Racing With Dragons: The Mapmaker's Sons, Book 1

by V. L. Burgess

  Tom shook his head. “Not all of it.”

  He grabbed the map and spread it across the table, sending the ragged assortment of bones, rocks, and rings crashing to the floor. He drew his hand lightly across the parchment surface. Lions roared, seas raged, elephants trumpeted, volcanoes belched plumes of smoke into the air, then oozed globs of molten lava.

  Willa gasped and jumped back.

  Tom looked at her. “That magic enough for you?”

  “But . . . how did you do that?”

  A noise outside her window interrupted them. Porter, his hand moving to his dagger, shot outside. The Watch. His pulse racing, Tom scanned the interior of the hut for a suitable weapon, but before he could find one Porter re-entered and gave a quick shake of his head, indicating whatever had made the noise was gone. So was his patience.

  “We’re wasting time. How we did it doesn’t matter. What matters is this,” he paused and drilled his index finger against the parchment, “we are on this side of the swamp. We need to get to that side of the swamp. Can you help us or not?” His eyes locked on Willa. He withdrew a fistful of coins and slammed them on top of the parchment. “I need one word from you, and one word only. Yes or no?”

  Willa regarded Porter in silence. Her gaze flicked to Tom. “Is your brother always like this?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I only met him yesterday.”

  “You... But how…”

  Tom propped one shoulder against a rough-cut beam and shrugged.

  Willa’s brows snapped together in a silent question. For a brief moment she looked from Tom to Porter, then she jerked her gaze away and studied the map in silence. A muscle in her jaw twitched, revealing some dark inner debate. Her eyes flicked back to the coins. There was no greed in her face, Tom noted, only desperation. Then something shifted. Resolve hardened her features.

  “No. It’s too dangerous.”

  Smudge shot forward. “We’d make as much money in one trip through the swamp as we would in a year of selling salves. You could even pick more herbs along the way.”

  “No. No herbs. Not with us,” Porter said. “We travel fast.”

  “The herbs don’t matter,” Smudge pressed. “Just look at the coin. We’d have enough money to leave here. Buy all the food we wanted. We could—”

  “You can’t spend money if you’re dead. I’ve seen what happened to those who were foolish enough to try to cross the swamp. What was left of them, that is.” Willa moved to the curtain that blocked her door and held it open. “You have your answer. Out. Both of you.”

  There was nothing more to be said. Porter grabbed up the coins. Tom rolled the map, tied it with string, and tucked it into his belt. They left Willa’s and stepped out into the dreary village of Rupert. The sulfur haze had intensified, coating the village in a thick, malodorous mist. But nowhere was it as thick as it was at the edge of the swamp. Not knowing what else to do, together they approached the swamp and peered into its murky shadows. Flickering eyes peered back at them, accompanied by the slithering hisses and low, throaty growls of unseen creatures. Nothing beyond it, nothing above it. Not even sky. Just the vast, oozing swamp as far as they could see.

  A death mission, Tom thought. Willa was right. They’d be swallowed whole and never heard from again.

  “Not as bad as it looks,” said a gruff male voice from behind them. “Not if you’ve got the right guide, that is.”

  Chapter Eleven

  GUNTER THE SWAMP

  GUIDE

  Tom pivoted around. Behind them stood one of the ragged men he’d seen earlier. One of the men who’d been playing dice in the center of town. The man had looked rough from a distance and his appearance didn’t improve upon closer inspection. His lips and fingers shone with grease. Dirt streaked his skin and clothing. He wore an animal skin cap on his head. Maybe raccoon, maybe something else. Tom couldn’t be sure.

  Likely he stank, too. But that was just a guess. Tom’s nose wasn’t as keen as it might be, given the general stench in the air, his recent roll through a pile of rat infested rubbish, and a night spent sleeping with goats. Come to think of it, a shower and a little deodorant wouldn’t be wasted on him, either.

  The man said, “I can take you through the swamp.”

  Porter’s eyes narrowed. “That was you, wasn’t it? Lurking outside the window.”

  “Course it was me.”

