Blue: The Color Of Magic Book One.

By Tyler Stukenholtz

Europe, New World, 1720's.

Walking among people are wizards, who construct secret societies and perform secret missions to shape the course of history. In this world of sky pirates, magic, and mystery, thee lives are on a collision course. Meet...

Samuel Flint - A clever, wily blue-eyed wizard searching for the legendary source of all magic...

Alexander Adams - An orphaned teen who leaves London to seek adventure and purpose...

Mary Read - A vibrant yellow-eyed witch forced to maintain order...

In the sky and on the land in journeys stretching from Georgian England to the Pacific Northwest and from the pirate-infested Caribbean to where the Amazon and the Andes meet, their lives take fantastic turns as the colors of magic battle with one another.

Tyler Stukenholtz is a former Marine Corps sergeant and a long time fan of science fiction and fantasy novels. He completed his first book "Blue: The Color of Magic Book One" in the Okinawan jungle while on deployment. Before the military he grew up in southern Idaho, working for the family business in the potato industry. He currently lives in Boise Idaho with his wife Amy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tyler Stukenholtz
• Release date: Nov 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781736074909

Tyler Stukenholtz

Tyler Stukenholtz is a former Marine Corp Sergeant and a long time fan of science fiction and fantasy novels. He completed his first book "Blue: The Color of Magic Book One" in the Okinawan jungle while on deployment. Before the military he grew up in southern Idaho, working for the family business in the potato industry. He currently lives in Boise Idaho with his wife Amy.

Book preview

Blue:

The color of magic book one.

A novel by Tyler Stukenholtz

BLUE:

THE COLOR OF MAGIC BOOK ONE.

Copyright Tyler Stukenholtz, 2020

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television or online reviews, no portion of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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ISBN 978-1-7360749-0-9

Manufactured in the United States of America

First printing November 2020

Prologue

This will be four deaths I have wished upon your family. She spoke soft, a woman dark as the night around her, her face illuminated by the bowl of glowing white liquid held close to her chest, her long hair tossing in the warm Jamaican wind rolling up from the shore. Now you are here with your only bredrin. The woman paused to attempt to conceal a tear running down her cheek. I will not have the power to ask again. Maybe that is a blessing.

She dipped her head apologetically to the two hulking men that stood across from her. One with two bright red eyes that glowed like a demon hiding in the dark. The other with eyes of still gray stone, casting the image of a fearless statue.

Two men, one filled with fire and passion, blazing from the fury within his sole, the other stoic and unyielding, refusing to bend to the weight of the world. Neither spoke, both silently accepting the request.

The woman turned away. It seems all of the time in history is not enough. She knelt to feel the moist soil with her hand. It built up underneath her fingernails, as they scratched the earth. This has been a place of horrors for our people. But it is not the fault of this land. This island could be beautiful.

A dog howled in the distance. Soon it would be joined by many others and the clatter of men cutting their way through the thick foliage. I must flee now. My masterpiece will take years to finish. But I swear to you I will return. Faith without question or reason is a gift I cannot repay. The noises grew louder, accompanied by the bobbing lights of distant lanterns.

One of you, give them chase. The other, return to the fields and fight until your sole is relieved of this worlds pain. With that she slipped away into the underbrush.

The Englishmen fanned out as they crept toward the small campsite, lanterns held high in a futile attempt to drive away the shadows. The dogs barked and snarled, pulling at their leashes, the taste of their last kill still hot on their breath. The men shivered despite the warmth, instinct warning them of what their minds could not yet comprehend.

One man stood tall; his scared face contorted in a cruel grin. This man, a veteran of many battles, drove them forward. He was confident. Twenty men spread out before him, thirty more at his flanks, and twice that mustering in reserve. He pitied these cowards who trembled at shadows. Hunting men was a rare privilege.

Loose the hounds, he snarled. The dogs growled with joy, darting into the brush. They waited for the screams that were sure to follow. They steeled themselves for the sounds of tearing flesh and the snapping of bone. But all they heard was three small yips.

