Date: 2014-11-10 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: Librarian's Note: This is an alternate-cover edition for ASIN B00PHLAGV0 — Stormcaller Everet Martins introduces readers to the fantastical world of Zoria, a land of volcanos and carnivorous plants. 10,000 years have passed since Asebor was sealed during the first Age of Dawn. The power binding this malevolent god has finally waned, allowing him to once again beat the drums of war. Men worship the Phoenix and Dragon gods. Some are fortunate enough to touch their essences, transforming ordinary women into fearsome warriors and men into miraculous healers. The beginnings of the next scourge brus

EVERET MARTINS

STORMCALLER

Book One of

THE AGE OF DAWN

The author has provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management (DRM) software applied so you can read it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices. Copyright infringement is against the law.

Dedication

To coffee and nicotine gum, my faithful stimulants throughout many long days.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 – Awakening

Chapter 2 – The Lash

Chapter 3 – The Festival of Flames

Chapter 4 – First Draw

Chapter 5 – Choices

Chapter 6 – New Discoveries

Chapter 7 – Running

Chapter 8 – Blackout

Chapter 9 – Lich’s Falls

Chapter 10 – Exiles

Chapter 11 – Peeled

Chapter 12 – Cursed

Chapter 13 – Corruption

Chapter 14 – Pink Caps

Chapter 15 – Death Adders

Chapter 16 – Iron Sharpens Iron

Chapter 17 – Bonesnapper

Chapter 18 – Departures

Chapter 19 – Grimbald

Chapter 20 – Midgaard

Chapter 21 – A New Tutelage

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Chapter 1 – Awakening

“I come to you with open hands, bowed head, and a heart laden with vengeance.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

Asebor stirred under the crushing weight of the dense lodestone tomb, his Milvorian manacles held tightly to his limbs. The force of life deep within his chest, a flowering lotus, opened into his consciousness, returning the ancient spark of thought to his mind. He flexed his fingers open, white, vicious talons rasping against the side wall like a knife on whetstone. His eyes snapped open, revealing dull glowing violet slits, as he sharply inhaled the first breath of this life. He arched his bony back, stretching his chest as he remembered what it felt like to be contained within a body. The seal of The Age of Dawn must have finally broken. Is it possible?

The agony of a decaying body joyfully wracked his flesh, confirming his return to glorious life. He growled, revealing cascading rows of razor-sharp teeth. He opened his palms and pressed on the tomb’s massive cover. He fought to harness a sliver of the Power of the Dragon, stone dust raining on his eyes. He struggled in the stream of power. Asebor had trials ahead of him, having only a husk of the power he once held. He finally snatched it like a spear through a fish, the Dragon filling his veins with strength and a maelstrom of anger.

He roared and smashed his hands against his cold prison, throwing the tomb lid against the wall. It fissured and crumbled into foot-thick pieces, revealing the inscriptions of the ward that once contained him. He violently flexed his biceps, pulling against the white chains that bound his wrists, the spikes lining the inside of the dense chains spilling his freshly flowing blood.

He extended his bladed right index finger, focusing brilliant green flames of the Dragon at the chain on his opposite hand. He grinned, knowing in time he would be free. In time, the day will be night once again. The only future for peace is war. There is no hatred, there is only retribution, cold, hard, and final. “I will not fail you again,” he said, voice grating.

**

Walter woke from his slumber on his feather-lined bed, listening to the rooster bellow his morning salute. He propped himself up on his elbows, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as the morning sun bathed his face with warmth. Glancing through his bedroom window facing west, he could see it was going to be a beautiful day.

The cumulus clouds from the Abyssal Sea brushed the tips of the Denerian Cliffs, flowing into the green vistas that wound into the already bustling town of Breden. A strong sea wind arced the thin line of towering smoke that puffed from the Ars Volcano, pushing it further west into the boiling sea. A distant eruption rumbled through his window. The volcano had apparently also awoken from its slumber.

The snorts of the hogs waking carried into his room, awaiting their morning scraps. He beamed at the aroma of his father’s morning elixir wafting into his room. He pushed his shoulder-length, honey-wheat hair out of his emerald eyes and behind his ears. He rubbed at his square jaw, tension fading from what might have been the most bizarre nightmare he could remember. I was spinning a metal chain over my head, or was it a lash? He shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

Breden was a small town of about a thousand denizens according to the last survey. Most were elixir-bean farmers or fishermen. Breden was known throughout the realm of Zoria for its fragrant beans, ones that elicited a delightful energy and focus-enhancing effect. Some farmers, such as Walter’s family, were fortunate to have settled in an area with superb soil, yielding a highly sought-after bean variety known as Redbud Beans. They were named for their extraordinarily bright colors. There were only a handful of other farms that could produce this bean type, putting Walter’s family in an excellent position for this nature of business.

He rolled out of bed and onto his feet and let his body hang into a deep hamstring stretch, shaking off the soreness of yesterday’s training. Walter stood at roughly eighteen hands, had a fair complexion, and thick eyebrows that drew to a furrow when he focused. Minutes later, he kicked his legs behind him into a push-up position and started working his muscular body.

He remembered the drawl of his scarred Sid-Ho master Noah: “I’ll make you lads hard wood when I’m through with you.” Being a young man, Walter asked himself if he was taking this too seriously, but sloughed the question off as he continued plowing through the last few push-ups. Just as he finished and was nearly standing, the red cedar bedroom door burst open with a slam. Wiggles the black hound tackled him and smothered his face with sloppy tongue laps. “You crazy dog! C’mon!” Walter laughed while he defended himself from the onslaught of saliva that coated his sun-conditioned olive skin.

Walter’s father Aiden sat sipping a cup of black elixir at the heavy barn wood table, eyes focused and clearly lost in a tale from Thieves of Gold. His mother Isabelle turned and beamed at Walter when he entered the kitchen, her blue eyes sparkling in a morning sunray. She prepared eggs and mouthwatering ham that incited grumbles from Walter’s stomach.

“I hope you guys are hungry, the girls are cranking out eggs faster than usual,” Isabelle chuckled and she flipped a sunny-side-up egg.

“I’m ravenous!” Walter said, getting plates from the cupboard.

“Are you boys excited for the Festival of Flames tonight?” Aiden asked, dog-earing a bookmark in the tome and pushing it to the edge of the table.

“Absolutely! We’ve been waiting for it all year! I’m going to meet Juzo at his dad’s, and then we’re going to pick up Nyset on our way,” said Walter, eyeing the frying ham slices from across the room.

“Alright. Well, make sure you harvest at least two baskets of elixir cherries today and set them for pulping. I need to get a batch to Shipton for the goats Hal sent us last week,” said Aiden. He took another quaff of his aromatic brew and allowed his gaze to rest upon Walter. “I had the strangest dream last night,” Aiden said. He rubbed his scruffy chin and then the back of his neck.

“Oh yeah?” said Isabelle.

“Yes, there was an army that stretched as far as the eye could see, not entirely composed of men, but also of the most bizarre creatures, not quite human. You stood at the head of this battalion, Walter. Your face, however, was much older, contorted by years of – well, suffering. You seemed wiser… and harder, with deep lines like a worn stone.”

“Are you saying I’m not wise now?” Walter said. Aiden rolled his eyes, returning to his book.

“It was such a vivid dream. It’s been a while since I’ve had one that felt so realistic.”

Coincidence? No such thing, Walter thought.

Isabelle bumped Wiggles out of the way while deftly placing three fried eggs and a large piece of ham on Walter’s plate. “Don’t forget to bring the goat cream to Mrs. Camfield,” said Isabelle. Walter groaned, “Is that all? I’m really looking forward to such a relaxing day.”

“Character building. One day you’ll thank me,” intoned Aiden.

Walter decided it was prudent to remain silent for the rest of morning supper, and avoid negotiating with his father today. He really did want to go to the Festival of Flames. John, one of his father’s hired workers, should be around, and he would certainly be useful if convinced to help.

On his way out of the kitchen he pilfered four honey buns from the silver tray, stuffing them in his pockets. He leaped down the stairs, whistling as he exited the beautifully wood- and iron-constructed house. He turned, looking up at the fascia, inspecting for more woodpecker infiltration. Damn woodpeckers. The intricate swirls and spirals carved into the trim were a marvel. He reminded himself to ask his father who in Breden could teach him how to craft something so striking.

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.

If they hadn’t been using training lashes, that would have been a crippling strike.

Their Sid-Ho master, Noah nodded stoically. “Good.”

Juzo turned on a dime, gritting his teeth, presumably holding a form of Warrior’s Focus. He spun his lash once, building power, and cracked it at Walter’s left knee, attempting to snare the leading leg of his stance. Walter raised his left leg, skillfully avoiding the attack while launching a disarming attack at Juzo’s weapon hand. Walter pulled back on the steel gauntlet wrapped around his right forearm, connected to the leather tentacle about to intercept with Juzo’s weapon arm, causing it to wrap rather than strike his target. Walter’s lash wound around Juzo’s weapon arm like a boa constrictor on its prey, seizing it in its grasp. He pulled hard, forcing Juzo off balance.

Juzo stumbled toward Walter, wearing an odd expression of satisfaction. Walter understood why a second later when a knee to his abdomen, combined with the force of Juzo’s stumbling, expelled the air from his lungs, causing him to collapse to his knees. He gasped with ragged breaths. Walter opened his eyes, his vision obscured by tears of sharp pain, realizing Juzo was now behind him. He caught a glimpse of Noah’s face, seemingly chiseled from stone, observing them with imposing arms crossed.

Walter felt Juzo’s thick lash being worked into double-wrap, carotid-artery choke, closing tightly around his throat. Walter scrambled, attempting to work a fingertip under the lash to relieve the pressure. It was too late. The image of Noah and the other students standing at attention behind him transitioned from blurry, to swirling shadows, to a sheet of red.

“Well done!” Noah exclaimed, striding off to watch another pair of students sparring.

Juzo released the choke and Walter’s vision returned, displaying his smiling friend above him offering a hand. Walter took it, and clapped Juzo’s shoulder. “My friend, that was amazing. I definitely did not see that coming – well played.”

Juzo peered around the wide training floor. “It is hard being the best all the time, you know.”

Walter furrowed his brow. “Interesting. I bet that welt on your back says otherwise.”

Walter rubbed at his throat, still reeling at how rapidly Juzo had executed that choke. He’s come long way after just a year. Walter was on his third year, and they were nearly equal in skill. They strolled over to watch Sadit and Will grappling, their lashes lying lifelessly on the soft hay floor.

Walter and Juzo had practically been brothers, both only children. Their parents were friends, so it was only natural. Walter’s father was an elixir bean entrepreneur, and Juzo’s as well. Juzo’s parents unfortunately did not have the luck Walter’s had with the soil composition and turned to fishing to make ends meet. Their parents initially met in a symbiotic business relationship, but that was how most friendships in Breden incubated.

Juzo Pulling was a hand shorter than Walter, with a narrow face said to be handsome by many of the women of Breden. Walter was more handsome, not that Walter was comparing. That was just what other people said, of course. Juzo wore dark, loose clothing that made his wiry form appear larger. He liked to be able to move without the restriction that tighter clothing could cause. He had deep-set almond eyes that harmonized nicely with his hazel hair, with early-onset gray strands.

Noah clapped loudly, causing the students to snap to attention. “Alright, boys, nice work today.”

Will clambered from on top of Sadit, standing and helping his sweat-soaked training partner to his feet. Another pair disengaged from a standoff, a circular dance of vicious lash-cracking. The dozen students stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, lashes dangling behind their Gi pants kissing the Sid-Ho dojo floor. Noah glanced at each student, allowing his icy eyes to linger on each one.

“Boys, today I am going to teach you some things I have learned about self-mastery.”

Noah allowed his gaze to briefly rest on each student’s eyes.

“All of your strength is within. There is nothing outside of yourself that will allow you to become stronger.” He ambled along before the students, his bodily control and power emanating with each step. “Seek nothing that is outside of yourself.”

He audibly inhaled and exhaled deeply. “There is always more than one path to the top of your personal mountain,” he continued, his deep voice penetrating the walls. “In life, in combat, in business, if you wish to control others you must first establish mastery of thyself,” he commanded. He paused a moment, allowing them to ingest and contemplate his truism. “To control others, you must first control yourself,” Noah said. “The ultimate aim of your training is never requiring its use. You have all trained hard this year. Have fun at the Festival tonight and don’t eat too many sweets!” he chuckled.

“Assume Warrior’s Focus,” Noah commanded with a rapid tone change, kneeling, closing his eyes and facing his students. Walter closed his eyes, kneeling through soreness. He tossed, churned, and massaged Noah’s words, allowing them to assimilate into his consciousness, brooding upon on their meaning. There is only me. I am power, strength, life, death, a conqueror. He embraced the physical exhaustion, enjoying its calming effect. Colors swirled in his vision and time was no more, as he entered Warrior’s Focus. His senses were dulled, while simultaneously enhanced. Time stretched to what felt like eternity.

“Soon, you’ll learn to embrace the Warrior’s Focus in combat,” said Noah. He circled the meditating students. His footfalls sounded like the beat of a hide drum in Walter’s ears. Walter drowned the sound by instinctively going deeper into the mental abyss, away from the noise.

The colors dancing in his vision started to materialize into what could be a face. The face had ocher skin that appeared to be painted on its skull. It wore an oversized crest of jagged stone shielding where one would presume eyes to be, forming the shape of a spade beyond the apex of the head. Walter’s mind absorbed this with the calm realization that this was the creature he had seen lurking at the edge of the forest at his house.

The head turned imperceptibly, looking directly at him, and screeched, “Zahna!” Walter’s eyes snapped open, shattering Warrior’s Focus like a mirror dropped on stone. He sprung to his feet panting and covered with cold sweat. A few students opened their eyes, shooting him curious glances.

“Class dismissed. Slowly rise to your feet, come back to your body,” said Noah. He peered at Walter and raised his thin eyebrows. The students rose, and started to exit the sparsely adorned dojo.

Juzo walked up beside him. “What the eruption was that?” he asked.

“I’m certain you wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Walter replied.

The cool wind of the Abyssal Sea entwined his hair, highlighting hues of gold.

“I’m certain that you’re not really certain that I wouldn’t believe you,” Juzo said, wagging a finger at him.

Walter sighed and glanced over his shoulder, half smiling.

“I saw this really bizarre monster-like thing during meditation, something out of a nightmare,” Walter said, shaking off the image.

“Maybe it was a nightmare. I think I heard you snoring.”

Walter feinted a knee to Juzo’s abdomen and Juzo pushed it away.

“You’ve been working the elixir fields too much.”

“My dad thinks I don’t know what work is yet, apparently.”

Juzo slapped him on the back, grinning.

“You’re pretty lazy, he’s right.”

“Right – oh, wait a minute.” Walter spun and headed back through the veiled archway into the dojo.

He strode in, seeking the large blue glass jar of cream he’d forgotten. “Looking for this?” asked Noah, offering it from his desk.

“Thank you, sir” said Walter, taking it from him.

“What did you see?” asked Noah.

“Nothing, I–”

“Don’t ignore your visions,” he interrupted. “They’re often manifestations of our own demons, things we must settle within. They may portend certain events, but that is extremely rare and unheard of this side of the Silver Tower.”

Walter nodded, and returned to Juzo. If he told anyone that he knew in his gut that the vision confirmed the truth of what he saw behind his house, they would surmise he consumed Fang Cress. Ralph Seaborn had developed the taste for its long thin leaves dotted with yellow flowers and became a babbling fool, left by his wife to fend for himself. The young men started north towards Nyset’s house through the bustling Breden Square.

Fruit and vegetable vendors hocked their wares, shouting prices and freshness quotients into the marketplace. Michael Bisbon led his herd of goats to the leather worker’s table, assuming his negotiation face. He waved to the boys as they passed. With his leg Juzo nudged an extra-fuzzy white goat that stepped in front of him, making its bell to chime. Juzo then lunged at the goat, causing it to scurry away towards the herd. Mr. Bisbon shook his head at Juzo, muttering.

Walter stopped by Janelle’s fruit wagon and fished two dull glass beads from his gem pouch. They had an indiscernible sliver of diamond within, the lowest denomination of Zoria, often referred to as a common mark. There were also clear, topaz, opal, sapphire, diamond and power-diamond marks in order of increasing value. Power-diamond marks were infused with the essence of fire by the rare money changers who could use the power of the Dragon. A power diamond mark was worth ten thousand common marks. Walter purchased two shiny green apples, tossing one to Juzo, who expertly caught it from the air.

“Nectar of the Phoenix!” Juzo exclaimed after taking his first bite.

“You got that right. Let’s go check out what they’ve set up,” said Walter. He motioned towards what would soon become the main attraction for the Festival of Flames. They approached the center of the square, where decorations for the festival became more abundant. Swathes of red and orange cloth mimicking flames adorned shops and hung from signs, creating a stark contrast between the browns, grays and blues of the buildings. Juzo waved at his lithe mother, Mindred, at her fish cart. She was in the midst of wrapping three salted cod in thick, brown paper for a rather portly fellow wearing a green sweater.

In the center of the square, unlit torches circled a wooden structure at least twenty paces tall. Five carpenters cut, hammered and climbed the structure, massaging the wood into the shape of a large bird. Their sweat glistened brightly in the mid-day sun. The boys admired the structure for a moment, chomping down the last of their apples. Mr. Camfield, Nyset’s father, waved to them from atop the large structure, then resumed affixing a crossbeam.

“Let’s go see what Casey is cooking up today,” Walter said. Juzo wiped sweat from his brow and looked towards the chef.

“Seems like he’s been tasting his food more often than usual,” Juzo smirked.

Walter pinched the taut skin under Juzo’s mustard shirt, hardly able to grab any between his fingers. “Someone needs to lay off the sweet cakes,” Walter said. Juzo laughed and swatted his hand away. “His soup is Phoenix worthy, but his odor could contend with the mouth of the volcano,” Walter said.

The grotesque man stirred a large pot of simmering beef stew while examining a tray of loose spices. The scent filled Walter’s mouth with saliva. Three other large pots boiled on open flames and occasionally sputtered, vaulting their intoxicating aromas into the noses of passers-by.

“Hi, Walter. Hi, Juzo,” Casey muttered. He wiped his soiled hands down an apron that hadn’t seen fresh water in months. He forced a smile and his right eye twitched as he nodded at them.

“What can I get you guys?”

“I don’t want to spoil my appetite. The Camfields are making us dinner,” said Walter. Casey nodded six times in his usual disconcerting way. Juzo peered into the various cook pots, savoring each one.

“Could I have just a taste of the lamb stew, chef?” Casey flashed a toothy smile with his tongue clamped between his molars. He held a large, polished wooden spoon towards Juzo’s lips. Juzo slurped it down and his light-brown eyes bulged. “Mmm – fantastic! I think it’s the best stew I’ve ever had. Don’t tell my mother or she’ll cry herself to sleep for weeks,” said Juzo.

Casey chuckled. “Your secret is safe with me, all secrets are safe with me. Yep, all secrets are safe with me. You can tell me any secrets, boys.” Walter folded his tanned arms, standing with his legs wider than shoulder-width apart, and peered down over his nose at the strange man, now sifting a green herb. There was always something off with Casey, but variety is what keeps life interesting, he reminded himself, shrugging off his awkwardness. Never judge a man by his state of life. It may be just that, a temporary state, his father had said.

Chapter 3 – The Festival of Flames

“Smile when all hope leaves you” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

They strode from the chef’s table and reached the dusty Quarry Road north of Breden Square. Walter naturally now found his stomach rumbling. He popped the lid of the cream and inhaled a large gulp. He ran a finger across his upper lip, collecting the excess onto his fingertip and wiping it on his tongue.

“Can’t let anything go to waste,” Walter said.

“Isn’t that for Mrs. Camfield?” asked Juzo. The road veered to the west, towards the Abyssal Sea.

“Yeah, but she won’t be able to use all of this before it goes bad anyway, and I’m ravenous.” Juzo grabbed it from him and took a swill.

“Mm,” he hummed.

They passed a large cornfield to the south. Walter felt the sensation of ice forming on the back of his neck. His instincts told him to drop his pack and put on his lash, but he ignored it. He surveyed the cornfield and the stretch of houses on the northern side of the road, searching for the eyes he was certain were studying them. He licked his lips and took a controlled breath.

“Call me crazy, but I feel like we’re being watched,” Walter said quietly.

“We probably are, crazy. Breden is a big town and girls are probably interested in meeting with men like us. Speaking of women, are you finally going to kiss Nyset tonight?” asked Juzo. Walter felt his heart beat a little faster at the mention of her name.

“I guess I should probably do that soon.”

“What are you waiting for, an invitation?” asked Juzo.

A large gust of salty wind tunneled through the road, forming tiny dust devils on either side.

“You’re the one who’s good with girls. How do I do it?” said Walter.

Juzo grunted and re-adjusted his bag of training gear on his shoulder.

“How did you get good with the lash?”

“Practice, of course,” replied Walter.

“That’s exactly what you need to do. Once you’ve taken the plunge, you’ll lose your fear of striking out. Even if you mess something up with a girl, don’t worry – there are plenty of others,” said Juzo.

“I guess,” Walter said, nodding. This isn’t just any girl. This is the girl I’ve always had a spot for.

They were coming upon Juzo’s house, which was modest by comparison to Walter’s. It was plain and unadorned, without the ornately carved designs lining Walter’s. Juzo’s parents sold Silver Fish caught in the Abyssal Sea to the residents of Breden, which put a cap on their earning power. Walter’s were selling elixir beans up and down the coast, allowing them to prosper.

A dull rumble reverberated through Juzo’s stomach.

“I’m not feeling so hot,” he said, an arm over his abdomen. “I’ll meet you at Nyset’s for dinner in a bit. I think I need to go practice Warrior’s Focus on the toilet. Kiss her tonight, you’ll be fine.”

“Enjoy, friend,” said Walter waving.

Walter passed other similarly sized homes, making his way through the poorer parts of Breden. As he departed further from the town square, homes and farms became more dilapidated. The Quarry Road was named for the enormous granite quarry that intersected with the Abyssal Sea, whose frozen waters polished the stones nearest the shore. Walter couldn’t shake the feeling of being stalked like prey, but alas ignored it and wrote it off as asinine paranoia. “Was Noah right?” he asked aloud. “Did there really exist a creature from Bleeding in the Depths?” He inhaled and exhaled forcefully, pushing the thought from his mind.

Mrs. Camfield greeted him at the door, smiling and stirring a bowl of something delicious-smelling. “Ny, Walt is here!” she shouted up the stairs. She is beautiful, for an older woman, Walter thought.

He handed her the cream jar. “From my mother,” he said.

“Ah, yes, tell her I said thank you very much. Go ahead and put your things down.” She gestured toward a corner of the foyer. He brushed aside the bulbous saffron tabby, Crinkly, and stowed his bag.

Walter felt the thud of his heart pound between his eyes. Seconds became minutes as he waited for Nyset to come down the stairs. Calm – you really don’t need to use Warrior’s Focus for this, he told himself. She bounded down the stairs, her long golden locks flowing behind her. She had a pale complexion highlighted by a white shirt and red sweater worn on top. She was two hands shorter than Walter, had a narrow face, and large doe eyes that belied her intellect. She moved with the precision of a tiger, most likely due to her years of tumbling.

“Hey,” she smiled as she came to the landing.

“Hey,” he said, meeting her dark eyes.

They scanned each other’s faces. The anxiety he felt a moment ago evaporated like warm morning dew.

“How are you?” she asked, hugging him.

Her lilac scent engulfed his senses. Her warmth felt right pressed against him.

Do I really have a crush on my friend? Was this right? Yes, it was, he told himself resoundingly.

“Hungry. Juzo wasn’t feeling so well, he said he’d be here later,” he replied.

“C’mon, let’s eat, my mom made an incredible roast pig.”

**

The harvest moon hung low in the dark sky, casting its deep yellow hue upon the land. Revelers cheered and swung pewter mugs of mead, the crowd writhing like a snake through the center of Breden Square. Some had apparently mistaken their stomachs for mead barrels and doubled over. Other townsfolk gathered round long oaken tables that could easily seat twenty, enjoying the feast prepared by Casey and his apprentices.

Giggling children scuffled and chased each other with toy lashes and orange kites. Shops and carts that had been sparsely covered in red-orange cloth were now deeply layered in it, appearing nearly ablaze. Torches strewn about lapped at the darkness and large bonfires roared on the outskirts of the plaza, illuminating the festival.

This was a celebration of living, the fire that burns within us all, and the renewal of life that the Phoenix brings. It was a reminder to cultivate that fire and to never let what truly matters to you burn out. In the center of the square stood the fully constructed likeness of a Phoenix, the bird that rose from the fire of its own ashes to live another day. It stood in defiance against the darkness. Tonight, the denizens of Breden would conflagrate those things which lassoed their spirits.

Walter reached out and gingerly held Nyset’s hand, leading her to a game of dagger throwing. She flashed him a thin smile. “Think you can beat me?” she asked. He pulled her close, avoiding a stumbling man wearing tattered rags and reeking like the pigsty. He suddenly wheeled and seized Walter by the shoulders with both hands. His mouth was flecked with a thick green and yellow paste. The man’s turbid eyes bored holes into Walter’s.

“They come,” he hissed. His thick unkempt beard brushed Walter’s face. Walter instinctively grasped the man’s left hand, extracting it from his shoulder and keeping him at arm’s length. Walter shoved him away. “Lay off the Fang Cress, Ralph.”

“Babo dobo zooma zahna!” exclaimed Ralph.

They resumed walking towards the dagger-throwing tent, leaving Ralph to babble into the night. Walter grabbed at his gem pouch in his sleeve, making sure it was still intact. He felt something was off, but couldn’t identify precisely why.

He’d once spent two hours nursing a mug of Scarlet Berry wine in the square while observing the addictive effects of Fang Cress on Ralph. Ralph had crawled along the edge of the square where Nature reasserted her dominance over the land, sniffing the weeds and flowers as though his vision had failed him. When he finally found Fang Cress and began munching on it he almost immediately became something less than human, writhing and babbling on the ground. Walter wanted to see how a broken person would behave. He didn’t think much of it, other than swearing to never try it. This time, however, what Ralph had said left him unsettled.

“Something wrong, Walter?” asked Nyset, tilting her head.

“Ralph – what he said… was different.”

“He’s a Fang-Cress-addicted old fool, would you expect anything less?” she asked.

“I suppose not,” he replied. Trust your instincts, listen to your gut. Stay vigilant, he told himself.

“Alright, let’s see what you have,” she said, hefting a throwing dagger. She stood with her feet wide and hurled the dagger, flipping it end over end and smashing the target with the butt. She huffed, narrowed her eyes and grabbed another gleaming dagger from the table. This time she held the blade by the spine, rather than the handle, and it struck true, piercing the target with a satisfying thump.

“Not bad, let’s make a bet,” said Walter with a mischievous grin.

“I’m not much of a gambler,” she replied, twirling the blade in one hand.

“Don’t cut yourself with that,” Walter said. “The loser has to kiss the winner, on the lips”

Her pale cheeks reddened.

“That doesn’t sound like much of a bet to me,” she smiled.

She torqued her arm behind her head and released her last blade, again finding its mark.

She beamed confidently. “You’re up”

Walter felt the weight of a bright-red-handled dagger in his hand.

“Oh! My aunt and uncle are at the Phoenix with my parents, I’m going to go say hi. Don’t throw yet, no cheating,” she said sternly and padded off.

