Dragonslayer Read online

  CONTENTS

  HALF-TITLE PAGE

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  MAP OF THE CONTINENT

  A WINGWATCHER’S GUIDE TO DRAGONS

  NIGHT DRAGONS

  DESERT DRAGONS

  SWAMP DRAGONS

  MOUNTAIN DRAGONS

  SEA DRAGONS

  ICE DRAGONS

  RAINFOREST DRAGONS

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  PART TWO

  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

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  EPILOGUE

  SNEAK PEEK AT WINGS OF FIRE: LEGENDS: DARKSTALKER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  COPYRIGHT

  Description: Purplish-black scales and scattered silver scales on the underside of their wings, like a night sky full of stars; forked black tongues

  Abilities: Can breathe fire, disappear into dark shadows

  Habitat: Unknown

  Watch Out For: These rarely seen dragons could be mutations of other types, or a nearly extinct species; probably not very important

  Description: Pale gold or white scales the color of desert sand; forked black tongues

  Abilities: Can survive a long time without water, poison prey with the tips of their tails like scorpions, bury themselves for camouflage in the desert sand, breathe fire

  Habitat: The vast desert west of the forest

  Watch Out For: Their venomous barbed tails, their teeth, claws, fire

  Description: Thick, armored brown scales, sometimes with amber and gold underscales; large, flat heads with nostrils on top of the snout

  Abilities: Can breathe fire, hold their breath for up to an hour, blend into large mud puddles

  Habitat: The swamps, marshes, and boiling mud pools between the mountains and the sea

  Watch Out For: Often found hiding under the mud; also their teeth, claws, fire, the usual

  Description: Red-gold or orange scales, enormous wings

  Abilities: Powerful fighters and fliers; can breathe fire

  Habitat: The central mountain range

  Watch Out For: The way they swoop out of nowhere at top speed; also their teeth, claws, fire

  Description: Blue or green or aquamarine scales; webs between their claws; gills on their necks; glow-in-the-dark stripes on their tails/snouts/underbellies

  Abilities: Can breathe underwater, create huge waves with one splash of their powerful tails

  Habitat: The ocean, but possibly also large lakes and rivers

  Watch Out For: Swimming in any large body of water; also, of course, their teeth and claws (but on the plus side, no fire!)

  Description: Silvery scales like the moon or pale blue like ice; ridged claws to grip the ice, forked blue tongues; tails narrow to a whip-thin end

  Abilities: Can withstand subzero temperatures and bright light; exhale a deadly freezing frostbreath

  Habitat: The icy arctic region of the upper northwest peninsula, we think

  Watch Out For: Their breath, which can freeze a human solid; also their teeth and claws

  Description: Scales that can shift colors, usually bright like birds of paradise; prehensile tails

  Abilities: Can camouflage their scales to blend into their surroundings; rumor has it they can also shoot venom from their fangs

  Habitat: The mysterious impenetrable rainforest, east of the mountains

  Watch Out For: We have no idea! No recorded survivor encounters, so they’re probably the deadliest and stealthiest of all dragons

  TWENTY YEARS AGO …

  It is nearly impossible to steal from a dragon.

  Everyone knew that.

  Nearly impossible and decidedly stupid, especially when that dragon lives in a giant fortress with a hundred other dragons and you are the size of their average midmorning snack.

  But if they did it — if they succeeded — they would be legends. Wealthy legends, with more gold than anyone they knew had ever seen before.

  That was Heath’s grand vision anyway. Stone couldn’t imagine himself as a rich person. But he couldn’t stop his little brother and sister once they had an idea in their heads. The best way — the only way — to protect them was to come along, too.

  And so now he was here, doing the nearly impossible and decidedly stupid thing.

  The dragons’ palace loomed out of the sand like a dark mountain.

  Three crescent moons overhead curled like ice dragon claws against the night sky, casting barely a glimmer of light on the dunes below.

  In the shadows of the castle walls, Stone and Heath crouched in the sand, side by side. Small, wingless, without talons or scales. Teeth scarcely worth mentioning.

  We’re a perfect dragon’s dinner, Stone thought nervously, just sitting at their front door, like we’re asking to be eaten. No other creatures in Pyrrhia walk right up to the dragons like humans do. They must think we’re the dumbest prey on the planet.

  Maybe we are, if we really think we can steal their treasure and get away with it.

  “What’s taking her so long?” he whispered. “We shouldn’t have let her go back in.” He hefted a bag of gold in his hands. “This is more than enough for the three of us for the rest of our lives.”

  His brother gave him a scornful look and reached into the other bag. Stone heard the soft metallic sound of gold nuggets running through Heath’s fingers. “She wanted to go back for more,” Heath murmured. “She said there was rooms and rooms of it. All this sand dragon treasure — ours, Stone. We’ll be kings.”

  “Being as wealthy as dragons won’t make us as powerful as dragons,” Stone pointed out.

  “We’ll see,” Heath said, turning his gaze back to the window above them. The narrow slit was made to be too small for an enemy dragon to slip through — but it was an easy squeeze for a sixteen-year-old human girl like their sister, Rose.

