The Color of Dragons Read online

  Dedication

  Here’s to anyone who grabs at the stars even though they’re sure they cannot reach them.—R.A.S.

  To my daughter, Riley, and everyone out there like her, tearing down walls and busting through barriers to make this world a better place.—E.L.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  A Brief History

  One: Maggie

  Two: Griffin

  Three: Maggie

  Four: Griffin

  Five: Maggie

  Six: Griffin

  Seven: Maggie

  Eight: Griffin

  Nine: Maggie

  Ten: Griffin

  Eleven: Maggie

  Twelve: Griffin

  Thirteen: Maggie

  Fourteen: Griffin

  Fifteen: Maggie

  Sixteen: Griffin

  Seventeen: Maggie

  Eighteen: Griffin

  Nineteen: Maggie

  Twenty: Griffin

  Twenty-One: Maggie

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Books by R. A. Salvatore and Erika Lewis

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  A Brief History

  The lands were divided, not by name, which was common, but by a wall. Unlike the ramparts of this time, which were mostly made of wood, this wall was made of stone. Hailed a wonder of the world, it rose forty feet into the air. Nothing could penetrate or scale it.

  King Umbert ordered the building of this wall. He was once considered a valiant king, the warrior who beat back deadly monsters, known as draignochs, all to save the people. Large beasts twice the size of the tallest man, with daggers for fangs and serpent tails decorated with deadly spikes, the draignochs terrorized the four lands. It took brutal strength to stop them. It took Umbert the Conqueror, a warrior known for honor and valor.

  But that was before the wall.

  When the war was over, the people crowned him king, and King Umbert built a glorious castle on the highest hill, a hill so tall it could be seen from every part of the land. Around the castle a great city grew, filled with those closest to the king, and those close to those closest to the king, and so on and so forth, until the city bustled and there was room for no more. The wall came next, and it was praised by all living in the city, for it offered them safety they had never before known. But shortly thereafter, the king and those who lived within the walls changed.

  They forgot where the food they ate and the water they drank came from, as if it just magically appeared behind the wall or grew from the rocks they had planted rather than trees. And yet, the food and water still came, as did the thread for their fine linen clothes, leather for their armor, steel for their swords, wool for their blankets, and on and on, because a luxurious castle in a luxurious city needed such things to keep them in comfort.

  No one asked where anything came from because it was always there. And it was always there because it was stolen—in the name of taxes for the king and his walled-off city—from those living outside, in the Hinterlands, where people slaved over fields, dug deep in the mines, and wrangled cattle and sheep, only to have their just rewards taken from them.

  And as much as those in the walled city had forgotten, those outside talked of nothing else, every hour of every minute of every second of every day.

  Anger spread throughout the lands. King Umbert’s legend was forgotten. His infamy grew.

  Unrest roiled in the hearts of all who lived outside. All they needed to bring change was a spark to ignite the rebellion.

  One

  Maggie

  “Did you feel that, lass?” The bones tied in Xavier’s silver hair clacked in the wind as his haunted gaze fell on the empty road behind us.

  The drumbeat of cantering horses meant only one thing in the Hinterlands.

  King Umbert’s soldiers.

  They came down from the Walled City without warning. Always dressed in the finest smoothed leather tunics stained red for their king, always heavily armed, and always hungry. The soldiers raided, taking anything and everything in the name of the crown. Livestock and harvest bounty from the South. Steel, precious gems, silver and gold mined in the East. Timber from the West. And women from all.

  “I feel it.”

  He thwacked our old mare, Dorn, but she was no match for them even if she wasn’t pulling our wagon.

  “There’s no other road,” I said, knowing what would come next.

  Xavier grimaced. “Hide yourself until nightfall, then meet me at the village tavern. Take the back way. Some of this lot may wind up there.” At least he didn’t sound nervous.

  “Understood.” I knew what was expected. This happened at least once a month.

  I checked my dagger was in my boot.

