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

by V. L. Burgess

  The motion carried them both into the middle of the melee between Porter and Gunter’s goons. From that point forward it was no longer a one-on-one fight, or even a two-on-one fight, but a free for all. Which was a problem. As a rule, Tom wasn’t a fighter. Didn’t need to be. He and his friends were mostly live and let live types. He avoided those who bullied, teased, tripped, or just generally found ways to make other kids miserable. He didn’t need the drama, and didn’t much like that type of person anyway.

  But someone coming at him with a dagger was a whole different story. That wasn’t fighting. That was survival. Armed with nothing but adrenaline, Tom punched, kicked, stomped, bit. He rolled to avoid the slash of a blade, then dove back in. Porter tossed him a branch of some sort. Tom didn’t stop to wonder where it came from. He simply grabbed it with both hands and swung hard and wide, wielding it like a baseball bat.

  He got lucky.

  It connected with the skull of one of Gunter’s goons, producing the same satisfying crack heard in ballfields everywhere when a pitch was knocked out of the park. The man’s eyes rolled skyward and he dropped forward, out cold.

  Not slowing, Tom swung again. This time he hit the other goon, knocking the machete from his hand and very likely snapping the man’s wrist in the process. Porter finished him off with an uppercut to the jaw that left him as unconscious as his fellow thug.

  Breathing hard, they reeled around to attack again. Unfortunately, Gunter moved first. He grabbed Porter from behind, wrenched his right arm up behind him and thrust his dagger against Porter’s throat, holding the tip of the blade just beneath his ear. Using Porter as a shield, he faced Tom.

  “Unless you want your brother dead, hand over that map.”

  “Don’t,” Porter bit out. “Don’t do it, Tom.”

  Gunter twisted his arm higher. “Shut up.”

  Porter winced in pain. “Run, Tom. Take the map and run. Get out of here!”

  Gunter pressed the tip of the blade into Porter’s skin. A drop of blood trickled down his throat. “One more word out of you and I’ll—”

  “No!” Tom shouted. “You can have it! You can have the map!”

  He reached into his cloak and felt for the map. Miraculously it hadn’t come loose during the tussle. He held it in his fist, showing it to Gunter. “It’s all yours. You hear me? Let Porter go and you can have it.”

  Anguish showed on Porter’s face. “Tom, don’t do it!”

  Tom ignored him. His eyes remained fastened on Gunter. “Let him go and it’s yours.”

  Gunter’s eyes shone with greed. His fingers twitched on the dagger’s grip. “I reckon we’ll do it the other way. Hand over the map first, then I’ll release your brother.”

  Maybe he would, Tom thought. Maybe he wouldn’t. More than likely, once he got his hands on the map, he’d kill them both. Before he could find a solution to their stalemate, a movement behind Gunter caught Tom’s attention.

  Earlier, Tom had noted pockets of deep green in the swamp. Places so dark he’d thought them alligator black. Turns out, he wasn’t far off. One of those places happened to be just a few feet behind Gunter. As Tom watched, the deep greenish-black shape began to writhe and move, resolving itself as not one alligator, but a huge, nasty pit of them. Climbing over each other, the gators snapped their jaws and slashed their tails. Sniffed the air. Swung around as their beady eyes locked on Gunter.

  “Move!” Tom shouted. “Now! Get away from there!”

  Gunter smirked. “You think I’m gonna fall for a trick like—”

  Tom hurled the map as close to the gator pit as he could throw it.

  Gunter swore, shoved Porter away, and dove for the map. Porter moved to go after it as well, but Tom tackled him, knocking him down and rolling in the opposite direction. Ignoring Porter’s protests, he pinned him there as Gunter scooped up the map. Once Gunter had it in his grasp, he waved the parchment in the air, sending Tom a cocky, tobacco-stained smile.

  “Ha! Thought you could pull one over on ol’ Gunter, did you boy? Can’t trick me. Look who’s got the map now!”

