“It needs help.” Ezaara tugged Roberto forward, but his legs were like blocks of wood, unmoving.
Solid. Bolted to the stone.
A dragon, here in Crystal Lake.
A voice croaked. Someone shifted in the dark, feet slapping against stone.
And a rider.
Ice pooled in Roberto’s belly. No, it couldn’t be.
“Roberto?”
He blocked Ezaara, wouldn’t let her in. Gods, this was their hand-fasting holiday. And now…
The dragon gusted flame, lighting up the darkness. A man—a skeleton with hanging flesh and bulging eyes—was walking toward him. Wisps of long gray hair framed his gaunt face. Eyes wide, the man held up a trembling, bony finger and croaked again.
Roberto stared. No, impossible. It couldn’t be.
“Roberto?” Ezaara squeezed his hand, gazing up at him.
He swallowed, as chaos broke loose inside him.
Death Valley
Zens stalked back and forth in front of the huge tank that lined the wall of his den. He gestured at Tharuk 000 to flick the switch. Methimium-powered light bathed the body parts floating in his preservative solution. It always helped to have reminders of his conquests in front of him. The furry tharuk hands and the slaves’ ears, fingers and toes crystallized his thoughts and helped ease the throbbing in his head.
“Our troops must capture Master Giddi. He holds the key to the world gates.” He scratched the stubble on his head and spun to 000. “Our experiments are too weak. Too fragile. We must create a stronger breed. Let’s inspect the young mages again. It’s time we milked everything they have.”
Tharuk 000, tusks gleaming yellow in the methimium’s glow, held the door to Zens’ underground cavern open. “Commander, the latest batch of mages seems hardier. They’re ready for testing.”
“Very well, we’ll take a look.” Zens strode through the door into the maze of tunnels, 000 trailing him. Tharuks working in the tunnels bowed as he passed. It was only proper that they showed deference to their creator—he curled his lip—just as the mages soon would.
They exited the tunnels and marched across Death Valley’s arid dusty terrain, past slave crews, the crack of tharuk whips echoing off the valley’s desolate mountain slopes. The latrine gang shuffled past, their eyes locked on the ground, jaws hanging slack. They barely needed guards, the numlock in their rations was so high.
000 gazed at the charred hillside looming above them.
“Focus, 000. We can’t let that last battle beat us. We will shape the destiny of Dragons’ Realm and defeat those stupid men who sit on those stinking lizards.” He licked his lips, ignoring the reminder of their defeat. “The new weapons we’re developing will conquer them all. And when we’re ready, we’ll char their littlings in their beds and incinerate every mage in Dragons’ Realm. Except Master Giddi. Him, I need alive.”
“Commander, that blackened hill reminds me how much I hate those riders, and all the ways I can torture them when I get my claws on them.” 000 replied, dark saliva dribbling off his tusks onto his furry chest.
Zens chuckled as they entered the tunnel system on the far side of the valley. They marched past a mining crew of human slaves, driven by tharuks. The slaves’ drab, expressionless faces were covered in yellow methimium dust. Good, more crystals for his work.
A littling girl tripped and fell, and a tall male slave stumbled over to help her. Zens glared at them. The man writhed on the ground, screaming, as Zens fried his mind, killing the nerves. As his gaze slipped to the girl, she spasmed then lay still without uttering a sound.
“Clear the bodies,” Zens snapped. “Put their ears in my tank.”
657 snapped alert. “Yes, Commander.” He signaled for two grunts to cut off the ears and take the bodies to the human flesh heap.
Zens grinned as blood from the slaves’ severed ears splattered the stone.
As the tharuk underlings dragged the bodies away, Zens turned back to 000. “Don’t worry, 000, we’ll have our chance at revenge. Soon, dragon riders across the realm will be begging for mercy.”
000 chuckled as they took the spiral access way deep into the bowels of the mines. Zens trudged downward, his mind churning. How could he increase the quality of the specimens?
The automatic aluminum sliding doors hissed to admit them to the laboratory.
