Eighteen Moons E-Book

Elana A. Mugdan

• Herausgeber: Shivnath Productions
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 325

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

EIGHTEEN MOONS is a companion novella in The Shadow War Saga.

This gritty tale of survival and hope follows Keriya's friends during the eighteen months covered in the main novel, DRAGON BLOOD. It is meant to be read before Book IV of the Saga, DRAGON WAR.

The dragon is dead.

So is his Speaker.

Keriya Soulstar failed to defeat Necrovar. She was consumed in the fires of Mount Arax. With her gone, the Shadow has returned to Allentria to claim victory in the war he started ten ages ago.

Keriya's death ushers in a reign of terror as Necrovar seizes power. Her surviving friends are scattered across the continent, each one dealing with the fallout-and their traumas-differently. If they want to survive in a world ruled by Necrovar, they'll first have to master their fears...and learn to process their grief.

Leseprobe

Copyright © Elana A. Mugdan 2021

www.allentria.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Background by Maria Minaeva

Interior Art by Neiratina

ISBN: 978-1-5323-8797-5

This book is a companion novella to

DRAGON BLOOD, Book III of The Shadow War Saga

and is designed to be read before diving into

Book IV, DRAGON WAR

In stores now!

Learn more at

www.allentria.com

Check out the books of The Shadow War Saga!

Learn more at www.allentria.com

Or join the Allentria community on our Discord Server!

Table Of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

BOOK IV AVAILABLE NOW!

GLOSSARY & PRONUNCIATIONS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

Twelfth Age, Year 608

Mount Arax trembled beneath Fletcher Earengale’s aching feet. Every breath of sulfuric ash burnt his innards. Dry air seared his parched throat, yet he floundered on. He and his friends were close to the summit. The Rift—a ripped seam between two worlds—lay somewhere above.

What would he find when he reached it? Foolishly, Fletcher envisioned some ethereal doorway hovering in midair, an opening to Necrovar’s otherworldly prison. A shiver trembled across his skin, though the heat was unbearable. He was unprepared and ill-equipped to face the Shadow, but there was no turning back now. He’d come this far.

And he couldn’t leave Keriya to fight her final battle alone.

Fletcher followed Sebaris Wavewould, princess of the Galantasa, onto a ledge. Waiting for them on the flat stretch of land was Roxanne Fleuridae. The three clustered together as they caught their breath, staying close for comfort.

Seba lifted a trembling hand and pointed. “Is that Keriya?”

Fletcher’s chest tightened and he whipped his head around. A ghostly figure stood at the lip of a tableland a hundred heights up the steep slope. White hair streamed behind the small form like a pennant snapping in the wind.

“KERIYA!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, praying his words would reach her over the low, ominous hum of the volcano. “Come back, it’s too dangerous!”

Keriya took a step away from him. She was disappearing beyond the rim of the plateau.

Roxanne sprang into action, racing uphill. Fletcher, spurred by a knife of panic in his gut, scrambled along behind her.

“Keriya,” Fletcher choked uselessly, his voice raspy and weak. “Come back!”

The hum grew louder, pressing against his ears. The ground shook ever more violently, rattling his bones and causing him to slip and crash to his knees.

“We have to turn back,” Seba shouted from below.

“No,” Fletcher growled. “Keriya’s up there and she needs our help!”

The hum of volcanic activity became a roar. The mountain convulsed. Roxanne slid backward, knocking into Fletcher and bringing him tumbling down with her. Every impact against the craggy, porous ground felt like the clobbering of a war hammer.

He sprawled on the ledge next to Seba and blinked stars out of his eyes. Smoke was unfurling from the volcano’s mouth, coiling skyward to mingle with black thunderheads.

Roxanne tried to ascend again, but it was no use. A spasm rippled down the slope and a plume of scarlet lava jettisoned into the sky. Fletcher’s heart melted with despair as glutinous, blinding liquid oozed over the lip of the plateau.

“This can’t be right,” Seba whispered. “I didn’t see this. We’re going to die.”

“Keriya . . .” Fletcher stared at the eruption. His brain, struggling to process, could only focus on the immediate task at hand: helping his friend. “She needs us. We have to . . . to find a way—”

“We have to run,” Roxanne interrupted. She took his hand, pulling him to his feet.

Fletcher shook his head. How could Roxanne be so inconsiderate? How could she want to leave when Keriya was surrounded by boiling lava? He didn’t want to leave, but it seemed he no longer had command of his body. He allowed Roxanne to lead him away, stumbling in a dazed trance until another explosion knocked them both flat.

