Riders of Fire Box Set

by Eileen Mueller

  Ezaara forced herself to relax, her legs flowing across the ground. She moved along the outside of the group.

  Sofia veered and stumbled, jabbing Ezaara in the ribs with her elbow.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry.” Sofia smirked, dripping sarcasm.

  “Hey,” Gret yelled at Sofia, “that’s not on.”

  “A mistake, just like when that cow hurt me.”

  A flash of anger spurred Ezaara on. Pumping her arms and legs, she dashed forward, leaving the group behind.

  She deserved every hit and blow and slur. If someone had hurt Tomaaz like that, she would’ve been livid. She couldn’t blame Sofia for being angry, especially when Alban kept poisoning her with his nasty barbs. If she was ever to be a just Queen’s Rider, she couldn’t let peer politics get her down. But doubt and fear ate away at her as she ran on.

  Rocco was closer, now. With steady paces, Ezaara chewed up the ground between them and overtook him as she crossed the last meadow. Glancing back with a sneer, Alban entered the forest. Roberto was long gone, somewhere among the trees.

  Gradually, Ezaara increased her pace. She hit the tree line, welcoming the cool shade of the forest canopy. She blinked, helping her eyes adjust. This part of the forest was dense, branches woven together in a lattice of foliage. Vines with broad shiny leaves hung from boughs, occasionally twining their way across the path. As a tree-speaker, Ma would love this place. A pang of loss hit Ezaara. Alone. She was so alone here. Her family couldn’t celebrate any of her successes. Or support her through her failures.

  §

  Roberto pressed ahead, Erob’s power singing through his veins. Last time he’d glanced back, Ezaara had pulled away from the group and Alban was entering the forest. The muted thud of Alban’s feet was back along the trail.

  Leaping over a mass of vines, Roberto headed around a corner. A master running against trainees seemed unfair, but it spurred the trainees to push their limits. Masters, with the advantage of accessing their dragons’ power, would always win. He, Lars and Tonio were the fastest at Dragons’ Hold, although rumor had it that Lars had once been beaten by a master who was no longer here.

  Roberto grinned. He’d beaten Lars the last few times they’d raced. His success was as much due to the strong bond between him and Erob and his mental aptitude, as it was to his fitness. Although he enjoyed training hard, exorcising the demons of his past.

  Behind him, Alban’s footfalls stopped. Roberto cocked his head as he ran. The winding path must be masking Alban’s tread. He slowed, pacing himself for the descent into the stream and the grueling climb once he left the trees.

  §

  Ezaara skirted a patch of sludge and raced over some gnarly roots. This part of the track was tricky. Up ahead a mass of vines lay across the path, with no way around them. A leap should do it. She sped up and took a huge stride, launching herself into the air. The vines whipped up, smashing into her legs. She crashed to the forest floor, smacking her ribs on a root and whacking her shoulder. Rolling, Ezaara came to her feet. A wall of muscle was before her. Alban.

  She ducked. Too late. His fist connected with her stomach. She dropped and rolled, staggering up as he pounced after her. With her back to a tree trunk, she feinted to the left, then jumped, aiming a flying kick at him. He sidestepped, but not fast enough. The full weight of her body hit his groin. They crashed to the ground and she rolled away.

  Alban sprawled on the ground, grasping his groin. Ezaara whipped a knife from her waistband and held it near Alban’s neck, breathing hard.

  “So, you’re going to slash me too,” he spat, “the way you butchered Sofia? Do it. I’ll report you, and you’ll be banished.”

  The panting and footfalls of other runners were audible further along the track. A few more corners, and they’d be here.

  Despite the anger sparking through her, Ezaara spoke softly, “You’ll be banished too, Alban, for attacking the Queen’s Rider.”

  “No one will know,” he said staunchly. “No one will believe you.” But his eyes were panicked. She had him.

  “Nor you,” she said. “Vow to keep your mouth shut and not breathe a word to anyone, even Sofia, and I’ll do the same.”

  Nodding, he tried to sit up.

  “Don’t move yet.” She pressed her knife more firmly against his throat. “Swear it, upon your life.”

  Alban made the vow, then, in the same breath, swore at her.

