Riders of Fire Complete Series Box Set books 1-6: YA Epic Fantasy Dragon Rider Adventures

by Eileen Mueller

  It felt like a knife between the ribs. Fenni and Gret didn’t know Adelina hadn’t spoken to him since the other night. He faked a casual grin. “Do you blame me? She’s cute.”

  Gret rolled her eyes. “We’re not here to discuss your love life, Kierion.”

  “Or the lack of yours,” he quipped, jabbing her in the ribs with his elbow and rolling his eyes at Fenni.

  Twigs cracked in the forest behind them. There was a muffled snort.

  Gret stiffened and froze, eyes wide. “What was that?” she whispered.

  Kierion cocked his head. Footfalls. He held up his hands in a T—tharuk tracker—the code Tonio had shown them.

  Fenni jerked his head forward. The three of them broke into a stealthy jog, slipping through the trees.

  §

  The fug of beer and stale breath in the Brothers’ Arms made Kierion’s eyes water. He nursed his ale, strolling past the tharuks sitting at the bar, keeping his ears pricked. The tavern’s patrons were a motley crew: scarred, tattooed, and as rough as guts. Thank the dragon gods, they were inside the Brothers’ Arms, and not outside in Nightshade Alley.

  “Zens said five come tomorrow,” an ugly tharuk with a jagged tusk said, slamming its beer down on the bar.

  A tiny wiry brute answered. “How many next day?”

  Jagged Tusk shrugged. “Don’t know. Ask Zens yourself.” It let out a threatening guffaw.

  “Should be fun. Bloodletting my favorite.” Wiry gestured to the barkeep with a furry, clawed hand. “More ale.”

  The woman hastily complied.

  Five were coming tomorrow. Whatever the five might be. Kierion loitered, sipping his beer. Bitter stuff. He’d never liked it, but it fit the part he was playing tonight. The beasts shoved their snouts into their tankards. There was no point hanging around these grunts any longer.

  Over in the far corner—past crowded tables full of patrons playing nukils, having drinking races and laughing raucously—another group of tharuks were deep in conversation—if you could call tharuks’ short broken sentences conversation.

  Kierion edged through the throng of colorful characters from the shadier side of Montanarian life. He feigned casual interest in the goings-on around him, cheered when everyone else at a table did, and flicked his gaze over a game of cards as if he was looking for an easy mark. He brushed past a table of especially formidable thugs and thieves, probably members of the Nightshader street crew. Flames, Tonio and his dragon corps spies picked their bars, all right. He pressed on toward the tharuks, trying to remain unnoticed.

  Sitting between him and the tharuks’ table was a tough with crude stitches on his cheek and dragon tattoos covering his arms, surrounded by rough burly men at a table that bore worse scars than the ugly gash on the man’s cheek. He had a pile of nukils before him. Silver ones. The type Kierion had never been able to afford. This guy was making good money doing something, and Kierion bet his undergarments it wasn’t making soppleberry tea. The tough’s eyes swept Kierion from head to foot as he tried to squeeze past them, noting the sword and knife at his belt, the extra blades up his sleeves and—hey, this guy was good—he’d even spotted the blade hidden in his boot.

  Kierion prayed he wouldn’t have to use them.

  The tough thumped his hand on the scarred table. “Deal me in,” he said. “And my friend here, who wants to play too.” He jutted his chin at Kierion and smiled, his black-toothed grin as friendly as a hungry, antsy dragon’s. “Sit down.” A command, not an invitation.

  One of the tough’s cronies nudged a chair at Kierion with his boot.

  He obliged, nodding in greeting.

  “Dragon got your tongue?” Tough snapped.

  The dragon had his whole flaming throat. Kierion was out of his depth. The tough knew it too. He’d best play along. No one came into this bar with as many weapons as he was carrying without looking for trouble. He should’ve concealed them better. He’d thought he had.

  If he ran, that was it—no chance of returning. If he could prove himself, he might get to come back. Or end up dead in Nightshade Alley.

  Oh well, he was in over his head. Might as well try to swim.

  Kierion swaggered to the proffered chair and sank into it. “Evening gentlemen.” He grinned and sat, propping his foot on his knee. He took a slug of ale that nearly made him splutter, and then banged his glass on the table. What had his mother called it? His insufferable cockiness. Hopefully it wouldn’t get him killed tonight. “Thanks for inviting me. What are we playing for?”

