The Dragon Blood Collection, Books 1-3 Read online

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Balanced on the Blade’s Edge

  Deathmaker

  Blood Charged

  Afterword

  The Dragon Blood Collection

  Books 1-3

  by Lindsay Buroker

  Copyright © Lindsay Buroker 2014

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for checking out the first three Dragon Blood books! I originally wrote Balanced on the Blade’s Edge out of a desire to pen a fun fantasy romance with a few steampunk elements. I never intended to turn it into a series. But I enjoyed writing about Ridge and Sardelle and also about their world. I found I wasn’t ready to stop at one book.

  I created a new hero and heroine for Deathmaker and wrote a second adventure that could be read independently from the first—but I did bring Ridge and Sardelle back to help out in the last third. Oh, and let’s not forget Jaxi, the sentient soulblade. She insists on being a part of everyone’s story.

  When it was time to write the third book, I put everybody together and sent them off on a new quest: Blood Charged. I hope you’ll enjoy spending time with these characters.

  Balanced on the Blade’s Edge

  Colonel Ridge Zirkander isn’t the model of military professionalism—he has a tendency to say exactly what’s on his mind, and his record has enough demerits to wallpaper the hull of an airship—but as the best fighter pilot in the Iskandian army, he’s used to a little leniency from his superiors. Until he punches the wrong diplomat in the nose and finds himself issued new orders: take command of a remote prison mine in the inhospitable Ice Blades Mountains. Ridge has never been in charge of anything larger than a flier squadron—what’s he supposed to do with a frozen fortress full of murderers and rapists? Not to mention the strange woman who shows up right before he arrives…

  Sardelle Terushan wakes from three hundred years in a mage stasis shelter, only to realize that she is the last of the Referatu, the sorcerers who once helped protect Iskandia from conquerors. Their subterranean mountain community was blown up in a treacherous sneak attack by soldiers who feared their power. Everyone Sardelle ever knew is dead, and the sentient soulblade she has been bonded to since her youth is buried in the core of the mountain. Further, what remains of her home has been infested by bloodthirsty miners commanded by the descendants of the very soldiers who destroyed her people.

  Sardelle needs help to reach her soulblade—her only link to her past and her last friend in the world. Her only hope is to pretend she’s one of the prisoners while trying to gain the commander’s trust. But lying isn’t her specialty, especially when the world has changed so much in the intervening centuries, and if Colonel Zirkander figures out who she truly is, he’ll be duty-bound to sentence her to the only acceptable punishment for sorcerers: death.

  Chapter 1

  Colonel Ridge Zirkander had walked the hall to General Ort’s office so many times he suspected his boots were responsible for the threadbare state of the drab gray carpet runner. The two privates standing guard on either side of the door were too well trained to exchange knowing smirks, but that didn’t mean gossip of this meeting wouldn’t be all over the citadel by noon. It wouldn’t be the first time. Fortunately, uniforms only held awards and not demerits.

  “Morning, gents.” Ridge stopped before the door. He eyed the privates’ rifles—they had the new lever-action repeating models—but neither man looked like he had been given orders to keep visitors out. Too bad. “How’s the general’s mood today?”

  “Tense, sir.”

  “That applies to most days, doesn’t it?” He didn’t expect an answer—privates weren’t encouraged to chat about officers after all, at least not where said officers might overhear—but the younger one grinned and responded.

  “A week ago last Thursday, it elevated to agitated, sir.”

  “Glad I was in the air that day then.” Ridge thumped the fellow on the shoulder and reached for the doorknob.

  The private’s grin widened. “We heard about the battle cruiser, sir. That was marvelous. I wish I could have seen it.”

  “Taking down the supply ship was more of a victory for us, but I suppose that didn’t come with the added excitement of being shot at by cannons.”

  “I’d love to hear about it, sir.” The private’s eyes gleamed with hope.

