A Day of Dragon Blood

by Daniel Arenson

  "They'll be here," he said to the young dragon, trying his best to ignore how large her eyes were. "I trust Lady Lyana. She's never let us down. If she says Solina will invade here today, it will happen."

  Treale shifted her lower jaw. "My lord, the sun begins to set. What if..." She swallowed a puff of smoke. "What if we're in the wrong place?"

  Then Requiem is defenseless, he thought. Then nothing but a small, green City Guard stands between Solina and Nova Vita's fall. Then we are cursed, and only dusty old scrolls will remain to tell of our glory.

  He said none of this.

  "I trust Lyana," he repeated instead.

  But did he trust her? Lyana was his betrothed, his love, the woman who had walked through the Abyss with him. To him she was a paragon of strength, wisdom, and courage. Was he blind to her faults? Maybe Treale's father had been right. Maybe he should never have flown to war, but instead met with Solina, treated with her, maybe even surrendered to her. Every wave that crashed sounded like the moan of a dying man, and as the sun set, every sunbeam looked like a bloody spear.

  Whispers rose behind him and voices cried out.

  "Lyana!" cried one of the dragons upon the hills. Others echoed his call.

  "The Lady Lyana! Lyana returns!"

  Elethor spun toward the hills, heart thrashing. A blue dragon was flying from the north, roaring fire.

  Lyana.

  "Stars," Elethor whispered. He took flight, wings beating so mightily, the air bent down Treale's neck. He soared over his army, away from the sea and toward the flying blue dragon.

  "Elethor!" Lyana cried to him.

  She was hurt, he saw. He gritted his teeth. Blood covered her scales, and she flew with a wobble.

  "Elethor, they're behind me! Wyverns!"

  She still flew over a mile away. Before she could reach him, a dozen wyverns plunged from the clouds into open air. More followed until a hundred swarmed after Lyana, their stench carrying on the wind. The beasts screeched, blew jets of acid, and shot toward the Royal Army.

  Stars. Fear, sharp and cold, thrust into Elethor like a spear. For an instant he froze, wings still, staring at the creatures. Teeth bared, he forced the fear down and roared.

  "Dragonbone Phalanx!" he shouted to the dragons below him, a group of farm boys with wide eyes. They would have to fight as men today. "Fly, to my left!" He looked to his right where stood a hundred slack-jawed dragons, the sons and daughters of traders. "Firespear, fly! To my right!"

  The wyverns shot toward him with blazing eyes, a mile away, then a hundred yards. Riders sat upon them, clad in steel and clasping crossbows and shields. They were but a drop from the sea of Solina's army, but they were a drop of acid.

  Lyana reached him, bloody and panting, and spun to fly by his side.

  "Dragonbone!" Elethor shouted hoarsely. "Firespear! Fly! Fly!"

  Two hundred dragons clumsily took flight. A few yelped in fear, and others blew fire too soon, scattering their flames into empty air. Dragons from other phalanxes soared too and came to fly behind him, a jumbled crowd. Treale shot forward to fly at his side, roaring fire, and Elethor growled and summoned his own flames.

  The wyverns crashed against them.

  Elethor had never seen a living wyvern, only a hanging corpse. Now a horde howled before him; it was like facing charging bears after studying a harmless rug. A jet of acid flew toward him and Elethor banked. The spray hit a dragon behind him, and the young soldier screamed. Elethor saw his scales bubbling, and then the dragon lost his magic; he fell, a screaming boy, his clothes and skin sizzling. Crossbows fired and bolts flew; one slammed into Elethor's leg and he yowled. Ten more wyverns swooped above him, and acid rained. Elethor reared, flew backward, and hit a dragon behind him. With a roar, he shot flames in a fountain. They crashed against the wyverns. The creatures screeched, heads tossed back, and Elethor soared toward them. He blew more fire, then lashed claws and fangs.

  He howled. It felt like biting iron; the beasts had scales like the thickest armor. When he clawed them again, sparks rose; he could not reach their flesh. One of the creatures thrust forward and bit, a striking asp. Fangs dug into Elethor's shoulder, just missing his neck, and he roared. He lashed his tail madly, hit the beast, and its jaw opened. Elethor roasted it with fire.

