The Rivers Ran Red: Magorian & Jones, #4

THE RIVERS RAN RED

BOOK 4 • MAGORIAN AND JONES

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

This is an original publication of Taylen Carver

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2023 by Stories Rule Press

Text design by Cask & Sabre Publishing Consultancy

Edited by Mr. Intensity, Mark Posey

Cover design by Dar Albert

http://WickedSmartDesigns.com

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

FIRST EDITION: January 2023

Taylen Carver

Urban Fantasy, Contemporary Fantasy

2403

SPECIAL OFFER – FREE URBAN FANTASY

A drought-ridden Arizona town hires a very special kind of rainmaker: A siren.

But when it comes time to pay for her services, Mayor Archer Bertrand has a change of heart. After all, the old races are legally non-people and can’t sign contracts.

That was just his first mistake.

This short story is set in the old races-inhabited world of Magorian & Jones, written by Taylen Carver. It is not commercially released, but provided free to readers and fans of the series.

Check the details once you have finished this book!

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Half Title Page

Copyright Information

Special Offer – Free Urban Fantasy

About The Rivers Ran Red

Praise for The Rivers Ran Red

About the Author

Title Page

Dubros Wissus

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Special Offer – Free Urban Fantasy

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Other books by Taylen Carver

This is a Stories Rule Press title.

ABOUT THE RIVERS RAN RED

Magorian and Jones have one chance left to save the world, if only they can find a way to work together.

Michael Jones, MD, left Toledo months ago to avoid Jamie, the woman he loves but cannot have, for she is with his best friend, the world’s first modern wizard, Benjamin Magorian. Michael hides in Wales, burying himself in the work generated by a health system in crisis, as Britain deals with the fallout from multiple volcanic eruptions in Scotland…until Magorian finds him there.

They’re down to the wire in their efforts to save the fractured world of humans and Old Ones from Aurelius’ scheme to summon the old gods and avoid the destruction the gods would hail down upon every mortal, no matter what their race. They must find a way to permanently halt Aurelius, and Magorian thinks he might know how.

The only problem? Magorian brought Jamie with him…

The Rivers Ran Red is part of the urban fantasy series, Magorian & Jones, by Taylen Carver.

1.0: The Memory of Water

2.0: The Triumph of Felix

3.0: The Shield of Agrona

3.5: The Wizard Must Be Stopped!

4.0: The Rivers Ran Red

5.0: The Divine and Deadly

Contemporary Fantasy Novel

PRAISE FOR THE RIVERS RAN RED

Story manages to be more intimate than ever

This book gets dark and gritty right from the beginning and does not shy away

The kind of story that will drag you in and keep you reading

Well paced, good balance between action and character development

The Rivers Ran Red is finally here — and, oh, it was worth the wait!!

Such is the joy of reading the works of an excellent writer with a great imagination and the ability to tell an absolutely fascinating story.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Taylen Carver is the pen name used by best selling author Tracy Cooper-Posey. As Taylen Carver, she writes contemporary, epic and urban fantasy stories and novels. As Tracy Cooper-Posey, she writes romantic suspense, historical, paranormal, fantasy and science fiction romance, plus women’s fiction. She also writes science fiction, including best-selling space opera, under the pen name of Cameron Cooper.

She has published over 180 titles under all pen names since 1999, been nominated for five CAPAs including Favourite Author, and won the Emma Darcy Award. She turned to indie publishing in 2011. Her indie titles have been nominated four times for Book of The Year. Tracy won the award in 2012, a SFR Galaxy Award in 2016 and came fourth in Hugh Howey’s SPSFC#2 in 2023. She has been a national magazine editor and for a decade she taught romance writing at MacEwan University.

She is addicted to Irish Breakfast tea and chocolate, sometimes taken together. In her spare time she enjoys history, Sherlock Holmes, science fiction and fantasy and ignoring her treadmill. An Australian Canadian, she lives in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, a former professional wrestler, where she moved in 1996 after meeting him on-line.

THE RIVERS RAN RED

BOOK 4 • MAGORIAN AND JONES

By

Taylen Carver

STORIES RULE PRESS

DUBROS WISSUS

The Dark Knowledge:

To bring me hence I bid thee offer

Death of my enemy

Triumph of my love

Shield of my shield

Water of my soul

Cruor of your vow

CHAPTER ONE

St. David’s Hospital Clinic, Carmarthen, Wales, United Kingdom. October 31st.

The only thing that might have told me it was All Hallow’s Eve was the date on my phone.

When I had been working in hospitals in London before TuTu swept the planet, Halloween had been an occasion for the children in the wards, their parents, and the nursing staff.

