Calling the Storm

By M.C. Thompson

Emptiness, darkness, destruction.

What do you hope to see when you look into the void? Tannin wanted to find peace, instead found a trail of carnage that bled into something far more sinister than he could have ever imagined. Plagued by the shadows of his past and held down by the burden of the future, Tannin forms an alliance with warriors of the dark—villains in their own time. They find strength within one another to try to overcome fate.

Can they put aside their own strife and make it out alive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885053242

Book preview

Prologue

Hávarðr

Asgard, 1878

The fields of Vígríðr play host to our worst fears: to our end, to the end.

My sweat and blood mix together across the planes of my face, blinding me. I push myself from the ground, heaving my body up from this pool of blood, mud, and the hewn remains of those around me. Surrounding me are the bodies of those who fell before me and the countless bodies of my comrades. All the vast strength of the nine realms united in death as they felled the enemies of life and light.

The great tree, Yggdrasil, burns. Smoke fills my nostrils with the putrid smell of burned flesh amid the embers of the giant ash tree. Never in my long life would I have believed that my actions would bring about our end. I, Hávarðr the Fettered, Thane to King Eric Blood Axe, am the harbinger of Ragnarök. These golden fields lay under a crimson tide. Friend and foe alike wash this place with their very essence as I stand firm in the shards of my broken heart.

As I look toward the heavens, the sun bursts into cosmic waves of white light, hues of red, and blue flame. The moon vanishes like sands on a winter’s wind raging on some distant shore. Hati and Sköll have played their parts well as their celestial prey disappear from the sky. They have made the world into the very nightmare of our northern fables; Ragnarök has come. In the end, the sky lights with the fires of Yggdrasil—the last light and the last gasp of life of this world. The black-and-white wolves subdued their heavenly prey, and all suffer for it. The cold comes with the dying of the light. The bodies at my feet freeze as the tree burns.

The world bleeds as I stand here. The All-Father’s messengers, the murders of Huginn and Muninn, swirl in the air, colliding into one another, falling back to the earth like a black rain of hysteria and death. All logic and reason faded with the deaths of these birds. My heart fights within my chest as if it were trying to break free from its corporeal shell; sorrow, anger, and pure exhaustion from battle are taking their toll upon my very soul. The body wanes under the weight of my doubts as I collect one wound after another. Divine or man, this burden is impossible to bear.

The emptiness of death fills these fields, yet I alone remain. Both forces have eradicated the other for dominance, revenge, bloodlust, or survival. Ash chokes the air; the wounds of war scorch every blade of grass and defile the sky as the cold grip of death embraces each of them in turn.

All my hopes of avoiding this war lie in ruin. The love I longed for now resides in a broken memento upon the foul ground. Her token of enduring love in life and death lies shattered, just one more failure. Could she still love me as she once did, knowing how I have failed? My sweet Aislinn, how I wish you were still here.

As I look out across this place, at the hewn bodies, only one truth is laid bare. Nothing matters anymore because I failed. All those who put their lives and trust into me now lay dead. Tyr, Thor, Freyja, Oðin—all are gone.

Only a few remain of the vast armies of light and dark, but lo, there I see them. The two that will decide the fate of us all. Those tortured men whom fate has brought together. One I should have trusted burns with all the raw power of flame. The other I blindly followed and allowed to become our doom. In his battle, he fights with all the fury of the seas that rage within him. They are locked in mortal combat, fueled by their unbridled hunger for revenge, and it is my fault. Every strike and stroke of steel sing the lay of doom of us all. No mercy, no quarter, no peace between these giants of man. In my hubris, I fell victim to the betrayal of all. The corruption of man was made complete because of my follies.

Slithering among the frozen dead comes my great enemy, my equal in these last moments—the great and terrible Dragon. But to me, he is nothing more than the wyrm. He comes before me and speaks with disdain, spewing his words like puss from a wound as his forked tongue writhes behind his fangs.

This is all your doing, the Fettered, forever bound. I cannot thank you enough. Bits of flesh and armor of my kin cling to his teeth as he grinds them like a mongrel on a bone.

My anger swells inside, but I look back at the broken reminder of her, of Aislinn, at my feet. The golden likeness of her face flakes into dust. Her porcelain cheeks crack as her jet lips chip, but the ruby tear shines bright against the dying light. Its golden crown holds fast as the world fades to dust. The stone set my heart aflame as if my very life was tied to it. The time we had together, she hid her beauty behind those raiments of gold and jet. The tear was her honor and sorrow, but I saw it as her shedding it for us, for the time we did not have.

