The Dragonslayer Series: Books 1-4: The Dragonslayer Series Box Set

by Resa Nelson

  Astrid left the cart hidden in a thicket of trees behind a hill near the village. After unhitching Blossom from the cart, she rode the horse to a small house on the edge of the village and made arrangements to have Blossom watered and fed.

  Entering the crowded marketplace in the village, Astrid hugged the black wool and fur cape around her, remembering Lumpy’s advice to let people see her as a boy, along with Sigurthor’s warning that in the rest of the Northlands a woman who dressed like a man or cut her hair short had committed a crime. And Astrid had done both.

  But Astrid noticed a new bounce in her step as the wooden floorboards squeaked beneath her feet and she breathed in the ocean air spiced with the scent of the marketplace. Squeezing her way through the crowd, she caught glimpses of merchants selling bright yellow, blue, and green wools and linens by the arm length, potatoes and rye, cloves and saffron.

  Most women wore traditional linen sheathes and overdresses, held in place with large silver brooches shaped like dragons and other animals. Clearly, they were women of the Northlands. Astrid recognized her male countrymen by the breeches they wore gathered at the knee and the cloaks they wore, similar to hers.

  But others in the crowd wore strange and exotic clothes from other lands, speaking tongues Astrid had never heard before. She recognized a few people wearing the styles she’d seen on the islands to the west of the Northlands, but most were completely foreign to her. She imagined from their dark and peculiar looks that they were visitors from the Southlands and perhaps even the Far Eastern lands.

  “Weapons!” a merchant called from dockside. “Fine weapons!”

  Astrid rose to the balls of her feet, straining to peer over the crowd to discover the merchant’s location. A man selling weapons would most likely buy her spare daggers.

  Through the briefly parting crowd, she glimpsed him displaying all manner of weapons on top of a few wooden crates stacked chest high. The weapons merchant looked to be slightly older than Astrid. He wore a simple forest green hat, and his straight black hair fell like sheets of rain to his shoulders.

  At first glance, he seemed to be the sort of man who would use any excuse to sleep in a sunny field instead of working it. He called out to potential customers, his manner light and carefree. Whenever a woman walked past, the merchant eyed her as if she were for sale. But Astrid suspected him to be more in the market for temporary companionship than a wife.

  In the water behind the merchant floated a long and sleek wooden boat with the masthead of a dragon.

  “Here be dragons,” Astrid murmured to herself, remembering another time that she’d sailed on such a ship. That kind of ship most likely belonged to a Northlander or to someone in league with one. So perhaps the weapons merchant could be trusted to some degree.

  Astrid threaded her way through the busy crowd until she reached the edge of the weapons merchant’s crates. She noticed the sun glint off a small iron pin in the shape of a dagger attached to his hat. She’d heard of guilds for merchants and the pins identifying them. The dagger pin must be one that identified him as a member of the weapons guild.

  He glanced at her for a moment and frowned before catching sight of a woman walking behind Astrid.

  “Dear lady,” he said to the other woman, who walked past without acknowledging him. Still hopeful, he called out, “Won’t you pause for a look?”

  Astrid’s eyes widened with anger. There, from the belt around the merchant’s waist, hung Starlight in its sheath.

  CHAPTER 18

  Astrid leaned forward, reaching for the grip with the intent of pulling Starlight from its sheath, hanging from the weapons merchant’s waist.

  Just as quickly, he sidestepped her reach and withdrew Starlight into his own hands, pointing the tip between her eyes.

  “What are you doing with my sword?”

  The merchant locked his unblinking gaze on her. “I made a fair trade for the sword,” he said, raising his voice and succeeding in getting attention from the surrounding crowd. Men and women turned to watch Astrid and the merchant. “And I doubt the sword is yours—what need does a boy have for a sword? Especially a cripple.”