The scarred man frowned. Damn this dark, he muttered, cocking his pistol. The metallic click of the flintlock sounded like a bell chiming in the quite night. Years of hunting told him that there was something ahead of him. The men pulled in close, forming a half circle around him. With an outstretched pistol he scanned the brush.

Movement.

At first, he thought it was a shadow, but it moved like a man – a large man dark as the reaper himself. There! Fire! he shouted, pulling the trigger, as the shadowed man charged.

The pistol bucked in his hand, spraying fire and smoke into the dark. The lead ball sparked as if the shadow was made of steel. The other men opened fire, strobing the night with the light of their muskets. Sparks rained off of the dark man who could only be seen by the occasional silhouetting of a musket blast. Then came the sounds of frightened men dying.

The scarred English mercenary backed away, as he reloaded. The night was filled with smoke and erratic flashes of light. The sound of breaking bones and screaming wounded drowned out his orders. He shouted in vain, trying to organize his men.

A violent thunder cracked through the forest. For a moment, he thought it was a cannon firing. Then, an invisible force like a gust from a hurricane picked him off of his feet and threw him. He landed in a heap between two large trees. Struggling to his feet he realized his left leg was sticking out at an impossible angle. Warm blood ran down his shin and filled his shoe.

Frantic, he crawled through the dirt away from the fight. His pistol was gone so he reached for his spare, but his hand wouldn’t respond. A flash from a musket revealed a bloody stump where his right hand should be.

Somehow, he got to his feet and was able to draw his pistol with his off hand. Another cannon like crack and the tree he was leaning on shattered. Splinters tore through his jacket, then skin, then muscle. He saw it then, a pair of hellish red eyes floating in the dark. The Devil’s eyes.

He panicked and ran. The brush was thick, pulling at his injured leg. All pain was forgotten, the fear of the eternal torment of hell drove him forward. He ran as fast and as far as he could before his leg gave out, sending him tumbling to the ground.

In the distance, he could here other men shouting. Realization dawned on him and with it hope. The reserves were arriving. Sixty-armed militia were stomping through the forest toward the fighting. He tried to scream for help, but the words caught in his throat. The eyes were there again. This time brighter, casting a red glow on a dark man’s face.

The Englishman pointed his pistol at the sky and fired. A finale attempt to call help to him. The militia would only find a body. And a night filled with magic and monsters.

B1

The color flashed across the sky. A color that resembled nothing in our spectrum and is impossible to describe. Only in analogy could it be called a color. Wonderous to the eye and terrifying to the heart. All the world saw. - Translated from a Chinese scroll circa 5th century

Boston, May 1726

All words are made up. It was a thought that often fluttered through his mind and always made him chuckle. This time he was staring at a rickety wooden sign softly swinging over the door of a tavern. The tavern was called the Feisty Goat, or at least he believed that was the intended name. That sign actually read F.I.E.S.T.Y. goat. He wasn’t puzzled by the misspelling, rather he was deciding how it should be pronounced as written. Someone jostled passed him, bringing his mind back to more important matters.

The sour mud pulled back on his boots when stepped out of the street and into the building. He was met by a cacophony of noise and smells. Spilt liquor, sweat, and leftover seafood. Not a smell that many folks enjoyed, but Flint found it comforting. A simple New England fishing tavern. It was a low place, full of low people and at the height of its business hours.

He was Samuel Flint. A tall man with a lean and fit physique but marked with the ware of a hard life. A handsome face weathered by the sun and salt of the sea. Strong hands scarred and calloused. Straight teeth stained from ripping open powder cartridges. He was like an old oil painting of a prince, once pristine, now weathered and aged.

His eyes, on the other hand, were of a blue that the painter would have tried to capture and inevitably failed – vibrant and deep, preternaturally blue, betraying the sharp mind behind them.

Flint had his tricorne hat pulled down to block out the bright sunlight. When the hat was removed, blond hair tumbled down to his shoulders. A deep-set hangover was making the world spin and the hot stagnant air was of no relief, so he strode up to the bar and found a seat. Pulling a few loose coins out of his purse, he slid them to the woman behind.

