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

by Eileen Mueller

  Pa managed a grimace as another spasm wracked him.

  Tomaaz peered at the image of Pa glowing in the dim cavern. Sweat beaded Pa’s face and his skin was ashen.

  A low rumble skittered through the wall behind Tomaaz’s spine, making his skin crawl. He turned.

  A hand span from where he’d been leaning was a hole in the wall the size of his head. Bathed in the glow from the calling stone was a large gray eye with a slitted pupil, watching him.

  The glow on the stone was fading. Tomaaz raced for the entrance. The beast growled. Its chain clanked. Tomaaz ran back toward the waiting tharuks, its roars echoing behind him. Just before the bend in the valley, he heard the tharuks snarling at each other about who was going to fetch him. He slowed to catch his breath, then slumped and shuffled around the corner. No! He’d forgotten his shovel. Hopefully his captors wouldn’t notice in the dark.

  568 yanked his arm, dragging him down the valley. “Stupid slave. You dropped the spade.”

  §

  The sprawling buildings Tomaaz had seen when they entered the valley turned out to be the slaves’ sleeping quarters. 568 took Tomaaz’s crew to the closest one. They were each given more numlocked water as they filed inside. Crammed with dirty pallets and sweaty unwashed bodies, the place reeked. Tomaaz shuffled forward. Imitating the slaves who collapsed, dragging tattered blankets over their bodies, he sank to his knees on a filthy pallet, hoping it wasn’t infested with lice or vermin. He pulled the thin blanket over him. The moment his head hit the fabric, his eyes drooped.

  The last time he’d slept had been in a cave with Pa and Handel, two days ago, high above the forest. He’d had no idea how beautiful that landscape was. How great his freedom had been.

  Tharuk 568 grunted and slammed the door. Its footfalls crunched along the valley.

  Struggling to stay awake, Tomaaz gazed around the room. Candle stumps flickered. One guttered and died. Its life was snuffed out, just like Half Hand earlier. Had the same happened to Ma? Was she lying dead somewhere on the ground? Did that boy have family who didn’t know where he was? Or had they all died here, too?

  A hollow ache gnawed at Tomaaz’s belly as he drifted to sleep, but nightmares of tharuk whips yanked Tomaaz awake. Around him a hundred sleeping slaves wheezed and muttered. A lone candle was still burning, so he couldn’t have slept that long. Outside, feet stomped toward the sleeping hut.

  The door opened and a tharuk held a torch high. “All good here,” it growled.

  “Of course,” another tharuk answered. “Numlock keeps slaves easy.”

  “We got to check,” said the first. “I not give keepsakes for Zens’ tank.”

  Lovina had mentioned a tank, too. What was that about? And where was Zens?

  “Let’s go. Check the other sheds.” They closed the door, their voices getting fainter as they moved away.

  How soon would they be back? Should he slip out now? No, he didn’t know their routine. Tomaaz lay in the dark, counting his breaths.

  Sure enough, after about three hundred and fifty breaths, the tharuks returned, chortling at a joke. The door opened, the torch flared in the room, then they were gone again. Rising to a crouch, Tomaaz took his boots off and tucked them under his blanket, leaving a lump in the bed. The crude wooden floor was cold on his feet, but his socks would be quieter outside than boots. He didn’t have long.

  Tomaaz eased the door open and stepped outside.

  Dim moonlight filtered through the mist wisping from the cracks in the hills as Tomaaz picked his way past the eating area and the cold fire pits. Sticking to the shadowy cliffsides, he soon reached Half Hand. Tomaaz rolled him over. The boy’s skin was pale in the wan light, and his eyes glassy. He felt for the pulse at his throat, just in case. Dead.

  He’d had to check. Could he bury him? No, the tharuks would get suspicious if the body disappeared.

  Besides, he had to find Ma. He couldn’t get sidetracked by some slave he didn’t even know.

  But that was the problem. Tomaaz wanted to help them all—to free these poor people from this living, dying hell. Straightening, he sighed and cast about. Where could Ma be?

  “Strange scent,” a tharuk’s voice carried across the valley. “Someone outside.”

  “I not seen anyone, 701.”

  “Course not. You’re no tracker, 131. Let’s get one.”