Walter leaned back against the throwing table, ensuring there weren’t any blades behind him first. He took a deep breath and enjoyed the activity bustling around him. He watched the crowd in their drunken stupor dancing around the massive Phoenix. He never understood why a man would want to dull his faculties so that he was as defenseless as a new babe. Some men are sheep and others are wolves, he thought. Walter spotted Juzo stalking toward him looking paler than usual. “We missed you at dinner, feeling alright?”

“No, I think I’m getting sick. I spent most of the evening strapped to the toilet. On the bright side, I caught up with some knife sharpening,” said Juzo.

“I am glad you decided not to be a baby and came anyway.” The inklings of a smile touched Walter’s lips.

“Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t miss watching something burn,” replied Juzo, gesticulating with his arm.

“What are you going to burn?” asked Walter.

Juzo produced a small worn, black leather journal from the deep pockets of his long duster. “This – memories of a darker time,” he said. His shoulders sagged under an unseen weight.

“The past is dead, the future is unborn,” Walter said, drumming his fingers on the counter behind him.

“Look at you, a damn philosopher!” Juzo said as he slapped Walter on the back.

Walter chuckled. Juzo stood tall, looking irreverently at the Phoenix watching over the festival. His light eyes reflected the tumult of the nearest bonfire. The waxing and waning of the chaos in his eyes conjured by the flames lent an infernal appearance.

Walter set his gaze to the perimeter of the Phoenix adjacent to Nyset, and noticed a group of three white-haired men appearing very uncomfortable. A short man held a hand tightly over his mouth and the other two taller men wrapped their arms around their bellies. The short man suddenly removed his hand as yellow liquid was violently ejected from his mouth. The other two followed suit, thick vomit covering the earth.

“What the fuck? Are you seeing this?” asked Walter.

Chapter 4 – First Draw

“Open the bonds of our souls. Take away the veils of the sky and our deluded minds. Drive the screws through our feet and open the windows of nature.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

Juzo followed Walter’s stare and gasped. “They must have had my grandmother’s cookies,” he said. Juzo greedily eyed a nearby Sugar-Glazed Scarlet Berry cart. He turned away from it, his peripheral vision catching Eric, his Sid-Ho classmate, sprinting to a barrel with metal hoops and sticking his head in, gagging. Two plump children ran to the three older men heaving, causing their tiny overfilled stomachs to reject their contents onto each other. It started a chain reaction through the festival. People all around gagged and heaved onto their clothing and each other. The putrid stench hit you like a fieldstone wall. A beautiful girl with red hair and dark skin stumbled as she vomited and knocked a torch over.

“Something is wrong,” said Juzo. He started pacing beside Walter and pushed a hand through his gray-streaked hair.

“Yeah,” replied Walter distantly. Walter stood erect, processing the scene.

Juzo was sick. I feel fine, Nyset looks fine, Walter thought. He sought Nyset’s parents and found them watching the chaos unfolding. Mrs. Camfield’s mouth hung open and she covered her ears through her thin auburn hair. Mr. Camfield held his arms around her, pulling her close and leading her through the door of an empty bakery with a sign made to look like a three-dimensional loaf of bread. They seem less concerned than Juzo.

The joyous sounds of merriment dwindled to a gagging horror. Walter saw his father clutching a tall flagpole with one hand and looking like he was about to erupt. The orange flag with an embroidered phoenix undulated violently in an extraordinary gale.

It was the food, Walter thought. Casey? No, he could never.

He scanned the cook station and discovered the chef rubbing his hands together, his back against the wall, half of his face cast in shadow. His eyes furiously darted back and forth, wearing a sickening scowl. His tongue lolled from the corner of his mouth and red liquid streamed from it. Over the din of the townsfolk vomiting, Walter heard the distinctive pounding of hoof beats in the near distance. Or is that my heart?

“Boys! It’s time to put your training to the test!” roared Noah from behind them. It was real. There are horses coming? Walter hadn’t noticed his master move beside them as he tried to absorb the shock of the sight. Not good. Stay sharp.

Noah brandished a braided steel combat lash in his right hand, and snatched a throwing dagger from the game table in the other. “Get daggers, boys,” he commanded. Noah turned his head to the side and retched, and then wiped his mouth. He scowled in Casey’s direction and hurled his blade with a large arc, gracefully passing over the heads of bystanders. It slammed through the chef’s right forearm, pinning him to the cook-station wall. The man emitted a high-pitched shriek and glared in seemingly random directions. He attempted to remove the dagger, but gave up, and sagged to his bottom with his bloody arm outstretched overhead. Noah snatched another dagger from the table.

Juzo growled and strapped on his training lash from his pack. “Finally, a real test,” he said. He tightly cinched the now deflated satchel strap to his back, eyes resolute.

“What are you waiting for, Walt?” Juzo punched his arm with enough force to inflict a bruise. Walter shot him an incredulous stare. His lips trembled and there was an unfamiliar pain in his chest. He started taking rapid breaths, and dropped onto one knee. He stared into the dirt containing his and Nyset’s narrow footprints. “Get it together,” he whispered. For her, for everyone, this is what you’re made for. He regained control over his breathing, feeling his pulse calm. He wiped his hand across his forehead as if praying to the Dragon and stood tall.

“What is this?” asked Walter of no one in particular.

“This is an invasion,” said Noah grimly. “Those hoof beats are war horses. Fight well, boys – to me!”

Walter hastily strapped on his training lash and wielded a throwing dagger. He met his father’s eyes as a hail of thick, black, jagged arrows started raining death around them. Many missed people and pierced inanimate objects, but some found homes in bodies of townsfolk.

The horror of sickness gelled with the terror of the hard reality that they were under attack. People screamed and fled in varied directions, unsure of the source of the attack. Walter and Juzo jogged, following Noah.

A refreshing cool gale from the sea washed over them, causing fires to dance wildly. At least a dozen other Breden Sid-Ho warriors appeared from patrolling the perimeter, with lashes and various weapons in off-hands. One had taken up a machete, another a hand-axe, and another a long spear. They wore the traditional Breden guard armor consisting of a cuirass, greaves, gauntlets, and small pauldrons to maximize mobility, yet still provide protection against piercing weapons.

The hoof beats revealed their source. Dark fully armored figures on horseback poured into the square, fanning in all directions. A terrible roar like a hoarse lion echoed through the plaza. Walter and Juzo turned to each other, exchanging looks of terror. “Be strong – focus!” said Noah. Walter clenched his jaw.

The riders gave no quarter, plunging long spears through civilians with hands raised. Screams of panic became cries of agony. The attackers’ thick furs fluttered behind them and wrapped their upper chests. Walter found Warrior’s Focus disturbingly easy to slip into. Ragged emotions melted away like snow on the first day of Spring and time slowed. His visual perception clarified the palette of chaos into individual, succinct events.

Walter found his father’s azure eyes as he fled. Time lagged and an arrow pierced the soft tissue of Aiden’s neck. Blood pumped from his severed carotid artery, and the arrow landed resolutely in the body of the enormous phoenix. Walter’s Warrior’s Focus shattered like broken glass.

Aiden crumpled to the soft earth. Walter dropped his dagger and screamed, breaking off from Noah and Juzo, “Dad! No!” He reached his father and placed his free hand over the gaping wound, Aiden’s life essence fruitlessly spurting around it. Juzo came up behind him, tearing sheets from his clothing. He stuffed the cloth strips under Walter’s hand to make a better seal on the wound, but it was too large. The arrow with its jagged spines was designed for creating the largest wound channel without compromising accuracy.

“Your mother… she’s home,” Aiden gasped. The light dulled in his eyes and he exhaled his final breath. Walter slowly rose to his feet. He clawed at his face with his red hands, raking bloody lines down his cheeks. Tears swelled and ran thin lines down his red-streaked face. He was about to wipe his tears to clear his vision, before realizing his hands were covered with his father’s blood. Juzo untucked his shirt and used the extra material to rub Walter’s hands clean. Juzo then held a hand to Walter’s shoulder and scanned the scene as Walter stared at what was once his vibrant father.

“There’s nothing we can do now, we have to go, we’re going to be OK.” Juzo’s voice wavered.

The crack of Noah’s braided steel lash split the air. His lash coiled around the neck of a dark rider under his helm, pulling him backwards from his large gelding seconds before he could skewer a small girl who motionlessly cried, staring into the void. Wearing full plate armor, the rider landed hard on his neck and upper back, the impact disarming him. He then incredibly kicked up to his feet, and reached for his weapon. No man can move like that wearing full plate armor, Noah thought.

Noah interrupted the reach by binding his arm with the lash. “Not so fast!” He pulled savagely, drawing the man stumbling towards him. The rider emitted a guttural roar that made the hair on Noah’s arms rise. This isn’t a man, he realized. As the rider stumbled towards Noah, he detected the distinctive hiss of a sword being drawn. Noah charged before the dull short sword could be fully drawn from its ebony scabbard, and rammed the off-hand throwing dagger into his enemy’s neck.

When the rider fell, its helm rolled away revealing the face of a humanoid creature with a massive lower jaw bearing the teeth of a shark. Its eyes glowed like coals, as if burning from within. Its skin was thin, as if painted on sinewy flesh. “Cerumal! Here? It can’t be!” Noah said.

Walter and Juzo steeled themselves for combat. “We can do this,” whispered Juzo.

“We take him.” Juzo pointed to a Cerumal on foot who had just stomped an elderly woman’s skull with his boot, sending a splash of gore onto a child’s Phoenix kite.

Walter nodded solemnly.

“For Father!” he shouted.

They sprinted into the fray, roaring in unison. Juzo executed Blades in the Breeze, spinning and using the momentum to deliver a punishing strike, which hardly grazed the thick plate armor. Training lashes didn’t have the range or penetrating tips that combat lashes came equipped with.

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Pathetic,” the creature growled. Juzo stared at the abomination, muscles tensing. He broke out of his stupor, just barely rolling in time to avoid being impaled by the Cerumal’s wide-tipped spear. Walter’s lash snared the dark apparition’s arm, causing it to focus on him. Juzo hurled his throwing dagger with a scream. It flashed in the moonlight, reflecting a nearby fire. It dinged loudly, bouncing off the plate covering the creature’s chest.

The Cerumal jerked Walter towards him with remarkable strength, using the lash’s binding against him. He struck Walter’s face with an armored backhand, filling the boy’s vision with blinding white pain. Walter collapsed to the ground and his nostrils filled with kicked-up dirt. So much pain, unbearable pain. I need to get up. He opened his eyes to watch as the rider lanced Juzo’s leg with its black spear. Juzo screamed, “Help!” and clutched the spear impaling his thigh, bracing it.

Hassan, the Captain of the Guard, came from nowhere and cleaved the head from the Cerumal with his longsword. “Die, creature!” he bellowed. “There’s too many of them, boys, you have to go! Run!” he screamed. The body of the Cerumal slumped to the ground, thick viscous blood oozing from where its head had been.

Walter knew he was standing on the razor’s edge of a cusp. He had to get up and live, or die on the dirt. So much pain. He made the only choice he could. He rose and stumbled to Juzo, vision slightly blurred. Walter wrapped his hand around the spear shaft. “Get ready,” he said. Juzo nodded frantically. Walter ripped the spear from Juzo’s leg, blood bubbling from the gaping wound. He gathered Juzo over his shoulders and skirted the plaza’s edge, away from the horrors of battle.

He lurched into the darkness, away from his dying friends and family. He turned back one last time to see Noah fall, three spears piercing his weakened body. Juzo groaned, “What are you doing? Coward! We have to fight…fight…” He drifted into unconsciousness. Walter made his way to a large brown gelding with a white mane, fortunately still tied to a pole by its lead rope.

Noah is dead. What else can we possibly do now that he’s been killed? This is right, Walter told himself. He loaded Juzo onto the horse and cautiously mounted it, his balance still not quite right from the head blow. Juzo grunted as he was placed. A long trail of blood now flowed down his pants and to the tip of his boot. He needed to be bandaged soon or he would perish. Walter tapped the gelding with his heel to urge it into moving.

He looked over his shoulder, trusting instinct, and gasped at seeing the gnarled horror from earlier at his house. It wasn’t more than twenty paces away with its long, bladed talons outstretched, and spade-like helm covering its eyes. Closer now, he could see the creature was female. It wore jagged stone-like armor over the bust. The armor had spines creeping away from the main body, like the arms of a starfish about a hand long. The pain in his head magnified as his pulse raged through his chest. “Go, go, move!” He started rapidly driving his heels into the horse’s flanks.

The monster shrieked and started sprinting, transitioning from what might have been the posture of a stalking animal. Walter screamed in panic, overwhelmed by the nightmare manifested in reality. He booted the gelding as hard as he could. “Run, boy, run! Run! Run!” he screamed. Walter dropped his body low, bracing the horse and Juzo with all of his strength as it transitioned into a gallop. Walter looked back ten seconds later to see the creature falling behind. He felt an iota of tension slacken from his contracted muscles. He closed his eyes and ducked his head against the horse’s thick neck.

The creature with gnarled skin screeched and stopped in its tracks. It forcibly thrust both of its hands in their direction, palms open. A dozen or more of the barbed spines ejected from its armor, barraging Walter. One landed in the horse’s hindquarters, causing it to squeal in pain and gallop faster. Another lodged in Walter’s shoulder, its uneven edges emerging from both sides of it. Walter yelled in pain, fresh tears pooling in his eyes. He looked at the barb jutting from his shoulder, but thought better of trying to remove it without proper bandages. Shouldn’t have ripped the spear from Juzo’s leg, stupid!

He looked back again. The brown-skinned creature seemed to be staring in his direction, but stood its ground where it had stopped, fading in the distance. The gelding’s hooves reverberated in the silence of the Mission Road. Walter sobbed onto Juzo’s back and the horse’s neck. His body quivered with each sob, and interspersed between sobs he started laughing. He led the horse to his parents’ house, where he promptly fell from the beast with a thud, collapsing from the mental and physical exhaustion.

Chapter 5 – Choices

“Worship me in the portals of night and enter the dark plane.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

Walter’s mother Isabelle stared into the worn leather-bound ledger book, numbers blurring in her eyes. She leaned back in her wooden chair carved with the likeness of wrapping elixir vines and yawned like a lion, head lolling back, sharp chin pointing at the ceiling. “Just a few more accounts to reconcile, and I can make my way to the festival,” she said into the empty study.

The large dark walnut desk she used had two large piles to either side of her, one of signed receipts of elixir shipments, the other of payments owed. Both piles were being held in place by a pile of low-denomination marks.

The sound of a horse thundered down the Mission Road. This doesn’t seem right, she thought. She wrinkled her nose, listening intently. It was getting closer, almost at her doorstep. She snapped her fingers in the direction of the five burning beeswax candles, snuffing them out simultaneously. She looked furtively through the study window to see the form of her son collapse.

**

Walter stared into the clear night sky, its luminescent beauty at odds with the agony he felt. This was supposed to be a nice night. Should’ve listened to crazy fucking Ralph… should’ve trusted the vision. I was supposed to kiss Nyset. Lashes, daggers. We were going to watch the Phoenix burn. Juzo and I were going to… Juzo – I need to help him. Get up, get up, you fool! He forced his body into movement, lifting his torso upright. The stalactite lancing his shoulder reminded him of its presence when he moved. He felt the midnight dew from the blades of grass on his fingertips. The gelding remained close, pawing at the ground nervously.

“Walter! Is that you?” his mother yelled when the front door burst open.

“Mom? Mom, you’re here,” he said wearily.

“What happened to you boys?” she said, concern lining her eyes.

She looked them over, wincing at their wounds.

“Help Juzo, he”, Walter trailed off. She tore a piece of white linen from her shirt and quickly bound Juzo’s leg to staunch the profuse bleeding.

“Dad, Dad is dead Mom” Walter said flatly, staring into her cool blue eyes. His eyes bubbled over with tears. Pain seared across her face, but was quickly replaced with decisiveness. “OK, OK, let’s get you inside,” she said. Her eyes flashed a brilliant yellow. She loaded Juzo onto her left shoulder and Walter on the other.

Ten minutes passed and Juzo regained consciousness. “How did you do that, Mrs. Glade?” queried Juzo from an armchair, sipping water. He peered at his thigh, now bound with proper cotton bandages and coated with antiseptic Ribwort oil.

Isabelle had spent her former life as the community surgeon in The Great Retreat, before Aiden swept her off her feet with his natural charm and wit. She didn’t think it would be a useful skill in her new life as a businesswoman, but found after having Walter that it was indeed useful. Evidently, a hallmark of a well-lived childhood was to inflict the occasional broken bone and gash upon oneself.

Juzo stared at her, blinking. “Do what, Juzo?” she replied, finishing applying Ribwort oil to Walter’s shoulder bandage. A slow smile crept across Juzo’s lips.

“I saw you carry us in at the same time,” he said.

“I was so concerned about you boys, I feared for your lives. What other choice did I have?” she said.

“I suppose,” he said, staring off at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in the study.

“Tell me again what happened, everything you can remember.” Her gentle eyes scanned their faces. She started gathering water skins and dried peach slices, stuffing them into a satchel. Isabelle hurriedly packed other sundries.

“Everything was amazing, then there were terrible hoof beats, and screaming, ear-piercing screams,” said Walter, shivering.

An explosion tore through the front of the house, splintering wood across the foyer as a Cerumal lunged through the doorway. The red cedar door skidded down the hall, shattering bits of doorframe in its wake. The Cerumal paused, towering in the hallway and then pounded up the stairs to the second floor. Thankfully, the study was on the first floor. The floor screeched under the tremendous weight of the heavily armored horror.

“I’m sorry, boys, but you must go. Get back on the horse and ride as far from here as you can!” Isabelle hoarsely whispered.

“No, we’re not leaving you!” cried Walter. This is too much, he thought.

“If you love me and trust me Walt, you will do as I say. Now go! Please!” Walter relented, obeying his mother. Juzo felt at the contents of his satchel and narrowed his eyes.

They proceeded together towards the foyer, where the heavy door had once been. Isabelle shoved them outside, onto the porch. The Cerumal roared angrily from the second-floor landing, spotting them. The well-lit landing revealed long smears of blood that had splashed across the chest and legs of its gray slate-colored armor.

Isabelle widened her stance and spread her arms across the doorway, using her body to shield the boys behind her. She extended her right arm towards the beast, and opened her right palm. A jet of flame erupted from her palm, dashing towards the interwoven armor. When it struck, the creature ignited in a hail of Dragon fire, falling to its knees and bellowing in pain. It removed its helmet in an ineffectual attempt to stay its execution.

Holy shit! It’s true! It’s real! My mother can use the power of the Dragon? Walter thought, beaming at her and knitting his eyebrows.

Juzo’s mouth hung open. “I knew it!” he exclaimed. “I knew it!”

The sound of smashing wood and glass echoed from the two adjacent rooms on the first-floor hallway. Isabelle looked down the main hall, watching as an armored foot crashed through the forest-green-painted back door to the kitchen. A warm, orange glow from her eyes brightened the marble-floored foyer. Too many, she thought. “Please go, boys. Walter, I love you – you must go! Please go now!” She pushed his satchel she’d packed into his arms.

First Dad, now this? Walter thought grimly. “I love you too, Mom,” he quavered. He had the feeling this was another cusp. Did he stay and fight, or flee, obeying his mother? He obeyed, telling himself it was out of respect, duty and love for his mother’s wishes. You’re too weak to fight them, the voice of truth stabbed in his head. His pulse pounded between his ears as he inched towards the door.

“Everything is going to be OK,” she said, putting a hand on his head, pushing him out the doorway. He saw death in her eyes. He knew in his chest how this would end.

“This isn’t right,” Juzo whispered into his ear on the front porch. Moments later, Walter wiped the cold sweat from his brow and drove his heel into the gelding’s side. He turned as they rode away from the home he’d always considered a refuge for peace. Roars from the Cerumal punched into the night sky, blending with Isabelle’s screams. A burst of bright light flashed from a window. What started as her war cry ended in shrieks of agony, and finally only the sound of pounding hooves remained with the boys.

**

Juzo sat tall atop the back of the wounded gelding they’d named Brownie as they sauntered along Helm’s East Road. Walter walked beside it, giving it a rest from carrying him. The heat from the mid-day sun was strong, its weight bearing down upon them. Two Monterey Pines that had grown too close rubbed against one another, creaking while the boys passed. A welcome gust from Lich’s Falls filtered through their loose clothing, dashing away some of the incessant heat.

They had collapsed under a puffy Silver Lamb’s bush two hours after departing Breden the previous night. Its long tentacle-like leaves captured glowing insects from the air, and passed their corpses to its central golden flower. Walter found its fluttering leaves not very conducive to restful sleep.

They had luckily remembered to tie Brownie to a nearby tree. Walter removed the stone lodged in the horse’s flank and bandaged him with the supplies his mother had unceremoniously given him. Take the time to correctly dress a wound, and it is far less likely to become Rot Fly food, she had told him. Thinking of his mother made his stomach twist into knots. Breathe, focus. Brownie was a great horse, Walter thought. Without him, we would already have been dead. He rubbed his sides and massaged his muscular neck.

The gurgle of a brook emerged from the south. “Let’s get him some water and rest,” said Walter, breaking their long silence. Juzo nodded, his gaze fixed down the empty trodden road. They came upon a clearing with crystal clear water, babbling and forming bubbles along the green vegetation-lined river’s edge. Brownie drank greedily, while Walter and Juzo splashed their faces with icy water from the Blanched Falls. Walter felt the water cleansing his spirit and dissipating some of the tightness that sat on his chest. In that brief moment, he felt normal, perhaps he could even crack a smile.

Juzo pulled his head from the water, pushing his long hair back, the sun highlighting strands of gray. “Do you think what we did was right?” he asked.

Walter stared into the water, bubbles popping and reforming. “I don’t know. We already made a choice, all we can do now is go forward, right?”

Juzo slowly shook his head. “We have to go back,” he said with steely resolve.

“And get slaughtered? You saw those things, and the one that almost killed us on Brownie… How could we possibly kill that?” said Walter.

“You’re a coward!” yelled Juzo, tears in his eyes. “My parents…” he trailed off, sobbing. A flock of tiny amber Bongol Jays darted from a nearby spruce tree.

“If we went back and died, everyone’s sacrifice will have been for naught,” said Walter. “We need help. Those beasts are too powerful. If we go to Midgaard, the Falcon army will help us. They have to, don’t they?” he asked.

Juzo exhaled, growling. “I sure hope so,” he said. He removed his bandages, revealing a gaping wound that, thankfully, did not look infected. He cringed while rinsing it in the cool, running water. “So many dead, why did they do this? Why did this happen?” he said.

Walter met his friend’s blurry eyes, “I don’t know. Noah called them Cerumal, and even he fell to their spears.” He tilted his face to the sun, “We will have our revenge, but we can’t do it alone, and you know this.” The white sunlight blinded him, flashing in his mind the memory of the fiery glow of his mother’s eyes. Juzo hobbled back to Brownie with the assistance of a twisted stick, and, with some difficulty, mounted him.

**

By morning the following day, their stomachs were rumbling. One can be only so satisfied by nuts and salted beef. The pine-tree forest had given way to young birch trees interspersed with spruce, their white bark, peeled, revealing inner cambium.

Tiny Shroomlings a hand in height scurried in the underbrush with their brown mushroom-capped heads and red-purple humanoid bodies. They gathered Scarlet Berries with their human like tiny hands. The berries were about a tenth of their size. One almond-brown-capped Shroomling had managed to kill a chipmunk, impaling it with its toothpick-sized spear. It allowed the kill to dangle lifelessly from the end of its spear behind its back. As Brownie came into view on the path, they vanished into the birch forest.

“Shroomlings, but not enough to be a bother,” said Walter, catching a glimpse of them. Shroomlings could be very annoying pests due to their territorial nature. Juzo readied his leather training lash, holding its end loosely in his hand, just in case.

“So, your mother could use the Dragon Power?” Juzo asked.

Walter paused. “Apparently. She never told us, or hinted at it, I suppose for obvious reasons. I’m still amazed it’s real. I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. It was just like it was written in the stories.”

“Can you?” Juzo asked.

“Not that I know of… I guess I’ll never be able to learn from her…” Walter trailed off, settling into a heavy silence. They loped further east, passing the Bearded Foothills to the south. The Bearded Foothills were named for the profile of rock that loosely resembled a bearded man, which could be seen on the northern rock face with the right viewing angle.

“My, oh my, look at this sweet flesh,” whispered a gaunt man emerging from the road, brandishing a rusted butcher’s knife and blocking their path six paces ahead. Highwaymen, Walter thought. The man had an angular face with deep-set eyes and a thinning beard that hadn’t seen a razor in months. “Yarba! Look what I found, Chuck,” he shouted, eyeing them hungrily. He tapped the spine of the knife against his palm, sizing them up.

“I told ya them Shroomlings ain’t filling!” a gruff voice yelled from the bushes.

“Nope, these ain’t no Shroomlings – got ourselves some tasty flesh right here.” He smiled, revealing the remnants of three blackened teeth.

Brownie halted in his tracks mid-trot as the haggard man in rags stepped from the thick woodlands. “Whoa, boy,” said Juzo, pulling on the hog-leather reins. Walter put a hand on the horse, calming him, and then sent his lash slicing through the air with a crack.

“We don’t want any trouble, friend,” Walter said, lips drawn to snarl, eyes wide and doing his best to intimidate.

Chuck stumbled from the wood, standing at least three paces tall with a bulging paunch and hefting a heavy branch. His trousers had been cut off at the knee, highlighting a myriad of scars on his legs. “Oh, no, boys, you won’t be any trouble at all now, will you? Just go ahead and put that down now, and we won’t hurt you. We’re just looking for some new friends, ain’t we, Mar?” Mar and Chuck beamed at each other in amusement.

“The fun never stops, does it?” asked Juzo. Walter centered himself and slipped into Warrior’s Focus, detaching himself from the pain that still throbbed around his face and shoulder, and the fear paralyzing him seconds ago. The greens and blues of the surrounding trees became vivid and magnified with their individual shades. Chuck’s anxious breathing resonated in his mind, the clear sign of an impending assault.

“I suppose not,” Walter said distantly, as if in a dream.

“Are you OK, Walt?” Juzo whispered.

“Follow my lead,” he replied, dropping his satchel and lurching towards the unsightly pair. Juzo followed beside him on Brownie, still unable to walk.

“You boys look like you’ve had a tough time of it, haven’t ya?” asked Mar. Walter attacked, performing Eel Catching Fish, delivering five rapid lash strikes at Mar. The first strike slashed diagonally across his face, the second rapped his knuckles, causing him to drop the butcher’s knife, and the rest laced his body with red torment. He screamed and dashed into the hidden path from where he had materialized.

Chuck scuttled towards them, with a far too obvious overhead attack. He swung at Walter, who tactically rolled to his right, giving Juzo a clear target. Juzo capitalized on the opportunity and pounded Chuck’s face with a devastating lash crack. Blood sprang from Chuck’s forehead like a dropped egg, exposing a lateral fissure to the bone. He wiped his meaty hand across the fresh wound, and inserted a bloody sausage finger into his mouth. Juzo’s jaw hung open and eyes widened. “Mmm,” Chuck murmured, slurping blood from his finger.

Walter spun and sent a crushing heel kick into Chuck’s ribs, audibly breaking bones and fracturing Chuck’s blood-tasting reverie. Ribs are always a good target, easy to break on even large men. Noah’s words reverberated across his consciousness. This time, Chuck cried out.