  The wyvern's rider blazed, screamed, and fell from the saddle into the night. The wyvern itself roared, confused, consumed with bloodlust. Without its rider, it was but a mindless beast. Elethor clubbed its head with his tail, again and again, until it fell from the sky.

  "Aim for the riders!" he shouted to the dragons around him. "Kill the riders!"

  He looked around wildly, surveying the battle. He could not see Lyana. Far to his right, Treale was shooting between wyverns as fast as a scurrying bee, blowing flames. Hundreds of dragons flew haphazardly, abandoning all the formations he had taught them; they fought not as an army, but as a mob. Wyverns crashed between them, clawing and biting and blowing acid. Dragons turned into young men and women all around and fell screaming, acid eating through them. Bodies littered the hills below.

  A fountain of acid poured toward him. Elethor growled, banked, and crashed into a second wyvern. Droplets blazed against his wing, and he howled. He flapped that wing madly, shaking the acid off, but already holes were tearing open. The wyvern he'd crashed into clawed his shoulder, drawing blood. With a growl, Elethor bit into its neck. He thought his fangs could break off, yet he grimaced and shoved them deeper, until he bit through the wyvern's scales and tasted flesh. The creature roared, and Elethor pulled his jaw back, a scale in his maw like an iron shield. He spat it out and blew fire in a curtain, holding back the other wyverns; a dozen flew toward him, eyes red and maws dripping.

  "My king!"

  Treale swooped from above, claws outstretched, and slashed at the wyverns. She joined her fire to his. Ten more dragons flew from below, showering flame. Atop the wyverns, riders burned and screamed. A few were still firing crossbows even as they blazed. Elethor soared, swooped, and lashed his tail. He tore one rider near in half, showering blood like red mist, and roasted another. Their riders dead, the wyverns fought wildly, driven by pure instinct. The dragons crashed against them. Fire and acid filled the air. Claws and fangs lashed. Bodies fell.

  Finally only a handful of wyverns remained. Screeching, they turned and began to fly north.

  "Don't let them flee!" Elethor shouted. He looked around, seeking Lyana, but couldn't see her. Fear gripped him, but he growled and began flying north in pursuit; seeking Lyana would have to wait.

  Treale and several of her troops, dragons from her father's farmlands, flew with him. They were young, fast dragons, grown strong from hunting over the plains. They caught the wyverns a league from the beach, slew them with fire, and roared in triumph. When the beasts hit the ground below, their acid spilled like juice from cracked melons, eating into the earth.

  When the last wyvern was dead, Elethor found himself trembling.

  Lyana. Stars, Lyana, where are you?

  As Treale and the others howled around him, he spun and began flying back to the beach.

  Stars, Lyana, if I find you dead, I'm going to kill you.

  He returned to hills littered with death: bodies charred black, their bones peeking from cracked skin; strewn limbs and severed heads, ripped from torsos with claw and fang; and clumps of raw flesh leaking from blackened armor, mere vestiges of humanity. Blood soaked the grass. Among the dead, wounded men and women screamed, some missing limbs, some burnt black and red, some futilely clutching at their spilling entrails. Elethor saw one girl, sixteen if she were a day, weeping in blood; her legs were gone, burnt away to stumps.

  Nausea rose in Elethor. His head spun. Lord Oldnale's words returned to him. The sons and daughters of Requiem will die for your pride!

  Elethor clenched his jaw, lungs tight, barely able to breathe. The death and blood whirled around him.

  They had brought a dozen healers from Nova Vita—young women trained by
Mother Adia in the temple. These healers now rushed among the wounded, pressing bandages to cuts and burns. Dozens of dragons still flew above, having abandoned their phalanxes; they looked like headless chickens flapping around a coop. The rest of the army perched atop the cliffs, some staring back at the hills, others still watching the sea.

  A hundred wyverns nearly tore through us, Elethor thought, stomach churning. What will twenty thousand do when we meet them?

  Then he spotted Lyana, and all thoughts but of her faded from his mind.

  He had not seen her in a year, and he barely recognized her. She lay on the ground in human form, wearing tatters of silk. Lashes covered her body, stitched but still raw and red, and her head had been shaven so roughly scratches covered her scalp. Her eyes were closed, her body limp. Several soldiers surrounded her, staring down with pale faces. Elethor landed by them, nudged the young men aside with his wings, and shifted into human form.

