Chapter 1
Call of the Bloodstone
Heart of Darkness
Book Three
Written by B. Powell
“Whoever claims war is easy is either a fool or a weapons dealer, for war only profits them and the crows.” —Erom of Dem’shar.
Chapter One
“Boy, get a move on!” barked Tam’s father, a weathered man in a heavy cloak and sheepskin jerkin.
Tam dug his heels into his bay mare, pushing to keep pace with his brothers as they drove forty horses over the snow-crusted hills toward Dunford Keep. The sun was sinking behind the Desert Wall Mountains in the east, shadows stretching long across the land. A blighted wind stung his cheeks with frozen dust and carried the musk of the herd into his nose.
He dreamed of cavalry banners and shining armor, not herding stock like his father and four older brothers. But he was only fourteen. Two years still. Two long years.
Hooves churned the earth, snorts clouded the air with mist. Two fucking years.
“Come out of the clouds, Skydancer,” teased Bairn, riding up on his chestnut. His beard was already full at twenty; Tam still needed but shave his face maybe once a week.
“Laugh it up. You may be happy playing shepherd, but I want more from life.”
Bairn’s teeth flashed. “Happy not getting iron shoved through my guts by some pike-boy.”
Dunford Keep rose dark on the horizon, its towers stark against the red-gold light. Tam couldn’t yet see the banners, the blue stallions on crimson bars, but his chest swelled at the thought of one day riding beneath them.
Two fucking years.
Then the shadow fell.
It swept over them like a curtain, blotting out the sun. The ground exploded as something vast crashed before them, throwing horses and men into chaos. Out of the storm of dirt and stone loomed a cobalt blue dragon, wings spread so wide the sky itself seemed torn away.
It turned with impossible speed, jaws yawning wide, fangs long as swords. A white fire gathered deep in its throat. Then came the crack, thunder made flesh, blue lightning scouring the earth, boiling horses where they stood.
Tam’s mare screamed, reared, and flung him to the ground. His sight seared white, then went black.
He woke to pain. His leg burned, his skull rang, and a wet crunching filled the air.
The dragon sat before him, chewing lazily, a horse clutched in its claw. Blood spilled down in torrents, steaming on the snow. It tossed back its enormous head and swallowed, reins dangling from its teeth.
Then its gaze fell on him, an eye vast as a shield, a pool of golden sapphire and slitted like a cat’s. Warmth spread down Tam’s legs.
“Bravery,” the dragon rumbled, “it seems is a lost art, a bygone relic.”
Beside Tam stood an onyx sword, driven point-first into the earth. Its hilt was a spine, its cross guard a dragon’s skull, and violet runes shimmered like wounds across the massive blade. A tattered ribbon attached to the amethyst orb on the pommel, the color of blood, danced in the wind.
Next to the blade lay half an orc. A twisted mask of pain still clung to her face. On her hand, a silver ring glinted.
An oily whisper coiled through Tam’s skull: “Master your fear. Take hold. Become the man you dream of. Take vengeance.”
A vision of him clad in golden plate, a gleaming silver lance in hand as he rode the dragon through the sky, filled his mind’s eye.
“Go on,” growled the dragon. “Take it.”
Tam could not move, nor could he tear his eyes from the ring and orc.
Take it, go on, take it! He screamed, yet he saw the horrified visage upon her face and trembled.
“Ah, a coward,” said another voice.
Tam’s head snapped up.
A moon elf stood there, pale skin, hair blue-black as midnight, beard and mustache oiled to sharp points. His eyes blazed the same sapphire as the dragon’s, cold as deep water, flecked with golden arcs of lightning. But no dragon.
He knelt, ripped the orc’s finger free, and slid the ring onto his own. The black stone pulsed with veins of violet light.
“Such a small thing,” he murmured. “The power to bend wills and break armies. The blood of a god. The gift of Exldir.”
