The Frost Eater (The Magic Eaters Trilogy Book 1)

by Carol Beth Anderson

  So much for stealth. Militia members on the roof and the ground raised their eyes toward him. He flew evasively, continuing to shoot ice. But there was too much magic coming his way: ice, fire, and—oh God, no! Vines advanced toward him, formed by two hands he knew as well as his own.

  He pushed himself higher, screaming, “Zeisha! It’s me!”

  Her eyes were blank as she accelerated her vine’s growth. The end of it slapped Krey’s ankle, then fell back to the ground. If he’d been a few simmets lower, the thing would’ve wrapped around him. He had no doubt it was strong enough to bring him down.

  Shaking and breathless, he flew out of reach. Zeisha had always been talented—but now she was stunning. And terrifying.

  On the ground, lanterns cast flickering light on a fierce battle. Krey watched as a vine shot out of Zeisha’s hand. It wrapped around the neck of a black-clad trog. Zeisha pulled the vine taut, and a young woman next to her knelt to touch the ground. The dirt beneath the choking trog trembled and cracked. It rose up into a large, loose mound of cloudy, quivering dust. Zeisha’s vine detached from her hand. The dirt swallowed the vine and the trog, then settled back to its smooth, hard-packed state. All that was left was a mound, like a freshly filled grave.

  Krey blinked, trying to see through tears that had invaded his eyes. He’d found Zeisha, but she was still so very lost. He forced himself to pull his gaze away from her. If they were to win this battle, he had to play his part. That meant helping Osmius.

  As if on cue, the great, gray dragon dove toward the battle. A frost eater sent spheres of ice toward him. Osmius vaporized the ice with one huff of white flame. Krey held his breath as the winged beast targeted an isolated militia member near the edge of the fighting. He grabbed the young woman and returned to the air.

  Krey’s breath escaped in a victorious laugh. One less mind-controlled magic eater for us to worry about. He spun around and followed the dragon to the rooftop.

  Osmius held the struggling soldier in the claws of his massive back feet. Krey tied the woman’s wrists and ankles with rope provided by the trogs. It wasn’t an easy job with the way she was fighting back. “You’ll thank me for this later,” he muttered as he tightened the last knot.

  Only when the militia member was fully restrained did Osmius release her. The young woman bared her teeth at Krey, revealing bits of brown in them. A dirt eater. She would’ve gladly created a chasm to swallow them all up, if only they were on the ground instead of the roof.

  Osmius flew off, and Taima soon arrived, her claws gripping a young man’s torso and arms. As soon as the new captive saw Krey, he started shooting balls of ice. Krey sighed. Can’t tie those hands if they’re making ice. He hooked his elbow around the magic eater’s throat, cutting off his airflow.

  The second the frost eater passed out, Krey let go. He bound the magic eater and used a strip of the young man’s shirt as a gag. Frost eaters didn’t usually exhale anything but snow, as it was painful to send ice through the throat’s soft tissues. With a mind-controlled magic eater, however, Krey wasn’t taking any chances.

  Taima left. Krey put a few feathers in his mouth. Shivering and chewing, he considered what he’d seen below. The militia members were horrifyingly strong. And supposedly The Overseer was controlling every one of them.

  She shouldn’t be able to control more than one or two people at a time. Apparently her inconceivable power came from the king, but that didn’t make sense. There was no precedent for the sheer quantity of magic The Overseer was using, nor for the king’s ability to share his strength with her.

  Krey massaged his temples, trying to rid himself of such fruitless confusion. He didn’t have to understand Ulmin’s dark magic to fight against it. He fixed his eyes on the sky, waiting for Osmius to return with another captive. The militia is strong, but we’ll take them out. One soldier at a time.

  Nora followed Ovrun into the fray. He was big but quick, and he successfully dodged a stream of fire before diving low and taking the militia member down.

  Another lyster, a young man, sprinted toward Nora. The calm coldness in his gaze scared her more than his muscular body. He shot small rock pellets out of his palms, one after another. Nora had never seen a stone lyster catalyze his fuel at such a speed. In the time it took her to lift her hand, several rocks hit her neck and face. She shot a large ice sphere at him. It hit him in the chest, making him stumble. A trog took advantage of the stone lyster’s distraction to tackle him.

