Stormcaller

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If you love fantasy or action & adventure, don’t miss this action-packed read.

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 brushes the town of Breden, where Walter, son of elixir bean farmers, itches for adventure only to discover the harsh brutality of combat.

“‘The characters where great they had issues they had problems they where normal people. There is magic there is might and there is heartache and loss, love and happiness. Read this book if you are in to fantasy and magic.”


Chapter One

Awakening “I come to you with open hands, bowed head, and a heart laden with vengeance.” –from Necromancy and Wolves: The Veiled Darkness Aspark cracked with life within the timeless abyss of Asebor’s mind. The blackness around it threatened to stomp it out, tried to press it back into the confines of oblivion. Its brightness grew. It resisted. The spark swirled and unfolded like a lotus rising from the mud, strings of light darting out in all directions, bathing his vision in a sheet of violet light. Then the memories came. At first, it was only slivers and fractures before they crashed over him in waves of pain and limb shaking misery. Hundreds, maybe thousands of scowling robed men and women, wizards of the Silver Tower, surrounded him on the weed-choked plains of Dressna.

 

Their arms were raised, dousing him in a tireless conflagration of Dragon fire while cutting at him with portals formed with the Phoenix. They were too many. Their trap worked. They came from nowhere and everywhere at once, leaping through Phoenix portals and hemming him in. Alone, they were insects to be crushed under his pitiless boots. Together, a force he’d underestimated. You are not enough to stop me! He remembered the brazen words he had roared over them, laughing. Bleeding. Dying. But in his guts, he knew he was doomed. For every wizard he slew, another took its place, eventually stripping him of his Shadow armor, burning his chains, scoring his flesh. There were many who could embrace both of the god’s powers in this time. It was once exceedingly rare for someone to have been able to touch both the power of the Phoenix and Dragon. There were more dual-wielders than there had ever been in this age. Luck was not on his side. He made some of his enemies pay by streaking the air with their blood. Some, he impaled upon the bladed ends of his chains, sawing through throats and limbs in a mindless, desperate fury. He burned the flesh from their bones. Asebor blinded some, rent others into squelching halves.

 

He wasn’t enough. Would he ever be? His mistakes had consequences. Their spells raked his body, tore at his flesh like the claws of a bear, filled his nostrils with the stink of his burning flesh. He collapsed, too weak to flee. Shadow fire collided with Dragon fire in a hail of light. The wizards healed themselves with the strength of the Phoenix god, making the prospect of surviving impossible. The strength of their heretical gods shouldn’t have been enough to stop him. But it was, for a time. That time had ended, he realized with a gasp. I still live. They never found Bonesnapper.

 

Never sent me to the Great Beyond. I live! He tried to scream, but his voice only drew a whisper. He willed himself to move, to get up, rise again. He was buried, he remembered. An icy breath hissed in his throat, puffing out of his skeletal mouth. Rage flared in his chest. He moaned as flesh burgeoned from within his bones. It emerged like straps of leather, wrapping and weaving his body in new sinews, tendons, ligaments, muscle, and flesh. Around and around it went, bringing the strength of life into his form. Veins and arteries rose from his flesh like worms after a heavy rain, making their circuitous paths through his body. He sucked dry air into his lungs, choking on the ancient dust of his tomb. His body convulsed with burning agony. Something in his chest started to thump. It beat like a drum in his ears, around his legs, under his heels, through his temples. He roared with a demon’s voice. A harmony of others came with it, pouring from his scorched throat. He drew ragged breaths, screaming and putting all of his strength, all of his hatred into his voice. He could move. He jerked his arms apart and found his wrists bound by manacles. Hot blood flowed down his forearms, trickled into his eyes. Where am I? he wondered, blinking away the stickiness. Blood means I live. I do live again.

 

He tested his legs, muscles twinging at the effort of moving for the first time after ten thousand years. His abdomen spasmed and worked in waves. The seal of The Age of Dawn must have finally broken. Is it possible? “Alive,” he shuddered. “I live!” His voice was a knife on whetstone. “Yes, my child,” his mother’s silken voice reverberated in his head. “I apologize for not coming to your aid sooner. Had to gather my strength to touch the world of man once more, you understand.” “I understand,” Asebor breathed. “I will not fail you again, Mother. This I promise.” “Do not,” the Shadow God replied. Her voice was endless, a sonorous melody in his head. “Your followers await your return. They have prepared for you, at my behest.” “I will not fail you again, Mother,” Asebor promised. “I know.” He listened, but her voice was no more. She’d left him, once again alone, in pain, in the land of the living. It was a world where a lone star shone bright, bathing the world in its terrible glow. There were a precious few of his kind remaining in this realm. He could sense them, feel their relative locations in the world. His eyes flashed with a violet glow, illuminating the furrows of the spellscript carved into the underside of his tomb’s lid. He remembered being placed here, saw his body as a tattered shell, his flesh flayed. “I will have my vengeance,” he hissed. “I will paint the land in blood, make this world yours, Mother. I’ll make you proud.” He extended a finger tipped with a blade the length of a dagger and directed it at the chains binding his wrists.

 

They were around his ankles too, lined with spikes that clawed at his flesh with every movement. He harnessed a sliver of the Shadow. It was a tremendous effort and took everything he had to not incinerate himself with its fury. He felt weak as a lamb ripe for slaughter. A line of violet fire streamed from his fingertip directed at the center the chains binding his wrists. Their Milvorian alloy was forged in the Black Furnaces of the Nether, impossible to cut without anything but Shadow fire. He was a mere husk of what he once was. He had to be patient. In time, he’d regain his strength. In time, day would become night again. There was only retribution. It would be cold and hard and final. He would start by finding the Chains of the North. Some called it Bonesnapper in another age. It was the only weapon capable of causing him irreparable harm. Once the weapon was secured, he’d be unstoppable. He would not make the same mistakes again, foolishly lured into a trap of the Tower whore’s designs. He would provide the Shadow God, his mother, with the surrogate she needed. He would find the mother of a dual-wielder. He’d had endless failures and endless disappointments. He’d make them right. It was the last component his mother needed to bring his unborn sister to glorious life. I’ll not fail you again, Mother, he vowed

 

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Author

Everet Martins

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