A Day of Dragon Blood (Dragonlore, Book 2)

by Daniel Arenson

  She kept slamming against the bars until the sun sank, darkness filled the solarium, and she saw nothing but a faint glimmer of moon through the glass ceiling. With a wordless shout, Lyana sat down, pulled her knees to her chest, and lowered her head.

  "I'm sorry, Elethor," she whispered.

  She tried not to think of home. Remembering would be too hard. Yet in the darkness, she could not stop the memories from rising like dreams. She saw the gardens of the palace, a lush haven where she would walk with Elethor and talk to him of politics and warfare and heraldry, then catch him giving her a warm look and smile. He would pull her close and kiss her cheek, and she would struggle and call him a blockhead for ignoring her words, but then capitulate and let him kiss her under the trees. She saw Bayrin again, her oaf of a brother, sneak into her chamber to draw rude pictures on her shield, place frogs in her bed, and once—she shook her head to remember it—hide a snake in her drawer of undergarments. She thought of her parents, and of her friend Mori, and her squire Treale Oldnale, and a lump filled her throat. She could not stop a tear from falling.

  In the darkness, she saw the acid coat them—Elethor, her family, and her friends. Like Silas at the palace, they would scream, and their flesh would melt, until they lay as sticky bones with anguished skulls.

  She placed her head against her knees. She tried to stay awake, but sleep still found her, and dreams emerged in the darkness. She no longer huddled in a cage, but hung in a cocoon of cobwebs. Nedath, Guardian of the Abyss, scuttled toward her—a rotting girl with the body of a centipede. The demon licked and bit her, and Lyana screamed and wept. She swung on the cobwebs, and dozens of creatures swung around her, shriveled skin clinging to spines, their heads shrunken like those in Mahrdor's chambers, their toothless gums smacking. Count the screws! Grow sideways like the little hairs of skeleys.

  Cold wind blew.

  A sun raced between clouds.

  She walked through King's Forest outside her city, stepping daintily between conifers ancient and gnarly, her feet as snowflakes upon a carpet of fallen needles. As ten thousand magpies sang, she traversed the hilltops, and there she came upon a lion of the woods. A noble creature was he, with soft fur the color of light and paws that left no prints. She reached her fingers into his mane, and when she looked upon herself, she saw that her armor had become a pixie homespun of grass and fur, old leaves and strings of golden hair.

  "O, King of all Beasts," she whispered into his ear, and lay beside him, and there he licked her lily hands and chanted blessings upon her.

  "Climb onto my back, fair maiden of these pines, and lay your head upon mine," he said, and Lyana climbed onto him. He ran across the hills and took her to a faerie court where stone balustrades surrounded a pool of twigs and cyclamen petals. A sword of stone lay upon an old shield there, encrusted with kings' blood, and on its blade silver runes told of want and lacking.

  King Lion laid his head upon the shield, and kissed the stone blade so that his lips bled, and anointed Lyana with a kiss. He sang.

  Queen of blood

  Lie upon the grave of kings

  Child of shattered metal

  And light

  He seemed as though he would sing more. He forgot the words.

  In the woods...

  In the woods Lyana wept. In the woods she prayed for life, she who had been marked to die. In the woods a giant boy with the head of a moose disassembled her methodically, neatly unscrewing arms, legs, her head, laying the pieces out before him. He blinked his eyes, wet eyes the size of saucers, long lashes like oily curtains.

  "Daughter of Eleison," he said, his voice like a grunt, the groan of a rutting beast. She was a tiny doll to him. His furry hands would not leave her, arranging and rearranging her pieces upon the earth of this land. This land...

  So beautiful an animal...

  Her blood seeped into the pinecones.

  Through her city she walked, houses like boxes, stained hands, snarling teeth and fear so thick in the air she coughed, choked, and fell to her knees.

  O, King Lion! King of all beasts!

  She ran from door to door, but each was barred to her. She sought her mother and father, but she found only puddles on the ground full of floating teeth. In the puddles she saw the face of her dancer—hair platinum, eyes hidden behind a scarf, face dyed gold. Tiana. Her eternal twin.

  The boy awaited them both, and Lyana shivered and hated and feared. She lowered her head, let her hair cover her face, and wept as men with swords marched and shouted around her, and wyverns flew over the eastern hills.

