Dragon Black, Dragon White Read online

  Dragon Black, Dragon White: Darkest Day, Brightest Night

  The Dragonlords of Xandakar, Book 4

  by Macy Babineaux

  Copyright © 2017 Macy Babineaux. All Rights Reserved.

  Foreword

  Hello, Dear Readers! You are holding a copy of Dragon Black, Dragon White: Darkest Day, Brightest Night. This is the fourth installment in the Dragonlords of Xandakar series. This volume is a ramp-up to the final book. While I introduce two new characters, Zak and Myrian, I also bring back nearly all the main characters from the first three books. So while the first three stood reasonably well on their own, you'll probably want to make sure you've read them before reading this one.

  Also, if you're not already a subscriber, please consider clicking here to sign up for my newsletter. Newsletter subscribers will receive an exclusive copy of my novella "Switch and Bait".

  Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy Dragon Black, Dragon White: Darkest Day, Brightest Night.

  Macy Babineaux

  January 18th, 2017

  1

  ZAK

  Of all the days he lived, until he took his very last breath, he would remember that day more than any other.

  That was the day the sun went black.

  That was the day everyone he had ever known went mad and tried to murder him.

  But for all the evil that day held and all the horrors he saw, those were not the reasons he would remember it above all others. Because it was also the day he met her.

  Zak felt a hard sting on the back of his head.

  “Dat way, boy,” his father said, pointing a dark, chipped fingernail through the swamp. “Dat way. Pull ya head out ya ass and mind dat pole.”

  His brother Muggs giggled as his father stomped up to the prow of the flat-bottomed boat. As he passed, his father smacked Muggs across the side of the head as well.

  “You shut ya damn mouth and watch them crabs,” his father said, taking his place at the front of the boat, propping one foot up on the edge as if he were some general leading an armada to war.

  In fact, just the three of them rode in the beat-up boat, not much more than a raft with curved sides. Zak stood at the back, pushing the long wooden pole to propel them forward. Muggs sat on the floor of the craft among the six bags of pilfered crabs, their dark, blue-tinted legs wriggling helplessly through the netting of the sacks. And his father, Mogan, now stood at the front, peering up ahead through the moss hanging from the cypress trees.

  Zak rubbed the back of his head where his father had struck him. He thought he would be used to it by now. He was in his nineteenth year as a member of the Mossknot family, though he didn’t feel like one of them at all. He still wasn’t sure which was worse, his father’s gnarled fists or the sneers and laughter of his siblings.

  Muggs pouted and glared at him from where he sat cross-legged in a puddle in the bottom of the boat. No doubt he blamed Zak for being hit. He was two years older, and as far as Zak could remember, Muggs had blamed him for everything.

  The Mossknots lived in a ramshackle house, probably abandoned by its true owners. And there were many mouths to feed. There were nearly too many to count.

  Zak pulled the wet staff out of the water, jammed the butt against the roots of a nearby cypress, and pushed in the direction his father had pointed. As he did, he recounted the names of his brothers and sisters. There was Mika, Moll, Manda, and Musky. There were the little twins, Marti and Morti. And there was Merribell, only five years old, but sweeter than all the rest put together.

  All those mouths were difficult to feed, especially when Pa Mogan didn’t ply a proper trade or know how to grow more than mildew on the sides of the house. No, everything the Mossknots ate, wore,and owned was either stolen or scavenged, including the crabs sitting in the bottom of the flatbed boat.

  “Psst,” Muggs hissed at him. Zak looked down as he pushed the boat forward. Muggs had plucked one of the crabs out of its bag, its claws pinching helplessly at the air.

