Dragons of Wild (Upon Dragon's Breath Trilogy Book 1)

by Ava Richardson

  By mid-day, I was hungry again and the first drops of rain wet my face. Putting my books and my bag down, I stopped to rest my arms and catch a breath.

  From behind me, a voice said, “Got anywhere to sleep tonight, friend?”

  Startled, I turned around, hunching my shoulders and lifting a hand to the dagger at my belt.

  “Easy, easy, brother.” An older man with wrinkled skin faced me. His hair had not grayed and his blue eyes regarded me with a sharp, glittering stare. I knew he must want something of me, but what? His voice sounded as if he had some education. He carried a knapsack in one hand and an unlit lantern to the other. His clothes looked to be those of a clerk or a palace official—a long, black cassock and a cloak thrown back just now. But a hundred small mends to the fabric and patches showed he held neither of those professions.

  “First night on the streets?” he asked with a calm, confident air that seemed to say he knew the answer I would give. He gave a nod for me to follow. I hesitated, but he moved away with purpose and seemed to know where he was headed. I fell into step with him. Why not?

  “Second.” I said, a little mournfully. “It gets easier.” He turned down a corner and stepped into a narrow alley, then turned again and headed up another street. “Don’t worry now, friend. We’ve all been where you are.”

  “I—I …my family died of the Black Cough.” I blurted out. It was true enough. I had lost my father and mother to a sickness, but the healers had had no idea what had struck them down.

  “Is that right?” He continued walking, his steps a steady beat on the worn cobbles. “Everyone’s got a story. A broken marriages or bad parents or just got on the wrong side of the Iron Guards and the king.” He shot me a sharp, sideways look. My heart gave a thump and I almost stopped and ran, but something in his eyes stopped my worry. It wasn’t just that I did not sense an air of violence about it—there was sympathy in his eyes.

  He stopped and pointed down an alley. The space was really just a bare spot between a tangle of old houses. Someone had planted an apple tree. Crates stood nearby, along with fresh straw and apples lay strewn on the ground. My stomach rumbled—it had been a long time since the pie. The overhangs of the buildings would keep me dry. I could see I wasn’t alone here—a few others had staked out spots for the night.

  The man pointed to one, sturdily-built wall. “This here is the blacksmith’s. Used to be one of the best in the city, or so they say. That wall gets nice and warm and keeps this whole courtyard toasty. I’ll be by in the morning with some bread and water to go around.”

  I looked at his shabby clothes. “I do have a few coins. And how can you afford it?”

  He shrugged and the corner of his mouth curved up. “The bread’s only crusts and the straw is only straw. As for payment, you’ll know when it’s time to return what’s owed. And there’s not a place I’d advise one such as you to show your face at.” He stepped closer and whispered. “When you’re under the dragon’s wing, no harm can come to you.”

  Cold slid down my back. He had said the words almost like it was an incantation.

  Had he really just said dragon? Was he a Salamander?

  Before I could ask, he turned away, gave a wave and strode up the street, leaving me to pick out my space.

  It was still light, and I thought to perhaps read, but I dared not pull out any books. Instead I offered up to write letters to any of those who stayed here. None took me up on my offer, so I made my case of books and my bag into a chair and settled myself. I fell asleep with surprising ease, listening to the soft murmurs of my fellow vagabonds. Looking up, I could see the glint of stars through the leaves of the tree. A sense of peace settled over me. It was like a leash had finally been broken. I was no longer Bower of House Daris, struggling to keep alive a name and a mansion that should have faded out long ago. My only responsibility was to stay alive.

  I woke early again, but not so stiff and not so cold. I couldn’t say I was entirely comfortable—I did miss my bed—but I was rested. The others were still asleep, curled up tight under their blankets. I wondered if they knew where their charity came from.

  Sitting up, I found a small roll of crusty bread and a quarter round of strong-smelling cheese wrapped in a cloth and set next to a water skin. I drank the water, wolfed down the bread and opened the cloth for the cheese. Black ink smudged the cloth, but the words stood out.

