A Day of Dragon Blood

by Daniel Arenson

  She smiled softly. "Oh stars, no. I never held a sword until a year ago. Not what you want to hear on the eve of battle, I'm sure, but it's the truth. I always wanted to be... oh, it's terribly silly." She blushed and stared at him pleadingly. "Promise you won't laugh if I tell you. Will you promise? All right. I always wanted to be... a puppeteer." She made a soft squealing sound and covered her face. "Horrible, isn't it? But..." She peeked between her fingers. "I've always loved puppets. I used to watch them as a child at the farm fairs—the puppet shows with Kyrie and Agnus Dei, who would always fight and bicker, but loved each other dearly. My mother used to tell me I looked like Agnus Dei—the real one from the stories, not the puppet. Do you know? Our family is descended from her and Kyrie, that's what Father says."

  Elethor nodded and sighed. "Oh, I had to spend many painful hours studying lineage in my youth, tracing the lines of the families from the Living Seven. My teachers used to bore me half to death with tales of Agnus Dei's grandson moving east, settling the plains, and founding your house. Dreadfully dull lessons."

  She snorted a laugh. "They are less dull when puppets perform them at farmers' fairs. I still remember the taste of blackberries, and the sound of the flutists, and how my brothers would insist we go see the cattle. But I always wanted to watch the puppets. I was only eight years old when I sewed my own Kyrie and Agnus Dei dolls—I made them from my old dresses and pillows—and my parents roared with pleasure when I put on a show. I knew then that I wanted to do nothing else. I wanted to make puppets—rooms of them, castles full of them—enough for countless fairs." She sighed and her eyes saddened. "But then... then the war broke out. The phoenixes invaded, and my brothers fell in battle, and... well, it seemed wrong to sew puppets when war raged. So I took my oldest brother's sword and shield, flew to the capital, and well... here I am today." She played with a blade of grass. "It's not much of a story, my lord, not as impressive as yours or Lyana's. I did not walk through the Abyss nor fight in the tunnels. I switched a needle for a sword, farmlands for barracks; that is my tale."

  The sun had disappeared beyond the horizon while they spoke; only a dim glow now painted the west. The stars winked between clouds; Elethor could see only the tail of the dragon, the last few stars of the Draco constellation.

  Below in the field, the soldiers were unrolling their blankets and lying down to sleep under the stars. The night's first guards shifted into dragons, took flight, and began circling over the camp. Weariness crept over Elethor; they had flown hard for hours and his body ached.

  "This hill is a good place for sleep," he said. "The grass is soft, the air fresh, and guards patrol above us." He yawned and stretched. "If you've not found a place to lie down, share the hill."

  Treale yawned magnificently, a yawn that flowed across her body from toes to outstretched fingertips. She unbuckled her breastplate, unclasped her sword, and kicked off her boots. She hesitated for a moment, looked down and up again, then leaned forward and kissed his cheek. Her lips were soft and warm. Then, blushing, she lay down at his side, placed her cheek upon her hands, and was soon asleep.

  Elethor watched her for a moment, smiling softly. He remembered a day long ago when Treale and Mori—mere children then—had placed a toad on his dinner plate, then fled the hall giggling and shrieking.

  Mori would always delight in the Oldnales visiting Nova Vita, he remembered. She would speak for days of her friend Treale coming to see her and would cry whenever Treale flew home.

  It did not seem so long ago; the years had gone by in a daze, and now Mori sat upon the throne, and Treale flew to battle at his side. Elethor lay down beside the young noblewoman, looked up at the stars, and found that his weariness had left him. How could he sleep with all these souls—his sister, his soldiers, and his people at home—depending on him? How could he lead them to war like his father had?

  He rolled over so that he faced Treale. He drew comfort from the peacefulness of her slumber—the smoothness of her face, the rise and fall of her breast, and the breeze in her dark hair. He closed his eyes and finally sleep found him too, and he dreamed of hot desert winds, thrusting spears, and sandstone towers rising from dunes.

  MORI

  Whenever Lord Deramon entered the palace hall, Mori felt faint. Today he stormed in with all his usual bluster, bowed curtly, and stomped toward her. Sitting on her brother's throne, Mori cowered and wished the chair's twisting oak roots could swallow her. Her heart thrashed and she felt a trickle of cold sweat trail down her back.

