Vish kazir. Vish kazir.
He’d never heard the words before and didn’t know the tongue. But Zak didn’t have time to try to work out what it might mean.
All three of them were lurching towards him.
2
MYRIAN
It was a beautiful day for a picnic.
Myrian slid down off Gisella’s back, her feet landing in the swaying yellow grass. She stroked the gazelle’s neck as she looked back the way they had come across the gently-sloping plains. She could see the marble walls and towers of Moonglow castle, so small from this far away.
Perhaps they’d ridden out too far, but it was such a wonderful afternoon. The sun was high in the cloudless sky, a cool breeze blowing in from the south. It was perfect.
Gisella was panting heavily, though. Her eyes looked weary from under her long, elegant lashes. The sun glinted off her spiral horns. They’d grown up together as little girls, and Myrian had always ridden her. Perhaps now that they were both in their eighteenth year, Myrian might be too big for such things. After all, Gisella was also carrying the saddlebags with the blankets, food, and wine. But she’d never complained.
Myrian patted her on the neck. “Shall we prepare everything?” she asked. Though by “we”, she actually just meant Gisella. Myrian was a princess. She couldn’t be bothered with menial tasks.
The gazelle nodded and took a deep breath. Then its spiral horns disappeared like melting candlesticks, her slender snout flattening, her body taking on the form of a young woman. The saddlebags slid off her back onto the hay-colored grass, and Gisella stood up naked on two legs.
She was pretty in human form as well, though Myrian had always thought the gazelle was more beautiful. Her hair was a sandy blonde, her eyes a dark green. She covered her small breasts with crossed arms as she knelt by the saddlebags to retrieve her clothes. She pulled on a white smock, then looked up at Myrian with what almost seemed a sullen expression. But that couldn’t be. Gisella was a loyal servant as well as a life-long friend. Just as soon as the look appeared on her face, it seemed to vanish.
“What a wonderful day,” Myrian said. “Is it not?”
Gisella pulled a cornflower blue blanket from the saddlebag and began to spread it on the ground.
“It truly is, your highness,” Gisella said, still trying to catch her breath from the long ride. But her high, sweet voice sounded as if it might contain a tinge of sarcasm.
“Is something amiss?” Myrian asked, feeling foolish at once for asking the question.
“Of course not, your highness,” Gisella answered. Don’t be silly, she seemed to be saying. But there it was again, some dark trace along the edges of her voice.
Myrian ignored it, taking a deep breath as she looked out across the plains.
What could be wrong on such a day as this? She had been betrothed to Karth Wildfire, patriarch of the red dragons. The idea had frightened and repulsed her. He was supposedly a fierce warrior and a great leader, but Myrian hadn’t wanted to move across Xandakar to the hot desert to share a bed with a dark-haired beast. She was happy here in the Still Plains. She loved her life and wanted for nothing.
And the gods had apparently listened to her wishes. Karth had died, murdered by one of his sons. The other had stepped up to the throne, and normally Myrian would be bound to fulfill her duty and marry him. But he had fallen in love and taken another. She had thought the rumors nothing more than mad ravings. But as more and more travelers carried the same story, it became clear that the ridiculous tales were actually true. Kal Wildfire had taken a rabbit as his queen.
As silly as it sounded, it suited Myrian just fine. Perhaps the owls would force her into another union at some point. Until then, she would go on enjoying her afternoon teas, her luxurious baths, and whatever else she fancied on any given day. Such as this picnic.
She turned to see Gisella laying out the crumbling hunks of cheese on a fine, gold-rimmed plate. They probably hadn’t needed to bring the nicer dishes out here, and her mother would likely be displeased. But why bother with a picnic unless you were going to make everything just right?
She lifted the hem of her silver-laced gown and knelt on the blanket. Besides the cheese, there was a small bottle of wine, white and red grapes, and two hunks of bread, dark and white.
“Oh no,” Myrian said, looking at the wine.
