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

by Eileen Mueller

  This was not a battle he was going to win. “No, you did the right thing. We had to help them, and you fought well, but if the council hears about this, we’ll be flamed. Get changed so no one sees the blood all over you. Although it might be too late, because Simeon already has.”

  The look she shot him could have curdled blood. Even covered in tharuk gore and angry at him, she was stunning. She must never, ever get an inkling of how he felt. Roberto tamped his feelings down tight. “It’s your job to heed the rules, Ezaara, not break them.” He strode out the door.

  §

  Roberto was so sharding stubborn, so pigheaded. Ezaara scrubbed her face and arms and changed into clean clothes. They’d fought so well together. She’d saved a girl and her brother, but all he could do was lecture her. No kind word of praise. Not even a smile.

  She flexed her torso, aching all over where the monster had pinned her. No doubt there were others more badly wounded. She’d forgotten to go to the infirmary when Sofia was injured, but she wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. A Queen’s Rider needed to serve her people. Making her way as quickly as possible down the tunnels, Ezaara came to the infirmary.

  Fleur was back. She, Simeon, and two assistants were tending wounded riders and sword fighters whose moans echoed off the stone walls.

  Ezaara went straight to Fleur. “Who should I first attend?”

  “Oh, um … him.” She pointed. “He’s loudest.”

  She frowned. Her mother had always triaged patients, knowing the loudest often wasn’t in the worst condition. Ezaara hesitated. She really should obey Fleur—it was her infirmary. She went to the man Fleur had indicated, and sure enough, his injuries didn’t appear as bad as the lad next to his, who was lying silently on a spreading stain of red.

  “How were you hurt?” she asked the boy.

  “Arrow in my back,” he answered through gritted teeth, staring at her with pain-filled eyes.

  The man’s moaning in the next bed was driving her to distraction, so Ezaara gave the man a stick to bite on and rolled the boy from his back onto his front. The arrow had gone deep, but from what she could see, the wound had been enlarged by whoever had removed it so clumsily, ripping the flesh further. Her blood boiled. This poor boy couldn’t be more than thirteen. “Who removed this arrow?” she muttered.

  Suddenly standing at her shoulder, Simeon smiled. “I did,” he said.

  Simeon was the son of a healer. He should know better. She bit back a scathing comment, only saying, “Please, fetch me warm water.”

  When Simeon returned, she was about to ask for clean herb, but remembered it was hidden in the alcove, so she muttered, “Thank you,” and waited until he was gone to slip clean herb out of her healer’s pouch and crumble it into the water. She cleansed the boy’s wound, threaded her needle with rabbit gut twine from Lush Valley and stitched the ragged edges of his flesh together. The boy’s body was tight with tension. Even when she gave him a stick to bite on, he whimpered.

  “Simeon, do you have anything to numb the wound?” she called.

  Tending a man nearby, Simeon shook his head. “Supplies were dreadfully low when my mother took over here. Sorry.”

  Hang on, there was bear’s bane in the alcove. What were Fleur and Simeon playing at? Perhaps Simeon didn’t know. Maybe his mother had kept supplies in reserve for an emergency. Surely this boy constituted such an emergency?

  “Great job, Ezaara,” Simeon called as he passed to fetch more bandages. He dropped some off at the boy’s bedside. “Those are nice even stitches.”

  Ezaara’s chest swelled with pride. It was true, her stitches had always been neat and tidy. Despite her not wanting to be a healer, her mother had taught her well. Thinking of Ma made her throat constrict. She blinked, hard. She had to focus on this boy and other patients. There’d be time enough later to dwell on family.

  Hours later, when they’d finished treating the wounded, Simeon thanked her profusely and kissed her hand. Grateful at least someone had appreciated her today, Ezaara stumbled from the infirmary to the empty mess cavern.

  Adelina greeted her. “You look exhausted. Here, take a seat. I saved you dinner.”

  “Infirmary,” Ezaara grunted, ripping a bread roll, too tired to talk. She bit into the crust, groaning in pleasure.

  Adelina bustled off, returning with a bowl of dark meaty stew, and sat beside her. “It’s been a long day.”

  Nodding, Ezaara spooned stew into her mouth, occasionally pausing to dip bread into her bowl. When she was finished, she sat back and sighed. “Now, that was good, the best part of today.”