Chuck slammed Walter with his shoulder, knocking him three paces through the air into the woods. Chuck’s eyes filled with blood, blinding him. “I’ll get you twos for that!” he yelled angrily. He stomped straight towards Brownie and Juzo. Brownie rapidly turned and smashed his chest with a double heel kick, tossing Juzo into a forward roll from the saddle. Chuck gagged and madly chortled as he lay asphyxiating on his blood. Brownie galloped and frantically whinnied, heading west back towards the Bearded Foothills.

“Brownie, no! Come back!” Juzo shouted from the ground to no avail.

Walter recovered while the bear of a man died, and scanned the environment using the enhanced peripheral vision that came when one was able to shut down the chatter of the mind. He detected the blowgun a millisecond too late, feeling the sharp sting of a yellow-feathered dart entering his neck.

“Juzo!” Walter shouted and pointed in the direction of the blowgun. He removed the dart and observed the tip. It was covered in a chunky, purple jam. Poison. “I don’t have much–” Walter said, crumpling in a heap of pine needles.

Juzo scowled after Walter collapsed. “Come out and fight! Bastard!” he yelled. The faint whistle of the blowgun scored the quiet air. A missile pierced his shoulder and Juzo groaned and sagged. “Is that all you have? Darts?” he turned, shouting, into the patch of trees Walter had pointed towards.

Another dart lanced through his cheek. Juzo groaned, and hastily removed it. He knew he didn’t have much time before whatever cocktail was on those would take him out. “Have to help Walt,” he moaned, and fell to his knees staring at Mar as he stepped from the Spiny Fellenwort Bush. Its snapping pink flowers contrasted with the overwhelming greens and whites of the foliage.

“Little bastards! Look at what you did!” Mar screamed, pointing at the thin rivulets of blood over his hands and face. He bounded like a gorilla to his butcher’s knife, kissing it and stowing it in his twine belt. “Women will never like me like this, I reckon, but you’ll do just fine!” He grinned widely, exposing a mouth oozing with blood and yellow-green sores. Juzo couldn’t help but laugh at the man’s absurdity, but it soon became terror as understanding crossed his drugged mind. Juzo fell with a thump, unable to keep his eyes open, but could still hear Mar’s victorious cackling.

“Oh yes, you very, very sweet!” Mar said.

Chapter 6 – New Discoveries

“I am the Terrible Death, the brother, the redeemer, master of broken dreams. I come to fetch you away from the valley of life to the infinity of death.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

Walter’s eyelids slowly parted. His vision focused and exposed heavily rusted iron bars an arm’s length from his face. He was in what could be a massive bird’s cage, with just enough room for a human to wriggle in. He feigned being unconscious from the poisoned dart. His head wound throbbed with every beat of his heart, magnified by the tranquilizer.

He observed Mar roasting what appeared to be a thick human leg, covered in scars, over a cook fire. He’s insane, thought Walter. What kind of man eats another man, his friend? Walter searched for Juzo, finding him bound in a standing position, chest-first, to a nearby tree with hemp rope. Maybe he’s not a man at all. Walter felt for his boot knives. Gone. He’s smarter than he seems.

Mar got up and paced in circles, scampering about the cook fire wearing a strange cloak. “Happy shall ye be who takes his child and smashes him against the rocks! Yarba!” he yelled, waving pale spindly arms in the air. “I will make them eat the flesh of their sons, and the flesh of their daughters… and all the flesh, it will be beautiful! Eat the flesh, and you shall be strong, stronger than–” His voice wavered and broke off as Juzo woke and fought against his tethers. Mar turned in his direction, mouth lined with blood.

“Ah, you are awake, sweet flesh,” he said, striding to Juzo. Upon closer inspection, in addition to blood, Mar’s lips and cheeks were smeared with bits of green leaves and the distinctive pale yellow star-shaped flowers of Fang Cress. Walter could finally identify what Mar was wearing. It was the flayed skin of Chuck, worn like a cloak about his shoulders. Walter widened his eyes and spat, fending off the urge to vomit.

“Leave him alone!” Walter growled, wiping spittle from his lips.

“Oh, shall we have you first?” Mar asked, looking to the sky. “No, no, this one’s the first, yes, they said this one’s the sweetest. Are you the sweetest?” He shuffled toward Juzo, wearing a beaming smile.

“Oh yes, I most certainly am the sweetest – just go ahead and release these ropes, and I’m all yours,” Juzo replied. He tested the rope again, flexing with all his strength. Walter prayed to the Phoenix that this gambit would work.

“Yes, you are all mine! Mine! Mine! I don’t have to share you at all now!” Mar squealed in delight, dropping his butcher’s knife. He reached for Juzo’s trousers and started working them off his hips, exposing his smallclothes.

“What are you doing! No! Stop! I’ll do anything, Mar! Please!” begged Juzo, his voice cracking and losing depth. Mar paused and greedily rubbed his hands in anticipation once Juzo’s trousers were at his knees. Mar seemed to enjoy watching him squirm, inhaling as Juzo petitioned for him to forgo what was to come next. “Very nice, yes, very,” Mar whispered.

Walter violently rattled his cage, and then started kicking the door as hard as he could, each stomp on the iron cage echoing through the camp clearing.

“You’re making a mistake, Mar! Don’t do this!” Walter yelled. Juzo’s eyes flitted to his, imploring aid. Hoof beats in the distance mixed with the clang of interlocking armor plates. An army! We’ll be saved! Is it the Midgaard Falcon? Are they going to Breden to fight the Cerumal? Walter thought. A far-flung and all-too-familiar roar caused his heart to skip a beat. The Cerumal! By the Dragon, we’re doomed.

Mar begrudgingly pulled his gaze from Juzo’s rear, and turned to the hidden path leading to the Helm’s East Road. “You boys don’t go havin’ too much fun without me!” he shouted, and moved in a way that loosely resembled a pirouette as he walked. Fang Cress certainly had unique effects on different men.

“You have to get to get me out of here,” Juzo whined, wriggling his fingers, trying to find purchase on the rope biting into his skin. “I can’t handle this, anything but this. This can’t happen, please no, by the Dragon, not this!” he said loud enough for Walter to hear, but soft enough that his voice didn’t travel to Mar’s ears. Never allow enemies to detect your fear, Noah had said. The cookfire crackled and sputtered on Chuck’s severed leg, reaching visceral fat.

“What can I do?” Walter asked, wracking his brain for a solution. He could always solve a puzzle with enough time. He scanned his restricted surroundings, finding nothing of use. “Can you move your body to slide the ropes down or up?”

“Don’t you think I would have tried that? These fucking ropes have me pinned like a Shroomling in a Shiv Fang’s jaws,” Juzo said, and exhaled sharply. He took a deep breath and fiercely grimaced, flexing his sinewy muscles against his bonds in a herculean effort to free himself. The ropes remained intact, silently resisting. Juzo finally exhaled the long-held breath while baring his teeth. He started lightly tapping his forehead against the tree as tears streamed from his eyes. He smashed his head harder, leaving a red dot on the tree’s bark. “When I’m free, I’ll skin him alive,” he growled through bared teeth.

A wail exploded from the main path where Mar had departed. “The Cerumal! They must have found him,” Walter blurted hoarsely. He seized the rusty cage door with both hands, panicking. He peered through the bars, attempting to catch a glance of any sign of life beyond the hidden path. Think, think – maybe they don’t know we’re here, he thought.

“No! No! No!” he whispered hurriedly, seeing a slate helm cresting the stout trees that surrounded the hidden path to the camp. This is a living nightmare. I’m in a nightmare. I must be sleeping. It’s not possible for this to be real.

“Is this real?” asked Walter quietly. He was reassured by the pain he felt, when scanning his body, that this indeed was real and he needed to act now to survive.

“Get it together, Walt! What? What do you see?” Juzo’s voice quavered. His back faced the path and he was unable to twist his body to look.

“They’re here, they found us,” Walter said bleakly. Walter’s training took over, slowing his breath as he instinctively slipped into Warrior’s Focus. Juzo started writhing as the clang of interlocking plate armor became palpable. Juzo’s empty threats washed over Walter incoherently. The world melted away until all there was were the bars on his oxidized prison, and then only swirling shadows. Walter inhaled, filling his lungs, dropping his diaphragm for maximum volume, and prepared for a strike against the cage door that would in all likelihood break his bones. Then something was different.

Within the darkness that engulfed his mind and vision, a flaming sphere spun into existence and burst alight. He marveled at its beauty and warmth. The flames didn’t move like those of a normal fire, but undulated and wobbled as though under the influence of the sea. He gently reached open palms towards the dancing orb, intuitively knowing it would not harm him. It felt like an eternity before he made contact, cupping it in his hands. When he finally touched it, the burning orb melted and encased his hands like hot wax, covering them in molten fire. He felt pure, unadulterated joy from its perfect warmth. The pain in his body washed away like caked-on mud after a hot bath. The terror he’d felt a heartbeat ago was no more. He reveled in how incredible he felt – no pain, no anguish, no fear.

He needed to remember something, something important. It was difficult to remember in this ecstasy. The thoughts Juzo, Mar, Cerumal, Death, flashed in his mind. I remember, he thought. Joy became infernal rage and the flames engulfing his hands magnified in strength, glowing brighter and more chaotic, appearing to thrive on the new dominant emotion. His eyes slammed open, returning him to stark reality.

He pounded the cage door with a double punch, blowing it off its hinges and sending it tumbling into the cookfire. He climbed from his prison, eyes glowing with Dragon fire. The Cerumal had just emerged from the hidden path into the clearing. It started to charge towards him, but uncharacteristically halted in its tracks, skidding on the dirt. It froze and grunted. Walter saw the twinge of fear forming in its eyes behind its spiked helm.

Walter thrust his right arm towards the beast like a cross punch. “Die!” he roared. The orb of molten flames seen in his vision erupted from his fist like a meteor. It found its target and punched a burning hole clean through its heavy armor, and transformed into a cone of flame as long as a man through the exit wound. The creature looked down at the gaping hole in its chest, and dropped its spear, collapsing with a heavy clank. The embers dissipated from Walter’s eyes, and he looked at his hands in awe, rotating them back and forth and curling his unharmed fingers. “Incredible,” he breathed.

Chapter 7 – Running

“Long imprisoned behind bars of bone, I yearned for freedom. Cast away fear, for in death you are free.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

Walter sliced through Juzo’s ropes using the rusty knife Mar had left. It was shockingly sharp for a blade so mistreated. Juzo recovered his trousers, and then shook out his body and stretched his legs. The hemp rope had cut deep lines and minor abrasions into his skin. “We have to get moving before they discover what happened,” Walter said, looking back towards the main road.

Juzo’s gaze paused on the wisps of black smoke rising from the armored Cerumal’s corpse. “What did happen?” asked Juzo, meeting Walter’s piercing green eyes, a rarity this side of Midgaard.

“I’m not sure,” Walter said, shaking his head. “I think I discovered how to use the power of the Dragon, like what Mom did…” He trailed off as the pain of sadness blended with the adrenaline surge he felt from inflicting flaming death. He retrieved his satchel and Juzo’s bag from the mess that surrounded Mar’s treasures that most would consider fit only for the trash heap.

“Well, thank you. Thank you so much, friend,” Juzo said with sincerity. He rubbed at his neck, where the ropes had caused the most damage. “So you can indeed use the Dragon? Were you going to tell me?” he asked, face pained.

“Yes, I think so,” Walter replied, cutting his eyes towards the hidden path’s location.

Juzo dropped his bag, rifling through it. “It’s gone, he burned them,” Walter said, nodding toward the fire. Within it lay two charred gauntlets with their lash attachments burned to small threads.

Juzo groaned, “That crazy bastard. Is he dead?”

“Safe to say so – time to go,” Walter commanded. They had no choice but to tread into the thicket. Juzo shuffled his way through, his thigh wound slowing their pace. Walter kept the sun to their backs to continue east. “Avoid snapping branches so they don’t find where we went,” he said.

“Right,” replied Juzo distantly. After they carefully worked their way through the thick birch forest for ten minutes, a deep horn sounded from the camp clearing. They shared grim expressions, understanding the significance of that sound. A rumbling roar followed, which soon merged into the harmonizing roars of many. “They’ve found the body,” Walter whispered. He held back the scream that boiled within, yearning for release.

Horses whinnied and the sounds of hooves could be faintly heard. Cracking branches and rustling leaves broke behind them. “They’re right behind us –how is that possible? Are you being reckless?” Juzo asked accusingly.

“No!” Walter mouthed, eyes protruding and nostrils flaring.

“We don’t have weapons, we can’t fight them,” Juzo said weakly, ducking to slip under a fallen tree. “Forget hiding our path, they know where we are,” he snarled.

“You’re right,” Walter replied, looking back. “OK, let’s move!” Walter swept Juzo off his feet, hoisting him on his back. “We’ll be faster this way,” he huffed.

“Leave me, we’ll both die like this,” Juzo said, voice breaking.

“Never,” Walter said.

Walter navigated the thicket in a laborious jog, legs burning like acid. Their pursuers grew closer, the crunch of twigs becoming more pronounced. “Keep an eye behind us, would you?” Walter asked.

“I’m on it,” Juzo replied, surveying their rear. A Cerumal loomed from their path without a helmet, its harsh unnaturally yellow eyes locked onto Juzo’s. The creature had ashen skin, the sharp maroon teeth of a carnivore, and the long horns of an Impala. The blood drained from Juzo’s face. “It found us, Walt!” he said, ferociously grasping at Walter’s once-white shirt.

It bellowed its terrible war cry and hurled a jagged spear as thick as a man’s arm in their direction. The spear ripped through a sapling a hand from Walter’s head. That weapon was designed to go in and never ever come out, Walter thought, glancing at the spear that had almost sent him to the Phoenix’s loving embrace.

The searing acid in his legs became burning magma as he willed them to move faster. “We’ll make it, we’ll be OK,” he said.

“It doesn’t look like it has other weapons, but you really need to move–” Juzo was cut off as his head smacked into Walter’s back when they came to a sudden stop. Another armored beast came into view from the east.

“They’re circling us like wolves,” Walter said. He turned on his heel, heading south while readjusting Juzo. He slipped and stumbled to one knee on a patch of dark wet moss, tearing his trousers. A third Cerumal came into view from the north, beating a menacing blade on a ghastly spiked shield. The pounding summoned the distant roars of others. Walter’s breath heaved in his lungs, inching closer to his breaking point with Juzo on his back.

Walter’s next step did not find purchase with solid earth, but slipped into a brush-covered hole, snapping small twigs and branches that hid it. He barked in surprise. His lurching forward trajectory carried his body, unable to stop as he and Juzo crashed into the rim of the hole at Walter’s chest, bouncing from the rim and plummeting at least four paces underground.

They landed hard, Juzo cushioning Walter with his body. A loud pop emanated from Juzo’s chest. Juzo screamed, “My ribs! Ah!” Walter, running on pure adrenaline, kicked to his feet, clutched Juzo under his arms and dragged him from the hole’s center, knowing the Cerumal would be upon them. Two spears slammed into the subterranean floor in the shape of an X where the boys had been a moment before. Walter laughed shakily, awareness burgeoning that the Cerumal were too large to fit down such a small hole. Maybe there were advantages of not yet being full-grown, Walter thought.

Fierce roars bellowed from above. “Are you OK?” Walter heaved out.

Juzo wrapped his arms around his chest. “Oh, it hurts so bad,” He winced, a drop of blood sliding down his cheek.

“Let me see,” Walter said, reaching a hand to Juzo’s chest. “A fractured rib is a common injury that happens when a bone in the rib cage cracks or breaks. The common method of injury is from a fall or forceful impact. While very painful, cracked ribs aren’t as life-threatening as those shattered into multiple pieces, where there are increased chances of lung puncture,” his mother had taught him. Walter gently palpated Juzo’s ribs. “You’re going to be OK. I know it hurts terribly now,” he said, massaging his friend’s neck.

A Cerumal dipped its head into the hole, like a gopher seeking fresh squash to obliterate. It snapped its vicious teeth at them like a hungry dire wolf, releasing a breath smelling worse than a latrine. Walter dragged Juzo father away from the hole. The monster rose, and boldly plunged into the hole, stopping halfway through as its thick armor plate ground it to a screeching halt.

“No way, there’s no way they can fit,” said Juzo, white-knuckling the roots behind him for support. The Cerumal’s legs worked furiously against the air. It started twisting its hips in a vain attempt to free itself, bellowing angrily.

“Ha! They don’t seem to be that intelligent after all!” laughed Walter, pointing at the wriggling legs.

“By the Dragon, I can’t believe it. Do you think it will stay stuck like that?” asked Juzo, raising an eyebrow. Walter moved closer, inspecting where the beast was firmly wedged in the black-and-auburn-veined stone rim. “It looks like it,” he said, snickering.

“Well, the bright side is, it seems we’re now safe from the others with a cork in the hole,” he added, nodding to the kicking armored legs. Walter pulled the two lethal spears from under its legs – one was coated with fresh blood that had started congealing – and he handed the other to Juzo.

Streams of pink light from the setting sun filtered through the spaces that the Cerumal hadn’t blocked, coating Walter’s face in its hues. “Thanks for breaking my fall, man, I always knew you were a good friend,” Walter said, smiling. Juzo started to laugh, and then immediately stifled it, supporting his ribs, but then resumed laughing at the horror and absurdity of it all.

Chapter 8 – Blackout

“Find the edge of my destructive hand. Feed it the essence of life and redeem mastery of the dark plane.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

On the cold earth the boys slept, huddled together for warmth. Walter felt that they were passing through the eye of the needle, metamorphosing. They had initially considered sleeping in shifts, but realized they would both fail to stay conscious in the wake of the trials of yesterday. They agreed to a mutual rest despite the potential risks.

The air was still when the morning sun rose and nourished the birch forest above. Annoying Rot Flies buzzed about them, seeking necrotic tissue to feed upon. The subterranean floor was carved as if by a massive disc, a perfect concave arc except for the occasional clump of gnarled roots or fallen stone. The tunnel was high enough for a man to stand in, and had a sinuous texture from the erosion of the rain season. It was damp and quiet, providing the illusion of safety one needed for restorative sleep.

Walter lobbed a fist-sized stone at the Cerumal’s metallic legs, the clang waking Juzo and the beast.

“So this isn’t a nightmare after all,” Juzo said, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“I’m afraid not. We need to find a way out of here. I can see more light around the next bend,” said Walter, craning his neck.

“The bigger question is, where is here?” said Juzo, opening his arms.

“I don’t know – I’ve never seen anything like it, have you?”

The barrel-chested Cerumal roared and struggled desperately against its stony fetters.

Juzo pondered a moment. “You know, this tunnel does look a lot like a drawing I saw in one of my Pa’s books, The Hunter’s Beast Compendium. That’s about all I can remember.”

Walter rubbed at his chin. “Are you about ready?” Juzo appeared not to have heard him.

“Not quite yet,” he said at last. A flurry of anger lit his eyes as he stared at the suspended legs. He hobbled to the Cerumal, wielding its jet-black spear in both hands. He growled and jabbed the point through the creature’s hamstring muscles where it wore only leather armor. Juzo tugged the barbed spear, pulling hard against its flesh, inflicting a terrible wound. The creature screamed, spouting gibberish. He repeated the process for its other leg, dark pools of blood forming around its bladed sabatons. Walter watched, dumbfounded, unable to thwart him or unleash his anger in the same capacity.

“Doesn’t feel too good, does it?” Juzo said, huffing. It writhed, screams of anger becoming wails of pain as Juzo started hammering its gaping wounds with savage spear strikes. Juzo was in a blood rage – tunnel vision with a vengeance. His blows started thudding on bone. Each thud sent an icy shiver across Walter’s legs, stupefying him. The beast’s thick flesh surrounding it was torn and shredded. The Cerumal no longer screamed, writhed or kicked its legs in revolt.

“OK!” Walter said, snapping him out of his onslaught.

“OK,” Juzo said, catching his breath and turning, dropping the weapon. “OK,” he repeated, and slid down the wall, clenched fists trembling, eyes remote.

“This hasn’t been easy, everything that’s happened, but we have to keep ourselves sane,” Walter said reassuringly, for both himself and Juzo. He rubbed his hand through his hair, pulling out a tiny dead root. “If we stray too far down the wrong path, there may be no turning around. We can’t become like them.”

Juzo had occasional fits of explosive anger, but this was unlike anything he’d ever seen. Juzo sat slumped, dark eyes unfocused. His sagging posture combined with the dark blood spattered on his face was an accurate reflection of how Walter felt. Walter had trained longer than Juzo, enabling him to maintain the image of a man less affected, digging deep for internal strength.

“Easy for you to say,” Juzo sighed.

“And you think this has been a casual stroll in Breden Square for me?” Walter snapped.

Juzo rolled up his trousers and removed his bandages, inspecting his wound. It was a grisly sight, despite repeated applications of antiseptic Ribwort oil. It had a black and greenish hue, obvious signs of infection. A Rot Fly landed on it, sticking its plunger-like proboscis into the wound. This certainly explains his spirits – it must be agonizing, Walter thought, drumming his fingers on his chest.

Walter helped Juzo change his bandages and lifted him to his feet. “We’re going to be alright. We just need to get to Midgaard and get help. It’s just another three days’ march. I know we can make it,” Walter said, setting his jaw.

“Yeah, we’ll be OK,” Juzo smiled feebly. “How do you know it’s only three days?”

“Dad took me once for an elixir delivery. We didn’t stay long, but it’s an incredible city, truly. You’re going to love it,” he said with mild enthusiasm.

“Are there lots of beautiful women with big tits and round behinds?” Juzo asked, the hint of a smile touching his eyes.

“More than you could possibly handle – c’mon, let’s get moving.” Walter beckoned. They proceeded down the subterranean tunnels towards the other light source, leaving the twitching Cerumal legs behind. About fifteen minutes later they passed under what appeared to be another brush-and-sticks-covered hole above them. Walter peered up at it, beams of light glittering on his face.

“By the Dragon, they’re traps,” said Juzo gravely.

“And we fell through one…” Walter trailed off.

“Who or what makes traps underground like this?” asked Juzo.

Walter shook his head. “Let’s hope we don’t find out.” He hefted his dark spear, gripping it firmly, reminding himself of its existence.

They traversed various bends in the tunnel, and encountered a fork, Walter leading them to the right. It felt like they were ants working their way through an artery. The tunnel gradually sloped downward, further into the depths, becoming increasingly colder. They rounded another bend, following where a faint beacon of light shone through the tunnel roof ahead of them.

A dull crack resonated in the tunnel. The sticks strewn about the hole ahead gave way, raining organic debris. A black spotted fawn tumbled gracelessly onto the tunnel floor, smacking face first. The creature bleated in pain. Walter and Juzo froze, staring agape. The trap hole now clearly illuminated the creature to the detriment of their acclimated night vision.

Something flowed from the darkness beyond the trap, like a living water skin. It moved as though it didn’t have bones. It was covered in thick gray fur, with small nubs where arms should be, studded with deadly spines. It didn’t appear to have eyes, but made up for that with an enormous maw and teeth the length of a man’s hand. It pounced on the fawn, its mouth outstretched, and brutally ripped a chunk of the bleating fawn’s throat out.

Walter reached back for Juzo, not removing his gaze from the bulbous pincushion of a creature. They inched back, hardly breathing lest it detect them. They cautiously made their way around the bend from where they’d come.

Walter’s hands were slick with perspiration. His spear slipped from his grasp. Grip too tight! He scolded himself. Luck was not on their side. The spearhead rattled when it made contact with a blunt stone. A sharp hiss slashed the air where the creature was. “Run!” Walter yelped, retrieving the weapon.

The creature flowed across the ground, tumbling towards them and gnashing its grisly fangs. Walter dashed, leading them back to the last fork they’d passed, veering into the other branch. He hoped the creature would continue to follow the most direct path towards the trap they had fallen through, leaving them behind. Maybe it will find the Cerumal and feed on that.

It seemed to be working as the spiked blob passed them. They watched from ten paces into the fork’s other branch. Juzo slipped on his bad leg, sliding on a patch of loose gravel. The creature paused, turning in their direction. Its enormous mouth opened broadly and a green, tendril-like tongue flickered in the air. Two large passages opened atop its tongue where it was widest. The verdant tongue appeared to be leading its mouth towards them, lapping at the air.

“Not going to work,” Juzo mouthed in silence.

He met Walter’s eyes, tapping his nose to indicate what the beast was doing. Walter nodded in understanding. Walter and Juzo stealthily slid further into the tunnel.

The beast squatted low to the ground, its tongue inspecting the ground where they had been. The tongue retreated into its maw. It charged directly towards them, soft hisses darting through the air.

Walters’s eyes widened. “Go!” He pushed Juzo ahead of him into a run. He glanced behind him as the creature gained ground. Juzo groaned in pain and forced himself to push through the agony. His wound opened, fresh blood oozing through his pants. They were approaching a dead end, the tunnel narrowing into a rounded point like a worm’s head.

“Shit! Shit!” Juzo cried. He started to slow before the end while Walter looked back. Walter ran faster, as it was nearly upon him. He saw its razors-for-teeth clacking in the air. Walter crashed into Juzo, slamming him into what should have been hard earth at the dead end. They impossibly fell through the dead end, landing with a thud on something hard.

They gathered themselves and stood in awe, Juzo taking in the crypt and Walter the dead end they had just passed through. The shape of the earthen dead end could be observed from this side. Its concave end penetrated the crypt, and then abruptly ceased without a speck of brown earth on the ground of the stony crypt.

“It’s an illusion, or magic of some sort, like from the stories,” said Walter, eyebrows raised and mouth open. He watched the creature paw at the dead-end wall, its spiny nubs seemingly unable to penetrate it. Its tongue inspected it a moment and then, dissatisfied, it rolled back down the tunnel. Walter heaved a sigh of relief. “I don’t think it can get in, but how did we? Are you alright?”

“I’m OK, are you? That spiny blob thing was almost on top of you,” Juzo said, brushing a fluffy coat of dust off his shirt. “Man, when people learn you can use the power of the Dragon, you’ll be in the Breden stories,” he said, smiling broadly.

“Phoenix, I hope not,” Walter said, turning about the strange subterranean room.

“I’m starting to think the stories are truer than anything else we’ve learned in school,” said Juzo, gaze transfixing an ornate sword in the corner.

“Yeah, I don’t remember learning or seeing anything like this in history or architecture,” said Walter.

The crypt was about the size of Walter’s modest bedroom. The walls were unnaturally lined with smooth, obviously carved, alabaster stone. A faint white glow emanated from the almost translucent stone, allowing them to see well enough. The air was dry and comfortably warm, the antithesis of the earthen tunnels. An almost imperceptible hum reverberated throughout the chamber. A thick carpet of dust covered the stone floor and obscure footprints led from a sarcophagus of shimmering black stone.

Walter marched to the stone coffin. “Whatever was here isn’t here anymore,” he said, eyeing the footprints. The sarcophagus had heavy walls, thick as a forearm, strewn with bizarre, illegible inscriptions inside and out. The lid lay shattered in three pieces against an adjacent wall. On the underside of the lid there was an immaculately chiseled image of the sun behind a dueling Phoenix and Dragon in flight, their bodies entangling one another. Within the tomb were chains connected to the fragments of manacles glowing white like the walls. The chains were covered in a thick black substance that Walter was hesitant to touch. “You have to see this,” he said, incredulous.

