The first in my new (semi) cozy fantasy series is ready to roll. Calculated Whisk may have a few more dragon attacks than the typical cozy, and a touch of adult humor (nothing graphic), but there aren’t any deaths, and there isn’t much violence (especially considering the dragon attacks!). It’s a light-hearted, banter-filled adventure in a city that embraces peace. Actually, it enforces it. With magic, golems, and customs that all shall abide by if they want to enjoy the comforts and culture of a home where all races are welcome.

The first in a series, with each novel standing alone, Calculated Whisk comes out on Amazon in ebook and paperback format this Tuesday. The audiobook is also in the works.

Here’s the blurb:

The Dragon Diner: Bookkeeper Wanted.

After a lifetime as a mercenary and years of war, Rylana seeks a peaceful new career, and this job looks perfect. What could be calmer and more relaxing than crunching numbers while delightful scents waft from a professional kitchen?

There’s just one problem. The Dragon Diner is run by a real dragon, one she shot with an arrow during the war. And, oh yes, he remembers her.

This might not be the relaxing new start to life that Rylana envisioned.

If you’re ready to order (it’ll also be in Kindle Unlimited for the first year), here are the links:

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

Preview Chapters

Chapter 1

The Dragon Diner: Bookkeeper Wanted.

“Finally, someone is hiring.” Rylana “Falcon” Avandar reached toward the door, a ferocious dragon artistically burned into the wood.

Sylin’s firm hand landed on her wrist. The slender elf assassin possessed far more strength than one would guess, and the grip halted Rylana as surely as shackles.

“You are an archer for the Moon Daggers, one of the most well-known mercenary bands in the southern kingdoms,” Sylin said. “Enemies run for cover when they see you on the battlefield with your bow, and even dragons speak warily of you since they’ve felt the sting of your arrows. They speak warily of you while they plot your demise. What are you thinking?”

“I was an archer for the now-disbanded Moon Daggers. You of all people know the Ore War is over, the unit has dispersed, and Captain Maverick is gone.” Rylana’s throat tightened as she said the last, Mav’s irreverent smirk floating through her mind. Nine months of traveling the world and trying to forget the past hadn’t been long enough. “Besides, I’m qualified to be a bookkeeper. When I wasn’t busy perforating enemies with arrows, I handled payroll and the ordering of supplies for five hundred people. I’m sure I can run the calculations for a diner. This one doesn’t even look that busy.” Rylana peered through the window beside the door.

“It’s not your pen-wielding ability that I question; it’s your intent to walk into an establishment owned by a dragon.” Sylin released her grip and tucked a lock of her forest-green hair behind her pointed ear, though her frank blue eyes remained on Rylana. “That would be even more foolish than me visiting the elven enclave while we’re here.”

“I’m sure the diner isn’t owned by a dragon.”

Sylin pointed at the pyrography on the door.

“I’ll wager two gold coins that a human owns this and put dragon in the diner’s name because it might draw more business. Or he or she liked alliteration. The place also might specialize in meat dishes, the kind carnivorous animals, humans, and crazy elves who were raised by wolves like to eat.”

“Hilarious. As if I’m the crazy one here, the one contemplating applying for a position under one of the great scaled, winged, and fanged enemies that we were paid to battle in the war. Also, meat is delicious. Especially slow-roasted northern elk or herb-crusted star-darter tenderloin.”

“Not according to your vegetarian elven kin. I assume your culinary preferences are the reason you won’t be visiting the enclave and that it has nothing to do with the fact that elves were allies to the dragons in the Ore War—and that you killed even more of them than I did.”

Rylana spoke of their triumphs without pride. Had they even been triumphs? Years ago, she had been pleased by the development of her skills and rising in the ranks as a mercenary. But as she’d gotten older, losing comrade after comrade, the unit often being forced to obey dubious orders, she’d started questioning if they had been doing the right thing.

“I am certain of that. You know the old saying: in the depths of night, a single blade may cut a thousand throats.” Sylin, who always noticed everything, turned as two goblins approached.

