Dreaming in the Dark_Chains of the Fallen Volume 1 Read online

  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.