  "My princess!" Deramon called, a great bear of a man, his beard a red flame, his axe and sword clanking against his armor.

  Mori's head spun as he approached. It was not that Deramon was a bad man—and after all, he was father to Bayrin and Lyana, two of the people she loved most. It was just that...

  Oh stars, does he have to walk so fast? And do his eyebrows need to be so red and bushy? She tried to imagine those eyebrows not as flames that could burn her, but as two friendly caterpillars crawling above his eyes. The thought calmed her, and she even managed a tremulous smile.

  "Lord Deramon," she said in a small voice.

  He had soon crossed the hall and bowed, hands on his weapons. "My princess, the work on the tunnels is complete. Come with me; I will show you the fortifications."

  Mori didn't want to go with him. She wanted to stay here, in the safety of the palace, with only columns of marble around her and Bayrin at her side. She looked over at Bayrin now; he stood as always by her throne, his armor bright and his sword at his side. He placed a hand on her shoulder and spoke softly.

  "Are you ready, Mors? I'll be with you."

  Mori looked between him and Deramon and shuddered. The city was just so... so busy, all bustling with masons and healers and carpenters. There would be wagons of bricks, and mules carrying lumber, and peasants storing food, and the sights and sounds would spin her head. She knew they would; they always did. Here in the palace there was silence, there was safety, there was soothing marble and the song of harps. She gave Bayrin another pleading look, but he only patted her shoulder and smiled comfortingly.

  Mori lowered her head, bit her lip, and nodded. "I'm ready," she said in a small voice.

  I am Princess of Requiem, she thought. I will do my duty. With Elethor away, I rule here. I must protect my people, even if the city sounds will make my knees shake and my belly twist.

  They left the hall, stepped outside the doors, and stood for a moment on the hill. Mori gazed upon the city that rolled around her. She heard the sound of hammers on anvils, forging armor for men and dragons. Smoke plumed from smelters and dragons dragged wagons of iron ore from the mountain mines. Farmers wheeled carts down the streets, carrying preserves, wineskins, and dried fish into the tunnels. Dragons perched upon every wall, and men-at-arms guarded every street. The smells of smoke, oil, and sweat filled the air.

  War, Mori thought. She took a deep breath, clutched her luck finger behind her back, and began walking downhill. I will be brave. I will stand strong for my people.

  As they walked through the city, people bowed their heads and whispered blessings upon them. Hands reached out to touch Mori's gown; she knew these were signs of respect for their princess, but their touch frightened her. So many still bore the scars of last year's war. So many had burnt flesh, missing limbs, haunted eyes that spoke of their pain, or no more eyes at all. They spun around her, and her breath felt tight, and her chest ached, and again she saw him—Orin, charred and dying, his innards spilling, and Acribus grabbing her, and—

  No, Mori, she told herself. She shut her eyes and forced a deep breath. Don't think of that. Breathe. Just breathe.

  She forced herself to focus only on that breath—good, healing air entering and leaving her lungs. She focused on the feel of cobblestones beneath her feet and the light breeze on her face, and slowly her heartbeat slowed, and she opened her eyes. Once more the city was steady, and no more fog covered her vision.

  Soon they reached Bened
ictus Archway, which rose from a cobbled square, leading into the tunnels. Two guards stood before it, spears crossed. They bowed their heads and parted for Mori. She stepped between them onto a steep, narrow staircase that plunged into darkness.

  Deramon walked at her side. "The staircase is too narrow for wyverns, my lady. We made damn sure of that." He gestured at his feet. "And the stairs themselves are narrow, as you can see. If any Tirans charge down, they will crash in their armor."

  As Mori descended and shadows spread, she found herself soothed. Her head cleared and her fingers no longer trembled. There was safety here underground, surrounded by stone. She kept walking, a hundred steps or more, until she reached a doorway. The doors towered above her, carved of oak banded in iron.

  "If the Tirans invade, this is the first obstacle they'll face," Deramon said. "No battering ram will break through these doors; they're solid oak and iron, a good foot thick."

