Lindsay Buroker

For fans of romantic fantasy adventures (or “romantasy” as we’re calling it now!), I have a new series launching. Fire and Fang brings us to a world of dragons and magic with a healer princess who’s in way over her head after enemy dragon riders invade her kingdom.

The first novel is out in ebook and paperback on Amazon with the audiobook soon to follow.

• Amazon US
• Amazon UK
• Amazon CA
• Amazon AUS
• Amazon FR
• Amazon DE

If you want to try the first few chapters before grabbing the book, they’re available below.

Sky Shielder

Chapter 1

“I’ve a new find that you’ll be dying to add to your collection, Your Highness.” The antiques store clerk drew out a small velvet cube, opened it, and revealed a cylindrical bronze tool with a dozen tiny apertures in the top.

Fascinated, Syla lifted her spectacles and leaned in for a better look, her nose almost to the instrument.

Among her abler-eyed kin, censorious aristocrats, and especially attractive men, Syla was self-conscious about her nearsightedness and thick lenses, but here… Here it was different. Much like puppies and kittens, antiques did not judge a person.

“It’s not as aged as many of the instruments you prefer,” the clerk continued, “and such tools are still in use on some of the islands, especially where actual leeches are rare, but it was recently dredged out of the deepest part of Sky Torn Harbor, pulled up from a wrecked warship that was destroyed centuries ago by dragons and their foul riders.”

“Oh, in the Battle of 873? I’ve read all about that and how the dragons created a barricade just outside the sky shield to keep our ships from coming and going. Our forces had to leave the magical protection to confront them, and many were lost.”

“It must have been a dreadful time, yes.” The clerk made the eyes-of-the-moon symbol, two fingers tapping his chest, followed by a circle traced over his heart.

Syla rotated the instrument to study the back. “Is that the mark of Henis the Godcrafter? Goodness, what an exquisite specimen.”

Reminded that the clerk always thought her wealthy and asked outrageous prices, Syla leaned back and wished she hadn’t shown such interest. Now, he would try to gouge her.

“I thought it might appeal to you.” Yes, he sounded smug, as he always did when he believed he would wheedle money out of a patron.

Since Syla had walked to his shop of her own accord, procrastinating on her way to the castle for the dreaded weekly family dinner, she couldn’t pretend to be a victim.

“What is it?” her bodyguard, Sergeant Fel, rumbled in a suspicious bass from his position near the door.

“A spring-loaded scarificator.” The clerk demonstrated its function by tapping a small button on the side of the cylinder. Tiny scalpels inside sprang out, protruding from the apertures. “Some call devices like this artificial leeches.”

Fel, a twenty-year fleet veteran, who’d served another twenty years as a bodyguard for the royal family, drew back, as if he hadn’t seen and experienced much worse during his career. He curled a distasteful—maybe even horrified—lip as he regarded the scarificator, as well as the antique ecraseur and speculum the clerk had first laid on his counter for Syla to consider.

With a shudder of his broad shoulders, he stated, “This place is unholy,” then turned to look out the window and regard whatever threats he envisioned creeping down the cobblestone street. In the process, he stuck one of his legs out to stretch his calf. He flexed and grimaced at his muscle tightness. “I thought you were looking for herbalism antiques.”

“I do adore the history of herbalism, but other than pointy gathering sticks and occasional decorative cases, there aren’t a lot of antiques associated with the craft. There are a lot of old books.” Syla lowered her spectacles to eye the shelves, wondering if any new tomes had come in. She longed to find a copy of Aramon’s Herbs and Lore of the Rainforest Continent for her collection.

The clerk, who was glaring balefully at Fel, didn’t mention if he’d received any books lately.

“Not everyone is as fascinated by the history of healing as I am,” Syla said apologetically to him.

She eyed the scarificator again, contemplating making an offer—a low offer to counter whatever ridiculous price the clerk would quote. But her room at Moon Watch Temple already overflowed with healing and history tomes, drawings of medicinal plants, and antiques related to her profession that were tucked into every nook and cranny, not to mention mounted to the wall, stacked under her bed, and overflowing from the dresser drawers. She didn’t need anything else, but…

“Is your bodyguard all right?” The clerk’s baleful glower had turned to one of concern.

Likely, he worried more about the many breakable items around the shop than the sergeant’s well-being. Even without the dour grimace, Fel always looked dangerous and on the verge of violence. Head shaven—to hide how gray his hair was, he’d once admitted—broad face scarred, and his tall frame still well-muscled, despite his years, he intimidated many people. The crossbow slung across his back, bandolier of quarrels and daggers, and heavy mace at his belt all suggested he was a man capable of doing a lot of damage to enemies—and perhaps sensitive antiques as well.

“That dour frown is part of his normal expression.” Syla nodded as Fel switched legs, his grimace deepening when he stretched the other calf.

The clerk looked at her with a furrowed brow. Maybe she hadn’t answered his question sufficiently?

Syla held up a finger. “How much longer until your retirement, Sergeant Fel?”

“Seventeen days, eight hours, and…” Fel drew a pocket watch from his blue uniform trousers. “Thirteen minutes.”

“That’s when he’ll truly be all right,” Syla told the clerk, not minding Fel’s gruffness or even that he didn’t want to be at her side any longer than required.

After a lifetime of body-guarding her older and more politically important siblings, he deserved retirement. And she… Well, she’d never believed herself in need of a protector. Who would try to kill a healer? The youngest by far of five children? Syla kept waiting for her oldest sister to have children so that she would no longer be directly in line for the throne and an even less likely target, but the gods hadn’t blessed any of her siblings with children yet, an absence the newspapers noted often.

Fel leaned closer to the window, frowning as he tucked his pocket watch away. His hand strayed to his mace, and was that a growl that emanated from his chest? He sounded like a gargoyle.

“Maybe he should wait outside.” The clerk must have heard the growl. He lifted a fragile, decorative dragon egg and two glass vases from the counter, then tucked them safely underneath it.

Syla joined Fel at the window, wondering if she’d been too quick to dismiss the possibility of trouble in the street. But here in the capital city, on the most protected island in the Garden Kingdom, muggers wouldn’t ply their trade. And, thanks to the magical sky shielder, people didn’t have to worry about dragons, wyverns, or other aerial threats.