  “Might be at Rutty’s later,” Ridge said, “if the general doesn’t send me down to the kitchen to chop vegetables with the recruits.”

  He walked in without knocking. Mounds of paperwork were heaped on General Ort’s desk, but the man was gazing out the window overlooking the harbor, his weathered hands clasped behind his back. Merchant, fishing, and military vessels sailed to and from the docks, but, as always, Ridge’s eye was drawn to the dragon fliers lined up on the butte on the southern end. Their sleek bronze hulls, propellers, and guns gleamed under the morning sun, beckoning him to return. His squadron was out there, overseeing maintenance and repairs, and waiting for him to bring them news. He hoped this ego-trouncing session would also include the delivery of new orders.

  When the general didn’t turn around right away, Ridge flopped into a plush leather chair in front of the desk, flinging his leg over the armrest.

  “Morning, General. I got your message. What can I do for you this fine day?” Ridge nodded toward the blue sky above the harbor, a sky clear of enemy airships as well as clouds.

  Ort turned, his customary scowl deepening as he waved at Ridge’s dangling boot. “No, no, have a seat. I insist.”

  “Thank you, General. These chairs do lend themselves to lounging in comfort.” Ridge patted the soft leather. “If anyone ever succeeds in foisting an office on me, I hope it’ll be furnished just as finely.”

  “Seven gods, Ridge. Every time you see me, I wonder anew how you got so many bars on your collar.”

  “It’s a mystery to me as well, sir.”

  Ort pushed a hand through his short gray hair, sat down, and pulled out a folder. Ridge’s folder, though he had to have it memorized by now, all of its three inches of thickness. “You’re forty years old, Colonel. Are you ever going to grow up?”

  “I’ve been told it’s more likely I’ll be shot down first.”

  Ort folded his hands across the folder without opening it. “Tell me what happened.”

  “In regard to what, sir?” Ridge asked. He knew perfectly well, but he had long ago learned not to volunteer information that might incriminate him.

  “You don’t know?” Ort’s ever-present scowl deepened until the corners of his mouth were in danger of falling off his chin.

  “Well, my squad’s been on the ground four days. Could be a lot of things.”

  “According to my report, you broke Diplomat Serenson’s nose, bruised his ribs, and threatened to rip off his penis. Any of that sound familiar?”

  “Oh,” Ridge said, nodding. “Yes, it does. Although, I believe it was his flesh pole I threatened to rip off. There were ladies present, and some find anatomically correct terms too blunt for polite company.”

  The general’s jaw ground back and forth several times before he managed a response. “Explain.”

  “That slimy turf kisser had cornered Lieutenant Ahn and was groping her and trying to usher her outside. She was about to slam a fist into his face herself, but I stepped in, figuring she might not appreciate your plush leather chairs the way I do.” Actually, his ace lieutenant, who had nearly as many kills on the side of her flier as he did this year, had been wearing the most conflicted expression, like she might have actually let Serenson drag her outside and paw her up, since he was such an important delegate. To the hells with that—nob
ody’s uniform required that kind of sacrifice.

  “Breyatah’s Breath, Ridge, couldn’t you have defended your officer without starting an international incident?”

  Possibly, but he wouldn’t have found it nearly as satisfying. Besides… “International incident? We’re already at war with the Cofah, and this was just a reminder of why we broke away from their rule in the first place. They think they can have anything they want. Well, they can’t. Not my country, and not one of my people.”

  Ort sighed and leaned back in his chair. “It’s… good to know you care beneath all your irrepressible impudence, but the king was at my throat like an attack dog this morning. This is serious, Ridge. Serenson wants you sent to Magroth.”

  Ridge snorted. His crime hadn’t been that severe. Only convicts went to the Magroth Crystal Mines, convicts who would have otherwise been marched out to the firing squad. Very few thought the sentence of life in the mines with no chance of parole was an improvement.

  The general pulled a sheet of paper out of the top of Ridge’s file and laid it on the desk. “You leave in the morning.”

