The Dragon Blood Collection, Books 1-3

by Lindsay Buroker

  Ridge was. The king had always treated him with respect, and thus he reciprocated, even if he often got the feeling Angulus wasn’t a fan of pomp and circumstance and would have preferred slaps on the back.

  “Good.” The king waved to seats near the head of the table. “Sit.”

  He wasn’t a fan of long-windedness, either.

  The men sitting to either side of the king didn’t budge from their positions. Both wore the uniforms and jackets of infantry officers, and both had the addition of silver badges highlighting crossed swords on their chests. The badges signaled placement in one of the army’s elite troops units. The stone-faced colonel sitting to the king’s right, his meaty arms folded across his chest, gave Ridge a hard, challenging stare. Ridge resisted the urge to make the same comment he had made to the door guard. Barely. The captain to the king’s left had a bland, forgettable face, brown eyes, dark brown hair, and tanned skin that, given the winter season, hinted of mixed blood.

  General Ort gestured for Ridge to sit first. Ridge sat beside the other colonel, bumping elbows as he pulled his chair into the table, and giving the man an insouciant smile as he apologized. The colonel’s fingers flexed, as if he was considering how much trouble he might get into for throttling someone at the king’s table. Ridge didn’t recognize the man, but he’d met any number of ground troops who were unimpressed with pilots and spouted nonsense about how real men fought hand-to-hand and face-to-face. As if most modern ground fighting didn’t involve hiding behind something and shooting at people from as far away as possible.

  “Gentlemen,” Angulus said briskly. “You’re here to be briefed on a secret mission you’ll be taking into the Cofah homeland.”

  Ridge sat up, all thoughts of annoying his table neighbor rushing out of his head. He hadn’t been sure what this meeting would be about—for the last few weeks, he had been living in a low-grade state of paranoia, worrying that someone would realize Sardelle wasn’t an archaeologist from Charkolt University on the east coast, as he’d been telling everyone—but he hadn’t expected a mission. Even if the snow outside was melting today, it was still the middle of winter.

  “My best spy was fatally wounded acquiring this information.” Angulus glanced at the captain—the man clenched his jaw but said nothing—and spread out the roll of paper, revealing a hastily sketched map with two lines of writing at the top.

  Ridge twisted his head to try to read the words, but they were encoded. The king gestured to the captain. “Nowon.”

  “Cofah intelligence has obtained viable samples of dragon blood,” the bland-faced officer recited, his fingers tented before him. “Experiments are ongoing in a secret facility. Viable prototypes have already been created.”

  “Dragon blood?” Ort asked. “And viable prototypes of what?”

  Ridge was glad his commander had been the one to ask the questions. Of late, he had been hearing too much about magic and sorcerers and how dragon blood in their veins explained their powers. He didn’t want to pretend he had any knowledge of the matter, though, because the average Iskandian subject—pilots included—shouldn’t. He certainly hadn’t before meeting Sardelle.

  “Dragons have been extinct for over a thousand years,” Ort said. “How could anyone have blood, viable or otherwise?”

  The king looked at the captain, but Nowon shook his head. “That’s all the note says. We’ve been aware that the Cofah have been working on weapons and military-funded science projects for some time, but this is the first time we’ve gotten… someone inside one of their secret facilities.” Nowon’s jaw had ticked during that pause before the word someone. He must have known the spy who had died, maybe been close.

  Ridge leaned back, framing his chin with his fingers. He knew the government had spies, of course, but he had never been invited into their world.

  “Is it possible your man was mistaken?” Ort asked. “That the Cofah are simply trying to synthesize dragon blood somehow? Maybe they’ve found some fossils or something.” The general’s forehead wrinkled. “Can blood be fossilized?” He looked at Ridge as he asked this last question.

  Ridge swallowed, hoping he wasn’t about to mention Sardelle. Was he supposed to be some archaeology expert now because he was supposedly living with one? Sardelle probably knew the answer to the question, but Ridge sure wasn’t going to volunteer to have her brought into this meeting. The last thing he wanted was for her to come to the king’s attention.

