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

by V. L. Burgess

  Tom hung back, watching in uncertainty. “Uh, can I help?”

  “A blade! Quickly! Something to cut the straps!”

  “Sorry. We aren’t allowed to carry knives at sch—”

  Porter raised a hand, cutting off Tom’s words. He cocked his head, listening intently. Tom heard it as well. Distant shouts, followed by the thunder of boots, the heavy rhythm of an army marching at a run. The sound drew closer. Tom could almost feel the vibration of boots shaking the ground.

  “What’s going on?” he said.

  Ignoring him, Porter fumbled one last, desperate time with the saddle bags. Finally the futility of his efforts seemed to register. Shoving Tom aside, he wheeled his mount around. He whipped off his cloak and tied it to the saddle horn, slapped the beast hard against his flanks. The horse took off in a full gallop, racing back in the direction from which they’d come. It shot down the narrow street, the cloak flying in the wind like a rider hunched down low.

  The ruse seemed to work. A shout sounded from somewhere to Tom’s left. “There! After him!”

  A flash of black caught Tom’s attention as a man sped past them, roughly a block away. He wore a long cape, a sinister red eye clasped at the left shoulder. Just like the two men he’d seen in the bell tower had worn. The Watch. But this time there weren’t just two of them. Now there were dozens, swarming through the streets in a vicious horde. Tom jumped backward, pressing himself against the wall to avoid being seen.

  Porter had a different idea. He jerked open an alley door, shoved Tom through, then ducked in behind him. Tom found himself in a dark, cellar-like room, pinned against an interior wall. “What the—” he began, but Porter’s hand clamped against his mouth to muffle his protest, while his other hand pressed against his chest to hold him still.

  Harsh echoes reverberated through the wall: heavy boots and loud shouts, the smashing of bins and other street debris. Tom moved to push him off, but Porter wouldn’t allow it. He held him still, his ear cocked to the sounds without, waiting until silence once again filled the street. Finally, he released him.

  Tom wiped the taste of the boy’s hand from his mouth. Before he could utter a word, however, Porter shot him a look of blistering contempt and shoved past him. He stormed across the room to a steep flight of wooden stairs and began climbing.

  Left with no choice, Tom followed. He took the stairs two at a time and entered a vast, empty storeroom. The space reeked of animals, straw, and sweat. Nothing of note but a few empty crates and broken barrels. An enormous plate of splintered glass filtered grimy sunlight into the room. The remaining walls and floors were constructed of crudely cut pine, full of knots and holes. A maze of thick ropes and rusted pulleys dangled from overhead beams. A shipping warehouse of some sort, he guessed. Movement in one corner caught his eye. Rats, each larger than his foot, swarmed a sack of spilled grain.

  Umbrey rounded a partition and strode into the center of the room, his peg leg sounding a steady beat against the wooden floor. Trailing behind him was a crew of the roughest looking men Tom had ever seen. Unlike Umbrey, who dressed in what Tom thought was probably all the rage in pirate finery—a white ruffled shirt, burgundy velvet knee breeches, and a black frock coat—his men were hulking and unshaven, scarred and tattooed, their clothing caked in filth. Crude knives, chains, and assorted sinister-looking weapons were tucked into their belts. Despite their rough appearance, there was an unmistakable air of loyalty about them as they followed Umbrey, stationing themselves in a loose semi-circle around their leader.

  Umbrey smiled broadly. “Thomas! Porter! Excellent. You’ve arrived. I trust you two have had a chance to get acquainted.”

  “Acquainted? With him?” Porter released a disgusted breath and shook his head. He paced back and forth, as though unable to contain the fury pulsing through him. “Do you have any idea what this idiot has done?”

  Tom plucked the word idiot from that sentence. “Hey! Wait a minute!”

  While Umbrey pursued a different track. “Done? What do you mean, done? What are you talking about?”

  “My saddle bags are gone! Because of him! We’ve lost everything—Keegan’s compass, our Letters of Passage, my charts and supplies. Gone, all of it!” He rounded on Tom, his pale eyes shooting sparks. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear enough. Do the words ‘Stay here. Do nothing to call attention to yourself,’ have no meaning in your world?”

