Riders of Fire Box Set

by Eileen Mueller

  “Yes, they do,” said Adelina. “What about the rest?”

  “I can move my toes, too.” Lovina straightened her legs and the arm that wasn’t broken. There were no spasms. “Everything’s a bit sore, but at least they’re not cramping.”

  “That’s good news,” Adelina replied. “Liesar said you’re from Lush Valley.”

  “My old master, Bill, was a traveling merchant, but yes, our last stop was Lush Valley.”

  Adelina’s gaze was sharp. “Master?”

  Lovina bit her lip, twisting the sheet in her fingers. “I—I was his slave.”

  Instead of scorning her, Adelina hugged her. “My brother was once a slave, too,” she whispered. “We’ll take care of you here. Do you know Ezaara, the Queen’s Rider? She’s from Lush Valley.”

  She was Tomaaz’s sister, the pretty one, who could use a sword. Lovina nodded. “A little.” Did she actually know anyone apart from Tomaaz? She’d been hidden behind a fog of numlock for too long.

  Adelina raised her hand.

  Lovina flinched.

  “I’m sorry,” said Adelina, “I was just going to tuck your quilt in.”

  “Sorry,” Lovina mumbled. Her reactions to Bill were embedded, whether she was numlocked or not. She heard his voice all over again: “You’re useless. A good-for-nothing bag of skin and bones. The dung that a horse drops is worth more than you.”

  Adelina placed a palm on Lovina’s good arm. “Like I said, we’re here to help you. Rest now, while I get you some broth.”

  Lovina nodded, drifting back to sleep.

  Nightmares plagued her. Death Valley again, except this time it wasn’t her but Tomaaz being whipped, his back laid raw under the lash.

  A Risky Approach

  After three nights in a cave, Pa had pronounced Handel fit for flight. Now, snowy peaks towered above Tomaaz, mist clinging to their tips. They were at the edge of Spanglewood Forest. Pa had said these woods were the seat of ancient wizard magic, whatever that was. It seemed Lush Valley had hidden more than dragons from its inhabitants. Handel shot down, making Tomaaz’s stomach lurch. He clamped his eyes shut.

  “Last stop before the Terramites,” Pa’s voice rumbled through his back.

  Tomaaz cracked his eyes open. The ground was still rushing up to hit him, so he squeezed them shut again, waiting for the inevitable thud that meant his torture was over.

  He was out of the saddle in moments. It was good to get down and stretch his legs again. He shivered. Zens was on the other side of that mountain range.

  Pa passed him some dark thin leaves. “Freshweed—it’ll mask our scent while we’re sneaking into Death Valley. We won’t need it once we’re among the slaves.”

  “So, we’re only half an hour away?” Too close—but then, everything was closer when you traveled by dragon.

  Pa shot him a sharp look. “How did you know freshweed takes half an hour to get into your blood?”

  Feeling sheepish, Tomaaz shrugged. “Um, Lofty liked to use it when we hunted.”

  “Typical Lofty,” Pa chuckled. “This is deadlier than hunting rabbits. We’ll creep along at the foot of the Terramites and approach from the north, way past Devil’s Gate—the entrance that tharuk raiding parties usually use. Once we’re in the valley, we’ll mingle with the slaves, hopefully unnoticed.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” They got back into the saddle.

  Handel crept above the edge of the forest, hugging the steep sides of the Terramites, taking advantage of overhangs and rocky outcrops that would block him from view, gradually increasing in altitude until they were near the top.

  “Nearly there,” Pa said, glancing over his shoulder at Tomaaz. “Nock your bow.”

  They readied their bows. Tomaaz clung to the saddle with his knees, trying to stop his head from swimming. Focus—he had to focus.

  They popped over the top of a ridge. There was a flash of snow, rock and sky, then they rapidly dropped back down.

  “Shards,” whispered Pa, “there’s a new watchtower.”

  What had Pa expected after eighteen years?

  “Only one tharuk guard,” said Pa.

  “Do you think it saw us?” Tomaaz asked.

  “If it did, it’ll be expecting a dragon,” Pa replied, “so we’ll take our chances on foot.”

  Handel landed and they dismounted. Pa patted the dragon’s flank. “Handel says he’ll wait nearby. I’ll meld with him when we have Marlies. It may take a few days to find her.”

  Handel nuzzled Pa’s shoulder, then with a whoosh of air from his wings, flew down to the Great Spanglewood Forest.

