Blood in the Storm

By Brian S. Gardner

Figure out what kind of man you want to be and start being him.

Grant Sundar, a hard-working university research assistant, did all he could to provide for his wife and daughter. When a rogue wizard named Standard murders them to uncover an ancient, magical sword, Grant's world is turned upside down.

With a target on his ba

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Stuart Gardner
• Release date: Nov 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798887966014

Book preview

Map of Genesis

1

TRUTH

Central Square was on fire.

Grant hated fire.

Every year right before the Sunfire Festival, a massive bonfire was set up in the middle of Lervuco, the oldest Norman city on Genesis. Citizens added their own kindling to the pile, priding themselves on its height. Then on the day of the festival, Mayor Carrick would light it to signal the beginning of the celebration of the sun. It burned for days.

Grant hated it.

The problem was that Mayor Carrick’s ridiculous ceremony wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow. Blasted firebug wizards. Grant thought. He didn’t have a problem with wizards but he liked them better when they gave a wide berth. Why did they have to mess with a Norman tradition?

Grant brushed bright-red thericite crystal dust from his hands. Central Square’s fire peeked between buildings as he passed; he didn’t need his own hands to look like fire too. Cars trundled past Grant but their noise didn’t bother him. The sounds of the city always soothed him on his walk to work. He loved his work at the University of Man at Morelan with Professor Pazmack but the side effects, like adamant thericite dust, were annoying.

As he cleaned his hands, he felt something in his pocket. Grant fished out the slender, hard object, curious what he had accidentally brought home this time. Thericite. Grant raised the crystal to his eye, casting the bonfire, the city, and the sky in bloodred hues. It was like being on another world.

A red spark of light flew into the sky. Grant lowered the thericite crystal and found the spark to actually be bright white. It hurt his eyes to look right at it. It rose three, four, five stories into the air and then erupted in a deafening crack-a-boom. The spark expanded in brilliant designs that reminded Grant of a snowflake.

But where did it come from?

Glancing towards the alley where the firework had originated, Grant found a man leaning against a wall, hunched over his hands. They were limned in white light, just like the firework. Grant’s eyes bulged as he dashed over to him. Pankar. The name for the race of all wizards echoed in Grant’s mind. Pankar were illegal Lervuco. Prejudice and racism could get them killed. Grant didn’t agree with it, but he knew it as reality.

Did you start the fire? Grant asked.

It was an accident. The Pankar’s irises glowed white at the edges, brighter than even the whites of his eyes. When I get nervous it just— Another firework shot out of the Pankar’s hands. Now they were both in danger.

Run, Grant said. I won’t say anything, but you’ve got to get out of here. Run!

Without a word, the magic man took off. Grant wondered what kind of Pankar he was. He didn’t have colored or textured skin like a Druid nor was he exceedingly tall like a Reto. If he was O’Fari there was probably no way to tell from looking at him. For now, Grant had to get lost too. If authorities showed up, they would take him into custody just as fast as they would a real Pankar.

Grant hurried to his destination: Piers’ Pub. A plaque outside the bar read No Problems, No Questions. Piers tolerated peace and pints and nothing else. Anything that upset the jovial atmosphere resulted in the culprit being thrown out. There was even a wild story about how Piers had pulled out a guy’s eye for not promptly settling his tab. The truth was irrelevant; Piers’ reputation kept trifling to a minimum.

As Grant walked into the bar, Piers roared a greeting. Grant!

Piers! Grant’s pensive mood evaporated under Piers’ cordiality.

It must be the weekend for you to be in here. Aron’s already at a table over there. Piers gestured toward the far corner. Your usual?

Not tonight, Aron’s deep bellow echoed through the bar. He rose from his chair seeming to fill the space with his layers of brown skin. His wide smile split his face in half. Tomorrow’s the Sunfire Festival. It’s time to celebrate! Bring over that Dragoncask Whiskey and two shot glasses.

