Kingdoms at War, page 1
KINGDOMS AT WAR
DRAGON GATE, BOOK 1
LINDSAY BUROKER
Copyright © 2021 by Lindsay Buroker
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Afterword
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to my editor, Shelley Holloway, for going along on the journey, and thank you to my beta readers Sarah Engelke, Cindy Wilkinson, and Rue Silver for sticking with me over the years. Thank you to my cover illustrator Jeff Brown and also to Vivienne Leheny for narrating the audiobook. Hey, Vivienne, I tried to do fewer six syllable names with random apostrophes in the middle for this one. You’re welcome!
Last, but never least, thank you, good reader, for picking up a new adventure in an all-new world. I hope you enjoy the story.
* * *
Note: this ebook includes a map of Torvil, but for a larger version, please visit my site: https://lindsayburoker.com/torvil-world-map-dragon-gate-fantasy-series/
PROLOGUE
“Take this to the man sitting outside. And don’t annoy him.”
The boy accepted the mug of octli, careful not to let the milky liquid slosh over the rim as he eased through the busy cantina, but he hesitated in the doorway. Scents of sulfur and ash laced the salty sea air, and the usually harsh southern sunlight had a surreal orange tint that brought to mind tales of Hell and eternal toil under a slavemaster’s whip.
A single man sat outside at a table under the awning. A roamer.
The big man had brown skin, wiry black hair shot with gray, and a nose that had been broken more often than the cantina’s glassware. His dark brooding eyes stared across the strait toward the volcano smoldering on the closest of the Dragon Perch Islands.
When the boy glanced back uncertainly, the bartender made a shooing motion, then rubbed his fingers together to remind him to collect the coin.
“A pox on your bunions,” the boy muttered, though he dared not disobey the bartender.
He’d already been hit twice that afternoon by grumpy patrons arguing about omens and placing bets on when the volcano would erupt. His swollen eye ached at the memory of yesterday’s punishment for moving too slowly.
After squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath, the boy headed for the table.
The roamer glanced at him as he approached, but his attention returned to the volcano. A pen dangled between his fingers, and a journal lay open on the table, the pages bare except for a few lines. It was hard to imagine the big fighter as a scribe, given the sword harness strapped across his back, the worn leather-wrapped hilt of the blade poking over his shoulder, and the magelock pistol holstered at his hip.
No, the boy realized with a start. That wasn’t a magelock but an old black-powder pistol. He remembered that roamers hated magic and hated those who used the tools and gizmos that mages sold to people. Nervously, he rubbed the band that circled his head, the source of pleasant daydreams and little zings of contentment that sometimes made him forget his lot in life.
He crept forward and placed the mug at the man’s elbow. Two copper rinara rested on the table, one for the price of the drink and one… for him?
The boy peered warily at the man, afraid to be caught staring but afraid to presume. Only then did he notice the man’s left hand was missing, replaced by a dark metal pickaxe head. A scar sliced through the roamer’s eyebrow and halfway down his cheek. It hadn’t been visible before, and it made the face seem familiar, as if the boy had seen it before, but he’d never waited on this man. He was certain of it.
A shout came from farther up the road, and he jumped. Six teenagers in ill-fitting brown and tan tunics, rope belts clinking with dangling pieces of tin and copper, were ambling this way. Several carried clubs or maces on their shoulders.
The boy glanced toward the doorway. Zone magic protected the inside of the pub from muggers and pirates, but only the enforcers imposed the laws outside, and they rarely bothered near the docks.
Had the roamer seen the approaching gang? They might assume his age and missing hand would make him an easy mark.
“Take the coins, killer,” the roamer said, his gaze on the journal as he wrote a line.
Killer? The boy touched his chest.
“Both of them,” the man added, his voice a baritone, not harsh and gruff as the boy had expected.
“Uhm, there’s trouble coming, sir.”
As the teens drew closer, they nudged each other and pointed at the table with their weapons.
“I have no doubt.” The roamer looked toward the island volcano instead of the approaching gang. He squinted at a barge anchored in a bay close to the shoreline, almost hidden by ashy gray smoke wafting down from the caldera. Why would anyone sail so close to an active volcano? “You had better go inside,” the man added.
“You can come in too if you want, sir.”
“I like the view.”
The teens had reached the seating area, and one kicked over a chair, sending it clattering across the sandstone road. Only the coarse rope strung between the pillars along the edge kept it from tumbling into the harbor.
After grabbing the two coins, the boy ran back to the doorway. He’d done his best to warn the roamer, and he’d gotten paid, so the bartender shouldn’t be angry if something happened to the customer.
“Buy us a drink, Grandpa,” one of the teens said as the group spread out around him, their crude weapons in hand.
