elixir to go with these,” Walter said while chewing.

“What would you do?” asked Baylan, wiping crumbs from his mouth. Walter raised an eyebrow at him.

“Would you perhaps chew with your mouth closed?” asked Baylan, deep voice resonating.

“It’s an idiom this side of Midgaard,” chuckled Lillian. Walter flicked a small crumb at Baylan. It bounced off his head and landed in the open book in his lap. He retrieved it and ate it.

“Lillian, is it true that there is also a Phoenix side of the power?” asked Walter with a hand on his chin.

“Oh yes, it is most certainly true, however, only men can use it,” she said in a serene voice.

Walter nodded. “Why?”

“Why do Shroomlings have heads in the shape of mushrooms? Some things just are,” she replied, pulling Clinger seeds from her flowing red skirt.

Walter glugged from his water skin, washing down sweet cake crumbs. “Baylan, can you teach me to use the Phoenix power?” Baylan closed the dark-covered book, peering at him.

“It’s not something that can be taught. It’s like opening and closing your eyes, you just intrinsically know how to do it,” he said.

“Can you do it?” Walter asked excitedly.

“I live in the Silver Tower for a reason,” Baylan said, gingerly placing the book in his pack.

“Right,” replied Walter, nodding. “What’s it like in the Tower?” he asked.

“Complicated, and a story for another day,” Baylan said. Walter watched as a dark expression fell over Lillian. She made eye contact with Walter and her expression reverted to its collected appearance. “Let’s move,” she said, smiling. That was strange. He would have to remember to ask her about that again later.
There was still more there
, he thought.

**

They spent the better half of the morning walking west along Helm’s East Road. Walter shared stories of pranks he had played on Juzo, like the time when he put Nyset’s nightshade powder in Juzo’s honey ale, turning his skin blue for a week. Walter learned that Baylan grew up in Helm’s Reach, the second largest city in the realm after Midgaard. Baylan discovered when he was in his nineteenth year that he was able to heal minor wounds of others with a touch. His parents knew he was destined for the Silver Tower, and he had spent the last ten years there learning about the world and supporting Tower affairs.

A thin column of smoke rose from a bend in the road. “We’re approaching the camp where we were captured,” Walter whispered, stopping them. He then led them to the hidden path where he and Juzo had been ambushed days ago.

“Wait here,” Walter commanded. Lillian nodded, meeting his eyes. Baylan watched their rear. Walter crept towards the path’s entrance, avoiding twigs that would unveil his position. He stopped a pace from the entrance and slid into a low squat. He held his breath and closed his eyes, focusing on his sound perception.
Bongol Jays in a tree to the northeast, dry leaves spiraling in the breeze, footfalls in the camp, to be expected. The nearby breathing of a man with a blowgun? No, no one waits in the weeds this time.
He slowly released his long held breath and opened his eyes.

He surveyed the path into the camp for a long moment. The sun danced through the waving trees. Walter nodded in satisfaction. He noted the massive fresh hoof prints that had recently disturbed the soil. Walter motioned for Lillian and Baylan to move to him. “You two stick out like blooming roses with your bright colors. I’ll scout the camp,” he whispered.

Lillian furrowed her brow and started to open her mouth in protest. Before she could, Walter lifted a bright red tendril from her dress and draped it across a bush. She and Baylan nodded in understanding.

“We will change our clothes when the opportunity arises,” Baylan said.

Walter crawled along brush adjacent to the path, careful not to disturb larger shrubs that would unveil his position. When he finally saw the campsite he clamped his hand to his mouth, muting an astonished gasp. There were three people covered in mixed layers of fresh and dried blood, each mounted to thick branches forming the shape of an X. They were pinned with daggers through their hands. One was the bastard Mar. Walter started to smile, until he realized the other two were Breden townsfolk. His smile transformed into a grimace.

He inched back towards Lillian and Baylan. He halted when a Cerumal emerged from a tent flap, armor clinking as interlocking plates slid over one another. He hadn’t even noticed the tent in his shock over the gored people. The Cerumal sauntered over to Mar with a spear held lazily by the haft in one hand. The spear dragged behind it, spearhead tracing a sinuous line in the earth from the tent.

“No, no please, not again! Please, I’ll do anything!” Mar pleaded, bright blue eyes whirling chaotically. He tugged at the daggers, testing their hold. He whined when they hardly budged and fresh blood coated his wrists. His eyes opened wide with anger and he kicked hard at the Cerumal. It easily caught his ankle in its meaty hand, crushing it like a vice. Mar screamed, squirming to free his leg.

Walter almost felt bad for him, watching with ice in his heart. He inhaled deeply through his nose, feeling the dry, acrid air tunnel into his lungs. He exhaled with measured control, taking at least twice as long as his inhalation. The rage at the site of Mar became the tranquility of the setting sun over the Abyssal Sea as his exhalation touched his lips.