It is a pity I had to break her. That ghastly bitch could really scream. Your very thoughts have turned against you, Thane. His laugh offends the very air I breathe.

Get out of my head, wyrm! I say with a tidal wave of fury washing over me, but then I hear her—the voice I thought was lost to me. Her voice cradles me as I was nearly conquered by my rage. Her sweet tone soothes my mind like a Thrush’s song upon the breeze.

She whispers, We must go on, my love. Not just for us, but for Tannin.

Tannin—the name that has blessed and haunted me these last hundred years. His shadow shames me as his memory emboldens me. How, how did we come to this, Tannin?

My enemy’s breath hisses while his guttural taunts force their way past fire and fang. The eagle cannot save you this time. Pitiful bastard of Vanaheimr, are you ready to die?

My grip tightens around my golden axe. He vomits out a torrent of blue flame that envelops me. I grip my weapon with every fiber of my being. My fingers are strong, and my grip steadfast, but my spirit withers. I can’t let this happen. I bear the wyrm’s fire. Amid the roar of the onslaught, I close my eyes and fade into my memories. My mind is searching for something as I continue to fight. It is searching for an answer. What happened all those long years ago? What happened that would lead me to another battlefield? Where did it begin?

Upon a hill, Tannin told me once.

Chapter 1

The Arrival

Tannin

Carolina, 1776

Something evil had brought me home. Something brought me back to this hill.

I stood rigidly atop the hill overlooking Charleston, my black hair caught by the morning breeze while the sun’s early light kissed my skin. I heard the screams of a fortnight past; my mind was muddled like blood in water. The chaos of the visions collided with one another, one horrible cavalcade of gruesome despair. It was becoming harder to make any sense of it.

The silence that lay upon the Carolina woods was shattered by screams of agony. Panicked wings erupted as birds took flight against the rising sun that pierced the darkness. Deer that grazed along the tree line rushed for cover as a shriek echoed across the pastures and fields of Charleston.

Images of horror flashed through my mind: blood, viscera, and teeth. The rip of flesh torn from its victim and the crack of bones were crowned by a triumphant roar. A face contorted in fear and pain was all that remained in those woods.

My golden eyes moved away from them, pulling my attention out of the vision and onto the city streets below, although an echoing terror followed in my mind. I shuddered as a chill snaked down my spine despite the morning rays melting the autumn frosts. I skimmed my vision along the breadth of the city, and my eyes landed on my destination: Governor Martin’s farmhouse, an immense mansion made of hand-carved black locust and northern red oak, making it easy to spot in the distance. With the vision still present in my mind like an echo, I smiled grimly. I knew why Governor Martin had requested this meeting.

I knocked on the front door, and an elderly man, Alistair, the governor’s valet, opened the door and greeted me. I smiled to myself with fond memories, but something was slightly off. He seemed fit and able as he once was in his youth. He must be approaching seventy by now. Perhaps it was merely my imagination after such a long absence.

Good morning, Master Tannin. His Lordship has been expecting you, said Alistair.

I entered and breathed in the scents of lavender, sage, and lemon along with a hint of smoke from the fireplace. Light poured in through stained lead glass, creating intricate patterns of color that danced along every surface. I forgot how much I missed this house. I couldn’t contain the smile that came from the sudden outpouring of some of my fondest memories.

It is comforting that there is some consistency in this turbulent world. Begging your pardon, Master Tannin, but you look as though you haven’t slept in weeks.

My duties afford me many sleepless nights and missed meals.

May I fetch you something from the larder then, sir?

No, thank you. I must see His Lordship at once.

We made our way to the governor’s study and found that the door was open. Governor Martin was seated near the bay window, looking out at the city and harbor. He was deep in contemplation, and lines of concern wrinkled his forehead.

My lord, Master Tannin has arrived from New York as requested.

With a tremendous sigh of relief, Governor Martin rose from his chair. My friend. It has been too long. I am so very glad to see you here.

It had been years since I saw the governor. I always received my assignments via missive or courier. We served together with the Twenty-Second Regiment afoot. I was attached as a scout and he, the lieutenant colonel of the regiment. We had several engagements that we had pulled each other out of. He saved my life from a French soldier from horseback, an impeccable shot. I lost count of how many would-be assassins I killed while they tried to take his life. I’ve witnessed what happens to the English when their officers fall, and that is a far uglier slight. We served together till 1769, when he sold his commission due to financial issues. We kept in touch, and later, he recruited me for the colonial interests of North Carolina. It truly was good to see him again. How may I serve, my lord?