  “I’m not—” Astrid bit her lip before she could finish her sentence. While she wandered outside of Guell and the far Northlands where no such laws existed about how a woman could dress or do with her time, she would take Lumpy’s advice and let people think what they would about her. And if this merchant saw her as a cripple, it meant he didn’t eat the lizard’s meat that would make it possible for him to see the phantom arm she’d created from her own belief. “I’m not just any boy,” Astrid said. “I’m the dragonslayer from Guell.”

  “I know the dragonslayer, and you’re not him.”

  “DiStephan is dead,” Astrid said. “Killed by a dragon months ago.” She paused, remembering that even though DiStephan’s ghost had been able to talk to her, he’d never mentioned how he died. She realized she’d always assumed a lizard had killed him. “And that sword is mine now.”

  “He can’t be dead,” the merchant said. Shaking his head, the man’s eyes watered. “I know DiStephan.” He put Starlight back in its sheath then sat on an empty crate, staring into space. “We’re friends. He must have mentioned me. I’m Vinchi. We’ve known each other since we were boys.”

  Because she’d traveled throughout the far Northlands during the past few months to perform her dragonslayer duties, Astrid had met many people who claimed to have befriended DiStephan but knew nothing about him. People commonly tried to gain favor from others by insisting they had a dragonslayer for a friend.

  Suddenly, a petite woman with neatly coiffed auburn hair yelled from the deck of a nearby ship, waving a pair of brown trousers above her head. Screaming with anger in a language Astrid didn’t understand, the woman stormed off the ship and down its plank toward the crowd.

  “Oh, no,” Vinchi said, his voice trembling. He stared at the woman waving the trousers. “This time she’s gone too far.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Astrid stared at the petite woman who marched down the wooden plank connecting her ship to the dock. With every step, the plank shuddered beneath her feet as if it feared her.

  “No, Margreet,” Vinchi whispered to himself. “Go back to the ship and be silent.”

  Although Margreet wore her reddish hair tucked into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, a few tendrils hung free to frame her face. Her eyes blazed with anger and her shouts pierced the air while she waved her hands for emphasis. She held the trousers in one hand, and its legs flew about like a flag on a ship’s mast.

  When her feet hit the wooden boards of the town’s walkway, Margreet hesitated, turning to face a fur trader near Astrid and Vinchi. Clenching her jaw, Margreet strode toward the fur merchant with clenched fists and a face flushed with anger.

  The crowd fell silent in waves. No one on the walkway spoke a word except for Margreet.

  Astrid strained to understand until she realized Margreet was a foreigner speaking in another tongue that everyone else seemed to know. Only Astrid failed to recognize Margreet’s words.

  Everyone parted to give her a clear path toward the fur trader.

  Astrid saw a woman in the crowd cling to a man who appeared to be her husband, close her eyes, and press her face against his shoulder. Others in the crowd paled and stepped back with faces drawn in fear while staying close enough to watch.

  Glancing at Vinchi, Astrid felt startled to see his eyes fill with tears while he clenched his fists. And yet he stood still. She pushed her way to the front of the crowd.

  A broad and tall man sporting an unkempt yellow beard and a shaved head sorted through his pile of furs on the crates in front of him. He had the large, meaty hands of a butcher.

  Astrid recognized the pelts of wolves, bears, and smaller animals. She noted that he had no lizard skins and questioned his courage. Lizards were larger and faster than bears and wilier than wolves.

  Margreet thrust the trousers at the fur tra
der like throwing a punch. The trousers looked new and finely made. Astrid would have guessed they’d never been worn had it not been for a stain near the crotch.

  The kind of stain a man would leave after the throes of sex.

  As the crowd shifted around her, Astrid turned to see Vinchi join her side. “Are they married?” Astrid whispered to him.

  Vinchi nodded, keeping his gaze on Margreet.

  But it looks like that stain is a surprise to her. Margreet wasn’t there when it happened.

  Tears streamed down Margreet’s face but she stood strong and firm.

  The fur trader folded his arms and took a casual stance, but color began to rise slowly up his throat while his eyes darkened.

  Margreet pointed at the trousers with her free hand. Astrid didn’t understand the language, but Margreet screamed what sounded like accusations. She pounded her own chest, wiped the tears from her face, and stood straighter.

