In that moment, without really even thinking, Zak did something he had ached to do for a very long time. He balled his other hand into a tight fist and drove it into his brother’s nose.
He heard a dull crunch as his knuckles smashed into the center of his face. Zak expected Muggs to let go, or at least loosen his grip. But his fingers remained as tight as ever. The blow had flattened his brother’s nose and knocked it slightly askew. Twin trails of black liquid oozed from both nostrils. Muggs smiled grotesquely.
“Serve or die,” he repeated. Zak had no idea who or what he was supposed to serve. Whatever had happened to the sun had somehow possessed them, but left him unaffected. And he thought if he didn’t get himself loose within the next few seconds, he was definitely going to die.
The woman was right behind Muggs now, and Zak saw the flash of steel in her hand. She was holding a huge cleaver. Where had that come from?
Frantic now, Zak punched his brother in the face again, then twice more in quick succession. The third blow landed just above his right eye, and this time Zak heard the crack of his own knuckles as they smashed into bone. Half a second later he felt the pain ripple up his arm.
But that last hit had seemed to do the trick. The vice grip loosened, enough for Zak to finally jerk his arm free. He fell backwards into the boat, the force causing it to drift backwards.
Zak cradled his aching fist in his other hand and watched as all three of them gathered at the end of the dock, groaning at him as he drifted away. He sighed. He was safe, at least for now.
But Muggs had straightened up after being hit. His face was a sick ruin, pulpy and smashed, the black liquid streaming from his nose and down his chin. His pa and the cook seemed unwilling to follow, but Muggs apparently wasn’t going to let a little swamp water get in his way. He jumped off the end of the dock, landing with a splash, and began to paddle towards the boat. As he did, he began to change, his broken face pushing outward, his body shrinking, and dark brown fur bristling out all over him.
Zak scrambled to his feet and looked around for the pole. He found it and grabbed it with both hands, meaning to push himself further away. But Muggs, now a rat the size of a large dog, had reached the edge of the boat.
His claws clicked as they grabbed hold of the boat, causing it to rock to one side. Instead of pushing the pole down into the water, Zak tightened his fingers around the shaft and jammed it into his brother’s shoulder. He heard another crunch, and this time Muggs let out a satisfying squeal of pain.
The boat jolted and swayed, but the rat still held fast, its claws embedded in the wood. Zak turned the pole over in his hands, and this time he swung it like a sword. Muggs was quick, but not quick enough. The pole cracked into the side of his head, and he finally let go, splashing into the dark water.
Zak was gasping for breath now, his arms shaking, his right hand throbbing. But he was well away from the dock now, where Beulah and his pa stood. She brandished the cleaver helplessly, while Mogan groped at the open air, their mouths moving wordlessly. Maybe it was his imagination, but they seemed to be mouthing the same thing Muggs had. Serve or die. Serve or die.
Muggs now floated on his side, his body twitching. Zak didn’t know if he had just killed his brother or not. The idea made him feel both nauseous and satisfied at the same time. But he had done what he had to do. Otherwise, Muggs would have killed him. If he’d gotten into the boat with those huge, dagger-like incisors, it would have been over.
Zak took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He shakily pushed the pole into the water until it found bottom, then shoved. The boat drifted further away.
Where was he going to go now, though? He looked up through the mossy limbs of the cypress trees at the blackened sun. Was this to be the world now? Or would the darkness slide away, letting the day be itself again?
He thought about returning home, but then he had an image of Ma Nan and all his brothers and sisters, their eyes pitch black and full of murder. So instead of heading south, back the way they had come, some unknown instinct made Zak turn the boat north.
Just as he had changed direction, the dock still only a hundred paces away, Zak heard a roar from high above the trees. The sky was still dark, but he squinted over the building from which he had just come.
There, up in the sky, what he saw chilled his heart. He stopped pushing the pole, his breath catching in his throat.
A man floated well above the trees, his skin as black and oily as whatever had coated the sun and his brother’s eyes. He was naked, his entire shiny black body rippling with muscle. His bald head was tilted back to look up at something, his arms outstretched.
That’s no man, Zak thought. He had heard enough tales, stories of terror that Nan would sometimes tell around the fire. Zak thought they were just stories, though. But as he saw the figure floating there, some strange dark glow illuminating him from within, he was certain of two things.
One, whatever was happening to the sun and possessing those around him was the doing of the thing floating up there in the sky. And two, that thing was a demon.
He heard the roar again, a deep bellow that rattled the trees. But it wasn’t the demon that had made the sound. Zak looked to the right of where the demon hovered and saw dark, leathery wings beating there, a dragon faced off against it.
He froze, realizing where he was for the first time, but also recognizing the dragon confronting the demon. His father had led them up through the swamp all the way to the Cypress Palace, the seat of the Nightshadow throne. They had just been about to sell a boat full of stolen crabs to the royal kitchen.
And though he had never seen the king before and could not say how he knew, Zak was absolutely certain that the dragon in the sky was none other than Sorian Nightshadow. The palace was no doubt filled with dragon guards, as well as noble families of dragon shifters. But for some reason he could not articulate, Zak knew that he was looking at the king himself.