He gasped, gagging on the smell of rotten eggs and burning rock. Turning to Roxanne, he asked, “Can’t your animals help? What about the phoenix you met? He’s a fire wielder. You can call him. He’ll come.”

“I don’t think anyone’s coming to help us, Fletch.” Her voice was barely audible over the crackle of the lava and the wind that battered them, stirred to hurricane-like force as cold air sank onto the steaming volcano. “Not this time.”

“But . . . it can’t end this way,” he argued, shaking his head in denial. “Isn’t there something we can do?”

Too late. Mount Arax had finally had enough. With an almighty roar, a third explosion blasted them. Debris lanced into Fletcher. One lens of his glasses shattered. Roxanne screamed. He could see blood staining her head, neck, and back. Beyond her, Seba lay silent and unmoving.

Magma rained from the blast. Massive gobs splattered on the ground and rolled toward them like terrible glowing snakes. Shakily, Fletcher reached for Roxanne’s hand and grasped it. There was no strength in her grip, but she opened her honey-hazel eyes to stare at him. There were clean lines on her brown cheeks where tears had blazed trails through a coating of grime and dust.

“Goodbye,” he whispered, the sickly, coppery taste of blood coating his mouth.

She made a rasping sound, unintelligible through the wounds on her neck. But she did squeeze his fingers, and he imagined for the briefest of moments that a light of hope sparked in her gaze.

It faded as she lost consciousness. She wouldn’t see her death approaching, unlike him. He had a wonderful view of the magma. His skin was blistering. His eyes shriveled in the dryness, unable to summon moisture for tears. Maybe he, too, would pass out before his grisly, burning end—he prayed to Shivnath that it would be so.

A fey cry split the air, rising above the roar of the volcano. It drew Fletcher’s gaze to the black sky once more. He saw a fiery apparition shimmering out of the smog, growing larger and brighter until it obscured his vision. It landed softly beside him, a golden-red nimbus dancing around its svelte form. Fletcher was surprised to find that these flames were not scalding, but wonderfully, refreshingly cool.

His first thought was that it was a ghost. But—a ghost made of fire? Fletcher wasn’t sure, but that probably violated some kind of rule. Besides, as he understood it, ghosts didn’t have any effect on the physical world, yet this ghost was doing something to the magma.

The fire-ghost faced the sluggish, burning tidal wave and cried out again. In response, the lava magically split apart before it reached them, rolling to either side of the specter and away from Fletcher, Roxanne, and Seba. The heat no longer touched him; he was preserved by the grace of the brilliant, cooling flames from his mysterious savior.

The lava was relentless, piling up against the invisible barrier the ghost created. The buildup peaked in an arc and coursed over the four of them, encasing them in a hemisphere of safety.

How long they stayed like that, Fletcher had no idea. He was so exhausted, so overwhelmed, that he sank into a fitful half-sleep, waking with a start now and then, certain that death had caught up to him. But he and his friends remained safe as the lava percolated and cooled, kept at bay by the fire-ghost.

A long time later, Fletcher woke fully. It was dark, but a soft golden glow permeated the space. He raised himself on shaky arms—his head spun and his body screamed in protest. Rock fragments from the blasts had lodged in his skin. Angry red welts had risen around the larger pieces. Patches of dried blood spotted his shirt. His glasses, cracked and bent horribly askew from the explosions and heat, were useless now. Reluctantly he discarded them.

He wasn’t in good shape, but he was alive. Alive and well—aside from the fact that his head was pounding and he was dying of thirst. Looking around, he saw that Seba was also awake. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to Shivnath that the princess had survived.

“Seba,” he croaked, catching her attention. Her narrow sapphire eyes, dulled with pain and glazed with shock, flickered to him. His throat was so dry that he couldn’t speak, so he motioned to his mouth for water.

She shook her head and raised her arms. Her sleeves were in tatters, revealing that her flesh was pockmarked with dark bruises and stained with blue blood. She’d sustained far worse injuries from the explosion than he had. She wouldn’t be able to wield in her present state.

He nodded miserably and turned his attention elsewhere. From the looks of it, they were in some sort of tiny cave. Yet there weren’t any visible openings in this cave. Fletcher frowned. How had they gotten here?

