Bronze Dragon, A Riders of Fire prequel novelette

by Eileen Mueller

  She didn’t want anything to do with Old Bill, but she couldn’t resist. Ezaara leaned in, staring. Dragons—the swirls of color were dragons. “That’s forbidden,” she whispered.

  “Go on,” he murmured, eyes glinting. “Touch it. I know you want to.” He held the cloth out.

  Someone would see. Ezaara snatched it. Holding it close, she opened her palm and stroked the wing of a golden dragon, then the tail of a bronze. Set against a dark sky dotted with silver pinpoints, the beasts were beautiful. Were dragons really gold, red and bronze? Or was it only the weaver’s imagination?

  “How much for this fabric with the wheat pattern?” A woman’s voice startled Ezaara.

  She crumpled the cloth and thrust it into Bill’s waiting hand.

  Bill tucked the scrap inside his pocket and elbowed his poor daughter, Lovina. She didn’t respond, just kept staring at her feet. “Twenty-five coppers a measure, my lady,” Bill crooned.

  “Twenty-five,” the woman exclaimed. “Why, that’s preposterous! I’d only pay—”

  Ezaara fled past the cobbler’s stand, pushing her way through the crowded marketplace, toward Ana’s stall. Old Bill was dangerous. If Klaus had caught her staring at dragons …. Swinging her basket to distract herself from her thumping heart, she strode past hawkers, bleating goats and littlings playing tag. The delicious scent of melted cheese wafted over her. If she could sell her last two healing remedies, she’d be done. And it was early, so she’d have the afternoon off. She headed toward Ana’s hand-painted scarves. Ana had tried to teach her how to paint scarves, but instead of creating beautiful patterns, Ezaara’s had been ugly and splotched.

  “Morning, Ana,” Ezaara called. “Need any herbs today?” She swallowed. Did Ana know her son had just kissed her?

  Ana smiled, eyes crinkling. “What have you got for me today, Ezaara?”

  So, Ana hadn’t seen, thank the Egg. Ezaara passed a pot of healing salve and a bundle of clean herb across the trestle table. “You’re lucky, these are my last.”

  Ana peered into Ezaara’s basket. Her brow furrowed. “No owl-wort?”

  “No.” Strange question. Ezaara and Ma never usually picked owl-wort unless someone requested it. Most folk didn’t need a herb that helped you see in the dark. Ezaara adjusted her basket on her arm. “It’s still in season. I can bring some by later if you need it.”

  “Good, I’ll expect you.” Ana fumbled with her money pouch.

  Was Ana planning on going out at night? Or was the herb for Lofty? He was always sneaking out with Tomaaz, getting into trouble.

  Coppers clinked as they passed from Ana’s well-worn hands into hers—three coppers. “You’ve given me too much.”

  “That last coin is for the owl-wort,” Ana replied. “I want to make sure you bring it today.”

  So, someone was going out tonight. “I’ll come by later.”

  Ezaara threaded her way through the villagers, past a weapons stand and Klaus’ leather work. Near the cooper’s stall, the clacking of sticks came from behind a stack of barrels.

  Busy serving customers, the cooper’s wife rolled her eyes. “Those naughty boys are fighting again,” she grumbled.

  “I’ll check on them,” Ezaara offered. She ducked down the side of the stall.

  Behind the barrels, Paolo and Marco were going at it with sticks. Marco, a littling of only six summers, was blocking his older brother’s strikes, even though Paolo had the stronger arm and longer reach. Then Paolo gave a mighty swing—too hard, too high.

  “Watch out!” Ezaara leaped forward, too late.

  Paolo’s stick smacked Marco’s face. Marco howled and clutched his nose, blood spurting between his fingers. Paolo’s face froze in horror.

  “Go fetch some water, Paolo,” said Ezaara, striding between them. “Quick.”

  As Paolo dashed off, she sat Marco on a small barrel and checked his face. Luckily, his nose wasn’t broken. “Bleeding noses hurt,” she soothed him, “but you’ll live to fight another day. Here, lean forward.”

  His blood dripping onto the ground, Marco was still crying.

  Ezaara leaned in, whispering, “Even though Paolo’s bigger, you almost had him.”

  “I did?” Marco’s tears stopped.

  “Definitely.” She grinned.

  Paolo returned, passing Ezaara a waterskin.