The governor’s happy expression disappeared faster than a morning mist against the sun. His face had gone dark with fear that he tried so desperately to keep a secret. But the look was plain. He was terrified.

We have had a series of unfortunate instances involving mixed reports of either a deranged lunatic or an animal that has acquired a taste for human flesh, Governor Martin began. You have a unique connection to the surrounding country, and your knowledge on matters such as these is unquestionable. I need your assistance, and haste is of the utmost importance. That is why I recalled you from New York, my friend.

The color had drained from the governor’s already pale skin. I didn’t need the governor to explain the attacks, though—I had seen it all on the hill that morning. His fear only confirmed the distorted and bloody images that raced through my mind.

Governor Martin continued, I cannot lie, Tannin. These killings have disturbed me greatly. I have done all I can to contain these incidents so as to not cause a panic. The war has everything on the edge of collapse as it is.

Have you preserved anything from these attacks, my lord?

Alistair spoke for the governor while he rifled through his reports. As much as was left for us to find, Master Tannin.

My visions only showed the carnage of the acts and not the locations. Where am I to begin? I asked.

Here is the list of all involved at the moment. Discretion is paramount, so please do not distress the citizens. I will not tolerate a panic. You will want to start at the clinic of Dr. Thomas Clarke. He was the only survivor of the most recent attack. Afterward, make your way to the butcher. He has been so kind as to preserve the bodies in his cold storage.

Where was the last attack?

The side alley just behind the public house, the Broken Oar.

And the other?

Just outside of town, among the pastures and the bulwark.

I will be on my way then, my lord. I have your leave?

Yes. Tannin, please solve this. I do not want or need another victim. This colony and the crown cannot afford another loss. The war has taken so many already.

I made my way down the hill with a gnawing feeling of being watched. My eyes flicked to the forest where the screams lingered. Confusion and anxiety flitted about my mind. Nothing seemed right; this feeling was different, a cold consuming that tore at my insides.

* * *

Charleston was abuzz with activity. As I walked, I was greeted with sideways glances from prominent figures, gasps and whispers from women, children being shied away by mothers, and tradesmen spitting as I walked—honestly, tame behavior for the colonists. My people have always been seen as godless heathens who run around naked, fornicating like animals, or evil witchcraft—pure fabrications. The whites have such vivid imaginations when it comes to things they don’t or won’t understand. They place their guilt and regrets of their own demons upon my people, just to feel superior, deplorable.

British regulars marched through the streets as I arrived at the office of Dr. Thomas Clarke. I stepped into the building, a bell chime above my head announced my arrival. A voice came from behind the store shelves.

I apologize, but we are closed and not taking any patients today, so if you could kindly, please see yourself out.

I am not here for treatment or a poultice.

The smallest moment of silence fell upon the shop. The doctor came out from around the shelves. He was a portly man with a round face and large bushy eyebrows. He simply looked disheveled. He was clearly shaken from his ordeal. He had a large bandage on his right forearm, which was held close to his chest with a sling. His eyes were swollen from little sleep. Are you the man Governor Martin has sent to investigate these murders as of late? He mentioned the need for you.

Indeed, I am. I am called Chee-Squaw-Gee Gah-Ga. You may call me Tannin, Dr. Clarke.

Call me Thomas. It’s an honor to receive you, sir. Your reputation precedes you.

Is that so? And what have you heard?

Well, that you are the greatest tracker in these colonies, an effective warrior, and that you have a curiously strong connection with nature and the creatures of the forest, as well as having the absolute trust of our lord governor.

I was most impressed with this knowledge since most of my experiences with colonists ended with ignorant people losing their teeth.

I am glad you are here. I have seen true evil, and I cannot understand what I have witnessed.

Tell me everything, Thomas. What you saw, heard, smelled. No matter how minute the detail, I must know what happened. From the beginning.

The first victim was a tragic scene…

I just need the facts, Thomas.

Apologies. She was a seventeen-year-old girl, daughter to a store clerk. Comely girl. She was attacked several weeks past. She was found in a pasture just outside of the bulwark.

Was this normal behavior for her to wander outside of town?

No, not at all. She was always a social creature in town, laughing, always in good spirits, sought after by most of the young men in town as well as the sailors.

Was she at all too familiar with any of these men?

Goodness, no!

I held my hand up to stop Thomas from becoming offended at my directness.

Please, continue.

