Dragon Hero: Riders of Fire, Book Two - A Dragons' Realm novel

by Eileen Mueller

  “Sore.” His back to Bill, Ernst raised his eyebrows.

  “No, I mean his emotions, his mind.” Hans emphasized the key words with his hands. “I’m wondering whether he’s bent out of shape, you know, with everything that’s gone on.”

  A flash of comprehension lit Ernst’s face. “Yes, he is. Poor boy. What could help him?”

  Hans sat on the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees and wringing his hands together, as if he was anxious. Sure enough, Bill sneaked a glance. “His sister’s sick. His mother’s gone and I’m stuck in here. He must be miserable.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Maybe he could think of a nice family memory. Focus on that if he can.”

  Ernst gave a barely perceptible nod. “I’ll try, Hans. Like you said, it’s a difficult time for the lad. I’ll go now, and give him a hand, but I have my own farm to tend as well.”

  “Thank you, and thank Ana for the bread and cheese, too.”

  Bill swung around. “Food, you say. Did he bring food?” He crooked a bony finger at Ernst. “Come here. Give me some,” he whined. “I’m so hungry. Wretched belly gripe has left me hollow.”

  “Give him this.” Hans ripped off a piece of flatbread. Ernst took it to Bill’s cell.

  Snatching the bread, Bill stuffed half of it in his mouth and the rest in his pocket. He retreated to his mattress, chewing, his eyes faintly yellow from the remnants of swayweed in his blood.

  They said that spies who’d been on swayweed for years could never completely rid themselves of its effects. Hans shuddered. Better Bill than him.

  Ernst left and Hans resumed his exercises.

  Bill got up and took the bread out of his pocket, ripping it in tiny pieces and placing it on the sill of his barred cell window.

  A crow landed on the sill, plumage shining blue-black, and stabbed its beak at the bread. It eyed Bill as he crept closer to it, but it didn’t fly away. Bill stroked the bird’s head, crooning, as it ate the bread. Strange—Hans thought he caught his name and Tomaaz’s in Bill’s mad mutterings.

  §

  Tomaaz adjusted the boy’s grip. “Lunge again, but this time, aim higher.” He pointed to the boy’s opponent. “And, you, block him with the flat of your blade, not the edge.”

  His burnt legs aching, he sat on a barrel and watched as the two lads, not even thirteen summers, clashed swords again. If these boys were their best hope of saving the township, then there wasn’t much hope at all. With so many people training in their barn, the air was stifling. Tomaaz pulled a dipper from a pail and drank deeply. He brushed sweat from his forehead. Because of his injuries, being on his feet tired him out.

  After getting Lovina to take clear-mind yesterday, Ana had insisted on bandaging another healing poultice onto Tomaaz’s legs. Today, he’d made up a poultice himself, happy not to have Ana fussing over him. As the healer’s son, he’d applied enough poultices for Ma over the years.

  The dull clash of metal rang in his ears. A couple of girls in the far corner seemed to be getting the hang of their blades. In time, they could be promising. A shame they didn’t have time.

  Lofty clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Feeling all right?”

  “It’s good not to be in bed.”

  Lofty hooted. “And you used to like sleeping in.”

  “Only because you dragged me out every night, getting us into trouble.”

  Lofty indicated a pair of men, about their fathers’ age, clashing swords, beyond the boys. “There’s Murray and Kieft. Who would’ve known a couple of farmers could fight so well?”

  Tomaaz pointed at another pair, the same age. “Or that they couldn’t. An ox could wield a sword better.”

  Lofty snorted. “A shame it’s an accurate description.”

  Tomaaz had to smile.

  “Look, Pa’s back,” Lofty said.

  “Hello, everyone.” Ernst held up an arm. “May I have your attention?”

  Weary fighters sat on the ground or in the hay at the back of the barn. Someone dropped a sword.

  “Sheath your weapons,” Tomaaz called, remembering his first lessons from Ma and Pa as a littling. “You must keep your blade on you.” He stood, handing the pail to one of his new ‘warriors’, so they could pass it around and refresh themselves.

  “I visited Hans today,” Ernst announced. “He outlined the next steps in our training. Is there anyone here who’s proficient in throwing knives?”

