Riders of Fire Box Set

by Eileen Mueller

  Now, these brutes were everywhere.

  §

  Marlies froze among the foliage of a towering gum tree, glad she’d taken freshweed to stop the tharuks from scenting her. She pulled her camouflage cloak around her tightly, watching two tharuks stomp around the forest floor. In the four days since she’d left the tunnel mouth, it was the third time that they’d gotten this close.

  “Always the same,” snarled the hulking tharuk with a broken tusk. “Scent’s gone again. Does that human fly?”

  “Maybe,” answered a runty tharuk, gazing up at the sky.

  Broken Tusk cuffed Runty, sending it sprawling through the leaves into the trunk of Marlies’ gum tree. “Stay there,” Broken Tusk snapped. “Break time.”

  “W-we’re not g-going to sleep, are w-we? If Zens c-catches us—”

  “How would Zens know? I’m knackered. Shuddup. Move over.” Broken Tusk kicked Runty, persuading it to shuffle over, then slumped to the ground, against the trunk.

  “It killed two of us by that tunnel. M-might be dangerous.”

  “Don’t be stupid. They was fighting. That female is gone. Now, sleep.” Broken Tusk clobbered its underling, closed its eyes and was soon snoring.

  Runty gibbered for a moment, then dozed off, no doubt lulled to sleep by the melodious cacophony Broken Tusk was conjuring through its piggy snout.

  Marlies rolled her eyes. Charming! Trapped by snoring tharuks. There had to be a way out of here. She drummed her fingers lightly on the branch. A thrum answered her. She laid her hand on the smooth bark, inhaling the eucalyptus scent as the leaves around her rustled.

  Be daring, be brave. Use my leaves to rid our forest of these vermin.

  How?

  Sacrifice is worthwhile for a greater cause.

  An image of blazing gum trees appeared in her mind.

  Oh shards, no. Everyone on the edge of the Flatlands knew that in intense heat, gums could combust due to the oil in their leaves. But to willingly offer? This tree was truly noble.

  The tree gave an encouraging rustle.

  It just might work. Extracting a fire bean and an arrow from her rucksack, Marlies plucked some gum leaves, crushing them and rubbing them along the wooden shaft of the arrow, coating it with eucalyptus oil. She wrapped more crushed leaves in a scrap of fabric from her healer’s pouch, and tied it around the arrow head. Holding the arrow between her knees, she broke the fire bean against the leaf bundle. The bean ignited instantly, and the leaves flared. Snatching up her bow, she shot the flaming arrow at a pile of dry leaves, a distance from the sleeping babes. She snorted, baby monsters, more like. She wished them nightmares.

  The leaves caught, but the tharuks kept snoozing. Shards, she didn’t want the whole forest to go up in flames while they had their beauty sleep. Marlies dropped some leaves on the tharuks’ faces. No response, except a giant snore from Broken Tusk. The leaf pile was blazing now.

  Desperate, Marlies peeled long strips of loose bark from the gum branch and dropped them onto Broken Tusk’s snout.

  Broken Tusk spluttered, jumping to its feet. “Fire! Hey, lazy. Get up!” It booted Runty, and they both snatched up their water skins, rushing toward the flames.

  It was in their best interests to put out the fire before the entire forest burned. Her work done, Marlies jumped into a neighboring tree and made her way northeast toward the Flatlands.

  §

  476 shoved the weakling toward the fire, bellowing, “Use your water first!”

  “B-but I d-don’t—”

  “Now!”

  The weakling threw water at the flames, a fly spitting against the wind—too little force and not enough fluid. Soon runt’s skin was empty.

  “Smother the flames with the skin,” 476 roared, shoving the weakling closer, using it as a shield against the heat. The pathetic runt whimpered as it got close to the flames, shielding its face with the waterskin.

  “Smother it. Too scared to use the skin? Use rocks, then.” 476 picked up a rock, tossing it at the burning leaves. Soon the fire would be out of control and they’d have to flee, like beaten dogs. If they survived, Zens would murder them for losing their quarry. 476 cast around for something bigger to smother the fire with.

  The weakling tossed a rock or two.

  “Bigger. Get that boulder,” 476 ordered.

  The weakling tried uselessly to prize the enormous boulder from the ground with its claws.