His wandering gaze fell on Roxanne. She lay on her back, eyes closed, chest rising and falling slowly. Cuts and gashes covered her visible skin, including a deep wound on her neck that had matted her brown hair in a dark, tangled clump. Terrible though that injury was, Fletcher couldn’t focus on it; his eyes were drawn to the source of the golden light beside her.

It wasn’t a ghost. It was the most beautiful bird he had ever seen. Living flames shivered at the edges of its red-gold plumage, but the fires emitted no heat. The bird’s long tail curled neatly around Roxanne’s legs. It perched on one of her knees, watching her with glittering black eyes.

“What’s that?” Fletcher whispered, awed by the animal’s beauty. From the tip of its sleek, crested head to its taloned feet, he estimated it was half of his own height.

“Phoenix,” Seba answered hoarsely. “Saved us from the eruption, I think. He’s been sitting with her since I came-to.”

Fletcher tried to swallow, but there was no moisture to spare in his mouth. He let out a grating cough and said, “Is she okay?”

Seba lifted her thin shoulders in a shrug. “Discounting the fact that the magma solidified over us, trapping us in here, yes. She’s perfectly safe from the bird.”

At that, the phoenix whipped its head around to glare at Seba. It emitted a harsh chirp.

“I don’t think you should call it that,” Fletcher told her. She pursed her lips and looked away, but he noted that her eyes kept flickering back to their phoenix savior.

Silence stretched for ages. Fletcher had no energy to move and no will to fight. As the reality of their situation sank in—as he wrapped his mind around the explosion and its implications—the relief of survival wore off and despair claimed him.

Keriya was dead. She’d walked right into the lava. She must have seen it from her vantage point . . . yet she had chosen to keep going instead of fleeing when she’d had the chance. She’d gone to her death willingly.

He couldn’t say he blamed her. She’d been lost ever since she had lost Thorion.

Shivnath’s impossible demands and terrible instructions hadn’t helped. It had been too much for one person to bear. Defeat Necrovar? Necrovar, the greatest wielder in the history of the world? How could the dragon god have imagined for a single instant that Keriya would be able to?

Growing up in Aeria, Fletcher had been taught about the afterlife. It was comprised of two halves: the light and the dark. Shivnath ruled the light half, and the evil god Helkryvt ruled the darkness. If you were good in life, Shivnath claimed your soul in the afterlife. If you were bad, you went to the darkness.

Fletcher supposed Keriya was free now—at peace in the afterlife, her soul safe with Shivnath. That was what he told himself to keep the dull ache of grief from eating away at him.

At peace. In a better place.

However, that didn’t help him personally. He was not in a better place. He was in a terrible one—he was trapped, and his only company was Sebaris Wavewould. For the moment, terror and shock had stilled her lashing tongue. But the peace didn’t last long.

“What are you going to do about getting us out of here?” she asked at length, clawing her cobalt-blue hair away from her pallid cheeks where sweat had plastered it.

“Why are you asking me?” His voice was dead and flat.

Her eyes flashed in the phoenixlight as she glared at him. “Because you’re the only one in this coffin who’s in any condition to use magic. The phoenix exhausted his source and I’m too badly injured. Get us out. I don’t know how much air is left in here.”

“I’m not that strong,” he said wearily. “Wait til Roxanne wakes up.”

“She’s in no state to wield.”

Fletcher bit his lip. Roxanne was in terrible shape . . . then again, she was also powerful. It probably wouldn’t be any trouble for her to wield them free once she woke.

If she woke.

Taeleia and Danisan, his elf friends, had taught him to fend for himself while they’d traveled the Smarlands together. He believed he’d proven to be a worthy pupil. Maybe it was his turn to save his friends. Maybe the time had come for him to fight.

But how could he? What was he fighting for? Thorion and Keriya were dead, and Roxanne was close to it. If Fletcher waited a few more hours, he’d be gone too. He could peacefully slip out of this world and into the next.

“Fletcher, please. I need your help.” Seba’s voice was soft and desperate. He’d never heard her ask for something politely before.

The phoenix hooted, low and musical. It was staring at him with deep, soulful eyes. Slowly, it tilted its sparkling head toward Roxanne.

Fletcher’s jaw clenched. He was fighting for the same thing he’d been fighting for all along: his friends. Roxanne needed him. Seba needed him. Even this phoenix was doomed without him, for it was as surely trapped as the humans were.

With that, Fletcher surged to his feet. He swayed, spots winking across his vision from the sudden movement. The phoenix watched him, but never left Roxanne’s knee.

