A Day of Dragon Blood

by Daniel Arenson

  She knew it was him. From here the dragons were but a distant cloud, a shimmering shadow of color and flame, but she knew that he flew there. She could feel him on the wind, hear him in the distant roars. Once more she heard his cry—echoing from eight years ago—as he stood upon the walls of Nova Vita, calling her name.

  "Solina!" His voice had been raw and torn. "Solina!"

  She had wept that day, burnt and bleeding and alone. She had left him, going into her exile. She had fled into the sand, raised her kingdom from ruin, raised this army, raised this glory to light the world. And now he would shout again above the walls of Nova Vita. Now again fire would burn and blood spill.

  "Elethor," she whispered again, "you have come to me."

  How many times she had kissed him! How many times she had loved him in the dark! Today he would be hers again, not a lover, but a prisoner. Today he would cry her name again, not in love, but in agony as she ripped into his flesh.

  "Elethor..."

  She clutched her sabre between her teeth, grabbed the reins, and pulled her wyvern around. The beast banked, tilting so steeply that Solina nearly fell from the saddle. She snarled and began flying south.

  "Riders of Tiranor!" she cried. "Assault formation! Form rank! Follow me—we fight in the sky!"

  The other riders noticed the distant cloud too. From here the dragons were a mere smudge in the sunset, a shimmer of scales, blue and red and green. Fire rose from them like sunbeams. Their howls rolled upon the wind. Solina led the charge, sabre raised, shouts ringing hoarsely. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw her army change formation; now they formed a great fist in the sky. Her strongest phalanxes flew at the vanguard, armed with spears and crossbows. Their wyverns filled their maws with acid; the sharp stench filled Solina's nostrils and burned her lungs. She inhaled deeply, savoring it.

  "For the Sun God!" she cried and her army echoed her call. "Banish their darkness with our light!"

  The two armies streamed toward each other. When the dragons came nearer, Solina bared her teeth in a grin. At most four thousand dragons flew toward them—probably fewer. We outnumber them five to one.

  "For Requiem!" rose their distant cries, deep and echoing against the stony mountains below. "Requiem!"

  The sunset blazed red, casting beams across the land like spilling blood. The mountains below kindled in the light. Dragonfire rose in pillars. Wyverns screeched. Soon only a league separated the armies, and Solina raised her blade and cried to her love.

  "Elethor! Elethor, we meet again!"

  He flew at his army's lead, a brass dragon with fire in his maw. He sounded his roar, and his dragons answered the call.

  "For King Elethor!" the dragons cried. "For Requiem!"

  Fire blazed toward her. Her wyvern's acid blew. Above the mountains, the armies clashed with blood and screams.

  ELETHOR

  Roaring fire, he flew at Solina.

  Sunrays blazed around him. His fire streamed forward, crackling and spinning. From the inferno, a stream of acid hissed. Elethor howled and banked, dodging the acid. The drops sizzled against his side, jabs of agony like arrows tipped with poison.

  "Elethor!" rose her voice from the smoke and flame. She laughed maniacally. "We meet again, Elethor, King of Lizards!"

  He growled and flew toward her; he could just make out her form among the smoke. All around them, dragons and wyverns clashed. Fire and acid sprayed, blood spilled, crossbows fired, and bodies rained. Elethor blew fire and Solina raised her shield. The flames bathed it, white-hot, and Solina screamed.

  Her wyvern, the great beast Baal, lashed claws the size of men. Elethor pulled back, dodging the blows. Baal's neck thrust forward, jaws snapped, and a fang tore at Elethor's leg. Blood splashed, and Elethor soared just as the beast spewed acid.

  He swerved, dodged the sizzling fountain, and swooped. Before he could muster fire, Baal barreled into him. Fangs drove into Elethor's shoulder. He roared. Acid filled Baal's mouth, spilling across Elethor; he screamed in agony.

  "You scream like a sow in heat, Elethor!" Solina shouted, grinning wildly. She raised her crossbow, loaded a bolt, and aimed. "You will scream for me in Tiranor soon."

  Nearly blind with pain, Elethor swiped his tail.

  The crossbow thrummed and a bolt glanced off Elethor's horn.

  His tail hit Solina and she screamed.

  The blow knocked her sideways—nearly off her saddle. The reins tugged tight, and Baal released Elethor and fell into shadow.

