The Dragonslayer Series: Books 1-4: The Dragonslayer Series Box Set

by Resa Nelson

  The tattooer's other eyebrow raised as he leaned close to peer at her throat. After a few moments, he leaned back and took another drag from the smoke trapped inside his cauldron, sucking hard and long on the hollow reed between the lid and rim. The look in his eyes gained more distance. “No mortal hand pierced your skin,” he whispered. “What happened to you?”

  Astrid rearranged her shirt to once again cover the image of the dragon scales forming a dragonslayer's blade running down her sternum from her throat to her belly. “Dragon,” she said. “Chewed me up and spit me out.”

  The old man looked confused. “But what I saw is no accident. It's deliberate. It's a pattern. No dragon does that.”

  Astrid resisted the urge to smile. “That's right. The dragon left me covered in scars. The scars themselves chose to come together.”

  He rested one hand on the wooden bowl of blue dye and rocked it as if rocking a cradle. Fear deepened in his eyes. Barely able to meet her gaze, the tattooer whispered, “Scalding.”

  Startled, Astrid wondered how he'd made the connection. Had this happened to other Scaldings in the past, relatives she knew nothing about? Astrid allowed herself a small smile, hoping it would scare him even more. For once, she thought, let my family name help me.

  The guard kicked the dirt floor and spoke harsh Southlander words.

  The tattooer protested in Southlander, holding up his trembling palms.

  The guard snorted.

  With her hands still bound together, Astrid opened them like a clamshell to grab the edge of the bowl of blue dye. In one swift move, she spun when she stood up on her feet and threw the blue dye into the guard’s face.

  He screamed, clawing at his dye-covered eyes as he sank to the ground in agony.

  Pushing the tattooer aside, Astrid tipped over his cauldron, and white vapor filled the air, forming a misty curtain between her and the rest of the tent.

  The old man cried out, reaching in vain for his ruined and escaping smoke.

  For a moment, Astrid felt sorry for him, already imagining his unfortunate fate if these men allowed him to live. But he had chosen to be with them. Every choice came with a price, and the tattooer's decision to work with these men was a price he had to pay, not Astrid.

  Astrid squirmed under the edge of the tent behind the tattooer and escaped into the darkness of the night between the grand tent and the one next to it.

  A noisy commotion erupted inside the large tent.

  She crept through the unlit spaces that formed a maze within the complex. Before long, she heard the shouts of men looking for her.

  Astrid rushed through a dark alley to a place where light spilled before her. Hanging back in the shadows, she watched the crowded walkway in front of her, lined with tents. She had nowhere else to go. She'd come to the end of her options, and she'd be found in a matter of minutes.

  A woman screamed.

  A blaze behind a tent lining the passageway climbed high in the dark. The top and sides of that tent burst into flames.

  Everyone in sight ran to the tent, grabbing the edges that hadn't yet caught flame and pulling them to the ground while others threw blanket after blanket on top of the burning fabric to smother the fire. While all eyes were on the burning tent, Astrid slipped out of the shadows and walked calmly behind their backs until she reached another dark alley.

  While she ran in the shadows between the tents, more screams pierced the air behind her.

  Maybe other tents are catching fire, too. How did I get so lucky?

  But when she reached the edge of the encampment and prepared to run away from it, hands emerged out of the dark, grabbing Astrid's arms. A hand clamped solidly over her mouth before she could cry out.

  A woman's voice whispered, “Worry not. We come to help.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Astrid froze.

  Is this a trap?

  The hand clamped over her mouth was as soft and firm as the woman's accented voice whispering in her ear. “We learn when it is good to fight and we learn when it is good to run,” the woman's voice said. “This time is good to run. Do you agree?”

  Speaking against the palm still covering her mouth, Astrid said, “Yes.” The scent of burning linen and wood grew stronger behind her, making her want to bolt into the black night.

  “Speak not!” A woman with a higher pitched voice said, hidden somewhere in the darkness. “Great danger here.”

  Between the glow of the light from the encampment behind her and the dim indication of the woods surrounding the camp, Astrid saw nothing while her eyes struggled to adjust. She shivered at the chill on a breeze that must have come from the depths of the forest, soaked with the scent of pine and earth.