Aron… Grant growled, as he joined his friend at the bar.

What?

We haven’t drunk Dragoncask in years.

What’re you talking about? I drink this all the time.

"Okay, I haven’t drunk Dragoncask in years."

You’ll be fine. Aron waved off Grant’s concerns as Piers slid two shots of red-brown liquor over to them.

Grant rolled his eyes and lifted the shot glass, sniffing the smoky oak scent. What do we toast to then?

Another year of sunlight. To Zarek!

To Zarek, Grant groaned. It seemed silly to toast their sun, but the whiskey was already in his mouth, burning his throat as he swallowed. He coughed before protesting. Losan’s eyes! I forgot how rough Dragoncask is.

Who’s blaspheming now? Aron smiled as he refilled their shot glasses.

Bah! Keep feeding me that and it’ll get worse. Orange cider for me, Piers. I do have to get home to the girls tonight.

Suit yourself. Two gulps sent the remaining shots down Aron’s throat before he ordered mead for himself. Speaking of which, how are the girls treating you these days?

You know: same old, same old.

So she’s still busting your chops, huh?

We’re not in a good place, no.

She’s too slagging hard on you, man!

She’s just…hurt.

No! Aron’s big, brown eyes flashed as he pounded his fist on the bar. Their drinks rattled, drawing stares from other patrons, but Aron’s eyes never wavered. Grant, that is not an excuse to grind you into dust.

She isn’t grinding me into dust. But Grant’s voice had grown small, belying his defense.

Oh? You get home after a longer day at work than me and before you can even open your mouth, you’re in the wrong. It isn’t right.

Grant kept his eyes locked on his bottle of cider. It isn’t that simple, Aron.

What’s so complicated about it?

You wouldn’t understand.

You always say that, Grant. You always pawn off what I say as too simple because I’ve never been married. It isn’t about that. It’s people, Grant, and people can’t treat each other the way you and Erica do and expect things to improve.

You’re right. Grant’s conviction flared hot in his eyes. His voice was thick with restrained emotion. I can’t keep treating her the way that I have been and expect her to come around. I have to show her that it’s going to be different. That way she’ll believe me when I say that I want things to be better.

Wow. You’re delusional.

That’s not fair, Aron.

Fine, then that Dragoncask already went to your head. You’re going to keep pouring everything you have into this and hope that she comes around, aren’t you?

Grant sighed. What other choice do I have?

Both men were silent as Aron slid off his barstool and wrapped Grant in his embrace. Grant hid in his best friend’s bulky hug. He clenched his teeth repeatedly to hold back tears. He couldn’t bear to break now, just when he had decided to make a change. Strength was his only ally, so he pushed the pain down in his gut and pushed out of Aron’s hug. He barked out Thanks, before taking a long drink of his cider to steady himself. Can we talk about something else?

* * *

As always, it’s good to see you, brother, Grant said hours later as they walked home.

You too. Their conversation stopped as they came to Pendleton Avenue. They both halted at the intersection and looked down the wide road; flanked on either side stood tall buildings faced with pale stonework. Several blocks down in a broad plaza stood a tall, thin obelisk of black steel.

By Losan, I hate that thing, Aron huffed.

Don’t start blaspheming, Aron? What’s the point? Grant felt similarly but didn’t like Aron swearing. The fire was still so vivid in his memory…

Exactly. What’s the point? It’s not like he was watching over your parents or my brother the day the Penny Ray Building was bombed. That Memorial is obscene. Aron spit toward the obelisk for punctuation.

Maybe, but we wouldn’t be this close otherwise.

I suppose you’re right. We were friends before… Aron said.

…this made us brothers. Grant finished by rote. It was a sentence that had reminded them of their bond during the nine years since the terrorist attack that had leveled the Penny Ray Building. This sentiment was the most important thing they both had.

Come by the house some time. Grant said. You might change your mind about us.