Fletcher closed his eyes and retreated inside himself, sinking through his consciousness until he reached his magicsource. Its soft greenish glow had never been strong, since Fletcher wasn’t a strong wielder, but it was more diminished now in his weakened state.

It doesn’t matter. I have strength enough for this.

Inelegantly grabbing two mental fistfuls of threads, he opened his eyes and turned his attention to the frozen magma. Luckily this type of rock was light and airy, filled with pockets of space. It would be easy to shatter . . . at least, it would be for Roxanne. For Fletcher, it presented more of a challenge.

The phoenix chirped encouragement and Fletcher nodded. The faint tingle of energy in his veins helped him focus his intent and steel his resolve. He squared his shoulders and forced invisible magicthreads through the rock, mentally weaving them through every tiny crack and crevice until they reached the outside world. Gritting his teeth, he yanked each mental fistful apart. A crack appeared in the wall of their prison.

“It’s working,” Seba gasped. “Keep going!”

Sweat beaded on Fletcher’s brow. He dug into his source and pulled out more threads, snaking them along the fault lines he’d created. Again he ripped them apart, forcing energy outwards, and the crack widened. Pieces of pumice crumbled and fell.

“Again,” said Seba.

Fletcher’s breath was coming in short gasps. This would be hard work even if he hadn’t been on the brink of death, but he rallied. He pulled one final handful of threads from his source, depleting it entirely. The shallow mine of power within him was spent.

He threaded the last of his energy into the wall and, with an almighty effort, envisioned the internal fissures fracturing.

A section of the wall collapsed and a blast of hot air smacked Fletcher. It was scalding and sour, and he had never tasted anything better.

“You did it!” Seba gaped at the outside world.

“Didn’t you think I could?” he wheezed.

She said nothing to this, but pushed herself upright and limped toward the exit. Fletcher had just taken a step when an indignant squawk reminded him that Roxanne was unconscious.

“Sorry,” he mumbled to the phoenix. It gave him a disapproving look and shifted its weight on her knee, moving only when Fletcher bent to pull her over his shoulders. She wasn’t particularly heavy—and his time on the road with the elves had strengthened his muscles—but he’d never had to carry the dead weight of a body before.

“I’ve got her,” Fletcher grunted, once he’d unceremoniously hefted Roxanne. He staggered toward the hole, his tired limbs trembling beneath the added weight, and emerged.

The lava had cooled and dried. They must have been trapped for ages. The ledge had vanished beneath a thick layer of new pumice, flattening the ground. Seba stood transfixed, gawping at something to the west. Fletcher followed her gaze.

“What in Shivnath’s name is that?” he breathed. A league downhill, a huge building was slowly being wielded into existence. The pumice slope of the volcano was twisting and contorting into fearsome shapes. Walls and ramparts and spindly towers were forming before his eyes, all of them a terrifying, hopeless shade of midnight.

“My guess would be Indrath Necros,” Seba replied. “The Shadow’s citadel.”

Fletcher’s stomach dropped. At the base of the monstrosity, he saw dark shapes flitting to and fro. Necrovar’s servants were swarming. Somehow, someway, the Shadow had returned to Selaras. Perhaps Keriya’s death had allowed him to step through the Rift. Perhaps he’d been on the verge of his return and the explosion had been a violent side-effect.

“He’s won,” Fletcher whispered. “Necrovar won. He’s back.”

They had been reborn into a different world—and they were stuck in it.

Seba slowly retreated from the looming monstrosity. “We need to get out of here.”

“We can go to the Smarlands,” Fletcher suggested, though upon seeing the chthonic horrors writhing below, he privately thought it wouldn’t matter where they ran. The Shadow would follow, and sooner or later it would catch them.

Seba stumbled in the opposite direction from Indrath Necros, too weak and weary to walk in a straight line. Fletcher followed, testing the ground with each step before transferring his weight. He didn’t want to slip when he was carrying the injured Roxanne. The phoenix fluttered overhead, crooning encouragement.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

A harsh voice cracked like a whip on the wind. Seba gasped and spun. Fletcher couldn’t react as quickly and couldn’t see who had yelled, but the princess’s eyes widened and she grabbed him.

“Run!” she yelled, and she tore down the mountain. Fletcher followed for exactly three steps before he overbalanced. He tripped and fell flat on his face, adding new cuts and scrapes to his collection of injuries. Roxanne rolled limply, flopping away from him.

The phoenix screeched, rising into the sky. In its absence, coldness washed over Fletcher. But the ice frosting his veins wasn’t because the warm bird had abandoned him—someone was wielding a dark spell against him, a spell that sank through his flesh and turned his bones brittle.

