Riders of Fire Box Set

by Eileen Mueller

  “Hungry, are you?” A guffaw. “Two rats. It’s measly. Could find a better one myself.”

  “Four rats.”

  Hurrying on, Tomaaz kept to the shadows, his pounding heart marking each soft footfall.

  There was a snarl. His body tensed. It was just those tharuks, fighting.

  The boy’s eyes were wide, fixed on Tomaaz. He was grimacing against the pain, teeth digging into his lip to stop himself crying out.

  At last, they were speeding along Maazini’s branch of the valley.

  “Tomaaz, I sense you.” It was Maazini mind-melding. “Stick to the shadows. There are tharuks patrolling the hilltops tonight.”

  “Shards! That was close. I was about to start running out in the open.”

  “Easy does it. Take your time and be stealthy.”

  A wave of soothing calm spread through Tomaaz. How did Maazini do that? Calm his emotions and ease his pounding heart?

  “Years of training. Stealthy, now.”

  Although the boy was light, Tomaaz hadn’t had decent food in days, and he was tiring. Just as he was near the bend, a rock skittered down the hillside above him, landing right next to him. He stopped, waiting in the shadows for what seemed like forever, before he moved on.

  Slower than a snail, he made his way toward his waiting dragon, creeping along the hillsides, arms burning with fatigue.

  A short distance from Maazini’s cave, the dragon melded again. “They’re gone, but be cautious, just in case.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Their scent, but my best sense, by far, is my hearing.”

  That explained his newfound skill.

  When he edged into Maazini’s cave, Ma was waiting.

  Maazini moved to the cave mouth to block them from view as Ma pulled out a small vial that shone in the dark, quickly shrouding it in cloth so only a sliver of light shone on the boy’s wounds.

  She inhaled sharply. “Place him face down on my blanket,” she whispered, laying her tiny light on the floor and rummaging in her healer’s pouch.

  Tomaaz sank to his knees, still cradling the boy. The lad clung to him, casting fearful glances at Maazini.

  “It’s all right, he’s my friend,” Tomaaz whispered in his ear. “He’ll protect you from tharuks.”

  The boy went limp in his arms. Tomaaz placed him on the blanket and tousled his hair.

  He kissed Ma on the cheek.

  “Go,” she whispered. “Get back before they miss you.”

  §

  A face swam into focus. Blonde hair. Green eyes.

  “Ezaara?” Hans asked.

  A cool hand touched his forehead. “Pa, you’re awake.”

  Hans tried to sit up. Shards, his limbs ached something fierce, and his chest was sore.

  Ezaara pushed him back down. “Relax. It’s going to take time to recover.”

  “Ezaara.” His voice came out croaky. She passed him a cup of water, and he drank. Then she hugged him, avoiding the wound in his chest.

  He winced anyway. “Sorry, still a bit sore.”

  “Of course you are.” Her brow tightened.

  In all his years of using dragon sight, he’d never seen anything as welcome as her sitting here, looking every bit a dragon rider. Actually, the Queen’s Rider. “So, how are you finding Dragons’ Hold?”

  “A lot has happened since I got here. I’ll fill you in later. But first, Lovina says Ma and Tomaaz are in Death Valley.” Her voice was tight with concern.

  Hans nodded. “They are.” He spared Ezaara the details: the haggard expression on Marlies’ face and how gaunt Tomaaz had looked after only a few days. “How long have I been here?” His memory was hazy. He’d floated in and out of consciousness.

  “Since yesterday afternoon. You slept all night.”

  Well, not all night—he’d woken to talk to Tomaaz. He tried to gauge what time of the day it was from light filtering in through an unshuttered hole in the rock face, and failed. “How late is it now? I have to contact Tomaaz at sunset.”

  “A couple of hours until then. Pa, you’re going back, aren’t you? To Death Valley.”

  He nodded and squeezed her hand. “I have to bring your mother and Tomaaz home.”

  “It’ll be dangerous.”

  “I’ll be fine. I—” He sighed at her stubborn expression. “Yes, it will be dangerous. But I’m going as soon as I’m able. Tomorrow.”

  “Good,” she said, “then, you won’t object to me healing your chest with piaua juice.”

  “Piaua? But that’s only for grievous injuries! Marlies would skin me alive for using it on a non-fatal wound.”