Ricard Tont flexed his hand; his left ring finger was gone. He bit the stump open and pressed the severed orc digit into place. A cold glow sealed it to his flesh.
“What is broken may be forged anew,” he said.
He tore the onyx blade from the earth, admiring its shadow-forged edge. “The Fang of Shadows. Forged to slay light itself. Lost for ages, feared by its makers. Now it’s mine.”
“The key,” hissed the Bloodstone. “The key, the key, the key!”
Ricard smiled. “Yes. The way is open. The path is clear. Destiny waits. No king, no hero will stop me.”
His gaze found Tam, trembling in the dirt. Fear, or awe, froze the boy’s face.
Then Bairn came screaming, sword raised, crashing into Ricard with all the fury of despair. “Run, Tam!”
Steel clashed, sparks flying. For a heartbeat, hope lived. Bairn’s blade sank deep into Ricard’s chest.
“Bastard!” Bairn spat. “Whoreson!”
But Ricard only grinned. He seized Bairn by the throat and pushed the Fang of Shadows up to its skull-shaped cross guard, through his gut, inch by inch.
“No!” Tam wailed.
“Brave,” Ricard whispered. “A shame you lack his courage, Tam.”
The blood-slick runes flared with dark power, and Bairn screamed as blood oozed from his mouth while his shadow broke free to whirl around the two men, stretching and becoming a spinning ring until it drew into the blade.
Bairn hung limp, transfixed on the monstrous blade, mouth agape, eyes bulging, still, glossy, dead.
Ricard pulled the Fang of Shadows free and tossed the man’s body to the blood-soaked ground in a heap, discarded as refuse.
He turned back to Tam, who lay with tears streaking his face, “When they come, and they will, tell them I await in Cho’Ghoma.”
He threw the sword high and, in the space of a blink, the dragon reappeared to snatch the shadowy blade out of the air. Spreading his wings with a snap, he pumped them, sending up a blinding flurry of snow, and lifted off, leaving Tam to his grief.
Mialdrarien soared over the Desert Wall on sapphire wings, the Fang of Shadows in his teeth, the sand-swept wastes of Cho’Ghoma stretching out before him. In the distance, at the heart of the desert, the black disk of Uthyltabar hung above the G’Berra Crater, a remnant of the Quishon Empire, returned after ten thousand years.
***
Above Brightwater, within the shadowed stacks of Issen’s library, Elise and Liana sifted through brittle tomes and dust-caked manuscripts, chasing some forgotten scrap that might return Kane to life. Page after page spoke only of the vampire’s curse, its anatomy, its hungers, its birth in darkness, and a hundred ways to unmake the creature. None offered what they sought.
Two days had passed since the siege of Brightwater. While the city dug graves and repaired the damage wrought by Ricard’s minions, the pair lost themselves in parchment and ink, leaving Jandar and Siora to prowl the ruined outskirts for any stragglers. What few monsters remained were starving or broken, and the only mercy offered to them was a swift death.
They dragged one crippled, mewling goblin to the dungeons below the keep, where Kane lay chained. The guard on watch stiffened, hand drifting to his sword.
“What’s this? What’re ye doing?” demanded the dwarven guard.
“Be gone,” Jandar rumbled, shoving the man’s hand off his hilt. “We’ve business with him. Go, I won’t tell you again.”
The guard wavered, then thrust the keys into Jandar’s palm and stalked away. Jandar unlocked the iron-bound door and pulled it open with a rusty whine.
Kane looked up from the shadows, chains rattling. His voice was rough stone grinding. “What the fuck do you want?”
Siora shoved the goblin forward, her grip iron on its scruff. “A meal. We cannot have you wasting away before Elise and Liana find a way to fix this.”
His lip curled back over his fangs. “I don’t need your pity. Loose me, and I’ll hunt my own prey.”
Jandar bent, testing the chains, pressing a hand against the stake hammered through his chest. His voice was low. “We can’t let that happen. Ricard’s still out there. We need you to finish the bastard.”
