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

by Eileen Mueller

  “There’s a trapdoor, bolted from the inside, in case you need to escape. If I drum my fingers, freeze. If I cough, we’re in dire trouble. When I ask you a question, tap once on the wagon floor to answer yes, and do nothing for no. Got it?”

  Marlies tapped once.

  Giant John laughed. “Where are you headed?”

  “Death Valley.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “You don’t do things by halves, do you? Let’s get out of here.” He flipped the side of the wagon up. Bolts slid into place and Marlies was sealed in the dark. Giant John thumped into place above her. “Hear this?” Giant John asked, drumming his fingers on the wagon seat, then coughing.

  Marlies tapped once and heard his dry chuckle and the snap of the reins. The wagon creaked across the yard, then the metal-bound wheels clattered along the cobbles in the alley. Each cobble jarred Marlies’ body, and she was tossed from side to side. Giant John would be taking the winding back alleys. It felt like rushing through a chasm of whitewater rapids, clinging to driftwood. Good thing she’d used piaua—with an injured leg, this trip would be as bad as Death Valley itself.

  §

  Giant John left the cobbled streets of Last Stop and took a barely-used lane through outlying fields. The wagon rumbled along the dusty road, the horses’ hooves clopping in time to a ditty running through his head. He casually scanned the surrounding pastures. No tharuks in sight—yet. So far, he’d gotten Marlies out of Last Stop without tharuks on her trail.

  Soon, he’d meet up with the main road through the Flatlands. On horseback, he could’ve gone across country, but then, he’d hardly be smuggling Marlies across half the realm if he was on horseback, would he? Years ago, before she’d disappeared, he’d helped her on many of her clandestine trips, but that was before he’d had a family. Kisha had surprised him last night, asking for his help transporting Marlies and promising to send word to his wife. He hadn’t risked his safety for years. His wife and littling needed him. He flicked the reins. Now, his routine trip into Last Stop had turned into an adventure—hopefully, one they’d both survive, although with Marlies heading into Death Valley, he wasn’t so sure.

  §

  The compartment was hot and stuffy and Marlies’ mouth was coated in dust. An odd rhythm sounded above her—oh shards, Giant John was drumming his fingers. She froze. The familiar stench of rot wafted through cracks in the wagon bed.

  “Halt!” a guttural voice growled.

  How could they halt when they’d already stopped? Typical tharuk, stating the obvious.

  “Where are you going? What’s in that wagon?”

  “I’m delivering produce. Would you like some fine cabbage?”

  “Got any meat?” another tharuk called.

  “You heard. Any meat?” the first snarled.

  The only meat was her, trapped in this shrotty cage. Marlies could practically hear the beast drooling.

  “No, sir, but what about my finest ale?” Giant John asked.

  Thunking sounded above her, then a barrel lid cracking open, followed by eager slurping and the scent of beer.

  Stuck in a box, like the perfect prisoner, there was nothing Marlies could do. She was helpless while tharuks could be invading her home, attacking her daughter or torturing Zaarusha’s son.

  Giant John thudded back onto the wagon. So, this was how Giant John had planned to get her across the Flatlands—bribery.

  §

  A tharuk tracker, dribble sliding off its broken tusk, was standing apart from the troop, its black eyes piercing Giant John. His head spun. Repressing a shiver of revulsion at being mind-bent, Giant John imagined the beer—remembering its mouth-watering scent, the taste sliding down his parched throat to his belly. His stomach rumbled.

  The brute snarled, breaking off its gaze, and thrust its way through the horde of tharuks crowded around the barrel. It shoved them aside and rammed its snout into some of Last Stop’s finest ale.

  Giant John snapped the reins, and they moved on. His trick with picturing the beer had incited the monster’s thirst. Thank the Egg, that broken-tusked beast was behind him. Was the other half of its tusk impaled in someone?

  They were only a few fields away when roars broke out. He snapped the reins and they picked up speed. Glancing back, he saw the tharuks fighting over the ale. What a waste of good beer, but they’d fallen for it. He only had a few barrels left and their journey would take days. What would happen when their supplies ran out?

