A Day of Dragon Blood

by Daniel Arenson

  The seated highborn looked at one another, brows furrowed. At the head of the table sat House Aeternum: himself and Princess Mori. Once three more chairs had stood here: one for his father, one for his mother, and one for Prince Orin. Now only he and Mori remained, the last survivors of their ancient dynasty.

  To their right sat the great House Eleison: Lord Deramon, captain of the Guard; his wife Adia, High Priestess; and their son Bayrin, guard to the princess. One seat stood empty like a missing tooth in an aching gum: Lyana's seat. When Elethor looked upon that chair, ice filled him.

  At the table's left side, a man and woman shifted uncomfortably. Both wore green fabrics embroidered with the sigil of their house, a golden stalk of wheat. Both were graying, thin, and shrewd. The man was Lord Ferenor Oldnale, the woman his wife, the Lady Alyn—the parents of Lady Treale who had returned the bodies to Nova Vita. Young Treale herself sat at their side, clad in armor, her hair hidden beneath her helm. The Oldnales owned great lands outside the city; they ruled farmers and shepherds, and in the war room, they stared at one another somberly, then at their king.

  "My lord," said Lord Ferenor. He rose to his feet, bowed his hoary head, and stared from under his brows. "We have suffered greatly in Requiem. Two wars against Tiranor already... I fought in the first one thirty years ago. My two sons fell in the second last year." He shook his head, his voice cracked, and tears filled his eyes. "We cannot bear a third war. Fly out to Tiranor! Meet its queen. Sit with Solina at her table and treat with her. The time has come for peace."

  Lord Deramon, burly and bearded, rose to his feet so roughly his chair nearly toppled over.

  "Treat with the woman who burned our city!" he blustered. "Make peace with... with that devil who slew our children underground?" He pounded his fists against the tabletop. "Lord Ferenor, your sons were honorable men. I mourn them. But your mind has gone soft with your grief! Let warriors speak here tonight, not farmers."

  Ferenor stiffened and his cheeks flushed. "Lord Deramon, calm yourself. Warriors have ruled over Requiem for long enough. What have you warriors brought us? Not surprisingly: war. Perhaps now is the time for farmers' counsel." He smoothed his tunic. "Yes, Solina burned our city and slew our children. Did we not do the same to Tiranor thirty years ago? She is an enemy, yes. You make peace not with friends, but with enemies."

  Deramon growled so loudly he could have been standing in dragon form. "Where were you, Ferenor, when Solina's men poured into our tunnels? Where were you when she was burning our children, when I was swinging my axe and sword into the skulls of her men? I did not see you in the battlefield. After you've faced ten thousand men with hatred in their eyes and blades dripping Vir Requis blood, come to me and speak of making peace."

  "And I suppose you want to face ten thousand more men!" Ferenor said, pulling himself as tall and straight as he could. "I suppose you want to see more blades dripping our blood! Put down your sword and axe, Deramon. Lift a plow and a pitchfork; our people need them more than your weapons."

  Deramon reached for that sword and axe, which hung on his belt. Bayrin leaped to his feet and grabbed his own sword's hilt. Treale cried out in horror and tried to pull her father back into his seat. Before steel could be drawn, Elethor rose to his feet and raised his hands.

  "Calm yourselves!" he demanded. "Deramon, Bayrin, sit down! Ferenor, you too. We've come here to talk, maybe to shout, but not to fight. Down, all of you."

  Their eyes shooting daggers, they sat down, though Deramon kept his hands clenched around his weapons. Bayrin sat grumbling, his face nearly as red as his hair. For a moment, everyone sat stewing and staring at one another. Elethor continued.

  "Three thousand warriors of the Royal Army train here in Nova City," he said. "Most are young and green, yes, but they will fight bravely. I will lead them to Ralora Beach and meet Solina in battle."

  Again the room rose in shouts.

  "This is madness!" said Lord Ferenor, leaping to his feet again. "Three thousand warriors? They are mere boys and girls!"

  Bayrin actually jumped onto his chair, pounded the air, and shouted. "Boys and girls with more courage than you, Ferenor!"