  “What a shame you’ve fallen over these vines. I guess you’ll be too sore to move until someone can help you up.” Aiming a foot at his chest, Ezaara pushed Alban back to the ground and took off along the trail, tucking her knife into the back of her waistband.

  She’d deliberately worn a vest that hung to her backside, disguising her weapon. Her hands shook as she ran. She’d never expected to use it.

  She was the outsider. No one would believe her if she testified against Alban. Her gut ached, and her ribs and shoulder were sore. Heart pounding, she raced down the track, toward burbling coming through the trees. Good, a stream. Her mouth was dry. She could grab a drink.

  §

  Stooped in the calf-deep water, Roberto was taking a drink when he glimpsed Ezaara racing through the trees. So, she was faster than Alban—impressive. Mind you, she’d given him a run for his money when they were training, although he’d never let on, constantly pushing her to be better. He waited. He had nothing to lose. He’d pull away again as soon as they sped up the mountainside.

  Face flushed and frowning, she looked worried.

  Her expression cleared when she saw him and her green eyes widened. She splashed through the stream, then bent, scooping water into her hands. As she raised them to her lips to drink, sun slanted through the trees, and their eyes met.

  She was beautiful. Something ached deep inside him. So beautiful.

  Parting her lips, she drank, water droplets catching like crystals in the sunlight as they fell from her hands.

  Vibrant colors flitted through his mind, swirling and eddying, stronger than ever before. A whoosh rushed through his chest, as if it was too small to hold his emotions.

  Shards, she was gorgeous.

  §

  So beautiful. The words flashed through her in a deep male timbre.

  It was him, Roberto, thinking about her. They were mind-melding. She saw an image of her, drinking from the stream. The way he saw her took her breath away.

  Roberto grinned, the sun striking his dark eyes, turning them to burnished gold.

  Water dribbled through her fingers as she stared at him, seeing him as she never had before. Every part of his face was painted with tenderness and wonder.

  Something fluttered in her chest.

  He was beautiful too. More than beautiful.

  She reached up and stroked his cheek. A surge of strange energy hit Ezaara, rushing through her. Anything felt possible.

  His eyes sparked as he spoke in her mind, “Harness it. Run, run like the wind.” He tugged her hand. Sliding on the stones, they scrambled onto the bank and ran through a meadow of wild flowers toward the mountain.

  Roberto laughed and his eyes met hers.

  Ezaara’s stomach jolted. He liked her. Her tough arrogant master, more than liked her. Every fiber of her being sang. He cared about her deeply.

  Letting go of her hand, he smiled. “Go, Ezaara, go! You’re a rider of fire.”

  Energy flooded her, pushing her on. She raced across the meadow, heading for the mountainside, Roberto keeping pace.

  “Follow the flags.” He pointed at a narrow trail dotted with red flags, leading up the granite mountain face and back down to the basin floor.

  “I know.”

  They took off toward the thin trail. Ezaara’s blood was on fire, the familiar heat of imprinting burning in her veins as she raced to the top of the track. Somehow, she was harnessing Zaarusha’s energy to run.

  Roberto melded. “That’s what we’re called when we harness our dragons’ energy—riders of f
ire.”

  “I can see why.” Her soul was ablaze, feet speeding along the mountainside. “Can every rider do this?”

  “Most masters can harness their dragons’ energy, but only a few are able to use it for running. You, Tonio, Lars and I can. Tonio also has dragon sight—he can see much further when he uses Antonika’s energy.”

  “We’re melding. How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know. I have certain mental abilities, and Erob told me that you can meld with other dragons, so you probably do too.”

  “Did Erob really say that?” she blurted out loud.

  Roberto laughed.

  They raced down the stony incline, Ezaara barely feeling her feet touch the ground.

  She’d always loved running, but this was something else—so effortless and powerful. The sprint they’d maintained up the mountain and back down the path to the valley floor was phenomenal. Her body seared with dragon fire, driving her into a rapid dash, faster than Roberto, across the fields to the finish line.

  §

  Dragons were wheeling in the sky near the caverns. Heart pounding, Roberto crossed the finish line behind Ezaara. He’d expected her to run well, but this was incredible. Zaarusha’s bellow shook the ground underfoot, signaling Ezaara’s win. Ezaara leaped upon Zaarusha and rode her in a circle over the crowd’s upturned faces. They erupted into a roar. Everyone was going wild, hollering, whistling and clapping.

