Dragon Empress

Chapter 33

Valerion, however, barreled headlong into war. Talons outstretched, he dove at Shädar, bugling a thunderous war cry.

The demon king dematerialized, turning himself and his human companion to wispy shadow. Valerion snapped out his wings and leveled off, shooting over the plain. He slammed down, jostling Keriya so badly that she was nearly thrown from his back.

Snarling and flaring his wings, Valerion turned on the spot, seeking his enemies. Keriya straightened and drew Aurelas with her uninjured hand. Again she found herself wishing for Sethildras. The plain steel sword would be useless in this fight.

“This was a m******e,” she murmured. Hundreds of bodies surrounded her, half wearing the dark robes of Moorfainian sorcerers, half wearing civilian plainclothes. Bloodblossom would feast here.

“Show yourselves, cowards,” bellowed Valerion.

Keriya hid a wince. He was truly inviting disaster.

Shadows thickened before them and coalesced into three shapes. Shädar, the tall Moorfainian, and—

“Ashétyn,” Valerion hissed, bristling.

The necrocrelai queen trilled a laugh. Though it was impossible to tell where her empty, pitch-black eyes were looking, Keriya sensed the deadly weight of the demon’s gaze. “What a lovely reunion: all four of us returned from realms of darkness. I admit, little flesh-rat, I thought you would not survive your sojourn in the Broken Vale.”

Keriya’s heart dropped, then leapt. Somehow, Ashétyn knew where she’d been. Maybe, if she played her cards right, she could bluff her way through this.

Don’t show fear. You cannot show fear. You can’t let them know.

She leapt from Valerion’s shoulder to the ground. Straightening to her full height—which wasn’t much, especially not compared to the massive demons—she leveled Aurelas at her enemies.

“I’m going to count to three.” Keriya spoke in the language of the dragons. Though her magic was lost, she was pleased to hear the echo of valemagic’s power in her tone. Combined with her fiercely glowing eyes, that lent to her illusion of strength. “If you aren’t out of my sight by then, I am going to widen the Rift right here and send you back to the Etherworld.”

Ashétyn scoffed, and Keriya feared the demoness would call her bluff.

“One,” she said, clenching her injured palm and holding up a single finger.

The Moorfainian turned to Shädar and spoke in a hushed, hurried voice. Shädar swiveled one of his oversized triangular ears to listen to the man, but never took his gaze from Keriya.

“Two,” said Keriya, holding up a second finger, certain her trick was about to be exposed.

Shädar blinked first. He dissolved, taking the mortal with him.

Ashétyn lingered, sneering. “It matters not. Shädar is returned, and I have claimed an even better prize.” She raised a leg and wiggled her toes. Her claws were stained with gore—gore that glistened purple.

Keriya gasped and instinctively lunged, but Ashétyn was already dissolving into darkness. Her cruel laughter faded on the wind as she dematerialized.

Reeling with panic, Keriya faced Valerion. Her gaze slid past the white dragon to the larger green one behind him. Khyvette stood on shaking limbs, head drooping. Froth dripped from her mouth. Fletcher worked on her left hind leg, packing one of her wounds with spithra-silk gauze.

Now that she wasn’t focused on the necrocrelai, Keriya noticed other movement. A brigade of skimmers darted back and forth from the ocean bearing buckets of water, which they poured on burning buildings. And on the ground, running toward her, were Roxanne and Effrax.

Keriya sheathed Aurelas not a moment too soon—Roxanne flung herself forward, wrapping Keriya in a tight embrace.

“Thank the gods,” she whispered.

Don’t thank them, a bleak part of Keriya wanted to say, but she kept it to herself. There would be plenty of time for misery later; she wanted to savor this moment. Effrax joined them, and Keriya held one arm wide, inviting him into the hug.

“You cut it close, Dragoneyes,” he said in a shaky voice, clasping her tightly. “Another minute and we’d have been goners.”

“You know I like to make an entrance.”

Effrax drew away. He and Roxanne looked to Valerion. Their dust-caked faces shone with awe. In the legendary dragon, they saw hope rekindled. They believed their salvation was at hand.

Fletcher hurried over, Khyvette limping behind him. “We need to see a healer immediately,” he said.

“And we need to call an emergency war council,” Keriya added. She drew a breath and started with the news that, somehow, was the least bad out of everything she had to share: “Ashétyn has Khyvette’s blood.”

Khyvette’s pupils thinned to slivers of horror. “They can make darksalm. Shädar is second in power only to the Shadow Lord—his necromagic will be strong enough to create the mixture.”

“We ran these trogs off the continent once,” said Roxanne. “Now that Keriya’s back, we can easily do it again.”

“About that,” said Keriya, her innards twisting. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

Antigonus Leech had hit a new low. He cowered in a dark corner of his destroyer’s main cabin, praying he’d remain unnoticed by the monsters who dominated its center.

“She should have perished in the Broken Vale,” Shädar growled. The cabin had high ceilings, but even these were too short for the necrocrelai. “The war was supposed to be won by now.”

Ashétyn flicked her tail in flippant disregard. “Who cares if the war continues? I enjoy war.”

Leech enjoyed war too, but only when he was winning. Now that the blasted female sorcerer had returned, he feared for the worst.

“Whatever happened between the girl and the Dragon Empress, it will not matter once our Master returns,” Ashétyn continued. “I am not concerned with Keriya Soulstar.”

“You should be,” Leech heard himself saying. “She cannot be underestimated. That has always been our downfall.”

“The flesh-rat speaks wisdom,” rumbled Shädar. “You would do well to listen, Ashétyn.”

