Riders of Fire Box Set

by Eileen Mueller

  To Tomaaz’s surprise, the area was full of milling slaves. He’d never been feed here at noon, but by the look of their pickaxes and grubbers, these were the crews that worked in the mountainside. Tomaaz casually deposited his shovel and lined up with them. These slaves were covered in grime and fine yellow powder. They smelled of the mist that leaked from the crevasses.

  Many of them had fingers, ears or hands missing. One had his nose cut off, leaving a gaping scar in his face. Coughing and wheezing punctuated their sluggish movements. The little girl in front of him hacked, spitting up dark globules of phlegm. Those in line shuffled forward, hands out, to grab chunks of hard bread from the numlocked serving slaves. As the girl took her bread, she coughed and fell, her crust flying into the dust at Tomaaz’s feet. She lay on the ground hacking. Then she stilled, eyes rolling back in her head.

  Tomaaz took his bread from the server, then picked up her piece, slipping it into his pocket. Gods, stealing bread from the dead to feed Ma. What would he stoop to next?

  The slaves ground to a halt, waiting for the tharuks to act.

  A huge tharuk flicked its whip, striking a man, who yelped. Still gnawing their hard crusts, the crowd parted to let the beast through. The tharuk booted her in the neck. Her body slid, rasping against the dry dirt, her head lolling at an odd angle.

  “Dead,” the tharuk pronounced, its red eyes scanning the slaves.

  Although Tomaaz’s belly grumbled, he suddenly had no appetite.

  The tharuk pointed a stubby finger at him, its claw a whip’s breadth from his face. “You! To the flesh pile. Take this human scum.”

  Tomaaz bent to retrieve the girl. Shards, he could hardly lift her. Last night, he’d carried Ma without a problem, but now he was too weak.

  “Move it.” The tharuk glared at him, whip poised.

  Slinging her over his shoulder, Tomaaz staggered off. A tharuk hovering over a crude bench holding waterskins motioned Tomaaz over. “Slave, drink. Water makes you healthy.”

  Healthy? Hardly. Tomaaz put the girl down and drank the numlock-tainted water, not stopping until the waterskin was nearly empty. The tharuk turned its back to give water to other hapless slaves. As Tomaaz picked up the girl, he slipped the mostly-deflated waterskin up the back of her shirt, and tucked her shirttail into her breeches. There, that should hold it. Now he had food and water for Ma. He lifted the girl and trekked off to the flesh pile. The water had eased his dizziness, even if he still had no idea how to get out of this gray hell.

  Tomaaz laid the girl near Half Hand, at the mercy of the crows and rats. He slipped the waterskin out of her shirt and under his jerkin, waving flies off the girl’s face. Yesterday he’d been horrified at the flesh pile, but now, seeing and smelling death felt normal.

  It scared him. He was losing himself.

  The tharuk at the rat pile laughed when Tomaaz turned up. “Dumb human. No shovel. Forget to feed the beast? It will be hungry. Might eat you.”

  Hands full of rats, Tomaaz traipsed back along the valley to see Ma.

  The beast was deep in shadow and ignored the rats he threw at the cave mouth. Tomaaz shrugged and went to Ma, wiping his hands on his filthy breeches. The eye was watching at the hole in the wall. Once again, it winked, then the beast’s chain rattled and it moved away.

  Had it really stood guard over Ma the whole time he’d been gone? He must be going crazy.

  He managed to rouse Ma, sitting her against the cavern wall. Softening the bread with water, he fed it to her and gave Ma clear-mind to counteract the tainted water. Then he ate his own bread.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “A bit better, but still tired. Thank you, Tomaaz.” Ma’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ve failed Zaarusha. I never found her son.”

  §

  Standing near Tomaaz above the ditch, a littling was scraping loose dirt into a pail with her tiny hands. Her efforts were pathetic—she dropped more than she filled—but if she stopped work, she’d feel the lash. Slack-jawed, a woman with one ear watched the littling. Her mother? It was hard to tell when everyone’s faces were grimy and their eyes gray.

  Tomaaz swung his pickax, hitting the dark dirt of the latrine pit. Sewage gushed into the ditch. His gut roiled. He was never going to get the stench out of his throat.

