Ivy's Dragon: Dragons of Telera (Book 7)

by Lisa Daniels

  Somehow, Yarrow knew she needed to move. She needed to find Erlandur and the other leaders.

  She knew where Erlandur was, the biggest danger would be. She ran through the melee, ignoring fights that looked underhand, firing bolts and accumulating the headache in her skull when she saw fighters in dire need of assistance. She passed Alyssa, Linther – and saw Vrin leap into pace beside her, his muzzle black with Shadow ichor.

  “I need to find Erlandur,” Yarrow hissed, and the werewolf nodded, before bowing, and she clambered on, gasping in fright as a Shadow swiped at her from the side. Vrin bounded off, howling a battle cry, and the other werewolves imitated it, bolstering the morale of all the fighters.

  Yarrow clutched his fur tight, her heart squeezing painfully when she saw werewolves fall, overwhelmed or tricked.

  Destiny and fate didn’t exist for the werewolves of the Lunar Wastes. The Moon Goddess watched her children with quiet compassion as they fought, without ceremony or congratulation. If they fell under her watch, they were welcomed back into her arms, without mockery or sadness.

  Vrin galloped over the hordes, frenetically seeking Erlandur – and he hurtled up a steep hill, where werewolves scrabbled against their eternal foes, spotting Erlandur upon the slope, his undead wolves circling around him in a toothy shield. His weapon was drawn, his visor down, as he faced a Shadow upon the hilltop.

  Vrin skidded to a halt alongside Erlandur and Yarrow vaulted off, electricity crackling in her hands. Erlandur appeared to not notice her, swaying as if in a trance.

  “You steal our magic…” the Shadow hissed, its sibilant voice infecting their ears, as if maggots had started wriggling in them. “But you are nothing but a pale imitation.”

  Fear iced through Yarrow’s veins. Vrin let out a mournful howl, his hackles rising. The undead wolves, silent as the grave, continued their menacing circle around their master.

  The armored human wasted no breath upon words, on taunting or boasting. He stepped forward.

  The Shadow cackled, before black bolts of noxious energy whisked out of its body like tendrils. Erlandur’s armor tanked the hit, acting as a sort of lightning rod, and he moved on, his footsteps dogged, raising his sword.

  Shadows stirred around, grasping at the undead bodyguards, who lunged upon them with mindless rage.

  Yarrow, teeth clenched, spread out her arms, fought past her headache to summon more lightning from her fingertips, arcing out in a cone to the Shadows on either side. Vrin tackled one that formed behind them, and Yarrow followed behind Erlandur, nervous, heart frenzied, as the armored knight took on the Supreme.

  She knew Supremes were bad. They hoisted incredibly destructive power, but were only found in the confines of the Fractured City, unable to take a single step into the Lunar Wastes without severe limiting abilities on their powers.

  Yet, one of them stood here now, directing the Shadows to kill, firing darkness at them, seemingly limitless in energy. If Yarrow spouted out that much power, she’d be dead.

  Erlandur tanked it, driving himself forward.

  The Shadow laughed in delight as Erlandur neared, and the black energy covered him, leaving nothing but a flickering ball, obscuring his body. He stopped moving. The undead wolves parted, keeping a distance from the power.

  With a grunt, and a blaze of pain crashing into her skull, Yarrow forced out more energy, more power, screaming as she did so to try and distract from the pain.

  She heard a bark from Erlandur. “No!”

  The lightning tangled in the dark storm. To Yarrow’s horror and dismay, it flicked back, and black energy shocked her. The jolt caused her muscles to spasm. She flew across the air, tumbling and rolling. The energy crackled around her as she skidded to a stop.

  The last thing she saw, before her mind slipped into unconsciousness, was a Shadow looming above her, reaching with spindly hands.

  Chapter Three

  Give in.

  Yarrow blinked her eyes open. It took a moment for her to register what she saw. Above her was dense wooden beams – the safety of a house. A cabin.

  She was in a bed.

  A nice, warm bed. She breathed in the smell of incense, and spotted her father, asleep in wolf form at the foot of her bed, and her mother slumped in a chair.

