Page 84 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

The venomous black mist rises, waist deep now, and with it, thousands of corpses in various stages of decay. Where the wasteland before was silent, screeches akin to protests, like metal grinding on metal, now fall from the lips of the dead. Myla wonders if it is the souls—something she thought died when a body did—begging to be released from their oaths.

The sensation is slow and slithering, like a snake creeping in to leak its poison into her veins. “He is here,” Myla says forebodingly, her muscles tensing. Judging by the sweat pooling on Bryar’s forehead, he can feel it too. A light from beneath the neck of his breastplate pulses, the amulet seeming to already be at full capacity, pulling energy from her to revitalize him. She feels weak and sick, and the battle has yet to begin. Pressing her hands to her rounded belly, she whispers a silent prayer to the Spirit Mother, visualizing her child grown and healthy and strong.

“How did you carry this for so long?” Bryar asks, through gritted teeth as they press their backs together, eyes vigilantly scanning and waiting for Vesperian to show himself and release his army upon them.

“It was not always like this.” Her eyes frantically dart from soldier to soldier, ensuring those she can see appear focused and ready. They stand shoulder to shoulder, most remarkably still and alert, though some wear a childlike fear in their eyes. Fear for things they have never seen before, things they did not believe existed. The heaving of decomposing corpses from the earth, begging to crawl over one another, is a sight none should witness, not in a nightmare and certainly not in reality. “Bryar,” she nearly whimpers over her shoulder, amazed by his composure. “I am scared.”

A hand grasps hers and squeezes tight. “Me, too,” he answers. “Remember, ‘nothing will scare you more than what you do not know. So, pretend you know it, until you are not scared anymore’,” Quoting his father, Bryar swings violently as a premature corpse lunges from the ground toward him, cutting it down.

“What kind of black magic is this?” Rhyland hisses, dodging from the front line as another corpse plummets toward him. “And why me?” He shudders as Callum’s blade buries itself in the back of its skull.

“Because you have the most meat on you,” Callum jokes, yanking on the back of Rhyland’s man-bun. “You would be a feast for like five of them.”

“It is muscle, Gods-dammit.” Rhyland defends, winding up with an anxious shrug of his shoulders, before finishing the corpse off with a swing to the neck. Soldiers on either side of Callum and Rhyland also swing their blades, a few laughing at how easily they fall. A deep voice behind her suggests that, should all the corpses succumb so easily, this battle will be over in a half hour.

Bryar chuckles in response, shaking his head, and Myla marvels at how these men are cracking jokes right before mass slaughtering occurs. It must be a soldier thing.

Now in full standing positions with eyes of hollow black, Vesperian’s animated army forms rows before them, swaying slightly, their bodies humming that sad song. Glowing beneath the surface of their chests, orbs bob, trying to free themselves. Their souls are begging to be freed . . . their bodies betray them, even in death. It is disturbing, and Myla can feel not only herself, but those around her grow anxious, awaiting the storm.

“Is it not beautiful?” Vesperian’s voice echoes. Heads turn as those surrounding her look for the Blood Stealer’s location, to no avail. He does not materialize yet, Myla realizes, listening to his voice channel through the mouths of his army, a few at a time to disorient them from his true location. “My army is loyal, even in death.” He continues, his voice, soft as honey, dripping like poison into the ears of any who will listen. He feeds off their fears—as the trembling of the army grows, so does the power of his voice.

“You leave me jilted . . . unsatisfied . . . then have the audacity to challenge me, on my doorstep? I will have retribution.”

Wasting no time, Myla reaches within, drawing from every power reserve she can tap into to call on her magic. As it has done so many times before, but never in such a time of need, particles of light are sucked from the atmosphere, summoning midnight so her body can refract the stars. Her flash of light is the only battle cry necessary. In an instant, a violent clattering of weapon against bone, and the cracking and spraying of blood begins. Dead claw their way over those slower than themselves to bury their rusted weapons in the flesh of the living, screams of fear and pain erupting all around.

Myla is seized almost instantly, a creature behind her grabbing at her shoulders in an effort to pull her down. She spins on her heel, drawing from her waist a large broad sword. Her fingers tighten around the hilt as it swings, coming into contact with the skull of her attacker before the poor soul has time to lunge her way.

A swarm of bodies close in around her; some still look alive. Myla concludes these beings have been dead only a day or so. Ashen, but not yet shredded fibers of skin, tendons, and bone. A corpse with stringy red hair, matted in mud and covering most of the face, stumbles toward her at an alarmingly quick rate. Its blade swings overhead, lowering violently upon hers as she parries the blow.

