A man ran a saber through the stomach of another, blood turning the amber sand to deep red. The man whirled, scarlet drops flying from his blade and slashed an arm, a chest, a face. Men, only men. Fierce, desperate, sabers flashing in the sun, until they were stained so red, they were too dull to flash. No cries, no yells or moans marked this battle. Feet muffled by sand, they fought with precision and uncanny silence, as if they were afraid of being heard. Only grunts and clashing blades scarred the stifling air, the strange silence as oppressive as the heat.
A man fell, throat slashed, his blood gurgling as his eyes turned lifeless.
Still on his belly, Roberto retreated down the dune, leaving a deep furrow. Curse this sand. He’d be easy to track. Scrambling to his feet, he turned to flee—and came face to face with two men with red headdresses whose white clothes were splattered with blood.
A grin flashed white in a dark weathered face. An instant later, a bloody saber was at Roberto’s neck, its tip sharp against his skin.
He was their enemy. No sudden moves. Roberto edged his hand down his leg toward the blade hidden in his boot.
The pressure of the saber on his neck increased.
The other man flicked his sword across Roberto’s fingers. Blood welled up across his stinging knuckles.
In a hiss of sand behind him, a shower of particles tumbled down the slope. Orange-clad camel riders were racing down the dune.
Shock registered on his captors’ faces. One lunged at Roberto, sword slashing.
The pain was instant, blooming across his gut like a jellyfish unfurling thousands of stingers. Clutching his torso, he looked down. His clothes were sliced straight through, his guts spilling out of his broken flesh. He sunk to the sand, grasping at the edges of the wound, trying to hold the contents of his stomach together.
His gut rippled with fire. Lights ricocheted through his head. It was no use. In this blasted sun, his insides would dry out and disintegrate, as fragile as the crust of paper round the rim of a rice pot.
“Ezaara!” He’d never see her again.
Zaarusha
Zaarusha was wroth. That fanged Ezaara had risked the kingdom for infatuation. That silly volatile new rider. She roared, sending a sprinkling of shale tumbling down the mountainside. Undignified and irresponsible behavior for a queen, but she didn’t care. Her rider was gone.
Gone. After eighteen years of waiting.
After loss and despair and deceit. Right when Zens was marshaling his armies.
Liesar alighted on the lip of Zaarusha’s den and bowed her silver neck, her snout nearly scraping the ground.
“The Queen’s Rider is gone.” Zaarusha knew the wave of despair she’d sent to Liesar would have left a lesser dragon cowering. But that’s why she’d summoned Liesar. Not Ajeuria the Sly or Antonika the Stealthy, but Liesar the Strong. Liesar who’d arrived home last night with a sick girl from Lush Valley.
“I know,” was Liesar’s reply. “Erob melded with me as I was flying here and he was going south.”
“Erob told you, but deceived his own mother!” Zaarusha snarled, blasting Liesar with a gust of fire.
Liesar stood solid, immovable, silver scales reflecting the flames. “Yes, me. When you were enraged and would’ve killed Marlies, all those years ago, I ferried her away to Lush Valley to protect her lineage. I guessed correctly that your dragonet had passed his life force to her.”
“Don’t remind me of your traitorous actions.”
“Traitor or savior?” Liesar’s turquoise eyes regarded Zaarusha. “There are many facets to our actions, My Queen. My actions provided you with a Queen’s Rider of exceptional capability, a rider as good as Anakisha herself.”
“A rider who has fled after her lover—a traitor!” Zaarusha snarled, bunching her legs to pounce.
Liesar bowed her head, now submissive. That was better, the way a subject should treat a queen.
“Shall we hunt them down and kill them?” Liesar asked. “Roberto, Ezaara—and Erob too? Would that avenge your wroth? Would that appease My Queen?”
Zaarusha froze.
“Or would you rather listen to reason?”
Motionless, Zaarusha watched Liesar, feeling the timbre of her mind as she relayed Erob’s message.
“Tell My Queen and mother that I honor her and love her.” A wave of love flooded Zaarusha’s chest. That was Erob, loyal and true. “Tell her Roberto is innocent, that he lied to save the Honored Queen’s Rider, Ezaara, and that she fled to find him. There’s a traitor at Dragons’ Hold, but it’s not Roberto or Ezaara. Someone is plotting to undo the realm. Someone who doesn’t want Anakisha’s prophecy to come true.”
As much as she hated to admit she was wrong, Erob’s words rang true. “Why should I listen to his message?” Zaarusha scoffed, but the heat had gone out of her words. It was all bluster.
Liesar, now grinning, knew it too.
The queen changed her stance, airing her wings. “Let’s hunt down this traitor before they do any more damage.”
There was a rap at Ezaara’s door and the pounding of hurrying feet in Ezaara’s cavern.
Adelina burst into Zaarusha’s den. “My Honored Queen, Master Jaevin is dead!”
Silent Assassins
Ezaara winced. “No, Erob, we can’t return without Roberto.”
“It’s been days. We need more food,” Erob insisted, flapping his wings, his shadow rippling over the wind-streaked orange below. “Unless we find a food source here, we’ll have to return to Naobia for supplies. We’re no use to Roberto dead.”
“It’ll take two days to fly to Naobia and back here. Anything could happen to Roberto in that time.” Shards, they couldn’t leave yet, not without him. Panic gnawed at Ezaara’s gut. He’d die.
“Ezaara, don’t despair. We have to eat. We’re useless to him dead.”
“And he’s useless to us dead too!” she snapped.
Erob was silent, his slowing wingbeats speaking for him. Days
