Dreaming in the Dark
Chains of the Fallen Book 1
James E. Wisher
Sand Hill Buplishing
Copyright © 2018 by James E. Wisher
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN: 978-1-945763-38-0
Edited by: Janie Linn Dullard
Cover Art by: Paganus
061220181.1
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Author Note
Also by James E. Wisher
About the Author
Prologue
The last rays of the sun tangled up with the thick evergreen limbs to cast a spiderweb of shadows across the trade road. Cormac took a deep breath of the cool, rich, late summer air then blew it out in a long sigh. The last of the day’s heat was past, thank heaven. One, possibly two more nights and he’d be back in the capital.
This patrol had seemed especially long to his aching bones. At least nothing had attacked him. Some of the younger guardsmen relished a brush with goblins or bandits, but after the madness six months ago, Cormac was glad for a little peace and quiet. Ordinary guardsmen like him were having to step up and fill in for the many warlords that died fighting the mad warlock’s demons. It was a bad situation, but the kingdom would pull through, it always did.
Cormac sighed again. Old age was catching up with him. Dena, his piebald mare, snorted as if agreeing with his unspoken thought.
He patted her neck. “I don’t need any sarcastic comments from you. Your days as a filly are long past.”
Another derisive snort brought a smile to Cormac’s face. He spent more time with Dena than he did his wife. Argued with her less too.
They rounded a corner and a hundred yards ahead the warm glow from the Inn Between’s windows shone across the road. Built from rough logs, the two-story inn resembled a noble’s hunting camp. Even from a distance the raucous laughter reached him. Cormac couldn’t wait for a hot meal, warm bed, and some human company.
Dena broke into a trot and Cormac let her go. She’d earned a night in the stables after carrying his creaky frame on a five-hundred-mile tour of the local trade routes.
A split-rail fence separated the inn’s yard from the road. He guided Dena through the open gate and toward the long stable. He didn’t even have a chance to dismount before a boy maybe ten years old and wearing a tan tabard with the inn’s livery came running out to hold Dena’s bridle.
“Welcome to the Inn Between, Master Guardsman,” the boy said, offering a quick bow. “Mistress Maven is mulling wine tonight. Should be plenty left this early in the evening.”
Cormac grunted and swung down from the saddle. He said a silent word of thanks when his legs didn’t buckle the moment his boots hit the ground. Heaven’s mercy, he was getting old. His battered saddlebags went over one shoulder and he adjusted his sword and cloak before digging out a penny for the stable boy.
“Thank you, sir,” the boy said as he snatched the coin out of the air.
Cormac grunted again and trudged toward the front door. Two steps up to the wraparound porch and he was through the door. Heat and noise washed over him, forcing out the evening chill. The common room was three-quarters filled with mostly merchants and guards. A pair of farmers in dirty overalls sat together at a corner table, a checkerboard between them.
Half a pig roasted over the fire and the savory scent of sizzling meat set his mouth watering. A single man with short hair and bronze skin wearing leather armor and carrying a broadsword sat alone at the bar. Not a guardsman unless he was out of uniform, more likely a mercenary between jobs.
Cormac grabbed a stool two down from him and set his bags on the floor at his feet. A moment later a big, dark-haired woman emerged from the kitchen door. Maven, the innkeeper, didn’t need a bouncer to keep the peace; she handled it herself, often with a rolling pin in one hand and a skillet in the other. Tonight, she had a platter laden with plates and mugs balanced in her right hand.
Maven spotted him, winked, and said, “Be with you in a second.”
He nodded and rubbed his tired eyes. Cormac had known Maven for years and always made an effort to visit her inn on his way to or from the capital. She returned with a single mug remaining on the tray which she set in front of the mercenary.
“You look tired, Cormac.” Maven leaned on the bar, giving him an eyeful of her massive cleavage.