  Stars, oh stars, Lyana, what did they do to you?

  He knelt above her and checked her pulse. Her heart still beat, and she still breathed, but that breath was shallow. Bruises covered her face, and fresh blood beaded along her stitches. They had beaten her within an inch of her life. One of the lashes looked particularly raw and swollen; Elethor thought it might be infected.

  "Lyana, I'm here," he whispered. He lifted her head gingerly, leaned down, and kissed her forehead. "You're safe now. We'll heal you."

  Along with his worry, shame filled him. How could he have doubted his love for her? How could he have spoken to Treale of being forced into marrying Lyana... thought of Treale herself as a woman to love? He clenched his fists and his head spun. Here in his arms lay Lyana—imperious, headstrong Lyana, beautiful and sad Lyana, the woman he loved more than the sky, than the rustle of birches, than the stars themselves—a new light in his life.

  Healers soon knelt above her, rubbed herbs into her wounds, and let her drink medicine from a vial. Still Lyana slept. She was barefoot, Elethor noticed in a daze, her soles cut and red. He touched her forehead and his eyes stung.

  "Lyana," he whispered as healers tended to her. "Do you remember what I told you in darkness, when we walked through nightmares we thought we could never wake from?" His memories returned to the Abyss and the disease that had infested her there. He caressed her cheek. "I told you that I would heal you, that I would bring you home. I told you that I'm always yours. I still am."

  Treale approached in human form, damp eyes peering from an ashy face. Mud and soot covered her armor. She knelt by Lyana, touched the knight's cheek, and then looked up at Elethor. Worry filled her eyes.

  "My lord, the wyverns... they flew from the north," the squire said. She looked at the storm clouds whence the beasts had emerged. "Where did they come from? What does this mean?" She looked back at him, eyes haunted. A bloody cut ran down her arm.

  Still holding Lyana, Elethor looked at a dead wyvern that lay a dozen yards away, burying its rider. His belly knotted and an invisible claw clamped his skull. He looked back at Lyana.

  "Wake up," he whispered to her. "Wake up, Lyana, and tell us what you know."

  She lay in his arms, eyes closed, breath shallow.

  "The Lady Lyana will sleep for a day and night," said one of the healers, a young woman with dark braids and white robes now blood-red. "We gave her silverweed wine. It will heal her, but she will not wake until tomorrow."

  With a stab of memory, Elethor recognized this healer; she was Piri, the daughter of a winemaker, a girl whom Bayrin had boasted of kissing in the forest three years ago. He remembered her brother too; the man had fought by his side in the Phoenix War and fallen underground. Elethor closed his eyes, his belly sinking. His breath felt like smoke in his lungs.

  "Place her on a litter, Piri," he said. "We fly with her."

  Piri looked at her fellow healers and nodded. Two of the robed women fetched a litter, placed Lyana gently upon it, and strapped her down. Piri shifted into a slim, lavender dragon with silver horns; the litter was fastened onto her back like a saddle. Elethor ached to see his betrothed lying there, so small upon her mount.

  He turned away to face Treale and hundreds of other soldiers; they stood in the dirt, watching him, awaiting orders.

  "These wyverns were but a drop from the sea of Solina's army," Elethor said. "Lyana was their prisoner; her wrists and ankles are chafed from chains. She escaped them. She flew here; the wyverns we slew were sent to catch her." He looked south toward the crashing sea. "Solina will not invade from the south." He clenched his fists. This beach lay only a league from their eastern border. Bloody stars, how could I be so blind. "She already flies in Requiem. She invaded from Osanna... from the northeast."

  Ash covered Treale's face, but he could still see her blanch.

  "Stars," she whispered. "The border with Osanna... My parents..." She shifted into a dragon and took flight, her wings raising clouds of dust. "She will be burning Oldnale Farms. We must fly!" The black dragon blew fire. "Fly, dragons of Requiem! Fly!"

  Elethor shifted too, flapped his wings, and took flight. Night had fallen. He soared higher until the air grew thin and cold and the hills became mere lumps across a rolling land. He tossed his head back. He roared the signal: three diagonal blasts of fire. A pause. Three more blasts tilted like falling columns. A pause. Three more. All dragons across the border, which stretched from here to Gilnor in the west, were trained to know this signal.

  Fall back.