Only a block away from the busy Luminous Lake docks, the shop-lined cobblestone street held many passersby, most minding their own business, but the pair of three-and-a-half-foot-tall, green-skinned males were whispering to each other and pointing at them. No, judging by the lewd gesture that one drew in the air, they were pointing at Sylin. She always attracted more male gazes—species regardless—when she and Rylana were together.

With her own feminine curves and reasonable facial appeal, Rylana wasn’t usually ignored by men when she traveled with a less striking companion, but as a mere human, she didn’t star in their fantasies the way Sylin did. That was fine with Rylana since she was one who chose companions infrequently and with care. Today, with her short black hair in need of a washing and her trousers and tunic travel-stained, she doubted she would interest even a horny goblin.

“Do you think they’d like to zerg with us?” one of the males asked, drawing close enough that their conversation was audible.

“When has a beautiful elf ever zerged with you?” his companion asked.

“In my dreams every single night. Sometimes many times a night.” The speaker hurried forward, beaming a smile at Sylin, his wispy white hair sticking out in all directions like a dandelion gone to seed. “Beautiful elven maiden, I was wondering if—”

Sylin drew a knife so quickly that Rylana almost missed it. Sylin flipped it casually up and down at the level of the goblin’s face. It was her utility knife, not one of the various blades she used in her profession. Those were in a wooden case in her backpack, tied with a magical red “tranquility” ribbon, courtesy of the peacekeepers who’d searched them before allowing them entrance into the city. A similar ribbon was tied on Rylana’s sword scabbard and around her bow and the arrows in her quiver. If anyone tried to remove the knots, the peacekeepers would be alerted, and golems would charge into the streets to deal with the infraction.

The goblin halted midstep and midsentence, his yellow eyes transfixed on the flipping blade. “I was wondering if you might have been going in to eat the special soup at this establishment.”

“The special soup?” Rylana asked.

If that was what the diner was known for, there definitely wasn’t a dragon inside.

“Yes, the magical spices that the chef uses… Well, they’re known to put most species in the mood to, ah…” The goblin looked toward his comrade.

His buddy, who didn’t appear daunted by the knife flipping, made pumping motions with his hips. “To zerg. You know the word?”

“Everyone knows that goblin word,” Rylana said dryly.

“Elves are immune to such substances,” Sylin said, “but why would a chef use magical spices in the food?”

“Who knows what motivates dragons?” The goblins stepped back from Sylin and looked across the street, one saying, “Let’s see if our cake is ready for Vardok’s stag party on the docks tonight.”

The pair darted between a horse-drawn carriage and a self-ambulating wagon, a glowing yellow controller embedded in the front guiding it to its destination. A grandmotherly dwarf in an apron opened the front door of a bakery with a sign that promised delicious custom goods for all needs, naughty or nice, no questions asked. The goblins trotted inside.

“I’d forgotten what an interesting part of Tranquility this is,” Rylana observed.

“I told you there was a dragon.” Sylin pointed to a tea and coffee shop next to the bakery, a steaming cup painted on its wooden sign. “Why don’t you inquire about employment there?”

“Retiring to work at a coffee shop is your dream not mine.” Of course, Rylana was almost as much of a fan of a heady dose of fresh brew as Sylin, and she smiled at a memory that arose. She’d first become the bookkeeper for the Moon Daggers—and registered to Captain Maverick’s awareness as more than a nameless archer in Fleet Foot Squad—when she’d had a fit because the company had been out of coffee. He’d said that if she was that concerned about the status of luxury goods, she could take over the position of supply officer. He’d been surprised when she’d gleefully agreed. Never again had the company been without such an important substance.

“I think it might be a bookstore too.” Sylin pointed at tome-filled cases behind a table visible through the window, then rested her knife across her heart and sighed. “I’m going to investigate.”

“And apply for a job?”

“I would be bored serving coffee. Even traveling has felt mundane without any challenges to occupy my mind and force me to keep my skills honed.”

“As a barista, you might get the opportunity to slap away handsy men.”

“That’s not challenging. And it’s the epitome of mundane.”

“Well, for my sake, ask if they’re hiring.”