  He pushed the horses on, driving through the morning, keen to get to River Forks before nightfall and find a place to stay. The next day, they’d push on to Forest Edge and Waldhaven, where his friend Benji lived. It had been a while since he’d seen Benji, but he’d put them up for the night in his barn.

  Mid-afternoon, Giant John stopped and stretched his legs. He was about to flip down the side of the wagon bed to let Marlies out, when a flurry of birds took off from the trees beyond the meadow. Something had disturbed them. A tharuk or a deer? Better to be safe than sorry. He drummed his fingers on the wagon side, then rummaged through a sack. Grabbing a couple of apples, he hopped back onto the seat and pressed on. They had to get to River Forks.

  Bitter Truth

  The sharp clack of dress boots echoed along the prison corridor. Visitors seldom came, except Ernst and Tomaaz. The pair had kept him posted, asked for guidance on training, and brought him decent food. Hans stopped his strength exercises and peered through the bars.

  Klaus was striding down the corridor, stopping to mutter a few words with each criminal. Hans caught phrases such as, “few more weeks,” and “got your just desserts,” and “time will tell.”

  How many of these men and women had been unjustly imprisoned, like him? He’d never questioned it until now.

  Bill hung his arms through the bars, rubbing his hands together as Klaus approached. “Master Klaus, so nice to see you.”

  Hands on hips, Klaus regarded him. “Despicable, Bill, whipping a daughter like that. You won’t find any sympathy here. You’ll be staying behind bars as long as I can keep you there.”

  “But Master—”

  “Don’t Master me!” Klaus’ voice was low, deadly.

  Bill slunk to the back of his cell.

  Surely, Klaus didn’t still think his opinion mattered to Bill?

  Hans kept his gaze steady as Klaus faced him. “Good morning, Klaus.”

  “Yes, it is a good morning, a nice peaceful morning, like all the others this past week.” Klaus shook his head. “No tharuks today, Hans. Or any other day for that matter. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Eight days in this dreadful place already, and still no attack. Hans had been pondering it all day, but he doubted Klaus really wanted to know. “Perhaps tharuk scouts slipped through, but were detained in Western Settlement.”

  “Perhaps there wasn’t a fire, Hans. Perhaps you imagined it.” Klaus’ lip curled. “Perhaps it’s been more peaceful because your children are no longer fighting in my marketplace.”

  Bill was leaning forward, listening. Every afternoon, crows visited his window sill for food, and let him pet them, while he whispered at them. As if he was reporting the jail’s comings and goings.

  Ridiculous. Hans collected himself. The boredom in prison was addling his brain. “Maybe.” Klaus was never going to listen. Never going to prepare. But, then again, perhaps he was right. Maybe tharuks weren’t coming. No, Hans couldn’t risk it. They had to do whatever they could. “I’d rather prepare in vain than be caught unawares. These are our children and families, our neighbors, Klaus. Wouldn’t you rather be cautious than sorry?”

  “Well, I’m sorry I listened to you, Hans.”

  Listened? Hans crushed the desperate bark of laughter that threatened to break loose from his chest. Through the bars, he grasped Klaus’ shirt. “Listening is training our warriors to fight tharuks. Listening is not caring what your father told you about dragons. He was wrong, Klaus. Your grandfather was a dragon rider—a fine
rider, from what I’ve heard—and died saving a village. Your father turned against dragons afterward, injuring any dragons that patrolled Lush Valley. That’s why they don’t come here. That’s why they set up a beacon system. Your grandfather Frugar would not want his sacrifice to be in vain. He’d not want you to risk the lives of your loved ones because of your father’s bitterness.”

  For a moment, Klaus stared at him, shock etched on his face. “Unhand me, you poor deluded fool.” He shoved Hans’ hands away and stalked off.

  Bill cackled with glee. “Good try, mate. Who’d believe that crock of dung? You’ve sealed your fate now!”

  Hans stood, head against the bars, chest heaving.

  Hunted

  It had been good to get out of this forsaken wagon and stretch her legs last night, but now, after another day on the road, Marlies was weary. Strange how lying around fretting could tire you out. It’d been ten days since she’d left Lush Valley. Had more tharuks breached the pass? Were Hans and Tomaaz still alive? She rubbed her calling stone, but there was no hum or buzz. Hans wasn’t using his, then.

