Storm Knights.pdf

™

The Possibility Wars

created by Greg Gorden and Bill Slavicsek

They have come from other cosms,

other realities, raiders joined together to

accomplish one goal — to steal the

awesome energy of Earth’s possibilities!

This spectacular epic of adventure,

magic, and high technology is set on a

reality-torn Earth — an Earth warped

into someplace else . Don’t miss any of

the volumes in the Possibility Wars saga!

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

Note to Our Readers

This PDF version of the Storm Knights novel was created from the original electronic files. The interior

illustrations were left out and the book was reformatted to reduce file size, page count, and production time (the

images do not have electronic counterparts). Typographical errors have not been fixed. This electronic document

is provided as an relatively inexpensive means for people to get the original content from a popular book now

long out of print.

If you received a copy of this file from a friend and would like to support the publishing efforts of West End

Games, please send US$2.50 via PayPal (https://www.paypal.com/) to d6lweg@yahoo.com.

For more information about Torg and other West End Games products, please visit our Web site at

www.westendgames.com

Cover Art by Daniel Horne

Graphic Design by Bernadette J. Cahill

and Stephen Crane

PDF Layout by Nikola Vrtis

Series Edited by Bill Slavicsek

To Scott, Denise, and Rich for giving us

the chance to create a new world.

And to the rest of the Torg design team —

Greg Gorden, Doug Kaufman, Chris Kubasik,

Ray Winninger, Jonatha Caspian, Mike Stern

and Paul Murphy — because they made

it all come together.

STORM KNIGHTS

Book One of the Possibility Wars

A West End Book/May 1990

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material

herein is prohibited without the express written permission of West End Games.

TORG, THE POSSIBILITY WARS, STORM KNIGHTS, and WEST END GAMES are trademarks owned by Humanoids, Inc.

First Printing: May, 1990

PDF Version: November, 2002

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-70244

ISBN: 0-87431-301-5

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

West End Games

www.westendgames.com

Prologue:

The Near

Now

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 al-

ready. 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 morn-

ing, 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 pass-

ing 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 exagger-

ated, 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 bil-

lowed as he strode forward, casually swinging an or-

nate 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.”

Later today,

early tomorrow,

sometime next week,

the world began to end …

The Possibility Wars

“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, tak-

ing 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.

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 com-

ing out of Docelli’s radio. “An American satellite track-

ing 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 elec-

tronic communication are concerned, Bali has ceased to

exist. As have Sumatra, Java, Borneo, Celebes, the

Moluccas and all of the islands of the Malay Archi-

pelago. 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. Noth-

ing 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.

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

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

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