  “You’ll be facing hundreds of tharuks. Our entire family is depending on you and you can’t even shoot an arrow properly with that hole in your muscle.” Ezaara folded her arms. “I’m not having you go back there to get shot again. Or worse.”

  It was true. He drew his bowstring with his left arm. His wound would hamper him. He hesitated.

  She pounced. “Great, I knew you’d agree.” As quick as a hare, she tugged his bandage open, and uncorked a vial of pale green piaua juice. Raising an eyebrow, she asked, “You’re fine with this, aren’t you? I mean, you want the best possible chance of saving our family, don’t you, Pa?”

  Hans sighed. “When you put it like that … yes. Go ahead.” He held his shirt open.

  “This won’t hurt a bit.”

  He snorted. “That’s not what Marlies says.”

  Ezaara flashed a feral grin. “It may burn a little.”

  He burst out laughing. “Ow, my chest hurts when I laugh!”

  Tharuk Crackdown

  The door of the sleeping hut flew open, bashing the wall. Tomaaz jerked awake, bone-weary.

  568 and Burnt Face marched into the room. “You check the small male. I’ll wake the others,” 568 said, hefting a stick as thick as Tomaaz’s bicep. It strode among the pallets, whacking slaves.

  Their yelping woke the rest.

  Burnt Face stomped about the room, muttering, “Skinny rat must be somewhere.”

  He was looking for the boy, and it was obvious the lad was missing. His blanket was hanging off the end of his bloodstained pallet.

  Burnt Face halted by the mattress, sniffing at the blood. Tomaaz’s brow prickled with sweat. He fought not to shiver; to look dull-witted and numlocked.

  “Hey!” Burnt Face called. “Small one is gone.” His head swiveled and his nose twitched. “Get a tracker.”

  Shards!

  “Not now. Get these slaves to work,” 568 snarled. “Or Zens will reward you.”

  “N-no. N-not a reward.” The tharuk’s scar spasmed.

  It would’ve been funny if Burnt Face hadn’t looked so petrified. Zens had created these monsters, but they were terrified of him.

  “Go on.” 568 waved his stick at Burnt Face. “Feed them. Get them to work. I send tracker to flesh pile for the boy.”

  Burnt Face herded the slaves out of the hut, tossing chunks of hard bread after them. The slaves scrabbled in the dirt to retrieve the tough crusts. It was the strongest emotion Tomaaz had seen from them, apart from the mother throwing herself into the sewage canal. He shuddered.

  Sharp claws poked through the back of his jerkin. “Shivering? Got a chill?” Burnt Face thrust his snout over Tomaaz’s shoulder.

  His stomach churned at the beast’s rat-laden breath. Tomaaz lunged among the slaves to snatch bread. He sat on his haunches in the crowd, gnawing at the hard chunk until Burnt Face looked away.

  That was close. He had to keep his emotions locked away until they left this hell.

  Tomaaz checked his fingernails. A faint pink tinge was showing on the edge of one nail. His dragon’s scale vial was with Ma. How long before his eyes turned green? By sunset they’d be gone. He couldn’t risk discovery now.

  Two tharuks were gesticulating by the tool pile. Tomaaz wandered through the milling slaves, until his enhanced sense allowed him to hear what the tharuks were saying, then he sat dow
n to finish eating.

  “This saw blade is broken,” said a tall gangly tharuk.

  “Probably old.”

  “No, it’s new. From our raid last week.”

  “You sure?”

  “Look. See notches on handle? This is saw eighteen. A new one.” The tharuks leaned in, examining the saw handle. “Wasn’t broken two days ago.”

  “Where’s the rest of blade?” the other tharuk asked, rummaging through the saw pile and searching the nearby ground.

  “Missing,” Gangly said in a rough undertone. He scanned the slaves. “One of them might have it.”

  “No. They numlocked. We’ll check the mines. Don’t want Zens’ reward.”

  “I checked. It’s not there.”

  “We look again. This morning.” The tharuk scratched the matted fur on its neck. “Then we check the slaves.”

  “Don’t tell 568,” said Gangly.

  “Course not.”

  Now they were looking for the boy and the blade. Tomaaz had to return the blade or all the slaves would be at risk. No, he couldn’t. Ma hadn’t sawn all the way through Maazini’s chain yet. He swallowed down the tasteless pap, kept his eyes lowered, and shuffled over to get his spade to feed the beast.

  A crack sounded in the air and a whip struck him. He staggered, pain blooming across his back.