Whiskey, he instructed.

The overweight woman with her breasts stuffed into an ill-fitting corset grinned at him and pored him the drink. She tried to say something, but they locked eyes and she simply turning away, flustered. Grinning, he slammed the drink back and breathed easy as the liquid numbed his headache and warmed his bones. He cast a glance around the room, intentionally putting on a casual appearance. Several of the bar flies where tossing him flirtatious looks. He ignored them and turned away, gesturing for another drink while he scratched day old whiskers on his chin.

Samuel Flint, at twenty-eight years of age, stood just at six foot and lean, yet others scooted their stools to make room for him. Unlike the common patrons of the Feisty Goat, he was not scarred or sickened. He still had all his teeth and none of smells associated with a fisherman. In every way he stood out in the room. He put in effort to cover his appearance, intentionally slouching to break his military breed posture and attempting to ignore every mannerism he had ever learned. But the affect was limited.

Flint was there to meet an important man for what may be the most important deal of his life. Yet, despite the importance of their business, the other man had not arrived. He was either hoping that Flint would over drink before the dealings, or that this behavior would intimidate him. Flint leaned back on the bar, forcing himself to relax. Everything hinged on staying relaxed.

Half an hour later, he was still leaning against the bar, nursing a drink, and losing his patience. He started to get angry at the insulting lack of hospitality, but frustration would render him unable to keep a clear head. And that may be by design. When dealing with Calico Jack Rackham, it is best to assume that everything is by design.

Two large men came down the stairs into the back of the main room. The pair of burly men looked straight at Flint across the crowd and put their hands on their weathered flintlock pistols. Flint returned his hat to his head and approached them.

Afternoon gentlemen, he said tipping his cap.

Jack is waiting upstairs. One of the two men growled.

Then lead the way my fine fellow. Flint flashed his best grin. He had always been told that he had a politician’s smile – a grin that, while obviously faked, put you at ease.

The two men led him up the stairs into a large room. The burlier and thus smellier of the two, patted him down. Flint rolled his eyes; he was not stupid enough to bring a weapon to this meeting. Before he stepped into the room, he cleared his mind and focused his thoughts, just the way he had trained.

Inside the room, a man sat behind a wood desk with another pair of armed men flanking him.

The Calico Jack Rackham, Flint beamed. A pleasure to meet you.

There should be a Captain in there somewhere. Jack replied.

Jack Rackham was a smaller man, thin, but with bright green eyes that commanded the room and thick curly black hair. Flint had heard that Jack Rackham was something of a dandy. But, from what he could tell, Jack simply understood proper hygiene. He was groomed as well as any man in his lifestyle could be. His thin sideburns and mustache emphasized his cheekbones making his face look even more angular. But the eyes, halos of green, peering back at you with the patient lethality of a hawk.

The term Calico did not seem to fit the man, as he was far removed from simple foreign fabrics. He wore a crème petticoat with a stylish bicorne hat that was at the height of fashion. Both the hat and the coat were accented with Ivory buttons and plenty of lace. He did not remove his hat, even after Flint introduced himself. The quickest way to spot a pirate, they never take off their hats. Rackham did not appear to be trying to maintain an image of innocence. His right ear was pierced with half a dozen gold bands, and he accessorized himself with several gold doubloons sewn to the neckerchief around his head.

As Flint approached, Jack locked eyes with him, twirling a large silver coin between his fingers. Jack’s eyes were a deep emerald green. For a moment, Flint forgot where he was and simply stared into Jack’s eyes. They seemed incredibly green, impossibly green.

Flint could feel the slightest sensation of another man’s thoughts probing his mind. He had felt this before, so he was prepared. He shut out his mind and thought hard about a single sentence. Get out of my head. His thought.

Jack backed down, and his eyes faded to a less inhuman emerald. Flint believed that if Jack fully accessed his power, he could read whatever he wanted from Flint’s conscious mind. But to do so would be obvious and damage a carefully cultivated image. After all, who would be comfortable making a deal with a man who was reading your mind? He would never be able to conduct business out of pure paranoia.