  When she awoke, a cruel sun seared her through the glass ceiling. When she touched the bars of her cage, they burned her fingers. Her limbs were stiff, her head aching, her throat parched.

  "Stars of Requiem," she whispered, but her lips were so dry that they cracked, and she tasted blood. She fell silent.

  The birds woke, squawked, chirped, and beeped around her. The flowers growing from their vases and baskets bloomed toward the light. The room soon sweltered, and Lyana's throat ached for water, and her head began to spin. She rose on stiff limbs and began slamming against the bars again, a rhythmic beat. She threw herself against them until the gold peeled off the iron, her shoulders were raw, and bruises spread across her. She kept slamming, again and again, jaw clenched, mind blank, just to do something—anything.

  "Mahrdor!" she shouted, hoarse. "Come and see me, Mahrdor! Come face me. I will kill you!"

  The birds shrieked, her only answer.

  He would arrive soon, she knew. He would arrive to see her, to bring her water and food, to taunt her, maybe to demand she dance, or demand she lie with him. He would not just leave her here. She kept attacking the cage as the sun moved across the sky and began to set again, and orange and red light filled the aviary.

  She sat, knees pulled to her chest, and watched the sunset. Was Elethor watching the sunset too, flying toward Ralora Beach? Was Mori watching the sky, ruling alone in Nova Vita, awaiting the fire?

  Her head spun and her skull seemed too tight. Her lips bled. Her throat blazed. Her stomach clenched with hunger. How long could she survive here? He would arrive soon, she knew. He would bring her water. If he did not, she would perish; he did not encage her in gold, his prize pet, to let her die. He would arrive soon—before darkness fell. He would bring sweet, cool water from deep wells, water to soothe her throat, cure her spinning head, and give her strength to fight him. The cage spun around her. She gagged and coughed.

  Darkness fell.

  She sat against the bars, shivering, arms wrapped around her.

  He wants me to die. He will let me die here. I will die tonight. Goodbye, Requiem. I will fly to your starlit halls.

  She closed her eyes and saw the pillars of afterlife.

  Boots thudded across the hall.

  She opened her eyes and winced. Lamplight filled the aviary, and three shadows approached her. They wore armor and helmets; she could not see their faces. When they reached her cage, one tossed a waterskin, a loaf of bread, and a wheel of cheese past the bars.

  She glared at the soldiers. She wanted to shout curses at them, to try and break the bars again, to reach out and try to scratch them. One more glance at the water and food, and she chose them instead. She drank first. The water was brackish, and there was not nearly enough, but it was the best thing she had ever drunk, sweeter than wine from Requiem's vineyards. She stuffed the food into her mouth until her cheeks bulged.

  Before she could swallow, the guards lifted her cage. They began to carry it toward the doors. Lyana swallowed hastily and shouted at them, voice hoarse.

  "Fight me like men! Open this cage and face me in battle, cowards!" She banged against the bars. "Are you so weak that you fear to fight a woman?"

  They kept walking, carrying her through the doors and into a corridor. These were no Gilded Guardians, she saw; they did not serve the General Mahrdor. Their helms were not shaped as ibises, but as falcons. Their armor was not golden,
but pale platinum with sunbursts upon their breasts.

  Palace guards, Lyana knew. Queen Solina's men.

  She reached out the bars and scratched at their armor; a feeble gesture. She tried to snag one's helmet off, hoping to claw his eyes, but he caught her wrist and twisted so hard that she yelped. He released her just before her bone could crack.

  "Where are you taking me?" she demanded, cradling her wrist and glaring. "I am a soldier of Requiem. You will answer to the wrath of our king."

  One guard turned his head, and his falcon helm faced her. When he spoke, his voice was gravely and high-pitched, truly the sound of a steel bird. Through his visor's eye holes, she glimpsed a face hideously scarred; his eyelids were raw and hairless. This one had been lax around wyverns, she wagered.

  "Queen Solina is... borrowing you for a while," the guard said, his voice as raw and twisted as the skin around his eyes. He made a sound halfway between a chuckle and a clearing of the throat. "She will return you to General Mahrdor eventually. Whether you'll return the same creature, well... that I doubt."