“Long trip.” He dug around in his pocket and slapped down a ceramic disk marked with a crown on one side and a sword on the other. The kingdom provided the markers for soldiers on patrol to pay for their lodging and provisions. Maven would turn the disk in at tax time to get three gold royals off her bill, far more than a meal and one night’s lodging cost her.
“Hungry?” she asked.
“Starving.”
“You stay right there. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
He nodded and Maven bustled back into the kitchen. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the mercenary watching him.
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Cormac slid down a seat. “I’ve known Maven forever. I’m Cormac.” He thrust out his hand.
“Balthazar.” The man had a grip like iron. “She’s very friendly, if a bit immodest.”
That described Maven to a T though you seldom heard the phrase “immodest” around here.
“You’re from the south. Looking for work?”
“Not at the moment.” He took a pull from his mug. “I escorted a caravan to the capital. A cousin of mine lives in the north and we agreed to meet here.”
“Why not meet in the city? Tons of taverns to choose from there.”
“My cousin doesn’t care for cities and he assured me this place had the best food in the area, in or out of the city. Judging by the wine he was correct.”
“The food is every bit as delicious as the wine.”
Maven rushed past, carved off a hunk of pork, and set his dinner in front of him. Cormac dug into the juicy meat and put the mercenary out of his mind.
Cormac sat bolt upright in bed, straining in the complete darkness to figure out what woke him. A moment later a muffled scream sounded from downstairs.
He fumbled for his boots as a second and third scream rose only to be quickly cut off. What the hell was going on down there? He’d seen his share of combat, but never at an inn two days from the capital.
When he finally got his boots on the correct feet, he belted on his sword and drew it. His heart raced as he eased toward the door. The screams had ended and the inn had fallen unnaturally silent.
The door creaked and he winced at the noise. Hopefully, whoever was down there hadn’t noticed.
Cormac tiptoed out of his room and over to the railing overlooking the common room. Corpses littered the floor. His gaze was drawn to a woman in black and he shook his head when he recognized Maven. Whoever did this would pay.
He took a single step towards the staircase, blinked, and found an eight-foot-tall, blue-skinned ogre facing him, a white dragon mask covering his face.
Cormac barely had time to register the monster’s appearance before a sword made of what looked like solid ice came whistling for his chest.
He raised his own weapon in time to block, but the force of the blow sent him flying over the railing where he crashed atop one of the bodies.
His breath rushed out and Cormac went limp. The world grayed out for a moment. When he recovered, he heard Balthazar’s voice.
“We’re agreed on the location?”
“There was never any question about whether the battle would take place on the Plains of Judgement,” a deep, inhuman voice replied. “We’ve held the contest there every millennium since this world was born.”
Cormac twisted his head enough to see Balthazar and the ogre seated at an empty table together like old friends, their weapons leaning beside them.
“That leaves only the timing,” Balthazar said.
The ogre snorted. “The battle will happen on one of the equinoxes, just as it always does. I allow you the honor of choosing.”
“Autumn then.”
Inch by painful inch Cormac gathered himself. If he struck while they were distracted, maybe he could kill the ogre. One on one he’d stand some chance against Balthazar.
The ogre nodded and chuckled. “I know your agents have already begun paving the way. But no matter. In six weeks I shall humiliate you once again.”
Balthazar laughed. “Keep dreaming. This time victory will be mine.”
Cormac lunged, thrusting his sword at the ogre’s neck. The monster seemed to vanish the moment he got close.
Horrendous, burning pain filled Cormac’s stomach. He looked down and saw a foot of the ogre’s ice sword jutting from his gut.
The blade ripped back and he collapsed.
Staring at the ceiling, the life running out of him, Balthazar appeared in his vision. The mercenary’s eyes glowed with an orange light. “If you had stayed still and silent, we might have forgotten about you.”
Cormac couldn’t draw a breath to reply.
His consciousness flickered in and out.
“The pact is made,” the ogre said, facing Balthazar.
“Made and accepted,” the mercenary agreed.