  “I think I hear her,” Stone whispered.

  A pair of small hands appeared at the bottom of the window, and a moment later Rose pulled herself up to straddle the ledge. In the shadows, she could have been anyone, except that no one else had a halo of dark curls quite like hers … and no one else would climb into a dragon’s lair — twice — as she just had.

  Rose dropped a rope down to her brothers, and they both grabbed it, helping her heave the sacks of treasure up from the floor inside. After a few moments, she signaled for them to move out of the way. Clink! Thud! went the bags as they hit the sand. With a hiss, the rope slithered down beside them.

  Stone squinted up at Rose’s silhouette as she inched down the stone wall, finding cracks and dents where she could fit her feet to climb. This whole plan had been Heath’s idea, of course; Heath was obsessed with the dragons of the desert beyond their forest. Rose, the youngest, had r
un the greatest risk, slipping into the dragon palace and finding the treasure room in the middle of the night.

  Stone’s job was transport. As the oldest and biggest of the three siblings, he could carry all four of the sacks himself, at least until they reached the horses that were waiting a few dunes away — the horses he had stolen from their father’s stable two nights ago.

  Well, if he gets mad, I’ll be able to pay him three times what they’re worth, Stone thought with bitter pride. Rose had almost reached the ground. Maybe they really were going to get away with this.

  “Stone,” Heath whispered. “Stop breathing so loudly.”

  “I’m not breathing loudly,” Stone objected. “I’m barely breathing at all.”

  Heath turned to him with an impatient scowl, and then suddenly his whole face went blank.

  Stone knew that look. He’d seen that look when Heath’s carelessness lit the smithy on fire and nearly set the whole village ablaze. He’d seen it when their father had caught Heath stealing food meant for the Wingwatchers. It was pure terror, and Stone knew instantly, with a plunging cold fear in his chest, what that meant.

  He whirled around and saw the dragon looming behind him.

  She was taller than the trees around their village, with wings that blotted out all three moons. Obsidian-black eyes glinted in a narrow, snakelike face. Sand hissed between her claws as she flexed them, and Stone could see the dark, dangerous barb of her tail raised behind her like a scorpion’s, poised to strike. He’d seen — from afar — what that venom could do to a full-sized dragon. He didn’t want to imagine what it could do to a human, or how painful that kind of death would be.

  The dragon growled, low and long, with a lot of hissing and guttural sounds. She glared at the stolen treasure and, even more menacingly, at Rose, who’d reached the ground and now stood with her back pressed to the castle wall.

  “She’s going to kill us,” Stone breathed. He had a spear strapped to his back, but the five seconds it took him to reach for it would be all the time the dragon needed to stab him through the heart with her tail.

  “Heath,” Rose whispered. “There’s a sword in the bag nearest to you.”

  “Don’t!” Stone wanted to turn and grab his brother, but he didn’t dare move. “Don’t antagonize her.”

  “Right, good idea,” Heath murmured. “Except it’s a bit late for that, idiot. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but we’re in the middle of stealing her treasure.”

  Her treasure? Stone finally noticed the black band of onyx, embedded with diamonds, that circled the dragon’s head. This was the queen herself.

  So. There was no escape. Death, then, already. He was only twenty; he’d expected to do a bit more with his life before a dragon inevitably killed him. Why did I let Heath talk us into this?

  Abruptly, Heath lunged for the sack beside him. The dragon let out a shriek of rage and stabbed her tail forward, but Stone just managed to dive and roll out of the way. He saw moonlight ricochet off steel as Heath swung the sword up and clumsily jabbed the dragon’s underbelly with it. The weapon clanged against her scales. Heath nearly lost his grip, staggering sideways.

  Stone leaped to his feet and drew his spear. He ran full tilt at the queen, trying to remember what the Wingwatchers at school had taught them about dragon weaknesses. The only thing he could remember was someone saying, They don’t have any.

  The dragon’s tail whipped toward him, lightning fast. He ducked and her tail struck the spear, sending shock waves rippling down his arms. The sand slipped away from his feet and he fell.

  “Stone!” Rose cried, darting forward. She grabbed one of the sacks of treasure and swung it in a full arc around her body, hurling it at the dragon’s head.

  The heavy bag collided with the queen’s skull with a loud crack. The desert dragon stumbled back, shook her head, and lunged forward with a roar.

  “No!” Stone yelled, trying to stand, trying to bring the spear around, trying to fight the sand that dragged him down — too slow, too slow.

  A burst of flames shot from the dragon’s mouth. Her wings flared, flinging sand into Stone’s face. He floundered forward blindly. Not Rose. Not Rose.

  Heath let out a shout of rage somewhere to his left. There was another clash of sword against scales. Following the sound, Stone aimed for the blurry winged shadow and stabbed his spear upward.

  It connected, lodged in place, and was ripped out of his hands.

  The dragon roared, but now the roar had pain in it as well as fury.