  “Whatever you do, Maggie—”

  “Don’t be late. Performance starts just after sundown. I know.”

  The road bent.

  “Have I ever let you down?” I gave him my best cheeky grin.

  “There’s always a first time.” Xavier shoved me out of the wagon.

  I rolled down the short hill into a shady glen, scooting behind a thick tree with low-hanging branches I could easily climb. It had the benefit of colorful fall leaves that refused to bow to burgeoning winter, giving good cover. Once perched above sightline, I heard Xavier’s singing. He did that to keep the soldiers on his trail.

  Xavier was a strange old man, putting himself at risk for me. I was nothing to him. No relation at all. A barely whelped foundling who wandered out of the woods, lost. I hadn’t been old enough to speak or remember how to get home.

  Xavier lived a gypsy life, traveling here and there, performing magic tricks for handouts. He had no reason to take on a tiny child. To hear him tell the tale, he fed me that night, and like a stray dog, I followed him forever after. That was it. He was stuck with me. Softhearted sucker. And I would never let him down. My job was simple, really. As soon as I was old enough to hold things without dropping them, I became his magician’s assistant, helping with props and passing the collection pot. Tonight was a big night for us.

  The past six months the earnings pot had barely made enough to feed Dorn. Drought devastated the southern farms. There was little food to be had, and what was to be had was expensive. We’d eaten nothing but what we could scavenge from places that had already been raked over. Berries, watercress, fish, and the occasional windfall of a squirrel.

  The last four alehouses were mostly empty. But this night would be different. Ships had pulled in only last night, so the marauders’ pockets would be heavy, and they would be drinking their fill at the Lazy Storm, the only tavern in the western seaside village. The sots would be drunk, happy to be on land, and lulled into a dream state with full bellies. If they didn’t shill a bit of pirated silver for the performance, it would be easy to take it.

  As expected, within seconds, horse hooves and wagon wheels exited the road, moving into the field on the other side of the glen. Wagon wheels rolled. I saw a team of twelve horses harnessed to an enormous mandarin-colored metal cage grind to a halt on the other side of the glen. I was too high to see what was inside.

  Footsteps approached, growing louder by the second. I held my breath as a beefy soldier removed his helmet, throwing it at the cage. Blood trickled down the back of his neck. “I’m going to cut off every one of that rat’s claws!”

  He pulled his sword.

  A sniveling skinny boy about my age limped past the tree and around the soldier, standing in his way. Fresh blood stuck his scraggly brown hair to his forehead, his gray linen clothes shredded as if he’d been attacked by a wild dog. “No. You wo
n’t. You will stay away from it, Moldark!”

  Moldark slid his sword up against the boy’s throat, backing him up. “Why don’t you try and stop me, Perig, ya pissant?” His words whistled as though he was missing a front tooth.

  The soldier shoved Perig through thorny bushes that stood between them and the metal cage, rousing squeaky helpless yelps, then followed him with determination, disappearing from view as well.

  This was my chance to get away. I climbed down as silently as possible, relieved when my feet softly touched solid ground. The road looked clear. Directly across was the footpath that would lead me to the back of the village. Soldiers never used it. It took longer.

  A sharp cry rang out. High-pitched, tinged with frustration and sadness more than anger. My heart seized. My feet froze. I had never heard anything like it.

  Another cry. Then another.

  The fourth time, a scuffle broke out.

  “Get off me, Perig!”

  An oomph and a cry for help left me believing that Perig was losing the battle with Moldark.

  A loud thwap pinged the metal cage. “Do you see that wagon piled high with bodies killed by this wretched beast? A little punishment goes a long way to—”

  “This draignoch belongs to the king!” Perig griped.

  A draignoch? Impossible.

  All had been killed or captured long ago, or so Xavier told me. Once upon a time, the beasts ravaged the lands. Xavier’s home, with his family inside, was trampled by the monsters. He was the sole survivor. Hinterfolk spoke of draignochs only in whispers, as if saying the name would unleash the monsters again. I hid behind the trunk, tempted. I had never seen one before.