  Gunter’s last words. The gators swarmed him from behind. Likely he didn’t know what hit him until the first gator sunk his jaw into his calf. They attacked as a group—too many to count. A writhing, hissing, chomping mass of razor-sharp teeth and claws. They knocked Gunter down and dragged him into their murky lair. Gunter desperately clawed the earth to slow his descent into the pit, but it didn’t work. Neither could Tom nor Porter help him. The gators were too strong and there were too many.

  Gunter’s legs disappeared under the murky water. Then his chest and shoulders. His head. All that remained of him, thrust up from the black depths of the gator pit, was his fist. In which he gripped the rolled parchment. It sunk slowly into the pit, disappearing inch by awful inch.

  “The map!” Porter cried.

  He moved as though to wade in and grab it, but stopped. Impossible, and they both knew it. He would only provide the gators their next meal.

  Porter wheeled around to Tom, unleashing his fury on him. “Now what are we supposed to—”

  A rope flew over their heads. The end, which had been tied in a lasso, snagged the tip of the map and plucked it from Gunter’s grasp. A quick jerk and the ancient parchment was free. It sailed through the sky, coming to rest in Willa’s hand.

  “I warned you the swamp was dangerous.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE GREAT DISMAL

  SWAMP

  Tom and Porter stared at Willa, their mouths agape.

  She stood with the map dripping from her hand, Smudge at her side.

  Tom sputtered, “But how did you know—”

  “Idiots,” she said. “Heading into the swamp with Gunter, of all people.”

  “He told us he was a trapper. That he’d guide us through.”

  “A trapper.” She snorted. “Likely he didn’t tell you his favorite things to trap are fools who believe they can make a fortune selling rare pelts in Divino. He robs them blind, then abandons them in the swamp to die. Some guide.”

  Smudge said, “When I saw Gunter’s friends track you into the swamp, I went and told Willa you were in trouble.”

  Porter and Tom exchanged a sheepish glance. Willa tucked her rope away, then moved toward them. She passed Porter the map without a word. He opened it and anxiously surveyed the parchment for damage. Other than a thick coating of sludge from the gator pit, it appeared intact. He wiped the muck from the surface, smearing the ink in the process, but that couldn’t be helped.

  Tom looked at Willa. “Thank you.”

  “You can keep your thanks. I don’t want it. I want your coin. Double whatever you agreed to pay Gunter.”

  “But—” Porter said.

  “Not just me. Smudge is coming along, so you’ll pay him as well.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. What would you have me do? Leave the boy alone to defend against The Watch when they come after you? Likely they’re already on their way. No. I won’t have it.” Willa brought up her chin and folded her arms across her chest. “Those are my terms. Anything less and you’ll go it alone.”

  Porter hesitated. As his eyes flicked to the gator pit, Tom understood. The coin he’d paid Gunter was still in Gunter’s pocket—or more likely now, in the belly of some gator. In addition, he’d bought clothing for Tom. Clothing Tom had neglected to wear, but an expense nonetheless. He’d paid for the forged Letters of Passage. He’d paid Old Man Raynard for the ride in the goat cart. Bottom line, the pouch his brother carried was nearly empty.

  That didn’t stop Porter from flinging a guilty glance at Tom and saying, “Agreed.”

  A cheat, but what choice did they have? They had to get moving. Gunter’s men were still unconscious, but they wouldn’t stay that way for long. Porter dug into his pouch, likely emptying it in the process, and passed Willa a handful of coins. “A quarter now, a quarter when we find Hyster, the balance paid when we return.”

>   Willa frowned, but ultimately agreed to the deal and turned her attention to distributing cloth packs in which she’d put supplies. Tom and Porter carried the heaviest packs. Theirs held essential provisions like water, blankets, tools, rope, and knives. Willa carried food. Smudge brought herbs and assorted first aid supplies. The map was rolled in a buttery-soft animal skin to protect it; Tom wore it slung across his chest bow-and-arrow style.

  As they finished, an enormous gator crept from the pit. It gave a loud belch, opened its mouth and issued a long stream of dark brown tobacco juice. The gator licked its jaw and waddled away, leaving tobacco slime to dribble down the face of a nearby rock.

