Stormcaller (Book 1) (2 page)

Walter turned towards the farm. He paused, taking in the beauty of the expanse of perfectly aligned elixir plants stretching to the edge of the Mission Road. He looked into the clear sky, observing the gradients of sea-foam green stretching from the horizon.
The faster I get this done, the quicker I can see Nyset.

He found John in the pulping house. Shortly John was licking his fingers, the sticky remnants of a honey bun lining his thin lips.

“There are three more of those for you on my dad’s workbench if you can help me pick elixir cherries today. What’d ya say, you old lug?”

The stout man raised an eye at Walter, wiping crumbs from his broad chest. “I’ll help you pick one basket, but after that I need to do what Mr. Glade asked,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Deal! I’ll get more of those for you next time, as a bonus of sorts,” said Walter, meeting his wide eyes.

John snickered, peering over Walter’s shoulder. “Your mother sure has sweet buns.”

“John, please don’t make me kill you. I would hate to spend the rest of my days in the stockade.” Walter smirked, punching John’s beefy arm. “Don’t you have some work to do?”

Isabelle smiled at them from the tomato garden, tucking a stray lock of light brown hair behind her ear. She waved, and then bent over and resumed pulling the weeds leeching nutrients from the tomatoes. Walter sighed, and put his hand on top of John’s head, turning the man’s body from the direction of his mother.

They sauntered over to the northeastern side of the small elixir plantation, where the cherries were ripe for picking. Walter wished he’d had a cup before they started working. It was amazing how much more energy one had after a cup of the stuff. The key to picking elixir cherries is to leave the unripe cherries on the plant. One can easily tell they’re ripe by gently squeezing the fruit and feeling for a slight softness that will give under moderate pressure – like a man untrained in combat, with an over-inflated ego, master Noah had said.

Walter started raking the felled cherries into piles, taking a deep breath of satisfaction. The warm sun beat on his back and the cool breeze evaporated the sweat on his neck. He stared into the abyss of various shades of cherries as he raked them into a pile, his gaze fixated on the main pile he was working.

His peripheral vision guided his rake pulls toward the central pile. He slowed and deepened his breath, allowing the muscles not working to relax. He softened his gaze and smiled. The world around the mass of red and pink shimmered and blurred, peripheral vision melting away. The reds and pinks deepened and their textures were enhanced. One cherry had been nibbled by a grub, another by a bird, and three were prematurely picked.

Time slowed to a crawl as he watched the cherries tumble over one another with each pull of the steel-tined rake. Warmth radiated through his body and washed over his mind, slipping into Warrior’s Focus. Inhale. Exhale. That is all that is, and was. He felt as though he could predict the trajectory of each cherry’s movement from the main pile as they were swept towards the center.

Something painfully bit his ear, snapping Walter out of his daze, Warrior’s Focus vanishing. He turned to see John staring at him, innocently rubbing his stubbly chin. “Hey, crazy! Can you hear me now?” asked John, smiling. He slung another elixir cherry at Walter’s face. Walter easily avoided it and counterattacked with a volley of three. John expertly caught one in his mouth, proceeded to chew it, and then spat it out in disgust.

“You need to roast them first, dummy. C’mon, we’re done here, let’s get these back and get on with the day.” John laughed.

“Woo-hoo! We’re done!” John hooted. “Oh wait, now I can start on the tasks your dad gave me.” John’s expression quickly darkened, and then just as quickly brightened. “Well, every man needs to earn his keep,” said John resolutely.

“I suppose so,” said Walter, hefting his basket. “Let’s get these to the pulper before my dad loses his mind.”

Walter and John ambled down the worn dirt path toward the barn house. “You know what the problem with this type of work is?” asked Walter.

“The pay?” John smirked.

“At least you get paid,” retorted Walter.

“Oh yeah? So tell me, how much does the money changer ask you each month for the payment your dad makes every month for the house?”

Walter crinkled his nose, “Point taken. No, the problem is that this type of work is just so unsatisfying.” John glared at him.

Walter entered the barn and started pouring his basket of cherries into the pulper, while John cranked the three-spoked wheel to turn the drum that ejected the stones from the cherries.

“I don’t know if this type of life is for me. I crave adventure, excitement, something bigger, more than this. My father has done well with this business, but it’s not for me. Not to mention it’s practically the opposite of exciting – did I mention it’s boring? Maybe I’ll join the Midgaard Falcon when I’m older,” Walter said dreamily, peering in the direction of the capital.

“Don’t let your dreams die, kid. I tried to get in, they wouldn’t have me, bastards. I guess I was just too slow,” John grumbled, appearing distant.

“It might help if you laid off the honey buns for a day.” Walter chuckled. “I have to get going to lash practice, can you finish up?”

John looked daggers at him. “You owe me, lad.”

Walter exited the barn, swinging his arms as he walked. “Garden looks great, Mom,” he said as he passed her, smiling.

He gazed across the farm at the woodlands three hundred paces off lining the farm, his sharp eyes catching a bizarre sight he grappled to comprehend. He froze mid-stride, staring into the distance, eyes focusing. His heart pounded through his chest and head with explosive beats, blurring his vision at the shock of such a sight. It looked like a man, but he instinctively knew it was not. It was as thin as his petite mother, except with gnarled, brown skin and bearing a strange hand. The hand had unnaturally long talons extending from fingertips that wrapped around a tree.