  Zaarusha landed, and Ezaara slipped off her back. Roberto was about to greet her, but Simeon dashed forward and snatched Ezaara in his arms. Spinning her around, he planted a kiss on her mouth. Ezaara turned tomato-red. Her surge of anger flared in Roberto’s mind.

  Simeon was taking liberties. Roberto’s blood boiled. His hand automatically went for his sword, but it wasn’t there.

  “Easy,” Erob melded. “You still have fire in your veins. Don’t do anything rash.”

  Shards! What was he thinking? He was a master, not some lovesick youngling.

  Simeon grinned and blew Ezaara another kiss. Someone in the crowd whistled. Others cheered. People surrounded Ezaara, pounding her back and congratulating her. Simeon hovered nearby—as if he’d trained her. As if he meant something to her.

  Roberto was so enraged, he could barely think straight. He slipped his impassive mask into place, the one he’d learned to wear in Death Valley, and strode through the crowd.

  “Roberto.” Adelina reached out to him.

  He shoved his way past her, ignoring the hurt that flashed across her face.

  Ezaara had seen how he felt about her. If she revealed his feelings to anyone, he’d lose everything he’d worked for. He’d be banished, no better than his father. He couldn’t afford to love her.

  §

  It was tradition for Lars to wait for all of the racers. He shaded his eyes. The last two runners would be here soon. The crowd had gone inside to feast Ezaara’s victory. Knowing Lydia, she’d save him a bowl of stew and a good spot in the mess cavern. Behind Lars there was the thump of a dragon landing. Probably Tonio’s.

  Someone tapped his shoulder. Not Tonio. “Ezaara, what are you doing here? I thought you’d be enjoying your glory inside.”

  She shrugged. “It’s too noisy. I’m not used to so many people.”

  “That was a fine performance. I’ve only seen a few run like that,” said Lars. “Lately, Roberto’s been first home, but years ago, your father beat me with an unprecedented burst of energy.”

  “Pa can run like that too? He’s a rider of fire?”

  “Hans was one of the best. It’s a great feeling, isn’t it?”

  Ezaara rubbed Zaarusha’s neck. “It took me by surprise.”

  Lars chuckled. “It always does, the first time. Different masters have different talents, not always running. It’s all part of being a rider of fire.”

  “Master Roberto mentioned that.”

  “We’ve decided your sword evaluation will be tomorrow.”

  Her eyes widened. “Tomorrow?”

  “Get a good night’s sleep and stay warm.” He pointed to the distant sky, voice grim. “There’ll be snow in the far ranges tonight.”

  “I will.” Ezaara got on Zaarusha, and they flew back up to the mess cavern.

  The last two runners were nearly here. Sofia’s leg seemed to have healed nicely. She was running with Alban, at a steady careful pace. Good, he didn’t want her injured leg playing up. The scar was ugly. Fleur’s half-botched attempts at healing didn’t come near Marlies’ skill, all those years ago, but she’d fled after that terrible incident with Zaarusha’s dragonet. He shook his head. What a waste of a dragonet and a healer.

  His dragon, Singlar, had told him Ezaara was Marlies’ daughter. Poles apart, Ezaara had looked unpromising when she’d arrived. Knifing Sofia hadn’t made things any better, but hopefully that was all behind them.

  “Well done,” he called from the finish line. “Your leg’s holding up well, Sofia.”

  Flushed, Sofia gave a tired smile. “Thanks, Master Lars.”

  “And thank you for supporting her, Alban.”

  Alban stopped and bent, putting hands on his knees and taking a few deep breaths.

  “Are you all right?” Lars asked.

  “Fine,” he said.

  Sofia grinned. “He tripped over some vines. I slowed down to keep pace with him.”

  Alban glowered. “I said I’m fine.”

  “Come on, it’s all in good fun.” Lars clapped him on the back.

  “Just like knife training,” Alban shot as he stalked off.

  Face clouding, Sofia rushed after him.

  So, it wasn’t behind them. Grudges were brewing—and grudges were not healthy for morale.