  Taking her hand away from Astrid's mouth, a young woman stepped out to face her. The encampment's glow illuminated her face. Looking to be a Midlander, she stood as tall and sturdy as most Northlander women, but her free-falling hair had the color of the bark of an oak tree. Her face looked broad and as open as the summer sky. In this light, she looked like a goddess who had the power to split the ground open and fly down into the resulting chasm with ease.

  Another woman stepped out from the shadows. She stood petite and wore her thick, bushy dark hair to her shoulders. Most likely a Southlander. Her gaze darted constantly, reminding Astrid of a high-strung chipmunk in search of food and on the constant lookout for predators. “Follow,” the petite woman whispered.

  Astrid realized both women spoke with a different type of accent. Few women outside the Northlands spoke Astrid's language. Typically, she could count only on tradesmen who made their wages by traveling widely to sell their wares to speak the Northlander language. What possible reason would these women have to know it?

  Both women slipped quietly away from the edge of the encampment and into the shadows.

  Astrid followed. Although accustomed to making her way quietly through the woods in daylight when lizards were likely to strike, she'd rarely tried to navigate through them at night. With every stride, Astrid managed to step on a fallen leaf or twig. The resulting crunch or snap made her feel as clumsy as a herd of cattle bumbling through the forest.

  Please don't let them find us because of me.

  But with cries continuing to rise from the increasingly well lit encampment behind them, no one followed. They traveled throughout the night on foot, winding along narrow paths made by animals, crossing small brooks, and finally crossing a field toward a simple cottage. When they approached, the petite woman let out the soft call of an owl. Moments later, a similar call carried on the wind across the field back to them.

  Still moving with caution, the two women led Astrid to the cottage, where another woman stepped out to greet them. Although her eyes were now fully adjusted to the night, Astrid could only recognize her as a woman because of her shape and her voice. “Is her?” the new woman said. Again, Astrid detected yet another type of accent.

  “Yes,” the Midlander said, sighing in relief. “We set fire and she get out.”

  Astrid spun to face her in surprise. “That was you? The fire in the encampment was your doing?”

  The new woman dropped to one knee in front of Astrid. “Is good you join us. Is good to know you at last.”

  Astrid frowned, not understanding why the woman was on her knee or who she thought Astrid might be. “How do you know who I am?”

  The Southlander stood by the kneeling woman and placed a hand on her shoulder. “How not? He train us. He tell us how to know you. How to find you.”

  “He?” Astrid's confusion grew by the moment.

  The Midlander stood in front of Astrid, reaching out to touch her as if to make sure she was real but drawing her hand back in sudden shyness. “Vinchi,” the Midlander said. “Our teacher.”

  Astrid felt her heart race. Vinchi. The Southlander with whom she had stolen Margreet from her dangerous husband. Although he made his living teaching men and boys how to use swords and daggers, Vinchi reluctantly had taught Astrid
and Margreet how to use weapons.

  Vinchi and Astrid parted on harsh terms, angry with each other. But now Astrid remembered her fondness for him and his genuine love for Margreet. These women couldn't mean Vinchi had trained them, too. Why would he do such a thing? “I don't understand.”

  The Midlander stood straighter as if pride stretched her spine. “We are Iron Maidens.” Smiling, she added, “We now serve you.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Exhausted, Astrid soon fell asleep on one of the benches lining the perimeter of the cottage's single room. As if sinking into the depths of the ocean, she slept soundly and didn't wake until long after the sun had come up.

  Stretching herself into consciousness, her back ached from sleeping on the wooden surface. She became aware of the soft light pouring through the hole in the roof above the hearth, filtered by the rising smoke. In the distance, lambs bleated. The hefty scent of porridge tickled her nose.

  The Midlander woman who had clamped her hand over Astrid's mouth at the Krystr encampment now squatted in front of a cauldron hanging over the hearth fire and stirred the porridge while it cooked. Like Astrid, she wore men's pants and a shirt. For good measure, she wore a light vest with her belt over it. A sword hung at her side.

