"Are you sure you're all right, Lyana?" Elethor asked, standing at the doorway. "You're pale, and your fingers are trembling."
She snorted and shoved by him.
"Out of my way, Elethor." She drew her sword. "I'm going in."
She walked through the archway, sword drawn in one hand, tin lamp in the other. She delved into the darkness.
The chill filled her bones. Mist swirled around her legs. As she walked, her boots clanked, echoing like the laughter of demons. Her lamplight flickered against smooth walls carved by old streams. The floor curved steeply, forcing her to move slowly. The tunnel plunged into darkness like a giant's gullet. She kept listening for enemies, but heard nothing—no grunts of beasts, no scuttling feet, no screeches of ghosts.
There is nothing here, she told herself. No demons. No skeletons. She clenched her jaw and held her sword high.
Bring me strength, Levitas, she prayed to her sword as she walked. It was an ancient weapon, its blade engraved with coiling dragons, its pommel shaped as a claw. Her father traced its lineage back to Terra Eleison, a knight of Requiem who'd survived the griffin war, helped found Nova Vita, and restored their house to glory. Many Vir Requis today carried longswords, heavy weapons for both hands; Elethor carried one at her side, the old blade Ferus. Lyana's sword was shorter, faster, easy to wield in one hand; the weapon of a knight.
Your sword was ancient even then, Father had said when giving her the blade five years ago. It had defended Requiem for centuries and slain many of her foes. Lyana tightened her fingers around the leather grip. Under the sky, she fought with claw and fire, a dragon roaring her fury. Here she would wield this ancient shard of steel.
May Levitas defend me underground, she thought, in darkness, far from the sky of Requiem. Shine bright, Levitas. Shine bright, for the world is full of more darkness than I can bear.
They kept walking down the tunnel. Lumps rose upon the walls like warts. When Lyana touched one, she found it clammy. She imagined herself walking through the veins of some great beast of stone, and she shuddered. She held her lamp out at arm's length, but could see only several feet ahead.
A screech filled the darkness.
Lyana froze, panting. She raised her sword.
"What was it?" she whispered. A shiver ran through her.
Elethor stood frozen by her side, his own sword raised. He stared ahead, but the darkness nearly swallowed their lamplight. They saw nothing. Silence filled the tunnels.
"I don't know," he whispered. "Was it the Starlit Demon?"
Lyana squared her jaw. "If it is, we will tame the beast. Come, we go farther."
They walked five more steps before the screech sounded again.
It was so loud, Lyana grimaced. She nearly dropped her sword and lamp to cover her ears. The tunnels shook and a crack ran along a wall. Many feet pattered in the distance, clanking, scratching. The screech went on and on, rising and falling, a banshee cry. Lyana's insides trembled and she could barely breathe. A ghostly light glowed ahead and shadows scurried.
"Stay by me, Lyana," Elethor said, hand clutching his sword. Sweat beaded on his brow.
Keeping her eyes on the tunnel ahead, Lyana laid down her lamp and drew her dagger. She held both blades before her, ready to fight whatever enemy approached.
A shadow lurched.
A creature emerged from the darkness.
Lyana grimaced. Her heart burst into a gallop, and cold sweat flooded her.
With a screech, the creature scuttled forward on many legs. It looked like a great centipede, many feet long and wide as a tree trunk. Its body was made of segments, each bloated and furry like the body of a spider. Its curved legs looked sharp as blades. Worst of all, however, was not the body that snaked behind, but the front of the creature.
It had the head, torso, and arms of a human girl, no older than ten. Her flesh was pale, her red eyes rimmed in black, her hair scraggly. Her bloated belly was slashed open, revealing cockroaches that nested and bred inside her. The girl grinned, showing rotting teeth, and raised her arms. Her hands ended with curving, yellow claws that dripped sizzling liquid. Below her belly, her centipede body pulsed black and hairy, coiling into the shadows behind her.
"Stars," Elethor whispered.
"What are you?" Lyana shouted at the beast, baring her teeth. "Why do you dwell in Requiem?"
