Racing With Dragons: The Mapmaker's Sons, Book 1

by V. L. Burgess

  Chapter Four

  THE BUTCHER OF

  BROMLEY MARKET

  Tom jerked awake with a gasp, his head throbbing. The events of the previous evening rushed back at him. For a moment, he was sure it had all been a fantastic dream. That the bells would sound at any second and a new day at Lost Academy would begin. Then his surroundings slowly penetrated his foggy thoughts. He was fully dressed, lying on a cot in a room he’d never seen before. A hut of some sort, with crude walls and a low ceiling. There were no windows in the room. The only source of light was provided by a small fire burning in an open hearth.

  Beside the hearth stood a solitary figure. A boy. Tom guessed him to be roughly his own age. He was the same height and shared the same lanky build as Tom, but that was where the similarity ended. The boy’s eyes were icy blue, a stark contrast to Tom’s deep brown gaze. His skin was shades lighter than Tom’s, and his blond hair grazed his shoulders, while Tom preferred to keep his dark chestnut hair closely cropped.

  “Finally. You’re awake,” the boy said. He moved away from the hearth and stood closer. “Took you long enough.”

  Took him long enough? How long had he been out? Tom gazed around the room, looking for clues to the time, but couldn’t find any.

  Wincing, he eased himself into a sitting position. His skull pounded. His spine felt as though it had been twisted into a pretzel and then straightened out again. His stomach burbled and gurgled. But all that aside, and somehow more importantly, he didn’t like the way this strange kid was standing over him, silently staring.

  So he ignored his aches and pains, swung his legs over the side of the cot and stood, bringing himself face-to-face with the stranger. While there was nothing particularly menacing about him, neither did the boy exude any warmth or welcome. Instead, a quiet tension ran through him as he studied Tom. Then, abruptly, the appraisal ended. The boy, having reached some sort of conclusion—a conclusion, Tom sensed, that was not favorable to him—let out a discouraged breath.

  “Change your clothing,” he said, indicating a small bundle that lay on the foot of the bed. “Meet me outside when you’re done.”

  “Wait.”

  The boy stopped. Turned around. “What?”

  “Where’s Umbrey?”

  “Gone.” He parted the heavy cloth that draped the doorway and left.

  Gone. Great. That was helpful. Tom scanned the hut’s interior, looking for clues as to where he might be. His attention was immediately drawn to a small table, upon which sat a pitcher of water. Tom reached for it and drank greedily. It helped a little. The drumming in his skull eased from heavy metal to soft rock.

  Then he spied the leather journal Professor Lost had given him. Remembering the professor’s insistence that he memorize every word, he picked it up and flipped through the slim volume, scanning page after page of the Lost’s spidery scrawl. The writing was interspersed with astronomical renderings, sketches of ancient ruins, geographic landmarks, improbable creatures. Interesting, but not immediately helpful. He tucked it into the waistband of his jeans to study later at greater length.

  Tom turned next to a piece of parchment mounted on the wall to his right. A crude knife thrust through the document pinned it to a rough beam, holding it aloft. As he drew closer, he saw that it was a map. But not the map Umbrey had shown him in Professor Lost’s office. This was a hasty affair, just scribbles really, but easily understood.

  The Five Kingdoms, the map’s heading read. Each had been plainly sketched and identified. Aquat, an island chain surrounded by raging seas. Incendia, a city ringed by fiery volcanoes. Sahra, a barren land of dry, wasted desert. Ventus, a snowy mountain range beset by frosty winds. And in the center of it all, the dark heart of the map, Divino, branded by a glowing red eye. It was there the knife had been thrust.

  The Beyond was merely a dark, shadowy suggestion of land bordering Divino on the map’s western end. A great, sprawling mass of unchartered territory. At least as depicted on this map. Tom remembered seeing a great deal more detail on the map that had been his father’s.

  He glanced around the stark room, but there was nothing more for him to see. Curiosity seized him. He stepped closer to the map. Lifted his hand and touched the parchment experimentally. Nothing happened. He remembered Umbrey’s words. Try harder. He drew in a deep breath. Concentrated. Then he repeated the motion, focusing intently as he waved his hand inches above the map’s surface.