  Lofty raised his palm, and another man did, too.

  “Tomaaz will stay here and continue instructing you in swordplay, while Lofty and Francois take the ten of you who are best at knifemanship for knife-throwing, but before we get to that, there’s something important I need to tell you.”

  Everyone ceased drinking or fidgeting. All eyes were on Ernst.

  “Tharuks are vicious. I’ve only seen a few myself and have never had to fight them, but I have seen one gut a man with his tusks in an instant.” Ernst’s hand made a ripping motion over his belly. “Our best defense will be to stay out of their range, hence knife-throwing, spears and archery. If any of you can have a discreet word with an archer and convince them to join us, let me know. But be careful. Klaus has filled most of them with venom.

  “In the short time we have, we can’t prepare everything we’d like, but we can put guards around the perimeter of the village to raise the alarm. Those in outlying farms are welcome to bring their families to stay with me or Tomaaz at night for safety. During the day, your families can go back to their fields, but keep horses saddled and ready, or hitched to carts, so you can flee to the village square if you need to.” Ernst took a deep breath. “Now I come to a more difficult task.”

  As if everything he’d already said wasn’t difficult enough.

  “There are a few types of tharuks. Trackers and mind-benders are most dangerous. Trackers hunt their prey over vast distances by scenting them. You’ll know them from the dark saliva that dribbles along their tusks when they’re hunting. Mind-benders have black eyes, instead of the usual red eyes, and drill into your mind, forcing you to follow their will.”

  A chill breeze snaked through the barn, making the sweat on Tomaaz’s forehead prickle.

  “Hans said that the secret to overcoming mind-benders is to focus on a memory or an object, pinning it in your mind in great detail. We’ll practice now. Close your eyes, everyone.”

  Although it was useless closing his eyes in the middle of battle, Tomaaz shut his anyway.

  “In your head, picture someone you love, a place you like to go, your favorite food, or a treasured possession,” Ernst said.

  The moment Ernst said someone you love, Lovina’s face shot to mind. Weird, he didn’t love Lovina. He was only helping her because—

  A girl’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Surely if we choose someone we love, the mind-bender could use that against us.”

  “Good point,” Ernst replied. “Concentrate on an object. See how the light plays on it. Does it have a scent? How does it feel and sound? What are you doing with it?”

  Tomaaz switched his thoughts to the trees at the back of the farm, where he, Ezaara, and Lofty had played when they were littlings. It had been Ezaara’s favorite hiding place. Shards, how was she now? His twin’s face filled his thoughts. It was suddenly difficult to swallow. They’d never been separated for more than half a day before all this craziness had happened.

  “Hold the image in your mind, while I distract you.”

  He was thinking of Ezaara, not the tree. Tomaaz concentrated on the rough bark, the sunlight filtering between the leaves. Ernst bellowed. Tomaaz twitched and the tree was gone.

  “Focus,” Ernst called.

  He tried again and again, trying to block out Ernst’s loud noises. A girl shrieked. Tomaaz jumped to his feet, sword drawn.

  Ernst held his hands above a girl sitting cross-legged on the ground. “It’s all right, everyone. I just tapped her while her eyes were shut.”

  Laughter broke the tension.

  “N
ow,” said Ernst, “get back to fighting, but try and fight with the image in your minds, as if your life and loved ones depend on it.”

  Ernst took the first group of knife-throwing candidates outside, and Tomaaz stepped up to fight one of the girls, the tree firmly fixed in his head.

  §

  For a week, Tomaaz’s home had been full of people every evening, all heeding Ernst’s advice. Pa had predicted a tharuk attack within three days of the beacon fire. Disbelievers now had even more reason to jeer at him, but Pa had impressed upon Tomaaz, Ernst and Lofty that it was only a matter of time, so every space inside was spoken for. Tomaaz had given the beds to older couples, and the living area and hallway were full of bedrolls and blankets. Littlings jumped over people’s legs, excited at so many people gathering.

  Tomaaz approached Torston, one of the men cooking. “Could I get you more vegetables for that stew?”

  Torston gave him a knowing glance. “We don’t need them, son, but if you need some fresh air, how about taking some bread to Lofty?”

