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

by Eileen Mueller

  His poor valiant rider. “How do I know you won’t do it again?”

  Genuine sorrow washed over Uncoco as his rider replied, “I promise I’ll take care of you. I feel so terrible about what I did. I’d do anything to make it up to you.”

  “If I talk to the council, will you come back to Dragons’ Hold and be my rider?” Dared Unocco hope? It was too much. He teetered on the edge of a precipice, barely breathing.

  “For you, Unocco, I’d do anything.”

  Joy streamed through Unocco, banishing the pain in his chest, his hunger and tiredness. He soared higher into the sky on the warm breeze, above the shining lake below. “Where can I find you?” He’d go anywhere for his rider, do anything.

  “I’m waiting in the jewel beetle caves.”

  “I’ll be there in no time at all.” After years of pain and Zens’ dark whisperings, he and Bruno would finally be free.

  §

  “Hurry, Son, put more water into that cauldron.” Bruno threw a dead branch on the fire and watched the flames lick greedily at the wood.

  Simeon unfolded his legs and pushed off the cavern floor to stand. He strolled past the tidy hearth and cooking equipment as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “You want to ride on dragonback across the realm?” Bruno asked icily. “Or would you prefer to walk? Because that’s what you’ll be doing if you don’t get that swayweed tea ready.”

  Simeon rolled his eyes. “It’s not as if we have a dragon we can turn. None of the greens were keen for a new rider.”

  “I’ve just spoken with Unocco, you idiot. He’s on his way.” Hah, that made the boy run. Bruno fished one of the pouches of swayweed he’d nicked from the herbalist at the market out of his pocket.

  Simeon dragged the cauldron over and shoved it on the fire, sending a spray of sparks over Bruno’s boots. “This isn’t going to work, father.” He smirked, as he emptied their waterskins. “He’s going to smell the swayweed and know you’re turning him again.”

  Bruno jumped up, grabbed Simeon by the neck of his jerkin and pulled him close. Spittle flying into his son’s face, he snarled. “That’s why I have soppleberry to disguise the taste, you numb skull. The stupid beast will think he’s drinking our leftover tea.” He poured the entire pouch of swayweed powder into the cauldron and threw in a liberal handful of soppleberries. “Now get stirring, if you value your hide. We have a dragon to snare.”

  Naobian Justice

  Roberto struggled to his feet. “I won’t. I won’t do it.” His breath rasped, chest aching. “I won’t hurt people just because you want me to.”

  Zens gestured at a man in riders’ garb, chained to the wall. “Are you sure, Roberto? I’d hate to force you. Just lay your hands on this dragon rider’s head and use your new skills. A little pain will make him talk.”

  “No!”

  “Very well.” Zens’ silken voice caressed his mind. Roberto shuddered as Zens’ eyes took on a feral gleam. “You leave me no choice.” Zens turned to a massive tharuk with a broken tusk. “Tharuk 000, bring in the others.”

  “Yes, beloved master.” 000’s eyes gleamed and dark saliva dribbled off his tusks, splattering on the floor.

  Moments later, he was back with four littlings. Pitifully thin and hollow-eyed, they were about four to six years old. Littlings—slaving for Zens. The eldest had a festering lash mark on her cheek. Their faces were slack and expressionless—they were victims of numlock, wasted and broken.

  What were they doing here? Did Zens want him to test them too? Well, he wouldn’t.

  “Place your hands upon that man’s temples, Roberto. Extract the information.”

  “No.”

  “If you don’t, I’ll kill this girl.” Zens gestured to the blank-faced littling with the lash mark.

  It was an empty threat to bully him into submission. Roberto lunged for Zens’ knife. “I’d rather kill myself than help you.”

  Tharuk 000 leaped between them and grabbed Roberto, tossing him against the stone wall. His shoulder throbbed.

  “First, the girl. We’ll see if he cooperates afterward.” Although Zens was mind-melding with 000, his voice slithered into Roberto’s skull, battering him from the inside. “Remember, Roberto, this was your choice. Now, she’ll die, and it’s your fault.”

  That’s why the littlings were here. They were hostages, to get him to cooperate. “No! Don’t! I’ll do anything you—”

  000 raked his claws across the girl’s throat. For a moment, her eyes flew wide. Blood welled along the gash, then spurted down her neck. Her mouth went slack and her head lolled to the side, eyes dead.