  They crept up the barren rocky mountainside. Although the peaks to the north and south were higher and clad in snow, this ridge was dressed in only smatterings of white.

  “Keep off the snowy patches, so you don’t leave tracks,” Pa warned.

  They edged their way up. At the crest, beyond a rubble pile as wide as a meadow, was a crude watchtower, built of the same jagged bits of rubble. The tower had an open viewing platform with a wooden roof. A lone tharuk patrolled the platform, gazing down at Death Valley, its back toward them.

  “There must be some way through all this rock to the valley,” Tomaaz whispered. “Otherwise, why would they have a guard?”

  Pa shrugged. “We might have to risk it and sneak past the guard. The tharuk’s still not looking. See that gap in the rocks over there, by the tower? I’ll find out where it leads.” Before Tomaaz could protest, Pa ducked low, running along behind the rubble, toward the tower.

  This was crazy! Tomaaz had thought they could sneak over the pile at night, or go around it, not head straight for their enemy’s fortress. Bow in hand and keeping low, he followed Pa.

  Pa reached the end of the rubble and stuck his head around the corner, then took a step into the gap. “Ugh!” He fell backward, thudding to the ground behind the rubble, his hands clutching his chest. An arrow protruded between his fingers.

  He’d been hit! Tomaaz rushed over.

  “Kill the shrotty beast,” Pa gasped.

  Peeking between some rocks at the watchtower, Tomaaz aimed an arrow, sighting the tharuk on the platform, and released.

  Surprise flashed across the beast’s face, then Tomaaz’s arrow went through its eye into its skull. The tharuk toppled over the low wall and its body bounced down the slope.

  “I’ve told Handel I’m hurt,” Pa moaned between labored breaths.

  Down the mountainside, Handel’s bronze wings appeared.

  Tomaaz dragged Pa further behind the rubble pile. The arrow was lodged in Pa’s chest, above his heart. If it had been any closer …

  Handel landed out of sight below the rubble heap. Tomaaz raced down, grabbed healing supplies from Handel’s saddlebag and returned.

  He gripped the arrow and snapped it off. Giving Pa the shaft to bite on, he dug out the tip with his knife. A fleshy sucking sound tore from Pa’s chest as he wrenched the arrowhead free.

  Pa pointed at the arrowhead, smeared with blood and green grunge. “Poison.” He grunted. “Clean the wound.”

  Poison! Tomaaz stared at Pa’s wound. Green slime coated the hole left by the arrow. Familiar slime—the same stuff that had been in the knife wound on Lovina’s cheek. “What does it do?” Panic edged his words. He tore a strip of cloth from his shirt, and rubbed at the slime. “It’s in deep.”

  “I know.” Pa grimaced. “It’s limplock. Dissolves in the bloodstream. Fever, nausea and gradual paralysis over five days. Try water.”

  Paralysis? Lovina! Her curled fingers and aching limbs. His head reeled.

  By the time Tomaaz had snatched the waterskin, the stuff had mixed with Pa’s blood, turning it muddy brown. He splashed water over the wound, then tried to staunch the bleeding with a wad of torn shirt.

  “Son.” Pa stayed his hand. “The antidote’s in Ana’s pouch.” Breath short, he fumbled with his pocket. “Vial. Yellow.”

  Cries rose from the other side of the tower. Killing the tharuk
had been a dumb move. More of them were snarling over the ridge.

  Tomaaz tugged the pouch out of Pa’s pocket and yanked it open, picking out a vial of yellow granules. “It’s a quarter full. How much do you need?”

  “One vial would cure me. This might get me back to Dragons’ Hold.”

  “Y-you’re going?”

  Pa gave a shaky smile. “Save your mother.” He squeezed Tomaaz’s hand. “The vision wasn’t of me helping Marlies. Only you. Now I … know why.”

  Tomaaz tipped the yellow granules into Pa’s mouth, then he wadded a strip of his shirt over the wound and tied another strip across Pa’s chest. He helped Pa onto Handel, strapping him into the saddle.

  Guttural roars ripped through the air. Much closer. Tharuks!

  Tomaaz slapped Handel’s rump. “Go, Handel. Fly!” He dashed to the rubble heap, squeezing into a gap under some large boulders, and watched Pa and Handel winging high into the sky.