  “What was I supposed to do?” Tom shot back. “Watch the boy’s neck get snapped because you wanted me to be quiet?”

  “That wasn’t your choice to make! Now you’ve ruined everything! And for what?”

  “For what? I saved his life.”

  “Ha! A scrawny, nameless child no one even cares enough about to properly feed or clothe.”

  “Maybe you were too afraid to do anything to help, but I wasn’t.”

  Porter jerked around as though slapped. A small, cold smile touched his lips. “Did you just call me a coward?”

  “Tom. Porter,” Umbrey warned, his voice a gravelly growl, “don’t.”

  The warning went unheeded. Porter launched himself across the room and hit Tom in a flying tackle, knocking him to the ground. While Tom hadn’t been looking for a fight, neither did he intend to avoid it. They rolled around together on the rough pine floor, scuffling and grunting, trading blows.

  Suddenly Tom felt himself jerked up by his collar and bodily lifted. He watched as one of Umbrey’s men yanked Porter off the floor as well. Breathing hard, they sized each other up. As Tom noted with satisfaction the swelling above Porter’s left eye, he felt something drip down his chin. Blood. He wiped it off and realized his lower lip had been split.

  Umbrey stepped between them and bellowed. “Have you lost your minds?! I have to separate the two of you like rabid dogs? Is this the way brothers are supposed to behave? In here brawling while The Watch is out there storming the streets, terrorizing one and all? The shame of it. You think it’s not enough that we have a real enemy to face?”

  An alarm sounded in Tom’s brain, like the clamor of a distant bell. He heard Umbrey’s words but their meaning somehow remained just beyond his grasp. He shoved off the grip of the man holding him. Shook his head as though to clear it.

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. What?”

  “It can’t be.” Porter glared at Umbrey. “Not him. You must have made a mistake.”

  “There’s no mistake. I saw him the night he was born. Same eyes, same mouth, same stubborn chin. I’d know him anywhere.”

  “That’s it? You brought him here based on the way you remember a newborn babe to look?”

  “You know better than that, Porter. You think we’d send a defenseless babe into another world without anyone knowing where to find him?” Porter opened his mouth, but Umbrey held up his hand to forestall his next words. “I saw him unlock the map. Just as you can. He’s your brother all right.”

  Porter’s eyes searched the floor. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “Years we’ve wasted,” he choked out, “waiting for him to come, to save us all, to what end?” He shook his head, a muscle working spasmodically in his jaw. “He’s worse than worthless. I’d be better off alone. I’d have been out of the city by now, not trapped here with no Letters of Passage, no compass. I don’t need him. All I need is the map.”

  “It doesn’t work like that and you know it, lad. The only way is for the two of you to work together.”

  Porter released a disgusted breath. “Then we are doomed.”

  “My brother?” Tom finally managed to find his voice. “I have a brother? Him?”

  Surprise registered on Porter’s features. He looked at Tom, then at Umbrey. “He knows nothing? Truly?”

  “What is this?” Tom said. Umbrey’s man moved to hold him back again but Tom ducked away, coming to stand before Umbrey. “You told me I was the key to unlocking the map—to finding some stupid Hyster, whatever that is—to stopping this Keegan guy. You didn’t say anything about him.”

/>   Umbrey shot a glance out the large glass window that overlooked the street. “It’s a very interesting story. And you’ll hear it, I promise. All in good time. But first we have to move. Before The Watch returns. So best we get a move on—”

  “No.”

  Tom’s throat tightened, his pulse pounded in his ears. He felt something deep and heavy shift within him. The countless nights he’d spent prowling the rooftops at the Lost Academy rushed back at him. Looking. Searching for something he couldn’t even name. For years he’d battled a longing he’d never understood, as though he were missing some vital piece of himself. He’d been happy enough, he supposed, but vaguely adrift, as though there were something else, somewhere else, waiting just out of his reach. . . .