  Now, there was something that would smother the fire perfectly. 476 brought a rock crashing down onto the runt’s skull, smashing its head against the boulder and killing it instantly. Then 476 lifted the weakling’s body, almost hooking it on its broken tusk, and carried it to the burning leaves. It threw the body onto the flames, rolling it back and forth until the worst of the fire had died. The rest, it doused with its own waterskin.

  By the time 476 was done, its paws were singed, its tongue was thick with smoke, and its eyes were stinging. The cloying stench of burnt gum clung to its nostrils, making it impossible to track anything. 476 hacked the burnt hand off its dead underling. It snarled, snatching up the waterskin and limping toward a river, so it could clear its senses, and track down whatever had started that fire—it must have been the prey they were seeking.

  Captive

  Two days in this rotting cell and still no chance of escape. Hans paced along the back wall: four steps north, four steps south, four steps north again …

  Bill’s constant melody of retching and ranting was wearying, but it least it was better than when Bill trembled on his thin mattress, howling. No one who ever witnessed that would want to take swayweed. But then again, no one ever took it voluntarily the first time—and once they tasted it, deep-seated cravings drove them mad. That sharding Zens was sly. He milked plants to subjugate everyone to his will. Thousands of Death Valley slaves under the control of numlock were testament to that.

  His boots ground grit into the floor. He and Marlies had buried their pasts for too long. He was ready to fight Zens and his beasts, to reclaim everything Zens had stolen. To avenge those whose families and loved ones Zens had destroyed.

  Hans slammed his bandaged knuckles against the bars. He’d tried reason. He’d tried the fear of tharuk attack, and now he’d had enough. “I demand to see Klaus. I demand a right to a fair trial,” he shouted. He had to do something. Those monsters would sweep through Western Settlement and across Lush Valley, laying waste to everything.

  The guard paced down the corridor, sword in hand, glowering.

  “Please, listen to me,” Hans pleaded. “Tharuks are coming. I have to help the township prepare.”

  The guard cocked his head, scratching his bristly beard. At last, he was listening.

  “What a load of horse manure,” Bill bellowed. “Dragon lover! Klaus wants you in here to stop you rabble rousing. Said as much. No one here respects a man who fed his own daughter to a fiery beast!”

  The guard’s teeth were a slash of white against his dark beard. He smacked his sword hilt against Hans’ knuckles. “Oops, that slipped.” He flashed a malicious grin.

  Ignoring his throbbing hand, Hans threw himself away from the bars to jog off his fury along the length of his cell. After a while, he lay on his lumpy mattress and did stomach crunches until his face beaded with sweat. Then he lunged, using the air as his sword.

  It was no use. He was stuck here. His heart was good, yet Ernst would never be able to train everyone before tharuks arrived.

  The guard was speaking to someone. “I’ll let Klaus know that you’re consorting with the dragon lover again,” he sneered.

  Ernst came along the corridor. “Good day, Hans.” He slipped a few rounds of flatbread and some cheese through the bars. “From Ana.” He wrinkled his nose at the bitter stench of Bill’s latest bout of retching. “Although you may choose to eat it later.”

  As if the biting stench would lift later. Shrugging, Hans bit into the bread, mumbling his thanks through mouthfuls.

  “How are
your hands?” Ernst asked.

  “Much better. The salve helped. Tell Ana, ‘Thanks’.”

  “Nigh on thirty men now,” Ernst whispered. “Training at your place these last few days. Handy, the size of your old barn; keeps prying eyes away. I’ve got about another fifteen in my barn, running them through basic weapon drills, like you advised.”

  So, forty-five fighters. “Dagger, sword and shield?”

  Ernst nodded.

  “Anyone good at knife-throwing?”

  “My son, Lofty. Hadn’t thought of that. We’ll move onto it today.”

  Not thought of knife-throwing? The most basic training for all dragon riders? Hans struggled not to let his frustration show. “How many archers?” he asked.

  “Not enough. Less than a handful.” Ernst shook his head. “Seems Klaus warned them off us.”

  Hans’ bread turned to dust in his mouth. “You’d think he wants to die at the hands of tharuks.”

  Nodding grimly, Ernst whispered, “Him and everyone else. Too stubborn for their own good. What should we work on next?”

