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

by Eileen Mueller

  Bruno collapsed, panting, on the damp grit. Simeon fell down beside him. Pale foam hissed around their ankles.

  They were home.

  §

  Bruno woke in darkness, wracked with shivers, and clambered to his feet. He helped Simeon up the beach to a clump of towering grass with long fluffy stalks. Here, Simeon would be more sheltered from the wind.

  He trudged back to the raft, its end bobbing on lapping wavelets, and hoisted Fleur into his arms. Her face was pale in the moonlight, her beautiful lips now leached, and her glassy eyes empty. Bruno’s throat grew tight. Fleur had survived rust vipers, deadly scorpions and the cursed endless orange sand of the Wastelands, only to die at sea a day from Dragons’ Realm. He and Simeon had watched her slip away right before their eyes. All he’d been able to do was keep kicking toward land.

  That stinkin’ Roberto and the Queen’s Rider had sealed Fleur’s fate by banishing them. He’d bide his time, get strong again, and hunt them down.

  He laid Fleur in the grass next to Simeon. His son was moaning, shivering. Unless Bruno was quick, he’d be burying both members of his family. Hopefully there was a village nearby where he could find food and water. Two days ago he’d given their last precious sips to Fleur. It hadn’t been enough to save her.

  “Back soon, Son.”

  So dizzy he could hardly stand, Bruno grabbed a stick of driftwood, and, leaning on it, limped along the coast toward a lone twinkling light. He had to stop regularly to catch his breath.

  Soon he reached a road and some isolated houses. Fishing nets drying on lines glimmered like webs in the moonlight. Boats bobbed on the waves, moored to sturdy posts by thick ropes, their furled sails as pale as Fleur’s face. How he’d love to take one of those ropes, tie it around Roberto’s scrawny neck and choke the life out of him. No, that would be much too quick. He’d make the shrotty Master of Mental Faculties suffer. Or Zens would. Bruno grimaced. That’d be an unpleasant end, tortured at the hands of the Commander. But he’d never do that. Bruno relished the job too much to let anyone else make Roberto scream as they peeled his skin off his pretty face.

  The light he’d seen was a torch burning in a sconce on a large outbuilding on the outskirts of a township. It was the dead of night, and no one was around. Bruno edged toward the building. Warmth radiated from its open double doors. A giant horseshoe hung over the lintel. What luck. A smithy, with the forge still glowing.

  Bruno crept inside.

  He shambled over to the orange embers on the forge, holding out his numb hands. Around the forge were stacks of tools, horseshoes, and weapons in racks. At the other end of the building were a huge metal tub and several washboards. A line hung over them, strung with drying clothes. The blacksmith’s wife obviously ran a laundry from here, using the heat to speed the drying.

  Bruno limped over, discarded his sodden, tattered clothing and pulled on a fresh shirt and breeches, tying the waist with a short length of rope. After nothing but desert rations and water for weeks, he was skinnier than the handle on the smithy’s bellows. He huddled by the fire for a moment, but he knew he had to hurry. Every moment he lingered could cost Simeon his life. Besides, he wanted to bury Fleur before morning—before any nosy snoops started asking difficult questions. The last thing he needed was an overzealous dragon rider shipping him and Simeon back to the Wastelands.

  Bruno found an empty sack in a corner with Naobian Salt stamped on it. Was he outside the Naobian township? That’d be a stroke of luck. Naobia was the main port and largest city in the south. They could’ve run ashore near any of the tiny villages that dotted the Naobian coast. Or hit a patch of wilderness and been stranded.

  He shoved a spare set of clothes, spade, knife and dagger into the sack. Then he scooped some coals into a small metal bucket, darted out of the smithy and tucked his new possessions under a hedge. He added a horse blanket from a neighbor’s fence to his stash.

  A few houses closer to town, he plucked some oranges from a branch hanging over a wall and stuffed them in his pockets. His nose led him to a smokehouse, so he sneaked inside and stole a few fish and snatched a waterskin from a hook on the door. He slurped the water greedily down his raw throat until his belly was distended.

  The next moment, he was retching behind a bush over someone’s low garden wall.

  Inside the house, a dog barked. A candle flickered behind curtains, and a woman called, “Who’s there?”