A piercing, forlorn cry disrupts the already chaotic battlefield. Howls. Followed shortly by the agonizing scream of a soldier, who is quickly relieved of his jugular. Myla flinches, spinning around as a hungry snarl sounds somewhere behind her. A wolf prowls near, hunched and ready to leap. Its haunches are raised and it sways with the heat waves launching off the bodies of catapulting Ashborn. Just as it moves to hurdle into her, a blast of red flame pounds the earth where the creature stands, engulfing it in a personal hell. The wolf yelps and cries in pain, before silencing entirely.

Though Myla can not see Vesperian, she can feel him. As she fells corpse after corpse, her body feels shaky and weak. He sucks the energy from her, while she weakens herself further by fighting his army.

To her left, Bryar’s arms expand, gauntlets of fire traveling up them, while wings unfurl from his back. He takes flight. The blast of heat from his body shrivels weaker corpses, they furl to the ground like dead plants. Their space on the battlefield is quickly replaced as living soldiers from Vesperian’s army spill forth, following the impulses of their master to slaughter and destroy. Though their eyes seem lifeless, their bodies are very much alive, proving a more difficult foe to kill than the hunks of animated flesh rising from the earth.

It feels as though she has slain a hundred living dead when Myla finally sets her sight on Vesperian. His voice stabilizes into one cohesive stream, the body of its owner spat out of the mist, disillusioned at first, before taking on his true form within the circle of defense formed around Myla.

“This is adorable,” Vesperian laughs, watching with delight as those around him, Myla included, scatter in any direction that is away from him, startled by his sudden appearance.

As he takes his place on the smoldering battlefield before her, she realizes he has warped from the handsome villain who infiltrated her palace all those months ago.

Before her stands the true form of the Blood Stealer: a grotesque figure who wears the shadows of his victims and an ancient, malicious need to fulfill prophecy. His form is twisted and hunched, his skin ashen and pallid, stretched taut over sinewy muscles that ripple with unnatural strength. His eyes empty and soulless, twin voids that devour the light from around them, leaving only a cold, chilling darkness in their wake.

The time has come. Every moment in the last three years, which Myla has feared and pondered and made herself small to avoid, has led up to this: an unavoidable moment, one in which she is certain she will die, trying to reclaim all the pieces of herself which he has stolen from her. Or perhaps, it is the pieces her father and Caius stole from her. Or the pieces the members of her Council stole every time they looked upon her with doubt. Whatever pieces she hopes to reclaim, she knows they will be found on this battlefield. She will take them back for herself, or she will die for them. But she will not leave this place without them.

Her magic tenses within her, ready to be loosed. A primal, otherworldly scream reverberates through the air, like a thunderclap, and Myla unleashes a wave of energy that deafens both soldiers and Blood Stealer alike. All around her, soldiers collapse, grasping their heads in pain. The ground shakes beneath their feet, sending them stumbling and disoriented, while the winds howl and whip around them with an almost sentient malevolence. Several shield wielders loose their magic, hazy purple buffers shielding their comrades from her inferno of rage. It is not just her own energy she conjures, but the Gods’

AS THE BLOOD Stealer reels from the force of Myla’s scream, Bryar spirals downward, a haze of ash and smoke trailing behind him, his body plummeting into Vesperian in a tangle of muscle and magic. The Fae God and the captain grapple at one another, each clawing for a stronger bearing on the other. Bryar no longer wields fire magic alone; there is something more to it. A rage, a force, a power which can only be seen as a gift directly from the Gods. It is her magic pulsing through him. Two more Ashborn warriors follow suit behind him, slamming their bodies into Vesperian as he lies sprawled on the ground.

“Archers!” the Blood Stealer screams angrily. His command sends sizzling black arrows into the sky, dozens of them landing with sickening thunks into the soaring bodies of the Ashborn above. The winged people nosedive to the ground, their lifeless bodies joining the thousands beneath them.

Bryar extends flexed arms, sending another volley of searing flames to lick at Vesperian’s shadowy form, and Myla lunges in his direction, taking advantage of his turned back, a second too late.

From the Blood Stealer’s palms, his razor-sharp wraith explodes, a screaming carried with it, replaying the agony of its recent victims and waging terror on the army around it. The black creature bobs and weaves through limbs of fighting soldiers, dodging some entirely, while cutting and killing others, before it lodges itself like a weighted punch, right into her middle, sending her sprawling, and the child within her kicking in defiance.

“Myla!” Callum screams, pulling Rhyland to his feet from an assault, before they both rush to her side.

“I do not want to kill you,” Vesperian hisses, striding toward her with confidence. “You could bring me so much power. Submitting is still an option.”