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

by Eileen Mueller

“It was your fault your father died,” Ashewar hissed. “I killed him because of you. For impregnating me with such a vial loathsome specimen of the human race. A daughter who could not even hold a weapon properly. A daughter who would turn against her mother. A daughter more treacherous than a rust viper. I, Ashewar, rule the Robandi with an iron heart. I sit upon a throne made of the bones of my enemies. There is no place for weakness in my clan.”

  Strong beyond words. Sometimes there was strength in waiting, in biding your time.

  “I shall laugh tomorrow morning as your body is ripped to shreds by the vicious fangs of those monsters in the deeps. I’ll cackle with glee, breaking my vow of silence as they tear you limb from limb and feast upon your flesh and bones.”

  Ithsar didn’t point out that Ashewar was already breaking her vow of silence, right now.

  Ashewar towered over her. “Because I’d foreseen your treachery, I decided to systematically destroy you. I fostered hatred among the other girls. Izoldia was a perfect tool in my hands, torturing you for years. You’d come to me, begging for justice, unaware that I was behind her cruel actions.” A deep-throated laugh burst from Ashewar’s throat. “To your feet, you weak fool.” Her mother’s hands twitched as if she wanted to throttle Ithsar.

  Ithsar rocked back to her knees and then stood. She’d looked to her mother for support.

  Looked to her mother for love.

  Looked to her for solace from Izoldia’s torment. Her mouth grew dry, her tongue thick and clumsy. She tried to answer, but all that came out was a croak.

  “Killing your father gave me double the pleasure, knowing it would destroy you.”

  Ashewar’s words stole Ithsar’s breath. Pain lanced through her chest. Her knees faltered. Her father had died because of her. There was no blow Ashewar could’ve dealt that cut as deeply as that truth.

  As quick as an asp, Ashewar’s foot struck Ithsar’s gut with so much force Ithsar flew across the room, crashing into the wall and striking her head on stone.

  The walls of the cavern spun as dark memories swirled through her: Ashewar taking her on a special trip to the desert; seeing her father sinking to his knees, grasping his gut as blood sprayed over the tangerine sand; palm leaves rustling overhead in a hot, arid breeze; her father staring at her until his eyes glazed over and he toppled into the sand, unseeing.

  One day, you will rise above your mother’s petty hatred, for you are my precious daughter, strong beyond words.

  Her screaming, screaming.

  Ashewar gloating, her face radiant with joy as assassins tied Ithsar’s father’s dead body to a camel and dragged it over the dunes, leaving him far out in the desert so his bones would be picked clean by vultures. Ithsar, on camelback, being squeezed against Drida’s chest firmly, despite squirming and kicking and fighting, as they followed the trail of blood and the camel hauling her father’s bloody body away.

  Pain throbbing through her skull, Ithsar tried to clamber to her knees, but Ashewar was already there, pinning her underfoot, her pretty yokka on Ithsar’s throat.

  “You deserve to die.” Ashewar pressed her big toe down.

  The lethal blade from Ashewar’s apricot-beaded yokka pricked against the artery in Ithsar’s throat. One move, and she’d be dead.

  “But not now,” Ashewar gloated. “I will have no greater pleasure than watching the fanged monsters of the deep rip your body to shreds. You, Ithsar, will not be my downfall. I will be yours.”

  The blade slid back into Ashewar’s yokka. The chief prophetess spun, robes swishing, and stalked from the dungeon.

  As the cell door clanked shut and Thut turned the key in the lock, leering at her, Ithsar clambered to her feet and cradled the blanket to her belly, blinking back bitter tears.

  The guards’ footsteps retreated, leaving her alone.

  Her mother had never loved her, always hated her. Worse, she’d done everything in her power to destroy her. Sorrow and rage surged through Ithsar. A dry breeze rustled her robes, and she sensed purple bruised sathir forming at her fingertips.

  Rise above your mother’s petty hatred, my precious daughter.

  Ithsar quelled her rage and waited.

  §

  Ithsar woke to a faint rasp across the stone in her cell. Her eyes flew open to something slithering along the floor. Orange scales flashed in the torchlight. A rust viper! She clambered onto the stone bed, standing with her back hard against the wall.

  The viper skittered over to her bed.

  Skittered? She gasped. “Thika.”

