Eighteen Moons

Chapter 3

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 m******e. 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.