  Tomaaz left the house and wandered toward the road, away from Lofty and the other perimeter guards. He didn’t need Lofty’s joviality or jokes tonight, just a bit of time to clear his head. The last twelve days had been a whirlwind: Pa nearly burned at the stake and being thrown in jail; Ma gone, perhaps in danger; Lovina’s awful injuries; and Ezaara … shards, he missed his twin sister.

  In the field near the roadside, the carrot tops feathered in the breeze. Tomaaz stared at the sunset’s golden light playing on the greenery, losing himself for a moment.

  Footsteps crunched along the gravel road. A figure was approaching, dressed in baggy breeches—a slim woman in men’s clothing. Something about her seemed familiar, but with the sun at her back, he couldn’t see her features.

  She drew level and turned to him, her thin face tinged by the sunset glowing off the Grande Alps. The evening breeze tickled its fingers through her brown hair. Her eyes were blue and she had a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her baggy breeches were rolled up and she was wearing an over-sized boy’s jerkin. It was only as she nervously lifted a scarred hand to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear that Tomaaz recognized Lovina.

  He gazed at her mutely.

  “I, ah …” She froze for a moment, eyes wild like a trapped rabbit, and then spun to go.

  Tomaaz took her hand. Shock registered on both of their faces. They stood a few paces apart, he holding her hand and she, startled, staring at him.

  He released her, his breath escaping. “Don’t go!” he whispered. Had he scared her?

  She nodded, waiting.

  “Lovina, I—” How did you tell a girl who’d been beaten and abused for years that you were dumbstruck by her beauty? A girl who hadn’t even trusted the people who’d tried to heal her. A girl who would need years to fully trust, if she ever could. His breath sawed in and out of him. The moment stretched, the tension in their gaze searing through him. “Lovina, I’m glad you’re here.”

  She smiled, lighting up like a splash of water in the sun.

  Last Stop

  Crows were thick on cottage roofs on the outskirts of Last Stop. Marlies approached, her hair wrapped in a peasant’s scarf, a long dress over her riders’ garb and her rucksack hidden in a sack on her back with firewood poking out the top. Marlies adjusted the firewood. It was a flimsy disguise, but better than nothing. She had enough freshweed to last her a few more days, but she was still ages away from Death Valley. She’d need to find another way to evade the tharuks hunting her.

  She kept to side alleys. Music filled the air, and laughter and merriment came from the center of town. Tharuks roamed the streets. Had everyone here grown used to the presence of these monsters?

  Coming around a corner, she walked smack into a tharuk’s back. “Excuse me, kind sir,” she said with what she hoped was a Last Stop twang. She bowed, squinting in case it noticed her turquoise eyes.

  The beast snarled through dribbling saliva. Its nostrils twitched. A tracker.

  Marlies kept her head down, subservient and bowed over under the firewood. Her heart hammered. She thanked the Egg for freshweed, hoping hers was still effective. This was not the place to pick a fight.

  “Doesn’t look like the female,” muttered another tharuk to the tracker she’d banged into.

  The tracker deliberated, sniffing the air.

  It was surprising it could smell anything other than tharuk stench.

  “It’s tall enough, but it doesn’t smell right,” the tracker concluded.

  “Move on.”

  Relief flooding her, Marlies moved past.

  “Not so fast.” A thin tharuk with black eyes stepped out from a bakery next to a cobbler’s shop, blocking her way. “Where are you heading?”

  Shards! A mind-bender. Marlies kept the cobbler’s store foremost in her mind. “Need new shoes for my boy, sir,” she answered, head down. She pulled an image of Tomaaz’s face into her mind, as he’d looked when he was four.

  “And the wood?” barked the mind-bender.

  She could feel the mind-bender pushing at her thoughts, making her head spin. “To sell, sir, in the square.” Not knowing what the square looked like nowadays, she kept the cobbler’s shop in mind, and the torn feet of a Lush Valley littling she’d healed last week—and her fear of tharuks, just to be convincing.

  “Very well,” the mind-bender barked. “Get your weakling son some shoes.”

  The mind-bender shoved her. She stumbled, righting herself, then ran into the cobbler’s shop. Marlies made a show of examining the shoes, then bought the cheapest littling pair in the store, fishing the coins out of her healer’s pouch.