Like lightning, the two warriors ran each other through. They collapsed on either side of Cormac, who had just enough life remaining to wonder what he’d stumbled into before his heart beat its last.
Chapter One
Damien St. Cloud made his way across the sun-drenched yard outside King’s Castle towards the training ground. Every day for he’d lost track of how many weeks, he’d been helping rebuild the capital. At last, the city was back to normal, more or less. That should’ve thrilled him, and in one sense it did since he didn’t need to do any more carpentry work, but mostly he was bored.
After a year of near constant battle, the months of quiet had dragged to the point of tedium. When his sister sent a note asking him to join her so she could show off the new technique she’d been working on, he flew out the castle door. Anything that broke the routine was welcome.
Damien waved to one of the wall guards as he made his way around to the dirt training ground on the far side of the castle. He might be bored, but everyone else seemed overjoyed by the end of the fighting. Maybe his brain didn’t work right. What kind of idiot yearned for battle?
You are your father’s son. Fredric was always keen to show his skills in battle even though he didn’t get as many opportunities as he preferred.
Lizzy’s warm, telepathic voice brought a smile to his face. He’d inherited the demon sword after his father’s murder last year, though he’d known her forever and couldn’t imagine his life without her. Damien loved the spirit bound to the blade more than most people considered prudent, but they didn’t know Lizzy. Along with his sister, she was one of the people that made life worthwhile.
“I’m not sure Dad would have agreed with that, but I’m grateful for the sentiment.” He adjusted Lizzy’s sheath so she sat more comfortably on his back.
Not that the strap rubbed his skin. Damien maintained a constant soul force barrier strong enough to stop a ballista bolt. It wasn’t really necessary in the capital, but he liked to stay in practice. Besides, if an assassin showed up, and it wouldn’t be the first time, he’d be ready.
When he arrived at the flat dirt patch, he found Jen hammering a training stake into the ground with her bare fist. Warlords used the slender rods to practice their sword skills. He wasn’t worried about his sister injuring herself. Jen’s powerful soul force allowed her to make her body stronger than a steel hammer.
She wore her slashed blue uniform, the openings revealing glimpses of pale skin underneath. The sword he made her was belted at her waist and a simple leather band held her blond hair back from her face. Small wonder she was known as the warrior goddess among the other warlords.
When she finished pounding the stake, it made six dotting the area. She turned to face him and smiled. “Took you long enough. I finally perfected the move I’ve been working on.”
“The super-secret one you refuse to tell me about?”
“That’s the one.”
“Are you going to tell me about it now?” he asked.
“Better to show you. Don’t blink.”
Jen put a hand on her sword.
All six stakes fell over, cut cleanly in half. He hadn’t seen her move. Damien studied his sister closer. Three-quarters of her core had been depleted in less than the blink of an eye.
She straightened up and grinned. “What do you think? I call it god speed, even faster than lightning speed.”
“Impressive, though given how it drains your soul force, you’ll have to be careful when you use it. In a long fight, that trick might land you in trouble.”
“I know, believe me. I don’t even like using lightning speed unless absolutely necessary. I consider this more of a trump card. When I get stuck with no other options, I have god speed as a last resort.”
Damien nodded. Having a tr
ick or two in your back pocket was smart. “How long did it take you to perfect?”
“I’ve been practicing for an hour a day over the last six weeks. You should have seen me the first time. I didn’t hold enough power back to reinforce my bones and my first move broke both ankles. Took ten minutes to get them healed.”
Warlord healing never ceased to amaze Damien. As a sorcerer, he couldn’t heal himself which sometimes left him jealous of his sister’s skills. On the other hand, he had power enough to level a fair-sized town with a single blast, so there were pluses to being a sorcerer.
“Where’s Imogen?” Jen crouched and yanked the nearest shaft out of the ground.
Damien grimaced. He and Imogen had gone their separate ways when he blew up over her excessive clinging. Having her underfoot every second of every day got old, no matter how beautiful she was. Sometimes you needed a moment to yourself.
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