Rylana had already inquired at more than twenty establishments and found that nobody was. In the aftermath of the Ore War, a lot of former soldiers had come to Tranquility, the city that welcomed all, as long as they obeyed the laws of the new god that required all intelligent species to exist in peace. Since Rylana and Sylin had taken a roundabout route here, those who’d arrived earlier had acquired all the available jobs and also filled the temporary lodgings, something else Rylana’s inquiries had revealed. When she and Sylin had decided to come to Tranquility, it hadn’t occurred to them that there wouldn’t be work or a place to stay.

Sylin turned back to the door, standing shoulder to shoulder with Rylana. “I won’t let you face a dragon alone.”

“I still don’t believe there’s a real dragon. They’re not allowed to live in their native form in Tranquility because their fangs and claws are too dangerous—not to mention their magic. The gnome peacekeepers can’t tie a knot on a dragon’s ability to breathe fire.”

“It would be amusing to see a three-foot-tall gnome attempt to fasten a ribbon around one of those long scaled necks.”

Sylin reached for the door again—nobody had gone in or out in the time they’d stood in front of it, so it definitely wasn’t busy.

“Be careful in there,” came a woman’s call from behind. It was the apron-wearing gray-haired dwarf who’d let the goblins in. She now held a tray filled with miniature cupcakes. “With your beauty, if any of the male patrons have been imbibing the soup, they might try to force a mating on you. Cupcake?” She smiled and held up the tray.

“I assume she’s talking to you,” Rylana murmured.

“You’re more trusting than I and likely to take a sweet from a stranger,” Sylin said.

“I meant about the beauty.”

“You’ll want to watch out for the dragon too,” the dwarf added, her gaze squarely on Rylana now. “He doesn’t take kindly to human soldiers, and you’ve the look of one.” Cupcake in hand, she gestured toward the chain mail shirt visible under Rylana’s tunic, the bow and quiver, and the combat boots that had seen a lot of use in the dragon-filled mountains that rose out of the mists of the southern jungles.

“See, there is a dragon.” Sylin nodded, as if she’d known for certain all along. Maybe she had. Elves had more ability than humans did to sense the magical, and dragons, with their ability to fly, breathe fire, and shape-shift into other forms, were definitely that.

“He’s the chef,” the dwarf added, then popped the cupcake into her mouth. “I really must stop eating so many of the samples,” she murmured to herself, then went inside.

Rylana faced the diner’s dragon door again, but all the warnings were succeeding in making her believe this establishment would be best avoided. She still had a few coins. She didn’t need a job immediately. Just… soon.

“There have to be alternatives. Didn’t you say your wealthy family lives across the lake here?” Sylin waved toward the west where, opposite of the city core that sprawled along the eastern side of the lake, ancient castles that had been turned into manors of wealthy families stood along the shoreline, each on sprawling acreages overlooking the water.

“I’m not asking the father I haven’t seen or even written to in seventeen years for money.”

“Didn’t he offer you a job in the family business once?”

“He tried to force me into that job after torturing my brother and me with ten stifling years of nonstop tutoring and testing. If my lute teacher hadn’t let me sneak out into the woods to practice with the neighbor’s bow, I could have gone insane.” Rylana didn’t mention the worst part, that her father had tried to arrange a marriage for her to a socially acceptable landowner whose family also had an estate on the banks of the lake. That had been what had ultimately prompted her to flee the city and become a mercenary in a far-off land. “You’re lucky you were an orphan, Sylin.”

“Oh, yes, all orphans are thankful every day that they weren’t born into wealthy families where missed meals were nonexistent.”

“I bet the wolves didn’t make you learn the lute.” Brimming with determination, Rylana thrust open the door.

So what if there was a dragon? If he was hiring bookkeepers, she was a bookkeeper.

Rylana stepped inside to the most wondrous of smells. Was that bacon? With a hint of sweetness like maple? The scent wafted through a tidy dining room with not a speck of food or grime on the tile floors. Illuminated by daylight flowing through the windows, the back half was further brightened by lamps and sconces adorned with paper-thin wooden shades that had been burned with the same dragon logo that was on the door.

Despite the sumptuous scents, only two booths were occupied, one by a man eating skewers of meat while reading a newspaper, the other by an amorous university-age couple, the girl sitting in the guy’s lap as they giggled over bowls of stew. Or maybe that was the soup the goblins had warned them of. The other booths and a dozen or so stools at an empty bar in the back were unoccupied. A hallway beside it led toward a swinging kitchen door, what might have been an office opposite it, and to what looked like a large supply room taking up the back half of the building.