  Give in.

  Confusion floated.

  The lightning. The dark energy. The Supreme. The fight, with Shadows disintegrating, werewolves dying…

  She checked inside herself for the familiar font of magic, and frowned. Something felt off. Hollow.

  Yarrow examined her arms, and a jolt of icy panic hit her. Her veins were black. Corruption filled her from the inside.

  Give in.

  Her resulting scream woke up her mother and father, and brought in two other people, though at this point, Yarrow didn’t care.

  What the moon was this? Why couldn’t she feel her magic? Why was there the hollow essence inside? And why did she feel something scratching at her brain?

  A gibbering madness. Asking her to give in. To become one with the darkness inside.

  Give in.

  “Get it out! Get it out! Make it stop!” Yarrow thrashed in bed, desperate, hysterical and terrified. Her mother started sobbing, her father barked and whimpered, and there were voices all around her, other people rushing in as she screamed and screamed and screamed.

  Give in.

  “Ssh. Ssh. It’s okay. It’ll be alright.” Yarrow latched onto the speaker, focusing on them in her blind terror.

  “Raine?”

  The enchantment witch’s eyes stared sadly as she stroked Yarrow’s forehead. Another witch, dressed up like the inhabitants of the Spine, watched over them, with Erlandur hovering in the background with Vrin.

  “Can you hear? Can you understand?”

  Give in.

  “T-t-there’s something in my head. There’s something in my head.” Yarrow began clawing at her forehead, crying, and Raine took her hands away, her beautiful face creased up.

  “It’s taking her over. Just like with my mother. She’ll be a Shadow at this rate, even with what I’m doing.”

  Priya gave a loud, heart rending wail. “No! Not my daughter. Please…”

  Erlandur clanked in closer, his dark blue eyes narrowed. “Is there nothing you can do, witches?”

  “I can only siphon the blood. Delay it,” Raine said. “Like I’ve been doing for the past week. It’s not an ideal solution.”

  The past week? How long have I been out?

  Then, again, insidious, invasive: Give in.

  The voice got louder with each iteration, first like a heartbeat, now like an insisting thumping, a cacophonous noise that threatened to drown out everything else.

  Her soul sank, as the realization dug in. “I’m turning into a Shadow?”

  No one spoke for a moment. Then, Raine nodded. “Yes. I can draw some blood out of you now, delay it…”

  “But you can’t stop it?”

  “No.”

  Give in.

  Raine took out a syringe, holding the needle over a candle flame. “My mother tried everything to fight it. But she knew she was losing. She said… she described a voice. Something that kept telling her to give in. She said it consumed her mind.”

  A beat. Give in.

  “I hear it. The same words. ‘Give in.’ Nothing else.”

  Raine checked to make sure it was alright, before sticking the needle in, and siphoning murky gray-red blood into the syringe. A horrible, draining sensation, along with the pinch of pain made her lie back, dizzy. The needle retracted, and Yarrow breathed in relief.

  “It’s a signal,” Erlandur said then.

  Yarrow squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then clutched at Raine’s hand. “Where are we?”

  “The Fractured Spine,” Raine answered. “We repelled the attack. And we made it to the clan. Not without some losses. About forty-three werewolves died. But hundreds of Shadows died.”

  “And the Supreme?”
r />   Give in.

  “Got away,” Erlandur grunted. “But when it went, the Shadows stopped attacking.”

  Disappointment crashed. After everything, they didn’t kill the Supreme. Even with Erlandur. They had lost numbers. They achieved nothing.

  And they hadn’t even made it to the Fractured City yet.

  “What will happen to my daughter?” Hragun snarled. “Will she die? Is it inevitable? Is there nothing anyone can do?”

  Raine stared at Erlandur, and the undead wolves that hovered outside. Erlandur set his jaw. “There are some options, but you’re not going to like any of them.”

  Give in.

  “Let’s hear them,” Yarrow said, attempting to inject some enthusiasm into her tone. Everyone looked at her as though she was dead already.

  I’m not dead yet. I still have breath.