  “Thank you for healing Roberto.” Adelina kept her voice low. “He said you fought valiantly, saving a girl and a littling.”

  Roberto? Ezaara bit back a bitter retort. During training, he was so tough, never giving a scrap of praise. “You know the strangest thing?”

  Adelina shook her head.

  “Simeon said they didn’t have anything to numb wounds, but there’s bear’s bane in the alcove. Maybe Simeon doesn’t know about the supplies in the alcove, but Fleur must know. I should have asked her. I …” Ezaara hung her head.

  “What is it?”

  “I did my patients a great disservice by not challenging Fleur.”

  “I don’t trust Fleur,” Adelina replied. “Neither does Roberto.”

  Despite her cynicism about her master, a prickle of mistrust ran down her spine. She’d have to watch Fleur.

  §

  Sitting on the edge of his bed, Roberto circled his arms again. He could still use his injured arm, but the gash was puffy and red. He rolled his eyes. That was probably due to Fleur’s rotten salve. What had Ezaara been thinking? Well, at least his chest was as good as new, thanks to her.

  He’d heard two healers in Naobia whispering about piaua when he’d taken his mother to them for her back … no, he mustn’t think about that.

  Now he’d seen piaua in action—and Ezaara using her healing arts. Queen’s Rider, compassionate healer, competent archer, with a fierce loyalty and a wild beauty that nearly made his heart stop each time he glimpsed it. As her master, he had to know everything about her—talents, strengths, weaknesses, so he could truly prepare her to lead their army against Zens.

  It was no good, he couldn’t sleep. “How about a flight?”

  Erob’s snores were his only answer. Fair enough. His dragon had only returned a few hours ago, after ensuring every tharuk was either dead or gone from River’s Edge. A walk would have to do instead.

  Roberto pulled up the hood of his jerkin and strolled along the tunnels. Lost in thought, he realized he was near the Queen’s Rider’s cavern when Simeon appeared, sneaking along the tunnel. Roberto froze in the shadows. Simeon, furtively glancing back, stole down the short tunnel to Ezaara’s cavern.

  Roberto slipped after him.

  Hand on the Queen’s Rider’s door handle, Simeon paused, listening.

  “What are you doing here?” Roberto hissed. Grabbing Simeon’s free arm, he twisted it behind his back. Simeon went limp, but Roberto knew that trick, keeping his grip tight as he marched him down the tunnels.

  Simeon blathered. “I couldn’t sleep for worrying about Ezaara. I just had to check she was safe.”

  “I’m not listening to your sniveling dragon dung,” Roberto snapped. He’d tried his best to keep Ezaara busy, away from Simeon, Alban and Sofia, but he couldn’t be everywhere.

  When they reached the infirmary, and Simeon’s family’s living quarters, Roberto released him. “Stay there. All night. Every night. Or you’ll see the sharp end of my sword.” He gave a cutthroat grin.

  Glowering, Simeon slipped into the infirmary.

  Roberto exhaled. That had been lucky. He could’ve been asleep. If he hadn’t been there, who knew what could’ve happened to their new Queen’s Rider—to Ezaara. Dragons’ Hold would be a lot colder without her smile.

  Rider of Fire

  A few days later, as her bruises from their fight at Riv
er’s Edge were fading, Ezaara opened her door at Roberto’s knock.

  In usual terse form, he nodded. “Good morning, Ezaara. I have news. Lars has scheduled the Grand Race for today. All trainees must participate, including you.” He passed her a pair of light shoes with flexible leather soles. “I thought you’d like these. They’ll be easier to run in than your boots.”

  The shoes were made of supple leather, and hand-painted with a likeness of Zaarusha soaring over a lake, her shining scales reflecting all the colors of the rainbow in the water. These shoes were as beautiful as Ana’s scarves. More so, because someone had made them for her. She scarcely dared breathe. “Did you make these?”

  His smile warmed his eyes. “No, but I did ask our master craftsman, Hendrik, if he could make you some pliable shoes, suitable for running.”

  “When did you get time to do that?” Over the past week, they’d been together every waking moment, training.

  “Right after the imprinting test.” He shrugged. “I saw that you’d arrived in only what you were wearing, with a sword at your side. Once I knew you were Zaarusha’s true rider, it was logical you’d need something to run in.”