  Ferenor's wife, the Lady Oldnale, was shouting at Bayrin to sit down and stop making a fool of himself. Deramon was growling. Mother Adia raised her hands and cried for calm. Mori cowered in her chair and whimpered, and Treale rushed over to comfort her. Elethor clenched his fists at his sides and closed his eyes. The voices rang through his head, spinning like the voices of the creatures he had seen in the Abyss.

  We must turn the screws, skeleys! the shriveled creatures had said, mere spines wrapped in skin. We must count the hairs that grow sideways! They all spun around him, laughing and smacking their gums.

  No one will know, Elethor thought. No one will know of those nightmares Lyana and I saw. No one can know the true darkness of the world but me and her.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see Mori at his side, looking at him in concern. He patted her hand and looked back at the council.

  "Lord Ferenor," he said to the blustering lord. "I understand your concern. Truly I do. Your daughter serves in the Royal Army. My betrothed does too; so did my brother. But I know Solina. She will not offer us peace. She comes to kill us. She comes to kill every last Vir Requis and topple our halls. There is only one thing we can do against the tide from Tiranor; face it in battle."

  Bayrin shouted approval and slammed his fist into his palm. Ferenor, however, seemed unswayed. He raised his nose and snorted.

  "Solina cares not about my daughter, nor my farms, nor your fine halls of marble." He pointed a shaking finger at Elethor. "She hates you, Elethor. You alone, you and your family. Why should my farms burn and my daughter fight for a feud between you and her?" He raised his voice above the shouts around him. "She killed your father and you want revenge! That's all this is about. And the sons and daughters of Requiem will die for your pride!"

  Everyone shouted so loudly Elethor could only make out random words. Deramon shouted something about Ferenor being the greatest coward in Requiem, while Lady Oldnale cried that Deramon was a bloodthirsty brute. Robes swaying and hands trembling, Ferenor was shouting at Elethor; he could hear only "warmonger!" repeated over and over.

  Rage boiled in him. Elethor clenched his fists, wishing Lyana were here with him; he thought that his betrothed could outshout them all. But for now you are away, Lyana, so I'll have to do the loudest shouting.

  "Settle down!" he cried. "Sit down, everyone! Deramon! Bayrin! Sit down and take your hands off your swords. Ferenor, calm yourself! Warmonger you call me? War is coming whether we like it or not. A host flies to Requiem; what would you have us do rather than face it? Cower in our holes and wait for death?"

  "I would have you make peace!" Ferenor shouted. "I would have you solve your conflict with Solina using words, not fire and steel. You will doom us to more death! When children die, their blood will be upon you!"

  With that, Ferenor Oldnale kicked his chair down. It crashed to the floor. With a flourish, he wrapped his cloak tightly around him, spun on his heels, and marched out the door. His wife followed, snorting and giving the council a last dirty look before disappearing outside. Lady Treale bit her lip and lowered her eyes as she trailed after the pair; she looked back at the council guiltily, whispered an apology, then followed her parents outside. Bayrin shouted after them, shaking his fist and cursing their house, and it was long moments before those remaining in the room settled down and stewed silently.

  Peace, Elethor thought. Could he make peace with Solina? Could he meet her at Ralora Beach, treat with her, and avoid this war?

  He looked at Mother Adia, who had mostly remained silent. She stared at him, her eyes deep pools. Again she reminded him of the marble statues he would carve, stoic and pale and strong.

  "Adia," Elethor said, "you are a priestess, a healer, a woman of peace. What do the stars tell you? Can we truly avoid this war?"

  She stared a
t him steadily, and starlight seemed to swirl in her eyes. She stood straight and tall, then spoke in a voice like the song of the sky.

  "I saw the bodies of children torn apart. I saw the men who slew them. I saw Solina burn the wounded I tried to heal. Elethor, there will be no peace with this queen. She flies here with one purpose: to kill us all." She reached across the table and grabbed his hands. "You must stop her from reaching this place. You must meet her in battle, crush her host, and cast her back into the desert."

  "Stars yeah!" Bayrin said and pounded the tabletop. "It's wyvern killing time."

  Elethor looked at the map on the table. He ran his fingers across the mountains, valleys, and seas. Ralora Beach. That is where I'll see her again—Solina, love and bane of my life. The woman I kissed so many times, the woman I sculpted and pined for... the woman I must kill. He looked up at what remained of his council.