Children suffering through rounds of chemo were dressed carefully in colourful outfits that made them grin and forget for a few hours. Bed-bound kids with catheters, IVs or worse, had their faces painted by the staff. The ambulatory patients tore through the wards, plastic pumpkins in hand, trailing glitter and shreds of cheap fabric as their costumes disintegrated from excess movement.

There had always been at least one miniature Professor Charles (or Charlene) Xavier, their radiation-bald heads now an asset, and their wheelchair wheels bearing X’s.

But today, in the clinic that had been established in the park surrounding the old Saint David’s Hospital, there had not been a hint that Wales trembled on the brink of one of the great Celtic feast days of old, also known as one of the most horrendously commercial events of the year. As a result, I missed it. I wasn’t looking at my phone, for there was no one with my number or email address who would reach out to me, to whom I should respond quickly.

The day had blended into the long row of identical days which had preceded it. We worked in a rented wedding marquee, complete with temporary flooring, and like every medical clinic in Britain, we were swamped. There were too many patients, and not enough staff, equipment or supplies.

When I had time to actually notice something beyond the current patient’s condition, I often reflected that I had come full circle. I had gone to Spain and worked in a clinic in a tent, under conditions that most doctors would consider impossible. Now I was back in Wales, administering to patients inside a tent, with too little of anything that might genuinely help them.

The one major difference was that here in Wales, all my patients were human. I could count on one hand the number of Old Races I ever saw in the clinic, and those I did see had arrived at the clinic as humans, already in the early stages of phasing into an Old One.

Around seven o’clock, though, the day abruptly departed from the script of days-gone-by. It was my fault it happened. I eavesdropped on the wrong conversation.

I was behind the nurse’s station, where the entire pharmacy department was contained in one antique white-painted glass-and-iron cabinet that might have been retrieved from the old psychiatric wards in the Victorian building on whose grounds we squatted. The cabinet exuded the same vintage pheromones the old hospital building did.

The two nurses working to process a small mountain of clipboards and reports ignored me, which was quite usual. I wasn’t loved at Saint David’s. I was perfectly aware of the reputation I had acquired as the Old Races-obsessed doctor with strange ideas about how to heal even the human patients in our care. When I had first arrived here, I had opened my mouth once too often about how convenient and beneficial to the patients it would be if we had just one fae on staff to breathe in bad humours and diagnose the patients without the need for expensive testing equipment. I may have also spent too long trying to convince fellow medics to try herbs instead of chemicals.

I was on staff to deal with Old Races when they asked for healthcare, which they never did. Instead, I helped the occasional human transition to their Old Race, which was a frustrating business, for I didn’t have fae on hand to lower their temperatures by breathing on them., or sirens who could sing patients to sleep through the worst of the agonizing process.

I was back to mostly useless therapeutics I had been using when I first arrived in Spain, and my success rate was just as abysmal. I’m sure that was why Old Ones didn’t come to the clinic. Even though the clinic liked to boast about having a doctor who could treat them, my reputation among the Old Ones, whose communications network was far superior to the Internet, was such that they found their own care.

So, I spent my days acting as a locum, helping out where I could, and being resented for it.

It wasn’t La Mancha Forest by Toledo…thank the heavens. I could survive being disliked, or thought of as unhinged, if it meant I didn’t have to go back to Spain.

So, when the two nurses worked and spoke to each other as if I wasn’t there, I didn’t get upset. But I did find myself listening as they finished processing the last of the clipboards.

And this one is for…oh, another suicide. Dilwin’s voice dropped a little. Isn’t that the fifth, this week? The nurses’ station overlooked the one general ward, and the nearest bed wasn’t all that far away.

Is it? I wouldn’t know, Siana replied, her tone remote. I don’t keep track of such things.

I felt a dull ache in my chest. The suicide rate had increased in the last three years, once humans who had recovered from Tutu had realized they faced becoming one of the poor, unfortunate Old Races. Some people found death a more appealing option.

It was too late to tell them they were fundamentally, categorically wrong in that assessment.

But I was also the Old Races-obsessed doctor, so I turned my attention to the bottles and boxes on the glass shelf, sorting through them. I’d quite forgotten what it was I was looking for and had to pause to recollect why I was here—which was to return the remains of a bottle of Theophylline to the cabinet.

So, Siana said, her fingers quickly tapping on the keyboard of the laptop in front of her. Death by Seppuku. Age?

I spun to face them. "What did you just call it?" I demanded, my throat and face flushing with the sudden spike in my blood pressure…and my temper.

Both nurses jumped. They were so used to ignoring me they’d forgotten I was right there behind them.

I moved closer. You said death by Seppuku, I said heavily, fighting to keep my voice down just as they were.

Siana looked confused and self-conscious. Did I?

