A Day of Dragon Blood (Dragonlore, Book 2)

by Daniel Arenson

  She raised her chin and glared. "You will not call me that word. I am a Vir Requis. I am descended from Terra Eleison himself. I am—"

  "...in no position to make demands," he finished for her. He spat his olive pit into a handkerchief, folded it neatly, and placed it by his plate. "Are you done eating? Good, Lyana. Good. The food has done well with you; the color returns to your cheeks and the fire to your eyes. Soon your wounds will heal, and your hair will grow, and you will be as fair as before. I will see to it."

  He rose to his feet and began to remove his armor. He placed his breastplate, vambraces, pauldrons, and a dozen other pieces of steel upon a table. When he stood clad in nothing but his tunic and breeches, he moved to stand by the bed.

  "Now," he said, "dance for me. Dance like you danced in my home. Dance and you will see that home again—and never more Solina's dungeon."

  She stared at him. He stared back, digging his gaze into her.

  For Requiem.

  She rose to her feet so suddenly her chair fell back and nearly knocked over a candle. Her chains clanked. Never removing her eyes from his, she danced.

  Once she had danced in silks; today she wore chains and tatters. Once she had swayed like a desert wind; today she moved like a trapped bird fluttering against the bars of its cage. He eyed her hungrily. As she swayed near him, he tugged at the rags she wore, tearing a strip of cloth. He bared his teeth, a rabid wolf eyeing his prey.

  As she danced before him, chains chinking, he reached out like a striking asp, grabbed her, and pulled her onto the bed. He shoved her facedown onto the mattress, and when she looked over her shoulder, she saw him undoing the laces of his breeches.

  When he mounted her, she closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and buried her face in the bed. She wanted to do it now, but forced herself to endure him. He was lustful now. He was strong now. He would be weak soon. He had known her twice before; she could endure it again. She closed her eyes and thought of the skies of Requiem, the sound of harps in marble temples, and the thousands of dragons who flew like shards of colored glass under the stars.

  When he was done with her, he rose to his feet, breathing heavily. He approached the table, yawned magnificently, and began to pour more wine.

  "By the Sun God, Lyana," he said, "you do take the strength out of a man."

  Quick as a juggler, Lyana shoved her bound wrists under and around her legs; her arms were now bound before her, not behind her back.

  She leaped toward him.

  She wrapped her chains around his throat and pulled.

  The jug of wine fell and shattered.

  Their lovemaking had weakened him; it had strengthened her. He made a choking sound, struggling for breath and finding none. She dug her heels into the floor, growled, and pulled back with all her might, willing the chains to dig into his neck. He reached over his back, and his fingers grazed her scalp; he could have grabbed her hair, had Solina left her any. She tugged the chains with all the strength she still had.

  "I am Lyana Eleison, daughter of Lord Deramon and Mother Adia," she hissed into his ear. "I am a knight of Requiem. I am a daughter of starlight. You will die today."

  He stumbled back to the bed, clawing at her. He was a tall man; she was slight. She clung to his back, tugging, grinding the chains. Blood dripped down his chest. He croaked for breath. They slammed into a candelabrum; the candles fell onto the rug. He stumbled toward the tent walls. She dug her heels and pulled him back.

  Die already! She gritted her teeth and hissed as she pulled the chains. He took a step toward his armor and sabre. Snarling, she tugged the chains mightily; they dug into his throat. He kept walking. Another candleholder fell and the rug began to blaze. His hand reached for his sword. He grabbed the hilt.

  Lyana twisted the chains and gave a mighty tug. Mahrdor drew his sword, gasping for breath. She pulled him back. He raised the blade. His bare feet stepped onto the burning rug, and with a choked mewl, he fell forward.

  He crashed to his knees, and Lyana tugged backward, growling and straining, until he gave a last gurgle, and his head slumped forward.

  Crouched above him, Lyana snarled and looked around the tent. The flames had spread to the walls and crackled, raising black smoke. Shouts rose outside. She heard soldiers clanking toward the burning tent. She straightened, panting and growling, a feral animal. Her arms and legs were still manacled. Gilded Guardians burst into the tent.

