Riders of Fire Complete Series Box Set books 1-6: YA Epic Fantasy Dragon Rider Adventures

by Eileen Mueller

  “All right,” Tomaaz said, “but no running off without me, either.”

  “Course not.” They bumped knuckles.

  At their family stall, Pa passed a sack of beets to a customer and pocketed the man’s money. He faced Ezaara and Tomaaz, hands on his hips. “We didn’t teach you fighting skills so you could create a ruckus on market days. What have I told you before?”

  Tomaaz sighed. “To save our skills for battle.”

  “To practice in the meadows, not the market,” Ezaara added.

  Pa nodded. “Tomaaz, could you take this sack of carrots to the smithy?”

  “Sure, Pa.” Tomaaz shouldered the sack and left.

  Ma glanced at Ezaara’s basket. “So, you sold everything. I heard you beat Tomaaz.”

  “Only just, and through strategy, not skill.”

  “Strategy is also a skill.” Ma put an arm around her shoulder. “Everyone’s good at different things. Remember, you were climbing trees way before Tomaaz, because you weren’t afraid of heights.”

  “I guess so.” Tomaaz still couldn’t climb a ladder without turning green. Who was ever going to be impressed by a head for heights? No one she knew. Ezaara handed Ma the money and basket. “Ana wants owl-wort, today.”

  “Owl-wort?” Her mother’s eyes widened. “Collect some supplies for healing salve while you’re at it.” She gave Ezaara back a copper. “Get something to eat before you head back into the forest.”

  Pa winked. “Watch out for Lofty.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Heat rose in Ezaara’s cheeks. Had Pa heard already? Worse, had he seen Lofty mashing his lips on hers?

  “Soon everyone will be gossiping about something else.” Ma patted her arm.

  Ezaara groaned. This was worse than she’d thought. If only her first kiss had been private, special, not from her brother’s best friend. From someone who meant more.

  She hurried through the stalls, buying melted cheese on flatbread, then headed down the road to the riverbank, eating it. Water surged around the stepping stones as she crossed the river. Following familiar trails, she tucked peppermint and sage into the leather healer’s pouch at her waist. Lifting fern fronds, Ezaara picked some feverweed. The gurgling of the river gradually faded.

  Now, she needed arnica and owl-wort. Ezaara strolled deeper into the forest and came to the sacred clearing. Stepping into the sunlight, Ezaara stooped to pick arnica flowers. The ancient piaua, half as thick as a cottage, rose before her at the edge of the clearing, its bark pitted and gnarly. Blue berries peeked from its dark foliage. As a tree speaker, her mother often talked to the piaua whenever she collected its sacred healing juice. Placing her palm against the bark, Ezaara strained to feel a whisper. Nothing—again. She sighed. Not a tree speaker, then. What would her vocation be? Ma was happy as a healer and herbalist, and Ezaara didn’t mind helping her, but she wanted something more. Excitement. Adventure. Maybe love.

  The owl-wort vines grew among the knobby piaua roots. She parted the undergrowth and plucked a handful of leaves. Rising from a crouch, she opened her pouch.

  A strange tingle ran through Ezaara, then a shadow fell over her. Something swished, a sudden breeze stirring her hair. She jerked her head up.

  A dragon was circling the treetops. Ezaara recoiled in fear. With a snap of fangs or a swipe of talons, it could kill her. The owl-wort fell from her shaking hands. She tensed to flee.

  But hesitated.

  Sunlight played across the dragon’s iridescent scales, making them shimmer. Its graceful wings swished ever closer, rippling with color. This beast was beautiful—beautiful, but deadly. She had to escape. But the tingling grew stronger. The amazing creature circled down toward her. Foliage rustled in the downdraught from the dragon’s wingbeats.

  A voice hummed in her mind. “Ezaara,” it crooned.

  This creature could talk to her?

  “We’re mind-melding, sensing each other’s thoughts and emotions.”

  She held her breath, drawn to the dragon. Rich colors cascaded through her mind. Sunshine poured into her soul. Ezaara wanted to soar. She glimpsed a vision—her riding the dragon, flying above the forest, over the Grande Alps and into the blue.

  “This is your destiny, to ride with me.”

  Warning cries reached her—villagers. If only they knew this dragon, they wouldn’t be afraid.

  The dragon’s hum built to a roar inside her. It dived.