  568 glared at him. “No! Not feeding beast today. Zens says feed beast later.”

  Latrine duty first, then. If he was lucky, the stench of the sewage would stop him from being linked to the boy. Shards, his back stung. Cool air nipped at his skin. The whip must’ve broken the fabric. Tomaaz dragged his shovel, shoulders slumped.

  As they filed past the water station, Burnt Face was towering over a short tharuk, 216. “Gone? What you mean, gone?” Burnt Face growled.

  “I counted them. One is missing,” 216 said.

  “When you count waterskins last time?” Burnt Face’s red eyes gleamed.

  “Uh, th-three days ago.” 216 cowered.

  Burnt Face’s scar contorted with anger. The tharuk slashed out, leaving three bloody gashes in 216’s forehead.

  “Count skins every day,” Burnt Face roared. “Take 216 to Zens.”

  Two burly tharuks dragged the screeching underling away.

  It was his fault. He’d had to steal that waterskin to keep Ma alive. That poor tharuk. Hang on. These beasts enslaved people and killed them. He sneaked a glance at the retreating tharuks, who were dragging 216 inside a metal door between two deep fissures. So that’s where Zens was.

  568 cracked his whip, herding the slaves to the latrines.

  The slave crews settled into digging ditches again. The lash wound on Tomaaz’s back burnt every time he bent to dig. He’d maintained his position at the head of each ditch he worked on, lucky to be the slave that let sewage flood the ditches. By being careful, he’d saved a few lives while he’d been here. His thoughts flitted to the boy with Ma.

  “Maazini, how’s the boy?”

  “In pain, but remarkably brave.”

  He was glad he’d found Maazini. All of this would be worth it, if they could free him.

  A tharuk ran into the latrine area, panting, and reported to 568. “The small male is not there,” it said. “I searched the flesh pile. It is gone.”

  568 turned to Burnt Face, barking, “Gather the guards.”

  Burnt Face brought most of the tharuks from each crew toward the latrine Tomaaz was working on, leaving only the overseers to guard the ditch diggers.

  Now would be the perfect time for a slave rebellion. They were all armed with shovels and outnumbered the tharuks. Tomaaz sighed. Numlocked slaves weren’t capable of rebellion. He threw another shovelful of dirt out of the trench.

  The tharuk group gathered in front of 568.

  “Small male human is missing. Not on flesh pile. Not in sleeping hut. Where is it?”

  His troops shook their heads, shifting from foot to foot.

  “Something is wrong,” snarled 568. “Did one of you eat it?”

  Tomaaz’s flesh crawled. Tharuks ate people?

  The underlings shook their heads again. “Not eat humans,” one said. “Commander Zens kills us if we eat them.”

  “No humans.” 568 nodded. “Waterskin is missing. Anything else?” His red eyes scrutinized the tharuk guards.

  Tomaaz kept digging, tossing dirt. The slaves were oblivious. At the crack of an overseer’s whip in the next trench, Tomaaz forced himself to breathe steadily, and tossed another spadeful of dirt.

  “Tell me!” 568 barked. “Or straight to Zens.”

  “A blanket, sir,” a tharuk muttered. “Missing from the hut. Two days ago.”

  “Anything else?” 568 thundered, claws extended.

  They knew about the blanket, the boy, the waterskin …

  “A saw snapped. Half blade is missing.”

  “What?” 568 roared, wheeling to grab the beast’s leather tunic. “When?”

  “184 was with me,” the tharuk gibbered.

  Tharuk 184 spoke up. “Found out this morning. Just checked the mines. Still missing.”

  They’d discovered every single thing he’d taken. Who would have known this ramshackle valley was so organized? Tomaaz’s breath hissed as he worked. His scent would be on the boy’s bed. The boy’s scent would be all over him. Could a tracker find his trail or had he masked it? Only one way to be sure.

  Tomaaz was nearly at the end of the ditch. A few more shovelfuls and he’d hit the latrine pit. He tossed another spade of dirt. He dared a quick glance around. No tharuks were watching. He tossed out two shovels of dirt in rapid succession.

  “We have tharuk traitor,” 568 said, “or slave spy. Get a tracker!” it bellowed.

  A tharuk ran off to the main valley.

  “Report back,” 568 barked at two burly tharuks. “What happened to 216?”

  “Zens took a hand,” one answered.