He closed his eyes and rubbed them vigorously, hoping that when he opened them the horror would be gone. “It’s an illusion, a dream of my imagination, reading too many stories at night,” he told himself. He opened his eyes with a sharp exhalation and there was nothing. No horrors in the woods. Everything was fine, just fine. He really needed to start getting more sleep. “This staying up all night and reading was not good for my sanity,” he whispered. The image lingered in his memory as he tried to shake it off.

Walter marched up the oak stairs, passing his father Aiden. “Something wrong, Walt?” he quizzed.

“No, why? Everything is great! Can you believe this weather?” said Walter. He clenched and opened his fists and cleared his throat.

“Are you sure?” Aiden asked. “You seem like you just looked for your own reflection and realized you didn’t have one.”

“Very cute. It sounds like you’ve been reading too many tales too,” said Walter. He stumbled as he reached the top of the stairs, and caught himself before falling. Aiden met his eyes for a long moment, then carried on.

Walter trudged down the hall and bumped open the door to his room, avoiding the long stick Wiggles had evidently dragged into the house while he was working. The culprit had naturally already departed from the scene of the crime. He scanned his room, thinking about how nice it would be to take a nap on that cushiony feather bed right now. Invoking some of his will, he grabbed his leather bag for Sid-Ho training – it contained a light set of armor and his training lash – and cinched it to his back. “I won’t be home until late tonight after the Festival of Flames. Is there anything else I need?” he asked the unresponsive bedroom. He grabbed a small gem pouch from his sock drawer, stuffing it into his pocket. He then retrieved his two simple boot knives, sheathing them out of sight.
One can never have too many knives
.

He took a deep breath. “Armor, training lash, marks, knives, that’s it, right?” He dropped his bag and re-opened it. “Armor and training lash are in my bag, OK. They’re fine, they’re good.” He said. He felt either side of his boots again. “Knives are there, OK, good. Do I have everything?”
Yes, you have everything, by the Phoenix, stop the madness.

His mother stopped him before stepping out the main door. “You might want this. You’re going to be hungry after training.” She draped a filled waterskin over his shoulders and handed him a small satchel containing nuts and dried meat, and lastly the cream for Mrs. Camfield, Nyset’s mother.

“I’ll meet you guys at the festival tonight. I have to run, you know I hate being late – love you.”

“Speaking of late, I might be late, lots to do here – please be careful,” replied Isabelle.

“Be careful?”

“Please be smart, don’t become one of the missing kids,” Isabelle said, kissing him on the cheek.

“Didn’t Hassan say they ran away?”

“That is what the city guard has told everyone, but I don’t believe it, it just doesn’t feel right,” she said.

Walter nodded, meeting her contemplative eyes. “Don’t worry mom, I’m the last person anyone would mess with.” Isabelle’s lips formed a smile.

“Have fun, lad!” Aiden said, peering up at him from his writing.

“Always do. Don’t worry, Mom,” said Walter.

He thought of new techniques he wanted to try in training today as he walked down the dusty Mission Road towards Breden Square. The image of what he’d seen along the woodlands persisted in his mind’s eye, rendering him unable to shake it off until he thought of Nyset.
Yes, think of her.
Beautiful Nyset, her bountiful lips and round bottom increased the blood flow to his loins. He exhaled vigorously, shaking out his limbs.
Master yourself, it was just a trick of the light.

Feeling secure that his reality was once again grounded in truth, he found himself taking in the wonderful architecture of the ornate designs on various houses lining the road. Walter considered himself very fortunate to live on the wealthy side of Breden.
It’s important to never take for granted what you have.

He had heard rumors in the local tavern, The Revolving Turkey, that there were people who could use the powers of the Dragon and the Phoenix. He couldn’t believe anything until he saw it with his own eyes. People often spouted drivel when their bellies were full of wine and mead. Wielding the Dragon or the Phoenix seemed a much more believable possibility than the strange image this afternoon burned into his psyche.

Chapter 2 – The Lash

“You are the flame and I am the spark. We are one.”
–from
Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

A large worn plaque hung from the Sid-Ho dojo wall with the following inscriptions:

Erudition – cultivate an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and skills.

Strength – know within you there is an infinite well.

Leadership – he who cannot obey cannot lead.

Discipline – the fortitude to do what others will not.

Courage – embrace fear and execute your enemy

The lash is a weapon similar to what people of the Tigerian Bluffs call a whip, except rather than being mounted to a handle it is mounted to a metalloid gauntlet, worn about the forearm. This allows the user to still have use of both hands if one wants to wield other weapons for close-range combat, or grappling.

A training lash is thick and made of cow leather, making it more difficult to break skin. They’re also shorter than a combat lash, which minimizes the amount of power that can be generated with a single strike. A lash created for combat is dagger-thin at the business end, and can be as long as five paces. Lashes crafted for death typically have spiked or bladed ends for close-range combat.

Walter assumed the form of Mantis in Waiting. Juzo recklessly lunged at him, his lash attempting to penetrate Walter’s training armor. The whipping air and thundering crack of the missed attack punctuated the silence of the watching students. Walter easily sidestepped the long-projected attack, turning his body perpendicular to Juzo’s as he stumbled, while raising his lash overhead and cracking it in a downward, angular attack at Juzo’s now exposed back. “Ah!” Juzo exhaled sharply, the strike finding purchase on soft flesh. A red, inflamed, nine-inch mountain range started forming under Juzo’s sweat-soaked leather armor. Walter cringed at the thought of hurting his friend, but reminded himself he just as easily could have also been on the receiving end of that blow.