Author's Note:

The Glass Volcano has a new cover so it matches the others in the series.

The Glass Volcano is now available for purchase in ebook format. Follow the universal link to the ebook.

Excerpt from The Glass Volcano

Chapter 1: Arrival

Silver bloomed in front of Shiobe, starting as a small ball hovering mid-air before swirling into a tall oval, wisps of energy flicking from the fuzzy edges. Before it stabilized, the frantic, middle-aged woman jerked her hand from Sikode’s grasp and ran into it, her yell cutting off as she disappeared.

Shiobe smiled as the fighter’s disgusted sigh filled the stable. What did he expect from a desperate mother? She tugged on the horses’ reins; Kandari and Rytika Ciri plodded after her through the kick-portal, leaving behind the rain and mud of Greyns. Sikode whisked after them, and the wielding twirled into a tight knot, then vanished.

They stood on the top of a wide, yellow-grassed mound. Four humongous, near-leafless shade trees cast deep shadows around a small, well-kept wooden cottage, which sat to the side of a rustling, piney woodland. A scruffy path led to the front door, a plain affair with a curved, barkless branch as a handle. A dim candle in a cracked iron door lamp glowed a muted welcome. Flickering light peeked past the shutters, the product of a small fire.

The woman slammed the door open, jiggling the structure, and raced inside, babbling in a loud, incoherent voice. Another, startled, then soothing voice replied to hers.

Kandari and Rytika Ciri whickered and pulled on their reins. Shiobe reassured them, stroking their necks and speaking warmly, and after they calmed down, looped the leather about the saddle pommels. They snuffled about her pockets for a treat, and when they found no suet, they nipped at the bent grass. She patted their withers before pondering the fire-lit doorway, wondering if they should enter unannounced or remain outside until the woman sent for them.

Sikode retrieved a hair tie from his pack, bound the waist-length black strands, and stalked to the cottage. Uneasy but not wishing to stand in the late night chill alone, she firmed her lips and trailed him.

A sweet-looking, plump young woman in a loose white nightdress and robe gasped at their entrance and backed towards the small, flickering kitchen fire, her hand rising to clasp her gown over her chest. Her golden brunette hair fell in tumbled curls over her shoulders and down her back, framing brown eyes that widened in horror as she scrutinized Sikode, then Shiobe. The older woman snorted at her and waved her hands.

“They’re here t’ help, Ara,” she said and whisked to the back room. Ara stumbled into the hearthstones, and she fought for her balance. Shiobe felt sorry for her; strangers had just invaded her place of safety, and she doubted the younger woman believed a word the older one muttered, especially when confronted with a man as intimidating as the fighter. Men who looked like Sikode did not heal—they killed.

She exchanged a look with him before he turned on his heel and strode through the door. She reluctantly followed, unease sitting high in her chest.

A fat, stubby candle planted on a lopsided dresser illuminated a small cot and the lump of a man atop it. He tossed and turned with fever, sweat dripping from his skin. One leg, wrapped in thick gauze, jutted out from under the frayed blue blanket, though blood leaked about the edges as if a recent change of the dressing reopened the injury. She swallowed—in her childhood, peasants residing near Tura who could not afford a healer’s service, or make it to the Sheune temple, died from similar wounds, unable to battle the infection.

Sikode shook his head in disgust and knelt next to the leg, placing his hand on the upper thigh. The woman opened her mouth, but his dark glare made her pause. Instead of saying something, she moved to the bedside, staring at the waxen face with desperation.

Shiobe leaned against the wall, her mind fuzzing, her sight wavering. She did not think she could stay awake long enough to watch the end of the healing. Three rain-filled days of chasing bloodmages did not lend well to restful sleep, and her body demanded rest. She glanced at the Oritan, decided she would not attack Sikode while he cared for her son, and shuffled to the other room. Perhaps walking about in the cold air would keep her standing for a while longer.

The younger woman still cowered next to the fireplace, her bulging, frightened eyes glued to their mounts. The two horses ripped grass from the soil, calm and unintimidating—at least to Shiobe. She supposed Rytika Ciri, whose black fur blended into the shadows, might seem terrifying, though Kandari’s chestnut coat softly gleamed in the moonlight, a lovely, not menacing, sight.

