torg 01 - Storm Knights

Book One

Storm Knights

by Bill Slavicsek and C.J. Tramontana

Book Two

The Dark Realm

by Douglas Kaufman

Book Three

The Nightmare Dream

by Jonatha Ariadne Caspian

Book One

Storm Knights

by Bill Slavicsek and C.J. Tramontana

• Prologue: The Near Now
  
• Gather the
  
• Storm Knights
  
• Epilogue
  

Prologue: The Near Now

Later today, early tomorrow, sometime next week, the world began to end

When
they
chased you, you ran. And if you were a step too slow, or if you twisted an ankle and went sprawling in the hot sand, then you were dead.

Correction. If
they
chased you, you were dead already. It was only a matter of time before your heart stopped pumping and your blood ran red to stain the ground where you fell.

The young man with the light brown skin knew none of this. He simply ran. Faster and faster beneath the gathering clouds until his side hurt and his chest pounded. He had no thought as to where he was running to, just as long as it was away. Away from the horror behind him, away from the atrocity that his mind wished it had never seen.

He ran until each stride sent waves of pain through his body. And still he kept moving, although now the run became a trot. Then a fast walk. Then a shuffle. And then the young man had to stop. Only for a moment, he told himself as he collapsed in the sand. Just to catch his breath.

His eyes closed as exhaustion overtook him. After running most of the night and through the early morning, even fear could not keep it at bay. So, in the hot sand, under the hot sun, mere yards from the lapping waves, the young man slept. He didn't notice the passing minutes, didn't stir as the dark clouds moved in and blocked out the sun. He never heard the terrible wings that flapped closer, never felt the foul breeze of their approach.

But he felt the weight that pressed down on his back, and that jarred him back to consciousness. The young man opened his eyes and tried to rise, but the weight held him fast. He could hear heavy breathing above him, could smell a foul stench that burned its way up his nose and into his lungs. He coughed and his eyes watered. As the young man blinked away his tears, he saw a figure approaching from out of the jungle.

The figure was tall, gaunt, skeleton thin. From the young man's angle, looking up from the sand and through watering eyes, the figure appeared exaggerated, as though seen in a fun house mirror. The figure wore a long black coat and a tall black hat, but seemed unaffected by the humid heat. A shoulder cape billowed as he strode forward, casually swinging an ornate walking cane. His crisp steps stopped a few feet from the young man's face, a face which was reflected in the figure's shiny black boots.

The tall figure knelt down, resting his cane across his knees. He smiled at the young man, and his gaunt features stretched even thinner, revealing a skeletal visage beneath the broad rim of his hat.

"You led us on a merry chase, young man," the Gaunt Man said, speaking clearly in the young man's language. At least, the young man heard it as his language. "But like all stormers, you became tired, careless. Never any real challenge at all, you must admit."

"Let me up and I'll show you a challenge, thin man!" the young man said, forgetting his fear for a moment.

The weight on the young man's back pressed down, and something sharp and pointed cut through his shirt and pierced the surface of his skin. He bit back a scream of pain, trying to ignore the hot stickiness spreading across his back.

"No, my pet, not yet," cautioned the Gaunt Man as he rose to his full height.

He turned in place with his arms outstretched, taking in great gulps of air. "Smell the possibilities in the air!" the Gaunt Man exclaimed. "Oh, this world is rich! I have chosen well this time, my pet, very well indeed."

Then he spun again, and his visage changed. Anger filled his cold eyes, and for a moment the young man saw that his finery was ragged and moth eaten. But then the head of his cane was shoved toward the young man's face.

"What should I do with you, stormer?" the Gaunt Man asked. The cane twirled dangerously close, and the young man could see the carved dragon head spinning before his eyes. The dragon held something firmly in its toothy maw, a strange and beautiful gem of some sort, filled with swirls of blue and red. Then the Gaunt Man pulled it away, and his finery was perfect again. "Perhaps the machine would suit you, stormer. Yes, the machine."

"What are you afraid of, thin man?" asked the young man. "Do I scare you?"

The Gaunt Man did not answer. He simply stepped back and smashed his cane into the sand.

Then the weight on the young man's back shifted and he felt the claws. Sharp, tearing, eager claws. His eyes snapped wide when the ripping began, full of fear and pain and light. He noticed, rather detachedly, that a bright splash of red stained the Gaunt Man's polished black boots.

The light in the stormer's eyes faded slowly as the rain began to fall. But the ripping continued for a long, long time.

Gather the

Clouds

I watched the dark clouds

gather I saw them fill the sky I felt the waves of thunder The lightning didn't lie ...

— Eddie Paragon

There isn't always a silver lining hiding behind a dark cloud. Sometimes what's back there is much, much

worse.