A pale-skinned gnome with shaggy black hair, bare feet, and wearing an apron sat cross-legged in a corner of the dining room, next to a toolbox and a knee-high mechanical contraption, a panel open in its side. Busy tinkering, the gnome didn’t acknowledge Rylana’s entrance. Nobody did, certainly not the giggling couple.

Since the gnome looked like he worked in the diner, Rylana started toward him, but the kitchen door swung open first. A handsome man as tidy as the dining room walked out in black trousers, an apron, and a crisp cream-colored shirt with the sleeves evenly rolled up to reveal muscled forearms. He had short silver hair, emerald-green eyes, bronze skin, and radiated power even though he was carrying a tray, not unlike the dwarf baker across the street. Instead of cupcakes, his held a plate of sliced meat under a precise dollop of gravy and surrounded by cubes of beautifully colored vegetables.

It had been a long time since breakfast, and Rylana’s mouth would have watered, but she was promptly struck by there being something familiar about the man. No, that was undoubtedly a dragon shape-shifted into human form. There was a scar beside his right eye that stretched back into his hairline, and when his emerald eyes locked onto her, Rylana rocked back. She’d met him before. She was sure of it.

The dragon in human form roared and lifted the tray, as if he might hurl it at her—or against the wall in a fit of rage—but he caught himself and instead set it on the bar before springing toward her.

Rylana slung her pack and her weapons off her shoulder as she rushed back outside where she would have more room to maneuver. But the cursed tranquility ribbon kept her from drawing an arrow. The presumptuous magic even zapped her when she tried to pull one from her quiver. Furious, she threw her bow and quiver to the ground and pulled out her utility knife, the only blade the peacekeepers hadn’t tied.

“Problem?” Sylin, who’d waited in the street, asked calmly.

“I’ve met that dragon before.” Rylana backed farther, surprised he hadn’t yet charged out after her.

A roar sounded again, not the vocalization that might come from a man’s throat but the thunderous heart-rattling roar of a real dragon. It came not from the front room of the diner but the alley behind it.

“You met him?” Sylin asked. “Or one of your arrows met him?”

“I think he got a real personal introduction to the contents of my quiver, yes.”

As Rylana crouched with her knife, a shadow fell over them. Scrapes came from the rooftop of the diner—talons gripping the gutters. A huge silver dragon with great muscles bunching under sleek scales glared down at her, and his fang-filled maw opened, saliva glistening on teeth like daggers. No, like swords.

Rylana looked down at the ridiculously small weapon she held. Her knife wouldn’t even scratch one of the dragon’s scales.

“I’m dead.”

Chapter 2

Alarms gonged as the dragon leaped from the rooftop and onto the street, roaring again as his emerald eyes locked onto Rylana. She had no trouble reading the intent to kill in them. He crouched, not able to spread his wings fully because of the storefronts on either side of the street, but nothing impeded his legs, the powerful muscles that would let him spring at her.

Before the man had changed into a dragon, he’d seemed familiar, but now that he stood before Rylana in his natural form, she remembered seeing him before. She remembered shooting him before. It had been from a high perch above a mountain valley while human, orc, and dwarven soldiers had battled against elves and dragons on the battlefield below.

Eyes ablaze, the dragon roared again, drowning out the gongs coming from a pillar in a nearby intersection, and she knew he remembered her too. He opened his maw wider, and all the passersby that had been in the street scattered. Drivers of wagons abandoned them, rushing into doorways or alleys.

Rylana backed farther away, glancing around a corner and toward one of those alleys. She turned and sprinted toward it, and none too soon. Flames roiled from the back of the dragon’s throat, spraying the cobblestones where she’d stood. The brilliant light and intense heat followed her into the alley.

She would have sprinted for the end, hoping to lose the dragon in the city, but an authoritative call of, “Halt, dragon!” came from the other side of the diner.

More alarms gonged from pillars in other intersections throughout the area. Soon, the entire city would know about this.