Syla peered at the one- and two-story shops lining the wide street, horses hitched at mounting posts outside. “Sergeant, are you growling because your calf is knotted or because you spotted trouble?”

She felt diminutive standing next to her bodyguard. At five-and-a-half feet in height, she wasn’t short for a Kingdom woman, but her head only came to the top of his shoulder. Even if she’d worn her shoulder-length auburn hair in the currently trendy beehive style, instead of clipped back over her ears, Fel could have seen over her head.

“My calf is knotted, my arches ache, my heel feels like it’s being stabbed, and my knee is throbbing, but it’s the dragon that just flew overhead that’s making me growl.” Fel pointed toward the cloudy gray sky.

Syla didn’t see anything but the promise of evening rain, but she didn’t doubt the sergeant. His body might hurt from a lifetime of hard work, training, and wounds received in battle, but he’d never indicated any failings with his eyes.

“Just one soaring above the shield, right?”

“It looked lower than that.” Fel held up a finger. “Stay here.”

Syla blinked. Lower than the sky shield? That wasn’t possible. Dragons couldn’t pass through the magical barrier. None of the storm god’s creations could.

“Dragons?” The clerk tucked more fragile antiques out of the way, as if damage to a few gewgaws would be the main concern if deadly predators made it through the shield.

Syla, neither a warrior nor even well-endowed with athleticism, obeyed Fel’s command to stay inside, but curiosity prompted her to lean through the doorway for a better look.

Once out in the cobblestone street, clear of the shop’s awning, Fel surveyed the sky, then turned toward the castle on the bluff that overlooked the harbor and capital city. Whatever he saw up there made him widen his eyes and curse.

At first, he reached for his crossbow. Then he looked at Syla and swore again. When he rushed toward her, screams came with him. Two horses pulling carts raced down the street, wheels rattling as the drivers cracked their whips and shouted for greater speed.

“The castle is under attack.” Fel gripped Syla’s arm. “Dragons. A whole wing of them. We have to get you to a bunker.”

Though stunned, Syla let him drag her into the street. Sticking to the side, they ran under awnings and overhangs whenever possible. She glanced back toward the castle, half-believing he had to be mistaken. The sky shield had successfully protected the islands for centuries.

But dozens of green, gray, and blue dragons circled the castle, spewing fire at the towers and battlements. The only defense came from archers, crossbowmen, and Royal Protectors manning cannons. Smoke roiled from the courtyard and the high windows of the keep, promising great damage had already been done. Horrified, Syla stumbled, almost falling to the cobblestones.

Her entire family was in the castle; they’d been partaking in the very dinner she’d been on her way to attend. But nobody would be dining now. They had to be rushing to the underground tunnels for protection. No, wait. Was that her mother and older sister, Nyvia? Out on the ramparts with their weapons, helping the defenders?

Fel tightened his grip, keeping Syla on her feet and running.

“This way,” he urged. “One of the ancient bunkers is off Three Fountains Street. The Royal Protectors will fight off the dragons.”

“I should go to the temple. There’ll be wounded.”

“Later. Once the attack is over. You have to survive first to heal people.”

Someone in the street ahead screamed, startling Syla into tripping again.

Dozens of people were out now. Maybe hundreds. They were running away from the dragons—or so they thought.

A great blue-scaled beast swooped toward the street. Its wings tucked in close as it dove, and its maw opened, its fangs dripping saliva. An icy-faced rider with a gargoyle-bone bow rode on the dragon’s back, no saddle or harness keeping him in place. Dagger tattoos on his hollow cheeks gave him a fearsome visage.

The man glanced at her but focused on a horse-drawn cart full of wooden kegs, its driver the only person heading to the castle instead of away. The rider nocked an arrow, but it was his powerful mount that represented the greater danger. Smoke wafted from the dragon’s nostrils an instant before fire roiled out of its maw.

Fel still had a grip on Syla’s wrist, but he wrapped his arm around her waist and hefted her from her feet as he sprang into a doorway. More curves than leanness, she wasn’t light, but he carried her over his broad shoulder without slowing.

Scant feet away, in the center of the street, the fire struck. It enveloped the cart and rider, the man screaming. An instant later, the cart—no, the kegs—exploded.

Black powder, an analytical part of Syla’s mind processed, even as utter terror gripped her and Fel carried her deeper into a carpenter’s shop. The shockwave from the explosion struck the buildings on either side of the street, blowing out glass and knocking down walls. Roofs caught fire, more people screamed, and the dragon… Syla couldn’t see what happened to the dragon, but she imagined it flapping casually away while its rider grinned with pleasure at the kill.

Cries of pain grew audible once the explosion faded. For the first time, Syla squirmed, trying to escape Fel’s grasp.

“I need to help,” she said.

Overhead, a beam snapped. Not five feet away, a flaming section of the ceiling fell to the floor, hurling sparks over furniture and workbenches.

Swearing, Fel spun to put his back to the fire to protect her. “I’m getting you to the bunker.”

“I appreciate your adherence to duty, but—” Syla squirmed again, wanting her own two feet under her, longing to do her job, not run away when people were in pain, “—I’m a healer. A gods-blessed healer.” She waved the back of her hand at him, as if he might have forgotten the quarter-moon-shaped birthmark that she and her close relatives had, hereditary gifts that imbued them with the power to help the kingdom when needed. “I can keep people from dying,” she added as Fel dragged her toward a back door.

“There’ll be plenty of people who need that at the bunker.”

Between his arm around her and the smoke and heat in the shop, she felt frustrated and claustrophobic and tried again to free herself. She might as well have been attempting to escape iron shackles.

Fel thrust open the back door and started into an alley but halted abruptly, swearing again.

Thanks to whatever distracted him, Syla twisted free and set her feet on the floor. His arm tightened around her waist, but he didn’t lift her again. Instead, he unhooked his mace from his belt and glowered across the alley toward the rooftop of the building behind theirs. Flames leaped from the gutters of both structures, but Syla saw what he saw.