  Willa shuddered. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

  They showed Willa and Smudge where they needed to go and set a course to get there, once again trudging through the swamp. While everything around them retained a hazy sameness to Tom, Smudge was more discerning. He scanned the ground as they walked, stopping every so often to prod certain plants for a brittle, pod-like bulb. Upon finding it, he snapped off the bulbs and emptied them into a small leather pouch.

  “There’s not many left this time of year, are there?” he said to Willa. His brow creased with worry.

  “I told you we don’t have time to waste looking for herbs,” Porter snapped.

  Willa ignored him. “Keep looking,” she said to Smudge.

  “I am, I am.” Smudge bent to look at another plant, frowned at its unsuitability for his purpose, and moved on.

  After a few minutes, “Willa!” Smudge called. “Over here!”

  She moved to survey the tree Smudge indicated. It looked to Tom like some sort of exotic palm. Craning back his neck, he scanned upward and saw a cluster of what appeared to be coconuts clinging to the uppermost branch.

  “Well done,” Willa said, draping her arm over Smudge’s shoulder. “Just what we need.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Porter protested. “It’ll take forever for you to climb that tree. At this rate, we’ll never find Hyster before dark.”

  “Who said anything about climbing?”

  She removed the rope from her pack, along with a set of forged iron weights, which she secured to the end. “Step back,” she said. Once they’d obeyed, she eyed the coconuts, then swung the rope in a tight circle, building up speed. With a flick of her wrist she released the rope, sending the weighted end soaring skyward. It snagged the uppermost branch with unerring precision. A quick tug and the coconuts broke loose, tumbling to land at her feet.

  Tom looked at her. “How’d you get so good with a rope?”

  She shrugged. “I never climb. I’m terrified of heights.”

  Porter shifted impatiently. “Look, well done and all. But can’t you collect your herbs and such after you get us to the lake?”

  “These aren’t to sell. They’re for the dogs.”

  Porter frowned. “What dogs?”

  “I like dogs,” Tom said with a shrug. He’d only known one, but he’d liked her all the same. A chubby yellow lab named Bubbles who belonged to the school groundskeeper. A sweet creature with soft brown eyes, floppy ears, and wagging tail.

  “You won’t like these,” Willa said. “They roam the swamp in packs. Great, hulking, ugly beasts. They’ll rip your throat out faster than you can say ‘spit’.” She took Smudge’s bag from him and peered inside, frowning.

  Smudge made a face. “That’s all I could find.”

  “Then I suppose it will have to do. A little is better than none at all.”

  She glanced around the swamp. Apparently satisfied they were in no imminent danger, she shrugged off her pack and set it atop a tangled web of roots thick enough to serve as a table. The aroma of the food she carried drifted through the air. Tom’s stomach growled. The meal of sausage and eggs they’d eaten before venturing into the swamp was a distant memory.

  Porter seemed to be of the same mind. “We should eat,” he said.

  Willa reached for Smudge’s pouch and used her pestle to crush the pods contained within. Next she cracked open the coconuts and poured the liquid center into the pouch. Stirred it around a bit. Immediately a bitter stench rose from the sack, a stench so foul Tom’s stomach twisted and he swallowed hard to keep down his breakfast.

  She lifted the pestle. Great globs the color and consistency of snot dripped from the end.

  Porter gagged and turned away. He jerked his head toward Tom. “If that’s our meal, he can have my share.”

  “Thanks,” Tom choked out, waving the stench away. “I’ll pass.”

  Willa shook her head. “I told you, it’s not for us. It’s for the dogs.”

  “They’ll actually eat that?” Tom asked.

  “No. But it’ll disguise our scent long enough to keep them from eating us. I’m told it usually works very well.”

  Tom looked from Porter to Smudge. “Is anyone else bothered by the word ‘usually’ in that sentence?”

  Willa’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to die because some dog scents fresh blood on you and tracks us down.” She thrust the pouch at him. “Mask your scent and be quick about it.”

  Tom was stiff and sore. And if he looked anything like his brother, he was scratched, bruised, and bleeding all over. But if he could end the day without being eaten by a dog, he would. So he took the pouch. He and Porter each took a handful of the repulsive mixture and smeared it over themselves. Willa and Smudge did the same. It stung as bad as it smelled. Since no one else was complaining, neither did he.