  Bruno ducked behind the wall and crawled away, nearly losing one of the oranges from his pocket. When he was out of sight, he scurried along the road and retrieved his loot. With the sack and blanket slung across his back, cradling the coal bucket against him for warmth, he hurried back to Simeon, this time, sipping cautiously from the waterskin.

  It was still dark when he shook Simeon awake. They needed to be quick or someone would catch them burying Fleur.

  Simeon dressed in dry clothes and drank a little water while Bruno peeled an orange and passed it to him. His son bit into it, groaning at the tang of the sweet, tart flesh. “Oh, that’s good.” Leaning back on his elbows, he took another bite. “Never thought I’d be grateful for oranges again.” His eyes were sunken and his cheeks gaunt.

  Not as bad as Fleur’s. Bruno averted his eyes from her. “True.” He nodded. They’d survived the Wastelands by stumbling upon a seaside oasis. They’d eaten only dates and oranges for three days before gathering up supplies and making a raft out of palm trunks bound with fronds.

  Bruno piled up some dry sticks and fluffy grass, tipped some coals onto them, and blew to spark the embers into flame.

  “Wait here, Son.” He took the spade and headed farther inland to the high bluffs that overlooked Naobia. Then he started digging a grave for his wife.

  A tear slid down Bruno’s face—the first he’d cried for Fleur. Until now, he’d been too dehydrated for tears.

  §

  Unocco stretched his wings and took off over the basin at Dragons’ Hold. In the dim starlight, the snow-tipped fangs of Dragon’s Teeth pierced the sky above him, hemming him in. A fierce ache was building in his chest. Had been for days. Restless energy danced inside him. He wanted to soar, to fly until he dropped.

  “Are you out roaming the night again?” Ajeurina mind-melded. “You can’t be hungry. You fed a few hours ago.”

  Unocco glanced down at the southern caverns where Ajeurina would be huddled on the ledge. It was too dark to see her, but he could imagine her beautiful jade scales. She’d be curled in the back corner, her tail up over her haunch, leaving space for him to nestle against her, should he choose to join her.

  But his aching chest wouldn’t be soothed by sleeping, even next to his mate. He soared higher and higher, climbing the side of Heaven’s Peak, his wingbeats setting snow tumbling down the mountainside.

  “Watch out, you’ll start an avalanche.” She hesitated. “You’re missing Bruno, aren’t you?”

  The pang in his chest grew. There it was—his pain laid bare. “Of course not,” Unocco lied. “Why would I miss a rider who implanted me with an evil crystal?” He snorted, hoping to convince Ajeurina that he didn’t care about losing his rider—that there was no aching hole inside him.

  “Imprinting with another rider will help you. The pain of Fleur’s betrayal was almost too much to bear.” Ajeurina’s sorrow cascaded over him, deepening the hurt in his breast. Then she sent a new feeling, a keen excitement that quivered at the edge of his mind. “Meeting Lovina healed my heart. Please, Unocco, give another rider a chance. There are many fine candidates who need a steady, loyal dragon like you.”

  Ajeurina was right. He was steady and loyal. And although Bruno had mistreated him in the last few years, Unocco had fond memories of when Bruno was younger. Sure, he’d been tough, a rebel at heart, but Unocco had tamed him, harnessed that wild energy inside him. They’d fought valiantly together. Been the closest of friends.

  Even when Zens had turned them.

  But surely, now that Bruno had been banish
ed with his family to the Wastelands … surely now, he’d had a change of heart.

  Unocco wheeled in midair over the top of the mountain, the scar under his wing where Zens had implanted that awful crystal twinging. Thankfully, the terrible dark shadows and whispering voices in his mind were gone. He owed Marlies for extracting that shrotty crystal.

  And yes—now that his mind was his own and he could think clearly—he missed Bruno. But what if his rider were dead? Or alive but still corrupted by Zens, still fighting the queen and the realm?

  Unocco had tamed Bruno’s wild tendencies before. He could do it again—if his rider still lived.

  Before he gave himself to another rider, he had to know if Bruno was alive and could be saved. Unocco turned south toward the Wastelands. The savage pain in his breast eased.

  Without another word to Ajeurina, he soared into the night.

  §

  Three days in Naobia, a few sleights of hand at the market, and some stealthy late night excursions had provided Bruno and Simeon with adequate supplies—and some luxuries. High on a bluff above the beach, Bruno lowered the far-seers and wriggled back on his belly to join Simeon. “I was right. It was them I saw yesterday,” he said. “The Queen’s Rider and Roberto are down there, dancing on the sand without a care in the world.”