  Her little lizard leaped onto the ledge and Ithsar gathered him in her arms. He nuzzled against her cheek, his tongue flicking out to tickle her nose. She gave a quiet chuckle. “At least you’re here, Thika. I may not have a knife or a weapon, but I have you.”

  To Ithsar’s dismay, Thika cocked his head and scurried off, leaving her alone in the dark.

  §

  Ithsar’s sleep was plagued with dreams of drowning, snapping sharks hurtling toward her body, and scaled maws and talons ripping at her flesh. She woke in a cold sweat. Tugging the scrap of blanket around her, she sat up and tucked her knees against her chest, trying to get warm. Another day without eating or drinking. No wonder her body was so cold and her limbs sluggish and leaden.

  Ashewar’s words came crashing down on her again, a heavy smothering blanket weighing on her, making it hard to move. She was responsible for her father’s death. If she hadn’t loved him, held him so tightly in her heart, then perhaps her father with his warm brown eyes and soft laughter would still be alive. She squeezed her stinging eyes tight. Her world had crumbled when he’d died, leaving no one to protect her from the taunts and jeers of Izoldia, Bala, and Thut.

  It was worse now, knowing that her mother, driven by hatred and fear, had caused every burn, punch, kick, or knife wound those bullies had inflicted upon her.

  Still clutching her knees to her chest, Ithsar rocked on the hard stone bed. She sat there, unable to shake the guilt threatening to choke her.

  Something ominous scraped along the corridor. She cocked her head.

  There it was again. The only other sound was the guard’s soft snoring further down the passageway. The scraping—metal along the stone—was approaching her cell. A blade, then.

  Had Ashewar changed her mind and come to finish her off?

  A quick kill might be better than the vicious fangs waiting in the Naobian Sea. Ithsar shuddered.

  Balancing on the balls of her feet, she tiptoed across the cell and peered out the bars. Something glimmered. There was a flash of silver in the torchlight, light catching on a blade. But low, at floor level.

  The blade drew closer, and in the flickering light from the nearest sconce she saw a pale glimmer of orange. It was Thika—tugging Ithsar’s knife along the floor, dragging the ornately-carved handle by a decorative tassel.

  “Thika!” Ithsar fell to her knees, took the knife from Thika, tucked it inside her breeches, and tightened her belt securely. There, it would be hidden by her voluminous robes. She embraced her lizard, patting his warm, scaly hide.

  The snoring in the passage stopped. Stealthy feet made their way along the corridor.

  Ithsar slunk onto her bed, and Thika slithered inside the front of her robe. Nestling the lizard against her belly, she drew her knees up and closed her eyes, breathing evenly.

  The bright flame of a torch danced, casting yellow and orange shadows behind Ithsar’s eyelids. There was a grunt, and the footsteps receded. She cradled Thika, glad of the solid knife hilt against her hip, grateful for her only true friend among these cutthroat, male-hating assassins.

  Desert Trek

  The unmistakable clip of Ashewar’s boots echoed on the stone walls. Faint and weary with hunger, Ithsar stood with her chin high. She tugged her robes so they hung loosely around her waist to disguise her dagger and Thika’s presence. She would release Thika in the desert. At least one of them would live to see another day. Because, if she didn’t let him g
o, Ashewar would kill him.

  Ashewar and her guards arrived at her cell. Ithsar winced, blinking against the light of many torches. The diamonds glinted in her mother’s hooked nose—a nose that wrinkled at the sight of Ithsar.

  Keys clanking, Izoldia unlocked the door. Bala’s rough hands gripped Ithsar’s biceps, sending sparks of pain through her arms. Izoldia bound her wrists far too tightly, the ropes biting into Ithsar’s flesh. She tensed her muscles, hoping that when she relaxed the bonds would loosen.

  “None of those tricks,” Izoldia hissed.

  Ithsar ignored her, staring, unseeing, at the walls. Precious, strong beyond words.

  Izoldia drove her thumb into a pressure point on Ithsar’s elbow, spiking pain down Ithsar’s arm and releasing the tension in her palms, while Bala bound her wrists more tightly than before.

  Resistance was futile. There were too many of them. Her head held high, Ithsar mustered her dignity as the guards led her down the passage. Bala followed closely, her breath huffing against Ithsar’s neck. Through the winding corridors Ithsar traipsed, up past the caverns and out into the hot desert. It was still early morning, so the sands didn’t burn her feet, but she had no illusions. By the time they reached the Naobian Sea, those same orange sands would be blistering hot. No one offered her boots or sandals.

