Wind Rider (epic fantasy, book two of Return of the Dragons)

By Teddy Jacobs

HERE THERE BE DRAGONS

Anders Tomason already found a magic sword and clashed with his evil uncle in SWORD BEARER. Now he returns in WIND RIDER -- and continues his struggle with the evil chemical forces that threaten his world, enlisting, in the process, the help of the dragons.

NOTE: This novel is the second volume of the series RETURN OF THE DRAGONS. This novel, WIND RIDER (book 2), as well as its prequel SWORD BEARER (book 1), is also available collected into one volume in the RETURN OF THE DRAGONS (Omnibus) edition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wicked Evil Press
• Release date: Aug 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476075822

Book preview

Chapter I

I woke and found the room around me finally completely white without the slightest tint of red, nothing even remotely pink. I got up and walked out, hoping never to enter the room again. I’d been in bed for weeks, and spent my time staring at the ceiling, dreaming, and daydreaming. None of it had been pleasant — not the endless waiting, not the dreams that were always the same nightmare: my little four-year-old feet cold on the stone corridor, the passageway dark and clammy and unfriendly, and up ahead, in the welcoming light, my uncle and my mother standing together, in their nightclothes, smiling at me. Then my uncle would call out to me: "neffe — nephew."

It had taken weeks for my eyes to clear. The Dark Lord, my uncle, had burned red into my eyes, all three of them, when he had killed Marga, the mother of my best — and only — friend.

Once I had been just another sixteen year old, although I couldn’t say I had a normal childhood—instead of school, I had a tutor, and my parents locked me up in my room to study for long periods of time. The only good thing back then was the time I spent with my blademaster, swinging a staff, and with his wife, Ana, a witch who had taken care of me when I was little. Then I was sixteen, and Giancarlo, the blademaster, had let me pick out a wooden sword. And I’d picked a magical sword, and then everything had gone crazy. First my sword sang to me, making me do this crazy dance, which helped me beat my blademaster in a sparring match. Then later trying to concentrate in my locked room I formed a gateway instead, and pulled Kara, a Kriek princess, out through a hole in the wall.

Kara had been at my bedside almost every day, and my face got warm thinking about her. We had escaped the castle with the help of Kalle, another Kriek, escaped narrowly from a powerful wizard, Gerard, escaped only to be attacked by giant wild boars called keiler, talking beasts who stood on their hind legs when they wished and who served the Dark Lord. And they had called me "Herr, or Master." And in the battle against them I had killed for the first time.

I didn’t like to remember what that was like, but it still kept coming back to me whether I liked it or not.

We had stumbled our way into the ancient city, and somehow my blood had told me what runes to touch so we could enter. And the gates had opened to more trouble.

I had been tested and found to be the three-blooded prince, born to unite the three bloodlines and to fight against the Dark Lord. But if the Dark Lord was my uncle, where did that leave me?

We had forged my sword anew, burning the magical wood, melting together the broken pieces of three great swords of old. It was an amazing blade, and I had sung to it during its final forging. That had been a test too. Today at last I was going to start training again. I hadn’t trained since Marga was killed.

I would never forget feeling her die, her hand clasped in mine. Even though I’d barely known her, her son, Karsten, was my friend. And her nephew, Elias, what of him? He was so young, but so powerful. Somehow he could suck the energy out of the walls around him. I’d been sure that Karsten and Elias would blame me for Marga’s death, but it seemed more like they blamed themselves. They, too, had come to my bedside, and Karsten had told me to come to the cafeteria and see him when I could leave the white room.

I wished sometimes I could bring her back. But I couldn’t even wake up my parents from their eternal sleep. So I did what I could. I strapped on my sword and walked out into the sunlight.

The morning was cool and the air was clean. The cool air felt good on my bandaged skin.

Most of the damage had healed quickly, but I had two cuts that were deeper and harder to heal, one on my left forearm, and another on my temple.

I breathed in deeply and felt alive for the first time in weeks. I felt guilty about how good it felt — how could I be happy and loving life when just a few weeks ago I had caused someone to die?

Not to mention that my parents lay unmoving and had to be turned every few hours so they didn’t develop sores. Or that they had to be washed and cleaned and fed by others.

So much for my good mood.

I sighed. But I knew there was no point focusing on my problems. I needed to breathe and exercise. Fresh air and exercise were healthy, and the sooner I got my health back, the sooner I could prepare for war, for battle. If the battle went well, maybe my parents could be made whole again.

But Marga would never be whole. And I wondered if her son and her nephew ever would be, either. I walked toward the cafeteria with a heavy heart.

The aromas that I’d missed during those two weeks hit me with a wave of nostalgia; remembering those two happy weeks when I had dined here, and made my first true friend... The smell of fresh baked rolls and spices, of pancakes and fried potatoes... I walked into the cafeteria, which was nearly empty in the early morning. I was still an early riser. And I felt a deep hunger for something more filling than the fruit juices and gruel they had fed me in the white room.

