The world storm, p.1
The World Storm, page 1
The World Storm
Tales From the Stranger Lands
Book II
Jake Fredendall
Copyright © 2022 Jake Fredendall
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
This story is in honor of the original Void Walkers, whose creative and collaborative story telling made writing this book a true adventure. You know who you are.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1: Crimson Silverclad
Chapter 2: Fight and Flight
Chapter 3: The Dwarf, the Unicorn, and the Heavensent
Chapter 4: The Land of Eternal Darkness
Chapter 5: The Conspiracy
Chapter 6: The Enchantress
Chapter 7: Journey to the Bottom of the Sea
Chapter 8: The World Asunder
Chapter 9: The Descent of the Elves
Interlude: The Cytokine Storm
Chapter 10: Snakes in the Sand
Chapter 11: The Hound King
Chapter 12: Patience is an Iniquity
Chapter 13: The Administrator of Knowledge
Chapter 14: The Rule of One
Chapter 15: To Hell and Back
Chapter 16: Professor Grim’s Grimoire
Chapter 17: Fun… and Death
Chapter 18: Easton’s Contributions
Chapter 19: A Dissertation on Demonology
Chapter 20: The Best Laid Plans
Chapter 21: Keepers of The Ebon Pact
The End
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Alpha Reader and Content Editor:
Mitchell Rosine-Budde
Beta Readers:
Patsy Fredendall
Thomas Olson
Joshua Pope
Editors:
Ashley Kerkaert
Julie Fredendall
Patsy Fredendall
Art By:
Kusanagistudios
Joshua Hoskins
Prologue
The morning hadn’t risen over New Feldon by the time Darian was awake and preparing for a day in the field. The harvest season was upon them and as the weathered man enjoyed his morning tea in the sitting room of his small farmhouse, he smiled at the handwritten note left to him by his wife.
The tea is warm and there’s a biscuit for you on the counter. The kids and I thought you deserved a well-earned hour of extra sleep this morning, join us when you’re ready.
Miss you already —Rosa
He wasn’t comfortable with the idea of his wife and children tending crops before dawn given all the chaos in the world. Even so, this morning he had convinced himself that his oldest, Tallond, could handle anything just fine. After all, he was nearly sixteen and could already wield a blade as well as many that Darian served alongside all those years ago. Still, his gaze rose to the mantle above the fireplace where his ax, a remnant from the old days, rested. If ever there were a day to pick it up again, it would be this day.
Just yesterday, news came in from Wallowood that said an entire town had been destroyed leaving no survivors. The only word of what transpired was ill-informed gossip from a boy who lives in the neighboring next village telling word of a bandit attack, but Darian knew better. Bandits would loot, pillage, and maybe kill a few to send a message, but there was no reason to slaughter the entire populace. It didn’t add up, and if he were the same man as he was twenty years ago, he would have walked right over to the town to see it with his own eyes.
He didn’t view his newfound life as retirement; he saw his small plot of land and his litter of children as a reward for a life well served. He spent decades marching for Lord so and so’s battles, and when he was finally released, he hung up his ax to experience the thing that spilling blood always lacked: companionship, contentment, and peace.
Darian cleaned his dishes and laced up his boots as the sun crested the eastern hills bathing his domain in a golden light. He was at peace and that peace had dulled his instincts. Instincts that would have warned him that he and his family were in far greater danger than he suspected. Pausing at the door, he looked back at the mantle hanging over the fireplace where his ax sat gathering dust. I’m just being paranoid, he told himself before leaving through the back door. Knowing that his family will have already brought forth all the implements necessary for the job at hand, he went empty-handed into the field.
Darian thought of only Rosa as he continued over the hill and past the pond. He saw her when he reached the spot they were tending. She was running the scythe through the field of barley when the rising sun caught her perfect form. Rosa’s hazel eyes gleamed in the sunlight. Her black, wavy hair was pulled back out of her face. She was shorter than nearly all of her children and didn’t even rise to Darian’s chin. Well into her forties, she had the lines on her face from a lifetime of smiles and the tanned skin from spending her days on a farm. Especially grateful for the sentiment of his family not waking him, he greeted his children heartily.
“Tallond, good morning! Thanks for letting me sleep in. Good morning, Allena, Caitlyn, Penny, and Bengal. Looks like you’ve all made good progress without me!”
“Pretty soon that leg will keep you hung up all summer, so we’ll need to learn to do this without you,” Rosa said, as she moved quickly to him and wrapped him in a warm embrace. The children waved and smiled at the sight of their father but did not stop their jobs of gathering and reaping the land while their parents spoke.
“I mentioned the leg one time and now you’re trying to sell me as decrepit. It was only a bruise,” her playful banter never stopped, and she ignored his response.
“Bengal’s too young to be out here, I told ya,” Rosa continued, smiling as she looked into Darian’s eyes. “We ‘eard a wolf howl, and she nearly ran off with a stick, hoping to slay the beast.”
