The Blood of a Dragon (The Legends of Ethshar Book 4)
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Dumery of Shiphaven was a lad with a love of wizardry--and no magic at all. He dreamed of apprenticing himself to a great wizard, but because he had not even a touch of the talent, it was a dream he could never fulfill. He would never apprentice himself to a great wizard, nor even a meager one; no matter how he loved magic and the magical arts, he would never work with wizards or wizardry. That's what Dumery was beginning to think, anyway--until he spied a great wizard humbling himself before a man selling dragon's blood, the precious stuff that made difficult spells work. If Dumery couldn't be a wizard, he could still become a dragon-hunter--and have all those condescending wizards crawling to him. And so Dumery set off on a quest--a quest in search of dragons and dragon-hunters, and ultimately the secret that lay beneath all the wizardry in Ethshar. Before he reached its end, he would uncover the terrible mystery of the dragon-hunters--and scheme a scheme that would change the face of Ethsharitic magic forever.
obviously had no sense, because he wasn’t going to go home, he was going to follow the dragon-hunter to his home, even if it took a sixnight. And that meant he didn’t dare spend all his coins. He might need them later. Accordingly, when another serving girl, one who looked scarcely older than he was, came and smiled down at him he said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any money. Can I work for room and board, perhaps?” The girl’s smile vanished. “I don’t know,” she said. “Let me ask Valder.”
She pointed down the road in the direction Dumery had been traveling. Dumery had no idea what the words meant, but the gesture was clear. “That way?” he said. “Thank you, lady! Thank you!” He bowed, and backed away. She stood and watched until he was back on the highway and heading east again. Then she stepped inside and slammed the door. Dumery trudged onward, wondering how far back into these wild hills Kensher was going to go. Surely, if the woman knew the name, Kensher’s home couldn’t be
warlock, Gennar of Tazmor, had told him about the Calling, which had taken hundreds of people on the Night of Madness, and more since. As Adar explained to Teneria, the Calling was something that came from the same source as a warlock’s power. The more magic a warlock used, the more powerful he became—warlocks improved with practice, like anyone else, only more so—and the more powerful a warlock became, the stronger the Call was for him. The Calling, and the warlocks’ power, came from somewhere
of one big one.” “Three?” “Well, we don’t usually get nice even numbers of male and female,” Kensher explained. “We usually have more males than females. And we don’t want them to breed until they’re about three; the young are healthier that way. So we have two cages for males and one for females.” Dumery nodded, staring at the ironmongery. The killing knife hung by the door, a huge saw-toothed blade the size of a broadsword, its metal polished and gleaming. The bottles used for the blood
the boy’s sudden interest in this news, which was not at all what she had wanted. She sighed again. “Listen, Dumery, forget it,” she told him. “You can’t get near it. No one can. It kills anyone who gets too close. I don’t dare get much closer than I am right here and now—magicians are more susceptible.” “Oh,” Dumery said. He thought that over. He wasn’t sure he believed her, but on the other hand, if it really were approachable, and if people knew where it was, and if it was really any use,