  “I—what?” For the first time, real unease settled into the pit of his stomach. He had left his blessed dragon figurine dangling in the cockpit of his flier, but maybe he should have brought it along, or at least rubbed its belly for luck that morning… “That’s not very damned funny, sir.”

  The general’s humorless gray eyes bored into Ridge like overzealous drills. “The king agrees.”

  The king? The king wouldn’t send him to his death. He was too valuable to the war effort. Ridge started to shake his head, but halted, realization coming as his gaze dropped to the typed sheet of paper. Orders. They weren’t sending him as a criminal, but as an officer. A contingent of men guarded the secret mines, the location known only to those high up in command—and those who had been stationed there.

  “You want me to guard miners, sir? That’s… the infantry’s job and one for a bunch of enlisted men.” Sure, there had to be a few officers there to run administration, but there couldn’t possibly be a posting for a colonel. “Or are you demoting me along with this… reassignment?” Ridge almost gagged on the last word. Reassigned! Him? All he knew how to do was fly and shoot; that’s all he had done since graduating from flight school. He was only vaguely aware of the location of the mines, but knew they were in the mountains, hundreds of miles from the coast, from the front lines.

  “Demotion? No, not a demotion. Read the orders, Ridge.” Ort smiled for the first time in the meeting, the kind of smile a bully wears after pummeling some scrawny kid on the brisk-ball court. “The king and I talked about this at great length this morning.”

  Ridge picked up the sheet and skimmed. Yes, a reassignment. To the position… He lowered the sheet. “Fortress commander?”

  “I believe that’s what it says, yes.” Ort was still smiling. Ridge preferred his scowl.

  “That’s… that’s a position for a general.” Or at least someone with experience leading battalions of troops, not to mention the administration background a man should have. All Ridge had commanded were squadrons of smart, cocky officers not unlike him. What was he supposed to do with a bunch of infantry soldiers? Not to mention the gods knew how many murdering prisoners that roamed the tunnels?

  “In times of war, it’s not uncommon for less experienced officers to be forced to work in positions above their pay grade.”

  “What happened to the current commander?” Ridge muttered, imagining some poor general with a miner’s pickaxe driven into his forehead.

  “General Bockenhaimer is due to retire this winter. He’ll be extremely grateful to be relieved early.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Ridge stared down at the orders, his eyes blurring. He barely managed to check the date. A one-year assignment. Who would command his team while he was gone? Who would pilot his flier? He had always thought… he had been led to assume—no, people had told him, damn it—he was indispensable out there. The war wasn’t over—if anything, this year had seen more fighting than any of the previous four. How could they send him off to some remote gods-forgotten outpost in the mountains?

  “I know this is hard for you to stomach, Ridge, but I actually believe it’s for the best.”

  Ridge shook his head. It was all he could do. For once, he had no words, no quip with which to respond.

  “You’re an amazing pilot, Ridge. You know that. Everyone knows that. But there’s more to being an officer than shooting things. This will force you to mature as a soldier and as a man.” Ort hitched a shoulder. “Or it’ll kill you.”

  Ridge snorted.

  Ort waved a hand. “You have your orders. Dismissed.”

  Ridge left the chair, giving it and the harbor out the window a long look before he headed for the door. Grounded. For a year. How was he going to survive?

  “Oh, and Colonel?” the general said as Ridge walked for the door.

  Ridge paused, hoping this had all been a joke designed to teach him a lesson. “Yes?”

  “Pack warm clothes. Autumn is just about over in the mountains.” The general’s smile returned. “And Magroth is at twelve thousand feet.”

  A lesson, indeed.

  • • • • •

  Sardelle woke with a start, her heart pounding out of her chest. Nothing except blackness surrounded her. Scrapes and scuffs reached her ears, and memories rushed over her: the sounds of the explosion, being ordered to the safety chamber, climbing into one of the mage shelters and activating it, then gasping in terror as the rock crashed down all around her, obliterating her world.