  Wagonmaster Byers Western Gate.

  Looking up, I searched for the man I’d met last night. Was this from him? Was it the name of someone who could help get me out of the city? There was only one way to discover the truth.

  Wagonmaster Byers turned out to be, a young, heavy-set woman, with a large-brimmed, floppy hat and a long cigar hanging from her mouth. Upon seeing her, I instantly knew she would help me. The king had passed laws against being drunk and against the foul pollution of cigars and pipes. Wagonmaster Byers didn’t seem to care much about such ordinances.

  I found her near the Western Gate, leaning against one of her sleepy, black mules. Burlap bags of what smelled like hops lay on her wagon, ready to be unloaded and sold. Her name was painted across her wagon as well.

  It was still early enough to be chilly and no one took note that I had pulled my cloak hood up to cover my head and hide my face in shadow. Two Iron Guards stood either side of the city gates, huge and immobile.

  At least that means that they haven’t spotted me. I intended they never would.

  Walking up to the wagonmaster I asked if she was looking for help.

  She pulled the cigar from her mouth and looked me over.

  “Uh…a man gave me your name.” I glanced around and lowered my voice. “He said that when you are under the wing—”

  Byers cut me off with a cough and a slash of one hand. With a glance at the Iron Guards, she dropped her cigar and ground it out in the dirt. “Okay. Yup, I see. You any good with horses or mules?” She motioned to her team of four, all big and strong, their coats gleaming with healthy.

  “I’m a fair rider,” I thought back to the fast horses I had ridden when my father had still been able to afford a stable.

  The wagonmaster pulled a face. “No driving, eh? Can you do sums and figures?” She pushed her floppy hat back and gave me another look up and down. I wasn’t sure what she was seeing—a skinny youth? A noble who had never done much work? A man who was now considered a traitor to his king?

  But she gave a nod. “I supposed you could help.”

  A rush of relief spread through me. “That and more. I speak Sushtri, Daelaani, Vril, Ugol and the nearer dialects of the Isles.”

  Byers chuckled. “You can do my books and help haggle the prices. Now get those scrawny shoulders of yours moving and help me shift this load.”

  I nodded, casting a sidelong look at the Iron Guards.

  The wagonmaster plucked off her wide-brimmed hat and squashed it firmly down onto my head. “Here. It’ll be hot work, so take off your cloak and your tunic. You’ll soon warm up.” She gave me a wink. “Now come stow your gear.”

  I knew what she meant—the Iron Guards would be looking for Bower of the House Daris, not someone who looked like a farmer’s son.

  Following her to the back of her wagon, I left my case of books and my pack in the back. I pulled off my cloak and tunic and tucked them next to my books. The wagonmaster frowned at me, reached down and took up a handful of dirt. She scrubbed it into my skin. “No sense you burning that pale hide of yours.”

  She climbed up onto the wagon and pulled down sacks that she handed to me. Staggering under the weight, I carried them to the scales. Within minutes, I had worked up a sweat and it felt surprisingly nice to be working with my hands and arms. There was no worrying about protocols or if I might offend the wrong noble today. I didn’t have a crumbling house to try and maintain. I had no one telling me I was too young to know anything. It was just carry sacks and keep my head down.

  By midday, I was hungry again and the wagon was empty. My throa
t ached for water and my shoulders burned, and I smelled like hops and sweat, and probably like a goat. However, the satisfaction that sat inside me was different from any I had known.

  The weighing up and the haggling took longer than I anticipated, but the wagonmaster sent me to an inn with coins to buy us a meal and drink. Just after midday, we climbed into the empty wagon and headed to the gate. Heart beating hard against my ribs, I gripped the side of the wagon. Would the Iron Guards stop us?

  The wagonmaster threw a coin purse at me. I caught it as she complained, her voice loud, “Seven gold and three florins? Outrage!” She leaned over and spat out of the wagon side. “Check it, boy. Last time I made at least ten gold.”