  Roberto awoke to shattering glass. He was back in Naobia. Back in the present. Gods, half asleep, he’d thought he was still with Zens.

  “Slave monger.”

  “Murderer.”

  Another smash sounded.

  Beside him, Ezaara sat bolt upright in bed. “What’s going on?”

  “We’ll kill you, you shrotty traitor.” In an instant, he realized. “They’re after Amato. Get your shoes. There’s broken glass.” They scrambled out of bed and yanked on their boots.

  Ezaara melded, “For a moment, you thought it was you, didn’t you? You thought they were after you?”

  Roberto brushed aside her question and raced into the lounge as a stone flew through the jagged window, crashed onto a table, and skidded off the edge to the floor. He heard a roar and saw a plume of dragon fire shoot into the air outside the window. Erob and Zaarusha pounced into action, driving back the crowd that had assembled outside the cottage. A cabbage flew through the window.

  Roberto ducked.

  It hit the table, smashing a vase, spraying water and flowers everywhere.

  His boots crunching through broken glass, Roberto ran for the door and flung it open. A rotten tomato hit him in the face.

  Wiping off his cheek, he faced an angry crowd: farmers wielding pitchforks; fishermen waving diving spears; and villagers bearing knives, swords, rocks and rotten vegetables. A pumpkin sailed through the air, smashing against some roses trailing up a latticework on the side of the cottage. Splinters of wood and tattered petals exploded onto the ground.

  “It’s Amato! He’s come to kill us,” someone cried.

  This was getting way out of hand. Roberto drew his sword and held it high. “I am Roberto, son of Amato. As a master on the Council of the Twelve Dragon Masters, I ask for your listening ears.”

  Murmurs spread through the crowd as people whispered his name and pointed.

  “He looks just like Amato to me,” a farmer yelled, inciting more angry comments.

  “Amato killed my cousin,” a plump woman holding a rotten gourd shouted.

  “And my wife and daughter!” a red-faced, middle-aged farmer hollered. “He gave them all to Zens, who murdered them in cold blood.”

  “Kill him. Kill him. Kill him,” the crowd chanted

  Erob roared. The rabble huddled closer together, backing away from the ferocious blue dragon.

  Suddenly, Ezaara strode past Roberto and stood next to Zaarusha at the back of the crowd. Zaarusha nuzzled her shoulder. Ezaara scratched Zaarusha’s forehead.

  “It’s the Queen’s Rider,” shrieked a farm girl with a basket of tomatoes over her arm.

  Murmurs spread throughout the crowd.

  The girl yelled again, “Look, the new Queen’s Rider.”

  Ezaara held up her bare hand, and they quieted. “Indeed, Amato is here,” she said, her clear voice silencing the assembled throng. “We found him yesterday, by accident. Years ago, when his dragon, Matotoi, realized the extent of Amato’s treachery, he plunged into Crystal Lake, trying to kill them both. But they didn’t die. Instead, Matotoi dragged Amato into an underwater cavern where they’ve survived by eating fish and lake weed these past six years.”

  The red-faced farmer waved his fist in the air. “Amato survived. My family didn’t. He deserves to die. I’ll help him on his way.”

  “I understand h
ow you feel,” Ezaara said. “As does Queen Zaarusha.” A rumble from the Dragon Queen filled the air, making the hairs on Roberto’s arms rise. “We’re taking Amato back to Dragons’ Hold to be tried by the Council of the Twelve Dragon Masters. However, we are aware of your grievances. If you would like them recorded, I am happy to do so personally this very morning and bring your testimonies to Dragons’ Hold. Please, form a line, and I’ll be with you in a moment.” She gestured at her nightdress. Thankfully, because Amato was in the cottage, she was wearing one. “Just give me a moment to get changed.”

  More people were drifting into the yard, by the moment. The hubbub grew as people explained what was going on and argued among themselves.

  Roberto escorted Ezaara into the house, his hand at her waist. “You were amazing. How did you know what to say?”

  Ezaara shrugged. “I don’t want Amato killed. And these people need to be heard and understood. This way we can collect their evidence for his trial.”