The order to stop didn’t keep the dragon from stomping to the entrance of the alley. His long silver neck snaked around the corner, his eyes focusing again on Rylana as he once more opened his maw.

She threw her knife at one of those emerald eyes, then sprinted toward the end of the alley. The dragon turned his head to avoid what would have been a precise strike at her target, and the blade glanced off his scaled cheek. As she’d feared, unlike the mithril-headed arrows she’d loosed on the battlefield, the simple steel blade didn’t even scratch him. All it did was piss him off. Further.

The dragon roared again. He was too large to rush into the alley, but he crouched, probably to spring over it and land on the street one block over.

But a magical net flew at him from the side, the strands sizzling as they touched his flank and stuck to him. Two twelve-foot-tall golems strode into the alley from the opposite end, their brownish-gray bodies appearing to be made from stone, but magic making them far more impervious. Three-foot-tall gnomes in gray peacekeeper uniforms and armed with stun sticks and net hurlers gathered behind the golems, commanding them to stride past Rylana and toward the dragon. He’d paused in his attack to snarl to the side at whoever had hurled the net. More peacekeepers, presumably.

In most of the world, nobody would consider the diminutive gnomes, no taller than a goblin and less muscular, suitable for law enforcement, but here, in this city that they’d made with the help of the new god, everyone knew they had the magical wherewithal—and the divine blessing—to ensure people obeyed the laws.

“Halt, dragon!” someone called from the street again.

More golems appeared on either side of his netted flanks.

“You are in violation of the laws of Tranquility. If you do not immediately change into a benign form, we will force you out of the city and close your establishment.”

The dragon seethed, tail rigid and muscles taut. Would he have the power or be able to use his fire to destroy the net that covered him?

Perhaps, but, at the gnomes’ threat, he looked toward the diner, and he didn’t try. Smoke wafted from his nostrils when he glowered back into the alley at Rylana, showing his fangs again before closing his maw. But in the end, surrounded by peacekeepers and their golems, the dragon shifted forms, the air rippling around him like a mirage in the desert.

Once more, he stood as a man, his short silver hair now tousled and his clothing rucked and wrinkled. He plucked at the netting, grimacing as it sizzled and probably zapped him the way the ribbon had Rylana, but he focused on removing it instead of looking at the golems and gnomes that had encircled him. The golems were expressionless, as always, mere automatons doing their duties, but the gnomes looked sternly at the dragon, and one stepped forward to address him.

Rylana thought about slipping away, especially since the peacekeepers might take issue with her having thrown a knife, but she risked creeping forward. Maybe she could retrieve the blade from the cobblestones where it had landed before anyone noticed it.

“Jildarin-grozanarav,” the head gnome said.

Was that the dragon’s name? Even though Rylana had battled him, she’d never known it. It did sound familiar, like he might have been one of the generals or clan leaders during the war. Such important beings had been mentioned in the orders and reports that had come down from the kingdom militaries. What in either hell was he now doing here in Tranquility running a diner?

“I am Patrol Captain Dindarik, and you are in violation of Tranquility law. You’ve changed into your dangerous native form outside of your lair, something that is expressly forbidden. Have any been injured or slain?” The gnome peered into the alley and also toward the storefronts and wagons, one of which was in flames. “I see that goods have been damaged. At the least, there will be a fine.”

The dragon—Jildarin—sighed and looked at Rylana, curling a lip when she picked up her knife. Sylin appeared, stepping past a couple of gnomes to peer into the alley. Her wooden case of daggers was in hand, but she must have seen the peacekeepers and golems approaching, because she hadn’t tried to break the tranquility ribbon tying it closed.

Rylana waved that she was all right.

The patrol captain pulled a mechanical device out of a pocket and started tapping on a button. It glowed with his touches and whirred softly. As the dragon finished extricating himself from the netting, a paper spat out from a slot in the top of the device.

“This is an official warning. Should you change into your dragon form again on public streets, you will be forced to leave the city. At the bottom, you will see a fine listed for your infraction. You may pay it at Peacekeeper Headquarters. The address is listed at the bottom.” Captain Dindarik handed the paper to the dragon, who accepted it with another lip curl, but, after looking at his diner again, he didn’t object.