  "Elethor!" Solina screamed, and then a horde of dragons and wyverns rolled between them, and she vanished into clouds of fire and blood.

  Elethor's shoulder blazed; acid drenched it. He slapped his claws and blew his breath at the foul liquid. The last drops fell, revealing a steaming wound; the acid had eaten through three scales and left his flesh raw and red.

  He looked through the flames, seeking his fellow dragons. They flew all around him, four thousand strong; nearly all the dragons who had guarded the southern border, from Ralora to western Gilnor, now flew with him. They were roaring battle cries, blowing flames every which way, and scattering and reforming in chaos. Some howled in fury; others wailed in fear. As he watched, acid sprayed several dragons. They became men and women in midair, screaming and clutching at their melting faces; they fell into darkness.

  "Dragons of Requiem!" Elethor cried. "Form rank! Into your phalanxes. Fight them! Kill the riders! Burn them down—"

  Two wyverns crashed into him. Their fangs and claws tore at his scales. Acid sprayed and Elethor howled.

  He soared, claws lashing, and crashed between them. Above them, he shook himself and bellowed. The acid was already eating at his scales; as he shook, it rained upon the wyverns below. Their riders screamed as the acid seeped through their armor.

  Even as they burned, the riders raised crossbows. Bolts flew. Elethor swerved. One bolt shot through his wing, and he crashed into a wyvern at his side. Another beast dived above. Elethor could see no end to them. He spun in all directions, spraying fire and holding the creatures back.

  "Solina!" he shouted.

  Where was she? He dived between raining bodies, seeking her. Smoke blinded him. Wyverns and dragons shot in every direction, flashes of scales. Human bodies thumped against him, rolled off, and hit the mountains below.

  "Form rank!" Elethor shouted. "Dragons of Requiem! Fight them!"

  He looked from side to side, panting. Acid coated them. They screamed. Their magic left them; they became men and women and tumbled. No, not men and women, he realized. They were mere boys and girls—farmhands, weavers, and shepherds. They cried for their mothers. They fell, flesh melting, screams echoing in Elethor's ears.

  This is no battle, he thought. It's a slaughter.

  The wyverns flew in perfect formations, attack flights of four—two attackers flanked by two defenders—swarming from phalanxes of a hundred. They undulated into the distance; Elethor saw no end to them. Most had not even fought yet, but howled for blood, awaiting their turn to kill. They formed a ring of metal and acid around the dragons, picking them from the sky one by one.

  "Dragons, fly in your phalanxes!" Elethor cried. "Kill the beasts!"

  Blue scales flashed below. From a ball of fire and smoke soared Lyana. Flames streamed from her maw and crashed against a wyvern above her. She spun, lashed her tail, and tore off a rider's arm; it tumbled with a spray of blood. She looked from side to side, clawing the air. Elethor flew toward her, roared, and flamed a wyvern. Soon the two dragons, brass and blue, fought side by side. Wyverns flew from all sides.

  "This is a bloodbath!" she shouted at him. "Elethor, we must retreat!"

  Crossbows fired. One bolt glanced off Lyana's back, and another pierced her wing. A spear slashed Elethor's burnt shoulder and he howled. Wyverns dived from above and acid rained. Elethor and Lyana scattered, dodged the burning rain, and soared. They blew fire, slashed claws, and felled wyverns from the sky.

  The bodies of Vir Requis tu
mbled all around them, returned to human forms. One girl slammed onto Lyana's wing, still alive and screaming, then plummeted into darkness. A boy fell before Elethor, a writhing mass of flesh that twisted and steamed with acid. His screams died before he could hit the mountains below.

  "We cannot let them reach the city!" Elethor shouted. He lashed his claws, blew fire, and tried to find Solina. Was she dead? Did she still fight?

  Wyverns dived toward him. Blood and acid filled the sky. The sun disappeared behind the horizon, and dragonfire lit the night. Screams and shrieks rose, and the dead fell in darkness.

  DERAMON

  He stood upon the walls, a coppery dragon spewing smoke, and growled at the distant battle. From here, he could see nothing but bursts of fire, fluttering shadows, and glints of steel. He could hear only distant screams and muffled commands. Deramon fumed and gripped the crenellations.

  "It's a bloodbath," Bayrin whispered at his side, tail slapping the wall. He snorted a flicker of fire, then looked at Deramon. "Father, let us fly to them."