  “Spears for the front line.”

  Ernst had never faced tharuks before. He’d lived here in Lush Valley most of his life—apart from a short sojourn when he’d ventured beyond the Grande Alps, had his eyes opened, and met Ana, bringing her back to raise a family in this little haven. A haven that was about to become a death trap.

  There was so much to convey: the best defensive moves against tharuks; tharuk attack strategies; their most common tusk maneuvers; how to evade their crushing techniques; the right spots to aim arrows to avoid their matted fur; but most importantly, how to protect yourself from tharuk mind-benders.

  Running his hand through his unruly hair, Hans opened his mouth, then hesitated.

  Bill was hunched over a bucket, his back to them, but his retching had stopped. He was as still as a marmot, head cocked. Listening. Even now, he was spying for the tharuks.

  Shooting a meaningful glance in Bill’s direction, Hans still spoke quietly, hoping Bill wouldn’t realize they’d changed their topic of conversation. “Tomaaz may need a hand to harvest the carrots and the last of the potatoes. It also wouldn’t harm to kill a few chooks for smoking.”

  Ernst shot a glance over his shoulder at Bill before replying. “Very well, I’ll be back later in case you think of anything else.”

  No! His chance to train Ernst was slipping away, all because of that cursed spy. “Ah, wait,” called Hans. How could he give Ernst a clear message about mind-benders, without letting Bill know? “Um, Tomaaz … how’s he feeling since he got burned?”

  “Sore.” His back to Bill, Ernst raised his eyebrows.

  “No, I mean his emotions, his mind.” Hans emphasized the key words with his hands. “I’m wondering whether he’s bent out of shape, you know, with everything that’s gone on.”

  A flash of comprehension lit Ernst’s face. “Yes, he is. Poor boy. What could help him?”

  Hans sat on the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees and wringing his hands together, as if he was anxious. Sure enough, Bill sneaked a glance. “His sister’s sick. His mother’s gone and I’m stuck in here. He must be miserable.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Maybe he could think of a nice family memory. Focus on that if he can.”

  Ernst gave a barely perceptible nod. “I’ll try, Hans. Like you said, it’s a difficult time for the lad. I’ll go now, and give him a hand, but I have my own farm to tend as well.”

  “Thank you, and thank Ana for the bread and cheese, too.”

  Bill swung around. “Food, you say. Did he bring food?” He crooked a bony finger at Ernst. “Come here. Give me some,” he whined. “I’m so hungry. Wretched belly gripe has left me hollow.”

  “Give him this.” Hans ripped off a piece of flatbread. Ernst took it to Bill’s cell.

  Snatching the bread, Bill stuffed half of it in his mouth and the rest in his pocket. He retreated to his mattress, chewing, his eyes faintly yellow from the remnants of swayweed in his blood.

  They said that spies who’d been on swayweed for years could never completely rid themselves of its effects. Hans shuddered. Better Bill than him.

  Ernst left and Hans resumed his exercises.

  Bill got up and took the bread out of his pocket, ripping it in tiny pieces and placing it on the sill of his barred cell window.

  A crow landed on the sill, plumage shining blue-black, and stabbed its beak at the bread. It eyed Bill as he crept closer to it, but it didn’t fly away. Bill stroked the bird’s head, crooning, as it ate the bread. Strange—Hans thought he caught his name and Tomaaz’s in Bill’s mad mutterings.

  §

  Tomaaz adjusted the boy’s grip. “Lunge again, but this time, aim higher.” He pointed to the boy’s opponent. “And, you, block him with the flat of your blade, not the edge.”

  His burnt legs aching, he sat on a barrel and watched as the two lads, not even thirteen summers, clashed swords again. If these boys were their best hope of saving the township, then there wasn’t much hope at all. With so many people training in their barn, the air was stifling. Tomaaz pulled a dipper from a pail and drank deeply. He brushed sweat from his forehead. Because of his injuries, being on his feet tired him out.

  After getting Lovina to take clear-mind yesterday, Ana had insisted on bandaging another healing poultice onto Tomaaz’s legs. Today, he’d made up a poultice himself, happy not to have Ana fussing over him. As the healer’s son, he’d applied enough poultices for Ma over the years.