Maybe it was strange, since the dragon had tried to kill her scant moments earlier, but Rylana felt a twinge of sympathy toward him. After all, he was only being fined because he’d reacted strongly to her arrival.

“As you were warned when you entered the city,” the patrol captain added, “such behavior is not tolerated within Tranquility’s borders or near Luminous Lake’s shorelines. Should you wish to hunt in your native form, you must first leave the city.” Dindarik looked at Rylana to address her. “Given the nature of the incident, and your obvious need to defend yourself, you will not be warned or fined at this time for hurling a blade with the intent to harm.”

Rylana had already sheathed the knife and lifted her open hands, resisting the urge to say something snarky. Sylin had disappeared from view again. Had the peacekeepers frowned at her for pulling out her knife case?

When the golems and their gnome handlers departed, the gong noises finally fading, Jildarin glared at her. Rylana tensed. She didn’t think he would attack again, probably more because he didn’t want to lose his diner than because he cared about fines—though he did glare down at the paper, the tendons of his hands taut, as if he was tempted to ball it up and throw it away. Instead, he smoothed it, folded it once, and tucked it into a pocket. He also smoothed his clothes as he resumed glaring at Rylana.

“What do you want, foul enemy? To attempt to slay me again? The gnomes will not permit that, any more than they will allow me to kill you. Regretfully.”

“My name is Rylana, and I came to apply for the position of bookkeeper at the Dragon Diner.”

As he stared at her, his jaw slack with disbelief, Sylin appeared again, stepping into the alley to stand at Rylana’s shoulder. The support would have meant more if Sylin hadn’t been holding a paper cup with coffee inside, as if she’d wandered off in the middle of the chaos to place an order.

“You are not hired,” Jildarin stated and walked out of view and back toward his diner.

“Are you sure working for your father isn’t an option?” Sylin sipped from her cup.

“Yes.” Rylana raised her eyebrows as Sylin smacked her lips in some assessment of the brew.

“Now that he’s changed back into a man, a lot of people have flowed out into the street to watch,” Sylin said. “The coffee shop owners and the bakery dwarf are taking this opportunity to hand out free samples. This is surprisingly good, all things considered.”

“All things considered? Did you think the presence of a dragon or me nearly being incinerated would affect the flavor?”

“No, but I didn’t expect a quality beverage to be foisted on me by a street peddler.”

“Was it foisted on you, or did you rush over to get it as soon as you smelled coffee? I’ll bet you were first in line for that sample.”

“I was second in line,” Sylin said, sipping again, “behind the fast-moving goblins who’d just exited the bakery with a cake box, a hole snipped out on the top so that a rather erect and large… zerg stick could protrude. You’re fortunate that dragon isn’t interested in hiring you. I can’t imagine the indignity of working at an establishment where the food has strange aphrodisiacal qualities that prompt the libidinous diners to order pornographic cakes from the bakery across the street.”

“I don’t think anatomically-shaped baked goods quite qualify as pornography.”

“You didn’t see the size of the zerg stick. It looked like it was inspired by an ogre, not a goblin.”

“How do you know it wasn’t?”

Sylin took another sip as they returned to the street. “It was green.”

“For someone who isn’t usually interested in such things, you got a good look.”

“Shall I remind you of my profession? It behooves me to constantly remain alert and monitor my surroundings.”

“You’re retired, aren’t you?”

“Hm,” Sylin said noncommittally.

Rylana paused in the street. Jildarin was still outside the diner, and his fists were clenched. Fortunately, he wasn’t looking at her but instead faced a male human who wore the kind of blue-tweed frock coat that was popular with bankers and business owners in the city. Most people, having seen Jildarin in his native form scant minutes earlier, were giving him a wide berth, but this man adjusted his round brimmed hat and stepped closer to him.

“When are you going to be able to pay your rent?” he demanded.

“Soon,” Jildarin said.

“You said that last month.”

“It’s even truer now.” Jildarin glared balefully at the man.

Anywhere except in the city of Tranquility, a human would have quailed under a dragon’s glare and the irritated power that Jildarin radiated, even while shifted into a more benign form, but the man knew he was safe here. He straightened his coat, lifted his chin, and said, “If you are not able to pay it in full by next month, including interest for all the delays, I will bring the golems and have you evicted.”

