Darkness RisingDisciples of the Horned One Volume One
James E Wisher
Sand Hill Publishing
Copyright © 2016 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.
Edited by: Janie Linn Dullard
Cover Art by: Paganus
126191.5
ISBN: 978-1-945763-00-7
Contents
Book One
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
Book Two
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
Author Notes
Also by James E Wisher
About the Author
Book One The Family Disappointment
Chapter 1
The sun shone down through a cloudless sky, bathing the training yard in warmth. Damien St. Cloud wanted to turn his face up to the light and let the sun warm him, but that would be a breach of protocol and the last thing he needed was to get yelled at for something so simple. There were plenty of other things for the masters to yell at him about.
He took a deep breath, enjoying the sweet scent of spring blossoms blowing in over the wall. He stood at the end of a line of thirty-six other boys and girls, all thirteen years old and third-year students at The Citadel, the kingdom’s training school for warlords.
Whoosh crack!
Damien managed not to wince when the master brought a wooden training sword down on the collar of the first boy in line. The Master of Fitness was a great bear of a man with huge muscles made even more massive by the infusion of soul force. He wore a blue tunic trimmed in silver with matching pants, the same as all the students, the only difference a silver shield pinned on his broad chest that marked him as a master of The Citadel.
The sword snapped in half, the broken-off chunk flying across the yard, kicking up dust when it hit the dry dirt of the yard. The student never flinched or cried out; he’d mastered his soul force enough to make his bones as hard as steel and his skin tougher than leather. Strengthening the body was one of the most basic skills a warlord learned during his training at The Citadel. All the third years could do it—all except Damien.
Whoosh crack!
The next student in line, a fit girl named Tenna, took the blow as stoically as the first. She had short blond hair and a mean streak. Tenna liked to punch Damien whenever she got close to him, which was as seldom as he could manage. Tougher than most of the boys, she could take on anyone and usually win.
Back when they were first years, before anyone had use of their soul force, Damien had been the best student in his class. He could take anyone, hell any two of his fellow students, in a fight, barehanded or with practice weapons. But now, everyone else had mastered the basics of using their soul force except Damien, leaving him the weakest student in the class.
He’d only made it through his second-year graduation tests because of his exceptional skills and the fact that none of the tests required him to use soul force to complete them. Not this year. This year he had to demonstrate the ability to toughen his body enough to take a blow on the collar without getting hurt.
Whoosh crack!
Another student, a giant idiot of a boy named Stan, who wouldn’t know decent technique if Damien drove it through his stomach, took the blow without batting an eye. Stan might be an idiot, but he was better than anyone at strengthening his body.
Damien turned his focus inward, to the great, seething mass of power in his core. For as long as he could remember everyone had told him he had the greatest soul force in his generation; fat lot of good that did him. He tried to coax the power out and run it along his bones, wrapping them in a matrix of power that would make them unbreakable. The masters all said this was the simplest technique and any third year and most second years should be able to do it with no trouble.
Damien focused all his mental energy on moving the power through his body. He’d spent countless hours studying and meditating, trying to get the power to obey his commands.
Nothing.
His power just sat there, mocking him. So much power he should be able to smash a hole through The Citadel wall with his bare hands and he couldn’t coax so much as a flicker of movement out of it.
At last, the master stood in front of Damien, a final wooden sword clenched in his massive right fist. All down the line, every eye focused on him. The master raised an eyebrow a fraction. Damien gave an equally minute shake of his head. The master closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. Damien’s collarbone was about to get broken. Again.
He held no ill will toward the master; he was only doing his job.
The failure lay with Damien and no other.
The wooden sword went up over the master’s head. Damien tensed, determined not to pass out this time. The sword came down. At the instant of impact, Damien let his knees buckle to absorb some of the force.
It didn’t help.
Bone snapped and pain raced through his body. His vision swam. He clenched his jaw to hold in a scream of pain. Despite his best efforts, a groan escaped his lips. He didn’t collapse this time, didn’t tumble to