  The fur trader laughed, but his laughter darkened to match his eyes.

  Margreet’s jaw slackened. She gazed at the fur trader—apparently her husband—in disbelief. Speaking slowly, she asked him a question.

  Despite the foreign language, Astrid clearly heard the edge in Margreet’s voice, as sharp as Starlight’s edges.

  The fur trader’s face flushed deep to match his wife’s. Putting his hands on his hips, he asked what sounded like the same question with the same edge in his voice.

  “No,” Vinchi said to himself. “Don’t let him bait you.”

  Margreet tilted her head to one side, looking her husband up and down. Then she held the trousers up to her own waist as if measuring their fit against her body. Clearly, they were sized to fit her husband—if so inclined, Margreet could probably cut them up and make at least one entire dress out of them, possibly two. And yet she held them in a way that indicated she planned to wear them herself. She smiled sweetly at the fur trader but spoke firmly.

  The crowd gasped in response and cowered back.

  Vinchi sniffed. He quickly wiped away the tears that spilled from his eyes.

  The fur trader shoved his crates aside. Men and women alike winced when wooden boxes clattered and furs tumbled onto the walkway. The fur trader shouted and pointed toward the crowd. His finger scanned everyone circling Margreet, seeming to identify witnesses.

  Margreet hugged the trousers to her chest, obviously claiming ownership of them. Her voice laced with contempt, she glanced down at her husband’s feet and back up at his face.

  Smirking with contempt, the fur trader approached his wife slowly, reaching one hand toward her. He spoke briefly and quietly.

  Margreet shook her head, still clutching the trousers.

  The fur trader lunged at her, ripping the trousers from her grasp and holding them high above his head, too high for her to reach. Circling in place, he addressed the crowd, letting his voice rise in questions while he waved the trousers above his head.

  Margreet raised her voice above his as she pointed at his crotch.

  Furious, the fur trader balled up the trousers and slammed them onto the ground between them. He pointed at the trousers, yelling at Margreet.

  Pulling her small frame up even taller, Margreet slapped her hands together and shouted her response.

  The fur trader hesitated, his face relaxing with surprise. Laughing, he gestured for Margreet to come to him.

  Balling her hands into fists, Margreet jumped over the trousers and swung at her husband’s gut.

  The fur trader simply extended one hand and braced it against her forehead, keeping his wife easily away at arm’s distance where she couldn’t touch him.

  Someone in the crowd giggled.

  The fur trader waved a friendly gesture at the crowd with his free hand and then slammed a fist up into Margreet’s jaw, the force throwing her up into the air before she landed hard on her back. As quickly as a lizard, the fur trader threw a punch at her eyes, kicked her hard in the belly and raised another fist high, aiming at the top of his wife’s head.

  Before she realized it, Astrid darted between them, pulling the ax from her belt with her first step and placing it against the fur trader’s neck. “Lower your fist,” she said calmly, not caring whether the man could understand her words.

  She had every faith that he understood the intention of a sharp blade, even when it belonged to the lowly head of an ax.

  CHAPTER 20

  Gershon stilled at the sharp touch of the iron blade against his neck and stared at the boy holding the ax handle.

  The boy stood no higher than Gershon’s shoulders, slender and with one sleeve of his shirt hanging loosely at his side. The boy’s hair was badly cut, looking like someone had chopped it off with an ax. Worse, scars criss-crossed his face and every inch of exposed skin. Whatever kind of fight had left such souvenirs had also cost the boy one of his arms. Gershon couldn’t help but wonder, How does a scarred cripple like that convince a woman to climb into his bed?

  Maybe that could explain the boy’s obvious anger.

  A fur trader from the Midlands, Gershon knew enough of the Northland languages to succeed in the marketplace. He dabbled in the language of every land in which he traveled. Unlike a gifted few, he had neither the ear nor the patience to become fluent in any language other than his own. Who needed more than a smattering of foreign words? Even now, he doubted he needed many words to educate this youngster.

