Dragon Empress

Chapter 6

Fletcher wasn’t surprised word had spread so far; the real mystery was how word had gotten out. Allentria and Jidaeln had agreed to keep the news quiet, since Keriya had not truly defeated Necrovar. When they’d asked Enwha, she’d said her people had heard it from a trade ship, who’d heard it from another trade ship, and so on and so forth.

“We first heard whispers months ago,” said Tethryn. “The rumors originated in the south, swarming up from unsavory places like Daigath and Trigonith.”

The elves wrinkled their noses in distaste of these countries.

“As such, we were disinclined to believe them, but soon the whole continent was speaking of it: Allentria was open for trade and alliances. Countries sent ships, and returned with marvelous tales from the west. People claimed the voyage was safer. They said Kraken, scourge of the seas, was dead.”

Tethryn paused, perhaps hoping for confirmation, but Fletcher wouldn’t speak about this rumor. It strayed too close to one of Keriya’s more dangerous secrets.

“Enough of the past,” said Tethryn, when it became evident that Fletcher wasn’t going to respond. “Let us look to the future. We have come to speak with Allentria—and the dragons, in particular—about global defense.”

A pang of emotion ricocheted between Fletcher and Khyvette. It had become something of an automatic response whenever this subject arose. Everyone expected the dragons to join the rest of the world in moving forward with politics and war planning.

Little did they know, the dragons couldn’t join the war.

“You’re in luck,” said Fletcher, keeping his voice bright and smooth. “Our empire is hosting a New Year’s Gala. All visiting dignitaries are planning to attend. We’ll ring in Year 612 together, and you’ll have a chance to speak with our top officials.”

Tethryn did not look thrilled at the prospect of the gala. They motioned to their companions, and the elves huddled close, murmuring amongst themselves.

Meanwhile, Danisan bent low and whispered, “Beware of that one.” Though his lips brushed Fletcher’s ear, the words were so soft as to be barely audible. “Tethryn Indrossae is an aphyrin, a shapeshifter. They are infamous in Syrion for their cutthroat political ambitions.”

“Noted,” Fletcher murmured. “But for now, they are simply our guest.”

When the delegation broke apart, Tethryn announced, “We accept this invitation.”

“Excellent. Our government will be happy to provide room and board during your visit. If you’ll follow me, we can get you situated.”

Fletcher strode across the wide cobblestone square adjacent to the wharves, heading toward the base of a grassy hill. There, two plain metal rods rose from a stretch of trodden dirt. A pearly expanse of energy glimmered between the boundary poles.

“The palace is here?” inquired the smallest elf. “Not on the mainland?”

“It is on the mainland,” said Fletcher, “but it’s a thousand leagues away. This is our fastest, most comfortable mode of transportation. Some find teleportation too dizzying.”

“A changemagic enchantment,” said Tethryn, eyeing the portal. “Who created this?”

“That would also be Keriya.”

The shapeshifter’s distinctive gaze sharpened. “I look forward to meeting this legendary mage.”

“She’s looking forward to meeting you, too,” Fletcher replied. Keriya had said as much, though he suspected she’d only said it to be polite. Social situations were not her strong point.

From his pocket, he withdrew a plain switchblade. He flicked it open and pressed its point against his right thumb. A ruby bead bloomed from the cut, and Fletcher pressed his bleeding finger to the arcane energy.

The old teleportal enchantment activated at his touch. He concentrated on Noryk, and the courtyard of the Imperial Palace faded into visibility between the boundary poles. The Syrionese murmured soft sounds of admiration at the impressive magical display.

“Our royal ambassador will escort you inside,” said Fletcher, gesturing through the portal. Effrax Emberwill stood on the flagstone steps, bedecked in Imperial finery. He’d even donned a gold circlet for the occasion, an elegant crown that spanned his noble brow and nestled in his spiky black hair.

“We look forward to seeing you at the gala,” Fletcher said as the Syrionese moved from Port Cinder to Noryk, traversing half a continent in a single step. “I hope we can begin discussions about a new alliance between our nations.”

“I hope that as well,” Tethryn replied. A note of foreboding laced their low voice. “Because despite rumors that cry victory, Ambassador Earengale, the Shadow War has not been won.”

CHAPTER THREE“Her cry unto the demon kin shall plunge them into night, for dark she shall destroy then, and their weakness shall be right.”

~ The Prophecy of Night

Two-thousand leagues west of Noryk, off the jagged northern coast of Swaria, a storm raged.

Antigonus Leech, High Priest of Moorfain’s Black Temple, stood on a cliff overlooking the violent sea. His fleet of destroyers rocked in the bay below. Metal hulls glittered darkly in the rotating beams from the lighthouses stationed at either end of the harbor.

Though he’d doubled the size of his armada over the past year, Leech grimaced as he recalled the ignominious end of his Allentrian campaign. The Ghoren Islanders had joined the World Alliance, forcing him to abandon ships and concede defeat.

“It matters not,” he growled. Though he’d lost control of the islands, he’d gained ground in the north. He felt confident once more.

Confident, until he thought of that heathen witch. Her white hair, her red-violet gaze, her indescribable aura of power—it haunted him. The Prophecy of Night rang again in his head:

When the female sorcerer of wild soul and eyes

Beseeches the daemonion to sow their own demise,

When the kindred spirits are remembered from the past,

Then shall Moorfain’s power fall and fail them all at last.

Her cry unto the demon kin shall plunge them into night,

For dark she shall destroy then, and their weakness shall be right.