“You two sniveling lagwits are as stupid as you are cowardly. And you forget how far we’ve come. Ryvsî!” she crowed, turning her head to the iron doors that led from the cabin to the main deck.

The doors swung open, revealing the third-highest member of the remaining Severed Six. Ryvsî was more solidly built than his superiors, so heavily muscled beneath his glossy blue-black fur that he looked almost squat. He pulled one bat wing close to his body, revealing a human behind him.

“Flesh-rat,” said Ashétyn, beckoning Leech with her whiplike tail, “you remember Gohrbryn Tanthflame.”

“Vividly.” Leech disliked the Allentrian heathens, and he disliked Tanthflame most of all. Though the man was supposed to be an ally, Leech didn’t trust him. The necrocrelai gave him too much credit, simply because he was a soul-wielder.

“Tanthflame will take point on the darksalm,” said Ashétyn. “He has brewed it before.”

“With great success,” Tanthflame added.

Self-important blighter, Leech thought to himself.

“Meanwhile, Leech,” Ashétyn went on, “you and I will craft the perfect circumstances for our final summoning.”

Tanthflame’s horrible red eyes gleamed like burning coals as they narrowed on Leech. “I’ve been working in the shadows for over a year to prepare for this moment. I think you’ll be pleased with my progress, Master Leech.”

“Is that right?” said Leech, struggling to maintain a polite tone through gritted teeth.

Tanthflame smiled. His distinctive scar crinkled, distorting the right side of his face. “I have just the thing you need to summon our Master from the Etherworld. It also happens to be the key to Keriya Soulstar’s demise.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE“Hope is not a sun to brighten a life, but a star to illuminate the darkness.”

~ Anvei Glacierhold, Eighth Age

As quickly as they’d come, the shadowtroops retreated. Withdrawing from the Erastate, they vanished without a trace, slipping away into the night.

While Viran was grateful for the respite, he knew it was a harbinger of worse violence to come. And though there was much to be thankful for, every piece of good news came laden with three pieces of bad news.

The best and worst of it all was a double-edged sword driving deeper into his heart with every passing day. Keriya had returned.

And she wanted nothing to do with him.

In the week since the attack on Port Cinder, she’d avoided Viran, ignored his telepathic entreaties, fled his presence in the rare moments she wasn’t surrounded by the political vultures. Considering she could no longer teleport or hide behind illusions, she was incredibly hard to track.

“Give it up, cousin,” Sorin advised one evening. He was returning to the Smarlindian coast—the old Jidaelni fleet were anchored there, including a metal-hulled artillery ship that could withstand the Red Tide. “She’s out of your grasp. Concede defeat.”

Viran remained stonily silent as they descended the front steps of the Imperial Palace, approaching the main teleportal.

“I know, I know,” Sorin continued, waving a hand. “You don’t do defeat.”

When Viran had been the dynast’s top general, he hadn’t once retreated or surrendered. It was not in his blood.

Why, then, had he so readily surrendered the most important person in his life?

Imperial Guards stepped aside, allowing them to ascend the dais steps. Withdrawing his old switchblade, Viran nicked a finger and offered it to the changemagic, envisioning the wharves of Port Elvinthrane. Slowly, the eastern city shimmered into view between the boundary poles.

Sorin strode through without hesitation, but Viran remained on the Noryk side. The elven settlement glittered beyond his cousin, aglow with lanternlight. Shards of light glinted on the dark ocean, illuminating the b****y tint of toxic algae. In the sky, the Rift aurora shone bright—a beautiful, poisoned reminder of all they had yet to face.

A crisp, salty sea breeze wafted through the portal, bringing Viran to attention. He produced a sealed envelope from his pocket and offered it to Sorin. “This is a message for the dynast. See that you deliver it to him.”

Sorin rolled his dark eyes and snatched the proffered parchment. “He won’t send more troops. He has his trade treaty. There’s nothing more to be gained.”

“Nothing but the future of Selaras. The enemy has darksalm.”

“I’m sure the Master of Valemagic will handle it,” Sorin replied with an almost sociopathic nonchalance.

Sorin didn’t know the truth about Keriya. The Imperial Government had kept the news about her lack of magic under tight wraps, restricting the information only to those with top security clearance.

“She needs allies,” Viran informed his cousin in a cold, controlled voice. “Now more than ever, it is imperative that the nations stand united against the Shadow.”

“War is a business. The dynast doesn’t care—”

“He might care to preserve Allentria, since the country won’t be able to pay its debts if it’s annihilated,” Viran snapped, heat flickering through his icy tone.

Sorin raised his hands. “I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. Be careful how you push him, or he’ll disown you.”

“I could never inherit the throne, nor would I return to Jidaeln even if I could. I have a life and a family worth fighting for here.”

A crease appeared on Sorin’s smooth brow as he fixed Viran with a shrewd look. That was somewhat out of character; in terms of wits, Sorin was as sharp as a marble.

“I know you put stock in destiny,” he said, adding a sarcastic emphasis to the word, “but you need to learn how to walk away. What happens to a moth when it loves a flame?”

The audacity of Sorin to lecture him on love was almost enough to make Viran laugh. “The Dragon Speaker has long since accepted my firemagic. I stay, because unlike some people, I don’t give up when a fight takes a turn for the worse.”

News of the darksalm had divided the visiting nations, separating the insightful from the greedy. Some had pledged support on the spot. Some had fled the continent in terror. Still others remained ‘neutral,’ stating they could not join the fight without Allentria granting ‘concessions.’ They wanted trade agreements, alliance contracts, or the grand prize herself: Keriya Soulstar.