  A hissing sound rose from his helm, and it was a moment before Lyana realized: it was laughter. The sound sent a chill through her; she couldn't help but shiver.

  Solina.

  Lyana had seen the queen's work in Requiem—bodies cut, burnt, killed in agony, even children. She tortured my Orin to death. Will she do the same to me?

  She screamed in her cage and slammed against the bars.

  The palace guards carried her out of Mahrdor's villa and into the gardens, where fig and carob trees rose from pebbly earth. Braziers stood in palisades, lighting the night and filling the air with scented smoke. A wyvern awaited in a cobbled courtyard, snarling at the stars. When it saw the approaching guards, it howled and bucked, scales clacking and tail lashing. Acid dripped from its maw to burn holes into the cobblestones. Its metallic scent filled Lyana's nostrils and seared her tongue.

  The guards hoisted her cage onto the wyvern's back. She rolled against the bars, clenched her jaw, and snarled. They chained the cage down, and the deformed guard climbed into the beast's saddle. He grabbed a whip, cracked it, and the wyvern took flight.

  The beast soared so fast, Lyana's head spun, black shadows spread across her eyes, and she nearly passed out. Her ears throbbed and her insides sank. Even as a dragon, she would never soar so quickly. She gasped for air and clenched her fists, struggling not to faint. The wyvern's girth blocked most of her view, but she could see the rims of the city around it, from the southern dunes where the torches of soldiers crackled, to the northern delta where ships sailed to sea, lanterns glowing upon their hulls. She stared across that sea, squinted, and tried to see Requiem's shores; she would draw comfort from them. Those shores were too distant and dark for her eyes, and she lowered her head.

  I am alone here.

  The wyvern began to descend. Streets snaked in labyrinths below, crowded with houses, palm trees, and people carrying tin lanterns—thousands of ants from up here, thousands of lives, thousands of worlds, all unaware of her pain. Lyana glimpsed the Tower of Akartum, which rose upon Phoebus Palace; they were heading there. To her. To the woman Elethor had loved, the woman who had murdered Orin, the woman Lyana vowed to kill.

  The wyvern landed in a courtyard surrounded by walls and towers. A gateway led into the palace—a quiet backdoor. The soldiers carried her into a corridor and down a stairwell, its walls carved with suns and falcons. Their boots thudded and a thousand candles lit their way, wax melting like men under acid.

  The air grew cool and musty as they descended. It seemed like they plummeted forever; the stairway coiled like a worm digging toward a man's heart. Lyana couldn't help but shiver. She crouched in her cage, snarling between the bars.

  Don't dig so deep! she wanted to cry. You will wake the creatures of the Abyss. You will free the Shrivels who hang there. You will wither with them.

  Yet a different horror dwelled in this underground. After countless steps deeper into darkness, the staircase ended and they entered the palace dungeons.

  A tunnel stretched before Lyana, hewn of craggy stone. Cells lined the tunnel walls; blood trickled from between their bars, and screams rose from them, twisting in the air like demons of sound. The stench of disease, nightsoil, and fear filled Lyana's nostrils, so powerful that she gritted her teeth to stop from gagging.

  The guards carried her cage down the tunnel. As they walked, Lyana stared into the cells they passed. Her stomach clenched and she could barely breathe. Inside one cell, guards were slicing pieces off a chained man as if carving a roast boar; the man screamed and writhed with every slice. In another chamber, guards smirked as they let rats feast upon a chained woman's legs; her feet were already gone. In a third cell, children hung from hooks, still alive and mewling, their bodies twisted with acid and their eyes pleading.

  Lyana closed her own eyes. She did not want to see more. As the guards kept carrying her down the hall, however, she could still hear the torture: whips landing, hammers breaking bones, and mostly screams, horrible screams like those of the Abyss.

  "I am a knight of Requiem," she whispered to herself, arms trembling. "I am a warrior. I am strong. Whatever they do to me, I can bear it."

  And yet she knew that was a lie.

  I cannot bear it.

  If they broke her body here, they would break her mind too. If she ever returned to Elethor, she would be a shell of a woman—a cowering, mindless wretch, a fool for his court. A tear streamed down her cheek.

  "I'm sorry, Elethor," she whispered. "I'm sorry, Mori."