A shrill, pained cry from Seba told Fletcher that the princess had also been attacked. He struggled against the spell that bound him. He wanted to sit up and face his foes, but the cold had sapped him of his last vestiges of energy.

“Humans,” said the harsh voice. A boot pressed into Fletcher’s ribs and flipped him over. He rolled onto his back and found himself staring at three shadowy monsters.

“Some of Tanthflame’s lackeys?” a second man asked, tilting his head. His eyes, flesh, and garments were uniformly pitch-black, darker than the deepest chasm.

The third shadowbeast shook her head. She had a vaguely humanoid shape, but she wasn’t human—though Fletcher, whose vision was blurred without his glasses, couldn’t quite tell what she was. Long hair spiraled around her face in wild whorls, giving her a wraithlike appearance. “No uniforms. These aren’t soldiers.”

“This one’s hurt,” the second shadowman observed, toeing Roxanne. “Looks bad.”

“They all look bad,” said the harsh-voiced one. “Might be refugees from Rahxan. Burn the injured one and take the others to camp.”

“No!” Fletcher struggled in vain against the necromagical spell that had leached his strength. He reached inside himself to grab threads, but came up empty. He had nothing left to give, and he could do nothing to save Roxanne.

Before the shadowmen could strike, a terrible screech cleaved the air. Fletcher’s eyes flickered away from three demons and focused on a point beyond them. There, plummeting through the clouds, was the phoenix—and it had brought reinforcements. Four others flanked it in a fiery arrow formation.

The harsh-voiced shadowman wielded a black current of air against the animals. They scattered and retaliated with blasts of fire. The woman conjured a spiral of furious shadows to counter. Black met red in an explosion of sparks that showered onto Fletcher, peppering him with gnawing burns.

The original phoenix, the one who’d saved them from the lava, landed beside Roxanne and spread its wings. A solid wall of fire spread from it in a whirling hurricane, pure and blinding. The flames surrounded Roxanne, hemming her in, protecting her from the shadowbeasts.

“Blasted birds,” the wraith-woman screeched. She shot a spell into the midst of the phoenixes and got lucky. Her spear of solidified darkness struck one bird in its chest. The animal burst into an inferno of golden-red flames, withering to ash.

Its companions turned on her at once, and though she wielded to defend herself, she was no match for their wrath. They struck her down—and she, too, turned to ash, dying in the usual way of shadowbeasts.

Cursing, the harsh-voiced shadowman knelt between Fletcher and Seba and grabbed hold of both of them. Ice enveloped Fletcher again, radiating from the demon’s vise-like grip on his arm. The cold stole the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping.

“Leave her,” the harsh-voiced one snapped at his partner, who was blasting necromagical attacks at Roxanne and her phoenix. “She’s as good as dead, anyway!”

The other shadowman didn’t listen, and a moment later he was destroyed by phoenix fire. He burst into black dust and his ashy remains were borne away on the wind.

With an angry growl, the harsh-voiced one wielded. Fletcher felt himself disintegrating—not into dust like the dead demons, but into shadow itself. He was weightless, incorporeal, and blissfully free of pain or thought.

He floated pleasantly in the nothingness for a moment, an eternity; then sensation tiptoed back to him bit by bit, prickling along his nerves, burning through skin and muscle and bone as he rematerialized in a new place.

He, Seba, and their shadowy captor had arrived at the foot of Mount Arax. Its glowing red peak loomed high above, smearing the dark clouds with bloody light. The horrible citadel was shaping itself on the slope, its contortions visible from this distance.

Fletcher twisted his stiff neck. He was in a makeshift camp. Shadowmen and traitorous Imperial Guards alike were striding about, shouting orders. Humans were wielding stone buildings out of the ground and staking metal poles into the pumice at the camp’s boundaries.

“Welcome to your new home,” said the shadowman, leering at Fletcher and Seba. “Where you will serve the Shadow Lord here until your dying breath.”

CHAPTER TWO

Effrax Emberwill was stricken with horror, watching as Thorion—now a shadowbeast—rose above the Fironian troops. Men fell beneath the dragon’s deadly black talons and fangs. Anguished screams pierced the air, lancing into Effrax’s heart.

The shadowed, soulless Thorion roared. He was unrecognizable from what he once had been. Gone was the beautiful, innocent drackling who’d observed the world with wonder sparkling in his amethyst eyes. In his place was a nightmare, a monstrosity—a mind-controlled servant of Necrovar.