Quin Sebastian

In his third-floor, walk-up apartment on Flatbush Avenue, Mario Docelli cursed loudly. He looked out the window at the darkening sky. There was a storm coming, no doubt about it. But maybe it would have the common courtesy to wait until the ball game was over. No way, he decided. The storm clouds were so black that it was like night outside. Great! On Opening Day, too!

He flipped on his radio and hunted for the all-news station, hoping for a weather report. He twisted the dial this way and that, fighting to hear through the static. Damn, the static was bad today!

"... around the world ... with Indonesia ..."

That's it, Docelli thought, tuning in the reporter's voice as best he could.

"Repeating our lead story, all communications with Indonesia have ceased," said the calm news voice coming out of Docelli's radio. "An American satellite tracking station noted the occurrence quietly, expecting communications to resume after IndoCon Sat Three was realigned. But now other countries are reporting that the satellite is working perfectly, or it would be if there were any signals for it to relay. As far as radio waves, phone lines, microwaves, and all forms of electronic communication are concerned, Bali has ceased to exist. As have Sumatra, Java, Borneo, Celebes, the Moluccas and all of the islands of the Malay Archipelago. We switch now to Arthur Cross in Australia. Arthur ."

A new voice spoke from the radio. "No messages blurted from fax machines this morning. No radio or television signals bounced off orbiting satellites. Nothing was transmitted from the part of the world we call Indonesia except ominous silence ."

"Who cares," Docelli said angrily as he switched off the radio. "You can't even get a decent weather report in this town anymore. Ah, maybe they'll get in a couple of innings at least."

Docelli opened a can of beer, cradled a bowl of popcorn in his left arm, and sat in his favorite chair. He hunted momentarily for the remote, found it on the chair cushion beneath him, and aimed it at the silent television.

"Let's play ball," he whispered as he pointed and clicked the remote, bringing the television to life.

2

Police Officer Rick Alder would remember Opening Day for the rest of his life. The moment was caught in his mind like some foul taste that couldn't be rinsed away. He was assigned to crowd control duty outside Shea Stadium, on his horse direct from the police stables in New York's Flushing Meadows Park.

Overhead, the sky was growing increasingly darker as it filled with bloated black clouds. Alder was certain that he would be drenched before the day was out, and

had even looked forward to a light turn out for the game. But no such luck; the fans were filing in by the thousands, an almost endless line of bodies flowing down from the Number Seven line and out of the filled parking lots. They were all here to watch Walter "The Truth" Jones throw the first pitch of the new baseball season, to witness David "Sky-High" Glass belt his first homerun. And while Officer Alder loved the Mets as much as the next New Yorker, he would much rather be at home with the millions of other fans, watching from the comfort of his home with a cold beer in one hand and a hot dog in the other, than atop a horse in a sea of excited humanity.

Inside the stadium, Alder could hear the grandstands fill to capacity. It was a sound like no other, loud, a constant murmur welling toward an explosion that would accompany the introduction of the home team.

Overhead, a bolt of lightning cut the sky. Beneath him, Alder's horse became skittish, and it took more effort than usual to control the animal. As a matter of fact, the horse had been tense all day, as though it sensed the coming storm. "Hang on, Simone," he whispered soothingly, "those clouds scare me, too."

Alder tried to turn his attention back to the stadium and its familiar noises. He could hear the vendors as they moved through the packed tiers and rows, each hawking his wares in his own special way. Some were showmen, flamboyantly tossing their bags of peanuts and good naturedly rushing the passage of crumpled, sweaty dollar bills as they were passed from hand to hand, from buyer to seller. Some were clowns, dispensing banter and beer with a flip turn of phrase and filled paper cup. Some were priests, solemnly handing out the mustard-splashed hot dog sacraments of this American rite of spring. Some just wanted to do their jobs and go home. Alder smiled. He could identify with that sentiment.

The police officer navigated his mount toward the open portion of the stadium. From there he could look over the fence and see the crowds. He was too far away to see more than a sea of milling, swaying bodies, but he imagined the fans smiling and waving, jostling and joking. He imagined them sweating in the afternoon humidity, just as he was, waiting for the game to start.

The energy was tangible, and even from his spot outside, Alder felt the almost-religious fervor. He knew by the subtle change in the roar that the guest singer was walking out to perform the National Anthem. It was that young rock star Eddie Paragon, teen idol and music video superstar. The crowd cheered, then momentarily calmed and quieted as Paragon stepped up to the microphone half way between home plate and the pitcher's mound. There was a pause, and Alder imagined the young man scanning the crowd. Then he began to sing. Alder listened as Paragon's rich voice echoed from the stadium loud speakers, proclaiming the virtues of our star-spangled banner. He ended well, perhaps better than most, on those high, awkward notes that are such an integral part of the anthem. Then the roar of the crowd resumed, louder, more frenzied than before. It was crazy, it was exciting, and Alder could feel himself getting caught up in the moment.