  Would they too end up here? Elethor had told her that Solina had spared his life in Requiem's tunnels; she wanted him a prisoner, not a corpse. She would bring him here, Lyana realized; she would bring Elethor to this place, and the Princess Mori, and Bayrin, and her parents, and their flesh would be sliced like roast boar, and rats would eat their legs, and...

  Lyana shivered, fists trembling and tears flowing from closed eyes.

  The hall seemed to stretch forever. If the Abyss loomed below Requiem, here was Tiranor's buried realm of darkness. After what seemed like hours—hours of screams, of blood, of the crack of bones and the rip of flayed skin—they reached an empty cell.

  My own corner of pain, Lyana thought. My own place of madness.

  The guards carried her cage inside and placed it on the floor. The walls closed in around her; the cell was no more than five feet wide. Its walls were carved of living rock, and manacles hung from its ceiling like iron Shrivels. In the guards' torchlight, Lyana saw that blood splashed the walls, floor, and chains. In a corner, a rat feasted on severed human fingers.

  "Remove her from her cage," said the scarred guard to his comrades. He hissed a laugh. "Hang her from the manacles."

  The guards snarled, lifted chains from the floor, and began slinking them through the cage bars. Lyana snarled, grabbed the chains, and tugged them.

  "Hands down!" said the guard with the burnt face. He thrust a club into the cage and rapped her fingers. She yowled and tried to grab the club, but he pulled it back. Her fingers blazed. She grabbed at the chains again, and the club slammed down a second time. Pain blazed up to her shoulder, and she thought her fingers might be broken. When the chains were slung through the cage bars, the guards tugged them. They wrapped around her body, tightened, and clutched her like iron pythons. She writhed in the trap. When she tried to tug the chains loose, the guards pulled them tighter, and the links dug into her torso.

  When they opened her cage door, she tried to leap at them. The chains crushed her. She floundered like a fish in a net. When they grabbed her arms, she screamed and kicked and tried to bite them. Clubs descended; one hit her shoulder, another her wrist. A guard backhanded her twice, so that her lips split, and her jaw screamed in pain.

  She howled, blood in her mouth. She tried to summon her magic, to shift into a dragon. Fire tickled her maw. Scales began to appear across her. As her body grew, the chains tightened further
, cutting off her breath. She gasped for air and her magic left her. Hands grabbed her wrists and bent them. She roared; she thought the guards would snap her bones. A knee drove into her stomach and she gasped. Pain was all she knew.

  They yanked her arms up, and manacles closed around her wrists. Chains tightened, pulling her toward the ceiling. She screamed. Her heels left the floor; she remained standing on her toes. The guards pulled the gilded cage outside the cell, leaving her hanging from the ceiling.

  Her captors shuffled outside. All but the scarred guard with the hissing laughter remained. He stared at the hanging Lyana; his eyes were red behind his helm. She stared into those eyes and bared her teeth.

  "I will kill you some day," she said softly. There was no emotion to her voice, no rage, no fear; she was not speaking a mere threat, but a cold fact.

  The guard stared at her for a moment longer, then began to slowly remove his helm. Lyana grimaced and disgust swelled inside her. His head was nothing but a scar; it looked like a clump of wet, white cloth. He hissed through a toothless mouth; it looked like a mere slit in leather.

  "Kill me?" he said. He laughed, a sound more like a cough. "I used to hang in this cell, girl. I hung here as they doused me with wyvern acid." He coughed and spat. "For a year I served my sentence. Now I watch others suffer like I did. Kill me? Soon you will want to kill yourself more than me."

  He turned around, left the chamber, and slammed the cell door behind him.

  Darkness filled Lyana's world. She heard nothing but a hundred screams.

  ELETHOR

  They sat in the palace war room, a towering chamber with brick walls, a shadowy dome, and an oak table so wide and heavy a dragon could sleep upon it. Torches flickered in the walls and thick curtains hid the windows. Seven seats, taller than warriors, stood around the table.

  Elethor looked around the room, eying each person in turn. The highborn of Requiem sat before him.

  "We have word from the south," he said. "Lady Lyana reports that armies muster, that Tiranor plans to strike at summer solstice." He jabbed his finger against a parchment map that lay across the table. "Solina will strike here, at Ralora Beach, southeast of Castellum Luna. The invasion is eight days away."