“The Golden Whisk is in a week.”

“The Golden what?”

“It is an annual culinary competition hosted at the old arena on an overlook of Luminous Lake.” Jildarin pointed toward the north end of the city. “I will be able to come current with the rent after winning the prize money.”

The man—the landlord—scoffed. “You’re a business owner. You’re supposed to be able to pay your rent based on what you earn from your business.”

Voice cold, Jildarin leaned forward and said, “I will acquire the funds.”

Even from a distance, Rylana could sense his power—and she well remembered the heat of the flames that had almost scorched her. She wouldn’t push a dragon, even in Tranquility. There was no magical ribbon that could keep a dragon from changing into his native—and extremely deadly—form, and Jildarin might well decide the diner wasn’t worth the trouble and roast the landlord. Maybe he would torch Rylana as well before flying out of the city to return to his homeland.

What was he doing here anyway? Dragons weren’t chefs. She’d never even heard of one that cooked its meat. They usually killed and devoured their prey raw. They certainly didn’t make soup that had strange side effects on those who consumed it.

The landlord took a step back, looking like he might have realized he was being overly assertive, given the nature of the being with whom he spoke. That didn’t keep him from saying, “If you don’t have your rent money, including what’s overdue, in two weeks, I will start the eviction process.”

“That is acceptable and expected, but I will have the funds by then.” Jildarin opened the door and stalked inside. Before it closed behind him, his voice was audible, roaring, “There will be no coitus in my diner. This is a place of eating! Get out!”

The couple that Rylana had seen earlier ran through the doorway, the woman’s dress half off her shoulder and the man struggling to pull his trousers up while sprinting away at top speed.

Rylana scratched her jaw, bewildered.

“I knew this city was quirky, but I’m finding our visit more fascinating than I expected.” Sylin sipped the last of her free sample.

“Was it fascinating when that dragon nearly incinerated me?” Rylana asked.

“No, that was merely entertaining.”

“I trust the only reason you didn’t try to save me was that the tranquility ribbon tied your knife case shut. It had nothing to do with a barista wandering over to tempt you with samples.”

Sylin grinned. “It was one of the owners, and she didn’t come out until after the golems showed up. Even the most entrepreneurial of business owners don’t peddle their wares while a fearsome dragon is on a rampage.”

Telling herself it would be wise to have nothing more to do with Jildarin or his diner, Rylana started past it, but the fleeing patrons had left the door ajar, and the lingering bacon scents made her pause. That smelled so wonderful. Could he really work in the kitchen, cooking over a hot stove to feed humans? It was so incongruous with all things dragon. Usually, if they interacted with humans or any of the non-elven species at all, it was to drive them out of their lands. The occasional hedonistic dragon visited villages and towns and expected offerings of meat from the orcs, goblins, or humans that lived there, but Rylana had traveled all over the world, and she’d never seen anything like this.

“It does smell good in there, doesn’t it?” Sylin said. “What a wonderful combination of aromas. But, why, do you suppose, is he making a soup that turns people libidinous if he doesn’t want them to have sex in his diner?”

“I have no idea.”

“Perhaps the workers in that fine establishment across the street can illuminate the mystery, should we care enough to inquire.” Sylin pointed to the coffee shop, a woman with a tray still out front, handing out the last of her samples to passersby. “No doubt if we buy beverages, they will be more inclined to share details.”

“No doubt,” Rylana murmured, following her comrade toward the shop, but she couldn’t help but look back and wonder about that dragon.

~

If you want to continue on, you can order Calculated Whisk here.

Thanks for reading!

As a snarky 40-something property manager, Luna is used to dealing with late rent, clogged toilets, and melodramatic tenants. But quirky werewolves,  mysterious artifacts, estranged relatives, and attempts on her life? Even she may not have the experience to handle all that. 

If you’re a fantasy fan who enjoys snarky middle-aged heroines–and you buy your ebooks on Kobo, Google Play, Barnes & Noble, Apple, or another store besides the Big A–you’ll be pleased to learn that my Magnetic Magic series is now available in ebook format at those retailers. 

https://books2read.com/MagneticMagic1 (You can grab the link to your favorite store from the Books2Read page.)