“What is it, your highness?” Gisella said, but her voice didn’t seem nearly as concerned as it should be.
“Did we bring a screw to uncork the wine?” She used the word “we” again, though it was Gisella who had been solely responsible for packing everything. And she was the one who would be blamed if they could not enjoy the wine with their picnic. Myrian would have to scold her, but be sure to pay her a compliment at some point later in the day to balance things out.
But Gisella simply got back up and walked to the saddlebags, digging around and holding up the shiny silver corkscrew by its wooden handle.
“Oh, thank the gods,” Myrian said, sighing.
“Yes,” Gisella said. “The gods are merciful.” Was that sarcasm yet again? Perhaps she should have a stern talk with her maidservant anyway. They were friends, but she seemed to be forgetting her place.
Myrian studied her as she returned to the blanket and uncorked the wine. Gisella carefully unwrapped a glass from a soft bundle of cotton cloth and poured it full of wine, offering it to Myrian.
She paused, eyeing Gisella for a few moments before taking the glass. Gisella certainly seemed to have something on her mind. Maybe she’d gotten a pebble caught in her hoof on the ride here. No matter what it was, Myrian wasn’t going to let her spoil such a fine afternoon.
She plucked a cube of cheese from the tiny pyramid Gisella had assembled on the plate and popped it into her mouth. It was tart and creamy, a delicious singular bite. She followed it up with a sip of wine, a fine vintage from deep in the Moonglow cellars.
“Gisella?” she said, meaning to give her that compliment now. Perhaps be gracious enough to thank her for putting this all together and bringing them out here, even though there really was no need to ever thank a servant. Perhaps she would just tell her she looked particularly pretty today, though that wasn’t quite true. Gisella had looked prettier on most other occasions. Today she just looked tired and strained.
But Myrian didn’t get a chance to say anything. As she opened her mouth, the sky began to darken. She tilted her head to look up at the sun, noticing Gisella do the same.
She raised her hand to shield her eyes, squinting at the sun. There she saw the strangest thing. Black tendrils crept along its edge, as if some god were pouring a cup of blackest ink around it. As she watched, the darkness swirled in to the center, blotting out all light.
“What is happening?” she asked, not really expecting an answer. This did not seem like a natural event. Was it some dark sorcery at work?
Her questions seemed to be answered as she lowered her head to look at Gisella. The girl’s eyes were black as pitch, her mouth agape. Her head tilted down as well, her oily black eyes seeming to look not at Myrian, but into her. But how could that be? How could she see anything at all?
Then Gisella smiled, a grisly rictus stretching the lower half of her face. She looked hideous. Myrian was terrified. She wanted to get up, to run across the field, which had turned from a beautiful day to a deep, dark night. But she was transfixed with fear.
Then Gisella opened her mouth, spittle running from one corner. Her voice sounded gargled, deep, and disturbing, as if she had just swallowed bits of glass, her throat filled with fresh blood.
“I no longer serve you,” Gisella said. “I have a new master now.”
What was she talking about? And gods, that voice. Myrian didn’t know what was worse, those shiny black eyes or that gurgling voice. But what Gisella did next was more horrible than both.
The girl picked up the corkscrew she had just used on the bottle of wine. She looked down at the curling steel as if st
udying an insect.
“No,” Myrian said. It was all she could manage. She couldn’t move, and she felt as if her throat had tightened to a pinhole. “Please.” This was barely more than a whisper. She felt her eyes hot with tears. She’d never been so frightened in her life.
Gisella looked at her, smiling that awful smile, and lunged. She knocked Myrian onto her back, pinning her. Now Myrian found she couldn’t breathe at all. She felt the blood rush into her face, tears streaming down either side of her face.
Gisella raised the corkscrew, and in that instant Myrian realized she meant to put it through her eye. She jerked her head to the side as the screw came down. She felt a sharp pang in her right ear and heard the dull thunk of the screw jamming into the earth beside her head.