A green dragon even larger than the first perched atop a chimney, its size dwarfing it and the building underneath. Its scales gleamed, reflecting the dancing flames all around it, but the creature seemed impervious to the heat. As did its rider, an athletic-looking man in black leathers, including fingerless black gloves. He was striking, with bronze skin and wild, windswept black hair framing a lean, angular face. His emerald eyes matched the scales of the dragon. She had no trouble noticing those eyes because the man was staring down at her. His dragon looked toward the castle, and its muscles bunched under its scales, as if it meant to spring into action at any moment, but he… his eyes locked not onto her face but her hand. The moon-mark.

Realizing it would make her a target, Syla tucked her arm behind her back. But it was too late. He’d seen it.

Fel raised his mace and crouched, prepared to defend her, even against a rider and a dragon. Even if there was no chance that he could survive the encounter.

The dragon’s head swung around on its long neck so that it also looked at Syla. Terror gripped her, and she wished she hadn’t slowed Fel down, that they’d already reached the bunker. As he’d pointed out, she wouldn’t be able to heal people if she were dead.

“That’s Captain Vorik Wingborn,” Fel growled, drawing her back through the doorway and under cover, out of the line of sight of their enemies.

She could still see the bottom of the dragon, those talons gripping the chimney.

“Warrior, archer, and storm-possessed bastard,” Fel continued, “whose hobby has been sinking every third cargo or merchant ship that’s sailed beyond the protection of the sky shielders these last ten years.”

Syla doubted they would make it to the bunker. The captain hadn’t yet attacked, but more dragons flew overhead, their roars drowning out the screams of fear and pain coming from all over the city.

Would anyone in the capital survive this?

A war horn blew in the distance, from across the sea. The green dragon shifted on the chimney, as if the call beckoned it, and crouched to spring. Before it did, its great tail lashed out like a whip, long enough to cross the alley and slam down onto the carpentry shop. The roof above Syla and Fel collapsed.

As stone and wood crashed down, Fel sprang atop her, using his body to protect her as the great weight crushed them to the floor and buried them.

Chapter 2

A hard piece of rubble jabbed painfully into Syla’s ribs, and Fel’s oppressive and unconscious weight crushed her from above. In the darkness after the building’s collapse, she lay trapped, unable to see anything, barely able to breathe. Tears leaked from her eyes as overwhelming despair crushed her as surely as her bodyguard’s weight.

Her family had been in the castle and fighting back, but Syla worried her mother and her siblings wouldn’t all survive the onslaught of dragons. What if… none of her family survived? What if she had to take her mother’s role as queen and leader of the kingdom?

No, she couldn’t. She wasn’t qualified. She’d even avoided suggestions that she apply for a leadership position in Moon Watch Temple. She didn’t have the aptitude to be in charge of people, certainly not people who had just been devastated by a dragon attack.

And what if more than the capital had been targeted? There were twelve islands in the Garden Kingdom. What if the other shielders, the artifacts that powered the sky shields, had also stopped working?

The question brought her back to the most pertinent one, at least for her at that moment: what had caused the shielder for Castle Island to stop working?

The magic infused in the devices, devices that had been built long ago by the gods themselves, had never failed before. She’d read enough history books to know that for a fact. There’d been an instance in the third century of a spy finding and sabotaging a shielder, which had briefly let dragons in to attack Vineyard Island, but an engineer in the Moonmark family had been able to repair the artifact. None of the shielders had simply stopped working on their own.

Could the one under the castle have been sabotaged? By a spy? Only her own kin could enter the shielder chambers. And of those with the magical moon birthmarks, hardly any had been entrusted with the locations on each island where those chambers were. Those were closely guarded secrets among those in line for the throne. Those like her.

Always before, she’d scoffed at the idea that she might lose her older brothers and sisters and have to worry about inheriting the throne, but now…

“No,” Syla whispered, her hoarse throat coated in dust. “At least some of my siblings have to be okay. I’ll find them and heal them.”

Except, at the moment, she couldn’t move.

Something warm and damp dripped onto the back of her neck. Fel’s blood.

By the eyes of the moon, she had to heal her poor bodyguard first.

Summoning what energy she could, Syla pushed and squirmed. Not only his weight lay atop her but the fallen roof had settled upon them. Grunting, she attempted to shove from different angles. Her knuckles smashed against wood and brick, but she managed to free one arm, improving her ability to move, to dig.

A piece of tile moved, clunking as it shifted. She dug at that spot, hoping…

A soft tink sounded, like glass hitting rock, and she abruptly remembered her spectacles. She reached for her face to make sure she hadn’t lost them, but the frames weren’t on her nose.

Fresh fear lurched into her. Smashed in the darkness, with so little room to maneuver, she hadn’t realized she wasn’t wearing them.

As she patted about underneath her, hoping they’d landed close by, her fear threatened to turn into panic. Not being able to find her spectacles at home, in the safety of the temple, was alarming enough. But out here? With enemies all over the place and the city half-razed? How would she find her way home without her spectacles? Her vision was too poor for her to see sharply for more than a foot. Even if the city hadn’t been a mess made unfamiliar by all the rubble and carnage, she doubted she could have navigated the streets.

The sound of ragged breathing in her ears, echoing strangely in the tomb of rocks, made her aware that she was hyperventilating. Panicking.

Being aware of it didn’t make it easy to stop, but she attempted to calm herself, to smooth her inhalations and exhalations. For the moment, nobody was attacking her. She was in a better position than some. But not being able to find her spectacles gave her more reason than ever to climb out of the rubble and heal Sergeant Fel. She needed his help to get to the castle and figure out… whatever they could figure out.

Digging more carefully now, she pushed away broken tiles, wood, and stone. Soon, a hint of smoke reached her nose, trickling in through the rubble. It reminded her of the fires in the city but also promised that she was close to escape.

The sound of someone crying in the distance floated to her. Fel wasn’t the only one who needed her.

As she moved about, he groaned and shifted slightly. He remained unconscious, but with less of his weight atop her, Syla dug and pushed more effectively. More smoky air flowed into what had almost been their tomb.