  Suddenly, the littling was hanging over the sewage ditch. Her fingers scrabbling, she slipped lower. Tomaaz lunged for her arms, but the littling slithered through his hands, plunging into the sewage. The muck closed over her head, suffocating her. With a wail, the woman shoved past him and threw herself in, choking as she submerged. Tomaaz reached out, but a whip cracked, biting into his shoulder.

  568 towered over him, whip poised for another strike, as the sludge-covered bodies were swept toward the pit.

  Tomaaz wanted to snatch the whip off 568 and thrash every tharuk in sight, but Lovina’s family story flashed to mind: her father had died retaliating against tharuks.

  If he died now, no one could rescue Ma. He slumped to the ground, forcing himself to let the tension drain from his body. Numb with shock, Tomaaz sat staring until tharuk 568 cracked the lash overhead, driving their crew over to dig the next ditch.

  §

  Tomaaz thought he was used to death, but the revolting images played over and over in his mind all day—first the littling, then the mother. He should’ve been faster. Should’ve lunged further. Or jumped in. Now they were dead. Gods, he hated this place.

  Shoulder still sore, he slurped his evening gruel, spitting out a weevil, and managed to surreptitiously snag another crust of bread for Ma from the mining crew’s lunch barrel. There was a chill in the air tonight. He had to get her a blanket. But how? No one was near the sleeping sheds, so he couldn’t just wander in and get one. And with trackers about, he didn’t like his chances of sneaking out tonight. He gazed up at the gray sky. Was it actually gray? Or was it just that stinking mist coloring the air?

  Shambling to his feet, Tomaaz collected his shovel and went to feed the beast.

  When he reached the caverns, the beast was at the hole in the wall again, watching over Ma. It gave him the creeps. Was it protecting her or observing prey? Whatever it was, it was intelligent. After eating the clear-mind berries off his spade, it retreated.

  He woke Ma. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” She gave him a weary smile.

  He passed her the bread and sat quietly as she ate and sipped from the waterskin.

  “Bad day?”

  He nodded. “The carnage here makes me sick.”

  “Zens has gotten worse.”

  He nodded. “I have a calling stone. Pa will expect me to talk to him near sunset.” Soon. What if Pa was dead? He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. “What happened to your head?”

  “Zens.” She shrugged. “I knew if I didn’t do something he’d torture me to find your identities and kill everyone I loved.”

  “So, you took piaua berries?”

  “That way I still had a chance of being found.” She squeezed his hand.

  “And your arm?”

  “I hurt that on the way here.” She winced. “Sometimes, we can’t fix everything, Tomaaz.”

  “I know. I wish—” Clenching a fist, he punched the wall. The ache in his fingers felt good. It should hurt, being here day after day, watching people die. “Everything in this forsaken valley is gray. The people, the food, the air, their faces, their corpses … and the way I feel inside.”

  Ma chewed on her lump of bread.

  “If only I could do something to get out of here.”

  “You can,” she said. “Speak to Pa, then I’ll tell you where they hid my rucksack.”

  Ezaara

  Ezaara and Roberto sped across the orchard on Zaarusha and Erob. They’d just been kissing in the orchard. Forbidden kisses. Still officially her dragon master, Roberto could be banished to the Robandi Wastelands for kissing her.

  He’d been banished before, and captured by the Robandi assassins
in the Wastelands. She’d gone to save him. They’d come back to Dragons’ Hold last night to find Zaarusha poisoned and two dragon masters dead. The queen was straining. She wasn’t strong yet. Not after being poisoned with dragon’s bane. Thank the Egg, they’d found the remedy.

  But now, it was life or death again—not Ezaara’s or her dragon’s, but her father’s.

  “What did Handel say?” Roberto mind-melded.

  They left the orchard behind, speeding over the fields toward the granite crags of Dragon’s Teeth—the vicious peaks surrounding the basin of Dragons’ Hold.

  “He said my father was dying. That I should prepare.” Ezaara clenched her hands around Zaarusha’s spinal ridge. “Which doesn’t help, if I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

  An image of Pa’s tanned face shot through her head, curly dark hair, green eyes gleaming as he shared a joke. He was so full of life. She’d learned many of her combat skills from him. A pang of loss hit her. This was the first she’d heard of her family since imprinting with Zaarusha and leaving Lush Valley on dragonback.