  The man twisted slightly and spit out an arc of brown-colored liquid. Chewing tobacco, Tom guessed, or whatever the equivalent was around here. Disgusting, either way. He used the back of his hand to wipe the dribble from his chin and continued, “What’s wrong with that? It’s my village. Strangers come hereabouts, it’s my duty to see what they’re after. How do I know you weren’t here to rob that girl?”

  A reasonable explanation, at least on the surface. But nothing about him inspired confidence. He had twitchy fingers and twitchy eyes, eyes that were constantly scanning around, as though he expected to set upon at any moment. He reminded Tom of a kid back at the academy nicknamed Two-Times. A perpetual liar, no one ever got the same answer from him twice, even to basic questions like where he was born, whether he had siblings, or what grade he got on his science test.

  “You have a name?” Porter asked.

  “Gunter.”

  “You know your way around the swamp, Gunter?”

  “Better than the girl does, I’ll tell you that right now. She tiptoes around the edges, picking flowers and herbs and such. Nothing wrong with that, mind you. I don’t blame her for not going deeper than she has to. Dangerous place, the swamp. If you want someone to get you through alive, you need a trapper to take you. Someone who knows his way in and out.”

  “You trap?”

  The man nodded and rolled off a list of creatures he claimed to have caught in the swamp, the names of which were meaningless to Tom but appeared recognizable to Porter. He followed that up with the prices the pelts were fetching in Divino. His answers must have been somewhat legitimate, for Porter nodded and seemed more at ease.

  Which was more than Tom could say. “Why would you help us?”

  “I saw the coin you offered the girl,” Gunter said. “Double it and I’ll serve as your guide.”

  Tom said, “We’ll pay you half now, half when we get to the other side.”

  Gunter smiled at that, revealing a row of tobacco-stained teeth with gaping holes where some had rotted away. The stench coming from his mouth was fouler than the swamp itself. “What's the matter? Don’t you trust me, boy?”

  “Why should I?”

  “You trusted that little thief. Followed him all the way here. How long you known him?”

  “Longer than I’ve known you.”

  Silence settled between them as they weighed each other up. At length Gunter shrugged. “Do what you will. You want to cross the swamp alone, good luck to you. I reckon your bones will be sucked clean by midday.” He turned as though to walk away.

  “Wait,” Porter called.

  Gunter turned.

  “Spread your arms.”

  Gunter opened his shabby garment and spread his arms wide. Porter stepped forward and deftly frisked the man, searching for weapons. He came away with nothing.

  “I told you, boy. I’m a trapper, not a hunter. I ain’t armed.”

  “You might not be, but we are.” Porter flashed his dagger, then deftly tucked it back in his belt.

  Amused, Gunter shook his head. “Knife like that’ll do you no good in the swamp. By the time a creature’s set upon you, it’ll have its fangs buried in your heart before you know what hit you.”

  “That may be. But it’ll work just fine slicing your throat if you decide you want to cross us.”

  The humor left Gunter’s face. “Since we’re talking plain, let’s get something else straight. You hire me to lead you, I lead you. You do what I say, the second I say it. No questions, no hesitation, no opinions. I been working that swamp over twenty years and I don’t mean to die in it today. Either
of you give me any trouble, do anything stupid, I walk away and you’re on your own. We clear about that?”

  Tom and Porter exchanged a glance. “Clear,” Tom said.

  Gunter extended his hand. Tom thought he meant to shake on the deal, but Porter read him correctly. He removed the coins from his pouch and dropped them in the man’s palm.

  “Right, then.” Gunter tucked away the money and buttoned his coat. “The swamp’s miles long. Some parts you can cross, others you can’t. You had a map at the girl’s place. I seen that much through the window. Show me where you need to go, and I’ll show you the quickest way to get there.”

  Again Tom hesitated, reluctant to trust him. But it appeared they had little option. Porter seemed to reach the same conclusion. They scanned the village but saw no one about. Just a few chickens scratching in the dirt. To ensure no one was watching, Porter walked a few feet away and ducked behind a scrub bush.

  Tom and Gunter followed. Tom removed the map from inside his cloak and kneeled in the dirt facing Porter. Together they unrolled the parchment. Once it lay flat, they locked eyes and lightly lay their fingers on opposite edges. The map came alive, just as it had before.