The creature stared at her, eyes dripping pus, and tilted her head. She opened her mouth wide, and her tongue rolled out, a foot long and covered in ants. She screeched, a deafening sound that made Lyana grimace and scream.
"This is… not… Requiem!" the creature said, voice like shattering glass. Blood dripped from her eyes down her cheeks. "This is the Abyss. I am Nedath, guardian of this realm. Turn back, creatures of sunlight! Leave our… world…"
Her voice turned to wind that howled, blowing back Lyana's hair. The creature thrust herself up, rising ten feet tall upon her bloated segments. Her spider legs stretched out like black blades. Blood spurted between the demon's sharpened teeth, spraying Lyana's face. The droplets stung like acid.
"Turn back, Nedath, guard of the Abyss!" Elethor cried. He waved his lamp, as if light could cow this creature of darkness. "I am King Elethor Aeternum. My forefathers sealed you here. Now obey me."
The creature cackled, hair rustling with maggots. With a screech, she spat a glob of blood and mucus at Elethor. He swung his blade, blocking the discharge. What droplets sprayed him sizzled, and he cried in pain.
"Turn back, creature!" Lyana cried, waving her sword. "I am Lyana Eleison, daughter of Lord Deramon, knight of Requiem! You will kneel before me."
She swung her sword, but Nedath pulled her body back, and the blade whistled through air. The creature cackled and spat a glob of bloody mucus. Lyana had no time to parry, and the glob hit her face.
Her eyes blazed with pain. She could not breathe or see. She screamed; it felt like her face was being ripped off.
"Elethor!" she tried to shout, but the mucus entered her mouth, choking her, running down her throat like a living thing.
"Back, creature!" Elethor cried, voice muffled, a million leagues away. "Turn back into the darkness."
Lyana could not see him. She swung her sword blindly, not knowing if she hit anything. The creature screeched again, but she could barely hear.
She fell. She hit the ground. She dropped her weapons, clawed at her face, tried to tear the slime off her eyes, her nose, her mouth. Her head hit the ground, and she heard only a distant screech, a cry of horror, and then nothing but cruel cackling.
ADIA
She moved between the wounded, her robes soaked with blood. Her fingers stitched wounds, her eyes shed no more tears, and her heart felt no more pain. Around her the wounded shivered, wept, and screamed; she healed them. The dying lay feverish; she comforted them. The dead lay stinking; she prayed for them. She was a healer, a priestess, and a mother grieving.
Come back to me from your wilderness, Bayrin, she prayed silently as she bandaged a burnt, trembling man. Come back from the darkness, Lyana. I love you, my children.
The man groaned, his face melted away, his hands burned to stumps. If he died, Adia thought, it would be a blessing for him, and yet she fought for him, gave him the nectar of silverweed to dull his pain, and she refused to surrender his life. He was somebody's son, and Adia too had a son. What if Bayrin returned to her like this, burned into red, twisted flesh and pain? She moved to a young girl, her legs shattered, her hand severed, and she prayed for her, bandaged her, set her bones as best she could. What if Lyana returned to her broken and bleeding too?
Stars, please. I already lost one of my children. I already lost my sweet Noela. Don't let me lose Bayrin and Lyana too.
Her worry seemed too great for Adia to bear, and yet she bore it. She was High Priestess of Requiem. All these bleeding, broken, burnt souls were her children too. They lay in rows upon the floor, dozens of them filling the armory. The swords and shields were gone from this place, taken
to battle; the wounded were returned. Every few moments they were carried in: men whose legs ended with stumps, men with entrails spilling from sliced bellies, men burnt and cut, men crying for wives and mothers. In battle they were brave warriors, heroes of Requiem. Here in her chamber, they were sons and husbands, afraid, the terror of battle too real.
"Mother Adia… Mo…" A wounded man reached out to her. Skin hung from his hands, the flesh of his fingers blackened, falling to show the bone. "Mother, a prayer, please…"
She turned to him, placed her hand on his forehead, and prayed for him. She prayed to the stars to comfort him, to heal him or lead him peacefully to the halls of afterlife. And yet Adia did not know if starlight could reach these tunnels. All her life, she had prayed in temples between columns and birches, watching the sky. Now that sky burned, and here they hid, in darkness and pain. The world has become fire and shadow, and all starlight is washed away.