  “So that sharding, arrogant shrot-heap got the girl,” Simeon snarled. “I should’ve taken her when I had the chance.”

  Bruno sniggered. “A fine thing that would be: your seed in the belly of the Queen’s Rider.” He scratched the scraggly beard he’d grown since he’d been banished to the Wastelands. “Good idea, Son. Let’s arrange that. We’ll bide our time, strike when their dragons are gone. When you’ve taken your fill of the girl, she’ll make good shark fodder.”

  Simeon grinned, eyes glinting.

  Good. That had put a bit of color into his son’s cheeks. Gods knew they both needed something after that awful orange hell, the tragic raft trip and burying poor Fleur in a shallow grave. Someone had to pay for her death. Why not Roberto and that snivelly girl?

  Naobia

  Ezaara and Roberto strolled through the Naobian marketplace, his sun-warmed arm around her waist. The market teemed with life, its vibrant colors clamoring for her attention. The scent of lilies and orchids battled with the mouth-watering aroma of roasted pecans and peach pastries. Exquisite fabric cascaded over stalls. Hawkers cried over the crowd’s babble and littlings’ laughter. Bright strings of glass beads, spices in tiny pots, wolves carved from honeyed wood, pretty glass vases—there was so much to see.

  People here dressed differently, too. In Lush Valley and Dragons’ Hold garments were functional, except for at ceremonies. Naobian clothing was beautiful. The crowd seethed with orange Robandi Desert garb, embroidered traditional costumes and bright billowing robes. And their jewelry. Ezaara had never seen so much finery in one place.

  “What are these?” she asked, pointing to some earrings on a jeweler’s stand.

  Roberto leaned in, smiling. “Jewel beetles. Littlings find their brightly-colored shells in nearby caves and sell them to jewelers. When we were small, Adelina and I collected them with Pa to earn coin.” A shadow flitted across his face.

  Whenever Roberto mentioned his father, Amato, pain flickered in his eyes. He’d said some scars ran far too deep for forgiveness.

  Ezaara squeezed his hand. Gods, she’d do anything to erase that pain. To make his ebony eyes light up. Despite recent troubles at Dragons’ Hold, these few short days on their hand-fasting holiday had been blissful.

  He brushed her hair with his lips, sliding his arm up to her shoulders. She leaned into him, his warmth seeping through her.

  “Look.” Ezaara picked up an earring. The beetle’s shell was luminous turquoise, crisscrossed with tiny silver veins. No wonder the jewelers coveted them. “It’s not just their stunning colors,” she murmured. “It’s the way the shells wink in the sunlight that’s pretty.” She set the earring down, admiring a necklace of amber shells.

  “The jade ones are my favorite,” Roberto said. “They remind me of Naobia’s verdant hills. When I was living in Death Valley, I tried to remember those hills every day.” The muscles in his jaw rippled.

  No matter where they went or what they did, shadows dogged their pasts. Ezaara shuddered. “By the First Egg, I hope we never end up back there.”

  “Today we’ll make new memories.” He smiled. “Why don’t you look around while I organize a picnic? I’ll meet you by the sea dragon fountain in an hour.”

  Ezaara knew the one. They’d passed it on their walk here. Guarding one of the myriad entrances to the marketplace, it was a writhing tangle of long-bodied serpents with water cascading out of their crystal maws. “A whole hour? Are you baking the food yourself?”

  He laughed, the rumble in his chest pleasant against her shoulder. “No, I’m just fetching you a little surprise.” He squeezed her hand, dark eyes dancing. “When our dragons come back, we’ll go to Crystal Lake, where Adelina and I used to swim. ”

  Their dragons, Zaarusha and Erob, were flying along the coast to stretch their wings and feed on fish.

  “Sounds lovely.”

  Roberto kissed Ezaara, really kissed her, right on the lips in the middle of the marketplace. She blushed, remembering the bed they now shared. “A picnic sounds perfect.”

  “See you soon.” His cheeky grin made him years younger.

  Ezaara’s gaze lingered on Roberto’s strong back as he made his way through the crowd past a mage lighting sticks that shot colored stars into the stark-blue sky. “Those are pretty,” she mind-melded. “I’d heard of Naobian fire-sticks, but never seen one.”