  The tough’s eyes glinted. His men sniggered.

  Oh flames, he was so dead. Eight of them looked like they’d give a dragon a run for its money in a brawl, the ninth would look good doing it—a pretty boy who caught a tharuk’s falling tankard and slugged back the dregs in a neat move that had the others cheering.

  The tough slid five nukils over the table at Kierion. “You any good?”

  “I’ve played once or twice.” Kierion raised an eyebrow. No point telling them he knew all the best ways to cheat at nukils.

  “We play for coin,” the tough said in a tone not to be disputed.

  Each of his men threw a silver into a pile in the middle of the table. The tough nodded, a mental tally flitting across his face, as if he hadn’t already provided his men with the coins so they could pull in new suckers.

  Kierion shrugged.

  The tough leaned in, face close. “Anyone with weapons that good had coin to buy them.”

  Except dragon riders who got them as part of their training. “Correct, but now I’ve no coin left.” He pouted. Let them think he was green, eager.

  “Then I suggest you put up your sword.”

  “Good idea.” Kierion beamed.

  “Hand it over.”

  “When we’re done and tally the money, I’ll put it on the table. It’s too big, it’ll just get in the way.”

  The tough gauged him for a moment, then nodded. “Sounds fair.” His smile was all teeth and holes, mostly holes.

  But this game wasn’t fair—the moment Kierion picked up the nukils, he could feel they were weighted.

  The tavern door flew open. Heads around the table turned as a cloaked figure swaggered inside, his hood hanging so low only a pale chin showed beneath it.

  One of the tough’s minions leaned in, whispering to his crew leader, “Another easy mark, Captain.”

  The tough grinned like a shark about to begin feasting. “Every newcomer has to play at my table,” he bellowed.

  It was only a few moments before the cloaked stranger, no sword or knife at his hip, sat at the table with his tankard. Only a fool would wear no weapons in here. The stranger flicked back the hood of his cloak, revealing a familiar face, blond hair and keen green eyes. Curling his lip in a sneer, Fenni said, “Deal me in.”

  Clever of him to strategically take a seat close to the tharuks so he could listen in.

  Kierion scowled, sliding his meanest gaze over Fenni. “New around here?” he asked.

  Fenni held his gaze. “Maybe.”

  The tough leaned forward, guffawing—a sound that crept down Kierion’s back like fingernails scratching bark—and slid five nukils across the table to Fenni. “We were just starting. Five rounds, winner takes all. Why don’t you go first?”

  Fenni tossed in a silver and threw his nukils, catching them all on the back of his hand.

  One of the men whistled. “Full hand.”

  Fenni slammed the nukils down again.

  That was the easy part. The game would get progressively harder.

  Nukils clattered around the table as each man took his throw. The tough folded his arms, leaned back in his chair and observed, eyes glinting with promised menace.

  A few full hands resulted, and a few dropped nukils. Kierion gauged each player’s skill, pretending to sip his beer. When his turn came, he deliberately fumbled, letting two nukils slide off his hand onto the table. He’d learned the hard way, years ago, that it didn’t pay to show
your skill too early, especially in a bar like this.

  He scrunched his face in a frown, glowered at Fenni and folded his arms. Only a fool or a crew leader would dare fold his arms here. Most men had their hands on their rapidly emptying glasses or near their swords—just in case.

  The tough watched, eyes flitting to Kierion’s weapons again, evaluating his every move—and Fenni’s.

  A roar ripped through the bar. Everyone turned as Jagged Tusk slashed a man’s neck with its claws. Blood sprayed on the onlookers. The man slumped to the floor.

  Everyone turned back to their beer and kept drinking.

  Dragons’ claws—a man killed, just like that. Kierion restrained himself from rushing over. It was too late to save him. With a chunk that size ripped out of his throat, he would’ve been dead when he hit the floor.

  Fenni raised an eyebrow. “Unlucky.” He threw his nukils, catching five again, this time flipping them high off the back off his hand and snapping them into his fist with a satisfying clink. He leaned back, took a hard pull on his tankard and sighed. “Next.”