  Deramon grumbled under his breath. He was commander of the City Guard; never had his force left Nova Vita to fight the battles beyond the walls. For three hundred years—under his father's command, and his grandfather's, and his ancestors' going back to Terra Eleison himself—the City Guard had manned its post.

  "We have our orders," he said gruffly. "We protect the people of Nova Vita. We will not leave them in the tunnels."

  Bayrin fumed. Smoke rose between his teeth in curtains. He shook his head wildly and slapped his tail. "Father, I can hear them screaming from here! Those are our men screaming. Stars, they're dying out there. They need us."

  Deramon glared at his son, a gangly green dragon. "The people of this city need us. Twenty thousand seek shelter in the tunnels; we'll not abandon them. This is our post."

  Snorting and shifting his claws, Bayrin looked back and forth between his father and the battle. A separate battle seemed to rage within him. Finally he leaped from the wall, filled his wings with air, and began flying south.

  "To the Abyss with my post!" he called back to Deramon. "I'm flying to Elethor."

  The young guard growled, blew fire, and soared into the night. Soon he was but a sliver of scales flying toward the storm of battle. Deramon watched from the walls, growled, and cursed. He shook his head mightily, scattering fire, and his claws dug ruts into the battlements. Finally he let out a string of curses, flapped his wings, and rose into the air.

  "Stars, I'm going to regret this," he muttered. He looked over his shoulder and howled to his men. "Temple Guard! Palace Guard! Northern Wall! Barracks Guard!"

  The dragons of those posts stared at him, eyes glowing in the night—three hundred warriors in all. Damn buildings are empty anyway, Deramon thought with a grumble. He raised his voice again.

  "Fly—with me! We fly to war." Deramon roared fire and glared at the rest of his Guard, those who manned the remaining walls and streets. "The rest of you miserable lot—man your posts and don't let any bloody wyverns in, or I'll flay your hides!"

  With that, he flapped his wings, howled to the sky, and flew into the southern darkness. Behind him, four hundred dragons roared and followed. The wheat and barley below bent under the beat of their wings, and their flames lit the darkness.

  "For Requiem!" one guardsman cried behind. The others answered his call. "Requiem!"

  They cut through the night. The wind roared around them. Four hundred dragons—flying toward a storm of fire, acid, and death. The fire of battle lit the night. When they drew closer, they saw thousands of wyverns—tens of thousands—surrounding the Royal Army. Their scales clattered, their claws shone, and their acid felled Vir Requis from the sky. Bodies rained and slammed into the mountains below.

  Deramon growled. Ice seemed to spread through his gut like the fingers of ghosts.

  My men don't know I too feel fear, he thought, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed. Not I, the great Lord Deramon Eleison. And yet as he flew, his belly twisted with terror, and he howled to let his fire melt the ice.

  He flew for glory. He flew for death. This would be the last battle of his life, the battle where he fell, where his son fell, where his men fell with a roar to enter legend. He sounded that roar now.

  "Requiem!" he called to the sky.

  The wyverns ahead spun to face the new dragons, reforming rank in the clouds. They bared teeth like swords, their eyes burned red, and their riders fired crossbows. Bolts streamed through the night, shards of lightning. Two dragons howled, turned to humans, and fell from the sky. With shrieks and battle cries, a thousand wyverns flew toward the City Guard.

  The sky exploded with fire, acid, and blood. Deramon roared his flames, burning three wyverns. He lashed his tail, slamming its spikes into another's eyes. His dragons roared around him, and fire spouted and rained to the mountains below. The wyverns filled the night. Sprays of acid rose and fell around him. Deramon skirted between them, growling and beating his wings, trying to fan the acid aside.

  One spray glanced off his side and he roared; it felt like spears slashing across him. He growled and swooped toward the wyvern that had burned him. The beast reared and bit the air. Deramon lashed its head, but his claws glanced off scales, raising sparks; those scales felt harder than the thickest breastplate in Requiem's armories. The wyvern shrieked, a deafening sound, and shot more acid. Deramon dropped in the sky, flew under the beast, and rose behind it. He snapped his jaws at the rider, catching the man as he spun to aim his crossbow. Deramon's teeth punched through armor and tore the Tiran in two. He spat out half a corpse, then bathed the screeching wyvern with flame.