Fury simmered in her veins as she dug. Fury toward the collected tribes—the stormers, as they called themselves—and all dragon riders and everyone else who’d been involved in this attack. Especially that captain whatever-his-name-had-been. If he’d shot her with his bow, it would have been less ignoble than having his dragon casually flick its tail and destroy the building above her head.

The desire to live long enough to see Fel drive a crossbow quarrel through the captain’s heart renewed her strength. Finally, she pushed enough rubble aside that she could move fully out from under the sergeant and sit up. Pervasive smoke overrode the pleasant sea breeze that usually caressed the city, and she coughed, wishing for fresh air.

“Sergeant Fel?” Syla glanced about as she pushed part of a broken beam off him.

Everything around her was blurry, but in the dimness of encroaching twilight, there might not have been much to see anyway. If enemies were creeping about, who would know?

The alarming thought made her heart thump rapidly in her chest. Dare she go into a meditative trance and use her magic to heal Fel’s wounds? Normally, she wouldn’t think twice about it, but if ever she’d needed a bodyguard to watch her back while she worked…

She strained her ears, trying to detect threats nearby. Other than the sounds of a few people crying in neighboring buildings, buildings she had no doubt had also been destroyed, the city had grown quiet. Had the attack ended? She could hear the roar of the sea beyond the harbor.

Fel groaned again but didn’t open his eyes.

Syla shifted more rubble away from him and rested her hand on his side. Her arm brushed his mace. He’d been gripping it when the ceiling fell and half lay on it.

“Sergeant Fel, do you give me your permission to use my power on you?” Syla uttered the question formally, but she doubted he was conscious enough to answer.

The law required her to seek permission from him, or someone who could speak for him, since magic tended to bind those who’d been healed to the healer for a time. This was, however, an extenuating circumstance.

“I have a feeling we’re going to be bound together for a while anyway,” she murmured, shaking her head bleakly as she thought of his retirement countdown. For some reason, the thought prompted more tears, the certainty that he wouldn’t be able to retire now.

More tears flowed after that, tears for her family, for the city, for all those in pain or worse. It took her a few minutes, the darkness deepening, before she could get herself together, stare at the back of her hand, and reach for the meditative trance from which she accessed her healing magic.

With her fingers splayed across Fel’s chest, the moon-mark started glowing silver, and energy hummed through her. The magic of her gods-sense allowed her to see his body from within and find all the injuries, including one causing swelling against his skull, the likely reason he was unconscious.

A quiet clatter came from somewhere nearby. The alley outside?

The memory of the dragon and its fearsome rider swept into her, interrupting her concentration, and her magic faded. Just before the silver glow disappeared from her hand, she spotted its reflection glinting on something nearby. Glass. Her spectacles?

She lunged for the spot and patted around. Yes, there were the frames. Terribly bent. When she lifted them to see if they could hook over her ears, more glass tinked, pieces falling out. With dread sinking into her stomach, she realized she might cut herself if she donned spectacles with broken shards sticking out of the frames.

When she probed the eyeholes, her finger went through on one side. No glass remained. In the other… The lens was there but shattered.

“Dear departed gods,” she muttered.

After making sure no glass would jab her in the eye, Syla straightened the frame as much as she could and hooked it over her ears, hoping she would get some vision through the shattered lens. Sergeant Fel’s body came more into focus, but it was distorted, with a crack right in front of her eye.

Shaking her head, she turned her attention back to him. She had spare spectacles at home, but she needed help getting there.

“Another reason to heal you whether you can give permission or not,” Syla murmured, resting her hand on his chest and willing her power into him again.

As she focused her magic on lessening the swelling and repairing what turned out to be a crack in his skull, she sliced off a modicum of her attention to continue inspecting the rest of his body. His arms and limbs appeared hale, but he had cracked ribs and bruised organs. Healing external wounds, those she could see with her eyes, was always easier than fixing interior damage, but she’d had plenty of practice in her more than ten years as a healer.

She had to be careful, however, about how much she did here, while in this vulnerable predicament. Since the healing magic relied on her own energy and stamina, as well as the power gifted by the gods, doing too much could leave her crumpled and unconscious herself.

A rustle and a clunk came from the alley, and she paused. A dog sniffing about? An enemy?

She peered into the blurry gloom, afraid.

When the noise didn’t repeat, she bit her lip and hurried to send power into Fel more swiftly than was wise. With her senses and her magic, she finished working on his skull, then knitted the broken ribs together while sending energy into his organs to reduce the swelling and encourage the body to apply its own healing power to them.

Fel stirred, groaning, and that gave her hope. Hope that he would wake soon, that his eyes would be fine and he could get them back to the temple. There, she could grab her spare spectacles, and then they could go to the castle and… find out who remained alive.

Even grim and afraid, she couldn’t keep from yawning as she worked, fatigue creeping into her body. The sense of being watched came over her. Again, she looked toward the alley, but it was too dark to see anything. No, wait. Was that a hint of movement? Something in her periphery?

“Go away,” she whispered and gripped Fel’s mace, drawing it out from under his body to brandish it toward the alley.

He groaned again.

“Wake up anytime, Sergeant,” Syla said. “I need you more than ever.”

She was close enough to see his face when he winced. Soon, he would rouse from unconsciousness, but when he did, he would be in pain from the wounds she hadn’t yet attended. They were less grievous, and she told herself he could function with them, but she wished she could do more.

Unfortunately, more yawns stretched her mouth, and her eyelids wanted to lower. She didn’t have the energy left for more healing.

A horse whinnied in the street.

“This is looting, you know,” someone outside whispered. The male voice was close enough for the words to be distinct.

“If we didn’t do it,” another man said, “the dragon riders would. Just find what’s valuable.”

“Check that building.” Were the men right outside the front door?

The shadows stirred, and a clunk sounded.

Syla gripped the mace and tried to stand up. But the healing had taken too much out of her. Lightheaded, she collapsed and lost consciousness.

Chapter 3

The war horn blew again, three short notes to summon officers, and Agrevlari flew across the sea toward it without input from his rider.

“I’m sure General Jhiton appreciates your swift obedience.” Captain Vorik patted his bonded dragon on his scaled back as he looked over his shoulder, toward the fiery remains of Garden Castle and the kingdom’s capital city.