“I nearly had him,” Kane snarled.
“With Kyrdurissiag’s help,” Siora cut in, sharp as a knife. “And that black blade. Neither of which you have now. We fight together or we die alone.”
Jandar said nothing more. Siora held the squealing goblin upside down over Kane, and Jandar slit the creature’s throat with a brutal twist, hot blood spilling over Kane’s face. For an instant, Kane jerked back, straining against the thirst that clawed his insides. Hunger crushed restraint, and he drank deeply, the chains rattling with each pull of stolen life.
Jandar watched Kane sate his thirst. We’ll break this curse, he vowed in the quiet of his mind. We owe him that much.
***
Seated before Baroness Kriscyne, widow of Baron Ralitar Sarran, still veiled in black, were the four surviving landlords. The other five had been lost with their baronies and the countless souls who had depended on them for protection. Among the survivors sat Lord Nothwick, the same man who had once schemed to oust Ralitar. Ricard had toyed with his ambition, manipulating him in hopes of throwing Brightwater into chaos.
Now, Nothwick and the others sat in stunned silence, reeling from the revelation that Ricard was no mere lord but a blue dragon, his true designs yet unrevealed. Kriscyne, meanwhile, kept to herself what she knew: that Ricard had taken perverse delight in the blade Kane unearthed from the lost Ur’razi temple. The vampire could only guess at its significance, but she would not burden the lords with that knowledge. Better to wait until Chalia Yllayran’s capture, when she might learn the full measure of their betrayal.
Kriscyne longed to scold the lords for their cowardice, but venom would only drive them further from her. What she needed was their obedience, not their enmity.
“Gold will come when I can release it,” she said at last, her voice steady, regal. “None shall go hungry nor unprotected. The orc and goblin hordes show no sign of regrouping, nor do the night elves. I will offer you sanctuary until I can provide what you need for your safety.” She gestured to the man beside her, a man with striking handsomeness, sandy hair, and amber eyes. “And with Lord Kyrd to aid us, Ricard and his allies will think twice before striking.”
The bronze dragon, in human form, inclined his head. “I am committed until the fall. Should they test me, I will send them screaming back to the Pit.”
None dared argue. Each knew Kyrd could abandon them to their fate with ease, leaving their people to suffer while they cowered in fear. Best not to test his resolve.
The meeting ended swiftly; both parties had much yet to do. Kriscyne granted her blessing for the lords to buy whatever provisions they required, free of added tax, so long as they fetched them themselves.
On her way to find Ednan and press him on the hunt for the traitorous Chalia, Kriscyne paused in the library. Candle stubs guttered in thick wax, half-eaten dinners lay forgotten, and Elise slept curled beneath her cloak on a couch.
“Any closer to saving your friend?” Kriscyne whispered.
Liana dropped a heavy tome onto an already daunting stack and leaned back with a groan, her spine cracking. “Nay. It’s all rubbish. I’ve come to three choices, and only one makes sense: kill him, then raise him.”
Kriscyne’s brow arched. “And the others?”
“Find a cleric strong enough for a resurrection or a mage to grant a wish. Neither’s likely here. Those gifted enough don’t sit idle in Brightwater.” She sipped at her long-cold tea with a weary grimace.
Kriscyne skimmed a grisly scroll describing a vampire’s autopsy and quickly set it aside, stomach turning. She could still admire their resolve to save Kane.
“I will send for Aluharad Stozohr; mayhap he can lend his aid; he owes us for sparing his home.”
“Truly? He be better than good!”
“Of course,” Kriscyne offered with a slight smile. “What you and your companions have done here is beyond reproach, and whatever aid I can offer will be but a pittance to what is owed.”
Liana yawned, her jaw creaking, “Ugh, what a mess.” Kane, a bloody vampire, Brightwater in ruin, and more than enough dead to choke all the crows in Augusta.”