  She pulled a cloth from the leather healer’s pouch at her waist and sloshed water over it. “Now, be brave, like a warrior.” She gently wiped Marco’s face.

  “Sorry,” said Paolo. “We was trying to fight like you and Tomaaz.”

  Ezaara winced. She’d never thought of littlings copying them. “The first lesson Pa taught me was not to hit too hard,” she said. “Remember, you’re training with your brother, not slaying a dragon. You need to keep your sword nice and low, and aim at the body, not the head.”

  Paolo nodded wisely as if she was a great master.

  She scooped some healing salve out of a tiny tub in her pouch and dabbed it on Marco’s nose. “As good as new.”

  “You’re lucky your folks taught you,” Marco piped up, looking a lot better without blood leaking out of his nose. “Ours can’t fight, but we’re going to battle tharuks when we grow up.”

  Paolo nudged him. “Hey, I told you there are no tharuks in Lush Valley.”

  The boy had a good point. If there was no one to fight, why had Ma and Pa trained her and Tomaaz with the bow and sword since they were littlings?

  Marco jumped down from the barrel, swinging his sword arm. “Don’t care. Want to fight tharuks anyway.”

  She picked up their sticks. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll talk to Tomaaz. Maybe we can teach you to fight.”

  The boys’ eyes lit up. “Really?”

  She nodded. “We might have a couple of wooden practice swords you can use.” The boys grinned. “But not now,” she said. “Today, you two need to find something quiet to do.”

  Paolo put an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “What about a game of scatter stones, Marco? You like those.”

  Ezaara laughed, leaving the boys clacking stones instead of sticks, and wandered back through the market.

  “There you are.” Tomaaz approached her. “I was looking for you.”

  “Marco got a bleeding nose from Paolo.”

  Tomaaz rolled his eyes. “Those two again.”

  “Now you sound like Klaus.” Ezaara grinned. “They don’t know the sharp end of a sword from a hilt, and Paolo swings way too hard. We should teach them.”

  “Good idea,” Tomaaz said, tugging Ezaara toward their parents’ produce stall. “Now, what was Bill showing you, on the quiet? You looked fascinated.”

  “Cloth—speckled with dragons of gold and bronze,” Ezaara whispered. Her heart started thumping all over again.

  “Contraband cloth?” Tomaaz’s eyes flitted nervously. “Old Bill’s bad news. And his daughter’s strange too.”

  “You’d be strange too, if Old Bill was your pa.” Ezaara nodded at a mother with littlings clutching at her skirts, waiting until they’d passed before replying. “Even if dragons are evil, the fabric was beautiful.”

  Ezaara and Tomaaz skirted a pen of piglets. “Lofty says dragons are honored beyond the Grande Alps,” said Tomaaz. “One day, I’m going to look for myself.”

  She elbowed Tomaaz. “Someone will hear you.”

  “So what? I’m not going to live here forever, you know.”

  Turning to face him, Ezaara stopped. “You’d leave us?” Although they sometimes bickered, life without her twin would be like losing a part of herself.

  His eyes slid away. “Don’t know. Maybe.”

  Ezaara frowned. “That’s why Lofty’s ma wanted owl-wort—you and Lofty are planning to go tonight, aren’t you?”

  Tomaaz burst out laughing. “If only!”

  So, he wasn’t planning anything. “If you ever leave, take me with you,” she insisted. There had to be more to life than Lush Valley.

  “All ri
ght,” Tomaaz said, “but no running off without me, either.”

  “Course not.” They bumped knuckles.

  At their family stall, Pa passed a sack of beets to a customer and pocketed the man’s money. He faced Ezaara and Tomaaz, hands on his hips. “We didn’t teach you fighting skills so you could create a ruckus on market days. What have I told you before?”

  Tomaaz sighed. “To save our skills for battle.”

  “To practice in the meadows, not the market,” Ezaara added.

  Pa nodded. “Tomaaz, could you take this sack of carrots to the smithy?”

  “Sure, Pa.” Tomaaz shouldered the sack and left.

  Ma glanced at Ezaara’s basket. “So, you sold everything. I heard you beat Tomaaz.”

  “Only just, and through strategy, not skill.”

  “Strategy is also a skill.” Ma put an arm around her shoulder. “Everyone’s good at different things. Remember, you were climbing trees way before Tomaaz, because you weren’t afraid of heights.”