  “I’m not going anywhere. Not until I know who I am. Who he is. Why you brought me here.”

  “We haven’t time for this,” Porter bit out.

  “No, Porter,” Umbrey sighed. “Your brother’s right. He should know how this all came to be.” He cast another glance out the window, thinking. With a flick of his wrist, he dismissed his men. “Go below and get the provisions ready. Bring the horses around. We leave shortly.”

  Once they were alone—just Umbrey, Tom, and Porter—Umbrey propped one hip atop an empty barrel and stretched out his peg leg before him. “All right then, lad. I’ll tell you the tale. It’s not a pretty tale, or a happy one, but I swear on my life every word of it is true.” He scratched the gray stubble on his chin and looked at Tom. “You were born,” he began, “on a dark and stormy night . . .”

  Chapter Six

  BYE-BYE, BABY

  It was a storm the likes of which the world had never been seen before, and might never see again. The wind howling through trees like a pack of angry wolves set loose upon the land, lightning slashing the sky, rain and sleet pouring down in sheets. Amidst that din and wail, a shepherd called Garth was awakened in the dark hours before dawn to the excited bleating of his sheep. Frightened by the storm’s fury, no doubt.

  He shook the sleep from his head and shrugged off his blankets. Groping in the dark for his garments, he drew his heaviest cloak about him, laced his boots, and tugged on his cap. He staggered half-asleep to the door and pulled it open, steeling himself for a blast of frigid, wet air.

  However the shock that awaited him was not the storm, but the sight of what had actually roused his sheep: the unexpected arrival of a coach and horses. Thieves, he thought, reaching instinctively for a wooden staff to defend himself. But the silent accusation was discarded before it had fully formed. Even in the driving rain it was evident that the coach was richly-appointed, the horses groomed and well-fed.

  The realization that he wasn’t dealing with thieves brought Garth little comfort. Assuredly it was a bad omen. Only thieves and devils were about on a night like this. If they weren’t one, they must be the other. One thing was certain: no good ever came from strangers who arrived after midnight.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, drawing himself up to his full height. “What business have you here?”

  His attempt at intimidation failed. His questions were ignored as the group moved with a unified purpose, unmindful of his presence.

  “Inside! Quickly!”

  Garth’s gaze shot to the man who had spoken. Tall, dressed in an expensive cloak, it was clear by his tone he was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. One of the men in the coach handed down what looked like a large, awkward bundle of blankets, which the tall man gingerly took into his arms. It wasn’t until he swept wordlessly into Garth's home that Garth was able to glimpse the pale, drawn face of a young woman within the bundle. A low moan of pain escaped her lips.

  “What . . . Is she ill?”

  His question went unanswered once again. The tall man hesitated for only an instant, gaining his bearings, and then laid the woman on Garth’s own bed, smoothing the blankets that enveloped her over Garth’s mattress of coarse straw. He bent low and soothed her brow, murmuring soft assurances. The woman gave another moan, but Garth no longer needed to ask what ailed her. Now that the blankets enveloping her had fallen aside, her condition was obvious. The woman’s belly was as full and round as a harvest moon.

  Another woman—a midwife, Garth assumed—trailed after her. She was a hearty, big-boned woman with a plain face and no-nonsense manner. Spying a low stool near the hearth, she drew it bedside and settled herself upon it. She rolled up her sleeves to reveal strong arms and broad, capable-looking hands. Pressing them against the young woman’s flesh, she silently traversed the swollen belly, absorbed in her task. Nodding, she gave a soft grunt of approval.

  “Soon,” she said. “The babes are fine. Healthy and strong.”

  The tall man nodded at the midwife’s assurances, but none of the tension left his face. As though noticing Garth for the first time, he offered a stiff bow. “My apologies for disturbing you,” he said. His accent spoke of wealth and education. His gaze swept the room. “You’re alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  An odd question, an even odder response. There was no time to consider it, however, for his attention was drawn back to the bed. The pregnant woman, whose breath had been coming in short, shallow gasps, suddenly released a sharp cry of pain.