  “This man was very good,” the captain said. “It is unlikely he would have been mistaken. I not only suspect they’ve acquired blood, but from a few messages we’ve intercepted, I believe the Cofah might be very close to weaponizing it somehow.”

  “I want a more complete report,” the king said, holding the flimsy sheet of paper in the air with an irritated quirk of his lips. “And if they have dragon blood, I either want it destroyed or I want it brought back to Iskandia for our own new scientist to analyze.” His unsubtle gaze landed on Ridge.

  Ridge slumped back in his chair. Was that why he had been called in? Because of his dubious relationship with Lieutenant Caslin Ahn’s new… pirate? Ridge didn’t doubt that Tolemek “Deathmaker” Targoson could contribute on a scientific level, but Ridge had been somewhat bullied by Sardelle—and her telepathic sword—into vouching for the man. Even knowing what the man had done to help the city, Ridge worried that his loyalty wouldn’t last much longer than his infatuation with Lieutenant Ahn. There was a reason the man’s lab had guards on it at all times.

  “You know Deathmaker,” the king said. “How far can he be trusted?”

  Insofar as what? He seemed contented enough in his lab, but… Ridge shrugged. “I don’t know him well, Sire. He is—was—Lieutenant Ahn’s prisoner. I do trust Lieutenant Ahn.”

  The colonel’s eyes closed to slits. Ridge doubted the man knew anything about the situation, but he sensed a judgment there. He hoped this mission wouldn’t require working with the other officer. Judging by the gray in his hair, he probably had seniority.

  “I want you to talk to him, Zirkander,” the king said. “If you don’t think he’s a flight risk, he might be worth taking on this mission.”

  The colonel’s nostrils flared. “Sire, I protest. Deathmaker? The pirate? I don’t care who he’s mounting now; he’s killed thousands of our people.”

  Ridge’s fist balled. He could only imagine the expression that must have been on his face, but it made General Ort kick him under the table and tilt his head toward the king with great significance. Ridge kept his temper. Barely. But he loathed the way the other colonel—what was this bastard’s name anyway?—gave him that challenging look again.

  “Colonel Therrik,” the king said, the censure in his tone present but far too mild for Ridge’s tastes. “Lieutenant Ahn is a national hero—all of those in Zirkander’s squadron are—and an unparalleled asset to our armed forces. Respect, if you will.”

  Therrik, bah. Zirkander had heard that name from young officers recently out of the military academy. He’d taught combat classes there for the last few years and had a reputation for humiliating and pulverizing young men and women, particularly those going into non-combat branches of the army. Ridge wouldn’t have guessed he was still going out in the field. Maybe he was here to advise.

  “Of course, Sire,” Therrik said, though his face didn’t soften, nor was there anything apologetic in his expression.

  “If anyone can identify dragon blood and what strange things are being done with it,” the king said, “Deathmaker probably can.”

  Actually, Sardelle probably could. Ridge tapped his fingers against his thigh, wondering if there was any way he could take her without revealing… anything. Even though they had only been in combat together once—and technically it hadn’t been all that together since he had been flying and she had been fighting a shaman on the ground—he would much rather have her at his side than Deathmaker or Thugly the Tormentor of Young Pilots.

  “He has no loyalty to our peo
ple,” Therrik said. “He’ll go right back to them if he’s given the chance.”

  “He has no loyalty to the Cofah, either,” Ridge said. “Nor would they be happy to have him. My understanding is that he… plugged up both outhouses on the property, as one of my country-bred pilots would say.”

  “Classy,” Ort murmured with another head tilt that was probably supposed to remind Ridge that they were in the presence of royalty. Eh, if the king had been a soldier, he had surely seen an outhouse once or twice in his life.

  “I gather that he can’t return to the pirates, either,” Ridge said, “at least not to the Roaming Curse. His… lady friend is here. He has more reason to stay loyal to Iskandia than to leave us.”

  “Oh, sure,” Therrik grumbled. “I’m sure that’s the sort of romance that books are written about.”