  "Almost as thick as Lyana's head," Bayrin spoke up behind them.

  Deramon pounded on the doors. "Open up, men!"

  As the doors began to creak open, Bayrin muttered, "Solina won't need a battering ram; she just has to knock."

  When the doors had opened, Mori saw five guards bearing pikes and shields. Longswords hung at their waists, their pommels shaped as dragonclaws. Deramon nodded to them and turned to Mori.

  "If the Tirans invade the city, I'll place a hundred of these pikemen here. Even if Solina does break through these doors, she'll face blades of sharp, cruel steel."

  "Almost as sharp as Lyana's tongue," Bayrin said. "And just as cruel."

  Past the doors and pikemen, they walked down a tunnel. Its walls were craggy, and Mori ran her hand across the stone, drawing comfort from its cold roughness. Candles burned in alcoves, and pikes and swords hung from hooks. As they walked, Mori imagined thousands of people fleeing here into darkness, and she took deep breaths and bit her lip.

  This is a safe place. A safe place.

  The tunnel stretched two hundred yards, maybe more, before it reached another staircase. The steps were so narrow, Mori had to hold the wall for support. Finally they reached a portcullis, its bars shaped like dragon teeth. Beyond these iron jaws she saw more guards; they wore plate armor and bore crossbows and swords.

  "If the Tirans claim the top level, they will be stopped here," Deramon said, voice a low rumble. "If war reaches this city, I'll place two hundred men here armed with enough crossbows and bolts to slay an army. The Tirans will pile up dead."

  Bayrin tapped the jaw-like portcullis. "I like it. Judging by how crooked these iron teeth are, Lyana obviously modeled for them. Let's see what's next."

  Deramon gestured at the guards, who pulled the portcullis open. Beyond the iron teeth, they walked down more tunnels, these ones so narrow they had to move single file. Mori walked between the two men, barely as tall as their shoulders. She wished she could spend her life here underground, Bayrin at her side, maybe with a good book too, one with maps. The air was cool here and the noise of the city gone.

  If ever this war ends, she thought, I will fill this place with books and scrolls and come here to read every day. Nobody can hurt me here.

  As they walked through this second level of tunnels, Deramon gestured at walls stocked with spears, crossbows, and shields. He spoke about filling this place with guards who would slay any Tiran warrior who reached this deep. Finally they reached a third barrier: great doors carved of solid bronze. More guards stood here, and when they pulled the doors open, Mori saw a cavern that plunged into darkness.

  She entered and looked around, hands clasped behind her back. The cavern loomed around her, nearly as large as the palace throne room. Its walls and ceiling were craggy, still showing the claw marks of dragons. A hundred candles burned here. Alcoves in the walls held supplies: jars of apple preserves, strings of sausages, jugs of wine and ale, skins of water, and sacks of grain. Other shelves held more weapons: arrows and bows, swords, and spears. Through narrow passageways, Mori glimpsed more chambers, similarly sized and stacked.

  "And this chamber," Bayrin said, "is as big and hollow as Lyana's head."

  Mori explored the chamber. She ran her hand over the supplies and weapons, peered into the other chambers, and drank from an underground stream she found. It reminded her of Crescent Isle's great caves, the place where she had met the Children of the Moon last year; it seemed lifetimes ago. She knew what this place was for. The soldiers would guard the top two levels. Here the young, old, and wounded would hide.

  "Here we will survive," she whispered.

  She closed her eyes. She remembered fleeing into the dungeon of Castellum Luna as the phoenixes flew; they slew her brother there. She remembered fleeing into these very tunnels as the phoenixes burned the city; Solina had shattered their defenses and slain thousands. When she opened her eyes again, Mori's heart nearly stopped.

  Twenty thousand bodies filled the chamber, twisted with acid, their skin like wet cloth. A few twitched and begged for death; most already lay dead. Blood sluiced her boots and Solina laughed, hands on her hips, like she had laughed when killing Orin. The dead reached out to Mori. Melting hands clutched at her gown, and faces like dripping wax begged her.

  "Please, Mori, please, save us, kill us, please..."

