Returner's Wealth (Wyrmeweald, Book 1)
Paul Stewart, Chris Riddell
Seventeen-year-old Micah, enters the wyrmeweald full of hope to return home having made his fortune. But this is a land where wyrmes, fabulous dragon-like beasts, roam wild and reign supreme. In Wyrmeweald man is both hunter and hunted - and Micah may never return alive, let alone a hero... He soon finds a chance to prove his worth when he meets with Eli, a veteran tracker, and together they defend a rare whitewyrme egg and its precious hatchling. But the fledgling wyrme has its own guardian in the shape of the beautiful, brave and dangerous Thrace. Thrace and Micah should never mix - but the magnetism between them is strong. Together they join forces on a mission to rescue the hatchling - and seek vengenace for lost loved-ones.
Forty-One Forty-Two Forty-Three Forty-Four Forty-Five Forty-Six Forty-Seven Forty-Eight Forty-Nine Fifty Fifty-One Fifty-Two Fifty-Three Fifty-Four Fifty-Five Fifty-Six Fifty-Seven Fifty-Eight Epilogue Preview: Bloodhoney A Biography of Paul Stewart and Chris Riddell The most ancient of the great whitewyrmes turned his mighty head towards the horizon. His nostrils flared. It was there again. The odour on the wind; rank and fetid, and threatening to taint
abundant food just beyond his grasp. Behind him, he could hear the water coming to the boil and caught the first whiff of the softening salsify roots as their fragrance was slowly released. He would have to nourish himself with this thin soup, and hope that he’d have the strength to forage round the lakeshore the next day. Micah picked up a small stone and tossed it bitterly into the lake. He was watching the ripples spread out across the still water when the lake changed. It swirled and
look in her eyes, of tenderness, of regret and heartache. Then she turned back to Caspar and disappeared from view, a brittle bell-like laugh ringing out. Seraphita’s father watched them go, his small eyes twinkling in the middle of a face gone flabby with affection, before turning back to Micah. His face was stoneset once more. ‘My Seraphita is indeed a tender-hearted child,’ he said in a quiet musing voice, almost as though he was talking to himself. ‘And just like with Peshneg over
shrugged, then turned away. The fire gleamed on his broad sweaty face. He tossed a couple of trimmed sticks from the meagre woodstack into the flames. They hissed and spat, and the fire gave off writhing coils of smoke. It wrapped itself round the deep cooking pot, which was beginning to steam. ‘I trust Jesse no further than I can spit,’ Bethesda was telling him. ‘And that missing eye ain’t gonna make his temper no sweeter. You know what he’s like.’ ‘Jesse’ll do what he’s told,’ said Esau
place by your fire …’ ‘I know you, don’t I?’ Esau broke in, his brow like crumpled brown paper. ‘The scrimshaw den, Esau,’ Micah told him. ‘You were with a man called Jesse. And Solomon Tallow …’ ‘That’s right,’ said Esau, nodding, his clouded face brightening. He unfolded his arms and turned to the woman. ‘It’s that greenhorn departer who told Solomon about the speckled stack, Bethesda.’ He looked back at Micah. ‘Matthew, ain’t it?’ ‘Micah,’ said Micah. ‘Micah,’ Esau repeated