Some dragons continued to attack, killing and razing for pleasure, but Vorik and his wing mates had taken out the key military officers and members of the royal family, those with the ability to find and operate the sky shielders. Had the horn not summoned him, Vorik might have attempted to call off the other dragons, but he only commanded the riders, not their kind. Dragons worked with the human tribes when it suited them, but never did they take orders from the puny two-legs, as the wild ones called men.

Jhiton can clip my talons, Agrevlari spoke telepathically into Vorik’s mind. It is Wingleader Saleetha who commands my loyalty.

“Still hoping she’ll invite you into her nest, huh?”

She would be a most appealing partner, but you know the wild dragon for whom I pine.

“Is it still that pretty red one? Wreylith?”

Wreylith the Graceful and Beautiful and the Utterly Magnificent.

“That’s a long name.” Vorik spotted a black dragon in the distance, he and his rider standing atop a rock formation in the middle of the sea, waves crashing around the base.

A few other dragons with riders circled the formation, wings spread wide as they rode the air currents, but they didn’t land. It appeared this would be a private meeting, at least in the beginning.

General Jhiton’s gaze shifted from the burning castle in the distance to Agrevlari’s approach. Muscular arms folded across his chest, stance wide against the wind, and a griffin-fur cloak flapping behind him, Jhiton intimidated most people, but Vorik saw his older brother, the person who’d raised him after their father had died, and he flew closer without concern. Gray flecks in the short black hair at Jhiton’s temple were the only suggestion that he’d seen well over forty years and had been using his twin swords, one belted to either side of his waist, to slay enemies for decades.

When their gazes met, Vorik lifted his bow in the air, a salute and also a signal to indicate success, though he suspected the general had heard all the details. For the beginning of the battle, Jhiton had been there, leading the attack on the castle, the need for vengeance burning in his green eyes. Later, he’d leaped off his dragon and into the courtyard, chasing down specific enemies with his swords, relentless in his desire to slay every moon-marked scion of the royal line.

When Agrevlari alighted atop the jagged rock formation, Vorik hopped down, finding a flat spot on which to land. As always, he gave a wide berth to his brother’s surly black dragon, Ozlemar, who tended to snap at anyone who strayed too close.

“Mission accomplished, eh, General?” Vorik asked, addressing his brother formally, as Jhiton preferred.

“This stage, yes. The battle was glorious, Captain.” Jhiton’s gaze locked with satisfaction on the smoldering castle.

“I’m looking forward to getting my hands on the crops. All those juicy and delicious fruits and vegetables that grow all over the islands, half of them wild and untended, just there for people to feast on, to eat without having to chew a thousand times. Jhiton, it’s been years since I had a strawberry. Remember that battle? When we were lucky enough to find that merchant ship meandering out from under the shield with that most wondrous of bounties in its hold? Oh, and we can hunt with the dragons on Castle Island now. Easy hunting of fat and sumptuous prey. Have you seen the ungulates that wander the grassy hills of the pastures with barely any means to defend themselves? Cows and sheep and balsinor. Their meat is so succulent. I can’t wait. Do you think strawberries are in season now? Do you think one could smother a balsinor tenderloin in berries, and it would be good? I’ve heard of sauces one can make from them. And jams.”

Jhiton gave him a sidelong look. “Only you would go to war for fruit.”

“Well, that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Access to resources that the entitled gardeners have kept from our people for centuries?”

“Resources like strawberries.”

“Apples are good too. I wonder if they’re in season yet. Summer is a ways from over.”

“You know what I want. What we all want.” Jhiton pointed at his chest and at Vorik’s but didn’t indicate the dragons, though they had expressed longing for the delicious ungulates that the shields denied them. But other things motivated dragons, and humans didn’t presume to know all that mattered to them. With their great power, they could compete with their fellow predators and hunt the dangerous prey found in the seas and on the desert and rainforest continents. Unlike the humans living outside of the gods’ protection, dragons didn’t need to worry about losing family members to ferocious predators every time they left their caves. “A better life for our people,” Jhiton added.

Despite their victory, a familiar haunted expression lurked in the general’s eyes.

As always, Vorik was sympathetic—he missed his little nephew and couldn’t imagine what it had been like for his brother to lose his only son—but he also flirted with the idea of pointing out that war wouldn’t bring Jebrosh back. Since Jhiton was, in addition to everything else, his superior officer, Vorik didn’t do that. He merely nodded.

“I have a mission for you.” Jhiton pointed to a blue dragon flying toward them, a female rider on its back.

Captain Lesva from the Moonhunt Tribe.

Vorik straightened, bracing himself for whatever sarcastic comments his rival and former lover would have for him. Despite a few feminine attributes bound tightly by riding leathers, Lesva didn’t have many soft aspects about her. Maybe the general’s presence would inhibit her snark.

Wishful thinking, Agrevlari’s telepathic voice rose up from below, the words for Vorik alone. Her tongue is sharper than her dragon’s talons.

Is her tongue sharper than your talons? Vorik replied silently.

Few humans had the gift of telepathy, so they couldn’t broadcast their thoughts, but dragons never seemed to have trouble reading Vorik’s mind and catching all his words. For dragons bonded to their riders, such communication was particularly easy.

Of course not. My talons are sharper than the lost swords of the gods. I tend them exquisitely to ensure their deadly edge.

Vorik had lost sight of Agrevlari and peered over the side of their perch. Fifty feet below, the magnificent green dragon floated on his back in a pool formed by the curvature of the rock formation and protected from the surging waves, though a few splashes made their way to his belly and agitated the water around him. His eyes were closed, and he looked as content as a mountain lion sprawled on a sunny outcropping.

Is that what you’re doing now? Vorik asked.

Now, I’m letting the surf massage my muscles, which were taxed somewhat by all the twisting and diving I had to do to avoid cannonballs and harpoons, a task that I handled with great aplomb.

Yes, I recall. You flipped upside-down three times despite our previous agreement that you wouldn’t do that when I’m on your back, not unless you let me put a saddle on you.

