Dragon Empress

Chapter 21

“It is not a crime to want happiness,” said Danisan, planting a kiss on the crown of Fletcher’s head. “It’s alright to be selfish sometimes.”

“I don’t have the luxury of being selfish,” Fletcher muttered. “I can’t believe Keriya left me alone to deal with every disaster in Allentria.”

“You are not alone,” Danisan assured him.

“And you are not angry at Keriya,” said Khyvette. She had that telltale timbre in her tone, the one Fletcher had come to associate with draconic secrets. “You are angry at Shivnath.”

That was probably true, though it felt like blasphemy to think it. Shivnath had imbued his best friend with power that was, in Fletcher’s esteem, far more trouble than it was worth.

Shaking his head, he pulled away from Danisan and grabbed a clipboard from the stack of crates. “Today we’re in . . .” He perused the itemized list, squinting at the runes. He’d been learning to read modern Allentrian, but the process had been slow-going.

Khyvette peered over his shoulder. Her thoughts brushed against his, and with her telepathic help, the jumbled letters on the page ordered themselves in Fletcher’s brain.

“The Smarlands,” he finished, flashing his bondmate a grateful smile. “Senteir first.”

Nostalgia swept through him as he fished out his enchanted switchblade. He hadn’t had occasion to revisit Senteir since he’d come to Allentria five years ago. Such simpler times those had been. How little he’d understood of the world.

He dug the blade’s point into his thumb and offered his bleeding finger to the teleportal. The changemagic responded to his thoughts as he fixed a vision in his mind, and Senteir’s grand gates shimmered into view between the poles.

The farmlands north of the city were dry and barren—due to winter or entropy, Fletcher couldn’t say. In the south, the lake and river had turned the ruddy color of blood.

Two weeks, and the Red Tide hadn’t abated. Fletcher tried not to let his superstitions color his worldview, but he knew what the deadly algae signified. A great change was coming.

And at the rate things were going, it looked like it would be a bad one.

Khyvette hunkered down and clasped one of the crates between her jaws. Taking care not to damage the wood with her fearsome fangs, she lifted the box and snaked through the rip in spacetime. Fletcher made to follow, but Danisan lagged behind.

“What’s wrong?” Fletcher asked him.

“I must remain in Noryk. Lumina Taeleia needs my help.”

A sharp comment rose to the tip of Fletcher’s tongue. He wanted to point out that whatever Taeleia needed help with, it must pale in comparison to his tasks.

That wasn’t a fair thought, and Fletcher squashed it at once, ashamed it had crossed his mind. Danisan had his own job and responsibilities to take care of. He knew that. More and more, the war was pulling them apart.

“Of course,” he managed after slightly too long a pause.

“I’ll see you tonight, yes?”

Fletcher glanced at Khyvette, who waited on the Smarlindian side of the portal. “It depends how much energy we expend.”

The elf’s dark eyes tightened at their edges. Berating himself for his cruelty, Fletcher laid a gentle hand on his partner’s arm. “I’ll check in via the comms ring either way. Deal?”

Danisan nodded, though he remained silent as Fletcher strode through the teleportal. It winked out behind him, as if it had never been, but the tense departure left a sour taste in his mouth.

A year of peace, and I’ve forgotten how to behave in times of crisis.

Khyvette’s appearance outside the walls of Senteir had already attracted attention. City officials had assembled on the northern road—the same road Fletcher had traveled with Cezon Skyriver all those years ago—and guards stood in a circle around the wrought iron gates, holding back a crowd of civilians.

“Ambassador Earengale! Lady Khyvette!” Screams and supplications rose from the throng. Though Fletcher’s instinct was to go to them, offer comfort and assuage fear, his schedule was too packed to allow it. He was helping people, after all—just not individually.

“Your new shipment of water filters,” he announced, approaching the city officials. Khyvette lowered her head and deposited the wooden crate before the Senteiri mayor and her subordinates.

“Only one box?” asked the mayor.

“The dwarves and nereids are crafting additional supplies, but everyone is spread thin,” said Fletcher. “Most of Allentria needs filters, and we’ll have to make do with what’s available.”

“Lady Khyvette, please!” One thin cry rose above the clamor, needling at Fletcher. “My daughter is ill, and the city mages cannot wield to save her. Please, help us!”

Fletcher closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he smiled at the mayor. “We’ll get through this, I promise. Do you need assistance distributing the filters?”

The officials assured Fletcher they could handle distribution, so he turned his back on Senteir and its anguished crowd. Huddling behind Khyvette’s protective presence, Fletcher touched the point of his switchblade to his same b****y finger, concentrating on Noryk.

In a flash, he returned to home base beside the main boundary poles. Though portal technology had expanded and improved over the past year, this original enchantment remained operational, and it served Fletcher well. His switchblade allowed him to return to Noryk, where he could reopen the portal and bring Khyvette home, preventing her from ever having to teleport.

“Next,” Fletcher said heavily, checking off Senteir from his list.

The process repeated itself, over and over. Fletcher opened portals, Khyvette delivered filters. In every city, they encountered the same desperation that pervaded Senteir.

People scrabble to reach them, begging for help they couldn’t give. He felt Khyvette’s heightened senses isolating specific cries of anger:

“Why aren’t the dragons doing anything?”

“What are the Eminarchs planning?”

“Why won’t you help us?!”