But still she prayed. Still she believed, forced herself to. If her stars had abandoned her, what purpose did her life hold? So she prayed for this burnt man, kissed his bloodied forehead, and bandaged his wounds. She gave him the nectar of silverweed, until he slept, feverish and dying.
"As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles," she whispered, lips sticky with blood, "as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home." She held him as his breath stilled and his face smoothed. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."
She closed his eyes, covered him with his cloak, and stood up. She pulled him to the corner and placed him among the piles of bodies. There he would stink, decay, lie as rotting flesh until they found room to bury the dead. Adia needed men to dig graves underground, or soon the disease of bodies would claim them all. She needed healers to help her. She needed her husband by her side, and she needed her children back, and she needed this war and death to end. But all she had were her hands that could stitch a wound and hold a dying man, her bandages and nectar, and whatever faith still remained in her heart. And she used them all as the blood flowed, the stench of bodies wafted, and soldiers kept dragging new death into her chamber.
Stay safe, Bayrin and Lyana. Stay alive. Return to me.
She did not know how many hours or days passed as she worked, healing and praying. She did not know night from day. When her husband appeared at the doorway, armor splashed in blood and eyes dark, her fingers were sore, her eyes stinging, her head light. She walked to him, embraced him, and kissed his bristly cheek.
"Adia," Deramon said to her, voice deep as these tunnels, rough as his hands and hair and body. "You need sleep. You need food and drink. Come, we will rest. Sister Caela will take over."
The young healer stood by his side, a girl no older than Lyana, her hair braided tight behind her head, her eyes haunted but strong. She held bandages, towels, and vials of herbs and silverweed.
Adia shook her head. "Sister Caela is too young. She is only a healer in training. She… come, sister. Work with me. Help me."
A man wept at her left, crying for his mother. His hands clutched a wound on his stomach; it gaped open, glistening and red, gutting him.
"I want to go home," he whispered, lips pale, eyes deathly. "Please. Please, I want to go home."
Adia realized that he was just a boy, younger than her own children, and she turned to him, to heal him, to pray for him, but Deramon held her fast.
"Let Sister Caela tend to him," he said, voice low, touched by a softness Adia rarely heard in him.
He held Adia's arm, gently but firmly. His hands were bloody and rough, and Adia wanted to break free, but she was so tired. Her head felt so light. His second hand held the small of her back, keeping her standing.
Sister Caela moved forward, lips tight, and knelt by the dying man. With sure fingers, she uncorked her vials, then poured silverweed nectar into the man's mouth.
"Sister," he whispered, shaking now. "Hold me. Hold me as I leave."
The young woman held the dying man, praying for him, until he lay still in her arms. Adia watched, eyes moist, and she shed tears, all those tears she had not cried for hours, maybe days. Her body shook with them.
"Come, my love," Deramon said softly. "You've not slept in three days. Sister Caela will tend to these men for a few hours."
They left the armory, this place of death and blood and screams. They walked down a tunnel, moving between soldiers who ran and survivors who huddled and prayed. Darkness, stench, and whispers of fear swirled around them. Adia's head spun. Three days. Had it truly been that long? Only several lamps lined the tunnels, casting shadows like dark phoenixes. From above came hammering and cries of battle.
"How are the defenses?" she asked.
Deramon clenched his jaw. "Holding. Barely. The Tirans broke through one blockade—the entrance at the temple. Many died. We raised more boulders and are holding them back. For now." He looked at her. "We will not hold out for long, Adia. But we will hold out for the night."
She realized that Deramon too had not slept for three days. His face was haggard. New lines creased his face, and more white streaked his red beard. His clothes and armor were covered in dust and blood.
"You look like you've been to the Abyss and back," Adia said. She shivered, realizing the grimness of the phrase she'd chosen. No, he had not been to the Abyss, but Lyana now delves into that place. Our daughter. Our sweet, brave light.
Deramon seemed to read her thoughts. He held her hand tight.
