Chapter 1
Call of the Bloodstone.
Crossroads of Augusta.
Book One
Written by Brandon Powell
“From dust we come and to dust we go, for no one can escape Death’s touch.” —Cho’Tain burial rites.
Chapter One
“Goodbye,” he muttered without a shred of sorrow as he gazed east along the mountainous pass to Cho’Ghoma, where his first life began and ended. Reborn amid the chaos of war and blood of his people, now blown to dust like so much sand.
High above the vast and forlorn desert hung the citadel of Uthyltabar, a shadowed blot against the empty sky, a cursed blemish spoiling the endlessness.
He spat and turned west, each step taking him further toward an uncertain future, but one of his choosing.
With the wind howling in his ears and his heart hammering in his chest, he ran for his life. Snow reached his knees, slowing every step as Death chased him on padded paws.
The Desert Wall Mountains stretched cold and merciless around him, a wilderness of jagged peaks, deep chasms, and silent stone. The deadly breath of the winter wolves haunted him, but he didn’t need to hear them to know they followed.
His face was rough and weathered, crisscrossed with old scars. A crooked nose jutted above a thick, tangled beard, and his red eyes burned. Those he once called blood-brothers had named him Kane, after the tale of a man who killed his brother.
It suited him.
Kane vaulted a rocky spur and landed in soft snow that gave way beneath him, long black hair streaming behind him as he ran. He slid, flailing, and managed to catch hold of a sharp outcrop. The stone sliced his palms, but he pulled himself up, panting. He turned his head.
The wolves had stopped. Their eyes watched him from the ridge above, glowing like twin moons in the gloom. Yet they made no move to follow. Something else had come.
The sound reached him too late, a leathery flutter, the air shifting overhead.
A massive shadow fell across the slope, and the weak sun vanished behind it. Kane reached for the sword on his hip, but before his fingers found the hilt, talons like iron spears slammed into his shoulders. Pain flared white-hot through his body as the creature lifted him from the earth.
The wyvern’s wings beat the sky into roaring gusts. Hot, fetid breath washed over him, reeking of carrion. Its long neck curled, and its wedge-shaped head turned to regard him. Jagged teeth filled its maw, each one a dagger in waiting.
Kane cursed and groped for his weapon, but the serpentine tail lashed around. The stinger punched into his neck, and for a heartbeat, the pain felt like fire. Then the poison hit; heat flooded his veins, burning from the inside out.
He almost laughed at the wolves below, who watched in silence as their prize vanished into the sky—snatched from the jaws of defeat by the talons of hunger.
Thunder cracked. A spear of lightning pierced the heavens and struck the wyvern. The beast shrieked; its wings buckled. The ground surged up to meet him.
Then, nothing.
Warmth stirred him. Fur brushed his cheek. A fire crackled nearby, its blessed heat stinging, yet he smelled nothing.
He opened his eyes and shut them against the light. Every part of him hurt. His shoulders throbbed, his lungs screamed with each breath; he likely had broken ribs. His leg ached with deep, pulsing pain, pain that told him he was alive.
When at last he opened his eyes, he saw a man sitting near the flames, an orb of orange and white. His robes were blue, faded, and worn, and a long stocking cap drooped over one shoulder, its white puffball bobbing with every motion. Shadows clung to him. His form wavered at the edges as if the fire refused to hold him in its light.
“Easy now,” the man said, his voice quiet. “You’re alive. Just barely.”
Kane tried to speak. His throat rasped dry as sand.
“You are in a cave,” the man continued, each word uttered precisely. “Somewhere in the Desert Wall. You were lucky or stubborn. Either way, you’re still breathing.”
The wizard rose with the aid of a black staff capped by a dragon curled around a crystal orb that glowed with an inner light. “I drew out the venom, but your wounds will take time. I am no healer, only a wizard,” he chuckled. “You will need to manage the rest. Alas, I must go.”
Kane worked moisture into his mouth. “Who...?”
The wizard made a gesture in the air, tracing symbols with one hand. “Go north. Find the Anoral River and follow it west to the town of White Fang. From there, make your way to Kell’dashar.”
He reached out and touched Kane’s forehead. Power trickled through his body like ice water, making him gasp.
Then the wizard rapped his staff on the cave floor, once, twice, thrice, each strike echoing deeper than the last. His body began to shift. Feathers burst from his skin as his limbs twisted, bones popping, muscles tearing. A beak pushed through where his mouth had been.
In the blink of an eye, a large falcon now stood where the man had been. It spread its wings and flew, blending into the quiet of the dawn.
Kane was too exhausted to make sense of what had happened. Maybe it was from whatever the wizard had done to him. Or perhaps it was the warmth of the fire, or the brush with Death’s claws, and that he needed rest to heal. He closed his eyes and fell asleep with the wizard’s instructions echoing in his dreams: “The river, White Fang, Kell’dashar…”
Kane stirred again when the sun’s light filtered through the half-buried entrance. With a groan, he sat up. The cave was shallow and cold; perhaps it had been a den for wolves or yetis, judging by the cracked bones and stench of rot. He lay beneath a thick cloak made from the white fur of a winter wolf. No stitches marked it.