  A tracker! Panic clawed at Tomaaz’s throat. He had to hide, but the voices were between him and the sleeping shed. There wasn’t another shed nearby—only a rubble pile and the boy’s body.

  He took off his shirt. Kneeling, he unbuttoned the boy’s shirt, and slipped it on. Then he put his shirt on the boy. Hopefully, that would disguise his scent. He ducked in among the rubble. Whatever Zens’ slaves were doing in the hillside, it produced a lot of debris.

  Tomaaz’s heart pounded as the tracker traced his scent to the dead boy.

  Moonlight glinted off the tracker’s tusks as it cast about, circling the rubble pile. “Lost the trail,” it snarled. “Scents are mixed. Are you two skiving off patrol?”

  “No. Slave stole his shirt,” muttered a tharuk. “One slave is thinking.”

  “Zens will be angry,” said another. “Should double their numlock.”

  “Zens must not find out,” the tracker agreed. “I mix strong numlock tonight, so no one will know. Now, get back to patrol.”

  The tracker took one last sniff, and the beasts moved on.

  So, trackers were smarter than the usual tharuk grunts. With a tracker on the prowl, it was too dangerous to keep searching for Ma. Sweat slicking his brow, Tomaaz sneaked back to the sleeping shed.

  Piaua’s Promise

  Marlies hadn’t had food or water for a day and a half. Her head was throbbing, her face was swollen, and every time she moved, fire shot through her ribs. Even breathing hurt. She’d tried to get out of the barred door, but … oh, shards, she was exhausted.

  “Zaarusha,” Marlies murmured, “I’ve failed you.” And she’d failed Hans, Ezaara and Tomaaz …. Maybe, if she slept, she’d feel better.

  A while later, Marlies woke—not better, but worse.

  Zens was right: if he tortured her again, she’d crack. In fact, if he visited right now, she didn’t have the strength to put up a fight. She no longer knew the latest secrets of Dragons’ Hold and the Council of the Twelve Dragon Masters, so that wasn’t a danger, but Zens would find out about her family. And Zens never did things by halves. He’d discover Ezaara was the new Queen’s Rider. His tharuks would hunt down Ezaara and all Marlies’ loved ones and murder them all.

  Marlies would never let that happen.

  With sudden clarity, she understood why Zaarusha’s dragonet had sacrificed its life so she could have the twins.

  Sometimes, it was worth it to give your life for others.

  She reached into her healer’s pouch and silently thanked the piaua tree as she pulled the stem of blue berries out. No one was coming to save her. No one even knew of her plight. She would never be able to repay Zaarusha. It was time to become a witch of blue.

  A tear tracked down her cheek.

  Marlies ate the berries and tucked the stem back in her pouch.

  A Terrible Discovery

  Tomaaz tossed and turned all night, his belly rumbling. He woke before dawn and chewed clear-mind berries and checked his fingernails. Still gray, so he could wait a while with the dragon’s scale. Thankfully, he hadn’t been searched, or his remedies would have been found. Perhaps he should hide them somewhere. Or would a tracker sniff them out?

  Tharuks roused the slaves and dosed them up with numlocked water. Chunks of rock-hard bread were their breakfast fare. Tomaaz nearly broke his teeth on them, but at least they filled his belly more than the sour gruel they’d had the night before.

  568 hauled Tomaaz out of the eating area. “Get your shovel. Feed that beast. Then off to latrine duty.”

  It sent him off with Droopy Eye, who had the number 1666 tattooed on its wrist.

>   Over a thousand tharuks. What hope did he and the other slaves have against so many? There were more slaves, but, numlocked, they’d be mowed down like wheat in a hurricane.

  Tomaaz took a shovel from the tool heap.

  “No, you don’t,” said 1666. “Get your old shovel from the beast.”

  The last thing Tomaaz wanted was to visit that beast twice.

  “I got a better idea.” Droopy Eye grinned, baring its yellow teeth. “Use your hands.”

  Tomaaz shrugged and allowed himself to be escorted to the stinking animal heap. Once again, a tharuk was sprinkling a rat with gray powder. Numlock? Why would they keep their own beast numlocked?

  Tomaaz grasped the tail of the rat and carried it, holding it away from him. Its fur was dark with grunge and flies buzzed around its caved-in skull. The rat’s jaw hung open like a slack-mouthed slave. Although Tomaaz tried to breathe through his mouth, he could taste the putrid stench.

