Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 46–Into the Moonlight

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Britta startled awake at the sound of Katun’s voice, the muted light of early dusk playing tricks with her vision. The world swam before her eyes, exhaustion making even simple thoughts feel like wading through mud.

“Your majesty,” he repeated, concern etched deep in his face. “You almost fell out of the saddle.”

“Oh,” she mumbled, struggling to purge the fog from her mind. “Did I?”

He studied her a moment longer as clarity slowly returned. With deliberate care, he handed her a sealed note bearing Governor Harald’s mark. The parchment felt rough beneath her trembling fingers as she broke the seal.

Landros is in danger. The forces of Cazidor are on our doorstep. Come quickly.

Signed: Governor Harald.

“Shades…” The word escaped her lips as the room seemed to tilt. Her head felt light, disconnected from her body.

“What is it?” Katun asked, his voice seeming to come from far away.

Her hands shook as she passed him the note. To the north, beyond the enemy lines, Keihl stood silent against the darkening sky. Watchfires flickered on its towers like dying stars, each one representing lives she’d been forced to abandon. Every decision closed a door, some leading to success, others to failure. But which was which? Another impossible choice between terrible alternatives. “Come,” she said, straightening in her saddle. “We have much to do.”

* * *

Night settled over the battlefield like a funeral shroud. In the pale moonlight, the dead stared sightlessly at the star-strewn sky while the wounded called out in increasingly desperate voices, their cries becoming weaker as the hours passed. Cold mountain air crept across the field like a predator, forcing the Drachnorian warriors to huddle around their fires for warmth.

The Nagun gathered in feral clusters, growling and snarling at each other like wolves before a hunt. Behind them stood the Shaitan, their black robes seeming to drink in what little light remained. They stared southward, silent sentinels whose gloved hands never strayed far from their sword hilts, ensuring fear remained as constant as the night air. Beyond them, a line of fires marked the Bretagnian position, their light spilling out to illuminate lone sentries who stared back through the darkness.

Banoch dozed in his saddle, exhaustion from the day’s combat finally claiming him. His fragmentary dreams carried him back to the flowing grasslands of his homeland, far beyond the Black Shadow. The moon climbed higher as the night deepened, casting its pale gloom across the field of death. The Nagun howled in approval—a full moon meant a good night for killing. Among the Drachnorian ranks, sleep came in fits and starts as men tried to recover the strength and nerve for the coming assault.

Finally, a horn call pierced the darkness as the moon reached its zenith, followed by others rippling through the night like stones cast into a dark pool. Man and beast rose as one, taking up their arms. The Shaitan drew their Mordblades, the translucent weapons gleaming with an unnatural light that seemed to mock the moon above. Fear spilled from them like water from a broken dam, washing over Nagun and Drachnorian, raising hair and chilling blood.

With a warbling cry that spoke more of beast than man, the Nagun charged forward, the Drachnorians close behind. The Shaitan glided in their wake, their presence sending waves of terror rippling outward. But they pulled up short as the first ranks passed the sentry fires. All around them lay abandoned bedrolls, torn clothing, discarded bandages, and broken weapons—but no army.

To the south, beyond the Fox River, a glow began to build. All eyes turned toward it as a massive pyre rose toward the heavens, its light reflecting off the water like a second moon. A few Drachnorian horsemen raced toward the river but were forced back by the intense heat of the burning bridge.

Banoch rode up just as the first massive beams fell into the river. Steam rose in great clouds as water met red-hot coals, the hiss of their meeting like the laughter of demons. Freed from their moorings, bridge planks drifted away downstream while the remainder of the structure continued to burn, a beacon of their failure. In the distance, a line of torches marked the Bretagne army’s retreat into the darkness.

With a curse, Banoch spat into the river. Victory had slipped through their fingers like smoke, leaving only ashes and the bitter taste of defeat. Above them, the moon continued its uncaring journey across the sky, illuminating a battlefield where only the dead remained to keep their watch.