I can’t come to your house, man.

My house isn’t that small. You’re a big guy, sure, but your claustrophobia isn’t that sensitive, is it?

Whatever, Aron said, shoving Grant to ignore his question.

Grant dragged himself home, placing his shoes on the stoop and padding inside one step at a time. The house was dark, for which he was grateful. He heard his daughter Amanda’s snores as he passed her bedroom. Perhaps he would be lucky enough that Erica was already asleep too.

His bedroom light clicked on before he got both feet inside. Out late again, I see. Erica’s voice lacked its usual musical quality as her eyes burned holes in Grant’s face.

What? Grant responded, shrugging his shoulders with his palms up. It’s Sagday. I always go out with Aron on Sagday nights. Tomorrow’s Enday. What’s the big deal?

Tomorrow, Grant Sundar, is the Sunfire Festival. You slinking in after midnight doesn’t instill a whole lot of confidence in us making it to the parade tomorrow.

We’ll make it. Grant undressed as he tried to soothe his wife. It doesn’t start until 5 anyway. Again, what’s the big deal?

Erica crossed her arms, pursed her lips. Grant, you promised we could go in the morning. They’re doing it differently this year. There’re performances happening on Main Street all day. Amanda really wants to go!

I know. Grant had forgotten. We’ll make it. He already felt sand in his eyes.

Erica flopped over, facing away from Grant. We’ll see in the morning, I guess.

Grant rolled his eyes and let the conversation drop. There was no point to it, but his own words stuck with him. He had to show Erica that things were changing. That started tomorrow morning with the Sunfire Festival.

2

ALWAYS THERE

Rorian was going to catch Standard even if it killed him. With this stifling heat trapped in the bowl-like plains of the Flat Grasses outside Lervuco, it felt like that could happen any moment. Rorian scratched his sweaty, red beard with a pale, tattooed hand. He curled his lip as he said, Tell me you can still smell him.

It’s weak. The trail goes west but disappears a few feet from here. Rorian’s partner, Calm, spoke in a gravelly voice through sharp, pointed teeth. Her voice was so deep, it was easy to forget her gender sometimes.

Then we’re going to have to do this my way. Rorian respected Calm’s natural tracking ability. Her people, Drakes, had far stronger sight and smell than any Norman or Pankar, man or wizard. But when that failed, Rorian’s skills kicked in. Where Calm could follow a person’s smell, Rorian followed their magic.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, smelling grass, dirt, and iron.

Magic was a force of nature, a vibration that the planet emitted. Wizards absorbed those vibrations when they used magic and leaked them back out after they released the magic. Summoners were trained to sense those reverberations to trace their target.

Rorian hunted a former comrade who had turned to the Void twenty months ago. Back when his quarry was known as Sean Garish, he had brought in forty-seven bounties, four of which were classified as high-profile. He was a dynamo. Rather, he once was. Now, as a Voidcaller, he was one of the greatest enemies to the Summoners. There was no redemption for that. Some decisions, once made, could not be revoked.

With this particular decision, Sean Garish had even changed his name; he was now known as Standard.

Standard was only a few hours ahead of Rorian and Calm now. Rorian had never been closer. A thrill cycled through his heart and lungs, polluting his concentration. To detect Standard’s residue, he had to remain serene. He inhaled deeply, focusing on the air circulating through his sinuses. His mind emptied, his body stilled, and the vibrations finally became clear.

And then Rorian opened his eyes.

Green and purple strands swirled and shone. Standard’s vibration appeared green, but his alignment to the Void added a purple strain to it. The thread-like trail stretched toward the spires of Lervuco rising high above the horizon.

Have you found the trail? Calm grated.

Rorian could not respond while he was attuned to magical vibrations. He had to balance his concentration against the strain on his body. The longer he held onto that trail, the more his body tensed and the more his magical sight faded. Rorian memorized Standard’s route and released his magic, gasping like he had run a mile.