  A tharuk yelled nearby, making Tomaaz flinch. “Over here. An arrow and rags.”

  “Got away on stinking dragon,” replied another. “Filthy thing.”

  Through a crack between the rocks, Tomaaz watched the tharuks pick up the cloth, sniffing it. “Lots of limplock! Good. Another dead rider. 515 mixes limplock strong.”

  The other tharuk grabbed the arrow. “He be dead in two days. Rutting rider.”

  “Where’s 515?”

  “Dead as stone. Fell down the cliff. Stupid worm. Got shot by dragon scum.” They guffawed.

  “I have his bed.”

  “I take his slaves.”

  “No. Last time—”

  Tomaaz shut out their crude bickering. Pa had said five days, but he was wrong. He’d be dead in two. Pa had no chance of getting to Dragons’ Hold. No chance of more antidote. And what about Lovina? They hadn’t realized she’d been poisoned. Had she found someone to treat her? Or had she died on the way? His mouth was coated in fine dust, making it hard to swallow.

  He shoved his dark thoughts away. He had to believe Pa could get help. Had to believe Lovina was still alive. Ma was relying on him. He was the only one who could help her now.

  §

  Tomaaz didn’t dare sleep for fear of tharuks finding him in the rubble pile. Thank the Egg, he had Pa’s freshweed to save him from being caught. Under the cover of darkness, he left his bow and quiver in the rubble pile, and ate a clear-mind berry and some dragon’s scale. Then he made his way down the barren hillsides, hiding behind boulders and traveling along ravines. No wonder they called this place Death Valley—nothing grew here except the odd scraggly bush. In the predawn gray, the whole place was bleak, not that the sun would make it look much better.

  He stumbled along a ravine toward the main valley. An acrid odor hung in the air, and tendrils of fog leaked from splits in the cliffs. Breathing the stuff made his throat scratchy. As he neared the mouth of the ravine, the tromp of feet echoed off the valley walls. Stifling a cough, Tomaaz crouched behind a rock. Shards, he had to get this tickle in his throat under control or he’d give himself away.

  A tharuk appeared around a bend, a group of slaves trailing it. They had to be slaves. They had that awful blank stare Lovina used to have, but worse. They shuffled forward, unsteady on their skinny legs. Wearing tatters, many of them limped or had festering sores. Their faces were the worst: hollowed out and empty.

  A tharuk behind the group cracked a whip, raising a puff of dust. None of the slaves flinched.

  Living with numlock had to be hell. To think, Lovina had—

  A boy about his age stumbled and sprawled in the dust. The whip-bearing tharuk bellowed and turned away to yank the boy to his feet.

  Now was his chance. Tomaaz darted into the crowd. Not a single slave glanced at him as he walked with them, letting his shoulders sag and his jaw hang loose.

  Crack! Dust rose where the whip met the dirt.

  It took all of Tomaaz’s nerve not to twitch. He glanced at the slaves either side of him, then drooped his head. The stench of unwashed bodies and soiled breeches crept through his nostrils. He fought back a gag, breathing through his mouth, but the taste coated his tongue.

  The valley widened, and the slaves slowed to pick up tools from various piles—shovels, spades, pickaxes and grubbers. Under the watchful eye of hulking tharuks armed with whips, those with pickaxes and grubbers traipsed into rifts in the hillside that oozed the foul-smelling mist. Tomaaz grabbed a shovel and followed a column of slaves heading further along the valley. They passed large sprawling buildings, outdoor cooking fires and a few caves with thick metal doors set into the entrances. Doors Tomaaz had never seen the likes of, with strange dials inscribed with numbers and long metal rods protruding from them. Locks?

  Was Ma being held in one of these? Or was she another nameless slave traipsing to work on the valley floor or venturing into the bowels of the mountains? Was she even alive? She had to be. He hadn’t come to this hell for nothing. He had to find her. The first opportunity he had, he’d slink off and look around.

  “You lot!” the lead tharuk bellowed, “along here.” It pointed up a valley branching off the main one.

  The slaves trooped mindlessly after their tharuk leader into a stench-filled fug that made the inside of Tomaaz’s nose crawl. Worse than the stench of the slaves, it was overpowering. Of course, no one around him reacted, all shuffling forward with their mindless gait.

  They rounded a corner to a row of crude sheds, the stink making Tomaaz’s eyes water. He stifled a groan. He’d chosen latrine duty.