  “Hey, scabby,” Muggs whispered. That was what the other kids called Zak. Every summer for as long as he could remember, his skin would begin to grow scaly and dark. His brothers and sisters, egged on by Muggs, would laugh and sneer. Every time it happened, his mother would make him a hot bath and scrub him until the scaly black scabs sloughed off him like a second skin. Ma Nan would then tell one of the other kids to fish the black skin out with a stick and toss it outside in the swamp. The kids would always fight over who would have to carry out this disgusting task, and the loser would invariably make a show out of disposing of the skin, waving it around on the end of the stick and taunting the other children with the threat of being touched by it. Eventually they would either tire of the game, or Nan would yell at them to stop and toss it out. And the whole while, Zak would sit in the hot water, his arms wrapped around his knees, his skin raw and pink, blushing with the shame of it all.

  He blushed now, not from shame, but anger. Scabby. He hated the nickname, but more than that, he hated how different he was from everyone else in his family. Each and every one of them, from Pa Mogan down to little Merribell, had short, compact bodies and brown hair. But Zak was taller than all of them, standing a full head above his father. And his hair was as black as the pools of oil that sometimes bubbled up from beneath the swamp.

  But the biggest difference of all, the thing that he hated the most, was that he could not shift. Even before they learned to walk, each Mossknot in the family could change their form, growing out fur the color of their hair, a long pink tail, and huge front teeth. The Mossknots were swamp rats. When he was younger, Zak would sit for hours, eyes clenched, imagining himself changing into a rat. But no matter how hard he tried, he could never sprout fur and shrink into a rat. After more attempts than he could count, he had simply given up.

  “Scabby,” Muggs whispered, glancing over his shoulder to make sure their Pa wasn’t watching. Then he reached down and grabbed one of the crabs claws and yanked it off. A slew of black-green juice spilled from the end of its broken limb, and the crabs other claw and legs began to wriggle frantically.

  Muggs smiled silently and tossed the claw over the side of the boat where it landed in the water with a plop. Pa didn’t turn around. His attention was fixed on what lay ahead of them. Zak didn’t know where they were going. His Pa hadn’t said.

  As Zak watched, Muggs snatched the crab’s other claw off. Another squirt of dark juice sprayed from the crab. Instead of tossing the tiny limb overboard, Muggs used it to point at Zak as he squinted.

  I’m gonna get you, boy, that look said. I’m gonna get you later when Pa’s not around.

  It was a familiar dance, one that Zak had grown tired of. Every sleight, every bad thing, large or small, was blamed on Zak.

  Muggs jammed the clawless crab back through the netting of the bag.

  If whoever buys our stolen crabs complains about one with missing claws, Zak thought, I’ll no doubt get blamed for that as well.

  Zak was taller than his brother, but Muggs was much thicker than he was. And Muggs never came at him directly. It was always a low kick at the back of his legs when no one was looking, or a nasty poke with a stick when Zak was fast asleep.

  One day I’ll have enough of him, Zak thought. One day I’ll bloody his nose and send him crying. He’d been telling himself this pleasant fantasy for years now. The thinking of it made him feel better, though he knew he would not act on it. Perhaps his father would respect him more if he did stand up to Muggs, but the much more likely outcome was a beating and no supper for a week.

  “There,” his Pa said, thrusting his stubby finger up ahead. Zak squinted, finally seeing a structure taking shape. The sun was bright overhead, but the mos
sy trees blocked most of the light. He could see the outline of a building in the shadow, though, the back of some larger house, a small dock built along the side.

  Pa Mogan looked back at him and sneered. “Get the tar outta dat ass and get us up there,” he said. “We ain’t got all day.”

  Zak was pretty sure they didn’t have anything else planned after this, but he would soon be surprised to find out his father’s words were more prophetic than either of them realized. He thrust the pole down into the water as fast and hard as he could, though they weren’t near any trees now and the sludgy muck under the water sucked at the pole. And when he pushed against the mud, it gave more than it resisted, making for slow going.

  They had another pole tucked under the inside lip of the boat, but despite his impatience, his father didn’t lift a finger. Nor did he order Muggs to help. Pa Mogan simply snorted insults at Zak while Muggs looked on with smug satisfaction.