The two laughed for a moment, enjoying their precious seconds of private conversation together. That was the thing that kept him young, he was sure of it. No matter how many years they had been together, the two never had stopped appreciating the little things. Her parents and their friends all called it “the honeymoon phase,” and would say, “soon you won't be able to stand each other.” These predictions proved false, and seventeen years of marriage later revealed a candle burning brighter than ever.
“She’s got a fighting spirit. We’re going to have problems with that one,” he said, looking back at her. As they turned back to the field to get to work, Rosa noticed the worried look deep in her husband’s eyes and hers narrowed. She brushed a few dark strands of hair that had wriggled free from her ponytail out of her face.
“You worried about what happened at Ollendale?” she asked, a little more seriously.
“I can’t help but think we should have listened to your uncle Lenny and moved closer to Stonewall. It’s a free for all out here,” Darian said.
“You don’t think we’re at risk, do you?”
“It’s… It’s nothing. Of course, we’re safe.” He kissed her head and moved into the field. He wished to not worry his family with his silly suspicions. Fifteen years they had spent on this farm, and every day had been as ordinary as the last. That was not about to change, he thought to himself wistfully.
Sunset came and he was praising Mellika for the bounty they had yielded while Tallond was helping him pack up the last cart full of barley. Darian heard a sound over his left shoulder. His hair stood on end, and for the first time in many years, he sensed danger.
“Tallond, bring this home quickly. Get it in the shed, and make sure your siblings are in bed,” he said to his oldest son, whose recent growth spurt left him nearly as tall as his father. Tallond hesitated and gave his father a curious look; in all his life he’d never been asked to bring the yield back to the shed on his own. Nonetheless, he was excited to show that he was worthy of such a task. Without a word, he spurred the donkey to action and rode off for their home.
As his son rolled over the next hill and out of sight, Darian moved northward while wishing he had grabbed his ax. What would it have cost me? I’m a fool, he thought to himself. His footfalls were swift and light as he moved toward what he suspected was danger. He wasn’t sure what he heard. Slithering perhaps? It didn’t sound natural. Darian scaled the hill and looked over a truly terrifying scene that surpassed even the horrors he had seen on the battlefield.
A sheet of purple had fallen over the land, consuming it. Inside this irregularity, the land had disappeared altogether. Slowly, it spread toward him, ever-growing like an infection spreading to every inch of the land. The veil reached upward as well, and Darian could see that as it spread, so too did the darkness creep along. The ground that disappeared behind the purple wall seemed to dissolve into it, becoming one with the endless, purple world on the other side.
That was not the most immediately threatening observation. There were two creatures whose forms were so ungodly that Darian quivered at the sight. There were no eyes or even heads for that matter, but they sensed him. The creatures had no central bodies to speak of. They were simply made up of a collection of semi-transparent, gray limbs that sprouted out from a central point in all directions. They used what could barely be called legs to pull their formless bodies toward him.
He was quick to intercept one of the aberrations which launched itself at him without regard for its well-being. He thought of these monsters threatening his family and the rage flooded into him. Pulling with all his might, he ripped the mess of tentacles in half and threw it to the ground as it writhed for the last time. The other seized the opportunity of its allies' sacrifice, and before Darian could recover, the tendrils entwined themselves around his midsection. He hadn’t noticed the mouth on the underside of the creature, but he soon learned of it as its teeth rended into his rib’s flesh.
The blood fury kept the pain from his mind as he wrestled with the full strength of a man with a lifetime of training. Blood spewed from his wound as he threw the creature to the ground and stomped it into the damp dirt until it could no longer wriggle. As his breathing subsided, he returned his gaze to the abnormal purple view in front of him. Its slow spread suddenly changed. It advanced toward him rapidly, as if it were making a conscious decision.
His lightning-fast reflexes allowed him to turn around as The Void spread quickly toward him, devouring earth and plants as it closed the distance. Sprinting toward home, he realized that the threshold was only seconds from devouring him. There was a glimmer of hope that his full speed could outrun his fate, but as it surpassed him, he was plunged into a world not at all like his own. He reached toward his home as The Void’s consumption traveled toward it.
All around him grew dark as he was bathed in a purple hue. He could feel his skin dissolving into sand-sized particles before disappearing into the expanse much like the land around him. Unlike him, the land had no nerves, no mind to comprehend the searing pain that every heartbeat brought. Through the torturous torment, his eyes remained glued to the smokestack over the hill where he knew his family waited for their similar deaths. He prayed to Mellika, Thorintier, Heren, any god that would listen. He begged them to save his family because nothing could have meant more to him.
His prayers were left unanswered.
Chapter 1: Crimson Silverclad
“I will not go by Raz, Conduit of Chaos,” I say, laughing as Matthias gives me an exasperated look.
“Well, they can’t call you Raz, the noodle armed,” Matthias says, gesturing toward my scrawny frame. “All of us are going to have names, and that one is awesome.”
I continue to laugh at his remark toward my appearance as I inspect my badly scarred forearms. He isn’t wrong. I am, by all accounts, rather skinny. I stand a few inches below the average height for a man, but next to Matthias, I feel as small as a caterpillar. I pull on a piece of my black robes that became stuck on a nearby brush and clear my equally overgrown, brown hair out of my face. When I don’t entertain Matthias with a response, he changes the subject.