  “I guess so.” Tomaaz still couldn’t climb a ladder without turning green. Who was ever going to be impressed by a head for heights? No one she knew. Ezaara handed Ma the money and basket. “Ana wants owl-wort, today.”

  “Owl-wort?” Her mother’s eyes widened. “Collect some supplies for healing salve while you’re at it.” She gave Ezaara back a copper. “Get something to eat before you head back into the forest.”

  Pa winked. “Watch out for Lofty.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Heat rose in Ezaara’s cheeks. Had Pa heard already? Worse, had he seen Lofty mashing his lips on hers?

  “Soon everyone will be gossiping about something else.” Ma patted her arm.

  Ezaara groaned. This was worse than she’d thought. If only her first kiss had been private, special, not from her brother’s best friend. From someone who meant more.

  She hurried through the stalls, buying melted cheese on flatbread, then headed down the road to the riverbank, eating it. Water surged around the stepping stones as she crossed the river. Following familiar trails, she tucked peppermint and sage into the leather healer’s pouch at her waist. Lifting fern fronds, Ezaara picked some feverweed. The gurgling of the river gradually faded.

  Now, she needed arnica and owl-wort. Ezaara strolled deeper into the forest and came to the sacred clearing. Stepping into the sunlight, Ezaara stooped to pick arnica flowers. The ancient piaua, half as thick as a cottage, rose before her at the edge of the clearing, its bark pitted and gnarly. Blue berries peeked from its dark foliage. As a tree speaker, her mother often talked to the piaua whenever she collected its sacred healing juice. Placing her palm against the bark, Ezaara strained to feel a whisper. Nothing—again. She sighed. Not a tree speaker, then. What would her vocation be? Ma was happy as a healer and herbalist, and Ezaara didn’t mind helping her, but she wanted something more. Excitement. Adventure. Maybe love.

  The owl-wort vines grew among the knobby piaua roots. She parted the undergrowth and plucked a handful of leaves. Rising from a crouch, she opened her pouch.

  A strange tingle ran through Ezaara, then a shadow fell over her. Something swished, a sudden breeze stirring her hair. She jerked her head up.

  A dragon was circling the treetops. Ezaara recoiled in fear. With a snap of fangs or a swipe of talons, it could kill her. The owl-wort fell from her shaking hands. She tensed to flee.

  But hesitated.

  Sunlight played across the dragon’s iridescent scales, making them shimmer. Its graceful wings swished ever closer, rippling with color. This beast was beautiful—beautiful, but deadly. She had to escape. But the tingling grew stronger. The amazing creature circled down toward her. Foliage rustled in the downdraught from the dragon’s wingbeats.

  A voice hummed in her mind. “Ezaara,” it crooned.

  This creature could talk to her?

  “We’re mind-melding, sensing each other’s thoughts and emotions.”

  She held her breath, drawn to the dragon. Rich colors cascaded through her mind. Sunshine poured into her soul. Ezaara wanted to soar. She glimpsed a vision—her riding the dragon, flying above the forest, over the Grande Alps and into the blue.

  “This is your destiny, to ride with me.”

  Warning cries reached her—villagers. If only they knew this dragon, they wouldn’t be afraid.

  The dragon’s hum built to a roar inside her. It dived.

  Familiar faces shot into her mind. Her family! She couldn’t leave them.

  Ezaara’s love for her family was swept aside as energy rushed through her. She was enveloped in a prism of rainbow-colored light, like reflections in a dewdrop. Music from the purest flute filled her heart. For the first time in her life, she felt whole. The energy coiled inside her and she sprang, lifted by the wind, hair streaming out behind her. In a flash of color, the dragon’s scales were beneath her. Ezaara landed on a saddle in a hollow between its wings. She wrapped her arms around the dragon’s spinal ridge, hugging it tight.

  It felt so right.

  The dragon regarded her with yellow eyes. Ezaara could’ve sworn it was smiling. “I am Zaarusha. You were born to be my rider,” it thrummed. The beast turned. Its belly rumbled and flames shot from its maw.

  They flew off, leaving her home and loved ones behind.

  Dragon Hero

  Prologue - Eighteen Years Ago

  Marlies strode along the tunnel, torches flickering and shadows flitting across the stone walls. Although it’d been a long day in the infirmary, she had one more duty before she could sleep. Lifting her torch, she turned down the passage to the dragon queen’s den.