He watched as Sorian opened his jaws. This time he did not roar, instead unleashing a torrent of black bile directly at the demon. Instead of trying to dodge the attack or shield himself, the demon opened his arms wide, as if welcoming a warm friend for a hug.
The dragon’s breath struck the demon’s chest. He did not flinch or budge. If anything, he seemed to grow.
He’s drinking it in, Zak thought with horror. The king stands no chance. The demon might well be made of bile.
Zak turned his eyes back to Sorian. The dragon had closed its jaws, hovering there to inspect whatever damage his attack might have done. Even from this distance, Zak could see the dragon’s body language as its shoulders slumped.
Run, Zak thought. You cannot defeat him. But the scene played out just as one of the many tragic puppet shows Zak had seen in the markets time and time again.
Sorian Nightshadow was far too proud to flee. Zak knew of the savage wars between the red and black dragons, conflicts that decimated both sides because neither side ever gave any ground, fighting to the brutal death. It was not the Nightshadow way to run or surrender.
The dragon flapped its wings, preparing to lunge straight at the demon. Where his breath had no effect, he clearly now meant to fight the ancient evil in close combat, with tooth and claw.
Sorian flew straight at the demon, but never reached him. The demon held up a single hand, and the dragon froze mid-flight, as if he had flown into a wall that wasn’t there. Then Zak watched as the dragon’s wings stretched out, not of his own volition, but as if a giant pair of invisible fingers uncurled them. He was pinned in the sky like a butterfly in some child’s collection.
The dragon roared again, but this time the sound was a strangled mixture of rage and helplessness. Zak watched in horrified fascination, wondering exactly how the demon was going to kill him. But to Zak’s surprise, it was not the demon that did the killing.
From out of the dark sky flew another dragon, and for a moment Zak thought it was someone coming to his aid. The dragon was black, but smaller,
appearing eerily similar to the king.
It’s a female, Zak thought, though he had never been trained to tell the difference between male and female dragons. Just as he had known the larger one was Sorian, he knew this one was a female. But not just any female. The smaller dragon was Sorian's daughter.
Everyone throughout the Silent Swamps knew of Nevra Nightshadow, even if they had never laid eyes upon her. Sorian had instilled a sense of fear and respect among those he ruled. Nevra merely instilled a sense of fear. The stories traveled far and wide of how she would torture villagers for her own amusement. No one longed for the day when she might rule. Some speculated that she might one day kill her father and take the crown.
And here she was, with a demon at her side, her father helpless before her. She pulled up, beating her wings to hover before her father. Then her right claw seemed to melt and grow smaller, becoming a young woman’s hand. The hand reached down to a small sheath slung around her neck and withdrew a white-bladed dagger.
Nevra extended the tip of the dagger towards her father’s chest. His back arched, and he roared again, the sound rippling with pain and fury. The blade paused just above the scales.
Zak didn’t know if she was perhaps having second thoughts. Maybe she was wondering if the blade would even pierce his scales. Or maybe she was just savoring the moment. Whatever the reason, it didn’t last long.
Zak flinched as Nevra plunged the dagger into Sorian’s chest, the blade sinking easily through his scales and flesh. He roared one last time, his long neck locking as his body shuddered.
With one quick motion, Nevra curled the knife in a perfect circle before sliding it out. Then she struck at the gaping wound with her other hand, still that of a dragon, the claw punching into her father’s chest. Just as quickly she pulled it out, and from this far away Zak could not see what she clutched in her claw, but he knew all the same.
She had plucked his heart straight from his chest. Zak raised one hand to his own chest, almost feeling the pain himself. Never had he seen anything so brutal.
Sorian’s head lolled to one side at the end of his long neck. The demon finally lowered his hand, and as he did, Sorian Nightshadow’s lifeless body fell from the sky. Zak watched its descent until it disappeared over the tops of the trees. He waited for the sound of the body crashing into the palace or splashing into the swamp, but no sound ever came.
Zak’s blood ran cold in his veins. He turned his head away from the grisly show, not wanting to see what came next. He had seen more than enough.
His muscles unlocked, now agreeing with his mind that this was no place for a sane person to be. He needed to get away from here, as fast and far as possible.
Zak pushed the pole down into the muck of the swamp bottom, nearly losing his grip on it as he pulled back up to repeat the motion as quickly as he could. The boat moved far too slowly for his liking, though he pushed as fast as he could, traveling what he hoped was north.
Behind him, he heard disturbing noises, the sounds of fighting and slaughter, muted cries of help. He felt numb with the knowledge that his king was dead, presumably replaced by his sadistic daughter and some unspeakably evil being.
He did not know what lay ahead, but it had to be better than what he was leaving behind.
4
MYRIAN
She swirled in the air, trying to dodge the arrows, trying to get away. But it was too late. Some of the arrows whirled past, but two struck her, both on her right side.
The pain was instant and unbearable. One arrowhead buried itself in the flesh where her wing met her shoulder. The other punctured the webbing, mercifully traveling all the way through.
Myrian’s body seized up with pain and surprise. She began to fall.