Zens ignored the two young mages—male and female—strapped to the examination beds in the anteroom. He stalked through to the lab where methimium-powered lights cast a yellow sheen over enormous glass vats in rows throughout the room. Tharuks busily tended the creatures growing within them. Dark masses of wing undulated gently in clear fluid, the odd talon, sinewy neck or fangs pressed against the glass sides.
Zens strode through the lab, under the left archway, and into the next chamber. 000 followed him in and barked a command at the tharuks tending smaller vats along the back wall.
The furry, tusked beasts swung about, their beady red eyes focused on Zens. They saluted, fists on chests. “Commander,” they barked in unison, their guttural voices rumbling off the stone walls.
Which only increased Zens’ headache. “Troop leader,” he said.
Tharuk 873 stepped forward.
“They tell me your latest batch of experiments is ready for testing. If these specimens aren’t hardy enough, the heads of your entire troop will roll.”
“We start testing now.”
Zens nodded. 873 had nerves of steel. There was nothing like the threat of carnage to keep tharuks in order. “We need more, faster. Double your production by tomorrow. 000, organize it.”
Triple pointed at the troop of tharuks and clicked its fingers. “Follow me.” They exited to the anteroom.
Zens lingered. “873, show me your best specimen.”
“This one.” 873 pointed at the closest vat.
Zens peered inside. The specimen appeared to be perfectly formed—four human limbs, the face a perfect replica of the girl on the bed. Even the blonde hair would fool anyone. What was causing his new humans’ inherent weakness?
He melded with 873. “Send me this specimen through with some testing material.” Grinding his teeth, he stormed through the main lab, following whimpers of terror to the anteroom.
The young male mage was whimpering more than the girl, who lay there in shock, hardly moving, only the occasional moan escaping her lips as the tharuks sliced deep into her thigh tissue.
000 and 873’s highly trained team were driving needles into the male mage’s spine and more into his hip bones. Keeping them conscious for the process was half the fun.
“Strap down his skull,” Zens snapped. “Harvest the cells from his brain.”
000 mind-melded with him. “That might kill the mage.”
“He’s strong enough,” Zens replied. “And if he’s not, we’ll catch another, and another—until my army is indestructible.”
As the mage’s screams of pain filled the chamber, Zens’ headache eased and he smiled.
873 marched the blonde mage they’d created into the room, hair still dripping from the vat. 924 dragged a littling slave into the antechamber, a boy whose lank red hair hung over his eyes.
Zens prowled around the clone, admiring the muscle tone in her limbs. He projected an image into the clone’s mind: the female mage firing flame from her hands.
The clone raised her hands, fingers splayed, and shot a burst of flame at the antechamber’s sliding door. A patch of the metal was stained black. Smoke and the stench of burned chemicals drifted though the antechamber.
924 knew the drill, placing the boy in a fireproof chamber in the corner.
“Not bad, but can you create enough flame to kill?” Zens goaded, sending the clone another vision.
The clone spun and flung her hands at the boy. He didn’t stand a chance. Green flame licked up the shreds of his pathetic clothing and his skin caught. Too numlocked to react, he stood there, eyes vacant and jaw slack.
“More. Show me wh
at you have.” Zens pulsed power into the clone’s head.
Torrents of flame speared from her fingers and whipped around the boy, engulfing him until he was a pillar of fire.
Zens waved the clone to stop. She stood with her hands at her sides awaiting his next command. He strode over and held out his hands, warming them over the burning child.
Wounded
Marlies heard thuds and shouting from the ledge outside the infirmary. Dragons were landing.
“Wounded incoming,” she called to her husband, Hans. She put down her herbal tea and grabbed her cloak.
Hans clutched her arm, restraining her. “Marlies, pace yourself. You’re looking tired.” His green eyes were full of concern.
She was always tired nowadays. More so with every patient she treated. And every wound inflicted on her people by Commanders Zens and his tharuk armies. “I’m fine.”
“You’re far from fine and you know it.” Hans donned his cloak too, and rushed out with her to the infirmary ledge.
Dragons landed. Riders clambered down into the snow and rushed to a dragon hauling a bloodied man from his saddle. They stumbled toward her, carrying him. His hands were gripping his abdomen, holding a gaping wound together. Marlies gasped. It was Seppi. The riders swept inside with them, taking Seppi to a bed. His face was blanched like an almond, teeth gritted in pain.