  Nora turned away, looking for someone else to attack. Their goal was to get into the building and find The Overseer, but the mind-controlled soldiers wouldn’t let anyone get close to the warehouse.

  Ahead, Nora saw Ovrun with his arm around a struggling lyster’s neck. The young woman fought his chokehold with all her might, and when her fist connected with his left tricep, where he’d been shot, he roared in pain. Even through that, he remained light on his feet, spinning around to keep tabs on his surroundings. When the woman collapsed, Ovrun dropped her and ran ahead.

  All trogs were taught to fight, and from what Nora could see in the flickering, yellow light, they were doing pretty well. Her own combat skills left much to be desired, so she stood back, looking for someone small that she might have a hope of taking down.

  There. A thin, petite girl, about Nora’s age, was shifting the dirt under two trogs, who struggled to stay on their feet. Nora rushed toward the girl from behind. The trogs had just started sinking into the ground when Nora tackled the girl, halting her magic.

  Nora tried to get her arm around the girl’s neck, like Ovrun had just done to the other soldier, but the girl bucked, her sharp elbows coming up to strike Nora repeatedly. A second later, the girl somehow flipped Nora over, pinning her down with two bony knees. The girl grabbed Nora’s neck and squeezed.

  Nora opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. She tried to suck in air. It was impossible. She’s killing me she’s killing me she’s killing me!

  Suddenly, the wiry girl seemed to fly off Nora, who sat up, coughing and gasping, clutching at her bruised neck. She spied Ovrun tackling the militia member and grabbing her throat. The girl’s eyes soon went blank, but Ovrun kept squeezing.

  “Hey!” Nora tried to scream the word, but it came out as a hoarse croak. She grabbed Ovrun’s arm.

  He cried out—it was his bad arm. But it got his attention. He looked up at Nora, then let go of the girl, his eyes wide. “Thanks,” he said, shaking his head as if to rid himself of his fury. His eyes flashed back and forth, taking in the battle. The trogs and soldiers in their immediate vicinity were engaged in their own fights. His attention returned to Nora, and his hand rested lightly on her throat. “You okay?”

  She nodded and coughed again. “Yeah.”

  He surveyed the area and ran off to help a trog whose impressive speed and flexibility were barely keeping him away from a bombardment of magical fire.

  Nora looked for someone else she could incapacitate. The unmistakable flap of dragon wings sounded overhead. Osmius was diving down.

  Then something slammed into Nora from behind, so hard that it knocked the wind out of her before she even reached the ground. Pinned down, she felt her arms wrenched behind her. For a second, she panicked, and then her desire to live took over. The militia member had her arms, not her hands. She shot a ball of ice straight up. It connected with a crack. She shot another and another.

  The weight on her back disappeared. She scrambled to her feet, expecting to see that Ovrun or a trog had rescued her. Instead, she was greeted with the sight of a big, male militia member, flying away.

  Ovrun ran up to her. “Stay with me!” he shouted.

  She gladly complied, but a few seconds later, Osmius spoke to her mind. Following his instructions, she fled from the fighting.

  Krey gazed at the sky. Osmius was still circling above the warehouse. What was taking so long? Tapping his foot, Krey scanned the street below. Dawn was on its way, but it was still too dark to see m
uch of the fight on the ground.

  The crack of dragon wings caught Krey’s attention, and he looked up to see Osmius and Taima both flying toward him. Neither of them were carrying militia members. Why not? What Krey wouldn’t give to be a dragon speaker.

  The creatures landed, and Taima used a wing to nudge Krey toward Osmius’s back. “Again?” Krey groaned as he climbed up. He secured himself, and Osmius leapt into the air, leaving Krey’s stomach back on the roof.

  After a short flight, Osmius landed a few dozen mets from the edge of the battle. Nora was waiting there. Krey dismounted, and Osmius stood guard as the two humans spoke.

  “What’s going on?” Krey asked.

  “The militia members know what the dragons are doing. Every time Osmius tried to dive, he got attacked. One of the fire lysters burned a hole in his wing. He and Taima can’t keep picking people up.”