He looked up as Juzo strode by, ignoring him, heading towards the ornate blade resting in an equally ornate sheathe. As Juzo walked he kicked aside a small pile of bright, glittering stones. “Juzo, those are power-diamond marks you’re kicking, you fool!” Walter said. Walter snagged one from the floor, raising it to an open eye, the other tightly closed. “Do know what this is worth? We’re rich! We could buy a house in Breden for just one of these!” The stone was perfectly clear, other than the tiny dragon woven of flames that oscillated within, shimmering as the flames varied in intensity. “Incredible,” he said, stuffing the stone into his pocket, lips forming a broad smile. The only time he had seen one those before was in Midgaard’s Hall of Artifacts. He tossed one to Juzo, who caught it without looking, jamming it into his pocket.

“Nice catch,” Walter said.

“Yeah,” Juzo said absently. He reached the blade and intently unsheathed it before his eyes. The blade appeared to be swallowing the very light itself, visibly dimming the room. The blade wasn’t dark or black, but the very absence of light.

“This blade is death – I could destroy anything with this weapon,” he said. Juzo’s eyes and face twisted for a moment, eyes briefly flashing with the same blackness as the weapon.

I’m hallucinating – long day with little sleep. Though, that was bizarre… keep an eye on him, trust your gut, Walter thought. “Now that is a unique blade,” he said aloud.

Juzo read the inscription on the sheathe: “Blackout, slayer of dreams. It seems appropriate, doesn’t it?” he asked breathlessly.

“Indeed, let me see it.” Walter said, with his hand outstretched. Juzo started handing it towards him, and then paused.

“This is mine, Walter, not yours or anyone else’s,” he said. He pulled the sword back to his chest, guarding it with both hands. “Let’s get out of here. We can look at it better when we’re outside in the sun,” he said.

“Are you feeling OK?” Walter asked.

Juzo shook his head, eyes down.

“I just want to get out of this Dragon-forsaken, dungeon hole in the ground,” he said, vexed.

“Me too, let’s go.” Walter knelt and stuffed the rest of the glittering marks into his satchel. In the corner opposite where the sword had been, laid something else encased in dust. Walter cautiously tapped it with his foot, dust cakes sliding off it. It appeared to be a gauntlet. He examined it, discovering its beauty. Sinuous curves coated the gauntlet, converging in the center to form a spiraled Dragon. Three thick leather straps hung loosely from the underside. His visceral reaction was to strap it to his dominant lash arm.

“Strange that something that looks so much like a lash lacks the whip piece,” Walter said wonderingly. “Maybe it was burned off at some point.”

Juzo’s back was to him, rapt in the depth of Blackout. Walter snapped his arm in a mock whip crack. Four amber tendrils extended from the gauntlet’s rounded tip. “Whoa!” Walter jumped.

He held the lash to his side as the luminescent whips waved of their own accord. He gently felt a tendril between his fingers. It sparked and sizzled, thankfully not inflicting any pain. He swung at the wall. The color of the whips transformed into a bright vermilion mid-flight. When they struck, they passed through the wall, leaving four deep scars in the glowing stones. When the lashes returned to him, they resumed their soft amber glow, harmless.

“That was incredible! Did you see that, Juzo?” Walter said excitedly. “It doesn’t look to have a name. I’ll call it Stormcaller,” he proclaimed. “It’s like a hail of lashes on every strike! Noah would have loved this.”

Juzo sat on the floor, transfixed by Blackout. “Juzo! Anyone in there?” shouted Walter.

“Huh? What – yes, yes, I’m here. What kind of question is that?” Juzo said. He looked tired, as though he’d aged five years in the last day.

“You really need to get some rest, you look terrible. Would you put that away and get your bag so we can get going?”

“Yes sir!” Juzo said mockingly.

He reluctantly sheathed Blackout and mounted it to his belt. They cautiously exited through the illusory dead end of the tunnel. It yielded once again to their passage. Juzo seemed to have regained his vigor, no longer favoring his injured leg. Maybe his new sword has lifted his spirits, and hopefully his attitude, Walter thought.

Walter detected a shift in his consciousness. The dancing ball of flame he’d come upon in Warrior’s Focus within Mar’s camp now seemed to be within reach, beckoning to be used. He wrapped an imaginary hand around it, testing its existence. He felt an intrinsic bond forming with his new weapon, almost as though it were an appendage. He looked down to its shining steel, mentally commanding the swirling tendrils to vanish, they did. He ordered them to materialize and vanish in rapid succession, testing it. It’s like blinking a new set of eyes.

“This is fantastic. I think, oddly enough, that I can use the fireball again, the one that I used to slay the Cerumal at that bastard Mar’s,” said Walter.

“Really? Well, that’s lovely, it must be nice to be you,” Juzo said, muttering. He tapped his fingers on the ornate sword’s slate hilt, and then tightly grasped it to draw. Walter narrowed his eyes, not missing the gesture.

“Something bothering you, friend?” Walter asked, subtly closing the gap between them. Juzo released the sword’s handle. He slumped back against the undulating tunnel wall. Was he really going to draw on me?

“No, I think the stress of this journey has been wearing on me. What I wouldn’t give for a warm bath and a cup of brandy right now,” smiled Juzo. Walter nodded solemnly.

A hiss burst from behind them and the bulbous pincushion opened its vicious mouth expectantly, cornering them once again. “I remember, it’s a Shiv Fang!” Juzo yelled, unsheathing Blackout. The blade swallowed the dim light emanating from the nearby trap. Juzo stepped toward the creature, expertly piercing its gaping maw. Greenish blood dripped from the withdrawn sword, and was promptly absorbed as if by dry sand. The Shiv Fang’s hisses became gurgles.

Juzo looked to the sword with mania in his eyes. As the Shiv Fang collapsed, a blue swirl of wispy smoke rose from its corpse. The waving smoke formed the silhouette of the once-living Shiv Fang. It hung in the air for a second, and was then sucked into Blackout with lightning speed. The blade shimmered a pale gray, illuminating a tiny image of the Shiv Fang trapped within, biting and raking at the blade’s interior. It then darkened, and seemed to swallow more light than before.

“Well, that’s not something you see too often,” Walter said.

Juzo marveled at the blade, turning it in his grasp, smiling broadly. “I knew this sword was powerful, but by the Dragon, that felt—” Juzo stopped.

A bright blue line of light split the air with a bone-vibrating hum. The line was a little taller than a man and razor thin. From each end-point, smaller lines simultaneously moved in clockwise and counterclockwise directions, manifesting the form of a perfect circle ahead of them. The bright light of the circular plane waned, unveiling within a dark, gritty stone wall. The hum grew in force.

“What is this?” yelled Juzo.

“I think it’s some sort of doorway,” Walter said.

Along the wall were two human bodies, hanging from what appeared to be meathooks. There was a nude, pale-skinned woman crying out in pain, strapped to a table with rollers stretching her body. A man sat writhing in a bloodstained chair lined with small spikes. His dark eyes filled with tears, locking onto Walter’s. His eyes abruptly darted to the side, seeing something Walter and Juzo could not. “No, no! Run!” he screamed. Walter and Juzo stepped back from the portal. Walter wanted to run and knew he should, but curiosity overcame that desire.

“Now what?” Juzo said, scratching his cheek.

A frail man glided into view, pale skin reflecting torchlight from beyond the portal. He had no hair to speak of, his face shrouded in an eyeless black mask. In one hand he held a staff that looked like a petrified cobra with white spines. His other hand splayed open, revealing long blades for fingers soaked with fresh blood. He wore a heavy leather sarong about his legs and abdomen, and a belt lined with skulls. Other small trinkets such as an apothecary would have hung from twine along his grotesque belt. He turned, gazing from Walter to Juzo.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Walter demanded.

Juzo defensively drew his blade and crouched into Buffeting Gale, dropping his lead leg low and holding the weapon overhead.

“Bearer of Blackout, you have awakened the master blade by feeding it. All great power comes with great sacrifice. You are mine now!” the pale-skinned man hissed unnaturally. He raised his staff and Juzo was lifted from his feet and pulled into the air, his back smashing against the tunnel ceiling. Walter reached a hand for Juzo’s leg, grabbing empty air as Juzo was violently drawn through the doorway, tumbling into the dark stone room. Blackout skittered across the ground on the other side of the portal. Walter dove towards the portal as the wide hole in the air started rapidly shrinking. Just before Walter’s body in flight passed through where the portal had been, it vanished as though never there.

“Juzo? Juzo! Where are you?” Walter screamed, rolling to his feet. “I’ll kill you!” he screamed at the unseen masked man, frantic. He dropped to the ground, digging where the portal had been, finding nothing more than a razor-thin scar marked where it had met the tunnel walls.

“Why is this happening?” he screeched. He whipped his head behind him, and in front and back again. He looked to the ceiling, and pounded it with his fists. “Come back, you coward! Take me! I am the Bearer of Blackout! I am the Bearer of Blackout!” he screamed, sobbing. He dropped to his knees. “Juzo, you’re my only friend. Where are you? Where are you! I’ll find you,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll find you!” he screamed, dropping his face to earth, sobbing. “You were my only friend.”

Chapter 9 – Lich’s Falls

“What starry vaults I had traversed to discover how to remove the cage of flesh attachment.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

Walter picked up Juzo’s satchel. At least he would have something to give his parents. His parents, are they even alive? Is anyone still alive? I need to get back home, he thought. Walter followed the path through the earthen tunnel where the fawn had fallen, its corpse buzzing with Rot Flies.

“Who is going to believe this?” he said aloud. He laughed, “They’ll think I’m insane and I killed him.” No, you have Stormcaller and the power-diamond marks, they are proof enough. “I hope so,” he told himself. The tunnels seemed to go deeper as the height of the surface game traps ascended. Was there any other choice than deeper? “Deeper,” he pondered aloud. He came upon a three-way fork in the road and went right, where there seemed to be light. Is this a dream? he thought.

A familiar hiss sounded behind him. He turned, snapping his wrist, reveling as Stormcaller sprang to life, amber lashes waving and sparking. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, Warrior’s Focus enveloping him in its welcoming calm. His heartbeat slowed.

“You will know my wrath, creature,” he shouted. He squared his torso to the Shiv Fang and dug his heels into the soft earth. The beast’s nubby appendages scraped the tunnel walls, dislodging clumps of packed soil. This was a fat one, hardly able to squeeze through.

“You’ve been eating well,” he said, grimacing at the sight. The Shiv Fang responded by parting its mouth, thick saliva coating its waving tongue. The creature slowed in Walter’s perception. Walter shifted his weight to his back leg. He then explosively bore down on his lead leg, executing Cat Playing with Mouse. He swung Stormcaller in an upward angular strike, vibrant lashes leaving streaks through the darkness. The timing was perfect. The Shiv Fang didn’t have a chance to express pain as it was sliced into quarters. The four pieces of the creature slid from one another, tumbling from the velocity of its charge.

Walter felt like he should have been enthralled with the power of this weapon. Yet he could only feel pity for this beast that was only trying to survive, like himself. This world was filled with danger and only the strongest survived.

He paused for a moment and knelt, feeling strangely compelled to pray. If you had asked Walter a few days ago if he thought the Dragon and Phoenix gods existed, the answer would have been an absolute “no,” and praying an egregious waste of time. Now, he wasn’t so sure. A lot had changed in the past few days, fragmenting his paradigm of reality. This wasn’t only for this Shiv Fang, but for each of the fallen. His mother, father, Juzo, Nyset, Noah, and other Breden friends deserved this.

Give them rest o’ Dragon of yore

May the Phoenix shine upon thee for the rest o’ thy years

Forgive thee and pass through the gates o’ Death

To be born again in the heat o’ the Phoenix

Given life by the Dragon’s grace.

“You would have eaten me if you could have,” he sighed, emerging from Warrior’s Focus. He sauntered another eight paces, pausing to wipe dirt from his brow. A surge of hisses exploded from behind him, at least three. His inner cynic scolded him for praying and not moving when he could have. He wheeled on his heels, gritting his teeth. Four Shiv Fangs raced to the corpse of their fallen brother, inspecting it with their slithering tongues. A few seconds later, they turned running the other way, squealing in terror like pigs about to become bacon. I used to think cleaning the sty was the worst part of my day, he thought, snickering. These were apparently intelligent beasts, and knew when to fight and when to run.

It was a pleasant change to be able to stand one’s ground. With proper weapons you had the option to fight. With the horrors Walter had experienced the last two days, this positive change loosened the noose he’d felt strangling him. He walked with a new lightness in his step, occasionally rubbing Stormcaller for reassurance.

The tunnel continued to slope deeper underground. The fork he took ended in an expansive cave with a small pool of clear water. A sliver of light jetted through the strangely churning water. The transient effect threw dancing light ripples on the cave’s granite walls.

Walter stripped off his trousers and shirt, stowing them in his brown satchel, leaving himself in his smallclothes. He rubbed at the oozing wound in his shoulder, which appeared to be healing well as far as he could tell. Stormcaller stays on, far too valuable to lose, he thought. If the weight of his satchel was too much of a burden, he would abandon it.

He jumped into the pool feet first, not risking injuring his head with a dive. Icy water slapped his body with stunning cold. Water from the north, Lich’s Falls, he thought. He swam against battering currents towards the light ahead, swirling eddies clouding his vision. The arduous swim taxed his body as the bright light source drew near. He desperately needed air. His vision narrowed, and peripheral vision went black.

Reduced blood oxygenation will present itself with the initial symptom of failing vision. Following is unconsciousness, and subsequent brain damage, his mother’s teaching echoed. Noah’s stern voice overrode hers: The way out is through. Continue fighting when you can’t any longer. When your body fails you, will your body to continue. Do not relent. Become what your enemy fears.

He allowed the satchel to slide from his body and it sank into the subterranean chasm. Must keep Juzo’s, he reminded himself. The other option was death. Not today. The reduced weight invigorated him. He kicked harder with a burst of strength. He approached the light source. A white ball of widening light spun before him.

The orb materialized into a stony opening. Walter erupted through the opening, clasping its edges for extra propulsion. He started inhaling before his mouth found air, sputtering on water. He emerged from his torturous swim, gasping for life and expelling water from his nose and mouth. He used the last of his reserves to breathlessly paddle to the river’s edge. Walter collapsed in the cool silt, heaving water from his chest and letting his eyes close, obscuring the harsh sun.

**

Walter awoke in the fetal position, surprised to be in his smallclothes. “Wiggles? Where are–” He cut himself off, remembering where he was. He turned, reaching for Juzo’s satchel to discover a red-capped Shroomling sitting cross-legged, curiously watching him with its beady black eyes. “Buzz off,” he said, throwing a small rock at it. It scurried into the tall grass and jumped into a hole, leaving only its mushroom-capped head visible as camouflage. Walter sighed, collecting himself.

He opened Juzo’s satchel, finding on top a sopping wet book titled Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness. He thought, rubbing its strange, rust-colored leather cover, Juzo never read. What the fuck was he doing with this? This book looks old, very old. He set it in the sun to dry. Juzo didn’t have an extra set of clothing, but he did have his soft leather training armor and leather ankle boots. Walter examined them, grateful that they were his size, and then placed them in the sun. All of those precious marks, gone. I was wealthy for a moment. No, you are wealthy. He looked to his wrist, smiling at the legendary weapon.

He found Juzo’s bag also had a small pouch with a few marks, a handful of dried meat, a small bag of pine nuts and a water skin. A lightness filled his chest and he beamed into the bag, mouth salivating. Walter devoured the meat and nuts in moments, stomach raging at the sight of food. The little things give the greatest of pleasures, his father had said to him at dinner once. His father’s face welled up in his mind, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the tasks of import.

He tried to get his bearings, unsure of where he was. He knew he was somewhere along the eastern bank of Lich’s Falls, presumably near the Grey Riven Foothills. He gathered firewood and kindling, and started constructing a makeshift debris hut.

Stormcaller helped him make swift work of the required thicker branches. A five-pace-long fallen tree made the roof line, one end resting on the ground and the other on a red boulder. He dragged branches as thick as an arm and rested them against the roofline, forming the walls, and finally topped it with at least a pace of brush for insulation. It wasn’t pretty, but it would keep him warm.

Night fell, along with bitter cold. The weather near the Abyssal Sea could be excruciatingly hot during the day and deathly cold at night. The icy winds asserted the need for the debris hut. Now the fire crackled near his shelter, big enough to keep wolves away, but not large enough to attract unwanted attention. He stared into the flames from within the tight shelter, allowing their hypnotic dance to soothe him.

Grief unexpectedly slammed over him in waves, leaving him gasping for air. When the waves receded, he found himself looking over a darkened wreck; illuminated in a light so clear, so empty that he could hardly remember what life had felt like before it was anything but dead.

It’s strange how something so potentially destructive can be so comforting, he thought. His eyes reflected the chaos of the flames. A half-moon loomed overhead, casting a dim light over his riverside camp. Everything I knew has changed, altered in irreversible ways. Mom – she sacrificed herself to save us, and we ran like cowards. But she left us no choice, didn’t she? Mom could invoke the power of the Dragon. An ember popped in the fire as thin tendrils of flame vaporized in the air. It was real. It was truly real. I can use it. I am her child. Dad… oh Father, you were wonderful. You both were wonderful, truly. Nyset, no… Tears slid from the corners of his eyes, falling to the leafy floor. Juzo, I will find you. Whoever took you, I will find you. His heart surged with energy, rage eclipsing sadness. I will avenge all of you.

Chapter 10 – Exiles

“Ravaged by heavenly winds, the multihued flames of my senses are no longer effulgent.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

The early morning sun hung over Lich’s Falls, which became the effervescent Lich’s River. The Grey Riven Foothills wrapped around the river, their lush crescent tops deeply encasing it. A white-spotted Pond Owl sat atop a tall birch, searching for breakfast. Walter detected the brown mouse scurrying ten paces off before the owl. He turned and walked away before its inevitable demise.

The snap of the splitting pine tree startled the nearby Green Jaspers darting like arrows through the air. Walter cracked Stormcaller by his side, tearing through earth. He spun into Snake Catches Bird. The horizontal slash tore effortlessly through two birch trees, sending them crashing into the wood. He roared with the fury of vengeance that boiled within, imagining each tree a Cerumal.

He approached a sapling and amputated its limbs, following it up with a clean bisecting strike. “You killed my family!” he shouted into the vegetation. His mind raced with possibilities. Do I continue to Midgaard to get help, or go home to fight? The Cerumal may not even be there anymore. People could be recovering, burying the dead. You’ve already gone this far and want to turn around now? It will take more time to get to Midgaard, and I’ll have to convince a constable what happened was true. They’ll never believe me. He sighed. Or return to Breden, fight, and die with honor?

“We did not kill your family,” a deep voice with a strange accent responded from behind.

Walter whirled, flinching back a step. “Who are you? What do you want?” he huffed. “If you’re highwaymen, today will not end well for you.” He cracked Stormcaller before the newcomers, making it sizzle as it hewed a nearby tree stump. He centered his body, doing his best to project confidence.

The newcomer cocked his head, highlighting a chiseled jaw. “I’m Baylan, this is Lillian.” Baylan pointed to the woman standing behind him. Baylan stood at least two hands taller than Walter, long dark hair flowing down his dark-skinned shoulders. He was well-muscled, with a thick torso. He wore light blue billowy pants and strange red shoes that curled up at the toes. His thick golden-threaded sash held a long, thin-sheathed, crescent-shaped dagger. “We come from the Silver Tower,” he said, deep voice commanding respect.

Walter didn’t know much about the Silver Tower, other than the odd rumor about witches and warlocks that sounded more like children’s stories than fact. His father had once said it was a place not to be trifled with and best avoided. At the time, Walter thought it best to leave the matter alone, but now wish he had further probed his father.

Walter tried his best to hide his surprised curiosity, having never met someone from that side of the realm. “What are you doing here?” he said. He relaxed from his fighting stance to a casual one. He was glad to find someone else out here, but reminded himself to not get too comfortable or trusting with strangers. “I’m Walter.”

Lillian stepped forward, placing a light hand on Baylan’s shoulder. She wore ornately cut shades of red with black highlights, revealing more flesh than Walter was accustomed to seeing on a woman. She wore at least eight gleaming bangles around the wrist that lay on Baylan. She had a narrow face with pale skin, and hair that fell onto her backside. The brightness of the two newcomers was a stunning contrast with the lush environment. “We were sent to explore and survey this part of the realm,” she said in a crisp voice. “Unfortunately, it seems we are lost. We have to return by the end of the season, and we took a short cut…” She trailed off, meeting Baylan’s eyes. He blushed.

Baylan offered a thick hand. “Can you help us get to Breden, friend?” he asked.

Walter turned his head to the north. “I’m going to Midgaard. You don’t want to go to Breden right now.” He had a sense he could trust these two.

A warm gust swept over them, blowing Lillian’s flowing hair around her face.

“You have been there?” asked Lillian, deep brown eyes penetrating his.

“I’m from there. It’s not safe now,” he said, frowning.

Lillian and Baylan exchanged concerned glances.

“I’m going to Midgaard to get help. There was an attack on my village… by terrible monsters,” Walter said, voice wavering. Lillian rubbed her jaw.

“We can help you. Take us to your village,” Baylan said eagerly.

Walter narrowed his eyes.

“Midgaard is only two days from here. We’ll need more help than you two. There were at least twelve of them,” he said dismissively.

“Midgaard is a five day walk from here – you won’t make it without more supplies,” said Lillian, planting her hands on her hips. “Take us to Breden, and afterwards we will escort you to Midgaard.”

Walter allowed Stormcaller’s tendrils to dissipate.

“That is a fine weapon you have. Dragon forged,” said Lillian. “Where did you find it?”

Walter studied Stormcaller, shuffling his feet.

“To use it, you must be able to invoke the power of the Dragon,” she said, smiling.

“That is an extremely rare talent, for a man,” Baylan said, face impassive.

“How do you know?” Walter asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

Lillian flashed a smile and opened her arms wide, parting red folds that revealed her lean abdomen. Walter instinctively summoned Stormcaller to life, the flaming ball bouncing in his mind awaiting his grasp. Thin ribbons of flame launched vertically into the air from each of her splayed fingertips, her eyes blazing white fire. Walter needlessly rolled backwards in surprise, as the flaming jets were not directed at him. A man should always trust his instincts, he reminded himself. His cheeks burned red at the foolish evasion. You trust them, don’t you? No, not yet.

“That is how I know,” she said, glowing.

“We can help you save your village, Walter,” Baylan said, resting a hand on his long dagger.

Walter nodded. “OK, but why? And how did you do that?”

“We have to complete our survey,” Lillian replied. “The tower is eagerly awaiting our reports. They like to keep a pulse on the lands.”

“I see,” he said. Do I have any better options? he asked himself. Walter shook his head. Time was ticking by, and every day he didn’t get help more people could be dying.

“It’s at least a two-day journey. Let me get my things.”

**

It was much more enjoyable to travel the Helms East Road with company. Walter’s spirits rose at the prospect of making his town safe once again. His sore feet longed for a good horse to ride, remembering how pleasant it was when they had Brownie. He was a great horse, and he saved our lives.

They crossed the Lich’s Falls Bridge, which was in dire need of maintenance. Midgaard tended to neglect the southeastern side of the realm. A lower trade volume meant less tax revenues. Walter’s father Aiden often complained about the dilapidated roads and infrastructure, frequently sending ignored repair requests to King Ezra.

“There are Shiv Fang traps in the woodlands here,” Walter said, breaking the long silence.

“I’ve never seen one in person. I would love to be able to for my zoology log. I was unaware they were capable of making traps,” Baylan said, blue eyes sparkling.

“They sure are, they’re nasty creatures,” said Walter. “You could probably handle yourselves with them, but why walk into the jaws of the wolf when you didn’t have to?”

“I’m afraid my curiosity often trumps my fear,” said Baylan, smiling at Lillian. There is something more there.

They passed by a large cavern with bright, scintillating stone walls. Its massive entrance was inviting. “These are the Yellow Caverns – a few boys my age decided to explore them once and never came back. My lash trainer, Noah, went looking for them. He returned reporting it was an impossible maze. He said it took him a week to find his way out and his trail blazes had changed,” said Walter, gazing into the cave’s depths.

Baylan scribbled notes in a thick book. “There are many subterranean mazes. Your trainer was lucky he found his way out. Some—” Lillian said, pausing and staring off. She continued, “Some of these mazes are corrupted by evil – shifting walls on those within.” The radiance of the sun glistened in her eyes, highlighting streaks of blue in the seas of almond.

A howling, whipping wind poured from the cave’s entrance. “I – we – believe a malevolent force has been released upon the realm,” she said distantly. “Things are changing.” They continued, leaving the Yellow Caverns behind. Walter reflected, her words confirming his unspoken fear. The Cerumal are not men, or beasts, they’re evil manifest.

Lillian nodded deeply to Baylan, closing her eyes. Baylan said, “Walter, I discovered a prophecy in the Silver Tower Library. The prophecy spoke of an ancient seal that locked away a god who, according to the text, went by the name of Asebor.” He sipped from his water skin and continued, “Asebor is not a benevolent god like the Dragon or the Phoenix. He has a physical form, unlike the manifest energies of the Dragon and the Phoenix. The text predicted that the seal of the Age of Dawn would shatter about a month ago, releasing him. From what we’ve gathered, Asebor does not enslave, seek to dominate, or conquer.”

They passed a gurgling brook, its tranquility contrasting with Baylan’s words. Walter gazed at its light-shaping luminescence.

“He thrives on pain, and the agony he can inflict on life. It is written that 10,000 years ago he was a scourge upon the realm,” said Lillian.

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.

Walter’s muscles entered state of relaxed preparedness like a taught bowstring waiting to be released. He let his fingers hang loosely at his sides and his eyelids drooped with calm awareness. The scene widened and his peripheral vision snapped into resounding focus.

Mar’s leg writhed in slow motion against the Cerumal’s iron grip as if they were entrapped in a tar pit. The blood droplets on Mar’s chest burst alight with shades of red, reflecting a tiny sun on the surface of each drop. Mar threw his head back, petitioning the empty sky for the mercy he never conferred to his victims. His pupils contracted and a vein in his forehead jumped with every heartbeat. The beginnings of a smile started to tug at the corners of Walter’s lips.

The Cerumal had a twin pair of tall cascading horns poking through its sharp-planed helm. It released Mar’s leg and unlatched its helmet, allowing it to slide open and fall with a thud. Mar’s legs quivered as he saw its face. “Beautiful,” he whispered. The Cerumal closed its obsidian eyes and lifted its head to the sky, inhaling slowly and deeply, flexing its wrist and arms.

It raised its spear overhead, and slammed it through the haggard Mar’s thigh. Mar screamed, “Kill me already! Kill me!” The Cerumal leaned closer, inhaling sharply. A trail of faint green light emerged from Mar’s mouth and split into two before it entered the Cerumal’s nostrils. The beast started to change. The plate armor bulged and flexed, as if its muscles increased in girth. Its carotid arteries pulsed with renewed vigor. The imperceptible sound of a tiny twig snapped behind him. Walter wouldn’t have detected it if not for the sense-enhancing effect of Warrior’s Focus.

“They feed on the pain of others. It is an insidious form of Necromancy, known as Soul Draining,” a whisper said from behind him. He turned to look at Lillian, to his shock finding her completely naked, body to the ground. His Warrior’s Focus broke like glass at her gorgeous form. “You said our clothes were too bright, we agreed,” she said with a mischievous grin. He found Baylan at least had smallclothes on. “I don’t like the feel of smallclothes,” she said, reading his thoughts.