  Head down, I spilled the coins into my lap and counted. The wagonmaster slapped the reins and called out to the mules and we trotted through the open gate. This had to be her way of telling me to keep my head down. The Iron Guards watched our wagon, but made no other move.

  Of course, the wagonmaster had been right about the money she had made, as would any trader who depended on coins earned would be.

  We passed out of the city and into the outer shanty town. Small huts and a few store houses stood between the city walls and the wilds of the far west. The king’s army patrolled this area, and I was surprised to see so many soldiers camped outside the city gates. I would have thought the king would have his army stationed to protect our borders not here.

  Thinking back to how so many within the city had disappeared—and to Master Julian’s fate—I started to wonder if perhaps the king was more worried about rebels than anyone knew.

  At least we were out of the reach of the Iron Guard, who stayed mostly within the city walls and stood watch at the palace.

  The wagon’s wheels rumbled over the rutted road, and I was shocked by the poor repair to what should be the king’s highway. Potholes dotted the road and deep ditches either side could have swallowed a mule whole.

  Gradually, the scenery changed from farm field and rather poor farm houses to creeks and meadows, and then hills and forest. The wagonmaster called out to her team and told me to put on my tunic again.

  “We’re safe beyond the city, but have a care. There’s been more soldiers on the roads than I’ve ever seen before. Most of ‘em seem to be gathering around the city.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Don’t know. Don’t want to know. It’s the king’s business what the king does with his soldiers. But I’ll tell you clear, I’ve a feeling it’s not something that bodes well for the city.”

  We passed several other travelers, all of them heading to Torvald, and as Byers noted more than a few mounted troops. Byers waved companionably to every one of them. The soldiers ignored her, and to the other traders she would shout, “’ware the thieves beyond the walls. Sticks up their behinds in there! Gave me seven bits when they should have paid ten!”

  The other traders nodded and sighed.

  And I felt suddenly ashamed of my home city.

  Torvald had once been deemed the leading light of the entire world, a center for culture and fine goods. Was it now only regarded as a greedy, cruel sort of a place? And why was the king bringing so many soldiers to Torvald?

  The road became dirt, not cobblestone, and wandered into curves and woodlands.

  The wagonmaster turned to me and reclaimed her hat. She pulled a fresh cigar from inside her tunic, found a sulfur match from beside her seat and struck it against the wood. When the cigar had woven the scent of aromatic tobacco into the air, she said, “Now, young man. I don’t care at all what you did and where you came from, or why you have to make your way out of that hellhole back there. And I don’t want to know, either. The least you tell me the better. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just another runaway, hard on his luck and looking for a new life.”

  I nodded. “That’s true enough.”

  “Then good. Whatever your story is, fella, let it go. That’s my advice. Become someone else. Become the person you always wanted to be when you were younger and let the past go.” She turned back to her mules, called out to them and exhaled another pungent cloud of purple smoke.

  “When I was younger I wanted to have adventures. On dragons and with wizards and fighting evil sorcerers.”

  Byers laughed. “Best not be telling that to just any soul.”

  I nodded and let the rumble of the wagon lull me into a drifting laziness. To me, it seemed that I was already succeeding in the first of those ambitions.

  I stayed with Byers for six days all told. She taught me to drive and tend to the mules. We camped at night near lakes or streams and I carried the water. Byers pulled out a flute one night and told stories another. Most nights I fell asleep before it was even dark.

  On the sixth day, we came to a fork in the road. She pulled up the team and turned to me. “I go north from here, round to farms I know. My plan is not to be back to Torvald for some time. I can almost afford to take you on, if you care to stay.”

  I shook my head. “I’m making for King’s Village.”

  She gave a gusty sigh. “Well, have a care. Even that’s not safe ground these days. I’ve been hearing of arrests of anyone who so much as says a harsh word. You’ll want to watch your step.”