  Her footfalls echoed as she passed through Anakisha’s empty sleeping chamber. Sadness washed through her. Had it only been two moons since they’d lost the Queen’s Rider? It seemed longer. There’d been many people to mourn—and dragons. Marlies shook her head. Too many deaths in one battle; and more dead and wounded in skirmishes since. She walked under the archway into Zaarusha’s den and placed the torch in a sconce.

  Zaarusha, the dragon queen, was curled in her nest, her head tucked under a wing, and her tail snug around her body. She unfurled her wings, myriad colors flickering on her scales, like rainbows in an opal. A glint of gold under the dragon’s haunches revealed her precious eggs. Zaarusha extended her neck, facing Marlies, her yellow eyes dull.

  Marlies stretched out her hand to touch the dragon queen’s snout, so they could mind-meld. She forced her thoughts to be cheery. The last thing Zaarusha needed was sadness.

  “Thank you for coming,” Zaarusha’s voice thrummed in Marlies’ mind.

  “How are your dragonets doing today?”

  “My babies are fine.”

  Babies. Marlies flinched.

  “Only a few more weeks until they hatch.” Zaarusha’s sigh echoed like a rock clattering down a mountainside. “Syan will never see our dragonets. I miss him: his companionship; flying together. Hunting.” The queen flicked her tongue out.

  “Did anyone bring you food?”

  “They did, but I had no appetite.”

  Marlies scratched the queen’s eye ridges. “Would you like to hunt tonight? A meal would do you good. It’s been a while.”

  “A week.” The dragon’s belly rumbled.

  Marlies smiled. “You are hungry. Sorry, I couldn’t come sooner. Several of our wounded have infections and fevers, so I haven’t left the infirmary for days.”

  “I can always rely on you.” Zaarusha gazed at her, eyes unblinking. “You’ll take care of my eggs?”

  “Of course. I’m not Syan, but I’ll do my best.”

  “Remember not to touch them.” Zaarusha butted Marlies’ shoulder with her snout. “I won’t be long.”

  “The fresh air will do you good.”

  Careful not to crush the eggs, the dragon queen rose to her feet and stepped out of her nest. She sprang to the open mouth of her den and, with a flash of her colorful wings, leaped off the mountainside and was swallowe
d by darkness.

  Marlies turned back to the nest. Four golden eggs, as tall as a boy of ten summers, were nestled in the hay. The torch’s flames made their translucent shells glow. Through the tough membrane of the eggs, dragonets were visible. The green flexed its wing nubs. Marlies held her breath, watching the magical creature.

  “Zaarusha’s babies.” Unconsciously, her hand went to her belly. She swallowed. These were the last of the royal offspring. Syan, Zaarusha’s mate, had been killed in battle. His rider, Yanir, too. Anakisha and Zaarusha had tried to save them, but Anakisha had fallen from dragonback, plunging into their enemies’ hands. Zaarusha had still been carrying eggs, so, not wanting to risk the lives of her babies, she’d been forced to abandon her rider and her mate and return to Dragons’ Hold.

  For two moons, the Hold had been grieving—but no one as hard as Zaarusha. She whimpered when she slept, and keened by day. The only things keeping her clinging to life were her duty to the realm and the beautiful creatures moving within these fragile shells.

  For Marlies, seeing the dragonets was like walking on glittering shards. Their beauty transfixed her but cut deeply. Married for three years now, she and Hans had no children. True, she was still young, only in her nineteenth year, but something was wrong.

  Although she’d healed other barren women using herbal remedies, she couldn’t heal herself. Only Hans knew the herbs she’d tried, the rituals by full moon and the tears she’d shed in his arms. And not even he knew of her bitter tears when she was alone. Every babe born at Dragons’ Hold gave her reason to rejoice and cause for pain. Royal dragonets were no exception.

  All gangly limbs and neck, the orange dragonet turned over. The deep blue dragon baby opened its jaws. The green wriggled. In the smallest shell, the purple dragonet was curled in a ball, its wings folded tight against its back. It was so delicate, so fragile, somehow endearing.

  Her breath a whisper, Marlies watched it sleep.

  It was still for a long time.

  Perhaps it wasn’t sleeping. Perhaps something was wrong.