Wizards of Fyre (Island of Fyre Book 3) Read Free

reached for more thorns. Even with the gloves made from dragon hide, picking thorns presented a danger. One slip with a thorn stabbing his face or next and he would suffer or even die. He lifted an empty sack and stomped toward the other man.
    “Fill this.” He thrust the sack at Arton. The foreign adoptee should become used to taking orders. There was ho way he could win. Mecador, chief wizard, was Cregan’s mentor and father.
    Arton opened his shirt and spilled as many of the thorns he could into the bag. Just as many fell on the ground. “Gathering thorns was your task. Be quick to pick up the fallen ones before they lose their potency.” He shook out his shirt and strode away.
    “How dare you disobey me?” Cregan’s hands rolled into fists. “You don’t understand. You will be my toady. I will win the challenge. I’m already ahead. Mecader knows I’m the better wizard.” He grabbed Arton’s shoulders and whirled him around.
    Arton pulled away. “Stop. We are forbidden physical fights against anyone who is a wizard.”
    Fury bubbled like a steaming cauldron. Cregan abandoned the sack he held and ran after Arton.
    Arton stumbled and floundered to regain his balance. Cregan hit his rival’s shoulders and Arton fell into the fyrethorn tangle. His screams filled the air. He pulled free and ran toward the citadel.
    Cregan abandoned the sacks and raced after the other man. What could he do? If Arton died, the council would act to banish Cregan. In the past he’d heard of one challenger being sent from the citadel for a year. The man had never returned. If he had he would have been named a second level wizard.
    As Cregan ran after his rival, he planned his story. He had to cast the blame on Arton. If Mecador believed Arton had stumbled and fell into the bushes, there would be no punishment. If the worst happened Cregan vowed to survive and fight for his rightful place, even if he needed to wand duel every council member. He was Mecador’s son. He deserved a council seat.
     
    * * *
     
    The ancient dragon stirred. A faint voice crying for help had roused him from his dreams. Slowly memories oozed into his mind. Though he tried to stop the cascade, he couldn’t. Once he’d been a young green preparing to take his place as guardian to young reds and blues of his line. Then disaster had arrived on white sailed ships.
    The men known as wizards had come from afar. The screams of slaughtered dragons filled the air. Three lines had been obliterated. One line had fled to the mountains. His kin. Many of them had died in the attempt to cross the towering peaks. He had been left behind because he’d been too young to make the journey. The cave system had been his home. When the last voice of his kin had faded, an ancient yellow had sent him into the deep hibernating sleep.
    How many cycles of the sun had passed since his sleep had begun? Why had he roused? He searched for the voices of other dragons and met silence. Anger fueled by memories filled his thoughts. He sensed the presence of wizards. Not the ones who had first come, but others. A desire to see his kin avenged roared through him. He needed someone to hear and speak for him. Would the voice he’d heard be the one?
    He dragged his aching body to his feet. He lumbered to the entrance into his sleeping place. Slowly he moved along the wide corridor past the cold room and the one where his people’s belongings had been stored. Humid heat drew him to the cavern where heated water bubbled in a pool. The steaming water eased his aching body. He continued to search for the voice that had awakened him.
     
    * * *
     
    A man’s roar of pain startled Lorana. She slid the cauldron from the fire. A guard shouted an order to halt. She ran to the gated entrance to the outer courtyard and peered through the grille. A bare-chested man with thorns protruding from his back and arms staggered inside. White streaks of flame shot from his wand.
    Lorana dropped to the ground just