Flint and Jack shared an uncommon advantage over many people who held magic, both of their eyes matched their complexion. A good many powerful magic wielders would stick out with bright eyes of some obscure color such as Yellow or Red. Green and Blue wizards are able to, at the very least, pretend to be normal.

I don’t like this one Jack; his eyes are too blue, a dark-skinned man to Jack’s left growled.

Don’t be rude my friend, Jack replied.

The man drew his pistol and cocked back the hammer. He pointed it straight at Flint. I won’t stand for no blue eyes, can’t tell if they’re casting spells on you. The man almost shouted.

Calico Jack and Samuel Flint shared a smirk. Both silently laughing at the irony of the dark man’s complete misplacement of his distrust.

Put that damn pistol down, Jack ordered with a strong and firm voice, dipping his head so his hat covered his brow. The man obeyed but Flint noticed a brief flair of green light from behind the cap.

Flint absentmindedly scratched his whiskers again, with a fleeting fear that he had acquired lice.

Green wizards can access their magic to read the thoughts of others. Some can do the opposite and put thoughts into another’s head, tell them what they are thinking. The ability to do both was a very rare talent. Flint had to harden his resolve, he was committed and if he so much as thought about the truth, Jack might pick up on it.

Flint guarded his past carefully, sometimes at great expense, and it was all paying off at this moment. He had studied the magic and understood it more than most academics. A year in the top magic academy in Boston at fourteen then two years in Denmark, studying at the Azure Lion. Then more than a few assorted years of independent study while he found employment as a cavalryman and later as a privateer.

Jack was likely aware of his magic, and Flint had just shown he could work against green wizards. But blocking a subtle read and understanding the nuances of the power are two very different things. Flint would have to rely on Jack’s impression that he was simply a very strong-willed man.

I’m sorry to be curt but my head is killing me, I need a stiff drink. So, may we proceed? Flint asked.

Calico Jack pulled a black velvet bag out of his jacket and set it down. Flint pulled the bag across the table and opened it. Inside was a pile of twenty red pearls, blood pearls. The small bag was worth enough to purchase part of Boston. Or, for Samuel Flint, a ship.

That is a lot of money there. Make it worth it, Jack said.

You and I both understand that money is not the power in this world. Power comes from information. Flint pulled a leather wrapped stack of paper out of his coat and slapped it on the table.

Jack opened the package and pulled out the stack of hand written parchment.

On the top is the information you asked for about the men you were asking about, Flint said. Give that to the crown and you should be able to find yourself a pardon. I should say a second pardon. Killing Rodgers really pissed them off.

And the rest? Jack scowled unamused.

The entire shipping schedule for the next six months copied from the manifests of the top four companies on the east coast. Both sky ships and traditional nautical shipping.

And you came across this? Jack was rightfully suspicious. Flint had just handed him the ability to rob the colonies blind.

I had to burn a lot of bridges and call in a lot of favors. But, in the end, I made it happen. Flint smiled and gestured with his hands. You can attack any and all shipping coming in and out of the colonies. A fortune lays before you.

But, after obtaining a second pardon from the crown, why would I risk my neck raiding these shipping lanes? What I should do is sell this stuff, piece by piece to much braver and more foolhardy men than myself. That is where the true fortune is.

An excellent strategy, Flint replied.

Jack drew a pistol and cocked it, letting the threat sink in before he set it on the table. Which is why I will ask this question. Why, the fuck, are you not doing that exact thing yourself? The iron hammer of the pistol scrapped along the shoddy wood as Jack turned it to face Flint.

Because it is all bullshit; I paid a writer in Philadelphia to forge all of that, Flint thought but quickly pushed the thought out of his mind.

Jack’s eyes briefly flared green. The moment he felt the intrusion he let slip a single hint of an emotion, fear. It was not hard to fake given that he truly was scared. He was bluffing a mind reader for an incredible amount of money. Success relied on the simple audacity of attempting such a task.