Where the fire had been, only bare stone remained. No ash, no wood. More magic.
He tested his leg. The crude splint held. Grimacing, he gathered his sword, his shield, and battered pack. Near him, on the ground, lay his yellow scarf embroidered with red and blue desert roses. Dirty and torn, he wrapped it around his neck. Would things have been different? They weren’t, despite his wishes, and certainly not because of his prayers. Prayers he stopped giving long ago.
He stepped into the morning and looked down from the western side of the mountains. The lands of Augusta stretched wide before him, forests tangled with shadow, a land of hardship but full of paths.
The promise of a new beginning, one with a myriad of fresh troubles, a land of opportunity. But first, he had to escape the mountains. He drew in the crisp scent of pine, a minty clean left after the blizzard.
He hated the snow with all its hidden dangers. Wolves in the white were the least of his troubles. Sudden flurries that blinded, water that froze the blood, crevices disguised beneath smooth drifts, Death in quiet forms.
Not that the desert had been any safer, but he knew and understood its dangers well.
Still, he walked. There was no going back, even if he wanted to.
Frost clung to Kane’s furs. He pulled the wolf’s hood tight against the wind as it whispered its dirge through the trees, a song of death and forgotten stories. He trudged through the knee-high snow, his breath freezing in the air, drawn toward the distant lights that shimmered through the swirling ice. Somewhere ahead lay a town, refuge, sanctuary, warmth promised by the wizard.
Could he trust the man? He had saved him after all, but the question had no immediate answer.
His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten in three days, not since he gnawed the last moldy crust in the mountains. Just ahead, the ruins of a stone wall stood beneath a twisted oak. He limped toward it, hoping to find rest from the nagging wind, but the ground gave way. The snow collapsed beneath him, and he fell.
He tumbled through the earth into a broken tunnel of stone, pain screaming through his injured leg. He struck the bottom with a jolt that stole the breath from his lungs. Dirt filled his mouth. He lay still, chest heaving, then groaned and reached for his pack. His fingers found flint and steel and, after several attempts, sparked a torch to life.
The light revealed a hallway tilting at an odd angle.
His hand brushed away mossy earth, uncovering hieroglyphic carvings that lined the walls, symbols etched by hands long dead. Kane didn’t know their meanings, but he had seen them before: the Quishon.
That empire had ruled a millennium ago before vanishing into myth after poisoning the land with sorcery in their war with the elven kingdoms. To escape, they built vast flying cities while the elves could only flee.
In the end, their magic warped the world, the miasma mutating all it touched. Dwarves were mutated into goblins and halflings. Elves into orcs and men into ogres. From the fauna were born monsters, ever-hungry trolls, deadly basilisks, and hideous manticores, among other horrors, things without names.
Worse still, the elves, in their desperation, called upon the dead. Through the veil between worlds, they opened the way into the Duskfell, where came the undead, starving, whispering, insatiable.
War, he mused, was as timeless as the sea and stars, an unending struggle for power, control, and survival. He was as intimate with war as any lover, a black-eyed raven called Death. The ravages of war scoured the world, piled with the corpses of nations, crumbling monuments to the victors, and graveyards of armies.
Roots dangled from the ceiling and snagged in his long black hair. He pushed forward, limping. The long tunnel opened into a chamber filled with rubble and cold silence. Two stone coffins lay undisturbed. Dust and soil blanketed their lids.
He brushed one clean, revealing more of the hieroglyphs. Were they names or titles? No one remained to care. He shoved the lid aside. Stale air spiced with rot and earth assailed him. Inside, a corpse lay wrapped in ancient linens, square silver coins covering its empty eyes.
He took the coins. The dead had no use for silver, and he owed no reverence to ghosts.
If there’d been treasure, someone else had already taken it. Maybe someday, someone would rob his tomb if he even earned one. More likely, he would die screaming on some forgotten field, bled out and broken, bones picked clean by carrion.
He left the tomb. A shaft of moonlight guided him out. He rose from the earth like a newborn, shaking snow and dirt from his limbs. He found the road and kept walking. He would not stop until he reached that town.
It should’ve been spring, but March neared its end, and the cold still ruled. The ice and cold had choked the land and its people with a relentless hand, leaving tables bare and futures uncertain.
Above, the moon hung a quarter full. Stars burned cold and bright. The constellations known as the Watchers maintained their never-ending gaze upon Loreth, glimmering in their endless vigil: the Weaver, the Trickster, the Tower, the Star, and the Serpent. Some called them omens, signs of fate, or warnings. He called them nonsense.
Only two mattered: the Rider and Death.
A long howl jolted him from his trance-like march, but he paid it little mind until the call was answered. They were hunting, and he was likely the prey. Be it blight or famine, even the predators became prey as beasts, monsters, and men fought for survival. Meat was life, after all, and blood was as wine. From the trees, a large grey wolf watched him, golden eyes hungry.
Kane stared back, his own eyes twin embers beneath a furrowed brow.
In the arenas of Cho’Ghoma and Droman Kass, the crowds had chanted his name: “Blood-eyes! Blood-eyes! Blood-eyes!” They cheered while he carved flesh and shattered bone. They loved him until he could no longer sate even their bloodlust.