  The compass situated in the lower left corner began to glow. It rose from the map and spun, whirling madly from north to south, east to west. As the portion of the map marked The Beyond rumbled to life the parchment belched a sulfur stench. A great wind whipped around them. Trees coated in slimy moss shot skyward. Enormous snakes, lizards, and gators slithered in and out of murky ponds.

  Those creatures Tom recognized. Others he didn’t. Animals with spiky tails and matted fur, scaly faces and dark slits for eyes, claws that glistened like razors. The frantic rhythm of tribal drums echoed all around him. Unearthly screeching and howling. And oddly—the rabid barking of dogs.

  Two bright sparks shot from the parchment near the southern center of The Beyond. The sparks grew until they became a pair of soaring birds, one deep crimson, the other shimmering pearl. The birds wove circles around each other, then dove low to disappear into a deep blue lake. As they watched, the surface of the water grew increasingly turbulent, roiling and bubbling like a witch’s cauldron. A rumble of thunder sounded—a great bellowing crack that seemed to split the sky. A bolt of lightning struck the lake.

  From within the water’s raging depths rose the dragon’s head Tom had seen earlier. Hyster. It hovered in mid-air, emitting a kaleidoscope of light. Gunter gave a shout of alarm, then slowly extended his arm as though to touch the dragon. A low rumble, like a throaty growl, emanated from Hyster’s throat.

  “There, there, now. Nice dragon,” Gunter cooed. The moment his hand breached the surface of the map, Hyster bellowed an earth-shattering roar of fury, knocking Gunter off his feet. The map flickered and dimmed, extinguishing itself like a candle in a breeze. The three of them blinked in the dragon’s absence. They stared at each other. Stared at the now lifeless parchment.

  Gunter’s eyes took on a faraway look. “Interesting map you boys got there.”

  “You know the lake?” Porter pressed. “The lake where Hyster’s living?”

  “That I do.” He gave a decisive nod, spat a steady arc of tobacco juice, then wiped the dribble from his chin. “Right then. Looks like we’ve got some ground to cover.” With that, he stood, hiked up his breeches, and headed into the swamp.

  The earth beneath Tom’s feet was nothing but a mire of silt and mud, occasionally interrupted by a tangled mass of above-ground roots. Thick vines and sheets of moss dripped from trees, slapping his face as he moved. Thorns as big as his thumb snagged his clothing and pricked his skin.

  With the exception of an odd, porcupine-shaped knot that clung to the trunk of a particular tree, which Tom spied shortly after leaving the village, the swamp had a monotonous sameness to it. Every few minutes Gunter stopped to get his bearings, judging some moss-covered rock or moss-covered tree that looked identical to every other moss-covered rock and moss-covered tree they had passed. But to Gunter they must have differed, for every now and then he changed their course.

  There was no sunlight, just shifting shadows that varied the intensity of the murky green that surrounded them. Some places were so dark the green looked alligator black, other places were as pale as celery. But everything, even the air, looked green.

  Knee-high rubber boots would have been ideal for the trek. Even the leather boots won by Porter and Gunter would have helped to repel the sludge and slime. Tom wasn’t so lucky. His sneakers were sodden, squishing with every step he took. He tripped over a root and reached for a tree trunk to steady himself. The moment he touched it, however, a long forked tongue shot out. A green spotted lizard thicker than his arm slithered away with a sharp hiss.

  “Don’t worry, it won’t bite,” Gunter said.

  His heart beating madly, Tom tried to affect a cool nod, as though his brush with a lizard nearly his size hadn’t bothered him in the least.

  “Not usually. And even if they do bite,” Gunter continued, “they’re not terrible poisonous. Your arm’ll swell up to the size of your thigh and burn hotter than a blacksmith’s forge, but you’ll be fine after a week or so.”

  Gunter thought some more. “Now, them vipers with red eyes and black and yellow circles around their tails. Yipper snakes, we call ‘em. Tiny things. Slither around underfoot. Venom in them’ll kill you before you hit the ground. If you’re lucky, that is. Sometimes a man only gets a little jab, just enough venom in his system so he spasms for weeks in wretched agony, until his heart gives out from the pain. Best you stay away from those.”