  Littlings gathered gleefully, hands up for sticks as the mage pocketed their coppers. He waved them into a side alley so they wouldn’t fire their stars at market goers.

  “I’ll buy a couple to take with us,” Roberto melded. He passed the mage a few coppers and tucked the fire-sticks in his rucksack.

  Next to the mage’s stand was an herbalist with bunches of herbs hanging from ropes above her stall. Vials, jars and pouches spilled over the elderly woman’s rickety stand. Ezaara needed to check if the herbalist had any of the valuable remedies that Ma was running short of at Dragons’ Hold.

  “See you soon.” A rush of warmth enveloped Ezaara with Roberto’s thoughts. He waved, walked past a green guard sitting atop a jade dragon, and disappeared down a street on the far side of the marketplace.

  How had she ever lived without him or Zaarusha? She was so full of sunshine, she wanted to burst out of her skin. And it wasn’t just the climate in Naobia. Her past was a pale reflection of her vibrant life now.

  Ezaara pushed her way through the crowd, side-stepping a boy leading a goat, and making her way past cloth decorated with dragons. There was blue, embroidered with gold and green dragons chasing each other; and black with bronze, silver and red swooping dragons. Her breath caught. The black cloth was the same as Old Bill had shown her in the marketplace the day she’d imprinted with Zaarusha in Lush Valley. That scrap had been contraband in the backward valley where her parents had hidden their family. When she’d seen it, she hadn’t even known if dragons were real.

  More fabric, studded with dragons, spilled over the stall: dragons blasting fire; soaring; dragonets with fledgling wings; even dragons sleeping. They were exquisitely detailed. She feasted on the sight, her hand reaching for her coin pouch. Hang on, she was Ezaara, Queen’s Rider, and Ma was master healer. She had a duty to the realm. Maybe later, after she’d purchased vital healing supplies. With a lingering glance, she pushed her way forward to the herb stand.

  Ezaara scanned the remedies cluttering the stall but there was no piaua juice. Drumming her fingers on the table, she waited while the white-haired woman measured powder into a vial for a boy and pressed it into his hands, refusing payment. “Wish your Ma a speedy recovery,” she said with a strong Naobian accent.

  At last she turned to Ezaara. “How can I he
lp?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for piaua juice. Do you have any?”

  The herbalist’s shrewd dark eyes flicked over Ezaara. “No, our last tree speaker died three months ago. What little juice we have is with the healer, not for sale.” Ma was a tree speaker, too, one of the privileged few who could harvest juice from the mighty piaua trees.

  Most of the other herbs and powders at the market looked familiar, but there were some Ezaara had never seen. “What’s that?” Ezaara asked, pointing to a jar of ocher powder.

  “Eases aching bones and pains,” the old woman answered.

  “And this?” Ezaara held up a jar of tiny black granules.

  “A strengthening tonic for expecting mothers.” The crone flashed a gap-ridden grin. “You’ll be needing that. I hear you’re on your hand-fasting holiday with our Master Roberto, curse his rotten father.” Her gaze drifted to Ezaara’s belly and she cackled gleefully.

  Oh gods, the woman knew who she was. Might have even seen her kissing Roberto. How mortifying. “Ah, no, thank you.”

  “Perhaps a contraceptive tonic then.” Her voice rose with glee. People were staring at Ezaara now. The crone gave vulgar wink. “Having lots of fun?” she crowed.

  A woman behind Ezaara tittered. A couple of men guffawed.

  “You must be,” the herbalist continued. “It’s far too hot here to wear much at night.” She thrust the tonic at Ezaara, the blood-red liquid sloshing in its bottle.

  “I don’t need a tonic, thank you.” Cheeks hideously hot, Ezaara stalked through the crowd, chin high, the crone’s laughter chasing her.

  A ragged boy pulled at her sleeve. “I heard what she said, I did.”

  Speechless, Ezaara stared at the littling.

  “I mean about piaua juice. She’s wrong, she is. I know where you can buy some. Come.” He pointed to a narrow winding alley, shrouded in shadow.

  She wasn’t falling for that. “I’m fine thank you.” She pressed a copper into his hands. “Here, buy something nice to eat.”

  The littling pocketed her copper, but kept tugging her sleeve. “Come with me. Get some piaua juice. Finest quality, I promise.”