That life belonged to another man, a mask molded by his adoptive father, a man he would see scoured by sun and sand, stripped to the bone beneath a desert sky if fate proved kind.
The forest gave way to snow-covered fields and shuttered homes. Kane hurried past, heading for the town of White Fang nestled below the icy waterfalls that gave it its name. Flickering lanterns danced above the eastern gatehouse, guiding him to the wooden palisade.
He hammered on the side door until a small window scraped open. A young guard in thick furs and an open-faced helm peered out, scowling.
“It’s after dark. No entry,” he snapped, clearly annoyed at having to leave the warmth of the guard shack.
“Open up.”
“Come back at Dawn; till then, piss off!” the guard growled, slamming the window shut.
Kane pounded harder. “Open the gate, damn you!”
The window slid open again. “What business makes you worth risking my arse?”
“Warm food. A warm bed,” Kane shouted over the howling wind.
Another slam. Silence. Then, after a pause, a different voice answered.
“Name?”
“Kane.”
“How long you staying?”
“One night.”
The window shut again. This time, the door creaked open. Kane stepped inside without hesitation, brushing past both guards. His shoulder clipped the younger man hard enough to make him stumble.
“Watch it, cur, or we’ll toss you right back out!” the boy snapped, hand already on the hilt of his sword. When Kane didn’t slow, he drew steel with a hiss.
That stopped Kane. He paused, turning a weary eye to the would-be corpse. A sword doesn’t make one a man, and this fool’s eagerness would see him to an early grave.
“I got your attention now, yeah?” the youth sneered.
The older guard swept the boy’s legs out from under him with his spear, dropping him into the snow.
The young man blinked up at his superior in disbelief. “What the...?”
“Quiet, boy,” the old guard muttered. “That one could split you from nose to navel without blinking. Now go, check the oil.”
Grumbling, the boy sheathed his sword and trudged off.
“The ignorance of youth,” the gray-beard quoted.
White Fang slumbered beneath two feet of snow. The streets empty. Mud-brick homes with thatched roofs exhaled faint wisps of smoke as the townsfolk burrowed beneath pelts and blankets, safe from the wild.
At the heart of the village stood an inn, three stories tall. The lower half was red stone while the upper levels were wood painted bright yellow. A sign above the door creaked in the wind: a flexing arm clutching a white dagger. The Fang’s Blade welcomed all, even men like him.
Kane pushed through the door and into warmth. He shook the snow from his shoulders, then made his way to the bar, worn smooth with use, polished by time and elbow grease.
A portly woman behind the counter slid him a mug of steaming ale.
“What can I get you, hun?” she asked. She tied her greying hair back in a loose bun, and her voice carried more kindness than suspicion, though her eyes watched his every move. Travelers like Kane always meant trouble, running from something or toward it.
He drained the drink in one long pull. Spiced heat chased the chill from his bones, and foam clung to his beard. “Food. Room,” he said, each word slow, heavy with exhaustion.
“Two silver.”
He placed the pair of square coins marked with a sunburst on the counter.
She hissed and stepped back, tracing a warding symbol in the air. “Where’d you… No, never mind. I don’t want to know.”
Kane shrugged and returned the coins to his pouch, setting down two others instead.
The woman picked them up, weighed them on a brass scale, then disappeared into the kitchen without another word.
Kane rested his elbows on the bar. At last, warmth. Shelter. And maybe, just maybe, sleep without dreams.
Kane unwrapped the yellow scarf from his neck, pushed back his wolf’s hood, and took stock of the room. A few guests sat scattered throughout the common hall, passing the time with dice, cards, or dog-eared books. None offered more than a sidelong glance.
White Fang saw travelers often: merchants, wanderers, and exiles. To them, he was just another face, a nameless man weighed down by road dust and his troubles.
At one table, a halfling dressed in fine furs and silks spoke with his two companions: a grim-faced soldier and a dark-haired woman whose placid smile masked her boredom. She nodded along to their talk of distant wars and shifting borders, though her eyes wandered.
In the rear corner, he saw an elven man with long moon-silver hair reading by candlelight. His pale blue skin identified him as a moon elf. Across from him lay slumped a dwarven woman. Her twin braids were intertwined with beads and ended in gold rings. She snored, drool pooling near her cheek, amid a cluster of empty tankards.
The innkeeper returned, setting down a steaming bowl of potato stew and a thick slice of bread.
“Here you go. Will you be staying just for the night?”
Kane tore into the bread and answered with a mouth half full, “Till the storm passes.”
She nodded, took an iron key from a hook behind the bar, and placed it before him. The wooden tag read “5,” painted in chipped black ink.
“I’ll send up hot water and towels. There’s a washroom with a deep tub if you care for a bath.”
Before he could reply, the front door banged open, ushering in a bitter wind and flurries of snow.
A young woman stepped through, wrapped in a green cloak lined with rabbit fur. Snow clung to her thick wool dress as she dragged a small sled behind her, its wicker baskets bundled with herbs, roots, and vials sealed in wax, medicines, and remedies.