“We aren’t here to harm you,” she told the woman in Siodame. “Why not sit down?” She nodded at the rocker near the flames. The younger woman’s mouth fell open, then her fright faded into extreme confusion.

“You speak Siodame?”

“Yes.”

“But you aren’t from Oritan.”

“No,” Shiobe agreed.

“Yanna found you?”

“Yes, in Merren. Luckily we speak Siodame, not just Jonnese, so we could understand her.”

“Are you healers?”

“Well, Sikode is—”

“Sikode?” Her fear returned in force. “Not . . . not the wielder and Flame warrior who works for the Illenan king. Right?”

Her reaction meant his reputation had already crossed the border into Oritan, and those near it had heard not-so-nice things about King Shiel’s young, ruthless Rakan advisor. Would her terror dwindle if Shiobe told her he reserved his viciousness for bloodmages?

Probably not.

The young woman groped for the chair and sank into it, trembling, staring into the bedroom as if she expected a multi-headed monster to roar through the door and swallow her whole. Perhaps she should ask her questions; Shiobe had a multitude of those and nothing else to do to keep her body from shutting down. “She claimed her son’s a climber?”

The weight of Ara’s distrust struck like a hammer. “He is,” she whimpered, suspicious.

“What does that mean?”

“He . . . he climbs into the mountains. And up the Black-shine.”

“His mother said something about the hearth witches refusing to heal him because of it.”

She shook her head and sucked in a trembling breath. “Climbers climb to find things.” She swallowed convulsively. “They find money sometimes. A few coins here and there. Other times they find jewelry or statues, things they can sell in Pellindiohal or Shalradioh. The people in the valley . . . they think they steal it all, from graves. There used to be a city at the base of the volcano, with an enormous palace. They think climbers sneak into the ruins and find crypts to rob.” She snuffled. “I went with him a couple of times. He doesn’t loot graves. No climber does. The items, they’re just sitting on a rock, or by a stream. They pick them up and sell them. You can return and find something else in the same place. Sometimes. Sometimes you don’t find anything. Sometimes you find something in a different place, far away from the other one. That’s why they climb, to find those different places.”

Shiobe had read odder stories regarding happenings near dragon lairs. The ones concerning Kykini Cede? Those were bizarre and terrifying; ancient temples housing large cats that walked on ceilings and dropped onto unwary travelers, lizards that hiccupped blood when those of evil intent neared pilgrimage sites, caves guarded by a constant blanket of snow that froze the intrepid before they set foot within.

“If people think they steal it all, then why don’t the authorities arrest them?” she asked.

“With Ceten, it’s because they fear Yanna.” She produced a sad, small smile and a single tear ran down her cheek. “She once wielded great power. It disappeared when she gave birth to Ceten, but no one realizes it. They still fear her and what she might do to them if they cross her.”

“And you are?”

“Her daughter-in-law. Ara.” She looked to the back room, her fingers twining into her nightdress and clenching together. “I’ve been outcast, too, for loving a demon-son.”

Unfortunate, but typical of small rural communities in her experience. “How far is the Black-shine Mountain?”

The question surprised her. “It’s just over that way,” she said, waving towards the west. “You can see the top of it at night, against the sky.”

That did not answer her question, but Shiobe took the invitation to step outside, relieved to have something to do other than fall asleep on her feet. What a terrible first impression that would leave.

She peered at the dark shadow jutting into the shimmering expanse of star-sprinkled sky and the hazier mountains that circled the valley in which it sat. Many names had defined it over the centuries; Black-shine Mountain, Jo khade maja, Vedellesse Sava, the Glass Volcano. All referred to the lair of Kykini Cede, Flame Dragon of Kassak. Her father had dreamed of visiting the obsidian-covered volcano as part of his scholarly study of dragon lairs, and here she was, following that route—only she and Sikode planned more than climbing the Firelit Trail to the crater, marveling at the Khan Dorioalle shrine, then leaving, disappointed nothing marvelous happened during the outing.

A sharp, Grey Hills wind whipped past, carrying the promise of first snows that melted in the air rather than alighting on the ground. Despite her dislike of the chill, she breathed in the scent of spicy dead leaves, pine and damp soil—her Condi blood demanded no less. The act settled something within her, and she sucked in the calmness of hillsides preparing for the snowy seasons as she studied the landscape surrounding her.