  As they drew closer, Zak could see both his brother and father raising their noses to sniff at the air. Zak’s sense of smell wasn’t nearly as good as theirs, but he took in a deep breath through his nose and was surprised at what he found. On top of the dank languid smells of the swamp, the moldy trees, the fetid water, and the hanging moss, his nose detected food.

  He smelled meat, though he did not know what kind. The Mossknots rarely ate meat. When they did, it was often stringy and old, boiled into a soup until it was gray and tasteless. There were spices on the wind as well, a heady mixture of alien scents that his brain simply recognized deep down as food, making his mouth water and his stomach rumble.

  The scents only got stronger as they drew closer, pulling up to the dock. Zak tied up the boat with a dirty rope. His pa jumped out and walked to where a huge brass bell hung from the rafters by a chain. He took up the small hammer on the wall and struck the bell.

  The clang echoed through the swamp, and Zak could feel the vibrations in his back teeth. Muggs, still sitting in the bottom of the boat, made a show of clamping his hands over his ears.

  “Ow!” he said. “Pa that’s too damn—”

  But his Pa interrupted by striking the bell again. Zak was pleased to see Muggs wince, but he also wouldn’t mind not hearing the bell rung again.

  A heavy wooden door swung open and out waddled the largest woman Zak had ever seen. She wore a great apron over her huge sagging breasts and belly. As she emerged, she was wiping her thick, meaty hands on the apron, which might once have been white, but was now a palette of grays, browns, and reds.

  Her wiry white hair was pulled back into a frayed bun, and her jowls were red from exertion. Her black eyes narrowed when she saw Mogan.

  “Got something for me?” she asked suspiciously, breathing heavily as she dropped the bottom of the apron, apparently done cleaning her hands. Zak thought those hands would never truly be clean, though. And they were bigger than any man’s he had ever seen.

  “Beulah,” Mogan said, putting on a smile and giving the woman a little bow. “How lovely to see you this fine day.”

  “Cut the shit,” she said, looking into the boat. “What did you steal this time?”

  Mogan assumed a mock look of hurt on his face. “I’ve stolen nothing,” he said. “My sons and I have spent the last two days risking the horrors of the Barren Bogs to bring you the finest crabs in the kingdom.”

  “Yeah,” Beulah said slowly. “Risky I bet. Crabbers around here are likely to cut you up for bait if they catch you poaching their traps.”

  “We didn’t steal any—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said, holding up a giant hand. “Save your ratty breath, Moggie.”

  Zak had never heard his father called this nickname before, and though he thought it was funny, he stopped himself before a snicker had a chance to come out.

  Beulah had crouched down on the dock over the boat, eyeing the squirming sacks of crabs.

  “I’ll buy them,” she said, sighing and standing up.

  “Splendid,” Mogan said.

  “But I’m only paying half what I’d pay a real crabber like Salty Pete or Auntie Jo.”

  “That’s outrageous,” Mogan said.

  “Nah,” she said. “These are probably one of their crabs anyhow. Get your boys to haul them into the kitchen and I’ll fetch my coin purse. Otherwise you can fuck off back the way you came.”

  Mogan didn’t look happy. Zak figured he probably hadn’t expected to get full price, but she was cutting him hard and he didn’t like it one bit. Zak could see his face twist as he considered haggling, knowing it wouldn’t do any good with this woman. They both knew each other too well.

  Finally he grunted, his face going slack with resignation. He nodded at Beulah, then at Zak and Muggs. “You heard the woman,” he said. “Move your asses.”

  Zak reached down to haul up a sack, careful not to get his fingers too close to any of the slowly-waving claws jutting from the netting. As he pulled the sack up onto the dock and dragged it passed the mountain of a woman, she smiled at him, revealing a mouth missing most of its teeth. The ones that remained were stained a mossy brown.

  “You probably stole this one as well,” she said, nodding at Zak. “If he’s your real son, I’m the queen of the black dragons.”

  Zak stopped to look at her. What did she mean by that? But then he felt the familiar blunt burst of pain on his butt as he was jolted forward. His Pa had booted him in the ass.