Though Agrevlari didn’t roll over or otherwise move from his comfortable floating position, he did open one eye to gaze balefully up at Vorik. Only sycophantic lesser dragons allow such undignified contraptions to be buckled around them like chains. As a rider, it behooves you to have strong leg muscles with which to clamp on.

My leg muscles are exquisitely honed. However… I don’t know if you’ve checked yourself out in a mirror lately, but you’re a lot of dragon to clamp onto.

Like all riders, Vorik had to find the minuscule gaps between the scales of his mount to help hang on when a dragon’s flight grew erratic and involved barrel rolls, dives, and exuberant undulations. It was his finger muscles that were exquisite. When he was hanging on that way, he couldn’t fire his bow. Not that he was truly complaining. To be permitted to not only ride but bond with a dragon, and receive some of his power through their magical link, was the most wondrous honor there was.

I am a lot of dragon. Agrevlari sounded smug.

Captain Lesva’s blue dragon, Verikloth, landed on the far edge of the rock formation from the surly black, wings spread to come down lightly. Prematurely silver hair pulled back in a tight braid that accented her prominent cheekbones and jaw, Lesva eyed Vorik before hopping down and saluting General Jhiton.

“I have the information from our spy, sir.” She reported to Jhiton, but she gave Vorik a sidelong look. “I stayed to obtain it, even after I slew two of the Moonmark Clan and helped Verikloth defeat the castle defenders and take down one of its towers.”

The brag was directed at Vorik; he had no doubt.

“You’re an asset to the stormers and a capable officer,” Vorik stated, keeping his expression neutral and tamping down the sarcasm that always wanted to come out when he dealt with her.

When they’d been lovers, he’d delivered insults as often as she, always feeling the need to compete with and defend himself against her. She’d gotten turned on by it, and their verbal sparring had led to sex more often than he could remember. He’d felt more disgruntled than satisfied by the encounters, as if snapping at her hadn’t been honorable, but she’d always seemed to want to fight with him. The sex hadn’t been bad, but he hadn’t found the relationship relaxing. Whether Lesva wanted sex now, he didn’t know, but he’d made a conscious decision, after they’d broken up, to stop being lured in by her bait.

Lesva squinted suspiciously at his comment. “Does that mean that you and your lazy dragon didn’t get any of the Moonmarks?”

Verikloth peered over the edge at Agrevlari, his blue tail going rigid. They were probably also insulting each other. Their relationship was almost as contentious and Lesva and Vorik’s, though Vorik didn’t think they’d ever mated. Agrevlari, when he wasn’t busy tending to his muscles and talon sharpness, always pined for Wreylith.

“We battled many castle and city defenders and helped Lieutenant Navor take out their stockpiles of explosives,” Vorik said.

Fortunately, that was what his orders had been. He’d objected to outright assassinating members of the kingdom’s royal family. Oh, Vorik had no reason to adore the Moonmarks, those ultimately responsible for not allowing the stormers access to their ancestral lands, but he believed in facing opponents in fair and honorable fights, not slipping through the shadows to stab daggers into their hearts from behind.

“That means no, then. Really, Vorik. I don’t know how you got your rank.” Lesva glanced at Jhiton but didn’t do anything to suggest that it might have been nepotism. That would have been insulting to Vorik and his brother. If anything, Jhiton had always worked Vorik harder than anyone else, ensuring he grew up to become a warrior their father would have been proud of. And Vorik, who knew how many enemy ships he’d sunk and duels for rank he’d won over the years, didn’t have any self-doubt. He’d earned his position and knew it. Lesva knew it, too, and was just trying to get a rise from him. Maybe she did feel randy after the battle.

“What did our spy report, Captain?” Jhiton’s tone suggested he didn’t want her to waste more time sniping with Vorik.

“He wasn’t sure where Lieutenant Mavus was, but, as far as he was able to determine, all except one of the royal family is dead.”

“One escaped the attack?”

“She wasn’t at the family gathering, as our spy had predicted. Had she been at the castle, per the royal family’s own plans, we would already have gotten her.”

“Is that the youngest princess?” Jhiton asked. “Syla Moonmark?”

“Yes. Our spy is looking for her. The moon-god temple where she lived and worked was destroyed, and he thinks she may have died inside when it collapsed.”

Vorik blinked, realizing he’d seen that girl. Not in a temple but in a shop in the merchant section of town.

“She’s not dead,” he said. “Well, I’m not actually certain of that. Agrevlari flicked his tail and brought a roof down on her and what was probably her bodyguard. It just wasn’t a temple roof.” Before they’d disappeared under the rubble, he’d glimpsed the bodyguard throw himself onto the princess to protect her. “She’s probably not dead.”

Jhiton flickered an eyebrow at his uncertainty.

“Why didn’t you ensure she was dead?” Lesva asked. “The whole point of this attack was to kill the Moonmarks.”

Vorik shrugged. “The war horn called.”

Lesva gave him a scathing look.

Vorik shrugged again. He’d been half-glad Agrevlari had been the one to take the initiative. He’d known the mission and its goal as well as anyone, and he’d spotted the birthmark on the princess’s hand, but he hadn’t wanted to attack her. On the plump and curvy side, she hadn’t looked like a warrior, especially not when she’d peered up at him through those thick-lensed spectacles. Trying to kill such a weak opponent wouldn’t have been honorable.

“If she’s alive, she has the power to activate the shielder,” Jhiton said.

“It’s been destroyed, hasn’t it?” Vorik asked. “That was Lieutenant Mavus’s mission, right? Why he spent months wooing the older princess?”

“It was his mission,” Jhiton said, “and the shield dropping suggests he completed it, but we won’t know the details until he arrives to report.”

Lesva lifted her chin. “I volunteer to go back for the princess, to find her and kill her.”

Jhiton started to nod but paused and gazed thoughtfully toward the city. “Neither our spies nor Lieutenant Mavus have learned where the shielders on the other islands are. Harvest and Vineyard Islands are the true gems that our people seek to acquire. Not only could the crops there feed all our people, but the dragons seek to hunt prey found only in those sheltered locales. Lieutenant Mavus hoped to unearth a map or instructions on how to reach the shielders on those islands, but, the last I heard, he had not. To truly fulfill our mission and nourish our people for generations to come, we’ll need access to the prime agricultural islands.” Jhiton cocked a somewhat amused eyebrow as he looked at Vorik. “Castle Island isn’t where the majority of the berry patches and orchards are.”

