Stormcaller (Book 1) (15 page)

“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 form. “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.

The chef grabbed a thick ceramic bowl from the counter and smashed it over Walter’s head. Walter fell back, stumbling as sticky warmth slid down the side of his face. The bowl broke in three large pieces, ceramic splinters strewn on the floor. Walter blinked rapidly, dispersing the blood burning in his left eye and stars in his right. Casey threw open a trapdoor on the dusty wood floor behind the counter and vanished. The door slammed behind him, followed by the distinctive sound of a lock being closed.

Walter exploded with rage, mind sharpening and regaining singular focus. “You’re a dead man!” he screamed. He quickly looked over his shoulder through the front windows, making sure no guards were alerted. A red aura filled the edges of his vision and his muscles felt infused with staggering power. He vaulted over the counter, landing above the trapdoor. He growled and slammed his plated boot through the trapdoor, yelling in surprise.

He freed his leg and dropped through the remnants of the destroyed door, landing on a knee, green cloak billowing behind him. He was in a long earthen hallway lined with four heavy doors on either side. It was dimly lit by glowing amber orbs hanging from the ceiling. The chef yelped and stumbled, falling to his hands and knees at the end of the hallway, shaking at the site of Walter. “How? No!” Casey gasped, crawling to his feet.

Walter quickly looked between the boards of one of the poorly constructed doors to his left. To his horror, he saw a small haggard girl bound to a wall with a cloth gag in her mouth. Tears streamed down her cheeks, washing clean lines through swathes of caked dirt. Whimpering and sobbing came from other cells.
The missing children, here they are
.
Mom was right they didn’t run away, monster!
he seethed.

Walter reached his right arm behind him, and a flaming lance with a jagged head materialized in his grasp. He sprinted to the chef and used the momentum of the sprint to kick Casey in the ribs, throwing him into the ceiling. Walter raised his burning death and rammed it through the chef’s groin. The chef screamed and rolled in pain, trying to remove the spear and burning his hands in the process.

“Down here, no one can hear you scream, isn’t that right, Casey? I’m sure these kids have heard that before, haven’t they?” Walter smashed his boot into Casey’s ankle, yielding a satisfying crunch. “OK, Casey, you’re going to tell me everything I want to know, otherwise it’s going to be a very long night for you,” he said, his eyes burned red, casting a warm glow over the chef’s squirming face.

“OK! OK! OK! I’ll tell you anything, anything! Please make it stop!” he shrilled.

“What did you put in the food?” Walter asked with a threatening hand on the burning spear.

“Nothing! It was just bad meat, the cow must have been sick. I told Bill and he said he put all the other cows down from the same corral, so it won’t happen again, he–”

Walter narrowed his eyes and ground his heel into the chef’s ankle. “Lies!” he roared.

“Pink Caps! I put Pink Caps in the food!” Casey bobbed his head from side to side, coating his round cheeks with dirt.

Shit, he’s losing too much blood and fading too quickly
,
Walter realized.

“Why did you do it? Why?” Walter screamed.

“A monster, a demon, a terrible thing… it was a terrible thing with violet glowing eyes, those eyes, oh, those eyes, so…”

“Out with it!” Walter interrupted.

“All I had to do was put them in the food, too easy! He promised me my virgins, my young beautiful virgins.” Casey smiled, turning his head to the right, staring at a tiny boy shaking in the corner of a cell.

“Bastard!” Walter yelled, delivering a crushing fist to his jaw. Four teeth tumbled from the chef’s mouth, followed by a spattering of fresh blood. The chef bore what remained of his teeth, and blood flowed from the corners of his lips.

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” Casey bellowed with mania in his eyes. “They will all die! First they will vomit, and shit, and vomit, and die!” He thrust his head back, laughter swallowed by the soil. “He returns to paint the sky red and eclipse the sun!” He gurgled as his eyes rolled back in his head and his lungs released their final exhalation.

Chapter 15 – Death Adders