“And Ricard?”
“Kane comes first,” Liana snapped. “The blue bastard after. Elise’s rod shows him flying north and east, which be fine by me.”
“Where do you think he goes?”
“If me knowledge of blues holds, and I’ve no reason it don’t, he be headin’ to Cho’Ghoma, to lick his wounds. Kane won’t like that.”
“Why?”
“Because it do be his homeland. He left it, hates it, though he’s never said why. Maybe Maerda knew, but he’s gone now, slain by Pyter.”
“Ah. The battle at your abbey. Speak no more of it.” Kriscyne rose. “Take your rest. The coming days will be challenging. Strong bodies and clear minds will serve you better than frayed nerves.”
“Aye, m’lady,” Liana yawned, stretching again.
Kriscyne left them to their labors and went to Ednan’s chambers. At her knock, she heard chanting, then a curse.
“Come in,” the wizard muttered, his voice heavy with weariness.
The room was chaos, scrolls, books, reagents, and potions strewn across every surface.
“How fares the work?” Kriscyne asked. The wizard’s gray robes looked rumpled, as if he had slept in them. Dark bags were under his eyes, his hair greasy and tousled; the reek of an unwashed body, alchemical reagents, and pungent compounds burned her eyes.
Frustrated, Ednan shoved away from his tall scrying mirror, the silvery surface smoothing to glass, and waved her to a chair. She declined politely. If she sat, she wouldn’t make it to bed.
“Ricard’s spells must be strong,” Ednan murmured. “I’ve known Chalia for years. Never once did I suspect her of being capable of treachery. Who knows what commands he’s sunk into her mind? She was privy to every secret we held.”
He rubbed at his temples. “My skill is nothing beside Ricard’s. But I won’t surrender her to his will. If you can send me Gheteda or Brintly, either of these priestesses would be helpful. Better still, a mage stronger than I.”
“I will summon them both at once. As for a better mage, I know none here, but I will find one, perhaps Aluharad Stozohr?”
“Stozohr,” Ednan scoffed, “that fucking clown would sooner start a fire than raise his maypole if he rubbed for a week.”
Kriscyne laid a hand on his shoulder. “Rest, my friend. We are all in need of it.”
Ednan picked up a vial from his workbench and shook it, causing the crystal-blue liquid within to swirl. “A potion for sleep, if you’d take it.”
Kriscyne let out a quiet laugh. “If I do, they may find me snoring in the hall before I reach my bed.”
“Cheers,” he popped the cork and drained it.
She left the wizard to rest and went to her bed.
So much undone, so many lives ground to ash by one will. Not a man’s will, but a dragon’s, cold and vast, to whom mortal breath was nothing. Among the dead lay her beloved Ralitar. His life ended for what? A black sword? The towers of Issen? The thought clawed at her, senseless and cutting, and the ache only deepened.
***
The morning broke warm, promising hope. Elise and Liana had decided the course and now stood with Siora and Jandar in Kane’s cell. At their feet, the vampire slept, pale and still, their friend, a monster true.
“We’ve but one choice left,” Liana said, lifting her voice above the heavy silence. “Kill him, and bring him back.”
She raised a slender gold rod. An angelic woman in prayer formed its head. “Lady Sarran sent us this, a Rod of the Priestess.”
Jandar offered his friend a steady smile. “We’re with you. Tell us what you need.”
Elise drew out a clay jar. Inside sloshed a shimmering liquid. “Garlic, silver shavings, and blessed water. Enough to kill him instantly. The rest will be up to us.”
“Then you have my hand,” Siora said with a grave nod.
“Hold his mouth open,” Elise instructed, handing Jandar a funnel.
Siora seized Kane’s head. The vampire’s scarlet eye snapped open, burning with sudden fury. “What’re you doing!?” He roared, straining against the chains that held him captive.