Chapter 12 – Cursed

“Raven of the skies, fashioned from my bones, lend me your eyes.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

A shrill scream came from one of the townsfolk. Another Cerumal, shorter than most, had stuck a dagger into a gaunt man’s stomach. He was well-muscled despite his slender frame, with a long scar over his right eye. He had the fierce determination in his eyes of a man who fights until the bitter end. This Cerumal wore only armor below the waist, its upper body a decorated canvas of battle scars. Veins throbbed and popped out of its skin as vibrant green light-tendrils from the crying man entered its mouth. “We have to do something,” Walter stood to his feet in defiance, steeling himself for war. His eyes burned with vengeance.

“No, wait – we don’t know how many there are!” Baylan said quietly.

It was too late. The colossal Cerumal who had drained pain from Mar released a guttural scream. It hurled its spear at Walter with the speed of a loosed arrow from a bow. He turned his body sideways at the last second, narrowly avoiding the demise of his nightmare. So fast! he thought, cracking Stormcaller to life.

The beast ripped a dagger from Mar’s hand. It charged Walter with stunning ferocity and speed. Walter rolled and it skidded to a halt, attempting to ram him with its massive body. Walter rose to a knee and viciously slashed, lashes smoothly tearing through its armored thigh. The Cerumal collapsed to the ground squealing and clutching the remaining stump. Blood was rapidly ejected from its fatal wound as its heart pounded with fury.

To his right near the campfire, Lillian stood with arms wide, soft skin exposed to the elements. The stocky Cerumal lunged at her through the air, dark teeth swallowing light. She planted her pale legs wide, and raised both hands like claws from her waist to her chest. A boulder the size of a door sprouted from the ground, spraying bits of rock and earth into the air. The Cerumal collided with the thick slab of granite with a sickening crunch.

A third and fourth Cerumal burst from the tent flaps. A huge one, at least three paces tall, wielded an almost black two-handed long sword with a waving edge as long as a man. A straight edge can become lodged in your opponent’s bones. A waving edge allows for easier extraction, critical for combat, Noah had said. Walter sprinted towards them, whirling Stormcaller overhead. He gritted his teeth and focused his eyes on his enemies.

A thin Cerumal, thin at least compared to other Cerumal, yet still much larger than an average man, bared long spikes jutting from each wrist. Baylan suddenly appeared behind the smaller one as though he had warped time itself. He jammed his long silver dagger under its helm, between the neck guard plates and into soft flesh. It screamed and dropped to its knees, fruitlessly clawing at the dark blood bubbling from its neck.

The larger one turned from Walter and slashed from overhead at Baylan with its incongruously large blade. Baylan raised his forearm and a translucent blue shield of light sprung up around it. He grimaced as the massive blade bounced off it, sending him crashing onto his back. Lillian twirled flaming short swords in each hand as she dashed at the Cerumal preparing to swing at Baylan again. It turned its head when she launched into the air screaming with a double overhand kill strike. It snapped one arm into the air like a viper at prey, seizing Lillian by the neck. Lillian panicked, trying to pry its armored fingers loose. Her flaming swords fell from her hands and vanished with a poof.

Walter reached the Cerumal, slashing overhead at its arm to free Lillian. Together as one, Walter willed. Lillian tightly closed her eyes. The four waving tendrils of Stormcaller spun through the air, and before making contact wove together, avoiding hitting Lillian. It worked. It fucking worked, he thought in amazement. The Cerumal threw its head back, bellowing in anger. The beast had lost its left arm at the elbow. Lillian dropped to her feet and removed the severed arm, color returning to her face. Baylan stood and recovered from the crushing blow.

The Cerumal raged and swung the massive sword with one hand at Walter. He ducked easily, avoiding the clumsy attack, studying its sword style. Walter laughed at the pitiful creature losing strength each second as blood streamed from its missing limb.

It swung, and Walter evaded. Swing, roll forward, swing, duck, swing, side-step. This time Walter countered with a cracking upward slash, tearing through its chest plate, but purposefully not hewing the creature into pieces. Now you will know pain, he thought, lips curling. Some of its blood splashed a grisly line across his face.

Bits of plate clattered to the ground when it lurched towards him again, swinging its gargantuan blade like a weak child. Walter whipped horizontally at its legs, parting armor, and again with a backhanded slash. Both of its legs now bore deep gashes in ashen skin that plate once covered. The Cerumal fell to a knee, heaving, slamming the waving sword in the ground and resting on it. Was it yielding?

Walter sliced the sword in half, glaring savagely as the Cerumal collapsed onto its face in a small pool of its own blood. Lillian and Baylan watched him with concern from the campfire. Just like a tree, just a little wetter, he thought sadistically. Walter amputated each of its limbs with methodical slashes like he had practiced on the birch trees. The Cerumal released its last groans of life. Walter rubbed his nose and mouth, staring down at the corpse.

Walter marched with frenzy in his eyes to where Mar lay. His body sagged, one arm dangling by his side, the other overhead with a dagger through the palm. The spear through his leg pulsed and his thigh twitched. Walter removed the other dagger from Mar’s hand, kicking him to the side, watching as he lifelessly slumped to the ground. Walter grunted, tearing soiled cotton shreds from Mar’s clothing, and fashioned a noose-like knot with loops on either end.

Lillian placed a hand over her mouth. “Walter, what are you doing?” she said. Baylan draped her flowing red robe over her shoulders. Walter looked at her – no, he looked through her. She visibly shivered. She started dressing herself with the bundle Baylan gave her, eyeing Walter curiously.

Walter cinched one end of the makeshift noose around the Cerumal’s neck. He then unceremoniously dragged it towards Mar by the noose, painting the scrub with dark blood trails from each of its severed limbs. By the open end of the noose Walter hoisted the amputated body onto one end of one of the thick branches forming an X. Walter stared at the body for a moment. It swung in a gust of wind. Satisfied, he nodded.

“We’ll let that be a warning to them. Hopefully they’ll know they’re not welcome anywhere near Breden.” Walter said. It’s madness, utter madness. What have you become? he asked himself. He squashed the thought. It’s what Juzo would have done – it’s for him.

Baylan looked up from examining a body and scribbling notes. “Yes, I suppose if anything will, that would be sufficiently efficacious.”

Lillian rubbed at the red lines around her neck. “If you stare too long into the darkness, you may become one with it,” she said.

Walter smiled. “You never told me you were a sage. Do you have other talents you’d like to reveal?”

“I’m sure you would like to know,” she said with a gleam in her eyes.

Walter blushed, turning away and investigating the tent. Did she mean what I think she meant? Did she see me looking at her when she was nude? No, of course not. She was just having fun. The tent was austere, with bundles of hay for sleeping and scraps of hog bones. It seemed they hadn’t been there very long.

Along the corner, near the entrance, lay a full suit of armor the Cerumal wore. It looked almost exactly his size. This could come in handy, could save your life, he thought. He started snapping pieces on, working from his legs up to his chest. There was no helm or gloves, but he preferred it that way. Certainly wouldn’t want to be mistaken for one of them. The interlocking, unnaturally colored slate armor disturbingly seemed to grow tighter around his limbs and body. Walter looked at his arms, admiring how amazing it was to be in plate for the first time. It’s so light, almost like my leather training armor. “Incredible,” he said, marveling at how well it fit.

He stepped out of the tent and spun on his heels, opening his arms wide and displaying the newfound treasure. “Hey, guys, look what I found!” he said excitedly. Baylan turned and the color drained from his face.

Walter swallowed. “What’s wrong?”

“Walter, no!” Baylan yelled, reaching an arm towards him. “It’s cursed!”

Chapter 13 – Corruption

“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

“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

“The sleeping knowledge of eons opened their eyes, meeting my eager countenance.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

Walter stormed into the city guard’s barracks, finding Hassan lounging on a daybed. Walter told Hassan and his subordinates about the corrupt chef and the tortured children. He decided to leave out the parts about Casey’s vision and his prediction of death for all. The Captain already had a heavy burden with the town’s recovery. Should Hassan know that Casey made a deal with the raiders? No, this burden Walter would bear. Hassan reacted quickly, assembling a team to retrieve the children and thanked him for taking action and trusting his instincts.

Walter reached for Hassan’s thick arm, stopping him in his tracks. Hassan’s eyes widened.“Well, boy, you certainly have been drinking your milk,” he said, looking at Walter’s hand.

“Hassan, I have to find Nyset. She’s the only one who will know how to remedy the Pink Cap poison. I don’t think we have much time, more will die,” Walter said, panting from running to the barracks.

“OK, lad. Go! We’ll take care of the kids,” Hassan said, clapping Walter’s shoulder with a meaty hand.

Walter ran along the Quarry Road, faster and longer than he ever imagined possible. This cursed, blasted armor is giving me more strength, more endurance, he realized. And in exchange it will consume my soul. Walter shook off the despair dripping from the thought, threatening to drown him.

Along the side of the road, a long, black dog with white paws and a white belly rolled on its back, gnawing on a beef rib in tall grass. When it saw Walter, it tucked its long wiry tail between its legs and sprinted into the nearby woods. That’s strange, usually dogs like me. His cloak fluttered in the wind behind him like a flag, no longer caring who saw his armor.

He passed by Juzo’s house, the wound of losing him re-opening. He could see Mrs. Pulling’s slim back through her window when he passed. I need to tell his parents, but it will have to wait. He fought hard against stopping and giving Juzo’s parents closure. It must wait, you have to save who you can now.

He leaped onto the Camfields’ doorstep and rapped on the heavy door: peeling red paint flakes tumbled to the stoop. He waited a moment and then put his ear to the door, listening for movement. “Nyset! Are you there?” he shouted. He banged on the door harder, unexpectedly smashing his fist through it and blowing the lock off the wall. The door swung open and he stepped through. A shrill scream erupted from the top of the stairs.

“It’s OK! It’s Walter! It’s me!” He raised his palms in a show of innocence.

“By the Dragon! Walter! I thought you were one of those beasts that attacked us,” Nyset said, setting down a closed glass flask of swirling jade liquid. She rested a hand on a hip. “I almost killed you! You really shouldn’t go around breaking doors down right now,” she scolded. “Do you know what this is?” she said, pointing to the flask of animated green liquid.

Walter looked up at her, shaking his head dumbfounded. She wore brown, patched leather pants that hugged her hips and had a tattered hole in one knee, a loose cream shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and an open billowy red vest with tails that flowed behind her, lined with an orange collar that emphasized her narrow face. On her hips were three pouches that were bursting at the seams from being overstuffed with greenery. Walter found his eyes admiring the way her shirt folded over her admirable bosom.

“This is Abradum root and Oneshalt powder – the combination would have melted your face,” she said, sighing.

“Come here,” he said, smiling. Her eyes glittered and narrowed.

“Walter, you’re alive,” she gasped. She ran to him. He opened his arms, catching her in his embrace. Don’t squeeze too hard – don’t know your strength anymore, he thought. Small bits of bright orange herbs fell from one of her pouches onto the foyer floor. He locked onto her eyes, getting lost in those brown pools. The anguish they’d both felt in the past days was spoken in the silence. She rubbed curiously at the thick plate covering his body. He reached a hand behind her head, entwining his fingers in her yellow hair. He pulled her face towards his, wrapping his lips around hers. The ecstasy of that kiss felt like an eternity. He felt the darkness clouding his mind clear like the end of a raging storm, the sun once again piercing through.

“Your parents, Walter, I’m so sorry,” she said softly, looking down.

He nodded and the weight of his loss returned. “There must still be lot of people that need our help. This is how we can honor them. Your parents are well?” he asked.

“Yeah, shopping in town now.” A hint of a smile crossed her lips.

She nodded and stepped back from him, placing a finger to her chin. “I’m so close to figuring out what Casey used in the food to poison everyone.”

“He used Pink Caps,” Walter said flatly.

“How do you know for certain?”

He shuddered. “I just came from visiting with the good chef, let’s just say we won’t be seeing him anymore. I’m glad you didn’t fall for his rotten meat excuse. It seems most had forgotten about that little detail. I have much to tell you, but for now I’m glad you’re well,” he said.

“Yes, you certainly do,” she said, parting the scarf from his chin and rubbing at his thickened skin.

A thought struck her. “Laughing Eye – it fits all the symptoms and is the most likely derivative of the Pink Caps.”

“Other than projectile vomiting from both ends, is that the worst of it?” Walter asked.

“If everyone really does have Laughing Eye, we don’t have much time. My parents have been sick, and have possibly been exhibiting the secondary effects – hang on.”

Nyset ran upstairs to her room and retrieved a blue tome with a large tree painted on the cover. She carried the hand-thick volume in both arms and sat at the top of the stairs with it on her lap.

She furiously turned pages, “Ah-ha! Laughing Eye, a glutinous clear sap easily mixed with the application of heat. Created with four parts licorice, two parts ginger, one part walnuts and one part Pink Caps. This insidious poison is characterized by its initial deception of inflicting nausea, diarrhea, dizziness, and fatigue shortly after consumption. In a day’s passing, it will appear to have run its course, when in actuality the secondary mechanism assails the brain. In the following three to four days, the afflicted will feel exhausted and find it increasingly difficult to form sentences and remember names, as the brain tissue is slowly deteriorating. Within five days the brain will be partly liquefied, characterized by fluid leaking from the nasal or ear cavities – and sudden death.” She read aloud with growing horror.

Walter groaned. “All those people, what can we possibly do?”

“Wait, we might just be getting very lucky,” Nyset said, scanning with keen eyes.

“What? How?”

“The antidote to Laughing Eye, Death Adders, can only be found in one place in the Zoria realm, the Denerian Cliffs,” she said, looking up from the text, meeting his eyes.

“It’s only a day’s ride. If we move fast enough we can save them,” Walter said. He turned and opened the front door, which now inched in the wind between not quite opened and not quite closed due to his having knocking the iron hinges out of alignment. Nyset ran downstairs to join him.

“We’ll need horses, and I don’t have any.” She paused, looking through the window to her neighbor’s farm down the road. Five beautiful specimens of horseflesh could be seen roaming the pasture.

Walter nodded to her. “We’ll have to convince them to lend them to us. Let’s go!”

Apprehension touched her eyes, brightly lit by the afternoon light pouring through the window. “I’ll gather supplies.”

**

“No, you can’t have my horses,” said Mrs. Jacklabee with tanned arms folded over her flat chest. Her knees and elbows were soiled with gray earth, and a smudge streaked across her hollow cheek. She looked over the dilapidated fence to a white horse as it neighed and trotted across the lush pasture. “Pretty horses,” Mrs. Jacklabee mused, smacking her thin lips.

“Mrs. Jacklabee, we don’t have five hundred marks, but you must understand that this is to save lives, the lives of Breden citizens. I’m sure they would be more than willing to pool together if they knew we were going to do this to save their lives, but as I’ve said, time is of the essence,” said Nyset, holding her hands clasped together.

“We don’t want to keep them, ma’am, we’ll be back by the end of the day,” Walter said.

She shook her head in defiance. “These are all I got that has any worth on this farm. The soil’s all wrong, nothing will grow except Fang Cress and weeds, and I’ll need to either sell these, or get myself a few cows.” She sighed with an arm across her stomach.

“We don’t have time for this,” Walter hissed in Nyset’s ear. Her scent was intoxicating, reminding him of how it felt to be at peace.

“I know–” She cut herself off. “Say, Mrs. Jacklabee, how about I promise to watch your kids when you go into town and help you with the farm work?” Nyset said.

“No… work, I need to get back to it.” She turned, walking toward the stables, light blue dress ruffling in the breeze. Walter remembered the small lump in his pocket, the one Juzo saved from the dusty crypt. He rolled the power-diamond mark between his fingers through his chain mail. The difference between those with natural talent and those who succeed through hard work is consistent execution, and the ability to sacrifice when others celebrate, his father had said. “Sacrifice,” Walter whispered almost silently, lost in the crystallized memory of his father mending a broken elixir cherry press late into the evening.

“Stop!” Walter’s voice cut through the air with an unnatural reverberation, as if two voices were spoken simultaneously. One voice his, another not of this world. Mrs. Jacklabee shuddered and froze in her tracks. Nyset jumped and took a discerning step away from him. Mrs. Jacklabee looked over her shoulder at Walter with a tinge of fear in her dark eyes.

“I don’t have time for games, boy, do you–” Something flitted like a spark through the air. She cut herself off and opened her hands to catch what Walter had lobbed at her. Her mouth dropped in disbelief. “This, this is too much!” She looked up at Walter, weathered lips forming a line. “What? I can’t repay you the difference owed. I only–”

“Consider today your lucky day, Mrs. Jacklabee. The horses, please,” Walter said, shifting the pack Nyset prepared for him onto his healthier shoulder.

“What is it?” Nyset asked, perplexed.

Mrs. Jacklabee directed her gaze to the green-hued sky, whispering indiscernibly.

“Walter, you’ve saved me, you saved us… we’re so close to everything falling apart, hardly enough money for grain for the horses. I’ll never forget this. Someday I’ll make it up to you, son,” she said, gently cupping the swirling diamond-power mark.

“The horses,” Walter reminded her.

**

The Denerian Cliffs stabbed into the horizon like serrated teeth, vying to consume the sky. They lined the shore of the Abyssal Sea west of Breden, forming a natural barrier for the town against the ravaging sea storms. Their saffron-tipped peaks were devoid of foliage, reflecting a deep red in the afternoon sun. The Abyssal Sea was so named for its dark color, according to the Natural Geography of the West, was caused by the tiny creatures inhabiting its waters. The noxious scent of sulfur puffing from the Ars Volcano was strong here.

The horses nimbly made their way along the winding switchbacks leading up the loose trail. The wind from the Abyssal Sea became icy as the foliage thinned. It was a welcome relief under the blistering sun. Nyset wrapped her light cloak around her shoulders. Craggy brownstone spilled from the edge of the trail as Walter’s horse, Marie, came a little too close to the edge of the deep precipice for comfort.

“Whoa, girl,” Walter said, tugging on Marie’s reins as she recovered her footing.

The spraying stones bounced off the branches of a massive oak below. Walter peered over the edge, wondering how it would feel to plummet from such a height. Would the armor allow me to survive such a fall? It would be an exhilarating experiment, to say the least. Nyset rode up beside him, bumping him with her shoulder.

“Do lame horses cost a power-diamond mark these days?” Nyset asked.

“She’s drunk too much cider at the stable apparently,” he chuckled.

“How are you doing with… everything?”

Walter averted his eyes, staring towards the peak.

“Alright, then. If you want my help you’re going to have to talk to me eventually.”

Walter closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Where to begin?” he said with heaviness in his voice.

She wiped a wavy strand of hair from her eyes. “Start with what happened after the beasts attacked,”

“I suppose I can do that.”

He spent the better half of the ride recounting his past days, from thrilling moments to those wrapped in pain. She listened attentively, offering comfort with a gentle hand. When he finished, they spent the last leg of the ride in silence. Walter needed the catharsis with someone he trusted, and Nyset needed to process the chaos.

“Keep your eyes peeled. We should see Laughing Eye around this elevation, I think,” she said.

“It would probably help if you told me what it looks like,” he said, catching her eyes. I could look at those all day.

“Hmm, I suppose it would. It’s a small yellow plant with lots of tiny, bright purple flowers.”

Walter dismounted from Marie, looking into a gully with sparse vegetation. Nyset fanned out in the other direction on her mount, Ashes, named for the various grays that speckled his white body.

“Here–” He stopped when a low growl rumbled from behind a dry bush. Walter could see the sharp snout and arrowhead-like tail of the Rock Wolf poking out, one on either side of the bush. This one doesn’t seem frightened of me. A branch snapped behind him. He whipped his head around to find two others circling his rear flanks on a stretch of earth sloping upwards. Their yellow eyes glistened in the shade and their hackles rose when Walter made eye contact with each.

“Now, now... you go on your way. I’m not going to be your lunch, understand?” The nearest Rock Wolf crept from behind the bush, bearing thousands of razor-thin teeth made for shredding flesh. Thick shaggy hair rolled over a muscular body as large as a man’s. It dipped its head low, preparing to pounce. Walter mirrored it. Stormcaller exploded to life, gouging the stone beside him.

The wolf leaped through the air. Walter threw his head back at the last second and its teeth snapped together, a hair’s-breadth from his neck. It bounced off his chest plate and fell flat on its back. Walter felt drops of its warm spittle on his neck. He slammed his heel down, hoping to crush the life from the wolf’s body. It rolled just in time and skulked behind a jagged boulder shaped like an egg. Walter turned, facing the other two, who now seemed a little less confident.

Something zipped through the air from behind Walter, landing in front of the wolf to his left. A flaming spike lay in the soil before the wolf. The wolf drew close, inspecting it, and then yelped in surprise. He turned to find Nyset’s impressive form towering over him on Ashes. Dozens of small flaming bolts danced and twirled about her head and shoulders. She narrowed her eyes and two other flaming darts launched toward the now very reluctant third wolf. It started sprinting into the wood before they could land, leaving long streaked paw prints in the dirt of its wake.

“Nice aim, deadeye,” Walter said flatly.

“I think you meant ‘thank you for saving my life’,” she said.

“That too,” he said, wiping the wolf saliva from his neck. “So, you too, huh?”

“Yes, for a long time, not that I could ever tell anyone without being cast out and sent to the Silver Tower.”

Walter nodded. Her posture sagged and the bolts surrounding her dissipated into small puffs of smoke.

“It’s starting to appear to be a common theme in Breden. You need to teach me how to do that. Have you practiced?” He whistled impressively.

Nyset frowned. “Rock wolves shouldn’t attack people, at least not unless they’re very, very desperate.”

“Maybe we just looked like easy prey?”

“No, Dad and I came up here at least ten times last year and never saw an inkling of one.”

Walter squatted over a bright yellow plant, brushing its leaves with the backs of his fingers.

“Times are changing. Here, is this a Death Flower?”

“Death Adder,” she said, smiling.

“Whatever.” He yanked the plant from the ground, handing it over to her.

Nyset nodded – “Good, just a few more.” – and stowed the plant along with dangling roots into one of her leather pouches. She scanned the ground. “I’ve practiced using the Dragon power for the past few years, almost every night, in the Woodland Plunge. I’ve never tried Fang Cress, but I would imagine it’s about as addictive.”

Walter kicked a stick. “Your parents never asked where you went every night?”

“Oh no, they knew. In fact, one of them often came with me, encouraging me to cultivate the talent.”

“Wow, I never would have guessed. You’re lucky. Mom never told me what she could do, nor would I have ever imagined. She hid it so well. I wonder if Dad knew? I suppose it’s no use thinking about these things now,” he said, turning inward and forcefully exhaling.

“That should be enough – let’s get moving,” she said.

The horses sauntered along the switchbacks, finding the downhill easier to manage. The sun fell behind a peak, bisected by its sharp angles. Five enormous birds of prey circled and screeched above, presumably awaiting the riders’ untimely death. “I’m out of water, do you have more?” Walter said, ineffectively wiping beads of sweat from his brow with an armored forearm. “Blasted armor,” he grumbled. He pulled the scarf hiding his neck free, and used it to wipe his face.

“No, I, uh, forgot to bring water.” She blushed.

“You packed supplies, but didn’t include water?” Walter smacked the empty skin hanging by his side. “Useless, idiot girl,” he snarled. He inverted the black leather satchel she’d packed for him, dumping its contents onto the trail. Salted goat meat, a small tinderbox, a candle, a yard of string, and a large biscuit tumbled from the satchel. He looked to the sky. “No water.”

She bowed her head in shame. She lifted her eyes, noticing the skin on his neck had become engulfed by slate gray and was creeping further towards his face.

“You’re becoming one of them,” she whispered.

“No!” he snapped. He slumped in his saddle. “Yes, I am,” he said, the strength drained from his voice.

“Walter!”

“What?”

He followed her gesture as she pointed through a clearing towards the horizon over the Abyssal Sea. He felt a sudden dizziness, and black spots dotted his vision. An unfathomably large creature was flying from the horizon directly towards them. Its massive wings suspended a vaguely humanoid body, with long arms hanging loosely from its bony form.

Walter deftly rolled off Marie and grabbed the reins of both horses, pulling them under the canopy of shady oak branches. Nyset lay prone on the horses’ back so she could slide under the shading leaves. The dark vultures circling overhead started furiously squawking cries of alarm. They dove towards the refuge of the forest below. “What is that thing?” Walter whispered.

The creature flew over them and towards the slowest vulture, flying well above it. It then folded its wings tightly over its back, turning its body into a missile as it descended upon the screaming vulture. Its crab-like claws, extending from its arms, snatched the bird in their grasp in mid-flight. Walter and Nyset watched with open mouths as the bird’s wings and head were methodically clipped off, landing with thuds on the trail they had just descended. The beast landed on a boulder not more than twelve paces away with its prey locked in massive jaws.

Walter patted the horses, calming their tremulous shuffling. “Shh, stay right here,” Nyset whispered.

It feasted on its meal, tearing raw flesh from the unlucky vulture. It had two large horns in the shape of horseshoes jutting from an eyeless, all too human-like face. Its body was covered in what looked like a thick, blue carapace. Its asymmetric arms worked at the remains of the vulture until it tossed aside the picked-clean carcass. A horse snorted.

The creature lingered, turning its head as if it had eyes to see. How do I fight this thing? Walter held his breath. He shifted his eyes toward Nyset, unwilling to move his body for fear of clinking armor’s unveiling their position. The creature turned in the direction where the other vultures had fled. It stood tall, revealing its true height of at least five paces. It then squatted low and vaulted into the air, large wings creating a breeze as it flew east.

Nyset and Walter released held breath, chests heaving with the effort. “Good horses,” Walter said, rubbing their manes.

“What was that?” Nyset asked softly. “I haven’t the faintest–” She paused a moment, tapping her lower lip with an index finger. “It’s a Shattered Wing, a Shattered Wing, here, in Zoria, near Breden.” The words came in short bursts. She secured her cloak around her waist and folded her arms.

“Let’s hope we never have to tangle with it,” Walter said.

The icy breeze was, thankfully, buffered by thick trees as they wound towards the bottom of the Denerian Cliffs. The sun was no longer warm enough to provide contrasting relief.

“A few drops of Death Adder tea should cure most people,” she said, clutching the pouch containing the gathered flowers.

“Nyset, you’re brilliant. I knew there was a reason I enjoyed spending time with you.”

“I’m glad there is at least one,” she smiled.

He rode up beside her when the trail widened. “This Shattered Wing, what do you know of it? Where are they normally?”

“From what I’ve read, they’re practically a mythological creature. The people who live along the borders of the Nether use its name to threaten their children to behave. To see it here, and alive, is shocking, like many things lately.”

“Never a dull moment,” Walter said, forcing a smile.

They were finally on flat soil, Breden visible in the clearing.

“Juzo… I think Juzo is in the Nether or maybe the Tigerian Bluffs,” she said, gazing to the north-east.

“Why? Why there?”

“I don’t know for certain, however, in various books there are allusions to Necromancy, all tying in to that region. The puzzle pieces seem to fit. If your description of the man who took him is accurate, I think it might have been a Necromancer. It’s a guess.”

“Your guess is better than mine. Wait – Necromancy…” Walter paused, scratching the beginnings of a beard. “Juzo had a book in his bag, something about Necromancy and darkness. I left it at the house with Baylan and Lillian.”