  In the Northlands, men typically carried a weapon from the moment their feet hit the ground each morning until the moment their head hit the bed at night. One never knew when a village might be invaded or a stranger might strike, and common sense dictated keeping a weapon within arm's reach at all times.

  But Astrid had never known any woman other than herself or Margreet to follow this practice. Not until now.

  When Astrid sat up, the Midlander looked at her and grinned. “You sleep well.”

  Astrid yawned, feeling sound and whole. “I always sleep well when I feel safe.”

  The Midlander nodded. “We keep you safe. I am Thorda.”

  “I'm Astrid.”

  Thorda laughed.

  Astrid shook her head at her own foolishness. “But you already know who I am.”

  Still giggling, Thorda scooped a hearty portion of porridge into a wooden bowl and handed it to Astrid.

  Blowing on the porridge first to cool it, she held the bowl to her lips and took a tentative sip. The first mouthful made her feel even better than her good night's sleep. Thorda had used rich, aromatic Southland herbs and spices to flavor the food and give it some kick.

  Thorda walked to the threshold and whistled loudly. She knelt in front of the cauldron and scooped porridge into several more bowls. Did she think Astrid had spent the past days starving?

  Quickly, the cottage filled with a dozen young women of all shapes and sizes. Most looked to be Southlanders, but two reminded Astrid of Taddeo—Far Easterners with gem-colored eyes, light brown skin, and lilting accents. She soon learned Jewely was the Southlander she'd met outside the Krystr encampment, and Efflin was the one who had greeted them at the cottage last night. Some of the women spoke the Northlander language in varying degrees, with Thorda being the most fluent.

  The women gathered around Astrid, and their eyes lit with excitement.

  Astrid said, “Did you learn my language so you could speak with me?”

  “Yes,” Jewely said happily as she swirled her porridge in its bowl. “Vinchi tell us you not learn how to speak to us.”

  Efflin pointed at Astrid. “Is stubborn.”

  Astrid flinched, aware that she had indeed been too stubborn and proud to learn Margreet's language and had never spoken with her properly. Vinchi was right when he told these women about Astrid's stubbornness.

  “Worry not.” Thorda winked. “We do not care.” Snapping her fingers, Thorda placed her own bowl of freshly-poured porridge on the bench and then rummaged beneath it. Moments later, she held up Starlight, careful of its sharp blade when she offered its hilt to Astrid. “Yours?”

  Relief overwhelmed Astrid. She put her bowl down and stood to take her favorite weapon and lifelong friend in hand. When she curled her fingers around its grip, Astrid felt as if she were embracing DiStephan, grateful to be back in his arms. “You were there when they chased me through the cornfield.”

  Thorda nodded. “We learn when it is good to fight and we learn when it is good to run.” Her face lit up and she smiled slyly. “Or hide.”

  Sliding Starlight back in the sheath attached to her belt, Astrid felt balanced and whole once more. “You were there. You saw everything. You’re the one who took my sword.”

  The young women surrounding her beamed. Efflin said, “Keep sword safe. Is good?”

  “It's brilliant,” Astrid said, grinning as she looked into the eyes of each woman. “It's the most wonderful thing you could have done for me.” She paused, adjusting the sheath while she sat down again. “But who are you and why are you here?”

  Thorda frowned, her brow crunched in puzzlement. “Last night, hear me not? We are Iron Maidens. We now serve you.”

  “Yes,” Astrid said, sipping more porridge. “But how did you meet Vinchi? Where do you come from?”

  Excitedly, the other women began talking at once and in various languages, each eager to tell the tale. Thorda stood and motioned for silence. “We are from everywhere. Merchants take news of Vinchi wherever they go. They say he teaches women how to fight. He teaches more now. Men and women.” Thorda straightened herself to stand tall. “We were first women. And best.”

  Astrid looked down at her porridge, afraid her eyes might water and not wanting the women to see.

  Vinchi. He'd spent his life teaching men and their sons how to fight, refusing to see the value a weapon could have in a woman's hand. And now he trained women and girls. Was this how he chose to keep Margreet in his heart? How he managed to keep her alive?