  Once they turned off and got to the bend in the beast’s gully, Droopy Eye lagged behind. “Off you go. I wait here. No mucking about. Don’t forget that shovel,” the tharuk snarled, cracking his whip. “Or you’ll feel this.”

  Relieved he was alone again, Tomaaz loped along the gully floor. The distance seemed shorter, now that it wasn’t dark. Soon, he was facing the three caves at the end of the canyon. Protruding from the cave mouth on the right was the handle of his spade. He must’ve dropped it when he’d spoken with Pa.

  A chain clanked.

  Tomaaz steeled himself. All he’d seen of the beast so far was an eye.

  A low snarl built, echoing off the gully walls, building into a growl.

  Tomaaz’s skin prickled.

  Within the cavern, something lurked in the shadows. Something huge. Coming his way. A blunt head appeared, its serpentine neck snaking along the ground. Shoulders emerged, towering above Tomaaz. The whole creature was gray, its eyes covered in a thick gray film. It bared its fangs, snarling.

  Lovina flashed to mind. Before—with Bill. And after.

  The creature’s powerful limbs flexed, bringing it closer, saggy folds of gray skin dragging at its sides. It tilted its head, squinting. It moved again, the chain clanking. It was captive, too. The powerful creature was a washed-out parody of a dragon. Nothing like Handel, Liesar or the blue dragons he’d seen in Lush Valley.

  Then again, Pa had said Zens could grow tharuks, breeding them without parents. Had he grown this beast too?

  If so, why was he keeping it numlocked?

  Tomaaz flung the rat, and the beast raised its head to catch it, snapping it down.

  “I’m sorry it’s such an awful breakfast,” Tomaaz crooned.

  It was a prisoner, just like him. Perhaps it was smart. Tomaaz kept talking, low sweet murmurs, like he was soothing an angry dog. The beast tracked him with its filmy eyes as he retrieved the spade. Squinted at him as he placed a few clear-mind berries onto the blade and held it out. Tomaaz’s legs shook as he approached. How far could the beast’s chain reach?

  The gray beast’s nostrils quivered. It snaffled the berries and licked the spade.

  “I’ll be back later,” Tomaaz crooned.

  The beast stood staring as he retreated down the gully.

  He was getting distracted again—today, he had to find his mother.

  §

  The creature cocked his head, nostrils flaring as it scented the new human. This one smelled strangely familiar, yet the creature knew it had never come across this particular male before. It sniffed again. This new man carried the scent of an old friend with him. Nostrils still quivering, the creature strained to remember his friends. Hazy memories of blue and green and vast open spaces flickered at the edge of the fog, but couldn’t break through.

  Then the male started to talk. Not the harsh bellows of his tormentors, but a soft cadence that rose and fell like a gentle breeze. Squinting against the harsh sun, the creature tried to see through the fog.

  The human was approaching. Offering delicious-smelling berries.

  The creature gobbled them down, pining for more, then watched the male depart.

  §

  Tharuk 555 hurried along the ravine. 000 had told it not to feed the female prisoner, but 000 hadn’t meant to forget the prisoner completely. 555 was sure Zens wouldn’t like that. But then again, with 316 dead, it’d had more work in the mines. Then there’d been an unruly slave to deal with. It jiggled the key in the lock. Bars clanked against stone as it opened the door. The prisoner was still asleep.

  555 kicked the female’s ribs.

  No cry, no twitch.

  This one was hardier than it’d thought. The tharuk bent, shaking the woman’s shoulder. Her head rolled toward him, eyes open and glassy. Her lips were tinged blue.

  Dead—the prisoner was dead.

  It’d never get away with hiding the body. 316 had hidden her rucksack and look how that had ended. 555 would have to take her to the flesh pile, then report to Zens.

  §

  Bone-weary, Tomaaz shoveled his evening gruel into his mouth. Occasionally, the spoon missed, hitting his jaw or cheek. Was he numlocked? No, after days of digging latrine canals, exhaustion was making him clumsy.

  Or shock. Tharuks had been especially vicious today, whipping and beating slaves. More than one had died. The overseers had barked at the crew leaders to drive their slaves harder, even though people were dropping around them. 568 had even whipped littlings.

  Now the tharuks were standing in a group, grumbling.