“You’re not gonna meet the king of the elves looking like that are you?” he asks. He pushes me on the shoulder which makes me nearly fall over.
Matthias is the opposite in appearance from me in nearly every aspect. He has short, dark hair and a shaven face. He is nearly a foot taller than I am and has as more muscle in one bicep than I do in my entire body. At all times, he wears plate armor that covers his entire body in protective steel. As he speeds up the pace to catch up with the others, a glint from his greatsword catches my eye. Incredibly, it is crafted out of diamond using powerful magic to shape a large chunk that we scavenged from another universe.
I hide my smile as the hulking human reaches his mother and Welby. He and Crobane have filled the last hour of our journey with visions of fame and glory, deciding that we should expand our brand beyond just the group name “The Void Walkers.” I have been feigning annoyance while this conversation rages on, but it is just the entertainment I need to soothe my nerves as we are all about to arrive in Elfsong. The great warrior king of the elves awaits our council.
“What is the elven king like?” I call ahead to Matthias, as he continues brainstorming on what the masses will call Welby. Despite them being only a few paces in front of Sigil, Crobane, and myself, they are heavily obscured by the thick brush and bramble overgrowing our trail.
“Crimson Silverclad,” he says, with a hint of admiration. “An elf whose rage rivals only that of his people’s adoration. No king has ever been so loved or so powerful.”
“The elven king is proud and short-tempered, but he’s ruled his people well for nearly a hundred years,” Sigil’s voice squeaks and cracks as it becomes direr. “When you meet him, speak when spoken to. Speak elven only if you are fully fluent. Do not mention his heritage as he is very secretive about it. Some people theorize he’s part orc. Bringing up any part of this would be the easiest way to end up with your head in a basket, especially given the last few centuries of elven supremacy rhetoric.”
Sigil is an elderly man who practices rune magic. He is skinny, short, and has developed a bit of a hunch on account of constantly bending over to inspect ancient tomes and spellbooks. He has white, spiky hair that has deteriorated with his mental capacity over the years of using magic much too advanced for his frail mind.
Never have I seen so much nature all in one place; the trees grow so close together that one would have to squeeze through them to stray from the path. It is surprising to me that we have to walk on foot so far through these poorly kept trails. We are, after all, guests of the crown of the great city of Elfsong. One would think that an entourage of impressive guards would have met us upon our arrival due to our important assignment of investigating ‘The Void Spread’. Perhaps the hero king, Crimson Silverclad, wishes for us to be humbled when we enter his domain.
The nature-loving halfling doesn’t seem to mind the hike. Welby skips about in the beautiful forest with his green eyes darting every which way in gleeful curiosity. He wears a tan tunic and loose, brown pants, both of which are covered in rips and stains. His curly, brown hair bounces about as he whips his head in different directions. This is the happiest Welby has been since the loss of the cheetah, his beloved companion, Namira at the hand of the leader of The New Day Wizards.
Matthias’s tall and muscular human body gets snagged on thistle and root alike every few minutes. He curses in dwarfish while he cuts through the smaller plants with his diamond greatsword. Welby is not the only one who carries a burden; Matthias complains daily about his human body. Being born a dwarf, he spent many years becoming accustomed to a short and stout stature. The master in the martial arts was slain in The Void only to be miraculously brought back by Welby, but he returned to us in a different body. Matthias has taken time to adjust to his new, repulsive, human shape.
“I’m telling you,” he says, heaving as he pushes a large log out of our path, “my dwarven body was stronger and tougher. I wouldn’t have even broken a sweat if I had my old body back.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’d have taken it in stride,” says Crobane, laughing at his friend’s complaints.
Crobane is thin with light gray skin and spindly, white hair. He is nearly a head shorter than the average human, but he can shift his form and voice to match nearly any bipedal humanoid. In towns and cities, he takes the shape of an olive-skinned man with his face wrapped in a turban. He wears no armor, has basic training garments, and a finely crafted katana slung over his shoulder. He is adroit at disguise, stealth, and a myriad of other competencies.
What could loosely be described as a road, forks to the left and right with no indication as to where one would need to go. The group stops as Welby approaches a tree growing out of the ground right between the fork in the path and examines it. I use my gantlet-covered hand to brush aside my dirty blond hair which has grown far too long during our travels. I still wear the black robes with gold trim given to me by Jasper Ludicrous. The sleeves have some rips and tears in them, as well as burns from our most recent fight with Professor Rowan. All things considered, they have held up surprisingly well given how many near-death experiences I’ve had while wearing them.
“You see how the trunk is twisted around itself and the branches shoot out in odd directions?” he asks, more to himself than anyone else. Welby continues to check out the strangely shaped tree, muttering under his breath in a language I cannot discern as he does.
“Going left will bring us to a town called Symphony and right will lead us to the capital city of Elfsong,” Welby says, pulling this information out of thin air.
“How could you possibly have determined that?” I ask with a smile.