The Obsidian River shimmered and wavered as it flowed from the west and around the volcano, heading towards its intersection with the larger Glass River at the Merren border. Golden lights twinkled on its shores, highlighting settlements. Even more sparkled on the flatter valley floor, brightening the homes of farmers. The rich soil provided lush farmland, and the trade moneys from the bountiful harvests had made Pelletin, the capital of ancient Yerrist, a rich and powerful city.

She started at the soft crunch of slippers on pebbly soil and darkly chastised herself for the anxious reaction; how horrible, to have her wielded shields trigger because of unwarranted fear and burn a hapless rural woman into ash. She had left that night’s excitement back in Greyns and she wanted it to stay there.

Ara glanced at her and sucked in a deep breath before coming to an awkward halt several steps away. Her gaze trailed away and to the bottom of the hill where a flare of flame cast an orange sheen across the barren soil. Within the center rode armored men, over half wearing dark surcoats, the rest sporting rugged brown leather she associated with small-town local guards.

“Yanna!” Ara called, her voice tight and terrified.

The older woman appeared in the doorway, and her daughter-in-law pointed down the hill to the nearing men. She hissed and hurried over, eying the group with worried anxiety.

“What’re they doing here at this late ‘mark?”

“I don’t know. Do . . . do you think they’re here for Ceten?”

“Why would they be? He’s been down for weeks,” Yanna muttered. She stiffened her resolve and patted Ara’s arm. “I’ll talk to ‘m.”

Shiobe scurried into the cottage and to the back room, adrenaline driving her into wakeful anxiety. “Soldiers are coming, and Yanna and Ara are afraid.”

Sikode continued to study his patient for several heartbeats before slowly raising his head. His eyes glowed in the flickering candlelight, an unearthly light blue shine juxtaposed against the room’s shadowed dimness. He narrowed them, then stared at the wooden slats as if he could see through the wall. “I cannot leave him,” he murmured. “He is gravely ill and any interruption may end in death. I will shield, as a warning. If they touch me, they will wish they had not.”

“I’ll tell Yanna and Ara.”

He nodded, distracted. “Tell them to refer to me as Kirido of the Kla ra di’neri Caravan, and that we are traveling to Shalradioh to meet up with one of the companies.” He returned to the sick man, stilling in trance.

Ara had reentered the outer room, clutching her arms, fear raging across her face. Shiobe paused before her, attempting the confidence that normally eluded her. In the past she had thought to mimic Kitta’s poise, but after leaving Iova, imitating her ex-friend seemed childish and insufficient. “If they go in back, tell them not to touch Kirido. It . . . won’t end well for them.”

She blinked, collecting her thoughts. Had she heard?

“Make sure you call him Kirido and tell them we’re from the Kla ra di’neri Caravan, OK?” And hopefully, his spy façade held as well in Oritan as it had in Soline.

She hustled outside; Yanna stood, fearless, the wind whipping her unbrushed brown hair and mud-splattered dress about her. If local gossip harped on her birthing a demon-son, her appearance would not help. She knew that intimately, having experienced the retaliation of the irrational in Tura.

“Yanna, Sikode’s going to wield a shield about him and Ceten,” she said, huffing up to her. “And you should call him Kirido, too.”

“Kirido.”

“He’s a member of the Kla ra di’neri Caravan and we’re going to Shalradioh to meet up with a company there. And, um, tell them not to touch him. It’ll not end well.”

“That’ll work on the locals, but the ones from Avadiosha? They’re a nasty sort.”

“So are Sikode’s shields. You saw them in action at the inn, when they burned that blood mage to ash.”

Yanna nodded. “Powerful,” she admitted. “Good thing you got ‘m. Just in case.”

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The Wellspring Dragons Series

Liminal Shadows: The Wellspring Dragons Book 1 (Chapter 1 of Book 1)

Shades of Treachery: The Wellspring Dragons Book 2 (Chapter 1 of Book 2)

The Glass Volcano: The Wellspring Dragons Book 3

Abyss of Dreams: The Wellspring Dragons Book 4 (Chapter 1 of Book 4)

Also visit The Wellspring Dragons World