Yeah, he rasped. I’ve got it. Into the city. Let’s go.

Weariness set in rapidly as the Summoner walked with his draconic companion. Using magic was a double-edged sword: the longer a wizard used it, the weaker he became. The planet required balance.

Lervuco’s outskirts appeared ahead. Gikena’s Bridge towered over all the other spires; an impressive yet gaudy structure. Rorian had to respect the Normans’ resilience, though. Someone blew up the biggest building in their city and their response had been to build a new one that dwarfed the original. Leave it to Normans to spit in the world’s face.

Rorian increased his pace to match Calm’s jog. His blasted partner only loped along, exerting no visible strain. Ravenous teeth, he swore in his mind, unable to speak over his burning lungs and muscles.

Don’t talk to me like that, Rorian, Calm said aloud.

I only swear because of how tired I am.

Why do you try to fool me, old friend? You know I can feel everything you feel.

Yeah? Rorian thought at Calm. Can you feel this?

Rorian! That’s obscene. We’re supposed to use this link to be better warriors and hunters. Not that! Shame rolled through their link.

Rorian smiled. Sorry, Calm. I didn’t mean to swear at you. It’s just that you’ve been tracking Standard’s scent all day and haven’t even broken a sweat, All I did was identify his residue trail for a couple of minutes and I’m wiped out.

Rorian, I cannot sweat.

A scathing glare was Rorian’s only response, for which Calm gifted him with a sharp-toothed grin. Rorian ignored her. Once they reached the city, he would need to focus on Standard’s residue trail once more. Escape could not be allowed.

Near the city limits, Rorian and Calm turned off the road. There was one more thing to do before they entered a city full of xenophobic Normans. In the roadside brush, he rolled up his shirtsleeves to reveal countless tattoos. Each was a rune from a lost language. Besides looking terrifying, they bound specific spells that were too powerful for Rorian to cast unassisted. Calm had a few herself that matched Rorian’s allowing him to channel magic into her.

On Calm’s round, scaly shoulder, there was a tattoo of an open hand. Rorian laid his hand on it and invoked, "Arkura homologos." Become the Conformer. An earthy smell flashed in his nose. His hand tingled as the magic passed between them, transforming Calm before his eyes.

The drake’s red scales flattened and melted into tan skin. Her crest of orange hair receded until it was only a short fringe all over her head. Her dragon-like features—her long broad snout and widespread eyes—contracted into a human face. Her claws and tail shrank and disappeared. A white shirt; a brown, sleeveless tunic; wide, tan trousers; and brown sandals appeared. She was the picture of a forgettable face. The only recognizable remnant of her identity was her black irises. If anyone looked too closely at her, they would notice peculiarities, but that was an unavoidable risk.

With Calm incognito, it was Rorian’s turn. He could not very well walk into the capital of the Norman race with bright red hair and beard while wearing ornate olive vest and pants; he would stick out like an axe in a bundle of spears. He pulled his hand, still tingling, away from Calm’s shoulder and placed it on his own hip where he had a matching tattoo. "Arkura homologos."

The tingling in his hand spread to his hip and then over his whole body. In a blink, Rorian’s garb matched Calm’s, while his hair and beard had turned a wan, forgettable brown. No one would notice them.

It was time to hunt.

Trucks and buses rumbled down the highway into the northern part of the city while pedestrians used paths to either side. The footpaths were devoid of grass, worn bare by countless feet. Rorian and Calm joined the throng shuffling into the city. Before long, they made it onto the paved sidewalks of Lervuco, the City of Man.

They had not turned a corner before Rorian stumbled to his knees. His vision blurred, lips numbed, and hearing dulled by blood throbbing in his ears. His head swayed limply as strong hands lifted him by his armpits to help him walk. The world was hidden from him while his body tried to recede into sleep.