Means the same thing. She put suicide in the database, doctor. I watched her. Dilwin’s tone was defensive and wary.

I turned to Dilwin, who was standing, while Siana sat on the folding chair in front of the laptop. It isn’t anything close to the same thing. If it was, then I could call you a Taffy or a woolyback.

Siana sucked in a quick, shocked breath, while Dilwin’s face turned brick red.

"Seppuku, I railed at both of them, means to suicide to restore honour."

They stared at me. I was the doctor, and no matter how weird or obsessed I was, they wouldn’t argue back. I knew that, and it didn’t make me any happier. Look it up, I ground out. "And while you’re looking it up, let the meaning sink into your brains, because no Old One who suicides and no human who suicides before they transition has lost any honour. Not even a teaspoon’s worth. I drew in a deep, deep breath, just barely reining in my anger. Call it Prevailing, if you must use a term. At least that doesn’t imply anything other than they’ve taken control of their own fate. Or you might simply stay professional and use the medical terminology we’ve been using since the Victorian era."

I made myself halt. It took hard effort.

Yes, doctor, they both muttered, when my silence told them I had finished.

I nodded. It was a stiff gesture. I glanced at my watch. It’s well past seven. I’m going home for the evening. Mark me out, please.

Yes, doctor, Siana replied, in the same stiff tone.

I strode to the lockers at the back of the tent, retrieved my coat, shrugged off the white one and hung it on the same hook, slammed my locker closed and left. I had some anger to pound into the footpaths.

The house I was renting I had chosen for a few special reasons, one of them being its close location to the Saint David’s grounds and the clinic, if I didn’t mind cutting across country. Today had been a clear, sunny day, despite the low temperature, so I had walked, this morning. I was glad of that decision, now.

The Saint David’s grounds, which were often called a park, contained a number of public buildings, including a Public Health facility on the southwest side, which had been utterly overwhelmed by the public health crisis. Our temporary clinic had been set up on the opposite side of the grounds, in a clear space between buildings, close by Ffordd Pendre. Missing boards in the tall fence that closed off the ground from the busy road allowed me the short cut, and I took my luck crossing the Ffordd—a fact that grimly reminded me of traversing the highway that cut through the La Mancha Forest.

I raced across the Ffordd, into shrubs and bushes, using a faint trail I had made simply by coming this way most days. Then into the green open space beyond, and the backs of the houses on Maes Y Wennol. My house was one of them and had a conveniently placed gate in the back fence—which had been another feature I liked.

I went through into the small yard, already shaking off the bad day, and looking forward to a quiet evening. I stopped halfway along the narrow garden path, for there was a silhouette sitting in one of the old plastic chairs, hands moving in the dark night, with white shapes flicking between them. The soft but sharp riffle of cards fanning and falling, slicing together and jumping in waterfalls, brought back memories of Toledo that hadn’t faded in the slightest.

Magorian, who I’d left in Toledo, was now here in Wales.

And I had thought two ignorant nurses were what had ruined my day.

CHAPTER TWO

Magorian had to know I was there. He was human, but he was also a wizard, and growing more powerful with each passing month. Perhaps what he claimed was true—that whatever it was that gave the Old Races their powers, had also made him the first wizard in modern history.

I had given up trying to dispute him on that point. It didn’t matter, anyway. He possessed magic, a very powerful sort of magic that pulled from the elements and robbed him of fragments of personal memories in return—the cost of doing business, Magorian had once remarked bitterly.

So, I knew he knew I was standing stock still on the concrete flag, staring at his silhouette, but he didn’t move.

How did you know I would come to the house from the back? I demanded, which hadn’t been anywhere close to the first question I really wanted answered.

Car’s in the garage, Magorian said.

The garage is locked, I pointed out.

He glanced at me, and I didn’t need light to know he had rolled his eyes. The gate in the back wall is oiled and frequently used—no weeds under it. He shrugged. And I could have been wrong, but the kitchen light going on would have told me that. The big window in the kitchen was just behind him. Currently, the only light visible through it was the ghostly white numbers on the microwave.

The cards in his hand made a sharp shushing sound as he packed them into a full stack. Magorian had big hands and long fingers, which let him use his cards of choice; Tarot cards. The average man’s hand wasn’t quite large enough for some of the advanced manipulations he put the cards through.

He shoved the pack into his coat pocket and got to his feet. There was no moon yet, but I could see he was wearing a long overcoat, a garment that he rarely used in Spain. It’s good to see you, Michael. His voice had grown deeper.

I retreated from the sentiment. I didn’t want to deal with emotions right now. I didn’t want to start unpacking feelings, especially not with Magorian. Why are you here? I asked, instead, for that was the question I’d most wanted answered.