  He was a man of such contrasts—a harsh taskmaster, but thoughtful. His mother’s cane, these shoes, the treats and tiny things he was constantly doing for her. The way they’d fought together at River’s Edge. There was hidden gentleness inside him.

  “Thank you.”

  “Please, try them on. If they don’t fit, you’ll be running in your boots.” He laughed, his face open and free.

  She put them on and pulled the leather laces. “They fit perfectly.” Ezaara took a few steps. They were light enough to dance in.

  §

  Hundreds of dragons settled on the ridges above the clearing, their rustling wings and restless feet sending stones skittering down the mountainside. Although riders were scattered among them, perched on outcrops or ledges, most of the crowd were gathered at the edge of the clearing and along a track leading through the meadows to the forest.

  The race was due to start at any moment. Stretching her calves, Ezaara evaluated her competitors, all in cut-off breeches, stones crunching as they limbered up. Sofia was flexing her thighs, her vivid pink scar puckered over the awful bump on her leg, as if she was deliberately reminding everyone of Ezaara’s blunder. Although Ezaara had several remedies that would help that scar tissue, she doubted Fleur or Sofia would want to know.

  Sofia ignored her, but Alban scowled enough for both of them, shooting her dirty looks. Due to Roberto’s rigorous training schedule, she hadn’t seen much of Sofia or Alban—almost as if Roberto had intentionally kept her away. But whenever she had seen them, they’d snapped or muttered insults. So much for the Queen’s Rider being respected. Alban was deliberately frosting her.

  If she did well in the race today .... No, she’d scarred Sofia’s leg. Nothing would help. She swallowed, missing the easy banter she’d enjoyed when she’d first met Sofia.

  Rocco gave her a wave. He jogged on the spot, the breeze ruffling his dark curls. They looked fit, all of them. Henry had a much smaller stride than hers, so she should be able to beat him, but the others …. She’d messed up so many times, she had to prove herself today.

  Bright laughter echoed around the clearing—Kierion was here. Lucky he wasn’t running, or everyone would’ve found lizards in their shoes, or their boots nailed to the floor. Ezaara rotated her ankles. Shards, her new shoes were light.

  Gret was the only one who approached her. Shaking her hand, she said, “Good morning, My Honored Queen’s Rider. It’s a privilege to be running beside you.” Her voice carried across the clearing. Standing tall, Gret met the gaze of every competitor, including Alban and Sofia.

  Ezaara clasped Gret’s hand. “Thank you, Gret. Run well.”

  “Good luck. Here, at Dragons’ Hold, it’s tradition that a master also runs in the Grand Race.” Gret flashed a grin. “They draw straws.”

  Beyond Gret, lanky Mathias gestured. “Here they come now.”

  Lars was talking with the masters as they approached. When they were alongside the competitors, Roberto sounded the horn. The crowd quieted.

  “Good morning, riders, trainees, and gentle people of Dragons’ Hold,” Lars boomed. “Our trainee riders are participating in the Grand Race as part of their evaluation. There is only one rule: if there’s any foul play, the perpetrator will be disqualified and banished.” Ezaara could have sworn his gaze lingered on Alban. “Now,” Lars said, pausing theatrically, and waving a bunch of straws in his fist as he scanned the competitors. “One lucky master will be racing with you. Masters, choose—the shortest straw runs.”

  Ezaara’s stomach knotted. Who would it be? Tonio, always skulking on the edge of every crowd observing everyone? Or Lars himself? Hopefully, not Roberto—he beat her every time they ran. In Lush Valley she’d won a few races, but here, everyone was tougher, fitter, older. She wasn’t racing the village littlings or Tomaaz and Lofty.

  A hush enveloped the crowd. The masters drew straws. One by one, they held them up. Not Lars. Nor Tonio. Not Hendrik, who’d made these wonderful shoes. Ezaara flexed her feet. Alyssa held up a long straw, then Fleur and Bruno. Roberto had the short one.

  Racing against him? She’d never win. So much for proving herself.

  She’d have to get out in front early, or she’d be chewed up and spat out. Using the old techniques Pa had taught her, ignoring the tightening in her throat at the thought of her family, she visualized herself speeding ahead of everyone. Good thoughts speed us, he’d always said. A shame he wasn’t here. “Zaarusha, Handel and Liesar left ages ago to get Pa and Tomaaz. When will they be back?”

  “I don’t know, Ezaara. Now, focus.”