  Fall back to Nova Vita.

  He stared to the west. The next guard post lay several leagues away; three dragons patrolled there. Elethor stared, barely daring to breathe. What if they could not see him through the clouds? What if they had fallen? Finally, in the distant darkness, he saw the signal returned.

  Three diagonal blasts of fire. Fallen columns.

  Fall back.

  Fall back to Nova Vita.

  Even farther away, so far he could barely see, the next outpost raised the signal too. The alarm would stretch across the border for hundreds of leagues, from soldier to soldier, until it reached the swamps of Gilnor where the last dragons flew.

  Fall back.

  Fall back home.

  Elethor descended until he flew a hundred yards above his army. Men were already digging graves for the fallen. Elethor roared to the army.

  "Fly, dragons of Requiem! Shift into dragons and fly! Into your phalanxes. Fly in formation. Leave your dead. We fly to war!"

  Fire streamed between his teeth, impossible to contain; he blew a stream into the sky. He began to fly north, eyes narrowed and belly roiling. Soon three thousand dragons flew behind him, their wings and howls a storm. Treale flew at his side, panting and snarling.

  "We must fly to Oldnale Manor, my lord!" she said to him, eyes flashing. "It lies on the border with Osanna. If Solina invades there, she will burn every farm my family owns."

  Elethor cursed himself. He cursed the wyverns. He cursed Solina and all her men. He had left the dead to rot behind him. He would now leave the living too, and the fires of sacrifice burned through him.

  "We do not fly to Oldnale Manor. If wyverns flew there, Treale, we must trust that your family fled. Twenty-five thousand souls live in Nova Vita; that is where Solina heads. That is where we head too." He growled and blew a blast of fire. "We failed to block her passage into Requiem; we can no longer save the countryside. We fall back to the capital."

  Treale gasped and tears filled her eyes. She shook her head mightily and roared her fire.

  "My king! I cannot abandon my family. I cannot leave them to die." She glared at him, fire sparking between her teeth. "I must fly to them, my king."

  He glared back at her, eyes narrowed. "You are a soldier of Requiem, Treale Oldnale. You train for knighthood. Your duty is with your king." He lowered his head, chest aching, and his voice softened. "I lost my family to Solina; I know the pain of loss. But our duty now lies at the capital; it is Nova Vita we must defend now. And you will fly there with us."
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  Treale gave him a long stare, rage and tears mingling in her eyes. Then she blasted fire, spun around, and began flying east.

  "I go to warn my family!" she said. "That is where my duty lies. Goodbye, King Elethor! We will meet in our starlit halls of afterlife!"

  With that, she disappeared into the clouds, roaring fire.

  Elethor watched the clouds, throat tight.

  Her family will die, he knew. She will die. Her home and people will burn. All of Requiem will rise in flame again. He howled, letting rage overflow his terror. But I will save my city. If Requiem burns around us, I will save our last bastion.

  "Fly!" he cried. "Fly with all your speed!"

  They flew through the night, three thousand strong, sons and daughters, a young king, a bloodied knight. The darkness spread endless before them and the winds of war screamed.

  SOLINA

  He entered her tent clad in armor, clutching his throat and still wheezing. He took slow, confident paces and held his back straight and shoulders squared—a pathetic attempt to restore some pride. He had lost their catch; no steel armor nor strong stance could save his pride today.

  Solina sat in her chair, feet upon a footstool. Around her draped the walls of her tent—thick red cloth embroidered with golden suns. Candles burned upon giltwood tables around them. Solina sipped wine, then placed her goblet down. She gave Mahrdor a long, silent look. He stared back steadily, blue eyes emotionless, but his fingers still clutched his throat, and his lip gave a twitch.

  Solina sighed. "You let the bird fly."

  When he spoke, his voice was but a hoarse whisper. "A dragon, my queen, not a bird; a dragon who nearly clawed my throat out." He pulled his hand back, revealing a neck scratched red and raw. Blood still dripped from it.

  Solina laughed. "The Lady Lyana Eleison. I grew up with her, Mahrdor—a pampered girl born into splendor. I saw her cry once when a bee stung her in the gardens. And this rich, spoiled spawn of a lordling, born with a silver spoon up her backside, nearly clawed out the throat of mighty General Mahrdor, Lord of Tiranor's Hosts?"