  The midwife turned to Garth and began issuing orders. “More blankets if you have them, else soft cloth and towels. The finest knife you own. I’ll need water and soap. A shallow bucket. A cup and ale.”

  Garth moved at once to gather the requested items and deposited them on the bedside table. That accomplished, he stood back awkwardly awaiting her next order. But the midwife was oblivious to all but the young woman and her labor. Uncertain what to do next, Garth bent to stack the kindling. He could at least offer the comfort of a fire.

  The nobleman guessed his intention. His deep voice cut across the room. “No fire. No lamps or candles. Leave it.”

  Garth hesitated.

  His gaze moved to the three men who had filed in behind the woman and her husband. They were stationed at the windows with their backs to the bed. Garth had assumed they stood thus to give the lady a measure of privacy, but a new awareness dawned on him. He studied the tension on the nobleman’s face, tension that went beyond his wife’s labors, and suddenly understood. The group was on the run. As the minutes passed and the woman’s agony produced no results, fear seeped into the room like an unwelcome contagion.

  The midwife waited for the woman’s latest spasm to pass, then mixed the ale Garth had brought with powdery herbs. She brought a cup to the young woman’s lips. “This will ease the pain,” she said. “Take as much as you can. It will be over soon.”

  The woman choked the liquid down. Within minutes another spasm seized her. She was given her husband’s lambskin glove to clench between her teeth. Whether it was meant to stifle her cries or offer some small comfort, Garth couldn’t say. As her pains drew closer together, Garth felt more and more an intruder in his own home. He mumbled something about checking on his livestock, but the excuse was unnecessary. No one paid him any mind as he slipped out of the room.

  Once outside, the wind drove icy rain into his cheeks like a volley of stinging nettles. He found the nobleman’s team still hitched to his coach, forgotten by the man’s attendants in their rush to get inside. Glad for the chore to occupy his attention, he unhitched the team. Taking their bridles, he walked them into the shelter of his livestock pen, supplied them with food and water, brushed them down and draped each with a blanket to ward off the chill.

  The task was barely accomplished when a small cry tore through the night. The wail of a newborn babe. Within minutes the sound was followed by a second wail, which joined the plaintive cry of its elder sibling. The midwife’s words, insignificant at the time, came back to Garth now. The babes are fine. Babes. Twins. He listened, hearing the midwife’s triumphant laughter, low murmurs of congratulations and praise. A small smile touched his lips. The birth had gone well.

  To
o cold to remain in the livestock pen any longer, Garth returned inside. His eyes moved automatically to his bed, where he found the young woman propped in a sitting position, two swaddled infants in her arms. She looked pale and exhausted, yet a glow of contentment seemed to soften the air around her.

  He nodded at the nobleman. “My congratulations, Sire. All’s well?”

  The nobleman hesitated for a moment, then, after a glance at his wife, forced a tight smile. He took his wife’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Yes. Two fine sons.”

  “Sons, is it? Well done indeed, then!”

  But his was the only voice that seemed merry. Quiet tension filled the room, despite the fact that the woman had been delivered of her sons. Garth had expected some celebration, however small. Puzzled at the absence of merriment, he stepped forward. Admittedly, he knew more of birthing lambs than he did infants, but he judged the babes healthy enough. One child was fair, pale skinned, with a small tuft of white downy hair sprouting from the top of his skull. The other boy was darker, his hair a deep chestnut. Funny thing, that. Two babes born from the same mother…Both male…One light, one dark…

  His thoughts skidded to a sudden stop, colliding with a wisp of a memory, a recollection so faint as to almost be forgotten. A rumor he’d heard a year or two ago in a tavern near Langshire. He hadn’t believed it to be true. He hadn’t dared believe…

  “Sire! Horses!”

  The nobleman rushed to the window. “How many?”

  “Keegan never travels with a company of less than twelve.”

  Keegan. Here. Shock and icy dread coursed through Garth in equal measure.

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Minutes—perhaps less.”

  The nobleman returned to his wife’s bed, pain and regret etched on his handsome features. “I’m sorry, Helene.”