  Ridge hadn’t been enthused at the idea of a mass-murdering pirate for his young lieutenant, but he would defend her right to pick whomever she wanted, with fists if necessary. Even if that would get him pummeled.

  “Get him on the team if you can,” the king said.

  “The team for what, exactly, Sire?” Ort asked.

  “Zirkander and the necessary pilots will fly Therrik and two of his best men—” the king nodded toward Captain Nowon, “—into Cofah territory to infiltrate this research facility. I want the dragon blood destroyed or brought back, and I want any progress they’ve made likewise destroyed. I also want to know where that blood came from in the first place.”

  “Who’s in charge of the mission?” Therrik asked, his face cool as he regarded Ridge again.

  “You are, Colonel.” The king pulled a folded piece of paper out of a pocket and pushed it toward Ridge. “These are the coordinates for the secret facility.” Turning back toward Therrik, he continued, “Zirkander and his people will get you and your men where you need to go and wait for you to return.”

  Ridge scowled—he was being assigned rickshaw service?—at the same time as Therrik issued his first smile. It was an alarming thing, like a wolf curling its lips.

  “That’s acceptable, Sire,” Therrik.

  Ridge opened his mouth, and Ort kicked him under the table again. Ridge scowled at him. It was worse than having dinner at a girlfriend’s parents’ house with her stomping on a man’s foot to ensure he delivered the proper responses. General Ort utterly lacked any of the girlfriend qualities that would have made such interference bearable.

  “I must respectfully object to Deathmaker’s inclusion on the mission, Sire,” Therrik added. “He can’t be trusted. Why can’t he just study the dragon blood when we bring it back? And I assure you, we are good enough to bring it back.”

  The captain’s eyebrows twitched ever so slightly at the word we. Ridge wasn’t sure whether it indicated doubt as to the colonel’s abilities—probably not—or doubt as to whether the colonel was needed at all. Maybe this had originally been Nowon’s mission. He was the one who knew about the spy and had decrypted the message, after all.

  “If there’s anything more troublesome than samples of blood in vials, you may need his help,” the king said, giving Ridge a nod.

  Ridge had been the one to explain how Tolemek had destroyed a device full of a deadly toxin to save the city. He hadn’t been able to mention Sardelle’s role in the event—or rather her sword’s role—so Tolemek had received full credit. Ridge didn’t resent that exactly, but it rankled him that he couldn’t speak openly about what Sardelle had done to help defend their homeland. It rankled him even more now that Ridge had learned that the pirate’s infamous potion-making abilities weren’t entirely mundane.

  “Speak to him and come to an understanding ahead of time if necessary, but plan on taking him,” the king said, staring steadily into the colonel’s eyes.

  “An understanding.” Therrik flexed his fingers, then curled them into a fist. “Yes, Sire.”

  Therrik planned to beat Tolemek into loyalty? Oh, yes, that would work well.

  “Zirkander, choose three good pilots to take with you. You’ll fly the two-seaters and each take one of Therrik’s three-man team, along with Deathmaker, if he’ll come. Therrik, you can decide whether he’s going into the compound with you or not, but I urge you to take him so he can help identify what’s worth taking and what’s not.”

  “What can kill you in the blink of an eye and what can’t,” Nowon murmured. He obviously knew a little more about what was going on in those Cofah facilities than what was on the note.

  “While you men complete your mission,” the king went on, “The pilots will wait in a safe area with the fliers camouflaged. It probably goes without saying, but my preference is to have you all in and out without ever being seen. The repercussions might be less harsh if the Cofah can’t prove we had anything to do with their missing samples.”

  “We understand, Sire,” Therrik said.

  Ridge nodded, though he still hated the idea of having Therrik in charge of this. He supposed the colonel couldn’t be too much of an ass on the mission, not when Ridge’s team would be his only way home.

  “Dismissed,” the king said.

  Ridge pushed back his chair, as did Ort and Nowon.

  “May I have one more word with you in private, Sire?” Therrik asked, glancing at Ridge.

  The king nodded. Ridge didn’t like that quick glance, but he walked away with the others. He did, however, dawdle, pausing on the other side of a large shrub to prop his boot on the pot and tie the laces.