  No one cared whether she died with blistered feet.

  Thut mounted a camel. Izoldia hefted Ithsar as if she weighed no more than a scrap of parchment, and threw her over the bony haunches of Thut’s camel. Thika squirmed beneath her belly, moving so he wasn’t so squashed, as Bala and Roshni tied her to the saddle and bound her feet, so she couldn’t slip off and run. Roshni tried to meet her gaze, but Ithsar looked away.

  Ashewar’s fine camel knelt. Izoldia stooped to let Ashewar step upon her back to seat herself in her elegant leather saddle, ornately painted with desert flowers and encrusted with jewels. Around them, guards mounted their camels.

  Ithsar’s head spun with fatigue. Dread pooled in her stomach. With each rise and fall of the camel’s haunches, Ithsar bounced against Thut’s beast’s bony rump as they plodded off into the blazing orange.

  §

  Joy surged in Ashewar’s breast. Never before had she had a righteous reason to execute her daughter. At long last she would be free of the visions that had plagued her, showing her daughter’s dominion over the Robandi assassins. Although Ashewar had tight control over her assassins, in the visions she’d seen of Ithsar, her women had been devoted to Ithsar, joy and admiration in their faces as they followed her. Instead of fear.

  Rage ripped through Ashewar every time she remembered that vision. That girl must die.

  She glanced back at the small figure draped over the back of Thut’s camel, tied to its saddle, head lolling and limbs flopping in time to the camel’s gait as its large feet plodded through the sand. The sun blazed down, warming Ashewar’s heart. Tonight she could rest easy, no longer plagued by the nightmares of her daughter usurping her and stealing what she’d worked so long to create—her tribe of loyal well-honed assassins who hated men, cold-blooded killers not afraid to destroy weakness.

  Izoldia sidled over on her camel and inclined her head.

  Ashewar waved a hand, giving the fawning guard a chance to speak.

  “My revered Chief Prophetess, there is dissension among the ranks. Some believe the girl should not be executed.”

  Ashewar glanced back at the group of orange-robed women traveling behind them. Her best guards were on the perimeter on camelback, bows nocked toward the young figure slumped over Thut’s camel’s haunches. She lifted an eyebrow.

  “Would you like me to name them, most revered Chief Prophetess?” Izoldia asked.

  Ashewar inhaled a thin stream of warm air through her nostrils, and gave a half nod.

  “Roshni, she of the blue eyes. Bala believes she helped the runt when she collapsed.”

  No surprise there. Ashewar raised her other eyebrow.

  “Drida, she of the silver hair and many wrinkles, helped her as well.”

  How dare that runt influence one of her best assassins. Ashewar’s rage bucked inside her like a wild beast straining to be set free. She pursed her lips, letting Izoldia squirm under the hot sun for a hundred camel paces before she replied. “Tonight we’ll purge our ranks of these weaklings. At midnight, slaughter them both in their beds.”

  Eyes glinting, Izoldia licked her lips. “Yes, most revered Chief Prophetess, it shall be done.”

  Only when Izoldia had pulled her scarf over her face and fallen back to ride with the clan, did Ashewar allow herself to smile.

  §

  Ithsar’s throat was parched and gritty by the time Ashewar halted at the foot of the enormous slope jutting up against the sapphire sky. They’d reached the drop off, where the steep sandstone cliffs that edged the Robandi desert fell into the Naobian Sea. Although Ithsar couldn’t see it, the hiss of the ocean rose over the sand.

  Thut dismounted and yanked Ithsar to the ground. She collapsed in a heap, then used her bound hands to push herself up. Gods, the sand was hot. She wriggled her tied feet, burrowing beneath the surface to find a cooler patch, hoping there were no lurking scorpions—although it made no difference, because today she was due to die.

  Her efforts weren’t much use—her feet still ached from the heat.

  Ashewar snapped her fingers.

  Bala sprang forward, thrusting a spear at Ithsar’s back.

  Izoldia’s blade flashed, slashing the rope around Ithsar’s ankles. The burly guard picked up the pieces and waved them in Ithsar’s face. “Cut ropes, just like the ones you hid in my pockets. Now you’ll pay for your treachery.” Her spittle landed on Ithsar’s cheek.