  Giant John, concerned freshweed wasn’t enough, had stopped at a local sty, trading vegetables for a piglet and chickens. Now there was an ominous dripping near her feet. The stink of pig urine and manure made her gag. The animals’ clucking and squealing hammered at her head. Thank the Egg, this prison wasn’t forever.

  No, she had to stop this fussing. Zaarusha’s son and the hundreds of slaves in Death Valley were imprisoned, not her. She’d rather fly across the Flatlands on Liesar than stay in this shrotty wagon, but she hadn’t earned back her right to fly. Manure and pig urine, she could handle. Marlies shifted to stop her belt from digging into her hip, then rummaged in her pack for an apple. She bit into it.

  The wagon careened around a corner, then slowed, the horses trotting at a steady pace, hooves echoing off nearby walls. They were in a town. Marlies’ nerves prickled. Perhaps there were mind-benders nearby. She submerged herself, going deep inside, so no one could detect her thoughts. She had to get to Death Valley as fast as possible, yet all she could do was wait.

  §

  Trickles of sweat ran down Giant John’s back as he drove through Forest Edge. The village was quiet, too quiet. There were no children in the yards, no one on the street, and no livestock in the fields. Forest Edge had been abandoned. A stray chicken pecked at the dirt. A chill breeze rippled through the trees, making a door bang. Where had everyone gone?

  Giant John flicked the reins, and the horses galloped out of town. Leaving the village, he spied movement in the trees, then a piggy snout and the glint of armor. A tracker, for sure. It must’ve followed them from Last Stop. He urged the horses along the road through Spanglewood Forest. Birds took to the sky behind them. The tracker was fast.

  Giant John bolted along the track, driving the horses hard. They needed to shake the tracker before Waldhaven, so they could hide the wagon in Benji’s barn. Although the tracker couldn’t scent Marlies, it could track him and the horses.

  Hours later, at the turnoff for Waldhaven, John relaxed his grip on the reins. He hadn’t seen a sign of the tracker for a while, but they needed rest. Benji owned a small farm on the far side of the village. Straight through the center of town, and he’d be there. Giant John frowned. Everything was silent, just like in Forest Edge. Had everyone fled from here, too?

  His wagon rumbled along the deserted street, around a corner. Except the street wasn’t deserted.

  Giant John gaped in horror.

  People lay dead on the doorsteps. Bodies were scattered along the road. A man was hanging, gutted, from a tree. A littling’s broken body had been flung onto a flower bed, her neck at an odd angle. Nauseous, Giant John pulled the reins, wheeling the wagon around, and made for the forest road. There was no refuge in Waldhaven.

  §

  Marlies’ nerves jangled like an over-tuned fiddle. Something was wrong. The wagon swerved, throwing her weight into her rucksack. The horses’ hooves thundered as Giant John pushed them into a gallop. The pig squealed. Branches struck the wagon, shudders reverberating through Marlies’ bones.

  Abruptly, the wagon halted. Marlies slid forward, her feet crashing into the end of the compartment. Outside, something creaked—a door? Giant John walked the horses forward, then stopped. He flipped the side of the wagon bed down and helped Marlies out.

  They were in a barn. He shut the doors, while Marlies rubbed her legs and marched on the spot to get her circulation going.

  When he turned back to her, Giant John’s face was ashen. Tears tracked through the dust on his cheeks.

  “What happened?”

  His hands were trembling.

  Marlies led him to a pile of hay. “Here, sit.” She retrieved a waterskin from the wagon and held it out to him. “Have some, you’ll feel better.”

  Mutely, he took the skin and drank. His eyes were dark, hollowed out with grief.

  “What was it, John?” she asked gently.

  “Bodies. No one left alive. Women, littlings, even tiny ones.” He took another swig. “Rotting flesh in the streets and sprawled across doorsteps. All those lives …” His stare was blank—he’d be seeing it all over again, the way she’d seen the dead dragonet for years.

  Marlies hugged him, and Giant John sobbed. “Benji, his wife and littlings …”

  “Did you see them?”

  “No.”

  “They may have survived, fled …” Or been taken as Zens’ slaves. That would bring him no comfort. Marlies fixed some food—vegetables, bread and a cup of ale for Giant John. “Only one, mind you,” she said as she passed him the beer. “We need our wits sharp.”