  “One. You become a Shadow. We imprison you, and use your blood to help make weapons and armor.” He snapped his fingers as Hragun grunted, displeased and disgusted with the idea. “Two. We kill you. Nothing else. Three. We try and delay this and figure out something else, somehow. Four… I turn you into one of these.” He indicated the undead wolves. “A fighting undead witch. But you will have no mind of your own.”

  Give in.

  At this, Priya reached a hand across to rest in on Yarrow’s stomach. “No. Absolutely not. My daughter will not become… an aberration. Anything but to see her face… devoid. Lifeless.”

  “I do not know how the undead spell will work for a witch, though,” Erlandur admitted, ignoring Priya’s concern. “And there is one more option.”

  “Tell me,” Yarrow croaked, desperate for any answer to her predicament.

  “Don’t give in.”

  Raine gaped. “What?” A sliver of grief infused her expression. “But…”

  “I know your mother died. I know it became too much for her,” he said, though there was no kindness in his voice. “But perhaps if Yarrow learns to deal with the voice, she might be okay. Though she won’t have the same magic as before.”

  Don’t… give in? Easier said than done. The voice kept pounding at her subconscious, weakening her resolve, lowering her mental barriers.

  Give in.

  “She’ll need someone with her at all times, to make sure she doesn’t fail. Or to trap her if she starts converting.” Erlander said in a matter of fact tone. “There’s something I want to talk to her about, though. In private. Please leave us for a moment.”

  Reluctantly, everyone left, though Yarrow’s mother and father took the longest to leave.

  Yarrow glared at him in suspicion. The magic she reviled now pulsed through her veins, corrupted her skin.

  “Let me tell you something I haven’t admitted to anyone else.” Erlandur leaned closer then, his breath heating her ear, making her shiver. “I hear the voice every day as well.” He revealed a part of his arm, normally concealed under a long fitting sleeve. Black veins protruded. “It’s not easy. And you must always be vigilant. But it is possible.”

  He squeezed her hand briefly, before leaving, letting the others pour back in again.

  Yarrow let their concerns wash over her.

  Give in.

  She gritted her teeth. The voice didn’t go away.

  It might never stop.

  Chapter Four

  Production levels were high. Vrin observed as witches, guided by Raine, extracted black blood from their prisoners, using the magic afterwards to upgrade and enchant all weapons. Their pride and glory displayed in a ballista that sat upon a small tower, also made by the enchantment witch. The Spine wolves were a frosty lot, living close to the dark spirals of the city themselves. In the daylight, Vrin saw the peak of one of those towers in the distance, within the heart of the Fractured City. Beyond the Fractured Spine homes, extensive barriers existed, helping to separate the Spine wolves from the evil influence of the city.

  To live so close to the Shadow homeland must be a terrifying ordeal. Vrin admired the Spine for holding onto their ancestral homes instead of relocating to safer areas. Spine defenses were far more advanced than Lunehill ones. They had sentries patrolling the tops of walls. The main base resembled a huge fort, complete with wall top defenses, towers, including the one with the long ranged ballista, charcoal lines preserved in tubes to protect them from the weather which could be easily refilled… he began making notes. Then he stopped.

  No point making notes if none of them returned.

  Kain and Erlandur stood with the legendary Spine chieftain, Targun Wasteborn, along with his son Nox. The Spine chieftain wore a pure white skin in wolf form, bigger than any wolf Vrin had ever seen. The tales, maybe exaggerations, claimed that he was once along against a hundred Shadows, and he managed to slaughter every one without a scratch.

  They talked of the oncoming expedition, of the dozens of Shadow prisoners they kept, and the massive undertaking of enchanting all the weapons to make them a worthy fighting force.

  Production took weeks. And no one wanted to go into the Fractured City unprepared. In the meanwhile, in the swarm of everyday life, the small ideological clashes between leaders, Vrin knew of one individual who suffered day and night. He spotted her now, stationed upon a lonely tower, watched by a guard to make sure she kept the corruption in check.

