The Dragonspire Chronicles Omnibus Vol. 1
James E Wisher
Sandhill Publishing
Copyright © 2019 by James 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.
Edited by: Janie Linn Dullard
Cover art by: Paganus
ISBN: 978-1-945763-66-3
122720191.0
Contents
The Black Egg
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
The Mysterious Coin
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
Epilogue
The Dragons’ Graveyard
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
Author Note
Also by James E Wisher
About the Author
The Black Egg
Chapter 1
Yaz stood at the edge of the village training grounds, really just a dirt circle outside the walls and a few yards from the town proper where the boys between thirteen and eighteen met for daily drills. He held his hands clasped behind his back at parade rest. A bright sun shining in the clear sky tempered the morning chill. Summer was still a month away and you knew it on mornings like this. In a few hours it would be warm enough that he wouldn’t need his wolfskin cloak, but for now the heavy garment felt good.
He hunted the beasts himself last year. Yaz made a decent living selling furs, among other things. On the ground at his feet rested a curved, rectangular shield nearly as tall as Yaz himself. Next to that lay a blunt spear. Together they served as training versions of the village militia’s primary equipment.
At seventeen, Yaz was completing his final year of training. Assuming he passed the weapon master’s assessment, the next time bandits attacked the village he would take his place in the shield wall with the other village men. Though assuming he was going to pass would have been a mistake. Master Aaron Hendal, the giant, blond weapon master, had made it clear more than once that he didn’t think Yaz was cut out for the shield wall. He was too short and too skinny. His body just wasn’t designed to absorb the sorts of impacts fighting in the wall required.
Yaz couldn’t argue with his reasoning, but as the son of the village chief, no favoritism could be shown. If anything, Master Hendal pushed him harder than any of the other boys. It paid off in some ways. He might be small, but Yaz was the best archer in the village. He was still using a bow designed for thirteen-year-olds, but he could put an arrow in a man’s eye from forty paces.
A roar and crash split the air as the current group of trainees, two opposing teams of four, came together, shield to shield, pushing for advantage. Dust flew as they scrambled for position. To Yaz’s left and right boys cheered and shouted encouragement to their friends.
Yaz remained silent, focusing on what the boys did. Everything Yaz experienced was permanently imprinted on his memory, ready for perfect recall at any moment. In fact, he remembered everything from the time he was three months old onward. This wasn’t at all normal, according to his mother, but also nothing to worry about. One of the sages had a similar gift, though his perfect memory only extended to what he read, and he taught Yaz how to deal with the ability and the nightmares that came with it.
“Enough!” Hendal bellowed.
The trainees stopped at once, separated, and stood at attention. Hendal walked up one side of the formation and down the other. At last he said, “Good. Clear the circle. Group two get ready.”
The dismissed group broke up, grinning and wiping sweat from their brows. They’d put on a fine performance. Yaz wished he had any hope of matching them. He picked up his heavy shield, sliding his left arm through a rough leather loop until he could reach the grip. Next, he took up the spear in his right and marched out beside his shieldmates. The other boys all towered over him, the next shortest standing just over six feet.
Yaz took his place second from the left and stood at attention, waiting for Hendal’s command. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Group A defend. Group B attack,” Hendal said.
Yaz grimaced, and tried to crouch like the others, digging his feet in for maximum balance. He’d barely bent his knees when the bottom of his shield hit the ground. Lifting it didn’t help. Even a few inches put the rim over his eyes, blinding him.
“Lock shields!” Hendal shouted.
Yaz tried to bring his shield level with the men to his left and right, but he simply couldn’t do it and see what was going on.
“Group B, charge!”
The impact from the initial blow drove Yaz back two steps, breaking their line. The others tried to close even as he rushed to return to his position.
Both efforts were doomed to fail. The boy that hit him kicked Yaz’s shield and sent him sprawling. The rest of group B separated and surrounded Yaz’s teammates. The fight lasted less than a minute.
Why did they continue with this farce? Everyone knew he was never going to fight in the shield wall. Day in and day out he demonstrated his uselessness and here he was five years later still proving the point.
“Hold!”
The two teams separated. Yaz scrambled to his feet and returned to his place drawing scowls from his teammates. He didn’t blame them for their anger. In a real fight they’d all be dead right now. Yaz would’ve been angry in their place. He was angry in his place for that matter. Doing the same thing over and over served no one and they all knew it.