  “But he’s already been tried in Naobia. He was tried for his crimes and found guilty, posthumously—we thought.”

  “But now that he’s alive, Zaarusha insists he be tried at Dragons’ Hold.”

  “That I do,” the Dragon Queen interjected.

  Amato was sitting on the couch, his knees tucked to his chest, body trembling. “Don’t let them get me,” he croaked, burying his face in his knees and wrapping his arms around his head.

  Pathetic creature. His father was hardly a man anymore, just some gibbering idiot.

  Roberto shook his head. It would be easier to leave his father to the wolves outside and fly away pretending they’d never found him. Easier not to ever face him again. Easier—but he couldn’t do it, not with Ezaara and Zaarusha insisting they take him to Dragons’ Hold. Not when he’d pledged allegiance to his queen.

  So much for their hand-fasting holiday in Naobia—another thing Amato had ruined. Roberto sighed. It was only fair that these people have justice. Only fair that their grievances be heard again. No matter how many times they mentioned their dead, the pain of Amato’s actions would never diminish.

  §

  There were so many people milling outside the cottage that Ezaara couldn’t get changed without being noticed through the windows. In the end, Roberto sheltered her with his cloak while she pulled on her riders’ garb.

  “Here you are.” He thrust a pastry and a couple of plums at her. She scarfed them down quickly in between lacing her boots.

  Roberto wiped the remnants of the shattered vase and strewn flowers off the small table, and carried the table and a chair outside. He retrieved some paper, a quill and some ink from a drawer in the kitchen. “You ready?” he asked.

  She nodded and they stepped outside together.

  Ezaara faced the line of Naobians—so long it snaked all the way around the cottage and onto the road. She’d felt a twinge of sympathy for Amato, but she shouldn’t have if he’d wronged this many people.

  Roberto stood at her side as she seated herself at the table and arranged her paper and ink.

  “I’d like you to go first,” she melded, slipping into Roberto’s mind, sensing the disgust and raging anger his father’s presence had awoken. His hurt ran deep, deep enough to destroy him.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. And I’d like you to tell all the people assembled here what it was like to live with your father.” Was she pushing him too far?

  Roberto’s face closed over, that impenetrable wall springing up around his mind, blocking her out. His jaw clenched, muscle rippling along bone.

  “If you don’t want—”

  “I’ll do it.” His voice was hard.

  He was steel, forged in the fire and crucible of pain Amato had inflicted upon him.

  His throat bobbed as he stood in front of the line of his fellow Naobians. “Some of you know me. I’m shocked that my father is alive. I thought I’d buried him forever.” Despite the warm sun beating down on them, the frost in Roberto’s voice made Ezaara shiver. “He committed many crimes, but today I bear witness to the crimes he committed against me and my family.” Roberto’s fists clenched at his sides, his body taut. “After my father was captured by Zens and then released, I grew up, sheltering my sister from his beatings, taking them for myself. Our nights were broken with splintering wood, splattered blood, and my mother’s whimpers.”

  A soft sob reached Ezaara’s ears. Casually, she turned toward the house. Amato was peeking out the shattered window, unnoticed by the crowd, who were riveted by Roberto’s account.

  Roberto’s lips twisted. “He lured Naobians into traps where they were captured by tharuks and taken as slaves to Death Valley. I was one of them. Taken by my own father, my mind warped to become a vicious tool in Zens’ hands.”

  Gasps rippled down the line as Ezaara scratched the quill across the paper.

  Roberto nodded. “Yes, I might have stayed that way, were it not for Erob, my dragon.”

  Erob padded over and nudged Roberto’s chest with his head.

  Roberto patted his scaly neck. “At Dragons’ Hold, our master healer discovered crystals called methimium that Zens implants under people’s skin to control their behavior. They’re effective. Deadly. And perhaps, in light of these crystals, I could forgive my father for his crimes against me. But not for killing my mother. Not for killing your loved ones. For that I cannot forgive him.” Roberto’s chest heaved.

  The Naobians watched him in silence. Ezaara dipped her quill in the ink bottle.