  Krey cursed, then narrowed his eyes. Nora sounded like someone had taken sandpaper to her throat. “Why are you talking like that?”

  “I got choked.”

  “Choked?”

  “I’m fine. Listen, you and I have to go back in. We need all the lysters we can get. The trogs are great, but it’s hard to fight magic with muscle.”

  “Let’s do it, then.” As they ran off, he saw Taima approaching Osmius, who was still on the ground.

  “She’s bringing him rocks,” Nora said.

  “Rocks?”

  But Nora was too focused on her mission to answer. Krey took her cue and sprinted ahead. As they entered the fight, he leapt over vines, melting ice, and churned-up dirt, the detritus of a magical battle. He also passed several trogs and militia members who were dead or unconscious. He’d hoped that by now, someone would be breaking into the building, but soldiers still guarded all the entrances and the roof. His heart sank.

  He spotted a female trog and a male militia member circling each other. The man was an ash eater, but his flames were coming in short spurts. He must be nearly out of fuel. Krey blew thick snow directly at the man’s hands, rendering his small amount of fire useless. The trog tackled the ash eater, and Krey held the man’s hands down while the woman rendered him unconscious with a swift kick to the head. Krey grimaced. That’s gonna hurt.

  Krey had feared he would panic during the battle. Instead, a strange calm flooded into his mind and body. He heard, saw, even smelled militia members as they were about to attack. Magic at the ready, he used his talents with greater efficiency than ever.

  He knocked out a male vine eater with a well-aimed ball of ice. A kick to the groin disabled a stone eater. Krey left the young man for a trog to take care of. When he saw a dirt eater with her hands to the ground, he flew in, grabbed the woman, and threw her at an ash eater. Both tumbled into the path of waiting trogs.

  Krey pivoted and saw that a young woman in gray was in the process of charging him. He couldn’t avoid her, but he did shift his weight. When she hit him, it was at an angle. He didn’t fall. She grabbed his wrist, and he pulled away. She must’ve realized she couldn’t win the fight, because she ran.

  But something felt different. It took Krey half a second to realize what it was. The soldier had taken the pouch of feathers he kept inside his coat sleeve. She must’ve seen it sticking out. He started to pursue her, but a large, young militia member stepped into his path.

  Krey didn’t allow himself to dwell on the loss of his fuel. He continued to fight like he’d never known he could do. Many militia members were fighting with only their bodies now, their magic spent. Even with his feathers gone, Krey still had plenty of magic in him. He hoarded it like a greedy tycoon, only shooting ice or taking to the air when it was absolutely necessary.

  Frequently, rocks rained down from above, dropped by dragons who had excellent eyesight and aim. A few errant rocks hit trogs, but generally, the dragons’ fly-by stonings seemed to help.

  Krey fought through the battleground, ending up on the opposite side of the building from where he’d started. His eyes landed on a young woman. Like all the militia members, she wore plain, gray clothes. They were tight, highlighting her short, hourglass figure. Her hair was in a ponytail, a wild cascade of glossy, black curls.

  Zeisha.

  She was turning around, evaluating her surroundings, looking for someone to attack. In the orange-gray light of early dawn, she looked more achingly beautiful than ever. Krey’s senses unhooked themselves from the world around him, honing in on her soft skin, shining with sweat and effort; her lips, parted to draw in breath; her—

  Someone hit him from behind with the force of a bag of bricks, knocking him down. His face hit the dirt. Teeth cut the inside of his mouth, and metallic blood coated his tongue.

  The taste of it brought Krey back to the battle. With a grunt of physical and magical effort, he pushed himself into the air, incorporating his attacker into his magic. As always, he felt an instant, shocking connection to the body now flying with him. It was a man, all corded muscles and well-trained limbs, smaller than Ovrun, but even stronger.

  The man didn’t panic or make noise as they rose into the air. He wrapped his legs around Krey’s waist, locking his ankles together. Krey shouted in pain as the militia member squeezed his strong thighs around Krey’s middle.

  One bulky arm circled Krey’s chest. A hand found Krey’s neck and squeezed.

  Unable to breathe, Krey halted his upward flight and flipped over, facing the sky. The quick movement jolted the man’s hand free, but his legs and other arm were still tight.