“I do long to stroll through the rows and rows of pear- and apple-filled trees on Harvest Island,” Vorik allowed himself to say wistfully before remembering Lesva’s abrasive presence. He eyed her, expecting more sarcasm.

Surprisingly, she looked wistful too. Maybe it was simply human nature to desire sweet things, a change from the meat, fish, and various fibrous plants and seaweeds the stormers scrounged from the harsh world they lived in.

“From the pictures I’ve seen of the youngest princess,” Jhiton said, “she’s not a threat, not a combatant like her older siblings and the queen were. Reputedly, she’s a healer and uses her hereditary magic for that.”

“I’m sure she can still activate the shielders, sir,” Lesva said.

“I have no doubt of that. But she doesn’t sound like someone capable of rallying a nation or rebuilding a kingdom.”

Lesva snorted. “No, sir. I’ve seen the same pictures. She’s chubby and soft and probably blind, or close to it, without those weird things on her face.” She waved to her eyes. “She would be easy to kill anytime.”

No dragon riders, and very few stormers, had poor vision, so Vorik didn’t know much about what the spectacles implied, but the princess certainly hadn’t had the mien of a warrior. He wouldn’t have called her chubby though. Voluptuous, maybe. She had the kind of curves that a man would enjoy exploring.

“I could go kill her tonight.” Lesva leaned forward. Eager for the assignment, was she? “That would bring my kills of Moonmarks up to three. More than anyone else.” She shot a look of superiority at Vorik.

Jhiton, gazing toward the mainland, didn’t respond to the captain’s offer. “As a direct descendant of the throne, however low she was in her family hierarchy, it’s likely she knows the locations of the rest of the shielders.”

Lesva blinked. “Oh, do you want her captured? To interrogate? I could get that information out of her without trouble.” She flexed her hands in the air, as if demonstrating strangling.

Apparently, she had no qualms about killing—or torturing—a weak opponent. Vorik knew from experience that Lesva liked to challenge herself with duels and athletic competitions against strong adversaries, but she’d never been that bogged down by the need to be honorable. In some of the stormer tribes, that was more ingrained in the psyches of its members than in others.

“Those with the magic of the moon-mark,” Jhiton said, “are as susceptible to pain as anyone, but they can supposedly use their power to lock off their minds and keep from uttering truths when under duress. Reputedly, moon-mark healers even have some power to control the minds of others. Of course, that’s supposed to be only those they’ve healed, but I’ve heard tales of them healing someone who didn’t wish it and didn’t have significant injury, and then gaining sway over them.”

“Like when we were young and that spy got information from one of our people?” Vorik asked.

Jhiton nodded. “Exactly like that. I’m surprised you were old enough to remember, but the healer treated our chieftess after a battle, and then she, for weeks afterward, wanted to be with him. To please him. In bed and elsewhere. Even though she had a mate back home.”

“It would be easy enough to keep a soft princess from using her magic on me.” Captain Lesva patted her sheathed sword.

Jhiton’s thoughtful gaze swung toward Vorik. “I believe… I have another idea.”

Vorik raised his eyebrows.

“Captain Lesva,” Jhiton said, “I do not want the princess slain at this time. You did excellent work today, though, and I’m making note of your dedication to your duty. The Storm Guard and Sixteen Talons will combine to host a great celebration once we finish here and return to the caves. For now, you’re dismissed.”

Lesva opened her mouth, as if she might object, or request again to add a third Moonmark kill to her list, but Jhiton’s eyes closed to slits in a silent warning. He was a powerful warrior, and Lesva had never challenged him in practice or in truth. Vorik, who’d sparred often with his brother, wouldn’t have challenged him either. Even among the sometimes-reckless riders, few were that suicidal.

“Yes, sir.” Lesva bowed to Jhiton, then headed toward her dragon, managing to pick a path that let her swat Vorik on the butt in passing. The smile she gave him before mounting managed to be superior, snarky, and inviting all at once.

“Guess that answers my question about if she still wants to have sex,” Vorik muttered.

“A brazen woman,” Jhiton stated as Lesva flew off.

Despite the somewhat approving tone accompanying his words, he didn’t gaze after her or appear sexually interested. As far as Vorik knew, his brother hadn’t taken another lover since he and his previous life mate had parted after their son’s death.

“She is that,” was all Vorik said. “What’s your plan?”

“You are my plan.”

“I know you don’t want me to capture and interrogate the princess.”

Actually, Vorik didn’t know that, but he’d made his feelings on honor clear over the years and doubted Jhiton would send him on such a mission when there were others more willing. He hoped Jhiton wouldn’t. Ultimately, Vorik’s loyalty was to the tribes and the Sixteen Talons, and he’d long ago sworn to obey his commanding officers, so he had to do what they wished. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been forced into something distasteful.

“If your reputation is to be believed—” Jhiton waved toward Lesva’s receding form, “—you wouldn’t need to interrogate a woman to get information out of her.”

“Well. I guess I have been known to have them burble involuntary details while in the throes of passion.”

“Even gardener women.” Jhiton’s eyes narrowed with judgment, even if he didn’t say more.

“From time to time, yes.” Vorik shrugged, not caring to explain that he sometimes liked a woman who wasn’t a warrior, who had more soft parts than hard parts and who rarely wrestled for dominance with him under the furs.

“I’ve seen your face draw tribeswomen of all kinds. Even of all ages. The grandmothers flirt with you.”

“It’s my devastating smile. Grammies can’t resist it. You’d get more of the same kind of attention if you hadn’t allowed yourself to be so scarred up and uglified over the years.” Vorik smirked. He would never tease his older brother in front of the troops, but he couldn’t always resist when they were alone. They’d both teased each other when they’d been younger, before Father had died and Jhiton had gotten so serious.

“Does your dragon appreciate your wit?”

“Yeah, it’s what drew him to me.”