I went to the serving table and picked out a banana, pancakes, two rolls, and some fried potatoes. My tray was heavy as I carried it back to an empty table. It felt like a guilty pleasure to eat so much, but I needed to gain back the weight and strength I’d lost the last couple of weeks if I was going to be any good to anyone. Training was grueling work, and I’d need all the nourishment I could pack in. I had to train. Without training, I’d have no hope of saving my parents and avenging my friend’s mother.

I sat down and ate.

It had been two weeks since I’d tasted solid food. The food filled me with life and warmth, driving away the cold emptiness and sadness. I tried to eat slowly, to do honor to the food and to the cooks who had been up even earlier than me, working in the kitchen. Cooks like Karsten.

I had seen his face from time to time in the early days after the attack, when I had been half-blind and half-mad and asleep much of time, dreaming unpleasant dreams. Later, in the last few days, Karsten had only come around once that I could remember; he’d made a pained smile when I looked at him and then left without saying a word. I didn’t know what to say to him; could we ever just be friends again? A war was coming, and the first battle loomed. Would anyone or anything ever be simple again? It was tough for everyone.

I chewed a pecan cranberry roll — one of my favorites. I remembered the nuts we had roasted and eaten just a few months ago, and the power that came from them. Here, nuts grew everywhere on trees between the houses, providing shade and food. The trees glowed with energy, and I couldn’t tell if they took or gave energy to the city. Maybe the energy went both ways. In any case, I felt the energy now in my mouth, in my throat, radiating out through my stomach. I chewed slowly, savoring the flavors, knowing that everything that went into this roll had come from this walled city — the grain, the berries, the nuts. Everything was grown here, in this ancient magical city that had somehow had escaped detection until now.

Now even the Dark Lord knew where it was.

It was all my fault.

First there was my clumsy attempt to save my parents that had brought along spying demons, and two parents who were unable to talk, or do anything except lie in bed; then there was my stupid idea to try to contact Giancarlo, as if the blademaster of my father, my own blademaster, would not have fallen already into the hands of the Dark Lord...

But what exactly had happened when we’d scryed Giancarlo? Giancarlo had been my blademaster, my father’s blademaster, and the blademaster of my uncle, who now called himself the Dark Lord. Why had we been attacked when we’d scryed him, and who had attacked us? It must have been the Dark Lord or his minions, but why? Why kill Marga? What had we been about to discover?

It was frustrating.

If there was no way to empty my mind, at least I could fill my stomach. I chewed on another roll.

When I had finished eating and the plate before me was empty, I walked over to the kitchen and left my plate soaking in a basin of water. Two bakers were working, but not Karsten, and that filled me with a bittersweet mix of disappointment and relief. I walked out of the cafeteria and into the sunlight.

The sun warmed my skin just as the hot food warmed my stomach. It was hard to worry in the early morning sun. Full of food, I walked toward Woltan’s apartment. The two weeks I’d been away seemed like far longer, just as the short weeks as Woltan’s student had seemed like months. All together, I’d been there for around a month. How long would it take my uncle, the Dark Lord, to move an army? To prepare a battle? And I’d been on my back for two weeks, doing nothing but trying to heal. I shook my head. It was hard to stay positive. My sword knocked against my leg and I put my hand down to the pommel instinctively to steady it, and I froze.

A shock ran through my arm and through my body, and then Carolina was there in front of me, blocking my vision.

She wasn’t smiling. She seemed in a rage, her face red with fury.

Why haven’t you contacted me in the last two weeks?

I shrugged. Why hadn’t I contacted her? Had I been too busy lying in bed and feeling sorry for myself? It was a hard question to answer, more so to someone in my mind blocking off all my vision.

She stared down at me, imperious. I felt very small, and had to remember that Carolina was just a tiny pixie housed in the pommel of my sword.

You have not even learned to shield your mind from me. I’m not trying to pry, and yet I hear everything. You think I’m tiny; yet, if you were in my world, you would find me as tall or taller than you, and so it is right that I look down upon you. Anders Tomason, you should have talked to me sooner!

You are right, of course.

There was no point in arguing with someone who had full access to my mind.

I’m glad you’ve realized that at last, because there are a lot of things I need to tell you. The first thing is that people are staring at you.

I noticed, embarrassed, that the street was no longer empty. I went and sat down on a bench, and people stopped looking at me.

You will want to know about your uncle now, I think. I could have told you as much as Marga and spared you that death.

I felt like a fool, and it hurt, too, what she said. I wanted to be angry, but instead I just felt ashamed. Why hadn’t I thought to ask her?

We all make mistakes. I could have shocked you into contacting me, too, and I should have. Please don’t be too hard on yourself — you are young, although I’m sure you’re tired of hearing that. I am much older and should have been more vigilant and shielded both of you. My attention was elsewhere, and I feel the same shame as you. We must work as a team from now on.

I know I have a lot to learn.

Carolina smiled. It is hard for me to remember what it was like to be so young. You are the youngest sword bearer I have ever served. Accept my apologies for my harsh words; I am impatient trapped in this fairy house, all the more so when you do not talk to me and I cannot contact you and help you in your trials.

I thought time passed more slowly for your kind?

She smiled again. They’ve always called me the impatient one. My mother was afraid I was part human once. Everything is