  The unpleasant task complete, they wolfed down their food—a simple meal of cider, hard biscuits, and dry cheese—then trudged deeper into the swamp. After a few minutes, Tom couldn’t smell the mixture at all. Neither could he smell the swamp; which meant, he supposed, the vile stuff was working.

  The deeper they moved into the swamp, the warmer it became. Mist rose from the ground. Water clung to his skin and clothing like a fine sheen of perspiration.

  The tree roots Tom had stumbled over when they’d first set out grew larger as they moved deeper into the swamp. Now the roots rose out of the mud like twisted, earthen cages, nearly as large as a compact car, while the trees themselves towered above them. Increasingly they found their way blocked, forcing them to scale over the root structures in order to keep moving forward.

  Smudge prattled on as they walked, telling stories of the times he’d spent in the woods with his father. Tom pretended to listen, which was more than either Willa or Porter were doing. Willa was intent on scanning the swamp for signs impending peril, while Porter seemed content to keep his thoughts to himself. Neither spoke, leaving the boy to prattle on by himself.

  After a bit, Smudge asked Tom, “Do they tell stories of the Five Kingdoms where you come from?”

  “Nope. Never heard of it. Not until yesterday.”

  Willa stumbled. “What do you mean, you’ve never heard of it?” She stopped her compulsive scanning of the swamp and swung around to stare at Tom. “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know. Different world, I guess.”

  “Different world?”

  “Well, yeah. Sort of.”

  “A vastly superior world, to hear him tell of it,” Porter drawled.

  Willa said, “But how—”

  “It’s true,” Smudge interjected, giving an authoritative nod. “I heard the whole tale. His parents sent him away to hide from Keegan and The Watch. To keep him safe.”

  Willa’s gaze cut from Tom to Porter and then back again. Judging Tom a coward? Hiding from Keegan and The Watch didn’t exactly sound brave—not that he’d had any choice in the matter, but still. If he’d known what was happening here, he would have… what? Hard to say. He watched Willa’s expression tighten, but she turned away without sharing her thoughts.

  Their path was blocked again. Porter lifted Smudge over an enormous tangle of roots and set him on the ground, allowing the group to continue. Tom sloshed his way through a puddle. His shoes, already drenched, soaked up a thick
slime that squished between his toes with every step he took.

  After a few minutes Willa fell into step beside him. She sliced her way through a stubborn tangle of vines, then held it back for him to follow. Tom glanced at the knife she carried. It was a crude, ungainly weapon with a rough blade and a saw-tooth tip, likely the kind of knife one would use to skin and gut an animal.

  He stole a quick, sideways glance at her. The Lost Academy was an all-boys school. But there was a school for girls not too far away. Occasionally the two institutions merged and held holiday dances and chess club playoffs. Cheesy stuff like that. So Tom was not totally unfamiliar with how girls talked and acted.

  Had Willa been born in his world, her looks and brains would have propelled her into the clique of popular girls, the ones who dated jocks, had cell phones permanently attached to their hands, and spent weekends at the mall. She certainly wouldn’t be found wandering through a swamp with a butcher’s knife in her hand and something smeared all over her skin that looked like snot but smelled far worse.

  He considered asking her if she had any brothers or sisters, but just as quickly decided against it. Everything he’d seen in the tiny hut she called home screamed that she lived alone. She’d mentioned a grandfather who’d died. But surely she’d had other family at some point. A mother and a father. What had happened to them? Unable to contain his curiosity, he asked her.

  “They were taken.”

  “Taken?”

  “Keegan’s Watch came one night after the harvest celebrations were complete. Keegan needed laborers to work the mines of Incendia, so they roused the villagers from their beds and took them.”

  Talk about a different world. Tom felt as though she were speaking a different language. One with which he was only slightly acquainted. He needed time to fully comprehend her meaning, for the horrible image to form in his mind. He pictured The Watch storming the village at night, black boots stomping and swords flashing, rousing villagers from their beds, tearing families apart. Taking parents from children, husbands from wives. No wonder the village of Rupert looked so devastated, so defeated.