  Gershon smiled as he raised one hand slowly to push the ax blade away from his neck.

  But the boy held the handle firm and fast. Fire blazed in his eyes. His voice became low and guttural and too fast for Gershon to understand.

  Gershon knew little about iron weapons. His big, meaty fists were the only weapons he needed. But Gershon knew enough to understand that with a sharp edge resting on his own neck, the boy had the physical advantage. Heaving a reluctant sigh, Gershon realized he’d have to reason with the child.

  Still smiling, Gershon pointed slowly and gently at the woman near his feet, her face now covered in blood. “She,” Gershon said in the foreign Northland tongue, “my wife.”

  The boy called out to the potential customers surrounding them on the wooden walkway, and this time Gershon understood when the boy said, “Help her.”

  But no one in the crowd moved. Why would they? Gershon had known many of these people for years. He had no conflict with them.

  He’s just a boy, Gershon reminded himself. He has yet to comprehend the way of the world. Perhaps his father is dead or incompetent.

  Gershon often met boys like this in his travels, and he was honored to give them the wisdom of a man. He would speak to them with great care, slowly and gently. After all, they would someday be his colleagues—over the years, many of these boys had grown up to become his best customers. At the same time, Gershon knew he provided a service to all people by doing his part to educate these wayward sons.

  The boy called out to the crowd again, but Gershon didn’t follow the words. Surprised, he watched Vinchi hurry to Margreet’s side.

  Gershon started at the grip of many strong hands on his own arms and shoulders. Stunned, he turned his head from side to side, blurting in his own language, “Why are you doing this to me?”

  Vinchi stood, holding Margreet’s limp body in his arms. “Because you nearly killed her this time,” he answered in Gershon’s language.

  “But she’s mine,” Gershon whispered. “Why is this any of your concern?” He watched in horror, startled by a tear that rolled down Vinchi’s face.

  “Some things,” Vinchi said, “are too beautiful to kill.” He then spoke to the boy in the Northlander language, and the boy nodded his agreement. Vinchi strode toward the plank of his own ship, still carrying Margreet in his arms.

  A wave of terror washed through Gershon. “No!” he called out, struggling in the arms of those who held him back. “You can’t steal from me! She is my greatest treasure!”

  The boy gained Gershon’s attention by pressing the sharp edge
harder against his neck, pricking his skin with it.

  Gershon started at the horrific sight of a young dragon poking its head out of the boy’s chest. Screaming, Gershon cried out, “Dragon!”

  The tiny thing spat at him, and Gershon thought he felt the dragon’s spit land on his neck where the boy’s ax had nicked him.

  The men holding him in place spun their heads to look for the dragon, but Gershon saw the boy tuck the tiny dragon back inside his body before they had a chance to see it.

  Gershon panted in fear. Just as his neighbors had warned him, the Northlands had become infested with monsters and sorcerers.

  And now a dreaded monster had infected him.

  The large man fainted, but he became vaguely aware of the clatter of footsteps along the plank leading to Vinchi’s ship.

  CHAPTER 21

  Damn him! Astrid thought. What do I have to do to get Starlight back from Vinchi? He should have given it back to me the moment I told him it belongs to me!

  Vinchi had haphazardly thrown his best weapons into a bag and raced on board ship. Astrid followed. She’d let Starlight get away from her once when Sigurthor had stolen it, and she’d never let that happen again. She’d demanded that Vinchi return Starlight to her, but he’d refused, repeating his claim that he’d come by it rightfully.

  And now he’d locked her below deck with the troublemaker who’d caused this mess while he sorted out his makeshift crew and set a course unknown to Astrid.

  Sitting on a wooden bench below the deck of the ship, she steadied herself while the ship rolled through the waves. Astrid felt queasy because she wasn’t on deck to watch the horizon and let her body gain its bearings. This long and narrow Northlander ship had been designed for sailing across oceans and rowing upon rivers. On the top deck, sailing felt like gliding, smooth and effortless. But down here, the ride seemed bumpy.