“That might be a good lead,” Nyset said, nodding.

“No, not again – it can’t be!” Walter stared, bewildered, towards Breden. Three wide plumes of smoke rose into the clear sky. Nyset followed his gaze. Projectiles of light fanned across the green skyline from the town’s center. A fourth smoke plume started snaking its way above the town.

“They’re back,” Nyset gasped.

Chapter 16 – Iron Sharpens Iron

“Open my mind, elude me no more black Prince. Centuries of searching have borne fruit.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

Baylan attempted to sleep in Walter’s guest room to regain the fortitude he would need to try healing his hand again. Once the power was invoked and used to fight or to heal, it had an equal and opposite effect, severely taxing one’s constitution.

Lillian decided to take a walk and take advantage of the beautiful day, hoping she would run into Walter and the friends he’d gone to visit. She strolled about two-thirds of the way up the Mission Road before the horns bellowed in alarm. She sprinted towards the cacophony of battle, coils of flaming red cloth from her elaborate dress streaming behind her.

Cerumal poured into the town center. A cloud of slate-gray riders whooped and screamed as they gutted defending men of the city guard. She fought to catch her breath and braced her mind for war. It was a chaotic scramble of screaming and steel meeting steel. Children fled with women and city guards attempted to protect them.

A guard with a smoking pipe in his mouth stabbed with his short sword, attempting to penetrate the interlocking armor of a Cerumal spinning a triple morning star overhead. The sword cracked when it collided with the stiff plate. The beast’s weapon came crashing down upon the guard, splashing the sand with gore.

“Kaleb, no! Bastards!” Hassan roared. He rammed into his best friend’s killer with his shoulder, knocking it off balance, and slaying it with a precise long-sword slash through its exposed neck.

“Dragon protect me as I serve those who cannot defend themselves,” Lillian said. Her eyes and hands exploded into a surge of dancing flames. She launched into the fray, fanning her hands and spraying gouts of fire over three Cerumal, scorching them in their armor. A Cerumal caught her flank, ramming a spear through a bicep and her torso, almost penetrating her lung.

“Argh!” she cried and blasted it with a flaming lance from her fingertips. It wailed in agony, attempting to remove the lance from its left eye as it fell to the ground, writhing. She turned as at least twelve more Cerumal pounded through the main gate on foot. She picked four off with balls of fire, burning armor clean through. Red cloth tendrils danced and fluttered about her lithe form as she burned with the rage of the Dragon. The thrill of battle pumped through her veins, urging her to obliterate her enemies.

Another lunged and stabbed at her with a spear. At the creature’s mid-thrust she created a flaming sword and slashed through its spear haft before the strike could reach her. It looked at the remaining spear half, perplexed for a second. The flaming sword dissipated as she threw a flaming spin kick at its torso, tearing through its armor with ease and spilling its entrails onto a dead city guard.

A pair of metallic arms enveloped her body from behind. Lillian screamed and ribs audibly cracked and shattered in her chest. She roared as her entire body burst into flames, the force slamming the now-burning Cerumal to the ground. She fell to her knees, significantly weakened by the massive power output and the overwhelming pain in her chest. Another charged her from the right. She extended an index finger, and a long sword launched from the ground with the speed of a crossbow bolt and pierced through its chest plate. It fell onto its back, shrieking.

She heaved ragged breaths, vision swimming, and stared into the ground. “Get it together,” she told herself. “This is not the end for you.” A shadow loomed over the patch of ground she’d claimed. She grimaced, preparing for an assault.

The Black Wynch stood over her as she started to stand. It slashed with an uppercut, talons opening her neck in three vertical lines erupting red. She fell to her back as blood pumped from her neck with every frantically pounding heartbeat, pooling on either side. She turned her head to the side, watching blurred guards fall to a foe they weren’t prepared to fight.

She clung to life for her last gambit. She held tightly to the Dragon power keeping her alive, and then released everything she had left as flaming lances erupted from each of her fingertips at the Black Wynch. “Asebor will die, the slayer has returned,” she said in a hoarse whisper. That was her very last act.

**

Nyset and Walter rode hard towards the city, spurring the horses to their limits. Galloping hooves pierced the quiet of the Mission Road. Heads popped up over windowsills and eyes peered out at them from inside the safety of dwellings. On the stoop of one house a round-faced farmer with a scraggly beard stood wielding a pitchfork, scratching his head while they passed.

“I can’t believe this is happening – Hassan had doubled the guard,” Walter said.

“We don’t know for certain that they’re here, but if they are, the bigger question is ‘why are they here?’” Nyset said, tightly gripping Ashes.

“Damn it! We should have been back earlier,” Walter said, exasperated.

“Let’s pray to the Phoenix it’s not as bad as it looks.”

Walter drummed a free hand on his thigh. “Why haven’t they put out the fires yet? Why is there still so much smoke?”

Nyset stared towards the horizon and set her lips in a hard line. She turned to look at Walter, cringing at his Cerumal-like skin.

“Wait, wait,” he yelled, pulling on his reins to slow Marie to a trot. “Ny, we could be riding into a trap – the city could be overrun with Cerumal.”

“Hm, yes, it could be, but we’re still going,” she said.

“We shouldn’t risk ourselves to help a few people, it’s not worth it. We’re too important to be killed for a few urchins.” He spat, wiping his face.

“Are you hearing yourself – a few urchins? Have you lost your mind?” she said in disbelief. “Who are you?”

His eyes flashed a pale yellow and his pupils were transfigured into pinholes. “Hold your tongue, or have it cut from your pretty mouth, bitch,” he barked.

She led Ashes to the other side of the road, visibly shaken.

“I’m sorry, Ny – something’s wrong. I – I don’t know what’s happening to me.” He stared at his palms slowly turning an ashen gray, like someone had spilled ink upon them.

“I’m going back,” she said.

“Of course. I’m going too – where else would we go?” he said, puzzled.

She narrowed her eyes.

They came upon Walter’s house along the Mission Road and paused, stopping the horses to give them a brief reprieve. It still looked the same as he’d last left it, front door missing, windows shattered, and dead parents lying in fresh graves in the back. Dead parents in fresh graves – the thought drew him into a daze.

“Is there something you need?” Nyset asked, watching his face work.

“No, something just doesn’t feel right.”

“That’s not entirely surprising given what’s transpired here,” she said, placing a hand on his neck. He placed his hand over hers.

“It’s nothing, let’s go,” he muttered.

They rounded the bend beyond his house and both horses bucked wildly, tossing them unceremoniously from their saddles. Nyset wheezed, hand on her chest and fighting to get her wind back. Walter rolled with the fall. The armor and hours of Sid-Ho training protected him well. He stood to one knee, and, to his shock, saw why the horses had reacted so.

A Cerumal on horseback handed the Black Wynch a dusty cloth-wrapped bundle. It inspected the bundle and gave it back. The Cerumal paid Walter a glance and grunted, then galloped away towards Breden Square, kicking up a storm of dust. Marie and Ashes sprinted back towards Walter’s house, whinnying. What was that? A Cerumal courier? They’re smarter than I gave them credit for.

The Black Wynch’s helm reflected pink rays of the late afternoon sun. It drew its twisting arms wide as it crouched onto its back leg, front leg extended in an odd fighting stance. It hissed like a snake preparing to uncoil upon its prey. Its eyeless helm and disproportionately long limbs were disturbing. It threateningly clacked its vicious talons, coated in dried blood.

Nyset held clenched fists. A combination of fear and anger painted her face. Small bolts of flame sprouted to life encircling her. Walter screamed with the uncorked fury that had been boiling within, releasing all the loss, the struggle, and the pain. His appetite for vengeance swelled within. His eyes widened and yellowed. He charged with Stormcaller’s glowing lashes dancing behind him. As he charged, he seized the animated Dragon in his mind’s eye. It filled him with chaos and strength, urging him to further action.

The Black Wynch stood and rounded its upper back, gnarled spikes emerging from it and launching in a hail towards Walter. Walter gritted his teeth and dashed into a low roll, spikes slamming into the ground in a line behind him. He came out of the roll whipping horizontally with Stormcaller. The Black Wynch jumped over the attack, countering with a roundhouse kick that threw Walter onto his back. White-hot pain wracked his jaw.

Nyset punched with both hands, and dozens of flaming bolts whizzed through the air. The Black Wynch’s body unnaturally twisted and weaved like an eel, dodging the majority of them. Three did find purchase, tearing clean holes through its thigh, shoulder and abdomen. The creature shrieked, thick black blood oozing from the smoking wounds. It appeared shaken and it surprisingly hesitated, taking a step back.

Walter sprang to his feet and groaned, working his jaw. He attacked in a fury of lash strikes, the Black Wynch weaving and dodging defensively. He caught a glance of Nyset, who was visibly drained from her attack, face pale and posture sagging. The creature tactically weaved its way towards Walter through his last two Crane Catching Fly strikes, pouncing on him and bringing them to the ground. Stormcaller’s lashes dissipated when Walter lost focus.

It raised its arms overhead with ear-splitting screams. Sparks sizzled through the air as its talons tore chunks of plate from Walter’s abdomen. It threw its head back in frustration, gripping his armor and smashing its plated head against Walter’s soft face. Blood washed over Walter’s eyes, nose cracking with the impact.

Time seemed to slow as pain radiated across his face. It’s going to rip me to shreds if I don’t get up. Weakness settled into his body, urging him to surrender, to do anything to stop the pain. Never give up, fight until the end, Noah’s voice said.

Walter blinked stinging blood from his eyes, bucking his hips and throwing a hard knee, tossing the creature over his head. Nyset screamed and brought a flaming spear down from overhead, attempting to finish it off after it fell. The creature squirmed out of the way and slashed her thigh.

The jolt threw her aim off and the spear slid through its clawed foot, pinning it where it lay. Nyset yelled and fell onto her back, scrambling out of the Black Wynch’s range while gripping her bleeding leg. Scintillating talons angrily whipped and slashed at her, catching only air. The Black Wynch hissed and tugged at the spear through its foot, trying to reach her.

Walter clambered to his feet as the beast tore its burning foot free from the spear, leaving most of the foot behind. Walter wiped blood and tears from his face, regaining his balance. The creature limped towards Nyset, forgetting about Walter, trailing blood from its severed foot with a single talon still attached. Walter came from behind and booted its knee, producing a satisfying snap. It fell to its face, turning towards him snarling and muttering nonsense.

You shall not! Slay the whore girl soldier! a dry voice rasped in his head, compelling him to obey. He felt the anger drain from his body, lethargy taking its place, eyes feeling heavy as elixir barrels. I am so tired. He lowered his right leg, which was poised to slam another Cerumal armor-enhanced heel into the Black Wynch. A woman’s voice sounded in the distance, muffled as if from a root cellar. “Walter! What are you doing? Walter!”

“Slay the whore,” Walter said, staring at Nyset.

Slay the whore, the voice in his head resounded. Nyset stared in disbelief, struggling to her feet. Walter strode past the Black Wynch to Nyset, his eyes vacuous. He reached his bleeding hand for her neck. A blast of air knocked him to his back, sending him three paces across the road. He gasped for breath and struggled to an elbow. Where am I? Fighting the Black Wynch. How did I get here? Why is she looking at me like I’m a flesh-eating plant?

Walter rose to his feet and regained his Warrior’s Focus, and the world seemed to slow once again. “Enough!” Walter said through gritted teeth. The Dragon was available within his renewed inner calm. He hurled a fireball that passed through the Black Wynch’s neck and quieted its screams and gnashing teeth. Walter stared, expecting to feel vindicated, but felt overpowering exhaustion. It took minutes for The Black Wynch to stop twitching after the greater portion of its head was displaced from its body. He sat down, head spinning.

He wanted to lie down and sleep and let reality melt away. There are many things in life one wants to do, but cannot. The dead are not able to wake from their slumber, even if they wanted to. It is our duty to allow the living the same pleasure. His head swam with the reality that they’d survived.

“What the Dragon was that?” Nyset asked with damp eyes.

Walter held his palms before his face, inspecting his marbled human and Cerumal ashen-gray skin.

“It… I think it… controlled me.”

Walter looked to Nyset, meeting her eyes. “But I’m me now, OK? It’s just me.”

They smiled at one another. She nodded, dropping to sit on the ground, wiping sweat from her brow. “We did it, we killed that… that thing.”

“A Black Wynch.” Walter pressed his scarf against his nose. “Let’s get you wrapped up, we have to get the Dead Adders to the sick.”

“Death Adders,” she said.

“Yeah, those – close enough,” he said, grinning and helping her to her feet.

Nyset’s eyes bulged as she stared beyond him, behind him. His smile faded into amused curiosity. “What’s wrong?”

“Walter!” she screamed, terror warping her face.

He turned his head over his right shoulder, catching the snaking form a second before pain exploded from his back and through his stomach. Excruciating pain. He felt like he was moving in slow motion, as if trying to move underwater. He looked down to his abdomen, finding to his horror four red talons poking through his flesh where the first Black Wynch had torn plates free.

He was raised from the ground and the talons slid further up his stomach, slicing flesh and only stopping between ribs. Time seemed to have stopped when he was airborne, staring down at the blades poking through his shirt. They slid back and out of him. He fell through the salty breeze towards the ground and watched as the second Black Wynch turned its horrific visage upon Nyset.

Before he struck the graveled road, an orange bird with bizarrely long tail feathers spread its wings before him and then burst alight with white warmth. He smiled, pain transmuting in an unexpected bliss, filling him with light.

He landed on his feet and the light of the Phoenix puffed from his wounds like mist, knitting the flesh together better than any master surgeon. Nyset took a few steps back, bracing her leg with her hands, bright red engulfing it. The Black Wynch turned on him, frozen, staring from where eyes should have been.

Three balls of fire volleyed towards the Black Wynch from the ether behind Walter, while he simultaneously roared and lashed with Stormcaller, flaming death tearing through the air. The Wynch, incredibly, weaved through the flaming spheres, but was incapable of avoiding Stormcaller’s destruction at the same time. It fell as it was hewed into pieces, slabs of smoldering, cauterized flesh hitting the ground.

Walter fell back onto the ground, face emotionless, letting everything he held drain from his body. He gazed at the second twitching Black Wynch, and then at Nyset, who met his eyes. He sat and started laughing. Uncontrollable laughter filled the air as he reveled in their victory. Nyset found his emotion contagious, and joined with her sonorous laughter.

Chapter 17 – Bonesnapper

“Eventually, all will enter my cold embrace.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

Hassan’s office was a cramped addition connected to the city guard barracks. The fading rays of the sun spilled through two small windows, casting deep hues of purple and pink on Walter, Hassan and Baylan. It was sparsely adorned with a painted map of Breden that hung behind his thick oak desk. The desk held a neat stack of paper on the corner. Three long swords with Breden insignias were mounted on the adjacent wall. An armful of worn books lined a shelf carved from brownstone. Walter glanced at their titles, having a sore spot for books. Officers and Men, Companion of the West, Edges of Strength, Zoria Economics were a few that caught his eye.

“It was a strange thing – shortly after they went through the town square, they left,” Hassan said. “I was afraid they had come for the sport of it, knowing we couldn’t defend ourselves or something.” He stropped his sword with a small stone, working out the gouges in the blade.

“Bastards split like they was searchin’ for somethin’, didna even stay fer a good fight,” an eavesdropping guard said from the main barracks. Hassan set the sword down and pushed the warped door closed, wedging it into its frame. “Damn city craftsman,” he mumbled, eying the door.

“Walter, I want to personally thank you for finding all those children, there are many distraught families that will finally get closure. So, thank you for that – your parents would have been proud.”

Walter nodded. “Just did what anyone would’ve done.”

“How did you know it was him? Did you see him add something to the food?” asked Hassan, folding his arms.

“I didn’t, Noah did, and I’d trust my life with him.”

Hassan bowed his head. “We lost a great man. He always had a strange sixth sense about people’s motives. I’m glad you followed your gut on this one. Gut instincts never lie.” He sighed. “Those kids that you saved, they’re going to have an hard road ahead of them.”

“Yeah,” Walter mused. Baylan scribbled away in his worn notebook, quill scratches sounding louder than they should have in such a small room. Walter realized it was the heavy silence that magnified his writing.

“They most certainly were,” said Baylan, scratching his head. It took Walter a moment to realize that Baylan had been thinking over the barracks guard’s comment on the Cerumal. “It was a classic three-sixty search pattern. The more pressing question is: what were they searching for?” He had a deep slash under his eye that oozed blood. He occasionally dabbed at it with a once-white cloth. Why hasn’t he healed that? Walter drummed his fingers against Hassan’s desk, watching Baylan write.

“The Black Wynch gave something to a Cerumal on horseback near my house, my parent’s house. It was quite strange,” Walter said.

Baylan looked into the remaining ellipse of the red sun, attention seemingly elsewhere. “What did it look like, Walter?”

Hassan stood, went out the door, and stuck a small twig in the hearth in the barracks, using it to light his pipe. He puffed on it, tending to his other men, some wounded physically, others mentally by the second reality-shaking attack.

Walter answered Baylan. “I’m not sure what it was, it had something wrapped in cloth.” He paused, perusing his most recent memories, searching for a clue. The image of his parents’ house before they came upon the Black Wynch kept returning to the forefront of his thoughts. Something isn’t right with this image. Fresh hoof prints before the house. It was there. Yes, that’s what they were.

“It came from my house, the Cerumal came from my house.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Let us go,” Baylan said, closing the notebook.

**

Torches burned and popped around Breden Square as a morose trail of sick townsfolk wound around storefronts, awaiting a dose of Death Adder tea. Beyond the square in the practice field, three large funeral pyres burned brightly, paying homage to the fallen. The moon hid behind dark clouds that threatened to unleash their watery payload upon the land.

Breden folk were a hard people, forged in the rigors of farming and fishing in scorching days and icy nights. They would patiently await their turn, even in the face of impending death. Nyset had at first felt victorious for discovering the antidote and killing the Black Wynch with Walter. There was, however, no celebration among these faces.

She ladled gelatinous yellow liquid into a wooden cup, handing it to a woman who thanked her profusely. “Of course, Lora, rest up now,” Nyset replied.

A man a few paces back stepped out of line and vomited. Others helped him to his feet, each taking an arm and propping him up. Nyset’s mother, Aliza added the last of the Death Adder flowers to an oversized stockpot that had just started boiling. “Let’s hope this is enough for everyone,” she said quietly. She squatted with the grace of a Midgaard dancer and retrieved a few petals that had fallen.

Nyset handed a filled cup to a child who had dried blood on her nostrils. “Mom, I think I’m going to have to leave soon.” Nyset said.

Aliza stopped stirring the stockpot. “What do you mean you’re leaving? I need you, we need you on the farm. You know we have debts to be paid that we can’t manage without you. Have you forgotten about that?”

“No, no, of course not but–”

“Selfish child, you think of no one but yourself,” Aliza snapped, stirring vigorously.

“Mom, please, listen. We’re going to go to a place where–” She handed a cup of tea to an elderly man with shaking hands. “–where my real talents can be practiced.”

“I see. Well, I suppose that’s a good enough reason. If you can get into the Tower, you should be able to pay our debts with the money you would make there, wouldn’t you?” she whispered.

“I don’t know, Mom, but it’s what I have to do, and Walter, he has to go. He’ll need my help. It’s hard to explain, but please trust me.”

Aliza wiped tears from her tanned face. “I know, I need to let you go into the world. We’ll be OK, your father and I. I do trust you, dear.”

“Don’t worry, Mom, you know I can protect myself and–”

“I know, you’ll be just fine, I know.” Aliza wrapped an arm around Nyset, holding her close with one hand and stirring with the other. “You’ve made me proud, Ny. Without you, we would’ve lost so many more people,” she said, looking into her daughter’s eyes. “All the times I yelled at you for wasting time studying your plant books when I thought you should’ve been helping us tend the farm – well, I’m sorry. I see how it can be useful now.”

Nyset produced a half-smile, distraught over not discovering the poison earlier. Aliza grabbed two thick rags from her apron and transported the bubbling stockpot from the stove onto a stone slab set down to protect the wood where Nyset ladled cups. “How many people, how many did we lose from the poison?” Nyset asked.

“From the Pink Caps alone, a terrible count of twenty-seven. Mainly the sick and elderly fell… they burn on the pyres.” Aliza looked to the burning pyres, tiny pinholes of light reflected and danced in her eyes. “Hassan feared it may have been a contagion. It’s not right that they didn’t get a proper burial.”

“He was smart to do that,” Nyset said, remembering the histories of plagues that had decimated entire cities.

**

Walter and Baylan entered the foyer of Walter’s house. The moon emitted a faint yellow glow illuminating their path. Marie slowly pawed at the ground where she was tied at the stairs. She’s probably hungry. Focus. Here again – why am I continually pulled here? How many died that had recently slept here? Mom, Dad, Lillian. Three deaths within three days. This place is cursed.

“Now, think, Walter. Where would your parents hide their most valuable things?” Baylan said, interrupting his thoughts.

Walter stared down the hallway into the kitchen, red swathes of blood catching his eye.

“Their bedroom would be a good start.”

The master bedroom was undisturbed, the antithesis of the rest of the house. A large double bed with white linens lay in the center of the room, adjoined by windows on either side whose thin, white embroidered curtains lolled in the cool breeze. “I don’t think anyone, or anything, was here recently,” Baylan said.

They combed through each room, finding them in relatively the same state they had left them. Walter found charcoal sketches his mother had made, of various flowers in the garden, on the bottom of the trunk in her office. One was of a bunch of roses, one a lone tulip, and another a bed of sunflowers. He inhaled sharply at the sight of the last sketch in the small pile. It was a stunningly detailed drawing of a dragon, of the Dragon. It almost appeared to wriggle out of the page. It had four arms, each holding a weapon of fire. Its scales almost appeared to be waving flames.

“Find anything of interest?” Baylan shouted from a guest bedroom.

Walter stared at the drawing, bemused he hadn’t caught on to her ability earlier.

“No, nothing really,” he yelled, putting the drawing in his satchel.

They met in the second floor hallway. Walter said, “There is one more place we haven’t searched.” Baylan met his eyes. “The cellar.”

The stone steps leading under the house were worn in the middle from generations of use. Dim moonlight streamed in from small windows lining the walls near the ceiling, throwing a tremulous, uncertain sheen upon the floor. The encompassing silence of the cellar struck Walter, elevating his heart rate. He crossed his arms as he walked.

The air was thick with musty humidity. A glowing blue shield materialized on Baylan’s intact arm, casting the room in a soft light. The cellar was mainly used for storing root vegetables after the harvest season. There was still a good supply of multi-colored potatoes and wine skins neatly organized on rickety-looking shelves along the back wall. In one corner there was a pyramid of elixir bean barrels. In another corner there was a small table with papers strewn about it. A bevy of rusted farm tools rested on a center column.

“What is that? This isn’t looking how it should.” Walter pointed. The cream ceramic-tiled floor between two thick support columns in the middle of the cellar had been broken up and the earth scattered around a hole an arm deep. Something, that Black Wynch, had clearly spent a fair amount of time digging through the tile and stone covering the soft earth below.

“That thing was in my house, the Black Wynch was in my house,” Walter said, wrapping his arms tighter around his body.

“I’m afraid so,” Baylan said, squatting and investigating the empty, small chest in the cavity. It was a masterfully detailed piece, despite the chunks of dirt attached in some spots. Mounted on the lid was a dragon figurine in an apparent duel with an identically sized phoenix. The corners were marked with clawed feet like that of a dragon. The chest’s face was vertically bisected by the carving of a thick waving chain that branched at the top to wrap around that edge on all sides. Flanking the chain on the face were two engraved images, one of a dragon on its hindquarters blasting fire towards the chain, the other of a phoenix in flight engulfed in the dragon’s flames.

“It’s gorgeous,” Walter said. He carefully pulled it out of the ground, grunting from its surprising heft. “Heavy little bastard.”

Baylan squinted and moved his shield closer to the chest, illuminating its finer details.

“This certainly doesn’t seem to be an ordinary chest. What is it doing here?” Walter said.

Baylan’s lips moved as he read the nearly indecipherable script under the lid. He suddenly sputtered and backed away, placing his hand protectively before his chest.

“No, no, no, this can’t be happening,” Baylan said, wild eyes intent on the chest.

“What? What is it?”

“There was a weapon of incalculable power in this chest… called Bonesnapper, The Sundering Chains of Shattered Dreams, the only weapon known to be able to slay Asebor, also–” He paused, taking a breath. “Also called in other times, The Chains of the North, forged in the black furnace of The Nether.”

Walter stood. “What? So in addition to my mother and me being able to use the power of the Dragon, the weapon of all weapons was just sitting in my cellar?” Walter said.

“The evidence of these glyphs indicates it was once here, yes.”

Walter narrowed his eyes. “Now, the Cerumal have it.”

Baylan bowed his head. “This is not good. Your parents must have had a very colorful past – they hadn’t told you any stories that seemed a bit, perhaps, embellished?”

Walter rubbed his chin. “They did, but nothing that struck me as strange at the time.”

“Well, if it wasn’t them, then someone in your family must have had quite the tale to tell regarding the acquisition of this artifact.”

“My grandfather, Tomkin. He always had outlandish stories, but we wrote them off as symptoms of aging.”

“Where is he?”

“Dead,” Walter said flatly.

Baylan sighed and nodded. “Most likely one of Asebor’s generals was responsible. I have a suspicion who. Asebor can’t be strong enough yet to have pulled off something like this – I hope.”

“How? Who? What are you saying?”

“It’s a long story for another time. If it is who I think it is, she goes by Darkthorne now, but has gone by other names… in other times.” Baylan paced in a circle around the chest.

Walter inhaled sharply. I should gut you where you stand for speaking to me like that. When I ask, you answer. Walter shook off the thoughts that emerged from the bowels of his mind. Get a hold of yourself, man!

“Other times? OK, now you’ve lost me, Baylan. We need to have a long chat soon,” Walter said, furrowing his brow. Walter’s eyes glowed a disturbing bright green in the reflection of Baylan’s blue phoenix-powered shield.

Baylan started towards the steps, allowing his shield to wink out as they came into the main hallway. Walter led the way to the study and plopped himself down, sinking into a fluffy feather-filled love seat. Baylan sat on a squeaky chair, hands steepled in front of his chin.

“Walter, the raid – this is why they came. This is why they are no longer here. They got what they wanted.” Walter nodded imperceptibly, eyes glazing over with exhaustion. Baylan continued. “There is only one way for Bonesnapper to be detectable to them, to those wretches.”

“And that is?” Walter asked distantly.

“Bonesnapper needs to be within the proximity of a wizard who can use both the dragon and the phoenix power, and that is you, my dear friend.”

Chapter 18 – Departures

“Dispel the walls of light and peace such that my soul may reign.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

Walter awoke the following morning to the strangely familiar sounds of booming from the first floor. What was that? A hammer – yes, a hammer pounding nails. Dad must be fixing something down – no. No, your father is gone, and so is your mother. And so is your friend Lillian and so many others. Let go. If you’re going to make it through this you must be hard, much harder. You must become iron.

“For a minute, I thought it was all just a bad dream,” he said to himself from within the confines of his bed. The familiar surroundings of his bedroom felt like he was peering into someone else’s personal life. This wasn’t home anymore. The ghosts of memories would always inhabit this room, but this would never be home again, just a place where he and his parents had once lived.