  "Deramon and Bayrin. Stay here with the City Guard. Protect Nova Vita." He turned to Adia. "Adia, pray for us. Prepare to heal us." Finally he looked at his sister, and his voice softened. "Mori, while I fly to the south, you will be the only Aeternum in Nova Vita. Sit upon the throne until I return. You rule in my stead."

  She nodded, lips trembling but eyes staring at him steadily. He turned to leave, but Mori caught his arm, then pulled him into an embrace.

  "Be careful, El," she whispered. She looked up at him with wet eyes. "Please, El. Please be careful. Be strong. I will pray for you. I will protect our city while you're away."

  He held her tight and kissed her forehead. She felt like a trembling leaf in his arms. She was his last living family, his most precious soul.

  "I'll be back soon, Mori. I promise you." He held her hands tight and looked into her eyes. "I promise."

  Long arms wrapped around them and squeezed—Bayrin joining the embrace, tall and knobby, his shock of red curls pressed against their faces. Elethor was short of breath before he freed himself from the crushing hug. When he did, he and Bayrin clutched each other's shoulders.

  "Fly high, El," his friend said, eyes somber. "And if you see Solina, by the stars, this time just kill her quickly."

  He sighed, remembering the time he had let her scar his face, let her escape from him. "I will." He squeezed Bayrin's shoulder. "And you, Bay, guard my sister well. If you don't, I'm going to hang you up beside that dead wyvern."

  Next he shared a crushing handshake with Deramon; the burly lord grumbled something about killing a few dozen Tirans for him. Finally Elethor embraced Mother Adia, who was as soft and warm as Deramon was cold and steely. The priestess kissed his forehead and whispered a prayer.

  "May you always find Requiem's sky, my king." Adia smiled and touched his cheek. "I will await you upon the walls of your city, son of Draco, and I will pray for you."

  Her embrace was like starlight wrapping around him in a cocoon, forever warm and guiding his way. He ached for it when they parted.

  His throat tightened and his eyes stung. He turned and left the chamber.

  Outside the palace, he shifted into a dragon and soared into the night. He let flames fill his maw, and he shook his body to hear his scales rattle. The city rolled beneath him, silver under the moonlight. Elethor looked upon the rows of homes and workshops, the palace below him, the temple ahead, and the white walls like a crown rising from King's Forest.

  "I won't let you fall again, Nova Vita," he swore into the wind.

  He descended toward Castra Draco, fortress of the Royal Army, whose four towers rose white and tall, their banners undulating. Elethor flew above the battlements and roared his call.

  "Warriors of Requiem!" he cried. "Soldiers of the Royal Army! The time has come to spread your wings, to blow your fire, to fly to war. Sound the horns of battle! Arise, warriors of Requiem!"

  Atop the four towers great horns blew. The sound keened across the city, deep as the years of Requiem—a peal of ancient song, of runes in stone, of the age and light of stars.

  "Arise and fly, dragons of Requiem!" Elethor called as the horns of Requiem blew.

  Armored men and women began streaming from the fortress. In the courtyard, they shifted into dragons and soared, firelight dancing between their fangs. Elethor growled and began flying south, wind roaring beneath his wings. He blew flame in the night, a beacon of war. Behind him, hundreds of dragons flew, soon thousands.

  "Fly, Royal Army! We fly south! We fly to war."

  The dragons soared. Flames rose in pillars. The city turned orange below them, and people emerged from their homes to wave and sing prayers.

  Elethor dived into the night. Behind him, thousands of dragons flew and roared their song.

  SOLINA

  As she descended the stairs, rage simmered in her, a white-hot forge. She clenched her fists, gritted her teeth, and her breath hissed.

  "Lyana," she whispered, almost able to taste the name's foulness on her tongue; it tasted like congealing blood.

  At the bottom of the stairway, a doorway led into her tunnel of triumph. As she walked, boots clanking, she smiled to hear the screams, to see the twisting bodies, to smell the acid that ate through flesh and bone. Her enemies twitched and begged for death in every cell: those nobles foolish enough to oppose her plans, and those soldiers too weak and slow when she had drilled them. Their families too hung here, flayed and whipped and cut and burnt, wives and children alike.