Jandar forced the iron funnel between Kane’s teeth, and Elise poured the concoction in. Kane writhed and convulsed, a strangled scream twisting into silence as true death claimed him.
Siora and Jandar stepped back after he pulled the stake from Kane’s heart. Liana and Elise knelt on either side of him, each taking hold of the rod and touching it to his chest, their voices steady as they chanted: ”Mesh’teen, cuthel, og’hedet, tov, decot’al...” while she and Elise wove threads of magic into the scepter.
A soft radiance bloomed, spilling from the rod into his lifeless body.
Priestess, guide him, he be in ye hands now.
***
Death claimed him at last. Every mile of his life had led here, each step a trial, each breath a test.
The Graylands spread in a monotone haze, a desolate plain of swirling mist. Cold fog curled around his knees; above, a sky of churning ash moaned like a wounded beast. Wraiths drifted past, their shapes half-formed, all drawn toward a glittering spire of crystal—the Tower of Justice. Kane felt the same pull and let it take him. No fear. He knew the weight of his deeds: the lives ended, the worst sins unspoken. No guilt. No anger. Only the certainty of damnation.
The tower speared the heavens, ringed by a wall of faces that wailed without breath. He passed through the legs of an ivory knight, a sword in one gauntlet, a balanced scale in the other, eyes of fire burning through the visor. Kane joined the slow line of shades.
When his turn came, a skeletal judge in black robes peered down, twin flames flickering in its skull. It turned the page of the immense tome on its lectern. “Who is it you call patron?” the dry voice rasped.
“I bow to no man,” Kane growled.
“All bow to someone,” intoned the arbiter, “it is a matter of who.”
“No,” Kane said with defiance, fists clenched, “I served once, and what did it earn me? Nothing. All I had was taken, my loyalty rewarded with pain, loss, and ash.”
“Then you will dwell within the Wall of the Faithless.”
A silver-armored usher approached, black chain in hand. Kane backed away. Another usher closed in. He lunged, shoving the first aside, but cold metal snapped around his neck. The chain yanked tight, dragging him forward.
The ushers hauled him to the wall of screaming faces. Kane fought, but the wall pulled him in, swallowing his limbs, fusing him until only his face remained. Around him, the damned pleaded, cursed, begged. Demons came now and then to rip a soul free to grow their ranks in the Pit of Karthyn.
For the first time, fear took him—raw, hopeless. Was this to be his fate? Left to rot here, or worse, to be stolen and remade as a foul demon, his life lost forever?
He had run from life itself: from endless war, from loss and ruin. He felt no remorse for the atrocities of his boyhood, where they impaled men and women, dashed babes upon the rocks, and stole children to grow the army. There were only two choices given to him: fight or die.
The children would be given a concoction mixed with Nhib Yanzif as they had the highest chance of survival. The cursed fruit bled away all past and self, leaving them either blank slates, berserk and insane, or dead.
Sheik Al-Zaidee Sul Sulandrel the Mad sent the warped children to butcher his dissenters, an army of loyal monsters, given unnatural strength, endurance, and made fearless.
It wasn’t for his own sins that sorrow struck him, but for those he failed to save—Maerda, his blood-brother Zaki, his blood-sister Kemah, and gentle Aasiya.
Aasiya’s face bloomed before him: golden skin, dark hair spilling like ink, blue eyes bright as polished jewels. “I love you,” she whispered, voice honey-soft, lips like rose petals. “My shield, my heart. Never will we be apart.”
“Never,” he swore. “Never.”
Yet he had lost her, as he had lost Maerda and Kemah.
Maerda came to him next, fierce and trembling, her kiss rough, desperate. “I… I don’t want to be alone,” she breathed, a plea edged with terror.
Ricard had escaped judgment, but Kane remained—bound by his own unyielding hatred, chained in the place reserved for those without a patron, those barred from any god’s realm and left to repent.
He screamed. The sound vanished into the endless wails of the damned.