He threw the covers aside, confirming the brutal reality of his armored prison. “This is just great,” he mumbled. He came down the stairs to find Baylan setting the last nail in the repaired hinges of the front door.

“Not bad for a guy with a missing hand, wouldn’t you say?” said Baylan.

“Carpentry isn’t your strong suit.”

“Well, good morning to you, sunshine.”

Walter smiled. “Sorry, it’s been a rough time, with the armor and all. Well, it’s really wearing on me. I have to get this thing off,” he said, tugging on the chest plate.

“I understand,” Baylan said, exhaling, meeting his eyes.

“But you really could use a plumb bob…”

Baylan eyed him quizzically. Walter yawned, and strode into the kitchen, the clinking armor echoing in the main hall. “Wow, Baylan, thank you so much for… for cleaning this. I couldn’t have done it. I…” The kitchen had been washed clean of red and bodies disposed of. If it weren’t for the boarded-up windows, everything would have looked normal.

Baylan entered the kitchen, and Walter started a fire with a thin jet of flame from his fingertip in an ornate stove pit for the morning elixir. “The door won’t close,” Baylan said.

“Yes, the plumb bob should help,” Walter smiled.

“Where is it? Hmm, what I mean to ask is what exactly is a plumb bob?”

“It’s OK, it’s time to go, Baylan. Thank you, for everything you’ve done.”

Baylan nodded, examining his work with his hand on his hip.

“Lillian… Hassan said she fought bravely, without her help there would have been tremendous casualties.” Walter put a hand on Baylan’s shoulder.

Baylan grew dark. Walter continued, “She was a warrior, and died with the honor of a warrior’s death.”

“Yes, she would have wanted it that way,” Baylan said. He wiped wetness from his eye. “Let’s get going, then, shall we?” he said, pulling himself together.

**

They arrived at Nyset’s house by mid-morning, both on Marie. Nyset limped from her doorway before they could knock. “Baylan.” She nodded towards him and then kissed Walter’s cheek. She had briefly met Baylan in the town square before she started working on the Death Adder tea, and was looking forward to getting to know him. She had a feeling they had much to share, both having penchants for scholarship.

Walter’s cheeks turned red at the sight of the bony Mrs. Camfield walking to the door. “Take good care of her,” she yelled from the entryway.

Mr. Camfield wiped dirt from his hands as he strode in from the garden. He offered his hand to Walter, sun-kissed eyes smiling. “You’re a good lad, Walt, I thank you for what you’ve done for us. I know t’wasn’t easy.” He regarded Baylan. “And you, too – what’s your name, foreigner?”

“Baylan, sir.”

“Baylan, I saw you and yer wife fight in the square, you fought well for us. I thank you, sir, you’re always welcome here.”

“She wasn’t my–” he stopped. “Yes, she did fight bravely.”

Mr. Camfield smiled and nodded. “I know you’re going to the Tower… please watch over my child, son,” he said, putting his hand behind Baylan’s neck.

Baylan nodded gravely, eyes closed.

“Don’t forget about our struggles,” Mrs. Camfield reminded her daughter.

How could she? All those nights where they had to skip dinner to save money to pay their debts – the pain of hunger wasn’t one you quickly forgot. No, she would not forget their struggle.

They stopped by Juzo’s dilapidated house on their way back towards Breden Square. When Walter knocked, the door swung open of its own volition. Walter looked back towards Baylan and Nyset, who were in enthusiastic conversation about plants, waiting beside the jet-black horse, Marie. “Plants,” Walter muttered to himself.

“Hello? Anyone home?” he shouted through the doorway. Silence. He wanted to reassure them that they would find Juzo. He walked through the doorway, feeling amiss. On the side of the mudroom wall was a note scrawled with charcoal. He read it and nodded, unsurprised. The note said they had left searching for their son, and for Juzo to stay here if he returned. Shit. We never told them he might be in the Tigerian Bluffs, but we don’t know that for sure… but it’s the best lead we have. He left, leaving the note undisturbed.

Walter and Nyset rode upon Ashes, and Baylan rode Marie. At Breden Square they dismounted and sauntered around, buying a few water skins, bread, and hard cheeses for the journey to Midgaard. Walter found himself frequently rubbing Juzo’s book. Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness. I need to find time to read this, need to understand what Juzo found in it. Breden Square was, unsurprisingly, sparsely populated this morning. The morning after an attack by an unknown, terrifying enemy wasn’t a particularly inviting time.

As they came upon the Coastal Road gate to head due north, there was a small crowd of people surrounding the exit, half of whom appeared to be members of the guard. “What is this?” Walter asked of no one in particular. He scratched at an itch on the back of his neck.

“I guess we’re about to find out,” Nyset said. The crowd stopped murmuring as they approached and started clapping, one by one, as the three were noticed. Walter turned to Baylan, who was smiling, and found himself inadvertently beaming. Walter gushed with unexpected joy at the warm greeting from the crowd. He found Nyset beaming when he met her eyes.

Hassan stepped out from the crowd, nodding and producing a bassy clap with his thick hands. “Our town heroes!” he shouted. Other members of the crowd cheered and whooped in response, some clapping and others punching fists into the air. Someone handed Walter an overflowing mug of ale which he quickly slurped to prevent it from spilling over Ashes. “We wanted to see you off and had heard from the Camfields you were departing today,” Hassan bellowed.

“We’re not heroes, you’re the heroes,” Walter yelled to the small group. “You, who continue fighting, those of you who have endured tragic losses with so much in need of repair, continuing to carry on.” The group grew quiet and a warm gust whipped through them. “The guard, the bakers, the farmers. You who consistently work in spite of attack by an unknown evil. Your sense of duty to your fellow man, to fight for one another, to die for one another. You are the heroes!”

They cheered with renewed vigor. One man yelled, “We will always fight!”

“Impressive speech, hero,” Nyset whispered in his ear from behind.

“Thank you. I had been planning that speech for a number of years.”

“Really?”

“No, not really, you’re way too easy,” Walter chided.

Nyset licked the tip of her index finger and stuck it in Walter’s ear. He squirmed in his saddle. “Hey! Stop that,” he laughed.

Baylan nodded towards him, eyes squinting inquisitively.

“What?” Walter said to Baylan.

“Oh, nothing.” He smiled. A short woman in a beige farm dress walked up to Baylan, enthusiastically shaking his hand. “Thank you for fighting for us, for saving my baby.”

“Of course, of course, you’re quite welcome,” he said.

“I have something for the lot of you,” Hassan said, taking a cloth roll from another city guard. The sun reflected brightly from his bald head. Walter chugged his brown ale, and then opened his arms in acceptance and unwrapped the thick brown cloth. Hassan went on, “You’re all honorary guards now.” He handed a similarly sized roll to Baylan, and a smaller one to Nyset.

“You didn’t have to, thank you, sir,” Nyset said.

Within Walter’s roll was a beautifully polished Breden city guard long sword and scabbard. “I know you’ve got your lash there, so I thought a proper sword would be an appropriate side arm, if you will.” Walter unsheathed the gleaming sword, admiring the Breden sigil stamped on the hilt – a slanted “B” in cursive font.

“It’s incredible, I am honored,” Walter said, bowing his head.

“Aye, sir, many thanks,” Baylan said, awkwardly mounting his Breden long sword onto the same hip as his short, curved blade.

Nyset hefted the short sword she was given. “Wow, this is neat. I guess one of you can teach me how to use this?” She grinned.

“Don’t cut your fingers off, now,” Hassan said.

Walter gripped Hassan’s forearm in a handshake of gratitude, and he Walter’s. “We must be leaving.” He leaned closer to Hassan so only he could hear. “You were right to be suspicious of this armor, the blasted thing is cursed.”

Hassan nodded. “I thought it looked familiar. There was a boy of about your age who had found something like it almost four decades ago. Well, he had to be put out of his misery,” he said, crinkling his nose.

Walter turned away with a deep inhalation. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said, gaze intent upon his ashen hands.

Chapter 19 – Grimbald

“Remove the rays from your heart. Abolish the territory of the senses and approach the infinite.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

The mist covering the Denerian Cliffs to the west flitted away in the afternoon heat and a warm breeze dissipated the clouds overhead. The white tufts of waves to the west faded in and out of view between the trees of the dewy forest of the Woodland Plunge. A stream wound musically beside the path, feeding the wild flowers blossoming upon its edge. The soft beat of Ashes’ and Marie’s hooves seemed to work in time with the gurgle of the stream.

Walter gazed at the stream, taking in the peace. Us, heroes. That would have been a sight my parents would’ve liked to have seen. Time changes, life doesn’t stop. The tune of the river seemed to change while they rode. The wheel turns and turns. Something caught his eye, pulling him from the lull of the stream.

A man wearing overalls formed of pale blue light stood by a tall willow, waving towards Walter. “What – who is that?” Walter asked, concern in his voice.

“Where?” asked Nyset, following his gaze.

Walter looked back to the tree to find it empty. Baylan eyed him curiously. “What did you see?”

“I’m not sure – it was a man, except I could see through him, see beyond him.”

“I am unfamiliar with this phenomenon,” Baylan said. “However, since only you noticed it, I would surmise it is another effect of the armor, or perhaps your abilities.”

“Tell us if you see it again,” Nyset said, dismissing the flames that surrounded her hands.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Walter said, turning on her with anger twisting his face. There was a darkness that caressed his peripheral vision, occasionally creeping into his focal point. It didn’t matter how many times he washed his face or shook his head. That darkness was part of him now. I. Am. Death.

“Walter! Control yourself.” Baylan barked.

I’ll open you up and taste your flesh, outlander. Carrying a Breden sword… yet you let so many die, pathetic coward. Stop – no, stop. He is a good man, a friend, a friend, yes.

Walter nodded, sagging in his saddle. “I apologize, to both of you.” They spent the remainder of the ride in silence, partly enjoying the scenery, and partly distraught at Walter’s actions.

They arrived in Shipton by late afternoon. The bustle of civilization seemed to lift everyone’s spirits in spite of the waning sunlight. The dirt road became a narrow fieldstone single-arch bridge spanning the brackish water created with the melding of the fresh blue water of Lich’s Falls from the east and the brown sea water of the Bronze Coast to the west. Baylan scribbled in his notebook while they crossed the bridge.

The bridge led into the town square, where the buildings were built a story taller than those in Breden and were more densely packed. It was a small town, with no more than a hundred residents. Most of their commerce was conducted by serving the merchants who often met in the town’s square primarily to trade in furs, gems, elixir beans, tobacco, and farm animals. Beyond the town square was another fieldstone bridge headed east towards Midgaard.

Nyset and Baylan took the horses to the stables while Walter approached an older woman with the face of a dried orange, selling aromatic lamb skewers. She wore simple trousers and a white apron with a few orange stains.

“What’ll it be, son?” she drawled.

“Three skewers. Could you wrap them, please?” he smiled.

She nodded, and started delicately wrapping them in thick brown parchment.

“What’s the news?” he asked.

“Oh, well, there’s always lots of goings-on. Breden to the south, you may know… had been attacked a week ago by horned devils, I’d heard. I wouldn’t go anywhere near there, sonny, no sir.” She finished wrapping two of the skewers, and stopped on the third, putting a hand on her hip. “The devils attacked to the north too. Some are sayin’ the ol’ magic has returned.” She shook her head. “You see somethin’ that ain’t right, you just run away, I always say – kept me alive this long.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Walter said.

“That’ll be three marks,” she said.

Walter fished in his satchel, forgetting he had given his last, and only, priceless mark to Mrs. Jacklabee. He groaned.

“C’mon now, I don’t have all day –’tis closing time and the pub is callin’ my name. What? You think this is a charitable operation?” She laughed as she started unwrapping the skewers.

Walter’s eyes glowed a fierce yellow in the light of the setting sun. He emitted a low rumbling growl. “Listen,” he said. She flinched when she saw into his glowing eyes.

“You will give me those out of the kindness of your heart, and I will let you live another day.”

She faced him with her arms crossed over her narrow chest. “Who do you think you are–”

“Quiet,” he hissed. “Hand me the lamb and close your cart, or this sword here will be through your gut. If you tell anyone about this I’ll remove the skin from your bones, slowly.”

She frowned. “Not worth the trouble,” she muttered and tossed the skewers to him.

Walter watched as she pushed her bouncing ramshackle cart east from the square. Did I just really rob a woman who could’ve been my grandmother? I have to get this off, it has to go now. He yanked on a slate bracer with four small spikes, but to no avail.

He felt frantic. The recurrent, crushing weight swelled in his chest, making his hands sweat. His heart raced and the pores on his face opened with nascent sweat. You already are a monster. “No!” he shouted. People near him moved a few steps away and cast curious glances in his direction.

**

Wooden mugs of ale collided in uproarious cheers, and voices laughed over the din of jovial conversation. It was Friday night in The Hissing Gooseberry, and it seemed all of the locals had arrived for the pub’s special, half-mark bacon-and-elixir-flavored ales. Baylan, Walter and Nyset sat together in a corner at a sturdy table, sipping on their dark ales. Walter discovered that Nyset had brought a quite a few marks, and so he hadn’t needed to resort to thievery. He would keep that to himself.

Two fellows you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley arm-wrestled at the table beside them. Three older couples dined together at a wide rectangular table on the side. Walter caught bits of a spirited conversation about the future of elixir beans, and whether it would be a profitable crop in the north. He found himself tempted to chime in, but left it alone, preferring to have a relaxed night.

“Great place! I love the energy,” Nyset said.

“I wonder how they’ve produced such a marvel on the taste buds,” Baylan mused.

“I don’t know, but what I do know is that it sure is nice to do something normal again,” Walter said, wiping foam from his upper lip.

“Hmm, normal,” Baylan said distantly, peering into his mug.

“What is life like in the Silver Tower, Baylan?” Nyset asked.

He emerged from his reverie. “Oh, it’s wonderful! We have the grandest library among all of the realms, there is so much to understand and discover. There are thousands of artifacts from the first Age of Dawn with undiscovered secrets to be extracted. If you want to follow the path of scholarship, as I’ve gathered from our limited time together, that would certainly be the place to go,” he said.

“Fascinating. I’ve read what little I could find of the Tower, but it seems to be difficult to find much written about it in depth.” Nyset said.

“That is by design, dear,” Baylan said, lines forming around his eyes when he smiled.

“Oh?”

“Yes, well, the Tower has many enemies. Fighting a blindfolded foe is preferable.”

“C’mon, you can’t possibly have enemies. Who can fight against this?” Walter said as a tiny indiscernible spark danced in his palm. Baylan wrapped his hand around Walter’s, closing his hand and extinguishing the light.

“Please, Walter, this is not something to put on display. If this wasn’t entirely obvious, your ability to use–” He cleared his throat. “To use both sides of the mark, as it were, and therefore the sundering chains, is rare. You are probably a target now,” he whispered. “Please use discretion with your ability, for all of us,” he said, shifting his eyes to Nyset.

Walter nodded, worry streaking across his eyes, “OK.” Both sides of the mark.

Nyset set her sharp eyes on Baylan. “My parents seem to have developed a bad impression of the Silver Tower, warning me to hide my ability lest someone from the Tower discover it. You seem pleasant enough, why were they so worried?”

A loud thump and a victorious cheer erupted around the arm wrestlers. Baylan peered over his ale towards the commotion and then back at Nyset, brow wrinkled.

“Your parents are wise to be weary of the Silver Tower. Two hundred years ago, someone such as myself would have snatched you from your bed at the slightest inkling of magical talent. Times have changed, mostly. There are still some that adhere to the old ways. I–this isn’t the place for this discussion.” Baylan said, back stiff and eyes tightening.

“Hey, elf shoes, are you man enough to arm wrestle?” a high-pitched yet masculine voice said from beside Walter. A bulky man with a round face and heavily tattooed, crossed arms sneered at Baylan’s shoes with their curling tips. They do look strange for these parts. The man wore an open vest revealing a wide muscular chest and thick abdomen.

“I surely can’t deny a challenge,” he smiled at the man that resembled a stone wall. “What’s the wager?”

“Three marks,” he grunted.

Baylan set his mug down, and waved to the barmaid for a refill. “Agreed,” he said, moving to the small table behind Walter and Nyset. It wasn’t actually a table, but an empty beer keg with stools on either side. The surface had two indentations from years of elbows causing wear.

“Alright, set your marks here, sir. You too, Babs,” said his friend, pointing to a third indentation in the keg.

“Happy, Fretus?” Babs said with annoyance. Fretus had a deep scar stretching from the corner of his lip to his ear, and long hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Alright, no lifting the elbows off the table, a good clean wrestle. When the back of your hand hits the wood, it’s over.”

They nodded, and clasped hands. Babs smiled, proudly displaying his five teeth.

“One… two… three, wrestle!”

Baylan hung on for what seemed like a long second before the back of his hand came smashing down upon the top of the beer keg. “Ow!” He squirmed in the clutches of Babs’ giant hand. “Such strength,” Baylan said, walking away.

“Any other challengers?” Babs boasted with arms wide.

“Hey,” Nyset hissed to Walter. He turned to her, smiling and feasting on her eyes.

“Yes?” he said, slurping down more ale.

“Go and make use of that suit. We don’t have many marks, and I’m sure we’ll need them.”

He sighed. “I thought you had more? Alright, let’s hope this works.”

“I accept,” Walter said, attempting to hide his armor in his cloak and sizing up Babs. Hopefully these two don’t recognize this armor.

Babs leaned in towards Walter with a bright-eyed look. “I’m gonna get me new skin designs!”

Walter inhaled and exhaled with a five count, slowing his breath and quieting his heart, slipping into the calm of Warrior’s Focus.

“What are ya waiting for?” Babs called from his chair. Walter shifted to the empty seat at the keg table. The din of the crowd muted as he turned inward, mentally scanning his muscles, flexing and priming them for work.

“OK, clean wrestling on three. One… two… three, fight!” Fretus yelled.

Their hands locked in a shuddering stalemate. Babs’ expression changed from a smirk to gritted teeth as he struggled against Walter’s strength. He’s strong, but the armor has made me much stronger. Put on a good show – not too much.

Walter allowed his arm to be pressed halfway toward the keg’s surface, wincing in a feigned struggle. He started reversing the bout, pushing Babs’ arm a quarter beyond the middle starting position. Babs grunted in surprise and inhaled sharply. Babs was incredibly strong, and Walter did have to work to wrestle him, but, he could finish this at any time. In a burst of explosive force he smashed Babs’ arm onto the keg with a thump.

“What the–?” Babs said, staring at his arm as though it had betrayed him.

“Incredible, a win for the newcomer!” yelled Fretus with his arms overhead.

Walter puffed his chest out and sat a little taller. “Yes!” He clapped, rubbing his hands expectantly. Inquisitive heads turned, wondering what the fuss was about. As Walter reached for his winnings, Fretus’s hand caught his wrist.

“What is this?” Walter said, glaring at Fretus.

“Wait, how about triple or nothing against another challenger?”

Walter took a deep breath. “Alright, but this is the last one.”

Fretus called something to a behemoth of a man who sat hunched over the glowing hearth. He turned, revealing the true size of his massive body. The moisture from Walter’s throat seemed to have fled, causing him to swallow. He reached for his mug on the nearby table where Nyset and Baylan watched wide-eyed. How did I miss this bastard before?

“Good luck,” Baylan said. Nyset nodded reassuringly.

The man had arms almost as wide as Walter’s abdomen and stood two hands taller than him. He had a black bushy beard that enveloped the lower half of his square face, and bright blue eyes.

“Hey, Grimbald! Up for a challenge, champ? Nine marks,” Fretus said, nodding towards Walter.

Grimbald paused, sizing up Walter for a few seconds. “Sure,” he said with enthusiasm, meeting Walter’s stare. He moved with little grace as he plopped onto the stool opposite Walter. His shoulders are like the twin peaks of the Denerian Cliffs – what have I gotten myself into? Walter gnawed on the inside of his cheek.

They clasped hands. Walter felt like a child grasping this man’s engulfing hand. Don’t fail me now, blasted armor. A small crowd of a dozen onlookers gathered around for the excitement. Grimbald wasn’t challenged often, for obvious reasons. “Get’im, Grim!” a stout man shouted.

“One… two… three… wrestle!” Fretus said, beaming with excitement.

Grimbald’s power was stunning. His veins throbbed as he used the full force of his bulk to violently twist Walter’s arm within a finger’s length of the keg’s surface. He was hoping for a quick win. Walter’s mind panicked but his body reacted. His muscles fired to resist Grimbald at the last instant, honed by years of combat training. Grimbald’s expressionless face slowly transformed into a confident smile as he struggled to pin Walter’s hand. “Finally, a real challenger!” he bellowed.

Walter felt beads of sweat forming on his brow. Pain wracked his shoulder and muscle fibers tore as he fought. He’s not human. Walter groaned as he forced his Cerumal-plate-infused body to fight even harder. I will win, I will, you big bastard. Grimbald’s hand moved a smidgen, creeping towards the starting point. Yes, keep pushing. People around them whooped and raised mugs. Grimbald narrowed his glowing blue eyes.

“Enough playing,” Grimbald said. With a renewed surge of strength he slammed Walter’s hand onto the keg with a dull thump. Walter winced as he pulled his arm back and attempted to rub his shoulder through his armor. “The champion reigns!” a woman in the crowd yelled.

“Nice work, Grim,” Fretus said, handing him glittering marks. Grimbald looked into his palm and frowned.

“You said nine, this is seven marks.”

“Well, the dealmaker needs his cut too,” Fretus said. Grimbald grunted, stuffing the marks in his pocket. He turned his bulk to face Walter.

“You are very strong for… for a man of your size.” Grimbald folded his arms.

“Uh, thanks. I see you’ve been eating well,” Walter said with a nod.

“I was always big. It can help for some things, but if you want to blend in, not so good,” he said, soft-spoken.

“I can imagine. My name is Walter,” the boy said, offering his hand. Grimbald took his hand and Walter braced for a hand-crushing shake. Grimbald had a surprisingly fine calibration of his strength, as his shake felt like that of a normal man’s.

Nyset emerged amongst the dispersing crowd. Walter looked to the table to see Baylan frantically scribbling away in his notebook. Walter shook his head. He spends more time in books than reality. “That was impressive,” she said, putting an arm around him. “But now we’re really broke.”

“I see you’ve met my boy’s wrath,” said a beaming man beside Grimbald, wiping down an ale mug with a sodden cloth. He wore an open, light-green vest over a cream tunic. He had a tuft of hair that wrapped around his bald head and a bizarrely trimmed mustache.

“Need rooms for the night, travelers?”

“Is it that obvious that we’re not from here?” Walter replied.

“I see many come through here. I know the locals.”

Walter nodded.

“Where y’all headed?”

“We’re not sure–”

“Midgaard,” Nyset said over him. Walter glared at her. She blushed and her lips formed a line.

“Yes, probably Midgaard,” Walter said. Grimbald turned from another conversation at the mention of Midgaard.

“Oh, wonderful!” said the mustached man. “Grim is headed that way tomorrow as well – you will travel together? He just turned eighteen, and is now old enough to join the Midgaard Falcon. They promised you an officer’s position if you joined, didn’t they, Grim?”

“Yeah, pay seems good,” Grimbald said, yawing. Nyset and Walter shared a glance. Walter imperceptibly shook his head at her. Baylan slid up behind them, listening. The moon shone brightly through an open window beside them.

“What is your name, sir?” Nyset asked.

“Charles, I run this lovely operation,” he said, waving his arm in a wide arc. “And yours, young lady?”

“It’s Nyset, pleasure to meet you. This is Walter and Baylan, my travel companions.”

“So, yes, you will travel together?”

“No–” Walter said.

“Yes, in exchange for beds for the night we will bring Grimbald to Midgaard,” Nyset said, interrupting Walter. He gritted his teeth.

Charles tugged on one of his mustaches. “I only have two beds left, if you want to call them that. You’ll have to sleep in the barn. I’ll have one of the servants get them set up for you.”

“Done,” she said. “We’ll see you in the morning, then. Goodnight.”

“Nicely done,” Baylan said, as they made their way to the attached barn.

“Great, now we’ll really blend in. At least it’s not like anyone is trying to kill me or anything,” Walter said.

“I think he would be quite capable of fighting if the need arose,” Baylan noted.

“So you’re taking her side now?”

“No – well – I think it will be OK,” Baylan said.

Walter shook his head. “I hope so,” he said, yawning and slumping onto the small wooden cot the servant had set up. Nyset slid into bed next to him. Her warmth lulled him into a deep sleep.

Chapter 20 – Midgaard

“Within my flesh I stood in a new land and found streams of rippling souls, awaiting domination.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

Walter’s eyes opened to the screech of a crowing rooster on the barn roof. The edge of the morning sun had just started cresting the horizon, casting pink and blue rays across the open skyline. The scent of hay reminded of him of home and feeding the few dairy cows. It crunched under his weight as he shifted his body.

Nyset stirred and resumed softly snoring. This was his first time sleeping in the comforting arms of a woman. For a moment, he felt happy. A glacier forged in the torrent of the passing week encased his heart. Her warmth had punctured a hole in the glacier, allowing in a sliver of warm light. But how long will this feeling last?

The rooster stalked into the barn, pecking for insects. Walter narrowed his eyes and outstretched his right arm, allowing Stormcaller to spring to life. Not long. He slashed at the rooster, bisecting it as it released its last squawk. The other tendrils of Stormcaller had struck the ground and small flames danced as smoke spiraled from the layers of hay on the floor.

“Shit!” He jumped out of bed, pushing Nyset aside. He started smothering the flames with his thick cloak, snuffing them out.

“What happened?” Nyset said groggily. Baylan appeared beside him, stomping on tiny flames with his boot.

“Can’t say I’ve ever awoken to almost being burned alive,” Baylan said drly, eying him.

“Must have been some kind of spontaneous combustion, that happens sometimes,” Walter said.

Nyset lay propped up on her elbows, staring bewildered. “What is wrong with you?”

Walter growled and stalked from the barn. He found a quiet spot on the outskirts of the village where the thick forest of the Woodland Plunge met scrubland, and he worked through the Sid-Ho forms. He jabbed with his left fist, delivered a cross with his right, grabbed his imaginary opponent with both hands behind the neck and delivered a flying knee, followed by a spinning kick. He worked his body through every maneuver he knew as clinking and the scent of morning supper permeated the air from The Hissing Gooseberry. An hour passed and he panted from the exertion.

He stared into the forest, hands on knees as he caught his breath. That was what I needed. Three shimmering humanoid figures materialized before his eyes, wavering in and out of existence. One was a young boy with a gaping neck wound, another a man with a curved sword through his chest, the third an elderly woman with a knife lodged in her eye socket. They stood between trees and shrubs, unfathomably without disturbing the vegetation. Walter stood tall, taking a few steps back. “What do you want with me?” Their bluish light became wisps of black smoke, dispersing in a gust. Am I losing my faculties? What is this madness? His skin crawled.

Walter strode inside. “Ah, Walter, decided to finally wake?” Charles said, smiling and flipping a flour cake on the stove.

“Not exactly,” Walter said, wiping cool sweat with his scarf.

“Hungry?”

“Oh yes, looks wonderful, thank you,” he said wearily, accepting the flour cake and thick pat of yellow butter Charles handed him.

Baylan and Nyset sat with Grimbald on a long table, with crumbs on their plates, in the midst of the spirited conversation that often arises from the light of a new day. Grimbald sat on two stools to support his mass and worked on a second pile of at least ten butter-slathered flour cakes.