  Familiar faces shot into her mind. Her family! She couldn’t leave them.

  Ezaara’s love for her family was swept aside as energy rushed through her. She was enveloped in a prism of rainbow-colored light, like reflections in a dewdrop. Music from the purest flute filled her heart. For the first time in her life, she felt whole. The energy coiled inside her and she sprang, lifted by the wind, hair streaming out behind her. In a flash of color, the dragon’s scales were beneath her. Ezaara landed on a saddle in a hollow between its wings. She wrapped her arms around the dragon’s spinal ridge, hugging it tight.

  It felt so right.

  The dragon regarded her with yellow eyes. Ezaara could’ve sworn it was smiling. “I am Zaarusha. You were born to be my rider,” it thrummed. The beast turned. Its belly rumbled and flames shot from its maw.

  They flew off, leaving her home and loved ones behind.

  Western Pass

  Ezaara clung to the dragon’s spinal ridge, wind tugging her hair. They soared above a carpet of bristling green. Her blood sang. Until today, she’d never lived.

  Beyond the forest canopy, a patchwork of fields and cottages sprawled beneath the snow-tipped Western Grande Alps. Lazy twirls of smoke wound upward. They were nearly at Western Settlement, two days’ ride by horse. They’d come so far, so fast.

  Just today, she’d vowed she’d never leave Lush Valley without Tomaaz. Now, she was winging further away with each moment—leaving Tomaaz and her parents behind.

  She glanced back, the village swallowed by endless forest. Her belly tightened. Could she ever go back?

  “You have another destiny—with me. You chose when we imprinted.”

  She’d felt the connection, and still felt it now. Zaarusha was part of her. Their bond was like one of Ana’s scarves—a thing of beauty, of glorious colors, protective and warm.

  “Going back means facing the pitchforks of Lush Valley,” the dragon mind-melded.

  Ezaara swallowed. Everyone in Lush Valley was afraid of dragons—and their riders. She was now their enemy.

  “Besides, your family is the reason you’re here.”

  “What? No one in my family’s ever seen a dragon.”

  “They know more than you imagine.” A chuckle rumbled through the dragon’s belly. “Your mother and father are dragon riders.”

  “No, they—” An image popped into her mind: Ma, much younger, astride a silver dragon; Pa was behind her, arms wrapped around her waist. The way the sun glanced off the dragon’s silver scales looked real, but Ezaara wasn’t fooled. Then, her mother’s hair stirred in the breeze and she laughed. The truth hit her like a punch in the stomach. That was Ma’s laugh. Pa’s real smile.

  “So …,” Ezaara said, racking her brain for another answer. There was none. “This is one of your memories, then.”

  “Yes, and dragons can’t lie.”

  “But—”

  “I’m Queen of Dragons’ Realm. Our families have been intertwined for years.”

  A dragon family intertwined with hers? And not just any dragon—the queen. “I don’t get it. Why didn’t my parents tell me?”

  A wave of sorrow washed over Ezaara. “Before you were born, your mother, Marlies, accidentally killed one of my royal dragonets.”

  How awful. “I’m sorry.”

  “Marlies and Hans fled to Lush Valley to hide the truth, but perhaps that was fortunate, because now, I sense that dragonet’s power, latent, in you.”

  So that’s why. Ma was ashamed. Ezaara was here because of a mistake Ma had made,
years ago. “Me? Powerful?” It was ridiculous.

  “Not yet, but you will be.” Zaarusha beat her wings, rising up the side of the mountain face.

  Ezaara hunched over the queen’s back, gripping her spinal ridge with white knuckles. “But you’re a queen and I’m … just me.”

  They landed in the snow at the apex of an Alp. Fields lay like lazily-tossed rugs below. Settlements dotted plains that led to a barren range of snow-tipped hills, far to the west. Meandering ribbons of blue fed into lakes nestled among verdant green. A vast forest stretched northward, hemmed in by chains upon chains of mountains that seemed to go on forever.

  “This is Dragons’ Realm. We protect it. You, me and the dragons and riders that serve the realm.”

  And to think she’d been cloistered in a valley, afraid of dragons.

  Zaarusha chuckled. “Yes, you’ve outgrown Lush Valley, Ezaara. You’re ready for this.”