"I trust Lyana," he said, voice a low growl. "She is the finest swordswoman I know. She is wise and strong and fast. If anyone can survive down there, it's our girl. She'll return to us with the Starlit Demon. I promise you."
Adia looked at him, and she wanted to believe, but she saw the fear in his eyes. She knew that he himself did not believe those words.
Lyana will die, she thought. We will die. Requiem will fall. But if we are doomed, we will go down fighting, and we will not give up until death's grasp pulls us to the stars. Does my Noela wait for me there?
Survivors covered every corner of these tunnels, sleeping on the floors, standing against the walls, huddling into nooks. Adia made her way between them, until she entered the wine cellar which had become their war room. She and Deramon stepped in, and the chamber seemed so bare to her. This was Requiem's new center of power, but where was their king? He was gone into darkness. Where was their princess? She had flown into the night. Where were Olasar and Orin? Their bodies lay burnt in the inferno of the world.
Who will lead us now? Adia thought. How could this lost, hunted people survive underground with no father or mother? She would be that mother, she knew. She was a priestess, a leader, a healer. Let me lead and heal as best I can until my king returns.
Deramon moved about the room and found them mugs of wine, old cheese, and bread, but Adia could not eat nor drink. She huddled on the floor by a casket, pulled her knees to her chest, and wept.
"My love," Deramon whispered. He sat by her, wrapped his arms around her, and held her. She trembled against him. He was all cold steel and rough flesh; he seemed so strong to her, forever her lord and soldier.
"I'm so scared," she whispered to him. "I'm so scared, Deramon. I'm so scared for Bayrin, for Lyana, for everyone." Her tears claimed her.
He kissed her head and held her close, his arms so wide and strong; when she was younger, Adia used to think he could lift the world with those arms.
Finally she slept, held in his embrace, her cheek against his shoulder. She dreamed of gaping wounds and burning flesh and haunted, bloody eyes.
MORI
She could not breathe. She could see nothing but clouds and stinging snow. Her fear gushed through her, she blew fire, her wings beat madly, and it was all she could do to keep flying.
I'm suffocating, she thought. Her head spun and her lungs ached. I can't breathe. Help, stars, help.
The shrieks rose behind them, cries like g
reat eagles, like crashing flame, like the pain that still dug through her. The phoenixes soared, chasing suns of fury, crackling and howling.
It's him, Mori thought, eyes burning and wings trembling. The clouds streamed around her. He flies there as a firebird. The man who… who…
Once more she lay upon that oak table, staring into Orin's dead eyes. Once more his hand clutched her throat, and his pain drove into her, and her mouse fluttered in her pocket like a heart, until her weight crushed him. Once more Solina stood above her, watching, laughing.
"Mori!" rose a shout, distant and muffled, as from leagues away. "Mori, fly!"
She blew fire, clearing the haze, and saw Bayrin flying at her side. His green scales flashed between the clouds, and his tail nudged her, steadying her flight. The fire of the pursuing phoenixes gilded the clouds.
"Mori, fly!" Bayrin shouted. "Faster!"
She flew, neck outstretched, tail straight, wings churning the clouds. She sliced the sky, wind blowing around her.
Orin always said I was the fastest dragon in Requiem.
Bayrin flew at her side, flames seeping between his teeth. Soon he was falling behind, and Mori forced herself to slow down, though all her horrors blazed behind. She could not see them clearly—the clouds still hid them—but their shrieks tore the sky, and their fire blazed like sunset.
If he catches us, he will kill Bayrin, she thought. But he will not show me that mercy. He will chain me, and rape me again and again, and force me to watch Solina kill Elethor.
A growl found her throat, surprising her. She had not thought any anger remained in her, only fear, and yet her rage now blazed.
So I will not let him catch me.
"Bayrin!" she cried, flying at this side. "Keep your neck and tail straight! Keep your body smooth! Cut through the wind, like this."
She was slim and small; he was long and gangly. She shot forward, as straight and flat as she could, until she flew before him. The wind flowed around her.
A Dawn of Dragonfire (Dragonlore, Book 1) Page 13