  “Zaarusha, I didn’t even say goodbye.” A lump constricted her throat. Shards, what if she never saw him again? Or Ma and Tomaaz?

  “Imprinting is like that. It changes lives.” Zaarusha, the dragon queen, sent a wave of warmth through her.

  “I know, but if he’s dead—”

  “I can’t see them,” Roberto melded, turning his head to scan the ranges to the west.

  “Handel will be here soon enough,” Zaarusha replied. “Then we’ll know.”

  Erob flipped his midnight-blue wings, Roberto leaning into his neck as he shot up the cliff. “Where to?” Erob asked. “The infirmary or Zaarusha’s den?”

  “Infirmary,” Ezaara replied.

  “If Fleur left anything of worth.” The venom in Zaarusha’s tone hit home.

  Yes, what if Fleur, the traitorous master healer, had destroyed the remedy her father needed?

  “May the rust vipers of the Robandi Wastelands destroy her and her family,” Roberto snapped.

  There was a loud crack and a bronze dragon appeared above the ledge to the infirmary, a rider slumped over his back.

  “Pa!” Ezaara’s voice echoed off the mountainside. How in the Egg’s name had Handel appeared in midair like that?

  “Dragon’s claws and fangs! Never seen that happen before,” Roberto said.

  Handel dropped to the ledge, bunching his legs to soften the impact. Still, Pa’s body slipped as he landed.

  “Zaarusha! Hurry!”

  Ezaara slid out of the saddle and raced over. Roberto was already there, untying Pa’s harness. His midnight eyes flashed with sympathy as he lifted her father down.

  Gods, Pa was pale. He was breathing, but barely.

  Roberto lifted him into the infirmary, stepping over slashed mattresses and bottles and jars strewn on the floor.

  Dropping some herbs onto a table, Adelina, Roberto’s sister, rushed over. “Sorry, we haven’t finished cleaning this mess up yet. Kierion’s gone to— What’s happened? Who’s this?” Dark smudges ringed her eyes.

  “Ezaara’s pa,” Roberto said as he eased Pa onto a bed.

  Pa’s hands were curled into fists, his wrists bent at odd angles. His arms were bunched across his torso, as if he was having a spasm. Ezaara picked up his hand to uncurl his fingers, but they were rigid. She felt his pulse. “He’s still alive, but it looks like he’s frozen in the middle of a fit.”

  Roberto and Adelina exchanged a meaningful glance.

  “What?” Ezaara shot. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Roberto nodded at Adelina. “It’s limplock. Do you have any remedy?”

  Ezaara had never heard of limplock.

  “I’ll get it.” Adelina dashed into a curtained alcove. She reappeared a moment later with some vials of yellow granules. “I remembered you telling me about limplock, in Naobia, Roberto, when you returned from Death Valley. Lucky you did, because a girl from Lush Valley arrived while you two were away, and she’d been limplocked, too.”

  Lush Valley—Ezaara’s home. “Who was it?” Ezaara asked, examining a vial.

  “Lovina. You must know her. She’s a friend of your brother’s.” Adelina uncorked a vial.

  Lovina? Old Bill’s daughter? She’d never been a friend of Tomaaz’s. But who knew what had happened since she’d left? “How do we give this remedy? Mix it with water?”

  Roberto shook his head. “Like this.” He leaned over Pa, prizing his jaw open, and nodded at Adelina. “Slowly.”

  Adelina shook a few granules onto Pa’s tongue, while Ezaara held Pa’s hand, stroking his clenched fingers. No matter how she tried to straighten them, the moment she let go, they cramped. She felt Pa’s pulse again. It was fast and thready.

  “Giving him the remedy too quickly could damage his nerves,” Roberto explained. “Limplock paralyzes the body slowly over a few days. It starts at the hands and feet and works its way deeper, until the heart finally stops beating. It’s good your father got here in time.”

  “In time?” Ezaara tried to swallow. “You mean it’s not too late?”

  “I hope not.” His midnight eyes blazed. “We’ll do whatever we can.”

  Pa’s jerkin was stained with blood and a dried green substance. Ezaara gently eased the fabric back, examining a wound above his left breast. “An arrow got him.” She pulled some clean herb out of the healer’s pouch at her waist and set about treating his injury, while Roberto administered the limplock remedy.

  There was a knock at the infirmary door. Adelina went to answer it.