Yes, well—when we found her, she had been torn to pieces. Her throat was opened—by teeth.

Animal or human?

It looked like both. It was the strangest thing. She also had large lacerations to her breasts and back. There were four puncture marks on her abdomen as well.

The claw marks were to injure, I muttered to myself as the scene played out in my head. The stab wounds were to incapacitate her, and the throat was the kill. I looked back at Thomas. Was there anything else?

Thomas began to stammer but then went quiet as the tears welled up in his swollen eyes.

Doctor, I understand this may be difficult or even painful, but was there anything else?

There—there were signs that she was defiled just after death. There was a great deal of blood pooling in her womb and traces of a man’s seed on the interior of her thigh. Poor child.

What of the second victim?

Thomas straightened up and gathered his composure to continue.

He was my friend. Fergus MacTavish. He was a strong man from Inverness. He fought in the Carnatic War.

Strange that the first victim was a young woman, then the next was a soldier capable of defending himself.

Strange indeed, sir.

Continue, please.

Fergus and I were enjoying a pint at the Broken Oar. We were regaling in his military career and his heroics at the siege of Arcot. Fergus was a bull of a man and a fine soldier. After our drinks, we began walking home. After a while, we heard a high-pitched yip and laugh. We had both been deep in our cups, so we dismissed it as the lager making us delirious. Then we heard a low growl and chuckle. Fergus pulled his dirk from his side. ‘Something stalks us, Thomas,’ he’d said.

As Thomas paused and breathed deep and fell back into that dark memory, I remained silent as I began to see the event unfold. My talents allowed me to smell the mud of the side street and feel the gentle night breeze kiss my ear. I could feel the presence of Thomas’s dread.

I became unnerved when I heard a sound that can’t wholly be described. I turned and saw two eyes that glowed like embers in a torrent of fire. All the while that sound, that terrifying sound. Fergus screamed, ‘Thomas! Get behind me!’ but I was frozen in terror. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I felt as though I had died upon my feet. Then the beast came from the black. A massive creature. It was taller than Fergus yet rawboned as a malnourished mutt. It stood on its hind legs and continued glaring at me with those eyes and gnashing fangs. His back, arms, and legs were covered in mangy brown fur. His head was a strange amalgamation of man and dog, and he wore a sneer that belonged to a lunatic. That noise, that chattering growl and laugh, all together as a cacophony from hell! Thomas shuddered, clearly trapped in the memory of that terrible night. His eyes fixed upon nothing but the images in his mind. I was losing him to his nightmares.

Doctor, please focus. What happened to Fergus?

Thomas jerked and blinked, focusing again on me. He swallowed hard. Fergus ran towards me as the fiend lashed at me, fracturing my arm. I fell to the ground, and as I lay there helpless, I watched as my dear friend fought and died at the hands of this—this—thing. His face and chest were torn open, then the beast set his teeth upon Fergus’s throat, ripping his trachea and larynx out completely. It—it—then began to—to eat his flesh. Tearing into his stomach to get at his heart and liver. I began to fade as I watched this creature devour my friend and laugh while it ate. Then I was unconscious. I awoke in the infirmary with my bandaged arm and a fever as men stood above me, whispering. They whispered your name.

Why would they look to me for this? The thought seemed to rattle in my skull as I looked at his wound. Your arm, sir. May I please have a look?

Thomas gently removed the bandage from his arm as he winced in pain. My eyes narrowed as I focused on the wound. Four deep gouges ran the width of Thomas’s forearm. The cuts were rough, and the violence had removed both skin and muscle; it was not a clean cut that would have come from a traditional claw or even a blade. The wound unsettled me greatly. It had gone gangrenous, had turned black and green, and smelled most foul. These wounds were known to me. Many years ago, a member of our tribe dabbled in poisons to better attack the invading whites. The wounds would become gangrenous within days and spread to any other that would get the foul ooze upon their skin.

Is there something the matter?

I would not want to distress you further, Doctor. I must be off to the butcher to examine Fergus’s body. I bid you good day, and I wish you a speedy recovery.

I left the office with the same chime. I stopped outside and looked around. I again had that feeling that something was watching me. I scoured the crowds of colonists that passed me by. My eyes went back and forth, seeing nothing, until I caught a glimpse of a figure that resembled a shade of my past. As quickly as the shade appeared, it was gone in the bustle of the crowded street. I gathered myself and made my way to the butcher. It couldn’t be. Not him.