This was madness, plain and simple. She had no idea what was going on, but she was going to put a stop to it immediately. She was dragonborn, the eldest daughter of Marron and Sideena Moonglow. She would not die today, and certainly not like this.
Myrian closed her eyes and tried to concentrate, tried to transform. But these days she rarely took dragonform. There was simply no need. She did not fight, and there was nowhere she needed to fly. She wished more than ever at the moment that she had listened to her mother and practiced shifting, flying, and everything that went with being a white dragon.
Myrian opened her eyes. She could not breathe. She could not shift. And if she didn’t do something soon, she really was going to die here, on a picnic blanket in the open plains, at the hands of her maidservant, gone mad with some black sorcery that had turned day into night.
Gisella hissed and pulled the corkscrew up, bringing a plug of earth and grass along with it. She grabbed it with both hands now, meaning to plunge it straight into Myrian’s face.
Myrian closed her eyes one more time. She only had one chance. Her chest burned with lack of breath. Her heartbeat pounded at her temples. And her ear screamed with pain.
But she felt herself begin to grow. Gisella was bringing the screw down a second time when she began to fall to the side, the metal slicing through empty air. Gisella was pitched onto the grass as Myrian doubled in size, the white armor beneath her gown melding with her skin to become scales.
She rolled over on her stomach to complete the transformation, her legs and arms stretching out and growing claws where there had been hands and feet.
She heard the sound of her gown ripping as she grew. Normally that would have made her sad. She had loved that gown. But at this point she no longer cared. Finally she could breathe, and she sucked the air in greedily.
Her neck grew long and slender, white fins emerging along its length. She felt her face grow outward, her mouth filling with long, sharp teeth.
Once her dragonform was complete, she looked down at Gisella, lying there on her back. She seemed so small now, but there was no fear in those solid black eyes.
Gisella sprang to her feet, the corkscrew still in hand, and charged at Myrian’s front leg. She’s completely mad, Myrian thought, as if all the events leading up to that point hadn’t been evidence enough. Gisella jammed the corkscrew into the scales of her leg. She felt nothing as the metal snapped from the wooden handle.
Gisella screamed, a hideous, raging gargle. Myrian could kill her where she stood. She’d never taken another life, but if she had thought for an instant that Gisella were responsible for these acts of lunacy, then she would have been wholly justified.
Instead, she raised up on her hind legs, unfurling her white wings. She flapped them once, then twice, and took to the air. She would leave Gisella here, until whatever madness had taken hold of her let go, most likely when the sun returned to its normal state.
Until then, she would fly back to Moonglow Castle. If anyone would know what was causing all this, Delwyn would. The owl was her father's trusted advisor and a powerful mage. Perhaps he could undo whatever spell had been cast upon poor Gisella.
She flapped her wings, rising up above the plains. Gisella grew even smaller below, but she was looking up, still screaming strangled yells of murderous rage. The air felt cold on Myrian's wings. With the sun obscured, the day had gone from bright and cool to dark and cold.
Myrian turned and beat her wings, heading for the castle, heading for home. As she flew, she heard strange noises and looked below her to see a great herd of bison in the darkness. Her dragon eyes were very keen, even at a distance and in the dark, and she watched as the beasts rammed into one another, biting and thrashing with their hooves. The entire herd was tearing itself apart. Already she could see broken bodies lying in the bloody grass.
Even the creatures have gone mad, she thought. As if to confirm this observation, she raised her head to see a flock of crows fluttering madly towards her. She shut her eyes and felt the birds pelting against her face, their tiny beaks pecking ineffectively. She shook her head and the crows dispersed momentarily. But as she opened her eyes, she saw them regrouping to attack again.
This time as they flew at her, she opened her great jaws. At least half a dozen birds flew into her mouth as she crunched down. Both the feel and taste of it was disgusting, as their tiny bones splintered in her mouth, blood squirting from between her teeth.
She turned her head to spit, but the feathers stuck in and between her teeth. And the birds that remained were undeterred, swooping and pecking at her as if they meant to kill her.
