Dragon Empress

Chapter 7

Leech wasn’t the only one struggling to command power. Other sorcerers felt it, too. Even the daemonion were weakening.

But this—this was a masterpiece. The heady, rusty scent of blood twined around Leech as Swarians died, one by one. An almost tangible power congealed in the air as souls left bodies. Twelve summoning circles, to echo the twelve elemental powers of the world. If this didn’t do the trick, nothing would.

“It is working!” Frinshir’s sibilant hiss reached his ears.

Leech couldn’t see magicthreads, but Frinshir could. If anything was happening at all, that put this ritual miles beyond their previous failed attempts to free Necrovar.

“I call upon the power of the daemonion to widen the Rift,” Leech repeated, retreating from the Spider’s twitching corpse, “and I beseech Necrovar to return. Return to us, Master! Return, and let us claim this world for our own, as is our rightful destiny!”

The frozen earth heaved beneath his feet. Fires roared. Wind howled. The heavens opened, pouring freezing sleet on Leech and his brethren. This was it—he was certain he’d done it!

CRACK!

Black lightning forked from the low, heavy clouds. It was dark, yet somehow blindingly bright, illuminating the world in negative colors as it struck the body of the Spider. Leech shielded his eyes and cringed away from the point of impact, but triumph thrummed in his chest. With Necrovar returned, Leech would be rewarded and exalted beyond all others.

“Well, well.” A throaty, sultry voice drifted toward him on the wind. He frowned. That was most definitely not the voice of Necrovar. “The little flesh-rats managed to do something right.”

Leech gazed through strands of his dark hair, which had fallen into his face. He saw not Necrovar, but Ashétyn, Second Highest of the Severed Six.

Ashétyn crouched over the smoking wreckage of the Spider. She balanced half on her catlike hind legs and half on her leathery wings, knuckles digging into the dirt. A gray-blue mane framed her beastly yet oddly alluring face. Pointed ears swiveled toward Leech as she surveyed him, running a forked tongue over inch-long incisors.

“My lady.” Leech recovered himself enough to find his voice. He bowed so Ashétyn wouldn’t see his disappointment. She would not hesitate to strike him down, though he’d just—apparently—summoned her from the Etherworld. “Forgive me, but you’ve rendered me speechless. We were trying to—”

“I know what you were trying to do, filth!” Ashétyn’s voice was no longer low and seductive—now it was vicious and condescending. He chanced a peek up to see the necrocrelai’s sneer. She loomed above him, an overgrown bat with the eyes of a killer.

“You need more power than this to summon our Master.” Ashétyn fixed her empty, pitch-black gaze on Frinshir. “I’d hoped this halfbreed maggot would relay that information to you.”

Ashétyn’s bald, rat-like tail lashed out, striking Frinshir on the snout. Frinshir yelped in pain, cringing away. She had been the go-between, relaying messages to and from the Etherworld for months.

Leech’s throat tightened around shameful words: “Our power is weakening. We’ve tried—”

“I do not want excuses,” Ashétyn hissed, leaning toward Leech. “The Master is pleased with your progress, because He is kind and forgiving. Too forgiving, at times. Too trusting.”

Her tail snaked forward, slithering around Leech’s neck, brushing his cheek. He fought to remain calm, knowing that to betray a hint of fear—or revulsion—would mean death.

“You, descendants of the weakest dragon speakers of old, the result of generations of inbreeding and failures—I am not impressed with your paltry attempts.”

Leech choked as Ashétyn’s tail tightened. Writhing coils undulated against his flesh. He stared into the necrocrelai’s eyes, determined not to blink first. She examined him like a viper watching cornered prey.

“We have suffered in the Etherworld, waiting for you impotent clonch-brains to do the bare minimum.” Her voice hummed with rage about to reach its boiling point. Fur bristled around her triangular, stuck-up nose as her features twisted in a snarl. “If it were up to me, I’d kill you all where you stand. Unfortunately, it is not up to me.

“Your mercy is appreciated, Queen Ashétyn—”

“It is my Master’s mercy that keeps you alive, scum, not mine. Although why He thinks you’re useful is beyond me.”

Leech’s feet left the ground. He pointed his toes, struggling to keep his weight on them as Ashétyn lifted him. Her breath smelled of too-ripe fruit. The sickening aroma crowded out the smell of ice and sea.

“Entropy is building on Selaras, making it increasingly difficult for wielders to use their magic,” she informed him. “So we must find a better anchor for the summoning. We will go somewhere—or, perhaps, find someone—tied so closely to the Master that it will provide a strong enough pull to enable his return.”

“D-do such places exist?” Leech wheezed. The world spun around him. He willed himself not to pass out.

An evil smirk unfurled across Ashétyn’s full, leathery lips. “We have options. But we must return to Allentria to access them.”

In his suffocated state, Leech couldn’t disguise the fear that surged across his face. He heard a whine from Frinshir, betraying her displeasure at the thought of return.

“Cowards,” spat Ashétyn, giving Leech a nearly neck-snapping shake before dropping him. “Spineless wastes of space. You fear a girl who’s playing with power that will destroy her long before our Master gets the chance.”

Rubbing his bruised trachea, Leech looked up at the necrocrelai. He couldn’t have replied even if he’d wanted to—it hurt to breathe, let alone talk.

“How can you call yourselves men when you allowed yourselves to be driven from Allentria by two children, a lizard with scale rot, and a clawful of overgrown bugs?” she demanded. “There will be no more failures now that I am here. Forthwith, you will address me as your leader.”