“Grandpa?” the roamer murmured, sounding indignant, though he didn’t look up from his writing.
The boy lingered in the doorway, watching even though he didn’t want to see their customer beaten and mugged. He’d been generous with his coin when few were. Coin was too scarce, too hard won when half of every rinara went to the mages in their sky castles.
“Or give us your coin purse, and we’ll buy our own.” Another teen laughed.
The roamer penned a few more words on the page, as if the gang would go away if he ignored them. The boy shook his head. It didn’t work that way.
“I said—” the biggest teen reached for the roamer’s shoulder, “—give us your coins, Grandpa.”
Somehow, the roamer managed to lay down the pen, casually flip his book shut, and still catch the hand before it gripped him. He squeezed hard as he looked in the younger man’s eyes for the first time.
“You sure you want to prey on the old and infirm, kid?” the roamer asked, his voice dangerous. “When we get to a certain age, we get cranky easily.”
He lifted his pickaxe arm in warning, the hazy sunlight gleaming orange on the dark steel. He didn’t have the magical aura of a mage or a wizard, but he had the demeanor of someone who’d spent his life in battle and killed men. A lot of men.
“We don’t care about your disposition.” The teen winced at the pressure crushing his hand, but he managed a defiant sneer. “We just want your money.”
He tried to yank his hand back, but the grip was like a vise, and he couldn’t escape. Using his free hand, he threw a punch at the roamer’s face. It never connected.
Without knocking over his chair, the roamer surged to his feet and blocked the punch. He spun, jammed the flat of his pickaxe into his attacker’s gut, and hurled him over his shoulder. The teen struck one of the posts holding up the awning and crumpled to the ground.
Though startled, the rest of the gang roared and rushed at the roamer.
For a big man, he moved quickly, evading the youths’ attempts to surround him, and he threw far more effective punches than they did. He never drew his sword or pistol, but he used his pickaxe as a weapon, smashing it against bone or slashing the tip into flesh. He grabbed another teen and rammed him in the solar plexus with the head, leaving him gasping on the ground. In the blink of an eye, two more youths flew over the rope and into the harbor.
The roamer faced the remaining teens, but they’d had enough. Limping and cursing, they scurried away.
During the skirmish, the mug of octli had been knocked to the ground, the viscous drink oozing into the cracks between the sandstone bricks. The roamer plucked it up with his pick and held a finger up to the boy to order another. Unscathed by the ordeal, he sat back down at the table, opened his journal, and gripped his pen again.
The boy scurried into the cantina for another drink. As the bartender had said, this was not a man he wanted to annoy.
1
The smoke was so dense ar ound the volcano that a night-blooming cactus flower was on full display, its purple trumpet vibrant against the rocky black slope. Jakstor Freedar—student, cartographer-in-training, and temporary lackey for the archaeology team—didn’t usually pause to admire flowers, but he’d seen this one in his mother’s herbalism books. She could use it for one of her headache cures, couldn’t she? Or maybe it went into that vision-inducing concoction that caused headaches. Her alchemical repertoire was as extensive as the list of plays by Egarath the Eternal.
Since he owed her a few dozen thank yous for letting him come on this trip, Jak shifted the damp bandanas he carried to one arm so he could pick the flower. Snickers came from the lanky boys hacking off cactus pads nearby and tossing them onto a flat magecart that floated above the ground.
“Are you picking flowers?” a boy his age asked, waving a saw.
“We knew you were girlie, but we had no idea how girlie,” another snickered.
Jak pocketed the flower and forced himself to approach the dimwits. He knew from previous exchanges during the barge ride across the Forked Sea that a conversation with them would induce headaches far more quickly than his mother’s potions, but they were part of his errand.
Crew from the barge, they’d been pressed into the cactus-cutting duty while they waited for the archaeology team to finish their dig. Supposedly, the pads were a delicacy on the mainland and worth harvesting before the volcano erupted and buried the island. Jak, having sampled one of the rubbery things the night before, would have left them to be incinerated, perhaps even kicking them into the path of lava flows to ensure they didn’t show up again at the dinner table.
“You’re picking cactus pads,” he observed, though he should have kept his mouth shut. “Is that not girlie? Here, wrap these bandanas around your mouth and nose. My mother treated them with something to help with the smoke.”
Jak tossed two of the damp cloths to them and resisted the urge to dab at his eyes—unfortunately, the bandanas couldn’t keep them from tearing up.
“It’s not girlie when you use a saw.” The boy caught the bandanas on his serrated blade. “And sell the cactus pads for big money at the bazaar in town.”
“If I sell the flower at the bazaar, will it be more masculine?”