  “A healer?” whispered the cobbler, eying her pouch. “Rare nowadays.”

  “Just an old pouch I found at the market.”

  “I’ll trade you the shoes for a remedy. My wife has had a belly gripe for a week.”

  Marlies glanced at the tharuks loitering outside. Was he a spy? Would he sell her for a reward?

  “Please,” he pleaded.

  She’d taken a healer’s oath. How could she refuse? Marlies slipped him a measure of koromiko. “Cook this in water and have her drink the tea,” she whispered. “Thank you for the shoes,” she added loudly.

  “My pleasure,” he said. Then, making a show of polishing the shoes, he whispered, “Stay at The Lost King, in the square. I’d get a room now before it fills up for the harvest festival.”

  The Lost King? Was that some oblique reference to Syan, Zaarusha’s dead mate? Or even Yanir, his rider? It might be possible. Last Stop had been named after Anakisha. On the way to her final battle, she’d stopped here, for reasons unknown. After her death, the villagers had renamed the town. Nodding, Marlies swallowed a lump in her throat and hurried outside, past the tharuks, now questioning other travelers. She made her way deeper into town through the throng of merrymakers in costumes and festive clothing. With so many tharuks here, why hadn’t the villagers lit their beacon fire? She scanned the sky. No sign of dragons.

  The square was a hubbub. Marlies picked her way past people dancing in time to musicians playing gittern and drums, and around pigs on spits, their fat hissing as it dripped into the fire. Scanning the square, she found a faded plaque, The Lost King, on an old stone building covered in ivy. Her first instinct was to avoid it, in case the cobbler betrayed her, but there were no tharuks near it, so maybe the cobbler was trying to help. She wound her way through the crowd. Hawkers called out, selling toys, sweets, crafts and stacks of firewood. Littlings ran through the square, playing duck and chase. Merry punters at trestle tables with tankards of ale laughed and slapped each other on the back. In a pit of sawdust, a wrestling match was in progress, the crowd cheering the winner on. There were so many people. Life in Lush Valley had been so very quiet.

  Outside The Lost King, Marlies stopped a mother with a gaggle of barefoot children and discreetly gave her the shoes. She pushed the door open, and walked between
strongwood tables toward a brown-haired young woman washing tankards.

  The girl, not much older than Ezaara, finished drying a glass and greeted her. “Good evening, do you need a room for the night?”

  There was something strangely familiar about the girl’s face. “Yes, just one night, thank you.”

  Three tharuks burst into the taproom, the drumbeats from the square gusting in with them. “Beer, now!” one bellowed.

  “Right away,” the girl responded, drawing three tankards of beer from a barrel.

  The beasts sat at the bar, their backs to Marlies. She retreated to an alcove at the side of the room to wait.

  Soon the girl joined her. “I’m Kisha,” the girl said, reaching her hand out to shake Marlies’.

  Had she just flashed the sign of a dragon friend? Or was Marlies being fanciful, mistaking that quick flick of Kisha’s fingers for something it wasn’t? When extending her own hand, Marlies made the answering sign, and the girl nodded.

  “You’re in luck,” she said. “We have two rooms left upstairs.” She ushered Marlies to the second floor, a finger against her lips, pointing at some of the rooms. Dragon’s teeth, tharuks must be staying here. “There’s a tub in your room. Would you like a bath? And a meal brought to your room?”

  Marlies smiled. “That would be lovely.”

  Kisha ushered her inside. “Make yourself at home.” She left to fetch pails of hot water.

  Once Kisha had filled the tub, she pointed to the bolt on the inside of the door, indicating that Marlies should lock it, and left.

  Marlies checked the window. If she needed to, she could drop to the square and make a run for it. She stripped off and dunked herself in the warm water. It was tempting to relax and let her worries soak away, but she couldn’t, not with tharuks downstairs. Although the festival was still going strong outside, a trickle of unease slid down her back. So, Marlies scrubbed herself, changed into fresh small clothes and pulled on her riders’ garb and peasant dress, rubbing the grubby spots with a rag. She was done in less time than it took Tomaaz to wolf down a meal.