  Already, Pa’s breaths were deeper, more rhythmic.

  A thin girl entered the infirmary, ducking shyly behind a curtain of pretty brown hair. “Oh, you’re busy,” she said, backing toward the door. The girl’s blue eyes flew open. “Ezaara?” She glanced at the bed. “What happened to Hans?” she cried, rushing forward. “Oh, limplock. That’s awful. It hurts so much.”

  “Lovina?” It couldn’t be. This pretty girl with soft brown hair and blue eyes was Old Bill’s daughter?

  “Hello, Ezaara.” She spoke quietly and leaned over Pa, taking his other hand. “Did Bill hurt him, too?” She rubbed Pa’s hands. “My hands were cold when I was limplocked.”

  It was the most Ezaara had ever heard Lovina say. “Looks like an arrow got him in the chest.” Ezaara hadn’t been thinking—she should have asked Handel what had happened. Oh, shards, she hadn’t even thought of Handel. “Handel, are you all right?”

  “I’ll go and check on Handel, shall I?” Roberto asked aloud, tucking a blanket over Pa. It was going to take some getting used to him hearing what she was thinking. He passed the remedy to Ezaara and headed to the ledge outside.

  Pa’s fingers tightened convulsively on Ezaara’s, then loosened. His feet twitched, then relaxed.

  Relief rushed through Ezaara. “It’s working.”

  “Keep giving him the remedy until the vial is gone or he’ll slip backward,” Adelina said. She bustled around the infirmary, starting to clean up the mess they’d made last night when she, Lars and Kierion had been searching for the remedy for dragon’s bane to heal Zaarusha. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  Lovina’s clear blue eyes met Ezaara’s. “Do you know your mother and Tomaaz are in Death Valley? I think that’s where your father was hurt.”

  Ezaara gasped. Death Valley? Things were much worse than she’d thought. “Are they still alive?”

  Eyes sad, Lovina just shrugged.

  §

  Hans woke—if you could call it waking. Everything swam before his eyes and he was as groggy as a hatchling. His leg had a tingling sensation—that’s what had yanked him from deep slumber. He ran his hand down his leg. It ached; well, everything did. His limbs, his chest … that’s right, he’d been on Handel heading for Dragons’ Hold.

  He turned his head against the pillow. Sprawled on a bed next to his was Ezaara, sleeping.

  His daughter, at last. So
, he’d made it to Dragons’ Hold.

  “Of course you did,” Handel harrumphed from somewhere nearby. “Did you think after all these years, I’d let you down?”

  “No, but I let you down when we fled.”

  “At first, I was angry, but that faded after a few years. I missed you. Liesar never told me where you were until we had to rescue Lush Valley from tharuks. Welcome home.”

  They were in a cavern similar to the old cavern he and Marlies had lived in, next to the infirmary, at Dragons’ Hold. The walls blurred. He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the urge to drift back to sleep. Something made his leg tingle again. Oh! Thrusting his sore clumsy fingers into his pocket, he pulled out his calling stone, fumbling as he held it up. That’s what had woken him.

  Tomaaz’s face lit up the surface of the stone, his voice echoing in Hans’ mind. “Pa, I’ve found Ma.”

  He had, all right. Images of Marlies flitted through Hans’ head, the way Tomaaz had seen her. Pale, blue-tinged lips and lying deathly still. Hans’ throat choked up. Another image followed: Marlies’ eyelids fluttering as she gazed up, then drifted back to sleep. So Tomaaz had saved her. He’d got there in time.

  “Thank the Egg, she’s safe with you.”

  “When can you meet us, Pa?” Tomaaz looked gaunt, worn out.

  Hans tried to smile, but he was so exhausted, he wasn’t sure if he’d managed. Tomorrow? No, that was too soon. He didn’t even know if he could walk yet. “Two days? Can you hold on that long?”

  “I’ll meet you at sunset on the hill north of the watchtower, as we arranged.” Tomaaz hesitated, then blurted out, “You still look sick, Pa. You sure you can come?”

  “Need rest,” was all Hans could croak out. His fingers were aching from holding the small stone.

  “I’ll take care of Ma. Don’t you worry,” Tomaaz said. “Gods, I’m glad you’re alive. Have you seen Lovina?”

  “Not yet, but they say she’s recovered.”