You are afraid. Of what? Jack asked.

I’ve got to get out of the colonies, and it needs to be quick. I don’t have the time to build the connections I would need, unlike yourself. Simply put you are profiting from my urgency. And I told you already, don’t try that again.

The four other men in the room heard Flint’s tone and altered their posture. Their hands hand unconsciously inched toward their weapons.

Jack tucked the papers under his arm. Then our business here is complete. He tipped his hat to Flint. Except for one more thing. When I get this Royal Pardon, there will be one man who knows the truth – you. I am not comfortable with you holding that over me. So, simply put, you are a loose end. I’m sorry, you seem like a fine fellow.

The four pirates moved in around Flint. He took a quick stock of his surroundings. Four men, each with a single flintlock pistol and a large knife. Then Jack with a pair of pistols and the forged papers.

Flint reached out with his mind, feeling for energy in the world around him. And he felt everything – the popping radiant heat of the fire, the small glow of warmth emanating from each of the six men in the room. He felt the cooler air push through the open window and mix, creating a subtle churn of movement throughout the room. The constant give and take of energy flowing throughout the world was laid before him to read.

Blue mages cannot create or destroy, though it appears that they can. They can simply become conduits for energy, redirecting it as they see fit. They can turn their body into a vacuum, pulling energy from one source to release it into another.

Two of Rackham’s pirates stepped up to Flint. The dark skinned one pressed his pistol to Flints forehead. Go to hell blue eyes, he said.

Flint casually wrapped his hand around the pistol pressed into his forehead, while placing his other hand on the other pirate’s chest. He looked the dark man in the eyes. Shoot me then, he whispered.

Samuel Flint’s eyes glowed a bright and vibrant blue, almost as if the blue that humans see is a dull reflection of this color – a blue that can only exist in the eyes of a wizard. Flint opened himself up to the push and pull of energy. As he expected, upon seeing the glow in his eyes the dark skin man fired. He pulled with his mind, turning the hand around the pistol into a vacuum for the energy.

He felt, with his power, the small spark of the flint on the steal, like a droplet into a pond, followed by the roaring of the gunpowder as it lit, like a wave crashing against a beach. The energy of the burning powder was sucked into flint’s hand. He let it tumble through his chest and down the other arm. Finally, he released the pure kinetic force out of his other hand, and into the pirate’s chest.

The pure kinetic energy pierced into the man’s chest, tumbling through his body rupturing blood vessels and organs. The lead bullet of the pistol barely had the strength to leave the barrel, falling to the ground in an impotent fashion.

The sudden violent action shocked the room, giving Flint the initiative. His right hand grabbed the dark pirate’s large knife out of its sheath, leaving a long gash on the man’s stomach in the process. Both Flint and Jack lunged for the cocked pistol sitting on the table. Flint got there first.

Before he could bring the pistol up someone grabbed him from behind. He fired the pistol, traveling the energy through his body into his heel, stomping on the man’s foot. The energy blasted through his foot and the rickety wooden floor. Flint followed up the attack by turning and slashing the man’s throat, just as he started to scream. The pirate fell away, futilely grasping at his neck.

Flint was losing momentum and knew that he was about to be overpowered. He dove to the side, rolling next to the fire place while the remaining two pirates drew their weapons and moved in on him hesitantly. They were between him and the door, but they were no longer certain that they had the advantage.

The blue-eyed wizard shoved his hand into the crackling fire and pulled the heat in, transferring it through his body and into the knife until it burned red hot. The metal of the knife would hold heat well; it was easier to transfer energy, but near impossible to store it. His eyes positively glowed, draping a blue tint over his cheeks as he funneled the heat of the fire until the flames snuffed themselves out.

The pair of pirates took a step back from the display of power. Flint grinned and drug the glowing knife across the wooden floor, leaving a thin trail of fire in the scorched wood. There was a chance that they would decide not to fight, pirates tended to be very practical men.

Kill him!