Leech shot a sideways glance at Frinshir. The daemonion met his gaze, and they shared a rare moment of understanding: they both prayed Necrovar would soon return.

He didn’t think they would survive Ashétyn’s rule.

CHAPTER FOUR“We all live under the same sky, but we don’t all have the same horizon.”

~ Meira Mistgrove, Ninth Age

Pain wormed through Viran’s stomach, wrenching him from slumber. Wincing, he clutched his abdomen. The twinge had come from one of his old scars.

Lying in the predawn darkness, he focused on steadying his breath. It was rare for scars to bother him, but it had been happening more often of late with this scar, a mark he’d received from Necrovar.

His fingers drifted away from the lesion beneath his bottom left rib, up to his chest. They landed on a mass of snarled flesh above his thudding heart. These were scars he’d received from Necrovar’s cruelest servant, Ashétyn. Her necromagical lightning had burned him with streaks of shadowrash. Not even the finest lifemagic mages could reverse that damage.

The bedside clock chimed five. Viran rolled toward Keriya’s reassuring warmth, reaching past her to silence the alarm.

“Rise and shine,” he whispered. She groaned and mumbled something incoherent.

Viran paused, contemplating the tangled mane and the sliver of pale face peeking out from the blanket. He’d never foreseen a life like this. Some days, it was still surreal.

His childhood in the Jidaelni palace had been miserable as he fought for the dynast’s approval. When his father had shunted him into the military to be rid of his presence, Viran had believed that was the end of it. He would live and die as a warrior, destined to fight other men’s battles, his existence a footnote in the violent history of his country.

With Keriya’s arrival, everything had changed.

She’d been his first real friend. Stunning, the seismic changes a friendly face could bring to a lonely existence. They’d studied magic together, gone on adventures together, saved the world together. Keriya Soulstar had brought meaning to his life. She had no idea how amazing she was.

Viran knew. He knew a little too well. Her powers had grown exponentially—and wherever there was power, there were people seeking to use it. Power attracted the greedy, the fearful, and the jealous. The merest whisper of Keriya’s power had drawn power-seekers from across the globe. They came like vultures to carrion, and she was oblivious to their desires.

But Viran had seen this song and dance in the Jidaelni court. And though his own powers had skyrocketed since coming to Allentria, he remained powerless to stop what was coming.

He placed a gentle kiss on her cheek before disentangling his fingers from hers. A good-bye kiss. That’s what he told himself every morning, because one morning it would be true. He would kiss her, go about his day, and return to discover that destiny had caught up to them both, ripping them apart.

He ran a freezing shower. The palace had enchantments and furnaces to provide hot water, but Viran preferred cold bathing. Ice baths were prized in the hot, equatorial country of Jidaeln. It didn’t matter that he was in Allentria, nor that it was almost winter. He liked the cold. It brought clarity.

He toweled off and dressed in his uniform. No longer was he part of the military, but Empress Aldelphia had—quite graciously, given his failings—offered him a position as Jidaelni Ambassador after his troops had shipped home.

Now the dynast had sent real ambassadors. Every country had sent ‘ambassadors.’ They camped in the palace, rekindling alliances, forging treaties, charting trade routes now that Kraken was dead.

Viran’s scarred chest rose with a sigh as he surveyed himself in the mirror. His eyes, which had lightened to an electric-blue last year when his voltmagic had manifested, were dark now. Shadowed with resignation, and something else. Something dangerous.

He slapped his light-brown cheeks, snapping himself to attention. It was a new day, and there was work to be done before the gala.

When he reentered the main room, he stopped short. Keriya was up and dressed. Aurelas hung at her waist and she clutched Sethildras, the magical blade that had saved Viran’s life in the Final Battle.

The Final Battle, they’d dubbed it. Hubris at its finest.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Belbreeze arranged a demonstration today. I’m supposed to bring some diplomats to the mountains and show off a bit. You know.”

He did know. He knew better than she did.

“Anyway, I was wondering if you might want to come watch.”

The subtle hitch and hesitance in her voice did him in. “Of course,” he said, calculating how many meetings he’d have to reschedule.

Her face lit up like the sun. She fitted Sethildras around his waist, buckling the belt in place. “Great! Everyone will be there. There’s also something exciting—but I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

They walked to the banquet hall together, Keriya conserving her power for the demonstration. When they arrived, Viran found all their friends waiting for them.

“Look what the wolfcat dragged in,” said Roxanne, giving Viran a friendly punch on the shoulder. “The old g**g’s back together.”

“Good to see you, Viran,” said Fletcher, offering his left hand.

Viran gripped it with his own in a firm shake. “And you. I thought you were stationed on the southern coast.”

“We’re taking time off for the gala.” Fletcher indicated himself and Danisan, who loomed behind him, then gestured out the nearest window. A flash of green scales winked in the courtyard, indicating Khyvette’s presence.

“And no one wanted to miss what’s sure to be a spectacular display from the Master of Valemagic,” Effrax added in a dry voice, elbowing Keriya in the ribs as he sidled over.

“Knock it off,” she said, elbowing him back. “It’s just some routine Dragon Speaker stuff. Belbreeze wants to impress the newcomers.”

That was a benign way to put it, but Viran kept his mouth shut as the group settled down for breakfast. He tried not to dwell on the future, focusing instead on the now.