No, she thought. I don’t want to die. The ground rushed up at her at a frightening speed. She stretched out her wings, the right one screaming in agony as she did so. But she flapped once, slowing her fall, then again.
She cried out, something halfway between a roar and a wail. But the effort had been enough to keep her from crashing headlong into the earth.
Myrian put her legs out, hitting the ground hard and sending another jolt of agony through her shoulder. She felt nauseous from the pain, motes swimming before her eyes. For a moment she thought she might pass out.
She was alive. Injured and grounded, but alive.
She heard the stretching sounds of bow strings growing taut. Without thinking, she flailed forward, half running and half flying across the top of the grass. She heard the arrows thudding into the ground behind and around her, but thankfully none struck her.
Myrian chided herself, wondering if she’d been a fool for heading straight for the castle. But it was her home. It was all she had ever known. She had just been attacked by Gisella, and she needed help.
She realized now this was the last place she would find it, at least until the sun came out from behind that abominable black mask. Then things might begin to return to normal, even though normal seemed as far away as the moon just then.
Myrian continued to hobble across the open field away from the castle. She heard another volley of arrows whistle towards her, but by that point she was far enough away that most fell short. One hit her on her hind leg, but at an angle so that it glanced easily off her scales.
A little further, and she slowed, then stopped, turning to look back at the place she had called her home her entire life. The possessed archers had given up, and no one seemed to be coming across the fields towards her. Likely everyone inside was busy attacking one another.
Her eyes blurred with tears as she sat back on her haunches. She could not decide which hurt more, the arrow lodged between her wing and shoulder, or the despair and uncertainty for her family and friends. She had been spared from the effects of the black sun. Perhaps others in the castle had as well. But that was little comfort if they were unaffected while the possessed ripped them apart.
She couldn’t go back, not while the madness had so many in its grasp. She needed to help herself, get well clear of the castle and those who had gone mad. Then she might be able to figure out what was going on and get some help.
Myrian craned her neck to look at her wounds. The ragged rip in her wing looked worse than it really was. The arrow stuck deep in her shoulder was the real problem. The steel head was buried in her muscle, pulsing with agony with every breath she took.
She reached down and grabbed the shaft gently between her jaws. She closed her eyes, squeezing out tears that ran down the sides of her scaled face. She didn’t want to do this. She wasn’t brave and didn’t want to have to be. But she had to get that arrow out of her right now.
Quick or slow? That was the question. If she jerked it out too quickly, the shaft might break, leaving the head inside. But if it came out cleanly, it would hurt far less. If she pulled it out slowly, the head might still snap off, and every second would be unbearable.
She went with quick, biting down for a good hold on the shaft and whipping her head with one swift motion. The arrow came loose with a wet plucking sound, bright red blood spraying from the wound. Pain exploded through her. She bit down on the arrow, splintering the wood.
But she had done it. The arrow had come out fully. She opened her jaws, dropping the pieces of it to the ground. She could see a piece of bloody flesh stuck to the barbed tip.
That’s me, she thought. That’s a piece of me. She felt her head swim again.
No, she thought, I cannot lose consciousness. Not here. Not now.
They still might come for her, lying out here helplessly on the plains. If not people gone mad from the castle, then some wandering pack of hyenas, their eyes gone black.
Myrian struggled against the dizziness, trying to breathe steadily through her nostrils. Within a few moments it passed.
How horrible this day had become. Only a short time ago, she had sat on a blanket, about to enjoy a picnic. And now day had become night, and the whole world had gone insane.
; She took another deep breath and turned to look at the wound. She instantly became dizzy once more as she saw a spurt of blood bubble out between the scales.
Steady, she said, closing her eyes. You can do this.
The white dragons were not the most ferocious in a one-on-one fight. Because unlike the other clans, their breath could do no harm. In fact, it did the opposite.
Myrian opened her eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling across the white scales, now stained deep red, where her shoulder met her wing. A yellow-white stream of light escaped her jaws.
She felt relief almost instantly as the healing light poured into the injured flesh, sealing up the puckered gap and clearing away the blood. Myrian closed her jaws and looked where the wound had been. It was as if it had never happened.
Her mother had been the one to teach her how to use the healing breath. As a child, she had mended cuts and bruises. Once she had taken a bad spill while playing along the western wall. She’d heard a nasty snap in her left wrist when she hit the ground. She had cried for a few moments before remembering the breath.
She was grateful for the relief she now felt, though she wondered if she might not prefer to have the power to breathe fire or ice. Perhaps then she would be able to return to the castle, to try to help.
Her original plan to seek a safe place still seemed best. She let loose a light breath upon the tear in her wing and the webbing sealed itself in less than a second.
She looked back towards the castle, the sounds of mayhem carrying across the dark fields. Where could she go to wait out whatever this was? She couldn’t stay here, even though she was whole again.
Then it occurred to her. The owls. The One Tree. If there was a place that would be immune to all this, it would be there. They were the most powerful magic users in all of Xandakar.
Myrian sat up and stretched her wings. The one she had just healed felt stiff, but strong.
Dragon Black, Dragon White Page 3