  Claws, Fenni would have to watch it, or he’d soon be drunk. The last thing Kierion wanted was to babysit a drunken mage.

  Kierion feigned a casual glance around the bar. “So, dragon riders don’t drink here?”

  Across the table, Fenni snorted. “Now, why would we want those shrotty riders to drink with us?” Another sip. He slammed his tank down and leveled a challenging stare at Kierion.

  “I was curious. That’s all,” Kierion answered.

  So far so good. Despite his weapons, this street crew had taken him for an arrogant fool and Fenni for an unarmed threat, playing right into their hands.

  “We make short work of the dragon riders in Nightshade Alley,” the tough said. “Your turn.” He gestured at Kierion, as if he knew he was holding back.

  §

  Fenni stretched his arms and locked his fingers behind his head, exposing his ribs to a possible knife plunge, the ultimate gesture of someone in control of a situation. From the moment he’d walked in the door, he’d realized the leader of the Nightshaders knew he was a mage. Fenni didn’t know how, but they said some people could sense magic as a hum—like a swarm of bees hovering about their senses. Maybe this scarred, black-toothed leader was one of those people.

  He leaned back, straining to hear the tharuks at the table behind him. “Everything ready for tomorrow,” a tharuk grunted. Its slurping drowned out the nukils clattering at its own table. That brute must have its snout deep in his tankard.

  “After tomorrow?” asked another tharuk with a reedy voice.

  Snuffling. “Then more come here. And every day after, more.”

  “Hey! What you do? That my beer.” The tharuks began arguing among themselves.

  More were coming, but more what? Tharuk troops, probably. Fenni refrained from scratching his chin, keeping his eyes on the game.

  Only two more men until it was his turn. Kierion messed up his turn—again. Growing up, Fenni and Kierion had been the best nukil players in their neighborhood, but Kierion was acting as if he was a rookie tonight. Fenni could barely wait until Kierion started cleaning up.

  A tharuk at the bar snarled, and another lowered its tusks, as if to charge. A roar from a third, larger beast brought them both back into line. Thank the Egg, he’d convinced Gret not to come to this horrible place with them.

  As if on cue, Gret opened the door and walked into the tavern. For the sake of the First Egg, had she no brain in her stubborn skull?

  §

  The noise in the tavern faded away. Fenni’s heart stilled. What was Gret doing here? The Brothers’ Arms was no place for a woman—especially one as beautiful as her. Wolves looked up from their beers, eyes glinting, licking their lips as they watched her hips sway toward the bar.

  Fenni fought not to clench his fists, trying to remain nonchalant and casual as he pretended to watch the game of nukils move around the table. The Nightshader crew leader leaned in. “Pretty, isn’t she?”

  Fenni feigned a yawn and turned to him. “Aren’t they all?”

  If any of these thugs learned how much Gret meant to him, they’d use her as a weapon against him. He picked up the nukils, threw through them high in the air and made them clack against each other as he caught them one by one.

  Kierion’s eyes roved the tavern and finally landed on Gret. He gave Fenni a wicked grin. “What do you say, shall we invite the pretty girl over?”

  “It’s all the same to me.” Gods, it wasn’t all the same to him. Dressed in tight breeches, a red jerkin and dark cloak, Gret was gorgeous. Her long blonde braids gleamed gold in the light of the tallow lanterns. She smiled at the barkeep, flashing her pretty white teeth, and asked for a cider. An instant later, a tankard was in her hand.

  A man near the bar reached out to grab her. She batted his hand away, spinning and striding between the crowded tables, holding her cider.

  The hum of magic zapped underneath Fenni’s skin. He clamped down on it, not wanting to show his hand.

  The crew leader’s head snapped to him, and his nostrils flared as if he could scent Fenni’s raw power. Eyes narrowed, he barked at one of his men, “Invite the girl to play. This should get interesting.”

  A handsome thug leaped up and strode confidently over to Gret as she made her way through the crowded tables. He was a flashy type, wearing breeches so tight Fenni was surprised he hadn’t castrated himself. He bowed with an extravagant flourish, his dark curls catching the lamp light. His eyes flashed, his gaze roving over Gret’s face, chest and long legs. Lingering. Appraising her. “Please, my lady, we invite you to join a game of nukils at our table.” He took Gret’s free hand and kissed it, his lips lingering longer than any decent man’s would.