  The animosity she'd harbored for Vinchi melted away. Blinking back tears, Astrid smiled and raised her head. Gazing at the young women surrounding her, she saw Margreet's smile and determination and courage on their faces.

  Vinchi hadn't just taught them to fight. He'd taught them to be like Margreet.

  For the first time, Astrid realized Thorda's shirt was embroidered with a small symbol of a Keeper of Limru, like the pin Astrid still wore. Looking around the room, it became obvious that every woman wore that emblem. Margreet had been the last Keeper of Limru. Once again, Vinchi honored her memory.

  Astrid said, “I'm so glad to know you. All of you.”

  “We serve you,” Jewely said while all of the Iron Maidens glowed with pride.

  “I still don't understand. I'm a dragonslayer. I travel and work alone. I'm delighted to meet you all, but why would Vinchi send you to serve me?”

  Jewely spoke in a hush, as if danger lurked nearby. “Krystr men. Bad men. Everywhere.”

  Fear sank like a stone into Astrid's stomach. Just last night she'd had her first encounter with a Krystr camp and barely escaped having her body tattooed blue and being turned into a writhing naked thing with empty eyes, in danger of being reduced to something only good for the pleasure of men. She thought she'd seen enough of Krystr followers last year, but the darkness of their hearts now seemed much deeper than she'd ever imagined possible.

  She remembered the large cowhide map she'd seen in Mandulane's tent, showing in blood the areas his Krystr army had already conquered. “Then it's getting worse.”

  Efflin nodded. “Is horrible. Is why we leave home. Is why Vinchi teach us.”

  A lump formed in Astrid's throat. If he were in the cottage this moment, she would embrace him like a brother.

  I hope I see Vinchi again. Someday.

  “Worry not,” Jewely said. “Northland is strong. Southland is soon strong. Together they press Krystr army.”

  Astrid frowned, confused.

  “Is crush,” Efflin said, correcting Jewely. “Soon is crush Krystr from Southland and Northland.”

  A sudden worry shook Astrid to the core. She asked the question even though she already knew the answer. She simply didn't want to believe it. “Wou
ld the Krystr followers dare to go north?”

  “Yes.” Thorda set her jaw in grim determination. “But Iron Maidens get in their way.”

  CHAPTER 19

  After a fitful night's sleep, Mandulane awoke to the scent of smoke and burnt wood. The early light preceding dawn made the interior of his tented bedroom glow like the embers of a spent fire. A few of his blue tattooed dancers draped across the lower half of his bed like dogs, pinning his legs under the bed covers. Flexing his feet, he realized they'd nearly gone numb. One of the girls snored loudly. Outside, men shouted.

  Mandulane preferred to wake up slowly and gradually. Today he felt as if he'd been jarred out of a peaceful sleep. Annoyed and cranky, he decided to make everyone pay for his discomfort.

  Wriggling until he freed his legs, he kicked the sleeping dancers off his bed and onto the dirt floor. When they had the audacity to cry out, he jumped to his feet, standing naked before them with his fists raised. “Leave.” Mandulane spoke in a soft voice with chilly currents suggesting the danger of a hidden undertow.

  One dancer obeyed immediately, scrambling to find her way out of the tent and quickly followed by two others. The girl who had snored still lay on the dirt floor, shaking her head as she struggled to come awake.

  Mandulane didn't enjoy raising his voice. It seemed such an unnecessary and ungainly thing. But stupidity angered him, and this girl exhibited a clear degree of it. He took a step toward her and spoke so softly that it was little more than a whisper. “Leave now.”

  She felt like an animal that realizes it's being hunted. Showing an uncharacteristic flash of wisdom, she averted her gaze and murmured, “Yes, my lord.” Rising swiftly to her feet, she stumbled out of his sight.

  Mandulane smiled. She'd stood so quickly that all the blood had probably rushed from her head, leaving her dizzy and disoriented. If he'd wished, he could have taken her down like a wolf overpowering a deer. On one hand, he hated to miss any opportunity for fun. On the other, these were times that begged for his close attention to detail.