  His heart twitched in sympathy. That beautiful woman with the black veins in her arms had become more withdrawn, less prone to talk to anyone, except for Vrin, Erlandur, Raine, and her family. Whatever secret words Erlandur had told her instilled some iron in her soul. A small streak of jealously writhed at the thought that Erlandur gave the witch something he could not.

  He had carried her, helped hunt for her. He had scooped her from the ground when the blow had knocked her out, defended her limp form against other Shadows until the assault stopped, and her family took over the task of caring for her. He had asked often for her, but Hragun rejected his concern, wanting everyone but Raine and Erlandur to stay away from his precious offspring.

  Vrin hopped over the tower steps, his leg muscles contracting with the effort. He smiled at the guard who recognized his high status as a Lunehill council member, and stepped aside, allowed him to stand next to Yarrow.

  Her gaze seemed far away, clouded over as she wrestled with whatever prevalent thought scratching at her sanity. Eventually, she noticed Vrin by her side, and those dark eyes return to a semblance of clarity. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he replied, trying to keep the pity out of his voice. She didn’t need pity. She required strength and confidence. Something to help her battle against whatever it was that consumed from within.

  “I’m sorry about my father.”

  “Don’t be. It’s obvious he cares about you deeply. He’s a good man.” Vrin checked out the view from their vantage point, seeing the wooden floorings of the battlements, and a few loitering Shadows groping at their defenses, before some well-aimed arrows ended them.

  “I don’t know if I can keep this up,” Yarrow said, strife in her tone. “The weeks are passing. And the voice is still there, as strong as ever. It’s worse when I’m trying to sleep at night. It’s better if I’m… doing something. But I don’t feel like doing anything. There’s just emptiness.”

  Vrin didn’t understand emptiness in the way she addressed. He did, however, realize that she likely felt as if she constantly hovered between the border of life and death. Of giving into the thing she despised.

  They despised.

  He placed his hand firmly on her shoulder, acting as a bastion of strength and comfort. Whatever happened, this woman needed to know that all hope was not yet lost. The strange, magnetic connection that drew him to her pulsed stronger than ever.

  I can help her. Whatever’s there in her head, I can assist. A lot of dedication, sure. In the Lunar Wastes though, you either fully dedicated yourself to something, or you spent your life as a ghost, watching as the war raged about you.

  “If you keep thinking of nothing but it, it will eventu
ally devour you. You need more to life than the constant fear that you’re on borrowed time.” He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, though no appreciation showed upon her face.

  “I think I’d rather die than have this. And my magic…” she raised up her arms, displaying the knotted black veins, “it doesn’t work anymore. I don’t have that familiar warmth. There is something else, though. And I’m afraid to touch it. I know it’s… dangerous.”

  “All magic is dangerous,” Vrin reminded her.

  “Not like this,” she hissed. “Not like the Shadows.” She bit her lip, before sighing and lolling in the seat, bereft of will and energy. “I want my magic back. I want to be able to shock those moon cursed bastards back into the holes they crawl out of.”

  “Maybe we will find a chance for you yet. Don’t be so quick to fall into despair.”

  Now she squinted at him, suspicious, and the expression irritated him.

  “What do you care about what I think and what I do, anyway? I mean, once the march goes off, I’ll be a liability. I came to kill, but I’m the one who is in need of killing.”

  Finally, her attitude got to him. Irritation flashed. “You need to stop with this.” Vrin flicked her on the face, making her flinch in shock. “Yes, you could die. Yes you might turn into whatever is in you, and yes some people do think you’re better off dead. But I happen to remember a strong-willed woman who came all the way to Lunehill, convinced that she, along with her Dreadwood clan mates, could bring the fight to the Shadows. This attitude gets you nowhere.”

  Her face hardened. “Leave me. I don’t want to speak to you.”

  Vrin had to respect her wishes, especially when she turned the shoulder and rejected any more of his attempts to touch.

  However, over the coming days, he noted small changes in her. She went through her brooding period, then plucked up opportunities to speak to him again, to prise out of him his peculiar brand of optimism and practicality. Somewhere, he knew that she was clinging for reasons to keep going, and in Vrin came a voice of support that grounded her. It was far better than all the options she had before.