The shadowdragon wielded a torrent of black flames against hapless humans. Though Effrax was half a league away from the blast, it felt like he’d been the one to be seared.

Fire—real fire, not the necromagical abomination that streamed around Thorion—burst to life, haloing Effrax’s fists.

“Fironians, to me,” he bellowed. “Hold the line!”

The soldiers within earshot scrambled to reform their broken ranks. Men who’d been fleeing Thorion’s rampage stopped and pivoted to face their foe, rallying around Effrax. Guilt churned in his abdomen. He couldn’t help but feel he was leading his people to their deaths. How could they stand against the Shadow when he was wielding Thorion as his deadliest weapon?

Taeleia Alenciae, erstwhile elven representative in the Council of Nine, turned away from the sight of the havoc Thorion was wreaking. Her opalescent scales, tiny and pristine and out of place in the grisly chaos, flashed as she looked at her hulking elf bodyguard.

“Danisan,” she said softly, “we must take down the shadowdragon.”

Effrax closed his eyes. It had to be done—that wasn’t Thorion anymore. It was a monster, an extension of Necrovar himself.

On the far side of the battlefield, Thorion raised his head and pricked his ears. He looked at them, locking gazes with Effrax. Effrax’s spine prickled unpleasantly. He had the distinct impression that the dragon had somehow heard Taeleia’s directive.

Thorion roared and sprang forward, decimating a line of halberdiers who’d exited the city. Effrax felt a twinge for every injury, a dull throb of pain in his gut for every death. Weapons tore and ripped at Thorion—injuring him, but not stopping him. He was a force of nature, and he was headed straight for them.

The pitch-black dragon rose in the air; Effrax’s stomach sank in counterbalance. He knew what had to be done for the sake of his troops, his kingdom. Gritting his teeth, he strung his bow and sighted on the shadowbeast.

“Archers, loose on my command,” he cried. His men drew arrows and sighted on their target. High above, Thorion screeched and dove.

“Volley,” screamed Effrax, his voice—and heart—breaking.

Strings twanged and arrows flew. Effrax wielded, igniting the projectiles with firemagic as they sped to meet Thorion. The nimble dragon managed to dodge most; a few hit their mark, but they were enough to hinder his flight.

“Ready your bows,” Effrax called, preparing for a second volley.

The dragon banked sharply and spat a torrent of necromagic before Effrax could command a second strike. Effrax barely avoided the spell, but Taeleia was grazed. The black jet ripped away her right sleeve and her forearm began bubbling. Horrible black boils erupted across her scaly hide. She dropped her weaponry with a cry. Tears welled in her overlarge silver eyes.

Danisan leapt to her side, hefting her into his arms. He was as dark as Taeleia was fair, with dull, pallid scales and jet-black hair and eyes.

“She needs healing,” the tall elf grunted, glaring at Effrax.

Effrax, who was watching Taeleia’s scales shrivel and peel away from her flesh, nodded shakily. “Bring her to the city.”

“No healing will help,” Taeleia wheezed. “Thorion holds the threads of the active spell . . .”

Effrax couldn’t process what she was implying, but Maxton Windharte—who stood nearby—seemed to glean something from her cryptic words. His blue eyes flashed and he took off, heading away from their little group.

“Max,” Effrax began.

“The only way to counter this spell is to destroy its wielder,” Max interrupted, shooting a pointed look at Effrax, “but its wielder is a foe beyond all reckoning. You need war machines to take the dragon down; order your men to retreat into the walls.”

“What bloody good will that do now they’ve broken our shields? If you fight, we all fight,” Effrax growled at the Erastatian. “Danisan, get Taeleia to safety. We’ll hold the line.”

Danisan didn’t waste breath on a reply; he dashed away with the expiring councilmember. Weaving artfully through the seething crush of bodies, the massive elf disappeared at once.

“You cannot destroy Thorion with mere archers,” Max said, addressing Effrax.

“And you think you’ll last more than three seconds alone against him?” Effrax retorted, indicating the dragon overhead. Max was out of his mind if he thought he stood a chance alone.

Effrax started to follow the Erastatian, but knocked into an invisible force. Something—or someone—was preventing him from going any further.

“What are you doing?” Effrax demanded of Max. Had the insubordinate brat of a prince really dared to wield airmagic against him?