Fletcher bit the inside of his cheek. Khyvette had absorbed emotion from him. She’d joined mortal society for him. Every accusation and epithet now hurled at her was his fault.

he told her, touching the switchblade to his still-bleeding finger and willing himself to return to the Imperial City, longing for a moment of silence away from the crowds.

But when he arrived on the dais, chaos crashed onto him.

Klaxon sirens wailed, echoing across the courtyard. A long line of Imperial Guards was marching through the southern gates, approaching from the city garrison.

Fletcher reeled from the overwhelming stimuli. He turned to the teleportal, meaning to bring Khyvette back, but the teleportal was boiling with turbulence. Alarmed, he offered his blood to the sheet of pearly changemagic. An image shimmered into visibility between the boundary poles—but it was not the image Fletcher had commanded to appear.

Before him sprawled an unfamiliar coastline. A city of glassy towers and white walls abutted rippling sand dunes that led to the tainted red ocean. And in the ocean . . .

“Moorfainians,” he whispered. There was no mistaking those ships. An armada of metal destroyers stretched across the crimson waters, emerging from a wall of thick, dark mist. Smaller, sleeker boats bobbed in the whitecaps, catapulting fireballs at the city walls.

“Dragon Speaker!”

Fletcher jerked around, automatically looking for Keriya. He spied General Stormleaf, a mage who helmed the Third Battalion of Imperial Guards. The woman’s teal eyes were locked on him, and Fletcher realized he was the dragon speaker she’d addressed.

“Threl is under attack.” She gestured to the besieged city. “We need Khyvette to provide air support for our vanguard forces.”

“When did this happen?” Fletcher demanded. “I was just using the portal minutes ago.”

“Presumably, the portal opened upon the first confirmed hit from our enemies,” said Stormleaf.

He nodded, struggling to straighten his frantic thoughts. Last year, Keriya had added a clever layer to the original enchantment: alarm sirens had been placed in every coastal city, and whenever an alarm was activated, the portal would open to that location.

Khyvette’s mindvoice—crisp but faint, thanks to the distance separating them—filtered into his head.

Too distressed to explain with words, Fletcher opened his mind, pouring forth images of the portal, the city, and the invasion. Emotion flooded between the two of them, see-sawing from shock to terror and, finally, to determination.

A bright flash lit the skies over the palace, and Khyvette appeared in blazing glory. A cheer rose from the column of Imperials as she tucked her wings and dove toward the dais.

“After you,” said Stormleaf, gesturing for Fletcher to take the lead.

It had been a year since he’d had to fly into battle, but now was not the time for squeamishness. He set his jaw, cast aside his clipboard, and adjusted the quiver on his shoulder.

Khyvette landed on the far side of the portal, and Fletcher raced to her. Merging his thoughts with hers, they acted as one. She crouched as she snaked between the boundary poles, and Fletcher scrambled up her moving leg to settle at the base of her neck. Her wings snapped out as soon as she was clear of the portal’s nebulous confines. In one mighty flap, they were off.

“All officers on comms, this is General Stormleaf.” The voice reached Fletcher through his silver ring. He could only half concentrate on it, since he was now attempting to string his bow atop a moving dragon. “The Erastatian coast is under attack from Moorfain. The Third Battalion is marching out. Requesting immediate backup from state and local troops, over.”

Fletcher shuddered. That the Moorfainians should strike when Keriya had vanished into a different dimension, sewing entropy in her wake, felt far too unlucky to be coincidence.

Khyvette swooped low over the beachside walls. As she angled toward the closest destroyer, Fletcher spotted a circle of black-robed men at its helm.

thought Khyvette.

A violent gust of air slammed into them, bowling her off-course and nearly unseating Fletcher.

thought Fletcher, glaring to his left to see a small, misshapen monster emerging from the cover of black mist.

Khyvette hinged open her jaws to fry the air-wielding demon, but Fletcher stopped her with the barest brush of his mind. She should not wield unless absolutely necessary. Instead, he loosed an arrow. It slammed into the monster, exploding on impact.

Fletcher explained.

thought Khyvette.

Impressive, yes, but also stupid. In warfare against Moorfainians, daemonion were a symptom, not the disease. To make a real difference, Fletcher would have to kill their summoners, the humans who pulled them from the Etherworld and controlled them in battle.

I’m out of practice, he thought grimly, aiming at the circle of humans at the prow of the destroyer. One well-placed arrow right in the center of them, and the dozen sorcerers collapsed, charred and smoking—if not dead, then severely wounded.

thought Khyvette.

Fletcher caught a glimpse of the plan in her head and hunkered low against her neck, gripping one of her spinal protrusions with his free hand.

She shot toward the destroyer and veered left just before collision, close enough for her belly to scrape its starboard side. Her hind legs savagely kicked the ship. The force of her blow sent her reeling, but she twisted and leveled out over the algae-infested waves. Behind her, the mighty vessel capsized.

thought Fletcher, stomach churning. Screams rose from the men on the sinking ship as they came in contact with the Red Tide. No matter how evil they were, being eaten alive by toxic algae was a horrific way to die.

As Khyvette angled to attack a second destroyer, Fletcher caught a flash of movement in the fog. A patch of shadows moved toward them, noticeable because it was darker than the surrounding mist. It was the color of death. He blinked—and realized his eyes were glowing.