“Good morning,” Walter said sheepishly, sitting beside Grimbald.

“Ah, my arm wrestling contender! Did you have a good morning exercise?” Grimbald asked excitedly.

“Absolutely. You’ll have to show me what you do to get so strong,” Walter said.

“You might be sorry you asked,” Grimbald said, lips forming a half-smile.

“Why do you want to join the Midgaard Falcon, Grim?” Baylan asked, scraping the flour cake remains into a small pile on the side of his plate.

Grimbald shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m not sure what else I could do, but what I can do well is swing an axe. I think that’d be useful for soldiering, don’t you?”

“Indeed, I believe the Falcon will be needed now more than ever.” Baylan pushed his black hair behind his ears.

“Why is that?” Grimbald asked, stuffing half of a flour cake in his mouth in one bite.

“We live in an age of tumultuous times, the future is uncertain,” he said, steepling his hands.

Grimbald grunted and squinted ponderously.

“Are you referring to the, eh, recent attacks?” Charles asked from the kitchen.

“Yes, and the future is infinitely and uncertainly predictable.”

“You Tower wizards sure are strange,” Charles chuckled. “Are the rumors true? Are there really monsters from the legends about?” He walked to the table and sat beside Baylan with a cup of steaming elixir.

Walter, Nyset and Baylan shared glances. Walter nodded.

“They are true. We came from Breden, there was a… a terrible raid,” Nyset said. Walter looked at his wooden plate and picked at his food.

“The blackness has returned,” Charles murmured, gazing deeply into the dark brown, spinning elixir. For a moment, the only sounds from the room were the scraping of forks and slurping of elixir.

“Well,” Charles said, pausing. “I sure am glad you lot are here to travel with Grim.” He smiled. “I’ll let the guard know, and tell everyone to keep their doors locked.”

“If you have weapons, keep them handy,” Walter said.

**

They left with full bellies traveling east along the Soldier’s Way, two days from Midgaard. Grimbald rode a Blood Donkey, named for their reddish coats and noted for their unusual size, strength and stubbornness. He had slung a massive, beautifully crafted, double-sided battle axe across his back. It was clearly built for him, Walter noted. No other man could lift, never mind swing, such a weapon. Where did he have such a weapon made?

“Incredible weapon,” Baylan marveled.

“Gift from my pops,” Grimbald said, running a finger along its handle jutting from his shoulder.

“Business must have been doing well,” Walter said, curiously eying the axe.

“I wonder…” Grimbald said.

About two hours into their journey an oddly familiar bark resounded from the woodlands south of Lich’s Falls.

Walter stopped Marie, causing her to huff. “Do you hear that?” He said. The barking and baying grew closer in the stillness.

“Wolves again?” Nyset said.

Walter dismounted and unsheathed his Breden long sword. Shrubs and small trees wavered in the forest as the noise drew nearer.

“Possibly,” Walter said, moving into a fighting stance.

“It’s moving fast,” Grimbald said, cracking his knuckles and flexing his shoulders.

A black hound lunged from the vegetation and Walter dropped his sword. “Wiggles!” He yelled. The furry mass jumped into his open arms. Wiggles yelped and cried with excitement. “I thought you were gone, boy! I’m so glad to see you,” he said, laughing and rubbing the dog as it furiously wagged its tail in circles.

Nyset grinned and knelt, patting the dog. Baylan poured water from his skin into Nyset’s cupped hand and Wiggles ravenously lapped it up.

“This thing is yours?” Grimbald asked. Wiggles jumped onto Grimbald, catching his face with a lick. “Ack!” he groaned, swatting Wiggles away.

They made camp that night under the entrance to Snowden’s Caverns. Walter looked up to the twisting stalactites that threatened to come loose and impale him. How would it feel if one of those came through my face? Stranger things have been known to happen. Then I could be with Mom and Dad. He shook his head and blurted out “Bleh!” transporting himself from the dark thought path. Then Nyset, Wiggles – they would still be here, without you.

“You alright?” Nyset asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Great, then come here and help us setting up the tent Charles gave us.” The thick canvas tent was conical, yet spacious, and built well enough to repel the elements. Grimbald carried it on his back with ease. Wiggles circled the cave, apparently tracking an interesting scent.

“This is wonderful, the little things really do make a difference,” Nyset said, clasping her hands together. Marie and Ashes shuffled uncomfortably near the strange donkey.

Grimbald hefted a boulder the size of Walter’s chest and started pressing it overhead. “Have to stay strong,” he said at their strange looks. Walter nodded, and Baylan returned to his book.

“I’ve always wanted to be a warrior – when I get to Midgaard and join the Falcon, it will be a dream come true,” Grimbald said, dropping the boulder with a thud. A Shroomling with a yellow head was watching them from a willow tree, and scurried into the forest at the sudden disturbance.

“You’ll make a fine one,” said Walter. “My old trainer would’ve loved working with you.” Grimbald beamed with satisfaction.

They held palaver as the glow of the night’s fire cast dancing shadows across their faces. Wiggles snored beside Walter. Walter laughed after Baylan finished the end of an embarrassing story, and he contributed his own. “If you think that was bad, one time in Sid-Ho class – that was my combat training – I was trying a new high kick when my trousers split clean up the middle on the one day I decided not to wear my smallclothes, and needless to say, it took me about a minute to figure out why the class was having a fit of laughter.” He chuckled and Grimbald laughed heartily with his hands on his stomach.

Nyset giggled, “You never told me that!” They shared grins and allowed the tension to melt from their bodies. They drifted into the warm arms of sleep as the fire popped and sizzled.

**

The city of Midgaard, built upon the bottom of a small mountain, loomed ahead of them like an elbow punching through the earth. They paused as it came into view after emerging from the obscuring thicket. The glistening silica-infused stonework that surrounded the mountainside was blinding in the high sun. Cream-colored stone dominated the irregular buildings of the cityscape. A few were tall and narrow, where the phoenix and dragon users, sages, or artificers would most likely reside.

Along the perimeter of the mountainside were stone towers peaked with menacing tips and lined with slits for archers. Midgaard took the defense of its city seriously, even though the last war was well over five hundred years ago during the Trial of Devastation. Beyond the towers stood a fieldstone wall that rose nearly twenty paces, about half the height of the archers’ towers.

There was an imposing edifice topping the mountain, dotted with geometric glass domes, King Ezra’s palace. Along the last leg of Soldier’s Way lay a dense network of houses, built practically on top of one another. The wind carried the shouts of farm lords issuing commands to children and hired help.

People could be seen walking about like tiny ants working a colony. It was good to visit the city again. Walter had only been to Midgaard once five years ago, and that was to deliver an elixir shipment with his father. Its bustle and life energized him. The sounds emanating from Midgaard awoke a deep reverence within him for the creations that arose from the necessities of commerce. He felt gratitude for the wagon, for its ability to make hauling elixir cherries easier, the hourglass for keeping time so that he didn’t miss walks with his mother, and the spectacles his father wore so he could read as he aged.

They sauntered along the last leg of Soldier’s Way as it wound through the residential quarters.

“Now this… this is a city,” Walter said, nodding.

“It’s incredible, I’d always asked my parents to go, but they said we never had enough marks,” Nyset said, shielding her eyes from the sun with a hand. “It’s much, much grander than I had anticipated.”

“Well, allow me to be your guide,” Baylan said with a wave of his intact hand.

Grimbald scowled. “Let the ridicule begin.”

“What do you mean?” Walter asked. Baylan raised an eyebrow.

“You’ll see, there’s always someone who makes fun of my size.”

Baylan took a deep breath of the warm air. “There are some who try to make the world a better place and those are the people you should heed. Those who detract from your life – your best defense is to ignore them,” Baylan said, putting a hand on Grimbald’s beefy shoulder.

“I suppose you’re right, giving them a beating doesn’t seem to pay off in the long run,” Grimbald cast a wry look towards the distant gates.

“Yes, violence does solve the occasional problem, but there are always downstream consequences.”

Grimbald nodded and grunted. A farmer crossed their path with a dozen cows, causing them to stop for a moment. The arcing city gates, painted bright red, lay open. Black iron bolts poked through the vertical planks, reinforcing the ominous gates.

Finally, I can rid myself of this curse. “Baylan, I sincerely hope your wizard pal can get the blasted armor off,” Walter said, scratching the thickened skin behind his neck.

Chapter 21 – A New Tutelage

“The only hope for peace is war.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness

They passed through the Blood Gates, named so for the color they were said to have been after the Trial of Devastation. A Midgaard Falcon soldier stared at them as they passed through. The soldier had rippling arms from years of training with the sword and wore the traditional Falcon guard uniform. The uniform consisted of polished half-plate armor with smooth curves, a long spear with a plume of red feathers at the tip, a broad shield mounted on the back embossed with the image of a diving falcon, and bright red leather straps binding the plate.

“Here it comes,” Grimbald said.

“C’mon, just keep moving,” Walter said.

The soldiers did snicker to themselves, taking furtive glances towards Grimbald. Thankfully Grimbald took Walter’s advice to heart and didn’t look back at them.

They entered the Merchant’s Square, packed with people shuffling about and carrying on with their daily duties. Keen-eyed Falcon guards walked in pairs, patrolling the square. They were not clandestine, with their red splashes of color in a sea of neutrals. A wagon rolled by pulling a trailer filled with plants with bright purple leaves and flowers that resembled mouths, nipping at one another like puppies.

“What are those?” Nyset said. She walked alongside the trailer, peering into the bed.

“Those would be Sand Buckeyes – keep your hands to yourself if you want to keep your fingers,” Baylan said.

“I need to get this off, Baylan.” Walter clenched Baylan’s arm in his grasp, causing him to wince as he started towards the trailer. Walter rapidly scanned Baylan’s face.

Nyset pulled a piece of lamb jerky from her satchel and lobbed it into the gnashing Sand Buckeyes. One snapped its spiny flower, snatching the lamb from the air.

“Amazing!” she said.

Baylan said to Walter, “I am aware… you might want to keep your cloak up.” He pulled his arm free from Walter’s grip. “You’re not looking very… very well.”

Nyset returned and her lips formed a line as she looked Walter over.

“I don’t like that look,” Walter said. He strode to a shopkeeper’s front window, not noticing what was being sold. He grew pale at seeing his reflection. He squinted at his face and brushed his jawline with his fingertips. It had become the characteristic Cerumal ashen gray, some sections feeling bumpy to the touch. He shuddered at the bizarre texture. Mom, how would you treat someone becoming a mindless monster? He sighed and lifted a hand to his chest. It felt like his heart was in a blacksmith’s vice, pulse beating at his temples.

“No,” Walter whispered. He saw beyond the reflected glass, into the curious green eyes of a well-dressed shopkeep. He pulled away from the window, walking into an adjacent alleyway. He leaned back against a stone wall, hidden from the view of the bustling city, and took ragged breaths.

“Oh, Kitty!” Grimbald said, walking past Walter and rubbing a disheveled black cat’s neck. A street urchin that had been sleeping on a few empty potato sacks awoke with a start at the sight of Grimbald’s inhuman size. Baylan and Nyset followed Walter into the alley, giving him some space.

“We’re going to get this figured out now, it’s going to be OK,” Nyset said, taking a step towards him. “That’s why we’re here, remember? Look at this place, we made it!”

His head snapped up from looking at the ground, his glowing yellow eyes boring a hole into Nyset. She took a step back at the fury touching his eyes. “This” – he pointed at his face with both of his hands – “is all your fault,” he said with ice in his voice. “We could’ve left Breden earlier, we shouldn’t have stopped in Shipton, should’ve let the sick people die… this armor…” He pulled at the chest plate while gritting his teeth and growling with a feral sneer. Grimbald left the cat and walked behind Walter, frowning.

Walter shifted his vision to Baylan, who stood with his arms crossed and legs wide. “And you, wasting time reading books when–” Grimbald bladed his hand and chopped Walter in the back of the neck. He collapsed with a muffled groan.

Nyset and Baylan looked at him wide-eyed. “What? It had to be done and you know it,” Grimbald said. Wiggles took the opportunity to lick Walter’s face.

“I suppose you’re right,” Nyset said. Grimbald lifted Walter’s breathing but unconscious body onto his shoulder with the ease of picking up a small child. Baylan led the way up the switch-backed cobbled road to the Temple of Meditation. The tower was circular and rose twenty stories into the clear sky. Rings of colorful vegetable gardens encircled each story, taking advantage of the unobstructed sunlight.

They walked through the rounded archway into the tower. The room was warm, bathed in amber and blue rays of light that filtered through ornate stained glass windows. The room was unadorned apart from a broom that lay in a corner and a spiraling staircase carved from the cream stone of the tower. Grimbald hefted Walter on his shoulder and followed Baylan and Nyset up the turning stairs.

Walter stirred. “Put me down,” he said weakly.

“Put me down?” Grimbald asked.

“Put me down, please,” Walter said.

“You should relax, we’re almost there.”

Walter sighed and decided he didn’t really have the mental fortitude to resist Grimblad at the moment. He watched as the perfectly carved stairs bounced in his view with each of Grimbald’s steps. Excellent craftsmanship. Dad would’ve loved these.

“Where are we?” Walter asked.

“Malek’s,” Baylan said.

“Ah! Baylan, and for what may I credit your illustrious visit?” A smooth and deep voice bounced off cylindrical walls. Baylan huffed as he rounded the last section of stairs.

Malek wore a billowy forest-green cloak, trimmed on all the edges with a waving indecipherable script. He kept the hood down, revealing a mess of close-cropped brown hair that encircled his face and a thin goatee running down the center of his chin. He was a hand shorter than Walter and had intense light green eyes. A jagged, glowing crystal hung around his neck, and thin silver chains connected to his rings dazzled in the sunlight streaming in from open windows.

“I see you still have eyes and ears in the city, friend,” Baylan said, grinning. They clasped forearms and hands, the handshake men often used with close friends.

“Certainly, I wouldn’t be able to survive without a little help.” Malek smiled. “Who are your traveling companions?” They introduced themselves and shook Malek’s hand. Grimbald turned around so Walter could shake his glittering hand.

“How do your travels fare?”

“Not so well, I’m afraid.” Baylan looked behind as Grimbald set Walter down. Walter stood and rested against a curved wall, meeting Malek’s eyes. “Is that what I think it is?” Malek shuffled towards Walter, looking him up and down with squinting eyes.

“Ah, perhaps,” Baylan said as his cheeks became rosy.

“You’ve brought an abomination to my doorstep.” He glared at Baylan. “Why have you done this?” Malek demanded. His light green eyes started glowing like hot embers from a dying fire, turning upon Baylan.

“Inspect more closely, Malek. He’s still there, he has not fully transformed yet,” Baylan said, waving his hand towards Walter. “He’s been fighting the transformation for a full week.”

“That’s preposterous, no man can survive that long without…you’re going to feel a slight tingle, I’m going to examine the curse.” The color of Malek’s eyes returned to a light green. He extended his open hand in front of Walter and a cone of yellow light washed over the boy’s face.

The sensation of burning mixed with rage engulfed Walter as the blinding yellow light entered his eyes. It felt like someone was trying to remove a scab one iota at a time from what he could only describe as his soul. The blackness that surrounded the edges of his vision fought back screaming in his head, swirling shadows manifesting into the monstrosities of nightmares.

The light faded and Walter slumped to his knees with a clank. Malek stumbled back a step and gasped. “I think I can remove the curse, but I’m going to need your support,” he said, looking to Baylan’s blackened stump. “I see you’ve already tried without success.”

“Of course, anything you need. The curse’s ward is very powerful.” Baylan’s light blue eyes grew hard as he gazed at the remnants of his hand.

Malek nodded, inhaling deeply, and shuffled to a claw-footed circular table that took up half of the room. The table was littered with strange trinkets strewn about in no apparent order. There was a cluster of red burning candles melting on a plate, a flask of bubbling purple liquid, a green faintly glowing scimitar with jagged teeth on one side, a few towers of worn books, and a vase set with an eyeball the size of a fist perched atop the opening – these were just a few of the items that drew Walter’s eyes.

“Are you ready for this, Walter?” Nyset asked and rubbed his neck. The silhouettes of incongruous demons raged on the edges of his vision, claws and jaws snapping at the nether. You are mine, dual wielder, a hoarse voice that was not his rasped in his head.

“What? No. I’ll never be yours!” Walter shouted, and tightly held his ears as if trying to block a piercing sound. Nyset shot a worried glance at Baylan.

“We’re going to have to restrain you, Walter, the curse will fight us when we start the expungement,” Malek said as he selected items from his laboratory. He absently waved an arm to a spartan bed adjacent to the table.

Walter nodded, regaining control. In combat, make your enemy flinch and you’ve already won. Noah’s words, reverberating in his mind, helped to dispel the fear that quivered through his legs. Grimbald helped him walk to the table, taking the load off his shaking legs. Malek handed thick leather straps to Baylan and Grimbald, using them to cinch Walter lying face up on the bed.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Walter said.

Malek leaned over the bed with narrowed eyes. “Do what you can to fight. This will be very painful.” He offered Walter a wooden dowel to chew on and the young man accepted it, clenching it between his teeth.

Malek positioned himself behind Walter’s head with Baylan at his side and started murmuring something indiscernible. In one hand Malek held a shriveled, severed hand of a Cerumal. Walter felt the hair on his neck prickle. This isn’t so bad, I can handle this. Baylan and Malek burst alight, both surrounded by bright blue auras. Nyset held onto Walter’s firm grip with two hands, meeting his darting yellow eyes. His gaze softened upon her face. She’s gorgeous, flowing hair and large doe eyes. Grimbald stood near his legs, wrinkling his bushy eyebrows.

“What is this magic? What are you doing?” Grimbald said. Baylan’s face tightened and he glared at Grimbald. Grimbald blinked and shifted his gaze from Baylan to Walter.

Baylan reached his hand towards Malek’s. Malek seized it and Baylan’s aura winked out, and then Malek’s intensified, burning like a blue sun. Nyset and Grimbald looked away from the azure tempest. Twirling blue and purple vines spiraled from Malek’s aura and worked their way to Walter. The glowing vines slipped between the dark plates encompassing Walter’s body.

Blinding pain ripped through his flesh. It felt like thousands of cauterizing needles were trying to work their way through his skin from the inside out. He screamed and writhed against the leather bindings, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

Grimbald attempted to hold Walter’s legs, and received a steel boot to the face for his effort. He stepped back, covering his face. He tried again for Walter’s legs as blood streamed from his disfigured nose. This time his powerful hands found purchase and pinned the legs.

Walter compressed his grip on Nyset’s hand. She whimpered and her eyes watered. She seized the Dragon. The pain in her hands withered away to a dull ache as the power pounded through her body. Malek jerked his head at her, then quickly returned his focus to Walter.

The darkness around Walter’s vision grew into an encompassing mass, leaving him just pinholes to look through. His nostrils flared and his hands trembled in Nyset’s grip.

“Fight it!” Malek roared.

Walter’s vision went black and the world grew quiet. The grunting of his friends struggling against his involuntary spasms faded into silence. The sensation of being burned and skinned alive faded. Am I dead? Is this death?

“No, I will not let you go so easily,” a voice said that sounded like it had spent thirty years smoking a pipe every day. Walter found himself standing on a blood-red plateau, surrounded by an endless abyss and wearing only his smallclothes. The reflecting red stone surface had the appearance of a shattered ceramic plate that hadn’t separated after hitting the floor.

Walter looked up from the ground to see a figure on the opposite side of the plateau. Malevolent, violet eyes glowed from the darkness that shrouded its face. Red swathes of a shredded cape flowed around its form, as if the laws of gravity did not apply to it. It spread its heavily muscled arms wide, each arm covered in spikes that formed razor-sharp tips.

“What do you want with me!” Walter shouted. He felt his heart pound through his chest, and he set his jaw.

“Have you ever wanted to crush an ant that crossed your path?” the figure rasped.

The figure vanished and violence exploded from Walter’s back. He fell to his hands and scrambled onto his back, gasping at the pain and shock of it suddenly so close. The dancing red cape stretched like massive wings into the air around the figure. The spikes on its right forearm were coated in Walter’s bright blood. The cape formed into two thick ropes and encircled Walter’s torso, lifting him into the air. He felt ribs snap, and one jutted through his side, trailing blood down his abdomen. The figure casually walked to him as Walter wept under the crushing force of the cape’s tendrils.

The figure raised a hand and two blades the length of short swords emerged from its forearm and beyond the raised hand. It slammed the bladed hand into Walter’s chest, the tips tearing through his lungs and out the other side. Walter slumped to the ground and the billowing cape retracted.

“Fight, Walter,” Nyset’s concerned voice echoed within the emptiness.

In that agony, something within him shifted. He felt, for the first time in a long time, an overwhelming sense of peace, as if that pain had finally set him free. Why does this bleeding feel so sweet? Within his mind’s eye the gnashing darkness was dispelled by light. The Dragon came into view, roaring and blasting gouts of flame into the black. There was something else too. A Phoenix darted around the Dragon, circling it and protecting it from attacks from the shadowy demons.

Walter sprang to his feet, holding a massive two-handed axe of pure white light in his hands, skin bathed in red. He screamed and swung at the figure’s head. It stiffly drew back, but an edge still found purchase. The figure stumbled back, placing a hand on its neck. It pulled the hand away, revealing a small cut that trickled violet blood.

“No, it can’t be!” it screamed shrilly.

Walter sharply sucked in air as reality returned and with it an onslaught of pain. “Where are you?” he yelled, eyes shifting around the room. Where am I? Why can’t I move?

“We’re right here, with you,” Nyset said, biting her lip.

The Temple of Meditation, with my friends, Malek, the armor.

He saw Malek standing erect behind him, faintly glowing blue. He nodded crisply at Walter, meeting his eyes. Walter felt a wound on his back knitting together. He felt entirely too much wetness on his back. He saw that the bed was sodden with blood. He shook his head. Some had dripped onto the stone floor, forming tiny pools.

“I thought it was just a dream?” The pain faded to a dull ache.

“No, that was no ordinary dream,” Malek said, waving his glowing hand over Walter’s ribs. “The Armor of Broken Wars, the armor the Cerumal wear, creates a soul bond with Black Wynches, allowing them to dominate the psyche of the wearer. Power always comes with an equal and opposite tip of the scale in the other direction.”

Walter shook his head. “What I fought in there was not a Black Wynch. It had these disturbing, purple eyes.” Malek’s hand stopped for a second before continuing over Walter’s chest, and the blood drained from his face.

Walter laughed shakily. “I’m just glad it’s over.” He narrowed his eyes at Malek as the blood returned to his olive skin. Grimbald moved fluidly around the bed, removing Walter’s leather restraints.

“The armor, it’s gone.” Walter’s eyes glazed as he stared at his bare arm. The only remaining metal on him was the vambrace, Stormcaller. Intact pieces of gray armor were scattered around the room, some pieces cracked and others shattered into tiny shards.

“You fought well,” Baylan said.

“You sure did,” Grimbald laughed and blew a blood clot onto his vest.

Nyset’s lips curled at the sight. “That’s lovely,” she said and turned back to Walter.

“I can take care of that later, Grim,” Baylan said.

“With magics?”

“Well, yes,” Baylan said. He released his hand from Malek’s and his aura vanished. “Now, however, I am exhausted.” He slumped onto a nearby ornately carved stool and rested his head on his hands. Grimbald grunted.

Walter groaned and changed into the plain blue robe Malek handed him. He sat on the floor and leaned his head against the wall. Nyset sat beside him and took his hand in her lap. He squeezed it and looked into her eyes. He bowed his head and nodded. “Thank you, everyone. Thank you so much for your help, and for putting up with me.”

Malek organized his laboratory table, setting down the severed Cerumal hand among other trinkets.

“Now you are cleaning? City people are strange,” Grimbald said, crossing his arms. “I could eat a whole hog right about now – who wants to eat?”

“That sounds like the perfect idea,” Walter said, beaming.

**

Juzo’s left eyelid slowly parted, struggling against an unseen weight. The onyx floor sharpened and blurred in rapid succession as his eye worked to focus. Dried, weeks old, caked gore encircled the red cavern that remained of his right eye. His arms twitched, rattling the dark chains suspending them overhead. He groaned and pulled ineffectually against his iron fetters. He spared them a glance, checking them for the one-hundredth time for a vulnerability.

The sound of something blunt intersecting with bone echoed through the torch-lit hall from the blackness beyond. A man shrieked, pleading for mercy. Juzo quietly snickered, staring unblinking at the interlocking black diamond shapes that formed the floor. His eyes traced the handle of the Kris that hung from his abdomen, its waving tip emerging between the ribs of his back.

He lifted his head at the familiar sound of leather robes drifting over the undulating floor. Juzo gazed into a nearby torch, its glow a comfort. Pain is a funny thing; it’s not something you ever really get used too. He coughed on the dusty air, starved chest heaving. The Kris shifted and spilled a snaking trail of blood over his trousers.

The dim-light of hope was shrouded as Uglyfuck came into view. Juzo forced himself to look at the eyeless mask of the creature before him. He’s just a man. Juzo’s body betrayed his resolve and tremors vibrated through his muscles, the chains around his ankles tinkling.

“Uglyfuck, how nice of you to –” Juzo cut off screaming when Uglyfuck tore the kris from his stomach. The room swirled and darkened as blood ejected from the gaping wound. Juzo relinquished control of his legs. This is the end, this is death. This is my last breath. The chains overhead bit into his wrists, snapping into a taught line and preventing him from collapsing. I let go.

“You are broken at last,” the frail man hissed. He paused, seemingly peering into Juzo’s face. The lithe man raised his hand and dragged a long nail down Juzo’s jawline, tearing skin. Juzo’s unresponsive, quivering body hung limply, twisting in the chain’s clutches.

The pale man rose, bare white chest reflecting the dancing torchlight. He tapped the tail of his spined cobra staff on the floor and Juzo inhaled sharply. A flare of blue light from Juzo’s wound cut the darkness and formed a new thick scar to accompany the other’s lacing his body.

“You will be a good pet?” the dry voice whispered too closely into his ear. Juzo’s mouth hung open with foam lining the corners of his lips. He gradually nodded. The man pushed the flat mask over his head, exposing rows of razor sharp canines. His mouth ferociously latched onto Juzo’s neck, feasting on the blood that pulsed from his carotid artery. Juzo’s eye snapped open and its black pupil became a malevolent red.

To be continued in The Lord of Death – Book 2 of The Age of Dawn coming Spring 2014

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Everet

Acknowledgements

First of all, I would like to thank you, reader. Without you I wouldn’t be writing. I truly appreciate every one of you. A big “thanks” to my girlfriend Maureen for her amazing editing ability. I would like to also thank my proofreader, Martin O’Hearn, and my book cover illustrator and map creator, Promit. Thank you for all of your help.

About the Author

Everet Martins writes stories of the fantastic. His first foray into the published realm is Stormcaller. It has the type of visceral action and fun he had always dreamed fantasy could be.

Living in New Hampshire, Everet finds inspiration for his books within his exciting life. He has always loved getting lost in role-playing games and novels. In his youth, he was notorious for being found with his face lost behind the cover of a book. Fascinated by the written word and always wanting to try putting pen to page, he started writing short stories, and eventually a novel.

As a young boy he was exposed to the rigors of martial arts and continued to practice them throughout his adult life, dabbling in various styles. The love for physical fitness morphed into other bodily challenges such as strength training and long distance running.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters , places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 Everet Martins.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/ use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.