But apparently Magorian wasn’t in any hurry to cover that conversational territory, either. He said, It’s Samhain, as if I would find this a highly relevant observation.

Not that you can tell around here, I replied. Is that really why you’re sitting back here? I added, feeling a bit silly for having forgotten this facet of Magorian’s nature. Magorian had no experience with kids and he was the classic introvert’s role model. Waiting for me by the front door would put him in the path of costumed children.

Like I said, it was fifty-fifty, which door you’d use. He shrugged.

And he’d chosen the one which kept him out of the way of everyone but me.

You look tired, he added.

It’s quite dark. I’m surprised you can see anything at all.

You’re carrying yourself like you used to when you were working in the refugee camp. Shoulders in. Waiting for the next blow.

I straightened up. Until that moment, I hadn’t been aware I wasn’t standing perfectly straight.

Is the work that demanding? Magorian asked, his tone diffident.

I understood his caution. In the four months I’d been here, he’d never once asked what I was doing. He knew this address because I’d asked him to forward my mail.

Demanding? I pushed my hand through my hair. "There are seventy-two million people in the British Isles and all of them, to one degree or another, are suffering some sort of health problem as a result of the eruptions in June. Respiratory problems, eye problems, skin irritations that won’t heal.

"If they’re living anywhere near Scotland, or still living there, they’ve copped the worst of it. Massive number of patients with silicosis, most of them jumping from emerging to stage four overnight. Sometimes the lung scarring from the crystalline silica is so extreme, they die within weeks.

"Then there’s the poor blighters who are starving, because the eruptions killed off the summer harvest and no one managed to grow a winter crop of anything and Britain is spending so much trying to deal with emergency health issues, they can’t afford to help import more food…not that Europe has much to spare, anyway, because they got a lot of the dust, too. And that’s creating a whole cadre of problems that modern doctors have had to pull out medical text books for. Scurvy, for gods’ sake!"

I stopped, my chest heaving.

Magorian didn’t respond at once. I had the feeling that I wasn’t telling him anything new. He shifted on the weed-infested cement flagstones, his boots crunching. The Old Races…them, too?

I wouldn’t know, I said bitterly. I’m not a doctor they care to consult.

Then what the hell are you doing here, Michael? Magorian demanded.

I blew out my breath. I’m helping. The eruptions have settled down. It’s just lava flows and newly-minted hot springs.

I heard Snowdon was smoking.

I nodded. They’re clearing out the area, but the volcanologists aren’t worried. I said it lightly, in my best doctor voice.

You’ve said that way too often lately, Magorian observed.

Probably, I admitted. People are sick and worried, or just simply worried sick. If Snowdon was to erupt, we’d notice it here, far more than the Scottish eruptions.

That’s why you didn’t head north, to where you were living before…um…

Caernarfon, I said shortly. And no. I didn’t want to dig into that sore spot, either.

Magorian spread his hands. Are you pissed at me, Michael?

I blinked. Took a deep breath. No, I said heavily.

"Were you pissed? Is that why you left?"

The second repetition came easier. No, I said, quite truthfully.

Magorian took a moment to absorb that. Then he nodded. The rest can wait, he declared.

Small, cold, invisible fingers touched the flesh over the back of my neck, beneath the raised collar of my peacoat. What does that mean?

Aurelius tried to steal the shield, Michael.

Oh, there was so much in that simple declaration. A few hundred more questions added themselves to my list. This time, I went straight to the most important one. Tried, but failed, clearly. So why are you here and not back in Spain with a phalanx of dragons guarding it?

I brought the shield with me, he said, with a shrug.

"You what?"

•

I found myself following Magorian around the side of the house. The narrowest of paths gave access to the back yard from the front and more cement flagstones covered the narrow way. No weeds grew here because the sunlight never reached the tiles, which was just as well, because I wasn’t watching where I put my feet as I strode behind Magorian, my thoughts stuttering.

"Why on earth would you bring it here? I protested. We’re less than an hour away from the Aeron River, here! That’s the place where the spell is supposed to be cast…what the hell were you thinking, Ben?"

I was thinking that I needed to come here to talk to you, and that I wasn’t going to leave the shield behind, Magorian threw over his shoulder.

There’s computers for talking!

"That you can hack into with one eye closed, so who the hell might be listening to that chat?" Magorian replied.

He had a point. But I didn’t have to like it. It was stupid, bringing it here. You’ve done more than half his work for him. Aurelius only has to take it another forty miles and he’s home free. And if he’s tried to take the shield once already, that means he knows, now, that the gold one he took out of Hardwin’s burial chamber wasn’t the real shield.

Right, Magorian agreed heavily.