  Climbing down from the wagon, I gave her a smile and pulled down my bags. “Then all the more reason for me to travel on my own. I can’t bring trouble to your door—you’ve been kind to me. But…well, I wanted a real adventure, not to exist thanks only to the charity of others.” I dug a coin from my pocket—a gold—and held it out.

  She pushed it back at me. “Keep that. You’ll have need. And don’t be flashing such coin around too freely. There are those who would slit your neck for as little as that. A goodly walk down the road will bring you to an old house. It’s a safe haven for travelers, but looks not much more than a ruin in the woods. There’ll be food and water there and a roof over your head for the night.”

  With a nod, I climbed down from the wagon and went to the back to pull out my bag and my books.

  The wagonmaster lifted one hand and wagged a finger at me, her eyes dark and her mouth pulled into a deep frown. “You make sure you keep your head down and work hard.”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am, I will. And thank you.”

  “Forget the past. Embrace the future!” She gave a final wave of her hand. With a puff of purple and blue smoke, she called out to her mules, turned her wagon north and drove off, leaving nothing more than dust behind.

  I was sad to see my new friend gone, but I was also excited.

  Now…what would one of those heroes from the old books do?

  I thought about that as I headed down the road, looking for the ruin Byers had said would be there. I didn’t see it, so I parted with the road and headed to the woods, looking for the ruin. The books seemed to get heavier with each step and now I wished I bought food to bring with me from that inn, and not just one meal. I was hungry and tired, and I needed to find water.

  Lifting my face, I tried to smell for it—and walked deeper into the woods. Pines and oaks closed around me, oddly frightening. I had never been far from the city and now I wondered if I might lose my way. But the moon was rising in the east and I could use that as my guide.

  The woods weren’t quiet, either. Leaves crunched under my boots, night birds called out, and other animals skittered out of my path. I wet my lips and wished for even just a chunk of bread.

  In the stories I’d read, the heroes never seemed worried with such things as eating or drinking—or other bodily needs. I was. I wanted to find that house she had mentioned. But the heroes didn’t go out alone—there had always been two Dragon Riders or travelling companions, striding through the wilderness in search of lost treasures.

  Perhaps I should have stayed with Byers. Or perhaps I would find the house and another traveler would be there. The sun had fully set, the sky darkened to a deep black, and a chill rose in the air. I stopped to put down my books and my bag
and pull on my cloak.

  As I straightened, something hit me from behind, knocking me face first to the ground.

  Part II

  In the Wilds

  4

  Saffron on the Hunt

  He wasn’t very well-built, but a spy didn’t have to be. The stranger had stopped right next to the thicket where I’d hidden, so I jumped him.

  Unluckily for him, he did not know he was dealing with Saffron of the Island Dragons.

  I sat on his back, holding him down. I pulled a length of leather from my belt and pulled his wrists behind his back. Once his hands were tied, I turned and tied his booted feet. He was making muffled sounds, rolling on his face in the leaf litter of the woods. The moon was enough light that I could see he was thin, but taller than me, with a dirty cloak. He had bags with him, but I had no interest in that. I wanted to know what he wanted with me.

  With him tied, I stood, taking my weight off his back.

  He twisted and turned around, tangling himself in his own cloak. “Thief! Murderer!”

  I leaned over him and poked him with the end of the stick that I’d used to knock him flat. “What are you doing, sneaking up on me? I think you’re the thief.”

  “What? I’m a…a traveler. Just that. I didn’t even know you were here.”

  I gave a laugh. How could he not know? “You smelled my campfire, there behind the ruined walls of that house.”

  He glanced over to where I’d waved. “You have a fire going? The house is here? I’ve been searching for it.”

  He twisted and his eyes glittered as he stared up at me. “You did this to me. You attacked me. What did you hit me with?

  “Nothing that big.” I lifted my club. “And of course you’re not going to die. I didn’t hit you that hard. So where’s the rest of your gang?”