With this eternal sundering shall balance have been won,

And all the bonds of human blood be finally undone.

“I will destroy her,” Leech vowed. “When Keriya Soulstar’s empty shell lies broken on the battlefield before the Shadow Lord, I will land the killing blow.”

Bundling his furs around him, he turned uphill. His boots struck hard against the stone path as he strode along a ridge. Iron lampposts sporting red glowbulbs lit his way, sending shadows dancing in the brittle, stubborn grass that clung to the cliffs.

His people were like those grasses: determined to survive no matter the cost. Moorfain had been struggling for years, decades, and he’d gambled his country’s future on the belief that Necrovar could save it from the brink of destruction. Leech’s belief had led him across the Waters of Chardon. He’d brought thousands of troops to Allentria to help Necrovar seize power.

But Necrovar had been bested by the blood-burned sorceress, and the World Alliance had run Leech’s people from the continent a month after the Shadow’s re-imprisonment.

“It matters not,” he repeated, his breath condensing in ghostly whorls. “Tonight, everything changes.”

Cresting the ridge, he stared down his nose at the realization of a year’s worth of work. A plateau stretched before him. It had once been farmlands, but Leech’s army had burned those to set up a makeshift colony. Moorfain had come with fire and thunder, seizing cities along the Swarian coast to rebuild its strength.

Most of his troops were stationed in the glittering ice city to the south, crafting weapons, forging armor, preparing for their inevitable rematch with the Allentrians. Normally, Leech would be overseeing operations. Tonight was different.

He descended the hill and strode toward the ritual grounds. The snow had been cleared from this space, making room for his finest Erudite sorcerers to work. Permafrost crunched beneath his feet as he approached the nearest summoning ring.

A flaming pyre roared in the center of twelve sorcerers. Each sorcerer grasped a holy knife in one hand and a Swarian captive, heavily sedated with soulbane, in the other. Some captives struggled against their poison and bindings. Leech abstractly admired their determination to survive—but unlike him, their determination was folly.

“Everything is in place, High Priest,” said Colvin Bain, lead sorcerer of the first circle.

“Very good.” Leech’s thin upper lip curled in an approximation of a smile. Beyond Bain’s circle, eleven more bonfires danced, each the center of another summoning ring. Twelve sets of twelve sorcerers looped across the plateau, and at the center of these stood the final piece of the puzzle: a woman with empty, pitch-black eyes.

Leech approached her with caution. She was a Spider, one of the creatures whose souls were magically connected to Necrovar. He did not trust the otherworldly power running through her veins, though it would be a crucial part of tonight’s ritual.

“Frinshir,” he cried in the language of power, his voice rising over the whistling wind, “it is time.”

Nearby shadows rose from their resting places and coalesced into Frinshir, a powerful and cunning daemonion of the Ninth Pavilion. Six red eyes glinted out of her wedge-shaped head, shining in the firelight. Her wide mouth parted, pearly fangs agleam.

“They await us on the other side,” she informed him, her skull and spine frills rattling. “You may begin.”

Leech scowled. He resented Frinshir giving him permission, as if she were the one in charge. Sorcerers directed their summoned demons, not the other way around.

Frinshir fell into step beside him, her muscular forelimbs and undersized back legs giving her a swaying gait. Man and demon stopped before the Allentrian Spider. The woman looked like a normal human, except for her eyes. Darker than death, they were. The color of necromagic.

“Are you ready to serve your Lord and Master?” Leech intoned.

She lifted her chin in a haughty manner. “I am prepared to leave this world, so my Master may return to it.”

Leech disliked self-assured females—especially those of the supernatural persuasion—but he wouldn’t have to suffer her presence long. He fished beneath his winter layers and withdrew his holy knife. Gripping it in one pale hand, he advanced on the Spider.

“So mote it be.” He laid his free hand against the woman’s cheek. Her flesh may as well have been ice. That made sense, since she was technically dead. Necrovar’s power had reanimated her, granting her a second chance at life.

Now that life would be sacrificed in the name of the Shadow Lord’s return.

Leech pressed his knife to her exposed flesh, drawing the blade across her throat. Black blood poured from the wound, spurting outwards as her dead heart pumped its final beats. She collapsed on the frozen mud, twitching.

A surge of invisible energy blossomed from her corpse. Leech’s own blood seemed to thicken in his veins, drinking in that power. Beside him, Frinshir hooked her scythe-like talons into the hard ground, her grotesque body quivering.

“Brothers, begin!” Leech shrieked, thrusting his hand toward the sable sky. No stars were visible overhead, but the red-tinged Bloodmoon glared balefully between the peaks of glaciers on the western horizon.

The summoning rings hummed with motion as each sorcerer slit the throat of his Swarian captive. Leech heard muffled screams and thumps—sacrificed victims fighting to cling to life a little longer.

“In the name of holy race of the daemonion,” Leech intoned, soaking in the magic that simmered around him as mortals perished and released the energy of their souls, “I call upon their ancient power to widen the Rift. I seek to summon Necrovar, the Prince of Demons, so that I, Antigonus Leech, might serve him.”

The premise of summoning was the same whether Leech was calling a First Pavilion larval daemonion or the Shadow Lord himself, but more powerful creatures required more powerful summonings. And, unfortunately, it had become harder to summon of late. The energy that had once coursed like raging rapids through Leech had reduced to a mere trickle. Why, it had taken three full human sacrifices to dredge Frinshir out of the Etherworld earlier this afternoon.