  She patted around, feeling for the smooth walls of the sphere, but they had disappeared. Only rough, cold rock met her probing fingers. The scrapes were getting louder. Her colleagues coming to help? But they would burn away the rock or move it by magical means, not scrape through it with pickaxes, wouldn’t they? Maybe the sorcerers of the Circle were too busy fighting back their attackers and had sent mundane workers.

  Sardelle?

  The telepathic query filled her mind with relief. Jaxi. Had her soulblade been buried in the rock somewhere as well? There hadn’t been time to run and grab the sword when the mountain had started quaking.

  I’m here.

  Thank the gods. You’ve been hibernating for so long. You can’t believe how lonely it’s been. There’s a limit to how many conversations you can start with rocks.

  I assume that means you’re buried too. The soft scrapes were getting closer, and a pinprick of light pierced the darkness a few feet away.

  Deeper than you. You left me in the basement training rooms, remember?

  Of course I remember. That was just this morning. As I recall, you were enjoying having that handsome young apprentice oil your blade.

  Sardelle waited, expecting a retort, but a long silence filled her mind—and the pinprick of light grew larger. When Jaxi finally responded, it was a soft, Sardelle?

  Yes… ?

  It wasn’t this morning.

  When, then?

  Three hundred years ago.

  She snorted. That’s funny, Jaxi. Very funny. How long has it really been?

  Those army sappers were utterly effective in collapsing the mountain. They were shielded somehow, and our people didn’t sense them. For that… we died. En masse. The mage shelter saved your life, but it was programmed not to take you out of stasis until favorable conditions returned to the outside. In this case, oxygen and a way for a human being to escape without being crushed.

  That part, Sardelle believed. She remembered Jetia sending out the telepathic announcement—more of a mental shriek of fear—about the sappers seconds before the explosions had gone off, before the rocks had started crumbling. But… three hundred years?

  If it makes you feel better, I’ve been conscious for all of those years, watching this mountain and hoping someone with mage powers would wander by, so I could call out for the person to retrieve me. I did manage to mind link w
ith a couple of shepherds and prospectors, but they found my presence in their heads alarming, if you can imagine that. They ran off the mountain shrieking. Little matter. I estimate I’m under a thousand meters of solid rock. There would be no way for a mundane to reach me. Even you… I would appreciate it if you would find a way to get me out, but moving that much rock would be too much for you without me.

  Is that so? Sardelle managed to lace the thought with indignation, though it was more a habitual reaction to Jaxi’s teasing than a true objection. And this had to be teasing. Unlike with most sorcerers, who preserved their souls after they had lived many decades, Jaxi had died young of a rare disease, choosing to infuse her essence in the soulblade before passing. Despite having had several wielders and existing in the sword for hundreds of years, Jaxi retained her teenage sense of humor, often playing pranks on Sardelle.

  Not this time, my friend.

  I don’t—

  You’ll see in a moment. You better pay attention to your surroundings. The world has changed. Our people were destroyed, and those who remain fear anything that smells of magic. A while back, at the base of the mountain, I saw a girl who had been accused of being a witch weighted down with stones and drowned in a lake. Do not use your powers where they can be observed.

  Sardelle wanted to argue, wanted to catch Jaxi in a lie. Mostly she wanted for everything to be all right, for all of her kith and kin to have survived and for this all to be a joke. The scrapes had continued, and more light—the flickering of candle or perhaps lantern flames—seeped into her niche. Her eyes couldn’t yet tell her who was out there, so she stretched out with her senses… and knew right away the two men clawing at the rock with picks and shovels were strangers. Though she was often off on missions, she knew all the sorcerers and mundanes who worked in Galmok Mountain, the seat of culture, government, and teaching for those with the gift.

  Voices reached Sardelle’s ears, rough and slightly accented.