Also available in audiobook and paperbook, the series is complete at six novels.

You can find the links to Clutch and Claw on Books2read (ebook and audiobook):

https://books2read.com/FireAndFang4

Thanks for reading! Next up will be a semi-cozy fantasy series, very light with quite a bit of humor. Look for details on that one soon!

If you’ve been following along with my new Fire and Fang series (thank you!), you’ve already met the great red dragon Wreylith. If you haven’t checked out the books yet, the first two are available now, starting with Sky Shielder.

If you’re all caught up, here’s a little interview with Wreylith to tide you over until Book 3 is available (look for it in February):

To give you a greater insight into the Fire and Fang world, I’ve attempted to interview  one of the prominent characters, the red dragon, Wreylith. It was a touch dangerous for me (do you know that her eyes glow, and smoke wafts from her nostrils when she speaks with you?), but it’s my duty as an author to get you as many details as possible.

Interview with Wreylith

Greetings, great dragon, Wreylith. I am a biographer seeking information for what is becoming a historical accounting of the life of Queen Syla Moonmark. Do you have time to answer a few questions related to your relationship with her?

Mighty dragons do not answer the questions of puny and insignificant humans.Should you help, I can have an eliok and a horn hog delivered for your dinner.

With a side of sword iglets?

Absolutely.

Ask your questions. Briefly.

Thank you. Even though you are a wild dragon and seem to think little of humans, you recently bonded with then-princess-and-now-queen Syla. What prompted you to do so?

She also bribed me with livestock.

That can’t be all it takes to convince a dragon to bond.

It is not. Showing proper deference and making delicious offerings is a start to earning the interest of a dragon, but one must also prove oneself worthy.

And Queen Syla managed to do that?

She has more to do, but she has potential. She has healed me of wounds, learned to ride my back without falling off, and she is earning the respect of her peers, including the powerful (by puny human standards) dragon rider, Captain Vorik, who services her sexual needs.

Er, yes, we don’t need to include that in the biography.

The readers have an interest in such things, do they not? Mating is of importance to all species.

I’m not sure. Maybe—

Queen Syla and I are also discussing the addition of a horn-hog farm to the island from which she rules.

Uh, for her sake or yours?

Horn hogs are delicious.

I see. Yes. Speaking of mating, you recently had an adventure with the dragon Agrevlari.

Surely, you do not refer to that scandalous misadventure in the desert.

Does that mean that he didn’t endear himself to you? You seemed to enjoy spending quality time with him.

I wasn’t aware that anyone was watching.

Biographers are a curious sort.

Like perverts?

Not… exactly. It’s just that readers, as you noted, are interested in subjects that concern all species. But let’s move on, shall we?

Yes. Agrevlari has nothing to do with my relationship with Syla Moonmark, which you claimed is the topic of your research. *suspicious glowing-golden-eyed squint*

Oh, it is. At this juncture, she’s struggling to secure her claim to the monarchy, and the stormers and their dragons have claimed Harvest Island. Do you believe she’ll be able to address those issues?

Certainly. She has my assistance.

Having a dragon for an ally is big.

Quite magnificently large, yes. But whether or not she’s able to reclaim her island and keep her kingdom remains to be determined. She must deal with many enemies and ambitious relatives who also have their eyes on the throne. Further, she’s garnered the attention of the gods, and that isn’t always auspicious.

Uh-oh. How do you know that?

A dragon may know and observe much. I’ve seen many centuries, and my maturity has given me wisdom as well as greatness.

But you still crave the treats that enticed you in your youth.

Certainly. Now, that I’ve answered your prying questions, I believe you mentioned sword iglets.

Yes, of course. I’ll arrange for their delivery. But they’re venomous, you know.Perhaps that is the real reason I initiated a bond with a healer.

Because your favorite foods are dangerous?

It is not easy being a dragon.

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.

The final novel, Triumph of the Wolf, is now out in ebook, paperback, and audiobook.

For ebooks, you can find the series on Amazon (exclusive for a few more months before it goes out into the other stores) here:

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