Stormcaller (Book 1) (14 page)

“Blackout, for too long you remained beyond the reach of my adoration. Gliding through the endlessness I found you.”
–from
Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

“Huh? It’s not cursed, you’re just jealous. I understand why, though – there was only one set of armor. It’s OK, I’m sure we’ll find another for you at some point,” Walter said. Baylan exhaled, shaking his head.

Lillian used the Power of the Dragon to open a large hole to bury the Breden townsfolk. Walter watched her, awestruck. “You’re incredible with the Dragon. Can you teach me?” he asked. He squatted to the ground with ease, absently rubbing an exposed hand in the gravel.
Mobility feels excellent,
no wonder they all wear these
,
he thought.

She rolled a frail woman Walter hadn’t recognized into the hole while looking at Walter. “Walter, Baylan knows much more about the world than we do,” she said, pointedly ignoring his question. Next she rolled the gaunt man, who had presumably died from internal bleeding caused by the dagger placed in his abdomen, into the same earthen tomb.

“It’s cursed, Walter,” Baylan said, pressing fingers to his temples.

“What makes you think so?” Walter replied.

“Try to remove it, then.”

Walter struggled at the pauldron bindings. “I can’t seem to get my fingers under it. Here we go.” He had a firm grip on a latch and pulled as hard as he could. “No, no, no, no!” he said, panicking. He looked at Lillian, who was blasting dirt over the townsfolk’s bodies. She flashed him a knowing look. He looked to Baylan. “How do I get it off?” He exhaled, defeated.

Baylan put a hand to his scruffy jawline. “I have a friend in Midgaard who specializes in artifacts. He might have an answer for us,” he said. He sat in front of Walter, dropping to the boy’s level, and closed a notebook.

“Walter, you couldn’t have known this. There are very few who do, besides scholars such as myself. It was written in the
Age of Dawn
that men who were captured by The Wretched, Asebor’s generals, were put in cursed armor that would warp their minds in exchange for increased strength and speed,” Baylan said. Walter continued rubbing the sand and small pebbles with an open hand, working the shape of a rainbow into the earth. The cool sand-gravel mixture was calming.

Baylan continued, “The consciousness of the wearer would eventually be the subject of control by a Black Wynch. As the armor corrupts the mind, it concurrently corrupts the body. The creatures we fought today were once men,” Baylan said, turning his head towards the hanging Cerumal. His words hung in the air, their weight pressing on Walter. “I suggest we turn back towards Midgaard now to get it removed,” Baylan said.

“No,” Walter said, surfacing from his sand art. “It’s been too long already. I need to go to Breden. For my parents, for everyone,” he said, standing.
I’m going to become one of them
,
he brooded, looking with horror at a dead Cerumal.

Baylan nodded deeply. “Aye.”

Walter gathered his satchel and pulled flowers to be placed on the shallow graves.
How long will I remain a man? I will not die like one of them. I will not. I’ll make them kill me if I have to
,
he thought.
Can I take my own life? Do I have the courage?
The thought sickened him.

An image of his nightmare flashed into his mind while gathering River Brittlebush, whose bright orange flowers dotted the stems.
Please don’t be the beast with the bladed helm and golden chains of light
,
he thought
.
“What does a Black Wynch look like?” Walter asked, his heart thumping, already knowing the answer. Lillian brushed dirt from her hands and clothes.

Baylan looked to the late afternoon sun. “I’ve never seen one in person, only in poorly drawn sketches. They’re most notable by an oversized helm, gangly draping skin, hands that appear to be solid metal with long daggers in place of fingers – why do you ask?” he asked, worry touching his voice.

Walter folded his arms, again surprised by how easily he could move in the thick plate armor. “Can they shoot objects from their bodies?” he asked, unconsciously rubbing at his shoulder.

“Phoenix! You have seen a Black Wynch?” Baylan paled. Lillian looked disturbed, squinting.

“Yeah, it came during the attack,” Walter said, pushing his long hair back.

“They are only sent for very specific objectives in organized raids. They wanted something in your village, Walter,” Lillian said.

“What could they have possibly wanted with a small town like Breden?” Walter pondered.

**

Walter kept a brisk pace the rest of the afternoon, determined to make it to Breden by sunset. Lillian and Baylan trailed behind on the Helm’s East Road. Lillian maintained a scout’s vigilance, constantly surveying the environment for danger. Baylan occasionally scribbled notes about the vegetation and scurrying animals, disturbed at their passing. Baylan was unsurprisingly fascinated by the Shroomlings, stopping to sketch one that stared at them as it hoisted an acorn on its shoulder.

“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