  “And our blades,” Giant John replied, anger kindling in his eyes.

  Good, better anger than hopelessness.

  As they ate, their conversation drifted to other things. “It’s the rift between mages and riders that’s let tharuks get out of hand,” Giant John said.

  Marlies coughed on her bread. “What? They’re still quibbling over the world gate?”

  “Well, the wizards did let Zens through. It’s their fault,” Giant John said.

  “But that was years ago. And no one suspected he was such a horror.” He’d been ugly and misshapen, yet Zens had appeared peaceful.

  Giant John took a sip of beer. “When Zens’ hidden army of tharuks started capturing our people as slaves, we should have fought him, not each other.”

  “Surely the Council of the Twelve Dragon Masters has forgiven the wizards by now,” Marlies replied. “They can’t hold a grudge forever.”

  Giant John shook his head. “Forgiving is one thing, forgetting is another—they’ve done neither.”

  The mages had closed the world gate, but not without cost—many were stranded on the other side, locked out of Dragons’ Realm forever. “You’re not serious, are you?”

  “As serious as I can be. Mages and riders haven’t fought together since Anakisha’s last battle.” Giant John sipped his beer.

  “Shards, those idiots! How can we withstand Zens without wizard power? Without mages, how can we be effective? Who, on the council, supports this?”

  “Who doesn’t? The mages are deep in Spanglewood Forest, or down in Naobia.” Giant John gave her another bleak look. “I know you were in pain when you and Hans fled Dragons’ Hold, but the masters who replaced you two are incompetent. Last time I was at Dragons’ Hold, I tried to tell Lars and Tonio, but they didn’t want to know.” He sighed. “Because I’m still friends with Giddi, they don’t trust me.” His eyes seemed to accuse her of abandoning the realm.

  Marlies’ throat tightened with grief. “It wasn’t only horror of killing Zaarusha’s baby and Zaarusha’s wrath that I fled from. There was the pain of losing Anakisha, other riders and their dragons. Many of the mages we lost were my friends too …” She broke off. It had all been too much.

  Beneath his gaze, she straightened her shoulders. “We can’t do anything about the past, just the fut
ure. I’m going to Death Valley to find Zaarusha’s lost son. I owe her that. Will you help me get to the foot of the Terramites?”

  “They’re called the Terror Mites now.” Giant John grimaced. “So, that’s what you’re doing.” He hesitated.

  She was asking too much. He had a family now. “Don’t worry, I’ll—”

  With a flick of his hand, he cut her off. “I’ll gladly take you. Sleep in the compartment, in case we’re disturbed.” He threw her a blanket. “I’ll nap on the wagon.” Giant John turned the horses around, so they were facing the barn doors. Harnessed to the wagons, they were ready for a fast escape.

  Marlies climbed inside the wagon bed, cringing. If they were caught, her secret compartment would be a death trap.

  §

  476, the tharuk tracker, opened the door to the barn. The big dolt had been here, the male with the beer. Yes, there were wagon tracks and fresh horse dung. He could’ve scented him a valley away even without the wagon tracks to follow. The tracker sniffed around the barn. In the corner, it found breadcrumbs and an apple core, and everywhere was that elusive scent that he couldn’t quite detect—the female. Somehow, she was masking her true scent. 476 couldn’t say how it knew, but its instincts said the female must be traveling with the big man.

  The prize was within reach. Zens would be very pleased.

  Hah! The man would be an easy kill. The oaf looked thicker than a headless chicken—and being big, he was bound to be slow. Saliva dribbled off 476’s tusks as it sped out of the barn, following the wagon’s tracks along the road through Spanglewood Forest.

  §

  Giant John’s supplies were pitifully low. All that remained was half a sack of vegetables and an empty beer barrel. He’d had to give everything else to a troop of tharuk trackers a while back, distracting them for long enough for him to ride off with Marlies. Oh, they’d questioned him about her, too. And those trackers had been coming from Death Valley. How had the news of Marlies traveled ahead of her? Giant John clicked his tongue against his teeth, encouraging the horses. His mares had done well this trip, but they were tiring.