  “What is it?” Angulus asked.

  “Captain Nowon’s people handle external intelligence gathering,” Therrik said, “but my old unit handled internal, and I’ve been made aware of some interesting developments of late.”

  That might explain how the colonel knew about Ahn and Tolemek’s relationship, something Ridge hadn’t thought would be common gossip outside of his squadron. He lifted his other boot to retie the laces.

  “Your point?” the king had moved away from the table, and Ridge barely heard the words. He parted the branches of the shrub. The men were walking toward one of the windows overlooking the garden.

  “Zirkander’s witch,” Therrik said, and Ridge’s heart nearly stopped. “Are you sure we shouldn’t—”

  “Colonel,” Ort hissed from the doorway. “What are you doing?”

  Ridge wanted to wave him away, to shush him so he could hear the rest, but the king and Therrik had moved out of earshot, anyway. Damn, he needed to know what they were talking about.

  Ridge raced toward the doorway, almost knocking Ort aside as he blurted, “I’ll meet up with you at the hangar, General. I need to piss.”

  He glanced back, catching Ort giving that potted plant a long, concerned look. Ridge ran through the hallway, but instead of racing toward the front door, he ran in the opposite direction, then swung into a narrow staircase that led down to a door to the gardens. He vaguely remembered indoor latrines somewhere in that direction and thought his excuse might be plausible. Even if it wasn’t, he would risk demerits from Ort. He had to know what they were saying about Sardelle. It wasn’t surprising that the intelligence department had put the pieces together—just because he hadn’t mentioned her role in the battle back at the mines didn’t mean there hadn’t been witnesses and that the truth would come out—but if someone like Therrik knew about her, how many other people might know? And what did the king think?

  The side door was thankfully unguarded. Ridge charged out and hopped the fence into the gardens. Despite the day’s sun, three inches of snow blanketed everything. He ran through the melting stuff, following the side of the building, forcing himself to slow as he neared the first open window on the greenhouse balcony above. He hugged the wall so nobody looking out from above should see him. The sounds of birds chirping floated out, but he couldn’t hear voices. He crept to the next open window. A shadow moved behind the glass. The king? The faint murmur of a conversation reached his ears, but he couldn’t make out the words.

  The skeleton of a
vining plant, its leaves shed months ago and snow blanketing its brown limbs, snaked up the brick side of the building, passing the window and reaching all the way to the roof of the greenhouse. Ridge had no idea if it would support his weight—the center trunk was about three inches thick, but didn’t look very hale beneath the snow—but desperation drove him to try.

  He gripped the plant and pulled himself off the ground. The trunk shivered, and snow splatted down his shoulders, but it didn’t crack or pull away from the wall. He hoped the two men inside were too engrossed in the conversation—about Sardelle, damn!—to notice branches shivering in the utter lack of wind.

  Ridge stopped before his head drew level with the bottom of the window. Besides, the trunk had dwindled in thickness from three inches to two, and it was starting to slump. His boots were pressed into the plant below him, but they kept slipping. Dry wood and cold snow pricked at his fingers. He should have put on his gloves before jumping onto the vine. His efforts were rewarded, though, for he could hear more than chirping birds this time.

  “—told me,” Therrik was saying. “The officers in my old unit don’t miss much.”

  “I suppose it’ll be all over the city before long.” The king sighed.

  “I can’t understand why you let her into the city in the first place, Sire. Why wasn’t she shot as soon as someone figured it out?”

  Ridge gritted his teeth, in part because a piece of the vine had snapped away from its anchor on a post above his head, and in part because he wanted to lunge through the window and strangle Therrik.

  “I believe she was shot any number of times during the battle with the Cofah,” the king said dryly. “A sorceress isn’t easy to kill.”

  Sorceress. He hadn’t called her a witch. Could the king know everything? Intel must have interviewed that research-happy Captain Heriton from Magroth.

  “Not when she’s awake, likely not,” Therrik said. “We have snipers. One of our men could take her out in her sleep.”