  A harsh bark of laughter sounded behind him. Tom whirled around to find the blond boy watching him, one shoulder propped against the doorway. A cool smirk played about his lips as he arched a pale brow.

  “Wrong map.”

  Tom dropped his hand as heat flamed his cheeks. “I know.”

  “Yeah. Looked like it.”

  With a shake of his head, the boy brushed past him. He grabbed the knife by the hilt and pulled it from the wall, tucking the jagged blade into his belt. His eyes locked on Tom’s as the map fluttered to the floor between them. He turned without another word and left the room.

  Tom had met boys like him over the years. He’d never much liked them. The kind of kid who preyed on younger, weaker ones, and whose pranks always fell on the side of mean, rather than funny. He gave the bundle of clothing the boy had indicated earlier a cursory glance, shoved back the cloth door and stepped outside. His intention had been to storm after the boy and demand to see Umbrey. Figure things out. But the scene that greeted him froze him where he stood.

  The woods were gone. The Lost Academy was gone. In their place was an open air market of some sort, but one that looked like it might have taken place hundreds of years ago. Men and women bundled in ragged clothing shouted out their wares. Crowded stalls, braying donkeys, crude wooden carts, and tables scattered with goods filled the square. He saw cheeses wrapped in plain cloth, loaves of coarse bread, baskets of shriveled vegetables. Gutted fish and slaughtered fowl hung from sturdy stakes. A few of the vendor’s children played underfoot, their lips and fingers tinged blue with cold, while pigs rutted in the mud and stray dogs fought over rancid scraps.

  “What is this place?” he asked.

  “Bromley Market,” the boy replied. Tom’s shock must have shown on his face, for the blond boy regarded him curiously. “It’s different in your world—where you come from?”

  Tom gave a choked laugh. “A little bit. Unless you want to go backward a thousand years.”

  “Primitive, are we?” Anger tightened the boy’s features as his gaze swept over Tom. “You were supposed to change your clothes.”

  “Not until somebody tells me what’s going on.”

  “Not so loud!” The blond boy drew back into the shadows of the hut. He wore a heavy woolen cloak which covered him from his neck to mid-thigh. He pulled the hood up over his head, effectively hiding his face. “It’s very simple,” he said. “There is a map, which will lead us to a very important object.”

  “Hyster,” Tom interrupted. Though he had no idea who or what Hyster was, at least he knew something.

  “Yes. Hyster. Your assistance is required to reach it before Keegan does. Once we’ve accomplished that, you are free to return to your vastly superior world.”

  “And this place, this market, is part of—”

  “Divino.”

  Tom nodded, mentally placing himself on the map he'd seen inside the hut. “Okay. What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Who are you?”

  The boy flinched. Some fleeting, wounded expression raced through his pale eyes. The question obviously stung, though Tom had no idea why that would be. The boy quickly recovered, however. His expression hardened and his lip curled into a contemptuous sneer. “Porter,” he said.

  “I’m Tom. Tom Hawkins.”

  “Hawkins? What’s that?”

  “My name.”

  Porter looked at him for a long moment, then turned away. He picked up a rock and threw it at nothing. “No, it isn’t.”

  “I think I
know my own name.”

  Porter shook his head. “Your father was a cartographer. He made maps. That’s who you are, plain and simple. Tom, the mapmaker’s son.” Though his face was half-hidden by his hood, there was no mistaking the mocking smile that curved his lips. “Wait a minute. Let me guess. You prefer Tom, the Cherished One. Tom, Savior Of Us All. Tom, the Long Lost Son. How anxiously we’ve all awaited your arrival.”

  Tom studied him for a beat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Porter clipped out. “My mistake.”

  “Look, did I do something to offend you?’

  A mirthless smile touched Porter’s lips. “You mean, besides being born? No, I suppose not.”

  On that note, the blond boy pointedly fixed his gaze on the marketplace and Tom, more than willing to have their contentious conversation ended, did the same. But in the silence that followed, his thoughts were anything but quiet. Is it different in your world? Porter had asked. His world. Which meant what? He remembered the storm, and the dark portal through which he had passed, but little else. Where was he, exactly, and where had Umbrey gone?