Riders propped his legs up as he hunched at the head of the bed.
Something had sliced through every layer of his clothing, spilling his guts. Glimpses of pale white and green showed through his bloodied fingers and bulged from the edges of the wound.
Hans, lips pressed into a grim line, brought piaua juice and clean herb over to Marlies. He passed a cup of water to a rider milling around nearby. “Ask Handel to heat this. My dragon knows exactly how warm.” He gestured to another. “Fetch a needle and squirrel-gut twine from that drawer. Quick now, your leader needs you.”
Seppi had been the leader of the blue guards ever since Marlies had come to Dragons’ Hold. She’d patched him up more times than she could remember, but he’d never looked this bad.
“Need anything else?” Hans melded.
Marlies shook her head as she crumbled the clean herb into the warm water. “Seppi, this is going to hurt like hellfire.”
He nodded. Wheezed. None of his usual banter.
Agonized grunts escaped from his clenched jaw as Marlies cleansed the wound. “Hans, get Leah. I need her steady hands before he bleeds out.” Hans dispatched a rider to fetch her trainee healer.
It was an odd wound. A clean slice. The flesh was cut to the same depth right across his belly. And there was no dirt at all. She set her clean herb aside. Luckily the intestines and stomach appeared to be intact. “Who, or what, did this?” she asked.
Seppi’s eyes were glazed. He didn’t answer. One of the riders spoke up, “He was muttering about a dragon cutting him when we pulled him off Septimor.”
A dragon? It couldn’t have been. The wound would be ragged and dirty from its talons. Perhaps a very sharp blade. No, not with that precision while a man was on dragonback. “And how’s Septimor? Is he injured too?”
“Rocco is with him. He has slight wing damage, and my dragon says something keeps screaming in Septimor’s mind. Apart from that, he doesn’t seem to be injured.”
“My needle please, Hans,” she barked. “And, Henry, bathe his gut with water so nothing dries out.”
The rider stepped up with a wet cloth as she took the threaded needle from Hans. “Bring a candle please, I need more light. The rest of you, give us some space please, and make sure Septimor is all right.”
Leah rushed to Marlies’ side, her hair tied back in a scruffy tail. “You need me to hold the wound?”
Marlies nodded. “Thanks.”
Seppi clenched his flesh, refusing to let go. Hans helped pry his fingers open. Leah grabbed the edges of the wound, tugging them together, and nimbly tucking his peeking gut back in. For the hundredth time since the girl had become her trainee a few short weeks ago, Marlies thanked the dragon gods that Leah had such steady hands and an instinct for healing.
Awash in blood, patches of Seppi’s fatty layer gleamed white in the candlelight, as Marlies sutured the deepest layers of tissue together in Seppi’s gut.
“Sorry, Seppi, here comes the hellfire. Hans, hold him down.” He obliged, and she dribbled piaua juice over the tissue, watching it knit over before her eyes.
Seppi winced, groaning.
Piaua burnt as it healed. Unpleasant, but lifesaving.
“That’s the lining that holds the viscera in,” she told Leah. “And these are the muscles that strengthen the stomach wall.” She stitched the fibrous red meat that held Seppi’s stomach together.
He moaned, his eyes rolling back in his head, and slumped on the bed.
“Maybe we should’ve given him woozy weed to knock him out,” Leah murmured.
Voice tight, Marlies replied, “We couldn’t. With a stomach injury, he couldn’t digest it. And if there was a leak in his gut...”
Marlies held the slim vial of green fluid up to the candlelight. There was hardly any piaua juice left, and she still had to sew the layer that protected Seppi’s muscle, and then his skin. “Hans, could you please get me more piaua juice?”
Hans retreated to her supply alcove.
“Marlies, you know there’s only one more vial, don’t you?” Hans melded. “Those recent tharuk skirmishes in Spanglewood exhausted most of your supplies.”
“I’m well aware, but I can’t let Seppi bleed out here on this bed. When all this is done, I’ll nip back to Lush Valley and get some more.”
Hans frowned as he returned with the precious vial in hand. “I don’t want you off on adventures again. I nearly lost you last time.”