After a few moments, his vision cleared and sound returned to him. Babbling voices, clattering metal, and clinking glass assaulted Rorian’s ears, waking him from his dazed stumble.

Calm spoke in Rorian’s mind, away from prying ears. You tracked in the Flats too long.

We need an inn. Now.

Yes, Calm agreed.

You’ll need to track while I rest.

Yes.

Okay. I can walk. Rorian declared.

Calm released him. There was a sign swinging at the end of the block that read The Creaking Goose. He nodded toward the Goose and Calm helped him walk over. If he could rest for an hour or so, he could get back to work.

Street, door, and stairs all passed in a blur as Rorian struggled to the room that Calm rented for a half-day. The lumpy, stiff mattress felt like a cloud. Exhaustion washed over him as his back hit the sheets.

Are you okay here? Calm asked. We cannot let Standard get away.

Yes. Thank you, Calm. Go.

The humanoid Calm rushed from the room, locking the door behind her—always the protector. Must be payback. Rorian thought.

That was my crush oath, Calm replied in Rorian’s mind. He hadn’t realized that he had been broadcasting his thoughts to her. You saved me from starvation when I was abandoned at the Bounding Forest in Hecorac; I am bound to you now.

Thank you, old friend. Rorian replied. Calm had upheld her oath. When Rorian had gone into battle with the Reaver Army, Calm had been there. When the sands of Kern had tried to strip flesh from Rorian’s bones while seeking the Summoners, Calm had been there. She was always there, no matter what.

Rorian.

Black streaks flashed across Rorian’s vision as a different voice filled his head. No, this could not be happening, not this soon. It had only been a few months. He had to block the voice out or it would try to drive him to its own purposes.

It’s happening again, isn’t it? Calm’s smoky, grating voice broke through Rorian’s thoughts. Don’t lie to me, Rorian. I only gave you the courtesy of asking to relax you. Talk.

Fine. Rorian started to explain, but the voice cut in, interrupting the flow with Calm. Between the voice, Calm’s thoughts, and his own, his mind was a jumble. He tried to concentrate on Calm, but he got confused. Darkness overtook him as he faded out of consciousness.

3

LIKE A CON

Meibor could have slit that woman’s throat and been down the alley before she hit the ground. No one would have seen him, especially with all these unnecessary, kitschy Sunfire decorations. As a fire-eater blew out a gout of flame, Meibor Canith sufficed himself to lift her pocketbook instead. A child could have robbed the whole city blind, never mind Meibor.

Lervucons believed in the goodness of mankind. Meibor knew better. Wherever there was light, darkness lurked around the corner. That was where he thrived: the edge of darkness. The gray areas. Just where people got uncomfortable.

I’m surprised that the petunias are doing so well this time of year. The heat of summer usually dries them up, but I don’t see a single petal wilting, Tarin Morro, Meibor’s handler, rambled as they strolled through the city.

Meibor had a bad habit of ignoring the mousy little man. Tarin could talk about anything until it turned to dust.

Across the street was a café. Meibor saw a waitress setting down teacups and Meibor’s mouth watered. Back home at The Nest, he had tea twice a day. He had been so busy ferreting out information, checking in with Tarin, and avoiding notice that he hadn’t had a cup in two days. He was so restless he felt like he was vibrating. For whatever reason, the only thing that kept him sane was petty theft. Maybe because it was easy, maybe because it was nominally lucrative. Either way, he lifted another wallet from a businessman perusing the fire-colored confections of a street vendor.

Not another one! Come on, Meibor, focus! You’re going to get caught. And then where will you be with the Breath?

I would rather not think about the Breath’s punishment for failure, Tarin. Once is more than enough.

Then let’s get back to the plan.