  It cried out for a fifth time.

  I should leave. As it was, I was too close to the soldiers, but I found it impossible to resist a peek.

  I crawled to the hedges. Kneeling, I slid my hands into the prickly branches, parting enough space for me to glimpse Moldark stab a spear through the bars.

  The draignoch let out a strangled cry.

  “Hurts, doesn’t it?” Moldark wasn’t just beefy. He was a mountain of a man. His face pocked, his hair greasy black. He growled at the draignoch, showing off the few teeth he had left in his head.

  I couldn’t see the draignoch clearly in the shadows of the cage, but I could hear it. It knocked into the side, nearly toppling it over.

  “Moldark!” Perig flailed his hands at the huge man. “Be reasonable! If this falls over . . . if it escapes . . .” His fearful gasps stopped.

  “It can’t escape a Phantombronze cage, Perig.” Moldark rattled the bars with his spear.

  Another first. I’d always thought Phantombronze was made up by bards who ran out of stories to tell. They sang of it being the strongest metal ever found. Unbreakable even. They said if the deep mines under the Walled City didn’t kill you, the poisonous fumes from smithing it would.

  “Stop it!” Perig screeched, his pitch so high it hurt my ears. “The king will have your head cut off if he hears word of this behavior.”

  Moldark aimed the spear at Perig’s heart. “If you mention my name to the king, ever, I’ll kill you before he kills me. That’s a promise.”

  Perig backed up. “Just get away from it. I fed it a very powerful sleep dram. If you just stop riling it, it’ll take effect.”

  “Moldark! Perig!” another soldier cried from some distance away.

  Perig patted Moldark on the shoulder, delivering a pleading grin. “Sir Raleigh calls. Cannot keep him waiting.”

  “Hands off,” Toothless growled, then immediately spun around, storming away with Perig right behind him.

  This was my chance. I had to see it. I couldn’t wait to tell Xavier. Bring him back something to prove it too. Perhaps the beast would be so kind as to shed a feather or scale, or drop a turd, any unnecessary random bit that Xavier could spin into a story of magic.

  A quick glance to be sure the path was clear, and I slid through the bushes. Crouching beside one of the large wheels, I laid a tentative hand on the Phantombronze. It felt smooth and frigid like river ice in winter.

  The creature rumbled as if succumbing to the sleep dram.

  I peeked through the bars. The cage was so layered in shadows all I could see was what the afternoon sun spotlighted, the creature’s back where bloody stab wounds marred its iridescent black skin. With every breath the beast took, its body shifted across the beams, its skin casting subtle, secret colors. It was beautiful.

  Above me, its steely blue eye blinked open.

  I cringed, expecting it to roar and give me away, but instead, it whispered in chuffs and clicks. Its head rose a few inches but was forced to stop when it hit the ceiling. It was much too big for the cell.

  A claw scraped the metal floor of the cage, sliding between the bars, clasping the edge. The draignoch chuffed again. Slightly louder this time, pumping its claw, like a beckoning finger.

  This was a trap. If I got too close, that claw would skewer me—its next meal on a spit. But the beast was right there, only inches away. It lowered its head so that I could feel its breath on my neck.

  Chills.

  I gave in to foolishness, brushing my fingers across the claw. It was hard as stone and cold as ice. As I drew back, an invisible force seemed to press my hand down. Holding it to the talon.

  The draignoch rolled a purr, like a cat settling in for a long comfortable sleep—with my hand stuck to it.

  No! I panicked, yanking my wrist. But it wouldn’t move. The sounds of soldiers’ footsteps padding through the tall grasses, conversations of feeding and watering horses—all of this happening on the other side of the cage. Focused on the draignoch, I had forgotten that I was standing on the edge of a lion’s den.