“That’s enough for today,” Hendal said. “Yaz, hold back.”
The rest of the boys ran off to return the gear to the equipment shed so they could get home to whatever chores awaited them. Two minutes later Yaz and Master Hendal had the circle to themselves.
“I think we’ve done enough,” Master Hendal said. “No one can claim you didn’t give it your all nor can they claim having
you in the shield wall would be to the village’s benefit. Your training is over, Yazgrim.”
Relief and disappointment fought in Yaz. On one hand he was glad to not have to waste his time any further. On the other, all hope of truly joining his peers as an adult in the village was over. Everyone would look at him as less of a man. No matter what else he did or accomplished, if he didn’t stand in the line to defend his home when raiders came, he wouldn’t be a true man of the village.
“Dad’s not going to like it,” Yaz said. “But he’s known this was coming for years. Sorry to let you down, Master.”
Master Hendal’s massive shoulders slumped. “You didn’t let me down, Yaz. The gods made you as you are. No amount of training can make you a good match for the shield wall. In another time and place you’d be among the elite archers, a feared and respected warrior. But here, the ground troops only have one job, to stop the enemy in the pass and hold them so the dragonriders can strafe them with arrows and fire. Bows are for hunters, not warriors, at least in this village. No man can say you didn’t give it your best and if they do, you tell me and I’ll thump them.”
“Thank you, Master.” Yaz offered a respectful nod, gathered his gear, and walked slowly to the equipment shed.
When he opened the door the stink of sweat and leather struck him. He quickly hung his shield on its stand and put the training spear in the rack with the others. Time to go home and wash up. He had an appointment at the tower and the sages wouldn’t thank him if he showed up stinking of the ring.
Yaz and his parents lived in the biggest house in the village. It wasn’t just because Dad was chief, their home also served as a meeting place for visiting merchants and representatives of the kingdoms that bordered the valley. There were six rooms on the first floor and four on the second, including Yaz’s bedroom, a luxury only a handful of other village kids could claim.
He pushed through the front door, eager to get cleaned up and on his way to the tower. He didn’t expect to find anyone home and he wasn’t disappointed. This time of day Mom was at the tower and Dad out on patrol. Neither of them would return until near dark.
Yaz ran around the long wooden table that filled most of the great hall and into the kitchen. Something delicious and savory was cooking in the big stone oven. His mouth watered, but he didn’t dare sneak a taste. If he opened the door and let the heat out it would ruin supper. Better to grab something in the bazaar on his way out.
He went to the walk-in pantry and grabbed the water bucket. He took it to the sink and worked the pump. When it was full, he went out back, stripped, and dumped it over his head. The cold water hit him like a slap. He scrubbed up and ran back inside to change.
Freshly washed, his hair tied back in a neat queue, and dressed in a clean jerkin and trousers, Yaz left the house and turned toward the tower. He craned his neck up. The dragonspire rose nearly a hundred feet above the valley floor. The top of it was carved in the shape of a dragon’s head and out of its mouth rose a metal lightning bolt.
No one knew the tower’s purpose, though everyone agreed that it had been built by the Dragon Empire before its fall seven hundred years ago. They could only access the first floor, which was a single room filled floor to ceiling with overloaded bookcases. If there was a way to the higher levels, none of the sages had ever worked out how to get there. Someday, someone would figure out how to reach the upper floors. No one built something that big only to use a single level.
Yaz kept going past the tower until he reached the open-air bazaar that occupied the northeast quarter of the village. A good crowd filled the space today. Fifteen vendors and fifty or so locals walking around. Yaz just needed lunch so he ignored everything and let his nose guide him toward the northern edge where his favorite cook set up her wagon.
The cook’s wagon had a yellowish-white canvas top and the gate stuck straight out, making a convenient place for the owner to roll out and fill the delicious meat pouches she sold every day. A safe distance from wood and canvas, the wagon’s owner tended a fire with a pot of oil bubbling over it.
The only word to describe Martha Cook was sturdy. She wore an undyed dress made from homespun cloth with a heavy apron over it. Her back was wider than Yaz’s and her arms were corded with muscle. Anyone dumb enough to trouble her when she was on the road would soon come to regret it. Not that Martha traveled much anymore. As far as Yaz knew, she hadn’t left the village in over a year. That suited Yaz fine since he loved her cooking.