Chapter 2

Flesh and Ice

Tannin

It was a short walk to the butcher’s shop. The same vile, hateful looks and whispers followed me to my next destination: the cold storage. The day had begun with the beautiful dawn colors but sadly relinquished to gray skies and rain. I approached a large, bearded man smoking a pipe and wearing a bloody apron. Judging by the blood, I assumed this was the butcher.

I nodded at him. I’m here on the lord governor’s errand. Please direct me to where Dr. Clarke and the lord governor have had you keep the victims.

Took your bloody time, didn’t ya, lad? Come on this way.

The butcher ushered me out back to a sizable warehouse. The smell of blood and rendering hung heavy with iron, lye, and wet rotting fat peeling from the hides. The air around the building became much colder, smothering what heat was there. Stopping for a moment, I looked at the facade of the building. I came under the ever-watchful, ravenous crows atop the roof and treetops. They squabble for space and the first chance at any flesh as the rain fell. A bad omen.

Come on then, lad! I have orders to fill.

Once fully in the building, we took in the cold and the smell of meat.

Letting out a long, phlegmy cough, the butcher said, They’re in the back. No trouble finding them. Start with the girl, though. She has begun to turn. Even in ice, raw meat will spoil after a few weeks. Oh, and mind the ice. Lost two stock boys and an apprentice to those bloody blocks.

The butcher exited the building, slamming the door behind him. I made my way back to the ice blocks that were piled near the rear of the building. The slabs of ice were massive, easily twice a man’s height. The cold was terrible, and the carcasses of cows, sheep, and pigs hung ominously from hooks. As I walked through the labyrinth of ice, I found that the two victims had been laid out on a table used for halving beef. A strange blue hue radiated along any surfaces touched by light. For the briefest of moments, I caught the scent of something familiar—the scent of a diseased animal, foul and gamy. The cold had become numbing as the rain tapped on the roof, which distracted me with its rhythm.

The young woman’s body that was lying under the bloodstained sheet unnerved me, so I decided to begin with Fergus’s body. I pulled back the blood-soaked sheet. Fergus was missing a good portion of his face, including the lower jaw. His throat was torn wide open. Gnashing marks resembled human teeth. The cuts on his chest were deep and wide. His abdomen was agape with burrow marks that pointed to the removal of the heart and liver, just as Dr. Clarke claimed. As I stood at the table examining Fergus’s body, doubt crept into my mind like rats upon a ship.

I was not alone.

A chill ran up my neck, and the same dank smell flowed into my nostrils, and that was when I knew.

I know you’re there—Uyaga, I remarked in my Cherokee tongue.

A tall, craven man with long matted black hair emerged from the blocks of ice, twisting around the ice’s edges like a serpent among the reeds. He was dressed in ragged colonial garb with a coyote pelt wrapped around his shoulders. He stunk of wet dog, filth, and blood. His eyes were sinister, an iridescent orange that flickered in the light. His twisted lips stretched over his teeth in a sadistic grin. A maniacal giggle bubbled up from his horrid throat.

I could never surprise you, the great Chee-Squaw-Gee-Gah-Ga. My dear brother.

Brother? I am many things, but brother to you is not among them.

Oh, you never were much fun. Admiring my work? I must say this was some of my best. This big one here kept me well-fed. He regaled as we began to circle the table.

And the girl?

The soft one? Oh, she was perfect. Such tender flesh, supple teats like a fat sow, her quim was fresh and pure. I took great pleasure in ruining her. I almost felt sad that I didn’t keep her alive longer so I could have her again and again and again.

A small dribble of saliva fell from the corner of his crooked mouth as he groped himself in that vile memory of the rape and murder. I stood there seething in anger as I moved one hand slowly behind my back.

I should have had you kiss my tomahawk many winters ago, demon.

I wouldn’t do that if I were you! I learned a new trick since we last met. Haven’t you noticed?

Yes, Venom. And a nasty one at that.

"Isn’t it wonderful! I have become Nun-Yunu-Wi! All thanks to my new father."

Father? You serve no one, Uyaga. The coyote men walk alone in this world.

My father is older than this world, older than men! You will meet him soon enough.

When I do, I will bathe my tomahawk in his blood as well as yours, Uyaga!

I pulled my tomahawk out from behind my back and unsheathed my knife. Uyaga yipped and bared his savage teeth, then drove his rusty nessmuk knife at my throat, nearly cutting me from ear to ear. I dodged the knife and swung my tomahawk toward the demon of a man, nearly catching him on the crown of his head. Uyaga moved with such speed as he clambered up to the top of the warehouse. His body seemed to