  Voices came closer. I recognized skinny Perig’s. Him I could take, but Moldark would be an issue.

  I twisted and turned, but the force was too strong. Then all at once, beneath my palm, I felt a pulse beating a simple rhythm.

  The draignoch whimpered. My heart ached with familiarity, as if this creature and I had somehow happened upon each other before. But that was impossible—or was it?

  I had been found wandering out of a forest. Could this beast be the reason I had no family? The reason I ended up alone?

  A flash of white erupted in the middle of the red in its visible eye. The burn grew larger and larger until it was the shape of a full moon. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It was terrifying, mesmerizing, and likely an indication it was about to kill me.

  Not it. It wasn’t an it. It was a her. I felt that with certainty.

  Heat shot through me. The full moon in her eye spread until it consumed half the red. My forearm stung. I bit my tongue to keep from crying out.

  I ripped my sleeve back. The scar from my childhood was blistering and red. Three long, deep scratches. The two on the sides tilted in opposite directions, pointing toward the center. A tiny pinprick topped each one. I had no idea what had caused it. Xavier thought maybe a wild cat of some kind. But now I wondered. Was it given to me by this creature? By her?

  I tried to free my hand again. With each pull, fresh fire shot through my arm. It burned, and I hissed.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Perig yelled, startling me.

  The draignoch groaned as if annoyed, pulling her claw back inside the cage. My hand fell away, freed. I gasped with relief, but as I turned to run, panic was replaced by a sudden deep sense of loss. For some insane and possibly suicidal reason, I didn’t want to leave her.

  Perig made a mad grab with a three-fingered hand, missing the hood of my cloak by several important inches. I split the thorny bushes with my arms, feeling the raw burn on my mark fresh with every poke and stick.

  “Get back here!” Moldark rushed at me from the other side, pulling his sword. The tip burrowed into my back before I could get away. I raised my hands. Caught.

  “Back up! Slowly . . .”

  The draignoch roared. She threw her head from side to side, sha
king the cage so hard it threatened to fall over.

  Moldark made the mistake of looking back. I dove into the bushes, coming out the other side. Toothless yelled, “Halt!”

  As if . . .

  I ran as fast as I could through the grove and across the road, Moldark huffing after me. I hurdled a stream, then started down a muddy hill. A hard boot kicked me in the back, sending me careening into the cool slippery muck.

  Laughing, Moldark stepped on my back, holding me there. The tip of his blade pressed against my shoulder, stabbing through my cloak. Another push and it would break skin.

  “When King Umbert’s soldier tells you to halt, you halt, boy.”

  Dressed in trousers with my hair stuffed under Xavier’s old cloak, I looked like a skinny young boy rather than a girl of seventeen. But the sound of my voice would give me away at the first word, so I held my tongue.

  He replaced his boot with a knee. He grabbed the back of my head with his free hand, forcing it to the side so he could get a look at my face.

  His matted hair fell into his eyes. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  That your breath smells like you licked a pig’s ass, I thought, but I refrained. When I remained mute, he shoved my face into the mud, making it impossible for me to breathe. I thrashed, but he pushed harder.

  “That’ll teach you . . .”

  Somehow, my hand found the dagger in my boot.

  He shifted, his foot moving forward to maintain balance. Before he knew what hit him, I stabbed right through his boot, feeling the blade grind down until it broke through the hard leather sole.

  “Ah! Ya little bastard!” He fell backward, dropping his sword to yank the knife out with two hands.

  I scrambled to get up, but my hands and knees slipped in the muck. Then another soldier stepped on my back, pinning me again. More soldiers circled, making escape difficult. At least I could breathe.

  “What is this ruckus about?” someone said from behind me. “Moldark, I gave you specific instructions. That draignoch must be taken to the Walled City. Now. You don’t have time for . . . whatever this is.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Moldark wave my knife. “This urchin stabbed me in the foot with an illegal blade, Prince Jori.”