  Lars lingered to watch a pair of dragons shoot across the basin. Now, there was competition at its finest—no grudges, no malice, just pure fun. The dragons reached the western mountain faces, then spun back toward him. He frowned. Over the ranges, in the far west, ominous storm clouds were brewing.

  Test of the Sword

  Ezaara was cold. There was fresh snow dusting Dragon’s Teeth and a chill in the air. She pulled her cloak tight around her, blocking the draft from Zaarusha’s wingbeats.

  “There’s an unseasonal blizzard raging in the west and to the south,” Zaarusha said. “We got off lightly, but it’ll be cold there for a few more days. Don’t worry, your sword evaluation will soon warm you up.” The dragon queen flew along the eastern side of the valley. “There’s the sword fighting arena.”

  Below them, two stone outcrops jutted out of the mountainside, forming a natural arena between them, walled on three sides by granite. Dragons were perched on the higher outcrop and people were sitting on the other, on heavy blankets, legs dangling over the rocks. More onlookers were gathered on the ground around the arena, Roberto, Adelina and Simeon among them. Blue guards, in their striking uniforms, were stationed around the edge of the crowd.

  “You told me I had a sword evaluation,” Ezaara shot at Zaarusha. “Not a ceremony with hundreds watching.”

  “It’s traditional to have a crowd,” the dragon queen replied.

  “Of course, I should have realized. In Lush Valley we’re well-versed in the traditions of Dragons’ Hold.”

  Her sarcasm wasn’t lost on Zaarusha—the queen was still chuckling as she landed.

  The arena was strewn with rocks and tussock, a challenging surface for dueling. Luckily, the sun had melted the frost. Ezaara dismounted. “Thanks, Zaarusha.”

  The queen flipped her wings and shot up to the outcrops, perching between a blood-red dragon and Erob. “Good luck. Show Jaevin what you’re made of.” Head high, she surveyed the arena with a regal air.

  Zaarusha was right. She had to prove herself. Winning the race had been a good start yesterday, but running would never win a war. She had to show these riders she was worthy of Zaarusha. She had to honor her queen.

  Swordmaster Jaevin inclined his head. “Good morning, Ezaara, Honored Rider of Queen Zaa
rusha.” He gestured toward the red dragon. “May I re-introduce you to Vino, my loyal companion. You met him at your imprinting test.”

  Thanks to her new feelings for Roberto, she could finally think of her imprinting test without cringing. “The pleasure is mine,” Ezaara melded, nodding at Vino.

  He dipped his head in response.

  Master Jaevin continued, “Today, I’ll put you through your paces, testing your skills to determine what further training you require.”

  As if Roberto hadn’t been putting her through her paces already. She ached from their training sessions. “Thank you, I look forward to it.”

  “Every time you strike me, you gain an advantage,” he said. “Your time is up once you strike me twice, or I strike you five times. Vino will keep count, roaring for each strike.”

  On a wooden rack near the rock face were two ornate swords with engraved hilts—one gold and one silver. Both were sheathed in decorative scabbards. Familiar swords. They’d been on her wall above the bathtub until yesterday.

  The swordmaster followed her gaze. “I see you recognize these. They’re the ceremonial swords for the Queen’s Rider’s evaluation, passed down through generations. You may have heard of them?”

  Of course, she hadn’t, but she smiled and nodded anyway.

  Master Jaevin turned to the assembled crowd, his voice booming. “The official swordsmanship evaluation for Ezaara, Rider of our Honored Queen Zaarusha, is about to commence.” He flourished a hand at the swords. “Through the ages, every Queen’s Rider has been evaluated with these ceremonial swords, blunted to ensure no one suffers grievous injury. Please present the Queen’s Rider with her gold-hilted sword.”

  Roberto took the golden-hilted sword from the stand and pulled it from its scabbard. He strode over to Ezaara. Bending on one knee, he offered it to her. The blade had a strange sheen. The hilt was engraved with dragons—talons out and fangs bared.

  “Nervous?” Roberto waited, gazing up at her.

  A soft gasp escaped her. It was there again, that unnerving but thrilling power surging through her. “So many people, just to see me.” Wiping her palms on her jerkin, she accepted the sword. “Thank you, Master Roberto.”