  It was true. She’d outgrown gathering herbs, and Tomaaz and Lofty’s dumb tricks—and the superstitions of Lush Valley. With a surge of elation, Ezaara scanned the vista. It was her new duty to protect this. But how? She was so tiny compared to this vast rugged land of contrasts. The sweeping rivers, the jagged mountains, the homes scattered across the realm. The pristine snow, glinting in the sunlight, full of promise.

  “This is what I want,” Ezaara whispered. Gods, she already missed her family.

  Roars cut the air. Then screams.

  Ezaara spun in the saddle. “That came from the south, Zaarusha.”

  Zaarusha sprang. They were airborne, high above the Western Alps in moments.

  “There.” In a pass, between two steep peaks, was a battle between men and beasts. “Go, Zaarusha, go.”

  “Tharuks, from the scent.” Zaarusha’s tone was grim. “Probably a scouting party.”

  Ezaara hunkered over Zaarusha’s spinal ridges. “I thought tharuks were monster stories to keep littlings near home.”

  “Only in Lush Valley,” Zaarusha said, “but not for long.”

  A chill snaked down Ezaara’s spine. These beasts were making their way over the Western Grande Alps into Lush Valley. To her people, her family. “Faster, Zaarusha, faster.”

  The queen sped through the sky. Ezaara leaned out, trying to see the fight far below, her eyes watering in the wind. Without warning, Zaarusha dived.

  Ezaara lost her balance, sliding down the queen’s side. She grasped at the saddle strap.

  And missed. Her hands slipped over sleek scales. Then there was nothing—she was in midair. Wind tore at her. The ground charged upward. She was about to die.

  A scream froze in her throat.

  “Relax and trust me.”

  The ground was rushing ever closer. What choice did she have? Ezaara let her body go loose.

  Strong talons grasped her. Her breath whooshed out of her lungs. Ezaara gripped Zaarusha’s legs. They flew to the closest peak and Zaarusha deposited Ezaara on a ledge. She climbed back into the saddle, her legs like Ma’s egg pudding.

  “Now fasten the harness straps. Tight.”

  Ezaara gulped. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s my fault. It’s been a long time since I had a rider.” They took off, diving to meet the fight.

  On an outpost, high on the ridge, blood from three dead men leached into the snow. A dozen tharuks were attacking two more men, who fought, back to back, trying to keep the beasts at bay. Other tharuks tossed wood down the mountainside.

  Tharuks were awful, close up. With sharp tusks, the beasts were covered in thick matted fur and wore heavy boots and leather breastplates. They slashed long claws at the men. Zaarusha snatched up two tharuks, tossing them into the air. Their roars died as they thudded to the rocks, black blood splattering the snow. They stank of rotten meat.

  Ezaara groped behind her for her bow. No, it was still at home. And her sword was blunted. She was useless, clinging to Zaarusha as the queen lunged again, flame shooting from her maw.

  Tharuks shrieked, flailing on the ground, burning. More beasts ran at the men. Zaarusha flicked flame at them, forcing them back. “I can’t get too close or we’ll burn our people,” Zaarusha mind-melded.

  One of the men screamed, clutching at his throat. Red pumped over his hands. He crumpled, dead.

  A roar cut through the fighting. A huge beast thrust its fist into the air, bellowing, “Kill him!” More monsters surged over the ridge, joining their leader to surround the last man.

  The warrior spun, jabbing with his sword, but he was outnumbered.

  Zaarusha blasted a swathe of flame, cutting down a line of tharuks. Their snarls turned to shrieks that trailed off as their smoking bodies dropped, twitching in the snow. She dived, tossing more beasts down the mountainside.

  “Zaarusha!” Ezaara’s scream died as the last man fell to the earth.

  Tharuks closed in, red eyes gleaming.

  With a roar, Zaarusha wheeled in midair, her wingtip sweeping a tharuk off its feet. It tumbled down the slope in a flurry of gathering snow, limbs flying.

  “Get to Lush Valley Settlement,” the tharuk leader bellowed, spinning to face the queen, claws out.

  Three beasts fled down the mountain toward Western Settlement and Lush Valley.

  Five men dead. Ezaara pulsed with rage. “Let me kill one.”

  “No, that man needs your help.”

  Ezaara snapped her head around. Her healer’s pouch. She could help.

  Zaarusha threw another tharuk off the slope and swooped in for the leader.