  If she could get to her knife…

  “You’re too afraid to release my hands, aren’t you?” Ithsar said. “Afraid I’ll beat you.”

  Izoldia’s eyes flashed. Her blade flew at Ithsar’s wrists. A moment later, Ithsar’s hands were free, the ropes falling to the sand, her wrists throbbing as the blood rushed back into them.

  Through her robes, Bala’s spear pricked Ithsar’s back.

  Her hands and feet still prickling with pins and needles, Ithsar stumbled up the sandy dune, trailing Ashewar and her personal guard to the top of the cliff. The rest of the assassins followed them—Ashewar was taking no chances.

  Every time Ithsar placed a foot on the burning sand, rivulets of orange grains ran down past her. For every three steps she took, she slipped back two. Ithsar wished she were as small and insignificant as a grain tumbling down the dune. Too small to bother with. Not worth killing.

  Bala’s spear prodded her back again. She rushed on, feet searing, assassins arrayed behind her and to either side—lethal weapons in Ashewar’s hands.

  She could never fight them all. Never hope to beat them.

  Sacrifice

  “Face your destiny.” Ashewar’s boot-clad feet were planted in the sand above Ithsar on a large flat space at the pinnacle of the dune. Ithsar’s gaze traveled up her mother’s legs and powerful lithe body to her stony face. “There is no hope for you,” Ashewar said. “What use was your love for your spineless father, for that pathetic lizard, if it all led to this?”

  Bala’s spear jabbed Ithsar’s back, and she scrambled up the last few body-lengths to the flat area at the top of the cliff, Bala and Izoldia on either side of her. Behind them, the assassins formed an impenetrable wall several women deep. The front of the cliff fell away in a sheer drop to the raging sea. The thundering of foam-speckled waves crashing against the orange sandstone was drowned out by the pulse pounding in Ithsar’s ears.

  Her breath stuttered. Her heart fluttered against her ribs like the Naobian starling she’d once seen trapped in a cage at the oasis, beating its wings against the bars—under the illusion it could get free. Dead within hours, that tiny bird had never soared under blue skies again.

  Ashewar’s chuckle shuddered through Ithsar’s bones. Her mother prowled
along the cliff, and kicked a loose clump of sandstone. It skittered off the edge and dropped in a spray of orange sand into the sea. “Give the monsters their due,” Ashewar smirked, snapping her fingers.

  Misha, a slim assassin who’d been adopted into the clan when Ithsar was a littling, took a Naobian flute made of opaline crystal from her robes. She held it to her lips, the sun glittering off the eagles carved along the instrument. Misha’s deep brown eyes latched onto Ithsar’s. A few high crisp notes trilled from the flute, then broke into a haunting melody that wrapped itself around Ithsar’s heart and carried it out soaring above the open sea, sweeping her off to far distant lands. The sea breeze danced through Ithsar’s hair. Pink sathir wended from the flute, wrapping itself around her in a soft cocoon, then billowing out over the ocean.

  If only the melody were a giant-winged eagle that could whisk her far away to Naobia.

  Ithsar’s knees trembled. Precious daughter, strong beyond words. She forced strength into her muscles, holding them rigid. She’d go to her death proudly, honoring her father.

  Roshni, of the piercing blue eyes, took a pale-brown satchel from her shoulder and dropped it in the sand, kneeling next to it. Every detail etched itself into Ithsar’s mind: the worn, tan leather; the gleaming brass buckles; the pale half-moons on the tips of Roshni’s fingernails as she opened the buckles with deft fingers; and the way Roshni averted her gaze.

  A cool breeze danced off the sea, clashing with the arid desert air. Izoldia’s fingers tightened on the hilt of her saber. Bala’s dark eyes scanned Ithsar, missing nothing.

  Roshni flipped the lid of the satchel open, revealing dark red stains and a slab of raw meat. The scent of blood filled Ithsar’s nostrils—from sacrificial goat flesh, an offering to rouse the monsters of the deep.

  As if their appetites needed rousing.

  Still kneeling at Ashewar’s feet, Roshni held the chunk of meat in her bloodstained hands, her head bowed and eyes down.

  So much for Ithsar’s camel ride off the oasis. Roshni and Drida’s support had crumbled in the face of Ashewar’s wrath. Had the offer been genuine, or just a means of trapping her?