“Take shelter in Fyrxav and arm the ballistas in the towers,” Max said as he withdrew. “I’ll lead the ground troops in a distraction—then you fire on the dragon. You may have only one or two good shots before he turns on you, so make them count.”

Without another word of explanation, Max turned and ran north.

“Find a way around this,” Effrax snapped at his men, gesturing vaguely at the invisible shield. The nearby Fironians scrabbled against the barrier to find the edge of the solidified air. Max wasn’t that powerful, the area of the spell couldn’t be too big—

WHAM! Something slammed into Effrax, knocking him against the shield and forcing the breath from his lungs. Agony speared through his bad leg and his knees buckled beneath him, bringing him crumpling to the ground.

Wheezing, his brain fuzzy from shock, Effrax craned his neck to see what had happened. Horror rose through him and lodged in his throat, cutting off his airway. A battery of shadowbeasts had materialized behind the Fironian line. They were swarming, advancing, slaughtering his men. The Fironian troops were pinned against the shield, unable to retreat or maneuver in such cramped quarters.

One inky monster launched at Effrax. He wielded a wall of flames in defense. The shadowbeast squealed and fell back, but two others replaced it. Effrax increased the intensity of his spell, trying to repel them. At once, his energy plummeted. The world reeled around him. He slumped to the side as stinging liquid oozed over his brow and into his eye—he was bleeding from a head wound.

He’d lost his bow in the frenzy of the initial attack. He only had his magic for defense, but he couldn’t wield while bleeding so profusely. He’d exsanguinate at this rate.

Screams ripped at Effrax’s ears and a heavy weight collapsed on him. His bad leg screamed in protest and an echoing cry tore from his lips. He shoved at the weight, but it wasn’t a shadowbeast. It was a warm, wet body. A corpse. One of his men, slain by demons.

A pulse of nausea and adrenaline gave him the strength to heave the corpse away. Another body replaced it, sprawling onto him from the opposite direction. Half-blinded by his own blood and sick with panic, Effrax clawed uselessly at the corpses. A pair of sightless eyes met his, and suddenly the unfamiliar face in front of him morphed into his half-brother’s visage.

“Why did you do it, Effrax?” Zivan whispered. “Why did you kill me?”

“I didn’t!” Effrax’s ragged scream was lost in the din of the massacre. He shoved Zivan away, unable to look at the face of the brother he had inadvertently betrayed. The corpse slid off him and he dragged himself northwards, his right shoulder squished against the air shield, his left leg twanging with every movement.

Over hills and through valleys of dead bodies he crawled. The fight raged, yet Effrax could do nothing to help his men—he was powerless, just as he had been powerless to help his brother.

I tried to save him, Effrax reminded himself for the millionth time. The sentiment was as empty now as it had been the night he’d gone to meet Zivan and found him dead. I tried to save his soul from the Shadow, from Father—

Effrax screamed as claws hooked into his shoulder and dragged him away from the air shield. The gore-caked maw of a shadowbeast, complete with glistening sable fangs and rabid black froth, flashed before him. He kicked with both legs. His feet connected with the monster’s face, but its wicked talons caught him in the thigh—his injured thigh.

Effrax blacked out as pain overwhelmed his nervous system.

When next he opened his eyes, the world was dark. He couldn’t breathe. Hot, stinking air clung to his face, suffocating him. He gagged on the heavy scent of waste and rotten fruit. He tried to move, to escape the foul odor, but he was hemmed in on all sides by . . . something.

He thrashed madly, struggling to break free. He became aware that his body was damp—where was he? What had happened? He worked one arm out of his strange prison and forced it through a crack to the surface.

Heaving with all his might, Effrax sat up.

His stomach turned over.

He was under bodies. The corpses of his soldiers were piled across him. The film of sticky wetness coating him head to toe was the blood of the men who’d followed him into battle.

Effrax heaved and bile came up, dribbling down his chin. He spat it away; it landed on the dead-eyed face of one of his fallen comrades.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, reaching for the desecrated corpse. He wiped the bile from the face, stilled to peacefulness by the touch of death. “I didn’t mean to do that. I . . . I’m sorry.”

He wrested his other arm free and tried to worm his way out of the corpse pile, but his body was shaking. He could barely master himself. And his leg . . . gods it hurt, worse than ever before. A dull ache pulsed near his old injury, burning and throbbing.

Only after Effrax had pulled himself free did he realize the world was eerily silent. The battlefield was deserted. No more fighting. No more screaming. The only ones who remained were the dead.

The dead, and Effrax.