  “I would gladly hang him myself, but it’s not my job to kill a man without a trial. My mother...” Roberto swallowed again, wetness glistening on his tanned cheek. “My mother wouldn’t have wanted me to hate Amato. I’ve failed her because I do hate him, which is why I cannot judge him myself.” Roberto spat on the ground. “Turn him over to the council. Let them have him. Let justice be done at last.”

  Tears glinted on Amato’s wrinkled cheeks, in his tangled beard. Before anyone else saw him, he scurried away from the jagged glass at the window.

  The ruddy-faced farmer was next in line. “My whole family, gone. A wife and three littlings, taken as slaves.”

  A young woman was after him. “Pa, Ma and my sister Suzie tried to fight the tharuks after Amato led them into a trap at the riverbank, but they didn’t survive. They were gutted and left for dead.”

  “It’s going to be a long morning,” Roberto melded.

  Ezaara glanced up from her paper. More people were joining them. The queue stretched half a dragonlength down the road. “I suggest you go inside and tend to your father.”

  “Him? He survived six years without me… in that cave. I’m sure he’ll be fine for a few hours.” There was a hardness to Roberto’s words that made her shoulders twitch.

  But she didn’t blame him. She scratched her quill against the parchment as she made the list of the people Amato had led to destruction.

  §

  Hearing his father’s crimes enumerated was like reliving Roberto’s own litany of nightmares. Amato’s murders weighed heavily on Roberto’s shoulders. No, he would not cower as if the crimes were his own. He straightened his back, gazed directly at the line of bereaved waiting to give testimony. He’d paid his dues. Being forced by Zens to torture people’s minds and drive them crazy with anguish had been punishment enough.

  “I lost my only son,” a young woman in a bonnet said. Her voice was hollow. Dark circles rung her eyes. “Amato led my boy to pick blackberries on the riverbank, but tharuks were hiding in the underbrush. The only thing left were tufts of tharuk fur on his little wooden pail half-filled with berries. He was eight summers—” she sobbed, shaking her head, and couldn’t continue.

  A deep voice yelled from the back of the line. “Get out of my way.” A burly man wearing a baker’s apron strode from the road, pushing his way through the people with huge muscled arms. “Where’s Amato?” Whipping a knife from his belt, he ran at the cottage. “I’ll kill that murderer.”


  Roberto raced toward the door. He drew his sword. The big man swung at him, and he parried the blow.

  “You good-for-nothing son of a murderer. I should gut you as well,” the man growled, slamming Roberto’s blade with his.

  Erob roared and spurted a gust of warning flame. People screamed. The line scattered. Folk huddled near the trees by the roadside. Roberto’s sword clashed against the big baker’s blade. The knife spun out of the man’s hand, flipping through the air.

  The man jerked another knife from the back of his belt and flung it.

  Roberto ducked. It thudded into the door. Gods! He lunged, grabbed the baker’s shirt, and thrust his blade at the man’s thick throat.

  Through gritted teeth, Roberto ground out, “I hate my father as much as you do. More. I deny you the privilege of killing him. It’s mine.” His chest rose and fell, his breath coming in gasps. “But he’ll be tried at Dragons’ Hold. Queen Zaarusha has willed it.”

  The man snarled, “Just make sure when you kill him, you do it right.”

  “Oh, I will,” said Roberto. “Don’t worry, I will this time.”

  Seppi

  Adelina wrung her cloth out and wiped Seppi’s forehead. Within moments, the cloth was warm. Mara passed her another damp cloth. She dabbed his neck and shoulders.

  Seppi rocked his head back and forward, moaning, “Black dragon. Yellow, yellow eyes… burning...” He groaned, then was still.

  Adelina wiped his brow again. Still so hot. He’d had a high fever for more than a day. She lifted the bandage to peek at the wound on his stomach. It was red and puffy, stitches pulling his skin taut.

  Seppi moaned again. “Water.”

  Mara poured water from a pitcher into a cup and passed it to Adelina, who tilted Seppi’s head up and held the cup to his cracked lips. Cheeks hot, Seppi sipped.

  Mara was wide-eyed. “Will he be all right?”

  It was pointless asking. He wasn’t all right, and they wouldn’t know more until his fever broke. If it broke at all. Adelina pasted a cheery smile on her face—a smile she’d honed for years. “Mara, I’m sure things will be fine. Why don’t you fetch Seppi’s family?”