He was a little late arriving for lunch, so he didn’t have to wait in line. Hopefully she wasn’t out of beef pockets. “Afternoon, Miss Cook.”
She turned and her square, plain face brightened with a smile. “Hello, Young Lord. I saved two beef pockets for you.”
“Gods bless you, Miss Cook and please call me Yaz. Good day today?”
“Fair.” She turned and began rolling the dough for his pockets.
Yaz smiled. She could have earned her weight in gold and the answer would’ve been the same. What sort of day would she have to have to call it good? He didn’t know but couldn’t deny his curiosity.
A minute later she turned back with two fat pouches that went right into the bubbling oil. Yaz licked his lips, already tasting the tender, spicy meat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out three copper scales.
Though the Dragon Empire had fallen centuries ago, all the regional governments continued using their coinage. Copper scales were the smallest and least valuable of the three denominations. Each coin was shaped like a dragon scale the size of Yaz’s thumb to the first knuckle.
Miss Cook pulled the golden-brown pouches out of the oil, dried them on a cloth, sprinkled them with salt, and handed both to Yaz. Since his hands weren’t as tough as hers, he accepted the food gingerly. After a few puffs to cool them he took a bite.
He closed his eyes and sighed. “Delicious. Are you sure you’re a cook and not a wizard?”
She chuckled. “Flatterer. My snacks are nothing special. Just a way for a simple woman to make a living.”
Yaz finished his meal, cleaned his hands on a spare rag she kept hanging on the table for just that purpose, and turned back toward the tower. He hadn’t even left the bazaar when he spotted Mistress Alma, dressed in her brown sage’s robe and lugging an overflowing bag away from a farmer’s stand.
Mistress Alma was one of the nine sages and nearly eighty, or so Yaz guessed. She specialized in knowledge of food of all sorts and her recipe books were some of the tower’s most profitable items. She experimented constantly, often coming up with tasty new meals but just as often filling the inn with black smoke and noxious fumes. Yaz enjoyed her cooking, but never wanted to be the first to try a new recipe.
“Can I carry that for you, Mistress Alma?” Yaz asked.
“Thank you, Yazgrim.”
Mistress Alma never called him by his nickname, it was always Yazgrim with her. She handed the bag over and he grunted at the weight. Did she have a whole sheep carcass in there?
“Shouldn’t you be at the tower by now?” she asked.
“Yes, but Mom won’t mind if I’m a little late. She’s no doubt so deep in study that nothing less than the collapse of the tower would disturb her.”
“She’s no different than the other sages in that regard. It’d do them all good to get out more.” She started down the road at a determined shuffle toward the inn.
Yaz fell in beside her. “You’re probably right, but I wouldn’t want to be the one to tell them.”
“I tell them all the time, but no one listens to an old woman.” Mistress Alma turned down the alley that led past the inn and down to the blacksmith’s shop. The ringing of steel on steel filled the air.
They went to the kitchen door in the back of the inn and she pounded on it. Two blond girls younger than Yaz opened the door a moment later. The elder of the two took the sack from Yaz while the younger helped Mistress Alma up the three steps to the kitchen. The girls were apprentice cooks and worshiped Mistress
Alma.
“Best hurry on to your mother, Yazgrim.”
“Yes, Mistress Alma. Good afternoon.”
The kitchen door closed and Yaz jogged off toward the tower. The midafternoon street was quiet; most people lived outside the village proper on farms scattered around the valley. The permanent residents were the sages, dragonriders, Yaz’s family, the master of dragons, and those who ran the permanent businesses. Less than two hundred all together.
The solitary door at the base of the tower was open. Beside it a three-by-three grid of enchanted runes served as a lock to keep out those who didn’t know the passcode. Yaz’s many-times-great-grandfather had figured out the code by accident when he found the valley. When Yaz was small, his parents brought him here and used the code. Now Yaz was among the handful of people that knew it.
He walked through the door into the library. The first floor held five thousand, three hundred and twenty-seven books. Yaz knew all their contents and titles by heart. It had taken him twelve years to read them all and learn the five languages represented. When he finished the last one his mother had been so proud. He could still see the smile on her usually grim features.
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