  The dull clash of metal rang in his ears. A couple of girls in the far corner seemed to be getting the hang of their blades. In time, they could be promising. A shame they didn’t have time.

  Lofty clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Feeling all right?”

  “It’s good not to be in bed.”

  Lofty hooted. “And you used to like sleeping in.”

  “Only because you dragged me out every night, getting us into trouble.”

  Lofty indicated a pair of men, about their fathers’ age, clashing swords, beyond the boys. “There’s Murray and Kieft. Who would’ve known a couple of farmers could fight so well?”

  Tomaaz pointed at another pair, the same age. “Or that they couldn’t. An ox could wield a sword better.”

  Lofty snorted. “A shame it’s an accurate description.”

  Tomaaz had to smile.

  “Look, Pa’s back,” Lofty said.

  “Hello, everyone.” Ernst held up an arm. “May I have your attention?”

  Weary fighters sat on the ground or in the hay at the back of the barn. Someone dropped a sword.

  “Sheath your weapons,” Tomaaz called, remembering his first lessons from Ma and Pa as a littling. “You must keep your blade on you.” He stood, handing the pail to one of his new ‘warriors’, so they could pass it around and refresh themselves.

  “I visited Hans today,” Ernst announced. “He outlined the next steps in our training. Is there anyone here who’s proficient in throwing knives?”

  Lofty raised his palm, and another man did, too.

  “Tomaaz will stay here and continue instructing you in swordplay, while Lofty and Francois take the ten of you who are best at knifemanship for knife-throwing, but before we get to that, there’s something important I need to tell you.”

  Everyone ceased drinking or fidgeting. All eyes were on Ernst.

  “Tharuks are vicious. I’ve only seen a few myself and have never had to fight them, but I have seen one gut a man with his tusks in an instant.” Ernst’s hand made a ripping motion over his belly. “Our best defense will be to stay out of their range, hence knife-throwing, spears and archery. If any of you can have a discreet word with an archer and convince them to join us, let me know. But be careful. Klaus has filled most of them with venom.

  “In the short time we have, we can’t prepare everything we’d like, but we can put guards around the perimeter of the village to raise the alarm. Those in outlying farms are welcome to bri
ng their families to stay with me or Tomaaz at night for safety. During the day, your families can go back to their fields, but keep horses saddled and ready, or hitched to carts, so you can flee to the village square if you need to.” Ernst took a deep breath. “Now I come to a more difficult task.”

  As if everything he’d already said wasn’t difficult enough.

  “There are a few types of tharuks. Trackers and mind-benders are most dangerous. Trackers hunt their prey over vast distances by scenting them. You’ll know them from the dark saliva that dribbles along their tusks when they’re hunting. Mind-benders have black eyes, instead of the usual red eyes, and drill into your mind, forcing you to follow their will.”

  A chill breeze snaked through the barn, making the sweat on Tomaaz’s forehead prickle.

  “Hans said that the secret to overcoming mind-benders is to focus on a memory or an object, pinning it in your mind in great detail. We’ll practice now. Close your eyes, everyone.”

  Although it was useless closing his eyes in the middle of battle, Tomaaz shut his anyway.

  “In your head, picture someone you love, a place you like to go, your favorite food, or a treasured possession,” Ernst said.

  The moment Ernst said someone you love, Lovina’s face shot to mind. Weird, he didn’t love Lovina. He was only helping her because—

  A girl’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Surely if we choose someone we love, the mind-bender could use that against us.”

  “Good point,” Ernst replied. “Concentrate on an object. See how the light plays on it. Does it have a scent? How does it feel and sound? What are you doing with it?”

  Tomaaz switched his thoughts to the trees at the back of the farm, where he, Ezaara, and Lofty had played when they were littlings. It had been Ezaara’s favorite hiding place. Shards, how was she now? His twin’s face filled his thoughts. It was suddenly difficult to swallow. They’d never been separated for more than half a day before all this craziness had happened.

  “Hold the image in your mind, while I distract you.”

  He was thinking of Ezaara, not the tree. Tomaaz concentrated on the rough bark, the sunlight filtering between the leaves. Ernst bellowed. Tomaaz twitched and the tree was gone.