  Tom’s gaze shot to the ground. He froze in place, his foot arrested midstep. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Gunter frowned. “You see me laughing, boy?”

  “No. But—”

  “Then keep moving.”

  Tom’s horror must have shown on his face for Porter gave a choked laugh, meeting Tom’s glare with a look of mockingly superior, I-told-you-so smugness. Tom ignored him and kept moving.

  Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Telling time became impossible. The canopy of trees was so thick Tom couldn’t see the sky, let alone the passing of the sun. Gunter led, Tom walked the middle, Porter brought up the rear. A situation that was just fine with him. If anything did decide to attack, odds were good it would have to go through either Gunter or Porter before it got to him. He was as safe as he could hope to be, given their circumstance. Nonetheless, his terror spiked at every little sound and movement: a hiss or a rattle, followed by the rustle of unseen creatures creeping and crawling underfoot, sent his pulse racing.

  He trudged onward. Grew increasingly tired and hungry. Wondered how to ask how long till they got there without sounding like some cranky kid in the backseat of a car. Not that they had cars here. Oh no, that would be far too sophisticated. Too easy to get anywhere. They had goat carts. Poisonous snakes. Never-ending deadly swamps, furious dragons, and public executions. And—a burlwood knot shaped like a porcupine. Weird.

  The sight of it diverted his rambling thoughts. Maybe it wasn’t singular at all, but some type of swamp thing that grew all over the place. He swung his head around to point it out to Porter and abruptly froze.

  Behind them loomed the two men with whom Gunter had been playing dice earlier that morning. Only now they weren’t holding dice. Each of them sported a machete, the blades glittery sharp. The man directly behind Porter raised his weapon as though intent on beheading Porter from behind.

  Tom’s brain raced in two different directions simultaneously.

  First: It had been a trap. His instinct had been right. Gunter was as trustworthy as Two-Times. They hadn’t been trekking deep into the swamp at all. Gunter had been leading them in circles, bringing them around to a rendezvous point where his men could attack.

  Second: His brother was about to die.

  In the milliseconds it took his brain to reach those conclusions and process the information, his jaw dropped open and a single word emerg
ed.

  “Duck!”

  Fortunately, Tom and Porter were very different people. If someone shouted Duck! at Tom, he would have asked why, or cringed slightly as he swung around to see what was heading his way, or made some stupid joke about not being a duck at all, but a goose.

  Porter dropped flat to the ground, no questions asked. The machete blade sliced the air where his throat had been.

  Good enough. Tom had done all he could. Porter was on his own against those two, while he took on Gunter. Not a fair fight—Porter was lean, armed with a dagger, and possessed the temperamental equivalent of an erupting volcano—while Gunter’s chubby, hapless goons had lost their sole advantage of a surprise attack. Porter might be outnumbered, but Tom had seen him fight. He’d hold his own.

  Which was more than he could say for himself. But at least he’d be fighting one-on-one and Gunter was unarmed. He ran that calculation, then swung around to face Gunter. Who held a dagger in his hand. Well. So much for an even match. His shock must have shown, for Gunter gave a knowing smirk.

  “Guess your brother should have checked my boots for a weapon, shouldn’t he?”

  He spat a long stream of dark brown tobacco juice. Wiped the dribble from his chin.

  “You didn’t trust me, did you boy?”

  Tom said nothing.

  “You got good instincts, I’ll give you that. Next time, you should listen to ‘em.” His gaze hardened. “‘Cepting, of course, there won’t be a next time, will there? Now give me that map of yours.”

  Tom took a step backward, frantically scanning the ground for a weapon he could use in self-defense, when Porter and one of the other assailants slammed into him from behind, pitching him directly into Gunter’s arms.

  Chapter Twelve

  GATOR PIT

  Gunter held his dagger in his right hand. He brought it up and swung fast, aiming for the center of Tom’s chest, clearly intending to drive the blade into his heart. Tom shoved him off and stumbled left, barely escaping the weapon’s arc. Recognizing that Gunter had missed his strike, and would therefore be off-balance, Tom pivoted around and slammed his shoulder into Gunter’s back, knocking him forward.