Vaguely, he registered a crimson glow in the west: Mount Arax, alive and bubbling with strands of lava. In the north, close to the tablelands, was a cluster of lights—bonfires, the Imperials’ camp. And in the south . . .

Effrax’s heart seized. Fyrxav was burning. Dark shapes stalked along the crumbled wall, casting long shadows across the battlefield—the graveyard.

“No,” he croaked, refusing to believe his own eyes.

His city, his home, had fallen.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, staring at the smoking ruins. “Zivan . . . Father . . . I’m sorry.”

In taking his father’s life, he had hoped to avoid this exact fate. He had failed spectacularly, in every conceivable way.

Zivan had begged him to do it. His younger half-brother had told Effrax that killing Salix Embersnag was the only solution. If the king died before Necrovar’s poison could sink any deeper into him, then his soul would be saved. He would not become a shadowbeast.

Effrax had saved his father’s soul, but he’d destroyed the old king’s legacy in the process. That legacy was ashes now, the mingled ash of dead shadowbeasts and dead dreams.

I’m a murderer.

The thought hit Effrax like a meteor, compacting grief into guilt. When he’d thought his father’s death was a mercy killing—a necessary sacrifice to save not only the Fironem, but Zivan as well—he’d been able to live with it. Now, realizing his efforts had been wasted, seeing that it had all come to naught in the end . . . it was more than he could bear.

He’d done an unforgivable thing to save his kingdom and countrymen, and he’d still lost them in the end.

Effrax’s brain disengaged from his body. It floated away, rejecting the sight of the conquered city, ignoring the stench of rot and death. Without conscious thought to guide him, instinct took over. He began crawling laboriously through the carnage.

He couldn’t head north—Imperials squatted there. He couldn’t head west—the Erastate was enemy territory, as Fyrxav itself now was. That meant he had to go east.

He pulled himself over fallen soldiers, apologizing to each and every one as he went.

“Sorry,” he rasped, unceremoniously heaving himself over a boy too young for war or death, a boy who was likely close to Effrax’s age.

The dull throb in his leg was his constant companion. He looked for survivors, knowing he would find none. The traitor Imperials had likely ransacked the place, pulling their own for healing and burials.

There were still some gray-robed bodies strewn throughout the wreckage, and Effrax had the good sense to search them. He stole canteens and sent thanks to Valaan when he found a few filled with stale, lukewarm water.

Valaan, of course, was no more—the phoenix god had fallen to the Shadow—but it was the thought that counted.

One dead Imperial had been slashed nearly in half, split down his sternum. His gray robes were dark and stiff with dried blood. Effrax idly wondered, with his detached brain, what could have caused such an injury. Perhaps it had been Thorion—only the dragon could have done something so damaging.

Effrax stripped the corpse of its ruined robes. They came off easily. Like their owner, they were split at their center. He shrugged on the rancid gray fabric and kept crawling.

The sun rose and set and rose again. Effrax crawled on. The canteens sustained him. When he lost strength, he stilled and slept on the battle-churned ground.

He came-to slowly, roused by voices. Blearily he opened his eyes, cracking a thick crust of sleep that had formed on his lids. A pair of Imperial Guards hunched over him.

“Yeah, look,” said one soldier. He had a sallow complexion and eyes as pale blue as summer clouds. “He’s coming ‘round.”

“Dunno how he made it all this time,” said the other, who—given his ocean-blue eyes and the two stripes stamped across his cheeks—Effrax pegged as a Galantrian mage.

“Water,” Effrax croaked. His voice was hoarse from disuse.

The mage wielded a glob of crystal liquid into existence and splashed it against Effrax’s mouth. He greedily drank it.

“Let’s get you to camp,” said the pale soldier, wielding an air spell around Effrax’s wasted body. An invisible—and none too gentle—fist lifted him from the ground.

Vaguely he wondered why the guards hadn’t killed him on sight. Then he remembered the stolen gray robes he wore. The past few days were like a fever dream. They didn’t feel real. But they must have happened, and Effrax thanked his past self for having the presence of mind to don the attire.

“What battery were you with?” the air wielder asked him as they moved east.

Effrax was too exhausted to make up lies. “Don’t know.”

The mage tutted. “Delirious. Poor blighter. Out there on his own for days. How in Zumarra’s name he got looked over—”

“He knew what he was signing up for,” the other snapped.

“Did he?” the mage returned, sharpness creeping into his tone. “I sure as hell didn’t.”