He didn’t have to say she hadn’t been the same since Death Valley. She felt it every day.
The doors to the ledge flew open, and Kierion and Adelina rushed into the infirmary, washed their hands, and came over to the bed. “How can we help?” Kierion asked.
Leah answered. “You could collect some clean cloths from the alcove. Adelina, get Handel to heat some more clean herb in a large bowl of water. We don’t want to infect Seppi when we’re cleaning all the blood away.”
Not that it would matter once his wound was healed with piaua and safely closed over, but Marlies didn’t say anything, glad Leah was using her initiative.
“Sure,” said Kierion. Whirling on his heel as Hans passed Leah the piaua, Kierion’s elbow knocked Hans’ hand.
The slim glass vial flew into the air, spinning, the juice glinting in the candle light. Marlies dropped her needle and snatched at empty air. Hans lunged. Kierion gasped and launched himself at the vial. He and Hans collided, his fingertips barely brushing the glass. The vial shattered on the stone, the precious piaua splattering and now contaminated with dirt.
Adelina gasped.
“I’ll get you another one.” Kierion raced toward the alcove.
“It’s too late,” Hans said. “That was the last one.”
“Oh.” Kierion’s blue-gray eyes widened, then darted to Seppi. “Will he be all right? He’ll make it, won’t he?”
Shards. Shrotty bleeding shards.
“The lad feels bad enough,” Hans melded, fists bunched at his sides. “We can’t rub salt in his wound.”
As the precious life-giving juice soaked into the stone, Marlies glanced at the few remaining drops in her nearly empty vial and smiled brightly. “Of course, Kierion. He’ll be fine. Now, why don’t you go and help Adelina get that warm water?”
As Kierion’s slumped figure disappeared outside with Adelina, Leah leaned in and whispered, “If we can’t seal the wound, what will happen if Seppi gets an infection?”
Marlies picked up her needle and tugged a stitch closed. It wasn’t just Seppi she was worried about, although that was worry enough. She’d grown so used to using piaua, she’d come to rely on it. What would happen when the
next tharuk battle came and wounded riders poured into the infirmary? How many would die from blood loss or infection then?
She had to get to Lush Valley to retrieve more juice. To hang with how sick and exhausted she was. The sooner she left, the better.
§
He was such a clumsy idiot. Kierion shook his head, still seeing the piaua vial shattering on stone, the precious juice—those drops that could’ve healed so many people’s wounds—wasted. He passed Marlies the cloths she’d requested, then trudged out to the infirmary ledge with Adelina.
She squeezed his hand and disappeared under the overhang where Handel was resting.
Fenni was sitting on Riona’s foreleg, leaning against her warm hide, his long legs crossed at the ankles.
Someone must’ve dropped him off here. Trust Fenni to find him right now after he’d just made such a blunder.
“That was quick. How’s Seppi doing?” Fenni asked.
“Marlies is looking after him.” There had to be something he could do, something, to make things right again. He’d give anything to fix what he’d broken. “Let’s get on with training.” He swung into the saddle and Fenni climbed up behind him. “Bye, Adelina.”
She nodded, cradling a cup of clean herb.
“Kierion, you’re unsettled. Why?” Trust Riona to notice.
Kierion didn’t answer, turning to Fenni instead. “Let’s shoot some targets.”
Riona swooped over the target range. Fenni shot bolts of green mage fire from his hands. The flames sizzled through the air, hitting every target, extinguishing the moment they touched the boards, leaving a smoking black mark.
Kierion shot arrow after arrow.
“You’re getting better,” Fenni said. “You nearly hit all of them this time.”
“Huh!” Kierion elbowed him in the ribs, and then nocked another arrow. Riona swooped and he loosed it. The arrow gave a satisfying thwack. “That was a bullseye.”
Fenni laughed. “Riona helped by swooping.”
“As she should. She’s my dragon.”
Riona snorted.
“All right, all right,” Kierion replied. “I’m your rider. I know no one owns a dragon.”
Riders of Fire Complete Series Box Set books 1-6: YA Epic Fantasy Dragon Rider Adventures Page 101