  “Good. Keeps you all honest.” It laughed. “If tracker not find spy, everyone can hunt.”

  The tharuks laughed raucously.

  The violence in their guffaws raised the hairs on Tomaaz’s neck. His spade hit the dirt in front of him. A trickle of sludge crept out of the pit. Tomaaz nudged the slave behind him and scrambled out of the ditch. Slumping on the freshly-tossed earth, he waited until everyone was clear, then leaned over, whacking the pit wall with his spade. Not too hard, that should do it. Only a trickle of sludge leaked out.

  “Get in and finish it off!” bellowed a tharuk, breaking away from 568’s group. “Move it!”

  Wearily, Tomaaz clambered back into the ditch. He had to time this right.

  He hit the wall with his shovel, twisting it. A spurt of sewage shot out, hitting him in the chest and splattering his breeches and spade. Tomaaz scrambled out of the ditch as the whole wall caved in under the pressure of the pit’s stinking contents.

  “Rest time,” thundered the tharuk.

  The slaves from Tomaaz’s crew flopped to the ground. He leaned back on the earth, stinking of excrement, breathing through his mouth to avoid the stench. That should mask his scent.

  A swarm of tharuks reported to 568. Their black eyes flitted across the slaves, and their tusks gleamed with trails of dark saliva. “We scented bloody bed. Two strong scents. One toward Zens’ beast.”

  “Maazini, is your chain cut?”

  “Yes. I’m ready and waiting for you.”

  “The tharuks know the boy is with you. Get him and Ma out! Quick, before they come for you.”

  Without Maazini, Tomaaz would never get out of there. Not with suspicious trackers prowling. He’d become another lump on the flesh pile. But he didn’t want the boy’s life and Ma’s life on his conscience. Or Maazini’s. “Go, Maazini, go.” Tomaaz stared blankly at the sky.

  No answer from Maazini.

  No trace of dragon above the hilltops. Not even a silhouette of a wingtip.

  “Go, Maazini, don’t be a fool. Save them while you can.”

 
Although he couldn’t hear Maazini’s voice, Tomaaz could feel him. Stubborn refusal trickled over him, like a littling stamping its foot for a toy.

  Tomaaz sighed. “Get out of here, Maazini.”

  “There’s still time. Be careful, Tomaaz. If they suspect you, they’ll kill you.”

  “I know, but I don’t want any of you to die.”

  Maazini gave a mental snort.

  Trackers scoured the edges of each ditch, sniffing at the slave crews, working their way closer. Tomaaz’s crew was still on break, so he couldn’t do anything to release the dread building inside him. Could trackers smell fear? Perhaps they’d sense his heart pounding.

  “Stay calm,” Maazini mind-melded.

  Soothing energy washed over Tomaaz, but it wasn’t enough to calm his racing heart.

  “Stand up!” barked Burnt Face.

  The slaves scrambled to their feet.

  Trackers roamed among them, black eyes flitting from slave to slave, and snouts twitching.

  A small wiry tharuk stopped by Tomaaz. “This one,” it barked. “This scent goes to the beast.”

  His ploy with the sewage had been for nothing. The beast had still recognized his scent.

  568 laughed. “Of course. That human feeds beast. But did it take small male?”

  The trackers clustered around Tomaaz. Claws out, their nostrils quivered, snouts thrust in his face.

  “Can’t tell,” muttered the wiry one. “Too dirty.”

  The others nodded and broke away, stalking among the slaves.

  Tomaaz held in his sigh of relief, only letting his breath escape slowly.

  A heartbeat later, 568 was in front of Tomaaz. “Time to feed beast.” He motioned to Burnt Face and Wiry. “Come. Feeding time.” His laugh was laced with menace.

  “Maazini, I’m coming, with three tharuks. Escape. Now. Take Ma and the boy.” The tharuks behind Tomaaz prodded him with their claws. His nails! Oh, shards! They were pinking at the edges. What about his eyes?

  The tharuks marched him to the rodent pile.

  “Feed beast well today,” 568 said. “Zens wants to play with beast tomorrow.”

  Thank the Egg, they were leaving. Tomaaz piled his shovel with rats and a dead bird. “Maazini, get out of here.” He didn’t dare look up. But there was no flap of wings, no gust of wind to signify a dragon flying above them. And no flash of orange. “Escape, you silly dragon,” Tomaaz melded, pleading, “please, go.”