  They pawed at her, their skin melting, sticking to her, and dripping off their bones to stain her gown. Mori closed her eyes again.

  No. I won't look at them. I will breathe like Mother Adia taught me.

  She opened her eyes again and they were gone. She saw only Bayrin and Deramon standing several feet away, pointing at a blade and arguing about whether it was a longsword or a bastard sword. Finally Deramon snorted in disgust, shook his head at his son, and turned to Mori. He called her over, and she approached hesitantly.

  He took her to a tapestry upon a wall, one she had sewn throughout her sixteenth year. Upon its blue fabric, embroidered dragons flew between silver stars, and white birches of glistening thread rose below them. Mori remembered working her fingers raw on the tapestry; it had taken her countless hours to make, and she had given it to Orin to hang in his chambers. She remembered how his eyes had widened to see it, how he had hugged her, and how they had flown that night to Lacrimosa Hill to gaze upon the real stars.

  And now my tapestry too hides underground like all the memories of my life.

  When Deramon pulled the tapestry aside, Mori's own eyes widened. A narrow tunnel gaped there, just wide enough for a man to crawl into. Mori peered into it; she could not judge its length, but when she called out, her voice echoed deep.

  "My men have been carving this tunnel since the winter," Deramon said, standing behind her. His voice, normally booming, was strangely soft. "If all else fails, Mori—if the wyverns slam at the doors of these chambers—you will crawl into it."

  She pulled her head out from the tunnel, turned toward Deramon, and shivered at the sight of his eyes; she had never seen the gruff old warrior look so sad.

  "Where does the tunnel lead to?" she whispered.

  Still holding the tapestry back, Deramon stared into the tunnel's darkness. "To the wilderness. To hope and exile. To life." He shook his head softly. "It will save you, Mori; it will take you from this city, from war, from death. You will spend a long time crawling through its darkness. When you emerge, you will fly... fly as far as you can and never look back."

  Mori stared into the tunnel. The darkness seemed to stare back, an abyss peering into her soul. Bayrin came to stand beside her, placed his arms around her, and held her close.

  So that would be my fate, Mori thought. Should the Tirans break through, I would be doomed to forever flee, to hide, to survive in pain while my people lie dead behind me, their ghosts crying to me.

  Deramon seemed to shake himself from a dream. His armor clanked, he grumbled something under his breath, and he let the tapestry fall to hide the tunnel.

  "But it won't come to that," he grumbled, all the grit back in his voice, and again he was
the same gruff old lord. "If the Tirans are foolish enough to invade, we'll smite them dead."

  The lord turned aside with another grumble, marched toward a rack of swords, and stared stubbornly at them. Bayrin went to his side, and soon the two were arguing again. Mori remained by the tapestry. She stared at it: the lush blue fabric, the dragons of golden thread, the thin silver birches, the stars she had stabbed her fingers so many times to sew. As she looked upon the scenes, the embroidered dragons almost seemed to fly and the stars to shine: a scene of Requiem in the night, peaceful and glittering.

  But now a new night falls, she thought, and when its darkness spreads, will I dare do what I must? Will I dare enter this tunnel, crawl to life, leave the others to die? With Tirans in the hall, their steel slaughtering us, how many would flee behind me? Five? Six? Would the rest remain here in their tomb?

  She shut her eyes and turned away. She walked toward Bayrin and Deramon, stood at their side, and listened to them argue about steel and forging and the shapes of crossguards. She missed Orin and Father and Lyana, and she could not shake the trickling, icy fear that filled her belly.

  MAHRDOR

  He walked through the night, flanked by guards. Alongside the alleyways, the walls of workshops and winehouses closed in around him like a prison cell—craggy, hard, unyielding. Lord Mahrdor hated walls around him. He hated these narrow burrows of the commoners.

  This city is a prison, he thought, mouth twisting bitterly, and I am a hunter of the desert.

  He gritted his teeth as he walked, as around him soldiers marched, as before him commoners scuttled into their homes. He yearned to leave this cesspool, to mount his wyvern, to fly across sea and plain, to hunt in the great northern wilderness. He licked his lips, imagining it. So many creatures there to catch! So many bones to study. So much skin to peel, and screams to hear, and jars to fill.