  Krey turned himself vertical. The man was trying to grasp his neck again, but Krey fought him off. The man’s thighs tightened further. Groaning, Krey flipped upside down and performed a harrowing corkscrew dive. As the ground approached, he again turned horizontal with his belly to the sky. Moving in jerking motions to detach his stubborn passenger, he spread one of his arms wide, pointed his palm behind him, and threw a block of ice, its edges blunt.

  The ice missed. He tried again. This time, he heard the thud of a hard solid meeting soft skin. The man’s grip loosened. Krey shot another block of ice. Again, it connected hard. Like someone had turned the man’s muscles into rolls of soft fabric, his arms and legs slipped off Krey.

  Krey flipped to face downward again, horrified to see the man tumbling through the dawn air. Catalyzing feathers like his well was limitless, Krey pursued him, pushing his speed to its limits. He positioned himself below the unconscious man, caught him a dozen mets from the ground, drew him back into his magic, and flew him to the top of a building, well outside the battle zone. Krey returned to the air, and a terrible truth struck him: in two minutes of panic, he’d used most of his flying fuel.

  He knew he should land and save his fuel, but now that he’d found Zeisha, rescuing her was all he could think of. If her magic was gone by now, he could overpower her. Can I even bring myself to do such a thing?

  Then he saw her below him. A vine ran from her hand to the throat of a young, male trog. The man was on the ground, limp. Zeisha pulled the vine even tighter.

  Don’t! Krey silently begged. Determined not to get distracted like he had before, he scanned the fighters on the ground. His eyes met the cold gaze of a militia member he recognized from earlier in the fight. Ash eater. Half a second later, a stream of orange fire pursued Krey. “Damn it!” he shouted, evading the attack.

  The ash eater turned his attention elsewhere, and Krey again found Zeisha. He flew back towards her, but his feather magic was fizzling out.

  He dropped lower, flying a met or so above the heads of those fighting below, hoping to avoid the attention of the ash eater, who appeared to be one of the few militia members who still had magic.

  Krey dipped low enough that his toe nudged someone’s head. With effort, he brought himself back up, but it was no use. His magic would be completely gone in seconds. A curse exited his mouth as he made a quick landing.

  Krey pushed past fighting trogs and mind-controlled soldiers, trying to reach Zeisha. She was sev
eral mets away, her vine still taut around her victim’s neck. A young, male trog was charging toward her. Krey ran, determined to get to Zeisha first.

  His toe tangled in a vine at his feet. He fell hard but felt no pain. Scrambling up, he watched with horror as the trog approached Zeisha.

  “You kill my husband!” the trog screamed. Then he was on top of Zeisha, whose vine at last broke free from her hand, though its other end was still attached to the prone man. The trog attacking Zeisha wasn’t big, but he was fueled by grief. He easily overcame the thrashing young vine eater beneath him. He grabbed her throat and squeezed.

  Krey sprinted toward them, but two women, grappling viciously, entered his path. He clambered past the fighting women. Two balls of ice left Krey’s hands, slamming into the head of Zeisha’s attacker. The trog tumbled off her.

  Zeisha leapt to her feet and turned toward Krey. Her eyes, so beautiful yet so lacking in vitality, met his. Before he reached her, her hand snapped up. A vine shot out, wrapping tight around his neck.

  Once again, he couldn’t breathe. Eyes bulging, he grasped the vine, but it was too thick to break. He sent balls of ice toward his beloved’s legs, but she didn’t even flinch when the cold weapons slammed into her knees. Then Krey couldn’t even use his ice magic anymore. All his body could do was attempt to draw air into his starved lungs. Blackness crept into his vision. No, it can’t end like this!

  Suddenly, the vine loosened. It fell to the ground at the same time Krey did. His knees and one hand struck the dirt hard. His other hand grasped his neck. He gasped and coughed violently. When a bit of his reasoning returned, he looked up to see what had happened to Zeisha.

  Someone was standing between him and the girl he loved. His eyes traveled past expensive boots; up long legs clad in tight, gray pants; to a long dagger in a sheath at her waist. At last, his gaze landed on her face. She had sharp, beautiful features; smooth, brown skin that spoke of an age no older than his; and long, straight hair.