“Nah, nothing about you is masculine.” The statement prompted more snickers from the group.
“Not even my cleft chin? I’ve had women remark on its appeal.” Not many women, admittedly, but Jak was positive someone he hadn’t been related to had called it cute at some point.
“It looks like a butt under your lips.” More snickers.
“Ah. Thanks for sharing your wit with me today.”
As Jak distributed more bandanas, including to a bored man standing guard with a magelock rifle cradled in his arms, smoke made his nostrils and throat itch. He removed his hat so he could retie his own bandana before continuing up the slope to complete his errand. Once he finished, he could get to the task he truly wanted to do. He touched the sketchbook bulging in his shirt pocket.
The heckler with the saw eyed his hat, squinting at the medallion fastened to the band above the wide brim. The speculation that brightened his dull face made Jak uneasy, and he scooted away from the group. The guard was a member of the barge crew and might look the other way if one of his charges tried to steal from Jak.
The boy elbowed his buddy. “You think that hat is worth much?”
“Not covered in ash,” the other worker said with a grunt.
“I think that circle thing is gold. Gold is worth a lot.”
Jak hurried up the path, hoping the speculation would end as soon as he was out of their sight. Too bad he had to come back down this way after delivering the rest of the bandanas. There were few viable paths on the lumpy black mountainside, the uneven ground formed by past lava flows. Most routes ended at cliffs or fissures—or holes into ancient lava tubes where the human-hating drakur lived. There was a reason some of the crew carried rifles.
The last group from the barge came into view, their saws working on another patch of cactus, but coughs and grunts behind him made Jak stop and turn around. His hecklers had abandoned their task and were scrambling up the uneven path after him. The chatty one carried his saw, and the big one he’d been nudging had picked up an axe.
Since his mother’s archaeology team was paying for passage on the barge, Jak didn’t think any of the crew would murder him, but the way they kept glancing at his hat convinced him they had mugging in mind.
Jak hopped on a rock to lend height to his five feet nine inches, though there was nothing he could do to make his fine features and lean arms more intimidating. Still, he puffed out his chest, doing the best he could with what he had, and lifted his chin to stare unflinchingly at them.
Never turn your back on an enemy, his father had once said, or on chest-thumping cannibals who think strangers taste amazing.
These boneheads weren’t cannibals, but Jak had no trouble filing them in the enemy folder. As they stomped closer, his fingers twitched toward the short sword belted on his left hip and the magelock pistol holstered on his right, but if he seriously hurt someone on the crew, the captain might leave the entire team here. And what then? The volcano could erupt this very day, and it was a five-mile swim across the strait to the mainland, the city sprawling there no longer visible through the ashy sky.
“Give us the gold medallion, flower girl,” the chatty one said. “Or you might fall into one of the holes while you’re out here. Bet the drakur are agitated down there, what with their volcano getting uppity.”
“Do you always threaten to throw passengers to their deaths? It seems bad for business, like repeat customers would be rare.”
“Passengers gotta pay taxes.”
“Actually, we pay fares. Taxes go to the wizard rulers that we all love.” Jak clamped his mouth shut, realizing he was treading on dangerous ground. Those who blasphemed the kings and queens in their floating castle cities tended to end up dead at the end of a zidarr’s blade. And these were the kinds of lickspittles that would rat a man out for that.
“You think you’re smart, flower girl? Then do the smart thing. Give us the hat.”
“Or we’ll take it,” the other said. “Think he’ll cry to his mommy if we take it?”
“That crazy kook? Nobody will listen to her. The captain said so.”
Anger boiled up inside Jak, and for the first time, he craved the fight. He wanted to pound a fist into the boy’s nose, consequences for the archaeology team be damned.
His mother was a great herbalist, who had published countless papers and won awards for her work. Just because she’d left that career to try to complete the life’s work of Jak’s father and prove his theories true didn’t mean she deserved some grimy thugs disparaging her.
But he’d already gotten in trouble numerous times for defending her—for defending both of them—and his mother would only lecture him if he fought someone over this. He made himself unclench his fingers and respond calmly.
“This hat belonged to my father,” he said. “I’m partial to it, and I’m not giving it or any part of it to you.”
“Where’d he get a hat with gold on it? You don’t come from no money.” The chatty one eyed his ashy cotton trousers and shirt, the worn pockets ripped in spots. That was more because Jak jammed books and tools into them all the time than due to poor quality, but the volcano grime did make him look disheveled. “He thieved it, didn’t he?” the boy asked.
His buddy hadn’t put on his bandana, and he lowered the axe to cough and wipe at his eyes. The air was getting worse, the scent of sulfur and molten rock burning Jak’s nostrils.