  Commander Zens

  Days later, Marlies was still dizzy. Chewing herbs was helping the infection in her arm, but the thin gruel and mangy bread Scar Snout brought her each day weren’t doing much to restore her strength. Her stomach was a constant gnawing hole. And this damp stone floor wasn’t exactly paradise. She’d been tempted to use piaua on her arm, but she only had one vial left, and that was her only defense against Zens’ torture.

  Scuffing footfalls neared the cave.

  Marlies lay down, pretending she was weaker than she was.

  “You!” It was the tracker who’d caught her, the one with 555 tattooed inside its left wrist.

  Scar Snout trailed it into the cave.

  “Stand,” 555 commanded.

  Scar Snout cut the rope around Marlies’ ankles.

  The blood rushed into her feet, making them fuzzy and achy. Leaning against the wall, she flexed them.

  “Human,” 555 spat. “Zens wants to see you.”

  See her? More likely torture or kill her. Marlies staggered to the entrance.

  “Pathetic!” 555 snorted. It threw her up onto its shoulder, and strode along the ravine.

  When they reached the valley, a column of dead-faced slaves traipsed past them, staring at the ground.

  She turned her head from side to side, trying to signal the slaves behind the tharuks’ backs. No response. No one spoke or even looked at her. Gods, this was awful. They were shells, not registering what went on around them. Deep in the grip of Zens’ plant extracts, they headed into caverns in the hillside.

  “Stop wriggling!” 555 put her down. “Walk.”

  She shuffled along the bleak valley, between her two captors. The tharuks stopped before an iron door in the mountainside. Scar Snout restrained her, digging its claws into her arm to keep her still. 555 opened the door, leading Marlies into a tunnel that led past a series of wooden doors. Storerooms? Somehow she doubted it. Dungeons, more like.

  At the end of the tunnel, tharuk 555 knocked on a large door. It was opened by an enormous tharuk, bigger than any she’d seen. Although this beast was furry, the inside of its arm was completely bald and emblazoned with a tattoo that took up its whole forearm: 000. Marlies knew tharuks had numbers on the inside of their wrists, but a whole forearm? Then she remembered Tonio the spymaster’s lessons.

  Zens’ most formidable tharuk is 000, his first creation. Strong, cunning and possessing better mental faculties than all other th
aruks, Triple Zero is like a son to Zens. Loyal and completely devoted, he’s almost as dangerous as Zens himself. Zens’ later creations are weaker specimens with only part of Triple Zero’s talents. We suspect Zens made them that way to keep them subservient.

  “Welcome,” 000 smiled, showing sharp yellowed teeth and tusks.

  Polite as well.

  The tharuks pushed Marlies into a large chamber. Torches were blazing, their flames reflected on a smooth shiny rear wall. Metal implements with sharp prongs and jagged edges hung on the walls. Marlies’ flesh crawled. These were the tools of a master torturer.

  000 barred the door behind them.

  A figure emerged from the shadows. Torchlight flickered over a bald head covered in blue-black stubble. His face was in shadow, but the bulk of the man was unmistakable—Zens.

  “Good afternoon, 316 and 555,” Zens greeted. “Returned from patrol with a little something, have you?”

  “Yes, sir,” 555 said, giving Zens an ingratiating smile.

  Zens raised an arm, motioning Scar Snout forward. Zens’ upper arm was as thick as a man’s thigh, and his chest was a barrel, like Giant John’s. “I hear you were delayed getting back,” Zens crooned, pacing in front of the tharuk, his limbs moving with barely-restrained power. Above this thick malformed nose, his yellow eyes raked Scar Snout from head to foot.

  The tharuk bowed. “Yes, sir. Found wagon in Tooka Chasm. All smashed.”

  555 cut in. “The big oaf went east on horseback. I told crows. Other troops will find him.”

  “Good, 555, you shall be rewarded.” Zens’ pupils dilated and he flicked a hand at 555.

  Tharuk 555’s eyes glossed over, unseeing, and a tusky smile broke out on its face. It stood motionless, gazing into nothing.

  These creatures were completely under his control. It was sick.

  316 spoke up, “Sir, I found trail. And wagon. Can I have reward?”

  Zens turned his attention to Scar Snout. “Certainly.” His smile gave Marlies the chills.

  Scar Snout hopped excitedly from foot to foot, like an eager puppy. “The lake! Can I see pretty lake again?”