  Good, Solina thought, smiling as she walked by cell after cell. They suffer for their disobedience, and Lyana the weredragon will suffer most among them.

  A child screamed from one cell; he hung from the wall, body blackened.

  "Please, my queen," he begged. "Please."

  She nodded to him as she walked by. "I will give you mercy, child. I will let you die once your body can bear no more."

  The child was a fellow Tiran. Even if his father was a traitor, his blood was pure, and he deserved eventual death. But Lyana... Solina snarled and dug her fingernails into her palms. Lyana was a weredragon, a filthy shapeshifter. She deserved no such mercy. She would live to a ripe, miserable old age.

  Finally she reached the weredragon's cell, the smallest and darkest cell in this dungeon. Solina opened the heavy, blood-stained door and stepped inside. Her snarl turned into a smile.

  A single torch flickered upon the wall, casting orange light against the beast. Lyana hung from the ceiling on chains, head lowered, her hair dangling. More chains wrapped around her torso and legs, keeping her in human form. She stood on her toes; her shackles would not let her heels touch the floor. Tatters of a silk garment covered her, barely concealing her bruised flesh.

  "Lyana," Solina said softly.

  The weredragon raised her head and stared. A bruise spread across her cheek, and her lip was swollen, and yet she glared with blazing hatred.

  Solina's smile widened. "You still have your spirit," she said and drew a razor from her belt. "That's good... that's good. I will enjoy breaking it."

  Solina inhaled deeply, savoring Lyana's scent of fear. The memories swirled in the darkness like ghosts. Can't you fly, Solina? Can't you fly? The little girl with red curls laughed and danced around her. Look, I can become a dragon! Can't you fly too?

  Solina clenched her jaw and raised her razor. The torchlight blazed against it, and a flicker of fear filled Lyana's eyes.

  Good, Solina thought. Good.

  "Your hair," she said. "You have straightened your curls. You have dyed them platinum. You try to appear as a Tiran, but we smelled your dirty blood. You mock our pure, noble race with your treachery." She took a step forward, razor raised. "I will strip you of this mockery."

  She grabbed Lyana's hair, pulled it, and began shearing. She gritted her teeth as she worked, tearing nearly as much hair as she cut. She moved the razor roughly against Lyana's head, scraping her scalp; blood beaded upon it. Lyana glared and snarled, but said nothing. Rage simmered in her eyes, amusing Solina; she smirked when she examined her work. Lyana stood bald before her, head bloodied.


  "Much better," she said, nodding. "The world will see you for what you are: a filthy creature. I've stripped you of the hair that mocks us. I will now remove that glare from your eyes."

  Solina reached into the pouch on her belt. She withdrew a glass vial. The liquid inside swirled, milky white tinged with green tendrils. She broke the wax seal with her thumb, and a scent like vinegar and apples filled her nostrils, sour but not unpleasant. Lyana, however, winced and bit down hard, and her fists clenched.

  "Do you know what this is, Lyana?" Solina asked, holding the vial out. When it neared the chained Lyana, the weredragon hissed and turned her head aside. "It is a rare herb, one that grows in Osanna across the sea. Laceleaf, they call it there; they use it in their cooking. The weredragons have a different name for it, don't they? Ilbane you call it, I am told. A poison to your wretched kind. They say just the touch of its leaf can burn you; here I carry its pure latex."

  Lyana snarled and looked aside, eyes reddening. "Ilbane has not grown in the world for hundreds of years."

  "Then this should not harm you in the slightest."

  She splashed the vial onto Lyana's face.

  The weredragon clenched her jaw and growled. Her fists shook and her body writhed. Her skin reddened where the liquid touched her. She hissed, sucked her breath, then finally tossed back her head and howled. Solina watched, smiling softly.

  "It burns, does it not?" She shook her head sadly. "I would use acid on you, child, were not my Lord Mahrdor so smitten with your pretty face." She caressed Lyana's cheek. "For now I will leave your face pretty... but I will hurt you. I will hurt you badly. You will scream for me like nobody has screamed before."

  She pulled another vial from her pouch. A dozen more clinked inside. Lyana saw the collection, paled, and closed her eyes. A tear flowed to her lips.