I was drawn because you fed me delicious smoked salmon and read poems to me while I ate. Even from far below, Agrevlari was apparently following the conversation. One sometimes wondered how keen dragon ears were.

They were the lyrics of a manly ballad I was composing, not poems. You know we’re an oral people, and songs are how we pass down history and lessons.

It was a ballad about the might and magnificence of dragons. I approved.

Of course you did.

You remarked on my grace in the sky and the speed with which I can swiftly descend to annihilate my enemies.

I didn’t realize you’d memorized the lyrics.

Impressive, yes? You don’t sing it to me nearly often enough. Your human voice lacks the appealing screech of a dragon vocalization, but I’ve over the years grown to find it less distasteful than the voices of many of your kind.

What expression Vorik wore, he didn’t know, but his brother raised his eyebrows. “Is your dragon being snarky with you?”

“Usually, yes. Though that may have been a compliment. What exactly do you want me to do with the Moonmark princess?” Vorik already had an inkling and had conflicted feelings about it. “Seduce her?”

It was hard to imagine seducing a woman when he’d just partaken in an attack on her people. No, not only her people. They’d been targeting the princess’s mother and siblings specifically. If she’d been at the castle, she would be as dead as her kin. Knowing that, how could Vorik make a pass at her?

Oh, he was sure he could manage the sexual interest—the glimpse he’d caught of her had included appealing curves, lush auburn hair, and a cute face, but after what he and his people had done, he couldn’t imagine luring her under his furs.

“Find the princess and win her trust,” Jhiton said, oblivious to Vorik’s contemplations. “Tell her you’re one of the Freeborn Faction.” He sneered at the mention of the former stormers who’d left the tribes to supposedly find a peaceful future with the Garden Kingdom. “Promise to protect her from dragon-rider assassins. After you’ve gained her trust, get the information about the other shielders from her. I want their locations. All of them.”

“I’m sure her deepest family secrets will come up during our first post-coital chat.”

Jhiton’s eyelids drooped, no humor on his face. “As the sole remaining member of the royal family, she should feel obligated to protect her people. I suspect she’ll realize they should remove one of the shielders guarding a less populated island—nearby Harvest Island, perhaps—and bring it back to the capital to restore a barrier on Castle Island.”

“Will that work?”

“It might. All that matters is that she thinks it will and takes action. In the process, she can lead you to another shielder. If she doesn’t come up with the idea on her own… perhaps you can encourage it.”

“Perhaps she will know exactly who I am and not trust me in the least.”

“Your face isn’t as well-known as mine.”

Vorik thought of his brief view of the princess—and the sturdy old warrior who’d stood beside her. “I’m certain the bodyguard recognized me. He’ll have told her.”

“Even trusted officers can leave and join that faction.” Another sneer promised that Jhiton hadn’t forgiven the lieutenant who’d done exactly that the winter before. “And perhaps, we…” Jhiton gripped Vorik’s shoulder. “Perhaps we have recently had a falling out.”

“It’s against the stormer code to fall out with the brother who raised you after your father died.”

Jhiton smiled sadly and turned the grip into a friendly pat before releasing Vorik. “Had he not been weakened from a lack of food during the famine year, he wouldn’t have fallen so easily to disease. Even the dragons suffered that winter.”

“I well remember being hungry.”

“Our people are often hungry. Think of gardener root cellars stuffed with apples and carrots as you befriend the princess and win her trust.”

Vorik couldn’t manage a faithful smile at the thought. He wished farms and orchards were easier to start and maintain elsewhere in the world, but even in the areas where the soil was hospitable enough, deadly predators sprang at anyone who attempted to set up agriculture, and pest animals and insects razed the crops, as hungry as humans for food on the harsh continents. Only the Garden Kingdom’s islands were protected enough and in a suitable enough climate to foster lush farms and orchards. It didn’t hurt that the earth god had supposedly added enriching magic to the soil before leaving the mortal world, a reparation to humanity for letting the mad storm god unleash his deadly creations.

“It is through shared struggles and overcoming adversity that bonds are forged.” Jhiton nodded to himself. “I’ll help convince her that you and I have had a falling out.”

“How?”

“Keep your sword and bow at the ready.”

Vorik sighed, imagining his brother sending fake assassins—or maybe real assassins—after the princess. After both of them. Might he even tell Captain Lesva that Vorik had joined the Freeborn Faction and was to be dealt with? The notion was troubling, but the thought of battles didn’t bother Vorik as much as something else.

“I don’t care to lie even to enemies,” Vorik said, aware of his brother’s intent gaze upon him.

Jhiton hadn’t yet made this a direct order. Thus far, it felt more like they were brainstorming a possible plan. That made Vorik feel he might have leeway to suggest something else. But what else might work? If Lieutenant Mavus and the rest of the spies hadn’t learned the locations of the other shielders, who but the only remaining direct Moonmark heir would know?

“It isn’t honorable,” Vorik added quietly.

“I know. I once felt the same as you about honor, but, whether for good or ill, desperation allows a man to bend his compliance to the rider code. I’ve had visions about our people and the future. The world is changing, the winters growing longer and harsher, the summers drier. A famine year, like the one that took our father, will come again. Many more times. We must do this for the future of our people.” Jhiton softened his voice, the words barely audible over the roar of the sea. “We must do it for the memory of Jebrosh, for all the other children in the tribes and the survival of our people.”

Vorik closed his eyes. “Are you making this an order?”

“I must, Captain. Find the princess, win her trust, and get her to tell you the locations of the shielders. You needn’t destroy any of them yourself—she would find that suspicious and not fall for it more than once. Just find out where they are. I’ll send in people afterward to handle the destruction.”

“And if I fail?” Vorik would do what he was ordered, as he always did, but he doubted it would be as easy to win the trust of the princess. A handsome smile could only get a man so far with a woman.

“Then Captain Lesva can try her idea. One way or another, we will complete this mission. We’ll change the future of our people forever.” Jhiton’s eyes narrowed. “Agreed?”

Vorik nodded. “Yes, General.”

~

To continue on, please pick up the novel. Thanks for your interest in the Fire and Fang series. 🙂