Will the madness not end? she thought. Could she not even get a moment’s peace to gather her wits?
Myrian whipped her head violently back and forth, which only served to make the crows flutter and regather for another attack.
That’s it, she thought, pulling up and taking a deep breath. Then she did something she could never remember ever doing before. She roared.
The sound that bellowed up from inside her and unleashed itself into the cloud of crows surprised her. Black feathers shook loose from many of the birds, and the shock of her roar was enough to override their madness. They scattered in different directions, finally leaving her in peace.
Thank the gods, she thought, resuming her flight towards the castle. Nearly there, she glanced up at the sun. Or rather, where the sun had been. Now there was only a black disk hanging in the sky. Not even the faintest light shown from around its edges.
This is bad, she thought. But someone in the castle would know what to do. Her father. Delwyn. Somebody.
But her heart sank as she drew close to the great white walls and slender spires of Moonglow Castle. For she heard the sounds of chaos and fighting.
Something within her knew what she would find even before she reached home. She had hoped that only Gisella had been stricken. But after the bison and the crows, she should have guessed that no one had been spared.
But that wasn’t true, was it? She was spared. The madness, wherever it had come from, had for some reason not infected her mind.
The denizens of Moonglow Castle, at least those she could see below, were not so lucky.
Just as with the bison, she saw throngs of people, guards and nobles, clawing at each other with bare hands. They were tearing each other apart, and even from up this high she could see that all their eyes were inky black.
She searched the screaming, fighting crowds for the faces of her family. There were many people she recognized, though they were now bloodied and bruised. But she could not see her sisters, her mother, or her father.
Myrian thought to land, but as soon as the idea entered her mind she found it ridiculous. They would attack her, and though she was in dragonform, what good would it do? She could not very well search the castle as a dragon. And the moment she took human form she would be torn to pieces.
She circled around the west tower, fearing for her family, considering what her next move might be, when the decision was made for her.
She heard the pull of bow strings even before she saw the archers lined up along the wall as she came around the tower. There were at least a dozen, their black eyes all fixed upon her as i
f some otherworldly force was controlling them.
No one gave the order, at least that she could hear. Nevertheless, they all unleashed their arrows in perfect unison, and then she heard the deadly whistles of the shafts as they flew towards her.
3
ZAK
He backed up to the end of the dock where the boat was tied. His brother, his father, and the giant woman all came at him, arms outstretched, eyes black.
Muggs was in front. Of course he was. He had a look of twisted hatred on his face unlike anything Zak had ever seen. In the past he had treated Zak roughly. He’d been punched, slapped, kicked, and pinched. But somehow, even with the eyes completely blacked out, Zak now saw murder in them.
The outstretched fingertips of his brother were only a few feet away, and Zak had no doubt that if those fingers reached him, they would choke his life away. The others would help finish the job. He knew there was no point in trying to talk to them. They were no longer the people they had been only a few moments ago, before the sun was blotted out of the sky.
Except in some way, Muggs was actually more like himself than he’d ever been. Even though Muggs appeared to be in thrall to some sort of dark magic, he also seemed to have been freed to feel what he really felt about Zak. All the hatred was now bubbled up and amplified.
Zak glanced over his shoulder at the boat, not bothering to climb down gently. There wasn’t time. He jumped into the flat bed, nearly losing his balance as the boat rocked from the force. He clawed at the rope binding the boat to the docks, getting it loose just as Muggs grabbed his wrist.
Those tar-black eyes were only a couple of feet away from Zak’s. The fingers cinched around his wrist like a vice. Muggs opened his mouth, his breath sour and rotten as he spoke.
“Serve or die,” he said. Even on the best of days, his breath smelled bad. But now it was as if something had died inside his gut. The stench of rot made Zak’s stomach lurch.
The boat was free, but he was not, still held fast by whatever his brother had turned into. Zak tried to wrench his arm out of his brother’s grasp, but he might as well have been clasped in irons.
Dragon Black, Dragon White Page 2