Just a minute. A man on stilts waved red, yellow, and orange streamers from a broad wand up ahead. Meibor opened himself to his magic. Tingling spread from the nape of his neck as the tinny smell of blood filled his nose. He flooded his face with magic, making his cheekbones sharper as his cheeks loose. In his mind, he composed a new face with a broad, flat nose, matching forehead, short brown hair, green eyes, and shallow cheekbones. He concentrated on that face as he passed into the streamers, letting his magic go to work reshaping his appearance to match the one in his imagination. His skin stretched as the magic took hold and when it stopped, he knew he looked exactly as he did in his mind. The magic set and released as Meibor stepped out of the streamers.

The entire process only took a few seconds. That was how Jevites from the Order of the Wind had become the best thieves and assassins on the planet.

Meibor fidgeted to check all his knives: one on the inside of each wrist, one on the outside of each ankle, three across his ribs on both sides beneath his coat, and one hanging down his back. He despised being bereft of weaponry beyond his two hands. He wished he had more knives.

Tarin began, That’s better. Now, let’s discuss the plan.

All right, Tarin, Meibor said with a sigh.

His handler beamed as he dove into the specifics. Your target is a know-it-when-you-see-it artifact. So far, we haven’t determined its appearance or location, but that is the purpose of this particular mission.

Yeah, I get it. We’ve had a couple of knives miss the target. Get to the point.

Tarin shook his head as if coming out of a daydream. Yes, so, the only clue we have is what the Breath said: ‘Find the sun in its cradle.’

It’s not a whole lot to go on.

No, but I’ve been thinking that the ‘sun’ could be a person.

Why is that?

Suns are not born, not like animals. They explode into life. So, if we are looking for the ‘sun’ in its ‘cradle,’ then it stands to reason that we are looking for a person—not a thing—that will point us to this item the Breath wants.

But we used the ‘cradle’ reference to end up here where Norman life began.

Right, but I think that it serves dual purposes. The Breath always hides meanings within meanings in his clues. If we’re looking for a person, then we need to know where he lives.

The First Library!

Tarin’s voice took on a serious edge. Yes. You might find a lead there. But, Meibor, don’t leave a trace. You don’t want any blowback on this.

I know. Rule #7: Be as silent as the shadows.

I was thinking more of Rule #9: Leave no loose ends. Meet me at the Cherry Branch Café when you’re finished. Don’t leave Lervuco without me.

Meibor waved a hand at his companion as he turned away. Yeah, yeah. I’ll try not to annoy you. In the distance, Gikena’s Bridge shot above the neighboring buildings. Meibor was unsure which was more audacious: the building or the Norman pride that built it.

A quick, jolting taxi ride brought him to the First Library of Man. The hubris of these Normans. Meibor growled in his mind. He hopped down without a word to the driver. The city felt warmer in this lower district, which must have contributed to the oppressive feeling that most Lervucons reported; only the rich lived in the upper districts. No one even noticed as he made his way up the steps into the stone home of knowledge.

Shelves spread out in a semicircle behind the round circulation desk. Pillars of unadorned, scalloped tan stone held up the twenty-foot ceiling between Meibor and the upper five floors. Black and white tiles alternated on the floor. No dust dared to settle. Its sterility made Meibor glad he had no fingerprints.

It was so quiet, he could hear the black cloth of his k’buradu that wrapped his body whispering against his trench coat. The susurrant noise of his psychic-enchanted cloth filled his ears. Even as he tightened the fabric armor, he knew stealth was no option here. Secret entry and escape had to be traded for another method.

Like a con.

Excuse me, sir, he said to an overweight, balding Norman behind the circulation desk. He advanced to the counter as he spoke.

The librarian’s shrunken eyes lifted from the desk. Meibor used his powers to begin copying the man’s face right away. A Wind could never have too many faces.

The man answered in a high and small voice, Yes, how can I help you?

The name’s Clarion M. Dredge. I’m from the Community of Justice. We have a sensitive case and they want me to look over some census data. Could you assist me with that?

An eyebrow raised on the clerk’s forehead. Why would they need census data?

That’s classified.

"What