  He surveyed the scene before him. Bromley Market, Porter had called it. A grim, dirty place. Smelly, too. Like a barn after the cows had left. Tom scanned the crowd, looking for someone, anyone, he might be able to connect to the Lost Academy and a way home. He couldn’t find a single familiar face. After a few minutes of watching the comings and goings, however, he found his gaze repeatedly drawn to a particular person. A child. A young thief, by the look of him. He was no older than ten, Tom guessed, dressed in rags, his tattered clothing wholly inadequate against the icy slush and bitter wind.

  The boy stood alone in the center of the market, his eyes darting to and fro, his fingers twitching. His entire being radiated hunger and desperation. The longer he waited, building his courage, the more attention he drew to himself. He’d not only drawn Tom’s notice, but that of several shopkeepers as well. It was only a matter of time until he was caught.

  “Leave it,” Porter said. “The boy’s of no consequence to us.”

  Tom turned, unaware he’d been so obvious. “What will happen to him?”

  Porter shrugged. “He’ll be beaten and he’ll learn.”

  “Being beaten will teach him not to steal?”

  “No. It will teach him to be a better thief.”

  It was a cruel joke, but obviously he was joking—wasn’t he? But Tom saw no signs of humor in Porter’s face as he gave a resigned sigh and pushed off the wall. “We can’t stay here any longer, it’s too dangerous.”

  “Who are we waiting for? Umbrey?”

  “No.” Porter turned away from the market, shielding his face with his hood. “He and his men are gathering supplies.”

  “Then what—”

  “A man was to meet me here with three Letters of Passage. Forgeries, naturally, but good forgeries. Good enough to get us through the city gates and past Keegan’s guard.” He scanned the crowds, his fingers drumming impatiently against his side. “He and his wife run a stall near the east end of the market. I’ll find him.” He moved to go, then turned back, sending Tom a stern glare. “Wait for me here. Do nothing to draw attention to yourself. And if you’ve any brains at all, you’ll change your clothes. That knitted shirt looks like women’s clothing.”

  Tom scowled at him in response, but the effort was wasted. Porter strode away without a backward glance.

  An icy wind whipped across the square. Soon Tom’s teeth were chattering. He wore a black hooded sweatshirt—the one with the logo of his favorite snowboard company—but it did little to block the wind. He thought of the warm woolen cloak, a twin to the one Porter wore, left lying on the foot of the bed and silently debated the merits of freezing to death versus putting aside his pride and slipping it on.

  Just as he turned to duck inside and grab it, a high-pitched shriek tore through the market square. The boy, Tom thought instinctively. A quick glance confirmed it.

  “Thought you could take from me, did you? I’ll show you what thieves get from me!” An enormous man in a bloodied apron clutched a braid of sausages in one fist, the boy’s skinny arm in the other. “You saw it!” the butcher cried to the square at large. “I caught him plain as day!” He lifted the terrified boy off the ground and shook him hard. “I’ll show him what we do to thieves around here!”

  He drew back a beefy fist to deliver a blow that would surely loosen the boy’s teeth, if not snap his neck.

  “No!” the boy screamed.

  Tom moved without conscious thought. He grabbed a fistful of moldy tomatoes from a nearby vendor’s stall and sent them flying. The first two tomatoes splattered the butcher’s apron front, the third struck him beneath his ear. Sticky red pulp matted his beard and ran down the side of his neck. The butcher staggered backward, blinking in stunned surprise. He shook his head as though to clear it. Then his gaze slowly traveled the marketplace, trying to make sense of what had happened.

  Meeting the butcher’s stare with a cool grin, Tom calmly tossed a tomato up and down in his palm. The butcher let out a bellow of outrage and shoved the boy aside, just as Tom had intended, and lurched toward him. Tom held his ground, not moving until the stench of the butcher’s fouled and bloody apron was upon him. Then, twisting sideways and down, he ducked under the butcher’s arm, tugging the sausage links free as he sprinted away.

  “Boy!” Tom shouted.

  The young thief, running from the butcher as quickly as his legs could carry him, skidded to a stop and turned.

  Tom tossed him the sausages. The boy’s dirty face lit up in a dazzling smile. He caught the links and fled, disappearing into the crowded square.