  A jolt of pain ripped through Ezaara. But it wasn’t her—it was Zaarusha. “Are you all right?” Ezaara asked.

  “Fine,” Zaarusha snarled, ripping the tharuk’s body in two. Black blood sprayed over the snow. His body thudded down the slope in the wake of the fleeing tharuk trio.

  They landed, and Ezaara undid the straps, scrambling out of the saddle.

  Rushing to the man’s side, she knelt by him. She took his wrist, feeling his heartbeat, where the blood pulsed weakly over his bone. His chest was a bloody mess, making a wet sucking noise every time he breathed. The poor man. There was nothing she could do for him, except ease his passing. Ezaara raised his head and shoulders, resting them on her knees.

  His eyelids fluttered and he groaned.

  “Here, chew this.” She placed some arnica flowers in his mouth. “They’ll taste awful, but will help the pain.”

  He ground the flowers between gritted teeth. “My wife …” It was barely a moan. “My littlings …”

  His jaw fell slack, shreds of arnica petals still on his tongue. His head lolled to the side.

  Oh, gods. Ezaara folded the man’s hands over his chest and laid his head to rest in the snow. Her eyes burned. She swiped at stray tears. “Zaarusha, I couldn’t save him.”

  Throat tight, she went to the other men, checking them. All dead. The snow was a mass of churned black and red, scattered with chunks of wood and bodies of men and beasts. “We’d better clean up.” Only a few hours’ flight from Lush Valley, and they were already burying people.

  Ezaara gestured at the men. “They were guarding the pass. This wood must’ve been for a beacon fire to warn Western Settlement of an attack. Some of those tharuks have slipped through. We have to go back and warn my people.”

  “We can’t go back,” Zaarusha replied. “I’ll tell the blue guards—the riders and dragons who protect this part of the realm.”

  “Dragons don’t protect Lush Valley.”

  “Why do you think no tharuks have ever come over the Grande Alps before?”

  Klaus was so wrong. Dragons didn’t destroy at all. The very dragons he’d despised had kept them safe—unseen, beyond the chain of alps that encircled Lush Valley’s wide basin—protecting the three villages cradled within: Southern Settlement, Lush Valley Settlement and Western Settlement.

  “Let’s light that beacon fire.” Ezaara frowned. “Will people know what it means?”

  Zaarusha replied, “Your father, Han
s, will.”

  “First, we’ll bury these men.”

  “We could give them a funeral pyre,” Zaarusha suggested.

  “No, their families need to be able to find them.”

  Zaarusha dug a grave and Ezaara buried the men, shoveling icy dirt into the hole with numb hands. She found stones for a cairn, and plucked a pine branch, wedging it between the stones as a marker. If only she could’ve done more.

  Ezaara dragged a log back up to the pass, adding it to what was left of the warriors’ wood pile. Zaarusha ripped out dead trees and flew them up. Ezaara could’ve left the queen to collect the wood, but the burn of her muscles and the ache in her limbs paid tribute to these men who’d tried to protect the pass.

  Bit by bit, the pile grew.

  “That’s enough, Ezaara,” Zaarusha said. “It’ll be dark soon. Once I light this wood, the beacon will be seen for miles.”

  Ezaara wiped her brow, wrinkling her nose. The stench of tharuks made her gag, and the sight of them turned her stomach. “What are they? That black blood and rotten stench—they’re unnatural.”

  “Years ago, a powerful mage opened a world gate and let Commander Zens into Dragons’ Realm,” Zaarusha said. A vicious face loomed in Ezaara’s mind. She tried to block it out, but Zens’ enormous yellow eyes followed her. “Zens created an army of tharuks, without breeding them—the way we take a cutting to grow a plant. They do whatever he commands. They catch and enslave our folk and use plant extracts to make slaves submit to Zens’ will.” Zaarusha shared memories of tharuks in mining pits, whipping slaves who were only half alive—thin shells with deadened faces.

  Ezaara shuddered. “Throw the beasts on the fire, too. Erase every trace of them. This is not a funeral pyre to honor them—just their wretched bodies providing fuel to warn our people.”

  “My pleasure.” A ripple of feral satisfaction radiated from Zaarusha.

  When the fire was blazing, Ezaara clambered back into the saddle. Her back and arms ached and her feet were numb.

  “Come, it’s been a tough first day,” Zaarusha melded. “I know a place where we can rest.”