  “Zens got bad news,” said 568. “That’s why overseers whip.”

  “Kill more slaves. They will speed up,” reasoned Droopy Eye.

  “Zens can chop their hands off,” snorted another and they all guffawed.

  As if that would help anyone dig faster.

  Tomaaz blanched and slipped a clear-mind berry into his gruel, scoffing it down, just in case. He checked his nails. After this morning’s dragon scale, they were gray again. Three mind-numbing days in this place and he hadn’t found a trace of Ma. He couldn’t give up. Last night, Pa had looked worse. Frustration welled inside him, then sputtered and died. It took too much energy. He slurped his gruel, then picked up his shovel.

  “Hey, you!” 568’s whip flicked Tomaaz’s calf, stinging. “Take that stinking corpse. To the pile.” The tharuk gestured at Half Hand, who’d lain there for two days.

  Dead, while Tomaaz wore his shirt. Flies buzzed around the body, flitting into Tomaaz’s face as he picked up the boy. He huffed, trying to blow them away without tharuks noticing.

  “Take your shovel,” yelled 568. “Feed that beast. Or see Zens.”

  The way 568 said see made Tomaaz’s back prickle.

  Half Hand was all poky bones and saggy skin, but Tomaaz still staggered under his weight. His head spun. Their meager rations would make anyone weak.

  568 hadn’t requested a tharuk escort, so Tomaaz shambled off on his own.

  Along the gully, he passed slaves, eyes empty and slack-faced, returning from depositing the dead. When he got to the flesh pile, bile rose in his throat at the stench of decomposing bodies. A little girl lay on the heap—she’d been two canals over, whipped, for stopping to pee. The second lash had done her in. The hand of a tiny littling peeked out from under a man’s corpse. It wriggled. Gods, was the littling still alive?

  Sharp teeth and a twitching nose poked out from under the hand, followed by a rat’s body and long tail. No, the littling was dead, now a rodent’s feasting ground. A crow cawed, landing on a body and pecking at its eyes. Tomaaz hissed and waved his hands, but it just hopped over to another body. Nauseous, he averted his eyes, carrying the boy to the edge of the heap.

  “I’m sorry,” Tomaaz murmured. “Sorry you had to die here, so far from family and fresh air.” He lay the boy on the earth, to the side of the pile, refusing to toss him on a heap, like a discarded vegetable scrap. Did this boy have family? Had they died too? Or were they at home where the earth was fertile and green, while
he’d wasted away in this land of dust, dirt and death?

  His eyes stung.

  He was the only one not drugged, among thousands. It was hopeless, searching for Ma.

  The stench of death clawed at his nostrils, forcing its way down his throat, making him gag. He fought it, then gave in, retching until his guts were empty.

  Wiping his hand on the back of his sleeve, Tomaaz rose, and turned to take one last look at the boy.

  His breath caught. Oh, Gods. It couldn’t be.

  Under a man’s body at the top of the pile, sticking out at eye level, was a boot bearing the mark of the Lush Valley cobbler. A boot just like his.

  “No!” Tomaaz whispered.

  He scrambled up the bodies and rolled the man away. Glassy turquoise eyes stared lifelessly from a pale face, framed by dark hair congealed with blood.

  He’d found Ma.

  Hope Awakened

  Hans was over the Great Spanglewood Forest, only a day’s flight from Dragons’ Hold, but it felt like years away. He clung to the saddle, arms and hands spasming. His legs had the tremors. An anvil was pressing on his chest, making him gasp sips of air. Another shudder ran through his body. The breeze pricked his sweaty skin.

  He had to face it: he was dying. Tharuk poison was killing him from the inside out.

  He scrabbled in his pocket with cramping hands and pulled out a calling stone. The angular one—Marlies’ one. He rubbed it. The stone flared, then crumbled into ash in his fingers. So Marlies’ calling stone had been destroyed. By Zens? Tharuks? Or had it been an accident? He shoved his fingers at his pocket, missing. Then tried again, more slowly. On the third attempt, he extracted Tomaaz’s calling stone and rubbed it … nothing. He tried again … nothing. Afraid he’d drop it in midair and have no means of communicating with his son, he shoved it back into his pocket.

  Gods, he wasn’t going to make it.

  “Hang on, Hans,” Handel melded. “We’re not too far away.”