  “Quit your eyeballing,” he said. “Get them crabs inside.”

  With both his pride and his backside pulsing with hurt, Zak hurried inside with the bag. But he had the words of the giant woman to distract him from the pain. Of course part of him longed to discover that he wasn’t a Mossknot. And he was also so different from them all. On the other hand, he had no legitimate reason to believe that he wasn’t part of the family. Besides, they were all he had in this world.

  But someone other than himself had just spoken aloud his inner doubts, making them seem plausible by giving them form.

  If he’s your real son, I’m the queen of the black dragons.

  Your real son. But if he wasn’t Mogan Mossknot’s real son, whose son was he? The idea filled him with a weird kind of exhilaration. The thoughts were put on hold as he walked into a kitchen so massive that for a moment he wondered if he’d somehow entered the wrong door.

  Pots boiled on wood-burning stoves. Dozens of servants were busy feeding fires, chopping vegetables, plucking fowl, and—Zak gasped and dropped the sack as he saw a young man pull a huge pan with fresh bread out of a massive oven. The wave of the warm smell of freshly-cooked dough hit him in the face, and he thought he just might pass out. The loaves were a golden brown, steaming as they were carried to a nearby table and set down to cool. His stomach twisted as he imagined himself jamming the hot bread into his mouth.

  He stumbled forward as something hit him from behind. He turned to see Muggs, his head barely reaching above Zak’s shoulder. He was toting a bag of crabs and had slammed into Zak’s back.

  “Move it, scabby,” he said. “There’s more bags in the boat.”

  That was true, but it took nearly all of Zak’s willpower to keep from running through the kitchen like a madman, gorging on whatever delights he might find. He trudged back outside to see Beulah dropping silver coins into Mogan’s dirty palm.

  His Pa wore a meager grin until he turned and saw Zak standing on the dock.

  “What did I say about ogling, boy?” he said. “Do I need to use my belt on y—”

  But Mogan Mossknot never finished the thought. In fact, those would be the last articulate words he would ever utter. For as the last of the coins clinked on top of the others in his palm, the sunlight began to fade.

  At first he thought it was a cloud passing overhead, blocking the sun. But when he squinted up at a gap through the trees, he saw the full circle, blackness oozing and swirling from the edges inward. He knew of eclipses, though he had never seen one. And this was his second thought, that he was witnessing
his first eclipse.

  But from what he knew, such a thing involved a dark disk gliding across the face of the sun to obscure it. This was something entirely different, as if the sun were being coated with tar from the outside to the center.

  He had also been warned that an eclipse could burn one’s eyes blind. He didn’t think this was an eclipse, but he also thought it would be a bad idea to stare at the sun too long, no matter how strange it looked now. But something was compelling him to look at it. The swirls of black playing along the rim and coating the sun’s surface was simply mesmerizing. It wasn’t that he couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to look away.

  Out of the corner of his upturned eye, he saw both his Pa and the cook staring up as well, their necks craned in what looked like uncomfortable positions.

  “What’s going—”

  Now Zak did pull his eyes from the nearly-black sun to see Muggs walking out of the kitchen, a dumbfounded look on his face. Even in the new darkness, Zak saw him turn his eyes skyward, his face going slack.

  Then Zak saw something that would haunt his thoughts for years to come. Muggs’ eyes began to turn black, in just the same way the shiny ink had coated the sun, from the edges in. Zak looked at the woman and his Pa and saw the same thing, the whites of their eyes disappearing only to be replaced by solid, shiny blackness.

  He glanced back up at the sun in time to see the last pinprick of light in the center disappear, like the last dying star winking out in the sky. Then he looked back at the three people standing on the dock before him. They had lowered their heads, their eyes all black and seemingly blind.

  But when they each turned those horrible, empty eyes upon him at the same time, he realized they could see him all too well. Then their slack jaws began to work. Zak saw a thick trail of spit hanging from the right corner of Beulah’s mouth. They all started to speak, though the words sounded like nonsense.