  To Fenni’s surprise, instead of swatting the man away or calling him out, Gret giggled, her cheeks turning the same shade as her vibrant red cloak.

  Fenni hooked his foot around his chair leg, straining against it until the wood creaked, to stop himself from kicking the louse’s shins.

  “Quite a beauty, isn’t she?” Asked the crew leader. “Fancy her?”

  Fenni feigned a yawn. “I have a woman already,” he lied. “But I do appreciate beauty.”

  “Maybe you’d appreciate beauty more if she were in your bed tonight?”

  Although he liked Gret—a lot—he’d never dared picture her like that. Just the thought made Fenni’s insides warm. He shrugged the comment off, clacking the nukils in his hand.

  The slimy, hand-kissing toad led Gret to their table, but instead of offering her a chair, he patted his lap.

  For a moment, Gret’s eyes flashed in panic, but then she perched gingerly on the end of his knee. He guffawed and laid a hand on her hip. “Deal her in.”

  Fenni could sear that hand from its wrist in a heartbeat, leaving nothing but a charred stump. He reined his simmering magic in.

  Gret flipped a silver into the center of the table.

  The toad’s teeth flashed, eyes gleaming. “No need for coin, little lady. The winner gets you to warm his bed. And it just so happens that I am the undisputed champion.”

  Fenni’s head pounded. Under the table, sparks flitted from his fingers.

  The toad snatched up Gret’s coin and flipped it high into the air toward her.

  By the time she caught it, her dagger was at the toad’s throat. “I decide who’ll warm my bed. No one else. Now get me a chair and get your hands off me so I can join the game and drink my cider in peace.”

  The toad nodded, the promise of violence sparking in his eyes and dragged over a chair from an adjacent table. Gret holstered her knife.

  The scarred crew leader tossed back his head, roaring with laughter. “I like her spirit. Ever considered joining the Nightshader crew?”

  Gret took a long slow sip of her cider, regarding the leader over her glass with her warm brown eyes. “How about a game of nukils, first?”

  The men around the table snorted, g
rinned and chuckled. The handsome toad pulled his chair closer to Gret’s, close enough to slide a dagger between her ribs while no one was looking.

  Gret flashed him a cool smile. “Thank you for inviting me to join the game.”

  “You’re welcome,” the toad replied, his eyes lingering far too long on Gret’s full red lips.

  It was all Fenni could do to not flip the table, blast that toad with the full brunt of his mage flame and burn him to ash.

  A seat over from Gret, Kierion met his gaze, sending a silent warning: not now.

  A Gamble

  By the end of the first round, Kierion’s sword was on the table. By the end of the second round, his dagger was too.

  Fenni was in the lead, his score even with that of the flashy man who’d invited Gret to play. Gret was scoring somewhere in the middle of the bunch, and Kierion was lagging way behind everyone, just as planned.

  With each round, more beers were bought, and the pile of coins, weapons and possessions grew taller. Gradually, their large table drew the attention of most of the patrons in the Brothers’ Arms. Despite several casual questions, Kierion was no closer to finding out where Danion was, whether anyone had seen him lately, and what was going on. He could only hope that Fenni, seated closest to the tharuks, had overheard something useful. Although, since Gret had entered the tavern, he doubted Fenni had noticed much except her and the vile thug flirting with her.

  The head tough grinned at Kierion. “A shame you paid so much for those fancy weapons when you won’t get to keep them.”

  Kierion summoned up a cocky grin, gripping and un-gripping his fists on the table where the tough could see them. “Game’s not over yet, but I need a quick latrine trip. Back soon. “

  “Not slipping out on us, are you?” the tough’s brow furrowed.

  Kierion grinned as he stood. “Now, why would I do that? I need to win my sword back.”

  The tough gestured, and two men trailed Kierion outside to the latrine at the back of the tavern. Once inside the outhouse, Kierion made the appropriate noises, while whipping a hot pepper from his pocket. He munched it down, eyes watering. When they returned to their table, he took a long swig of beer to disguise the pepper on his breath. Soon, his forehead broke out in a sweat. He fumbled his next turn, letting the nukils scatter over the table.