  Satisfied the boy was safe, Tom dodged lightly between the vendor stalls. Behind him he heard the butcher’s heavy breath and rank curses as he fought to keep pace. Just as Tom had suspected. While the man might be the size of an NFL linebacker, he moved with the grace of a hippopotamus stuck in mud, knocking over carts and tables as he ran, his fury increasing with each oafish misstep. The distance between them grew.

  Tom’s intent had been neither heroic nor complicated. He’d reacted to the boy’s plight the way he did to most situations: impulsively, instinctively. All he’d wanted to do was prevent the butcher from snapping the boy’s neck. After that, the boy was on his own. As for himself, Tom figured he’d sprint through the crowded market, then snake back around and hide in the hut until Umbrey or Porter returned. With any luck, they wouldn’t even know he’d been gone.

  But luck has a peculiar habit of rewarding those who don’t depend on it, and Tom had apparently pushed his too far. He raced toward a narrow alleyway that looked as though it might offer an escape. He realized his mistake a second too late. A dead end.

  He whirled around. The butcher lumbered to a stop behind him, breathing hard. His broad shoulders nearly filled the alley’s entrance. Dark fury gleamed in his eyes and tomato pulp dripped from his chin. Taking his time, the man carefully rolled up his sleeves, cracked his knuckles, and strode toward Tom.

  Chapter Five

  NARROW ESCAPE

  Tom frantically scanned the ground. No shield, no stick, no rock. No weapon of any kind. So much for Lost’s assurance that he would survive by using his brains. He swallowed hard and balled his hands into fists, knowing even as he did so that his puny attempt at self-defense was ridiculous. The outcome was predetermined. It was a classic two hit fight: the butcher hitting him, and Tom hitting the ground.

  At least he’d go down swinging, he thought, when the thunder of hoof beats echoed around them. Tom jerked his gaze toward the alley entrance. The butcher wheeled around as well, but he was too late. Porter was already upon him. Racing at a full gallop, his body tucked low against his mount’s neck, he brought up his leg and drove his knee into the big man’s chest.

  The butcher’s legs shot out from under him. He hung fully horizontal for a moment, suspended in mid-air like a wh
ale breaching the sea, then slammed the ground hard, landing flat on his back. The air rushed out of his lungs with a loud, almost comical, “Oomph!”

  Porter pulled his mount around and leaned over the saddle, stretching out his arm to Tom. “Get on!” he shouted. “Now!”

  Tom, who’d never been near a horse before, let alone atop one, hesitated, but only for a second. He grabbed Porter’s arm and pulled himself up, clumsily straddling the horse’s rump. Porter drove his heels into the animal’s flanks. Tom bit back a startled yelp as the horse reared. The animal’s front hooves slashed the air, then the horse surged forward, racing through the busy marketplace, flying over tables and nearly trampling crowds. Shouts and curses followed in their wake but Porter paid the townspeople no mind, urging his horse through the crowd at a furious, frantic pace.

  Porter raced his mount to a section of town that was even more squalid than the marketplace itself. He reined the horse to a stop before a two-story building, one in a row of dilapidated buildings, each in a worse state of disrepair than its neighbor. Porter swung off the saddle, leaving Tom to ease himself off the horse’s rump.

  Tom breathed a sigh of relief as his feet found the ground. He looked around. A wharf district of some sort, he guessed. Though he saw no ships or sails, the heavy tang of saltwater hung in the air. He reluctantly returned his attention to Porter. While his initial reaction to the blond boy had been one of thorough dislike, some acknowledgment of the fact that he’d saved him from a beating seemed in order.

  “Um, thanks,” he began, but his words went unheeded.

  “Keegan’s men saw me,” Porter bit out. He reached for his knife, then a look of stark panic overtook his features. His knife was no longer there—slipped from his belt, Tom guessed, during their wild ride through the streets.

  Porter let out a vivid oath. His fingers fumbled frantically with the leather straps that secured his saddlebags. Holding himself rigid with tension, his gaze whipped back and forth between the bags and the street as he tugged at the narrow bands of leather. But the knots, having tightened in the cold, were as stiff and unyielding as tiny stones.