  In the dark, through sand-stung eyes, Stone saw the dragon collapse heavily to the sand with a thud that shook the ground. He heard Heath’s footsteps sprint past.

  Stone covered his head and cowered as the dragon thrashed and howled.

  Heath appeared suddenly at his elbow, tugging him up to his feet. “We did it! We killed a dragon!” His arms and chest were spattered with dragon blood, and he was carrying something grotesque and dripping in one hand. He’d abandoned the sword, which Stone could see still sticking out of the end of the severed tail. “Let’s get out of here before that noise wakes any more of them.” He shoved a sack of treasure into Stone’s hands.

  “Rose,” Stone said.

  Heath flinched away from him. Stone realized that his brother’s clothing was charred, and dark burns rippled along his arm on one side. “She’s gone, Stone.” Heath picked up another one of the bags of treasure, shoved the object in his hand into it, and fled into the darkness.

  Stone took a step after him, then stopped. I can’t go home like this. If I return to Father carrying bags of treasure instead of my sister’s body … He turned and looked up at the dark walls.

  Wings were boiling over the top of the palace like a million bats pouring from a cave. The sand dragons were coming, called by the dying roars of their queen.

  And when they catch us …

  Stone’s courage failed him. Still clutching the dragon’s treasure, he turned and ran.

  One morning shortly after Wren turned seven years old, her parents wrestled her into her best blue wool dress, pinned her down to oil her curly hair, and took her up the mountain to be eaten by a dragon.

  They didn’t tell her that was the plan, of course. They didn’t say “guess what’s going to happen to YOU today” or “bad news about that tree-climbing expedition you had planned for tomorrow.” They didn’t say much beyond “stop wiggling!” and “don’t you DARE bite me!”

  If they had told her she was off to be a dragon’s breakfast, she might have pointed out that the dragon certainly wouldn’t care what her hair looked like, so there was no need to spend the last minutes of her life torturing her.

  But instead she thought she was trapped on another boring walk with the dragonmancers for an Edifying Lecture About Dragon Behavior, and so all she wondered, as they marched through the woods, was why her parents were holding her hands so tightly, and why none of the other village children had been dragged along.

  She was too young to remember the apprentice who’d been sacrificed five years earlier, especially since it was forbidden to talk about the gifts the village gave the dragons. And despite what the dragonmancers thought, Wren hadn’t fully understood what she’d read in the books she stole from them.

  Wren did notice the strange sideways looks from the other villagers, but it did not occur to her that those were “good thing it’s HER getting fed to a dragon and not ME” kinds of looks. She thought they were the usual “there goes Wren, the girl with a dragon’s temper” faces she always got. She liked making a horrible face back so she could see them blanch and turn away quickly.

  But really, she should have been more suspicious. She should have realized her parents were being too quiet. It’s just, one never really expects to be fed to dragons.

  And then suddenly one dragonmancer stopped and raised his hands, and then all the villagers stopped and stared at Wren. The other two dragonmancers produced ropes from their robes and grabbed her.

  Th
e tall, thin one said something like, “Hear us, oh mighty wings of flame,” in her snooty voice, and the short one with bumps all over his face said, “We offer you this gift, that you may spare the rest of your lowly worshippers.” Then the leader, the smug one who always ate all the goat cheese at village celebrations, started to say, “Thank you for the lives of those —”

  But Wren didn’t let him finish. She recognized the words they were chanting. She’d read them in one of the books she’d “borrowed” from the head dragonmancer’s study. This was the Gift for the Dragons ceremony, it was real after all, AND THIS TIME SHE WAS THE GIFT.

  After a lot of wrestling and screaming and fighting, they finally managed to tie her up, but they didn’t get to say all their stupid blessing words. One dragonmancer staggered away with his nose bleeding; another clutched her scratched-up arm; the third was hobbling as they hurried off. Wren shouted every bad word she knew at them as the villagers scurried away, avoiding her eyes. Her parents didn’t even look back once.

  They left her on a giant stone slab overlooking the river, where the sky was wide open and the dragons would be able to see her easily.

  The idea, of course, was that the seven-year-old would sit there politely and wait to be eaten, like a good little human sacrifice.

  But that was obviously not going to happen. Although she was quite little, Wren was never polite and rarely good. And Wren was very much not on board with the plan where she got eaten and all the smug-faced meanies in her village did not. That was the ULTIMATE definition of unfair. Wren was a younger sister, so she knew all about fair and unfair, and getting eaten by dragons while jerks like Camellia stayed inside, probably playing with Wren’s dolls, WAS ABSOLUTELY ONE HUNDRED PERCENT NOT FAIR.

  Wren had one brother who’d agree with her, she was pretty sure, but her uncle had taken Leaf hunting this morning. To get him out of the way, she realized now. Not that an eight-year-old could have stopped the village’s plan either, but at least he could have been SUPER MAD. He would have yelled at Mom and Dad. He would have been full of RAGE AND VENGEANCE FOREVER and made their lives miserable for all time and they would have TOTALLY DESERVED IT.