  Lars stepped up to the mark, motioning the racers forward. Roberto gave her his usual nod of acknowledgment and joined them. Ezaara placed her hands on the ground and bent her front leg, ready.

  “We’ll start at Queen Zaarusha’s roar,” Lars announced. “May your feet be like wings of air.”

  Zaarusha melded, “Good luck, Ezaara. Win by a decent margin!”

  Win?

  Zaarusha was already roaring. The other runners were off, gravel hissing as they sped across the clearing toward the fields.

  She’d missed the cue. Startled, Ezaara stumbled. Gaining her footing, she leaped forward.

  Adelina cheered her on. “Go, Ezaara. Catch up!”

  Ezaara pounded after her competitors.

  Henry was clutching his side. “Cramps.” His face was a tight grimace. Ezaara shot him a sympathetic look as she passed. As a healer, it didn’t seem right to leave him, but she had to catch up to Roberto and the others. They were already through the first wheat field, and she was only halfway across.

  Ahead, Roberto broke away from the main group. Someone followed—Alban. Sofia’s mass of wild curls, the same hue as the golden wheat, bounced as she loped with the group, favoring her leg. Thankfully, she could still run. Ezaara swallowed the thought. She had to focus.

  She caught the main group of runners as they ran between vegetable fields, dust flying under the warm sun. The scent of kohlrabi hung in the air. Her vest was already sticky.

  Rocco spurted ahead, trying to catch Alban and Roberto. Shoulders tight, he was straining too hard. He’d never last the distance.

  Ezaara forced herself to relax, her legs flowing across the ground. She moved along the outside of the group.

  Sofia veered and stumbled, jabbing Ezaara in the ribs with her elbow.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry.” Sofia smirked, dripping sarcasm.

  “Hey,” Gret yelled at Sofia, “that’s not on.”

  “A mistake, just like when that cow hurt me.”

  A flash of anger spurred Ezaara on. Pumping her arms and legs, she dashed forward, leaving the group behind.

  She deserved every hit and blow and slur. If someone had hurt Tomaaz like that, she would’ve been livid. She couldn’t blame Sofia for
being angry, especially when Alban kept poisoning her with his nasty barbs. If she was ever to be a just Queen’s Rider, she couldn’t let peer politics get her down. But doubt and fear ate away at her as she ran on.

  Rocco was closer, now. With steady paces, Ezaara chewed up the ground between them and overtook him as she crossed the last meadow. Glancing back with a sneer, Alban entered the forest. Roberto was long gone, somewhere among the trees.

  Gradually, Ezaara increased her pace. She hit the tree line, welcoming the cool shade of the forest canopy. She blinked, helping her eyes adjust. This part of the forest was dense, branches woven together in a lattice of foliage. Vines with broad shiny leaves hung from boughs, occasionally twining their way across the path. As a tree-speaker, Ma would love this place. A pang of loss hit Ezaara. Alone. She was so alone here. Her family couldn’t celebrate any of her successes. Or support her through her failures.

  §

  Roberto pressed ahead, Erob’s power singing through his veins. Last time he’d glanced back, Ezaara had pulled away from the group and Alban was entering the forest. The muted thud of Alban’s feet was back along the trail.

  Leaping over a mass of vines, Roberto headed around a corner. A master running against trainees seemed unfair, but it spurred the trainees to push their limits. Masters, with the advantage of accessing their dragons’ power, would always win. He, Lars and Tonio were the fastest at Dragons’ Hold, although rumor had it that Lars had once been beaten by a master who was no longer here.

  Roberto grinned. He’d beaten Lars the last few times they’d raced. His success was as much due to the strong bond between him and Erob and his mental aptitude, as it was to his fitness. Although he enjoyed training hard, exorcising the demons of his past.

  Behind him, Alban’s footfalls stopped. Roberto cocked his head as he ran. The winding path must be masking Alban’s tread. He slowed, pacing himself for the descent into the stream and the grueling climb once he left the trees.

  §

  Ezaara skirted a patch of sludge and raced over some gnarly roots. This part of the track was tricky. Up ahead a mass of vines lay across the path, with no way around them. A leap should do it. She sped up and took a huge stride, launching herself into the air. The vines whipped up, smashing into her legs. She crashed to the forest floor, smacking her ribs on a root and whacking her shoulder. Rolling, Ezaara came to her feet. A wall of muscle was before her. Alban.