  Still the beast flew and roared. Deramon clutched its back, bit its neck, and clawed its flanks. It bucked beneath him. Deramon was among the largest dragons in Requiem; this beast made him seem like a scrawny child just learning to fly. Its tail lashed and slammed into Deramon's back, cracking scales. Shrieks sounded above, and more wyverns dived, maws opening to reveal pools of acid.

  Deramon cursed, tugged sideways, and flipped the wyvern over. He held the struggling beast above him, and the acid cascaded onto its belly. It roared. Its legs kicked the air. The acid seeped through it scales, and its blood rained.

  "Father!"

  Bayrin's voice rose through the battle. The green dragon shot through fire and smoke, roared, and slammed into the wyverns above Deramon. They howled. More dragons flew into them, showering them with fire.

  Cursing, Deramon tossed off the mewling wyvern he clutched; it tumbled from the sky. He flew up and joined Bayrin, and they lashed their claws, felling another beast. When Deramon looked around him, he saw a sea of wyverns; thousands encircled him, his son, and what remained of the dragons he had led to battle. Perhaps fifty still flew; the rest lay dead on the mountainside.

  "Elethor!" Deramon howled. He stared south over thousands of wyverns and dragons, clouds of fire and acid, and spraying blood. "Elethor, get your dragons out of here! We fight underground!"

  A brass dragon rose from fire, perhaps a mile away—Elethor Aeternum, King of Requiem. Blood stained his muzzle, and he spat a legless Tiran rider from his mouth. He nodded at Deramon and shouted to those of his dragons who still lived.

  "Royal Army!" he cried. "To the city! Fall back to Nova Vita. To the tunnels!"

  Dragons began rising from the fray and flying north. Deramon cursed and felt those old, icy fingers reach through him. Four thousand dragons had flown south with the Royal Army; he saw several hundred who still lived.

  It's a massacre, he thought. His innards burned and shook. He saw the images again: his men dead underground, his king burnt, the bodies of children strewn around him—children he had vowed to protect. Beyond those shadows, he saw an older ghost: the body of Noela in her crib, a mere babe. He had shaken her, pleaded with her, raised her above his head and howled in grief. He had buried her. He had wept for days, mourned for years.

  How much death can we endure? he thought in a haze. He could bar
ely hear the battle anymore. The screams were muted. The acid and fire gave no heat. The bodies on the mountains below gazed up at him—young eyes, scared, the eyes of sons and daughters, husbands, wives.

  You failed us, Deramon, those eyes said to him. You vowed to protect us. Won't you save us?

  Deramon shut his eyes. The children in the tunnels would die too. They would die like Noela. But he would not bury them; he would die in acid at their side.

  "Father, fly!" rose a voice. Deramon opened his eyes to see Bayrin hovering before him, his scales burnt with acid, his flank slashed and bleeding. His son slapped him with his wings. "Father, fly with me."

  With a howl, Deramon flew.

  The dragons of Requiem raced over the mountains.

  The wyverns chased.

  When Deramon looked behind him, he saw Elethor leading ragtag survivors in flight. Wyverns dived all around them, spraying them with acid, picking them off one by one. With every flap of dragon wings, another Vir Requis turned human, screamed and clutched melting skin, and tumbled into darkness.

  "Fly, dragons of Requiem!" Deramon shouted. He dived back toward Elethor, roasted a wyvern, and flew by his king. The lands streamed beneath them. The wind roared. All around them, countless wyverns shrieked, and riders chanted, and acid flew, and crossbows fired, and everywhere—everywhere in the night Vir Requis fell dead. Wherever he looked, he saw them burning, saw their pleading eyes.

  Deramon! You vowed to protect us!

  "Fly, dragons of Requiem!" cried King Elethor. "To the city! To the tunnels!"

  Deramon sought Nova Vita in the darkness. He could not see the city. Flying to battle, the flight had seemed so short, a mere dash across field, forest, and mountain. Now the miles stretched endlessly. Now the fields and forests drank the blood of dragons.

  "Father!" rose a pained cry, and a blue dragon streamed toward him.

  Pain drove through Deramon like a spear in his chest. His eyes stung. Lyana! Lyana flew there, his daughter, the light of his life. She was wounded, her scales chipped, her eyes narrowed with pain, and her body thin.