  With a shout, Lyana slammed her fists against a burning chair, sending it flying. It crashed into the guardians and blazed. There were three of them, their blades only half-drawn.

  Stars of Requiem, be with me.

  Lyana crouched, grabbed Mahrdor's sword, and wrenched it free from his grip. Was he dead or merely unconscious? She had no time to check. Wrists bound, she swung the sabre with both hands. She drove the blade down, hitting one guardian where his pauldron met his neck; her blade drove several inches down his torso. She pulled it free, swung again, and cleaved the neck of another guard.

  The third managed to draw his own sword. Lyana swung, parried, and drove the blade forward. It clanged against the guardian's armor. The tent blazed. Lyana swiped her sword across the tabletop, sending burning scraps into the guardian's face. When he fell back, she drove her blade down hard, cleaving him.

  Outside, she heard more soldiers shouting and running uphill. Smoke filled the tent now, so thick that she coughed and could barely see. She leaped over a flaming rug, knelt by Mahrdor, and grabbed the keys from his belt. Frantically, she twisted her fingers; with her wrists bound, she could not fit the key into the manacles' lock.

  Soldiers burst into the tent.

  Lyana swung around, lashed her sword, and tossed a flaming table against them. Key in hand, she leaped over fire, through tent walls, and out onto the hill. She rolled in the night, still chained, toward an army.

  Soldiers came rushing up toward her. With her mouth, Lyana thrust key into lock and twisted. The manacles around her wrists clanked open, revealing bloodied flesh. The soldiers ran, shouted, and began drawing their blades. Teeth bared, Lyana thrust the key into the chains around her legs. The lock clinked. The chains fell. The soldiers reached her.

  She swung her sword, parrying one weapon. A second sabre nipped her shoulder, and she screamed. She raised her blade, parried, and thrust. Blood splashed. Lyana leaped back.

  Pain exploded when she summoned her magic. Her head spun. She could barely cling to it. She was too wounded, still coughing, still too weak. Scales appeared and disappeared across her. A sabre swung down, and she raised her blade, barely parrying. Wyverns shrieked around her and the clouds above swirled. Two of the scaled beasts came swooping toward her. The world burned and spun.

  Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky.

  Her mother's words spoke in her mind, deep and strong, comforting her.

  This is not me. I am not a wounded creature who lies in the mud. I am Lyana Eleison. I am a knight of Requiem, daughter of a great priestess. I walked through the Abyss itself. I fought in the Phoenix War. I am Vir Requis and I will find my sky.

  Blades lashed down toward her.

  They clanged against scales.

  Her wings beat like war drums, sending smoke and dirt flying. With a great roar, a dragon roar, she soared. Her claws lashed men. She flew higher. Wyverns swooped toward her, and she blew her fire. The jet of flame roared, lighting the night, and slammed into the beasts. They howled and bucked, and Lyana shot between them.

  She flew straight up, moving so fast that her head spun. She dared not look behind her. She crashed through clouds until the stars burst into light above. The Draco constellation shone, the stars of her fathers. She flew toward it.

  Shrieks sounded below her. She looked down to see wyverns—a hundred or more—burst from the clouds toward her. Riders sat upon them, and their crossbows fired. Lyana howled and banked, and the bolts shot around her. One scratched her shoulder. Another pierced her wing, and she roared in pain. She rained h
er fire, hit one wyvern, and flew southward.

  The beasts shrieked. Jets of acid flew.

  Lyana soared, neck craned back, so fast she nearly blacked out. The acid flew beneath her; she flapped her wings mightily, but drops still sizzled against her tail. She howled. It felt like a hundred arrows slamming into her.

  I am a bellator of Requiem. I am a warrior. I walked through the Abyss. I will fly!

  In the south, she saw the storm still brewing. Lightning burst inside the clouds, stains of light. Lyana growled and flew toward the tempest. An army of wyverns flew behind.

  Acid sprayed. Lyana swooped and shot forward, narrowly dodging it. A drop splashed her wing and ate a hole through it, only coin-sized but blazing with agony. Wind whistled through the opening. She roared and flew forward, straight as a javelin.

  When she looked over her shoulder, she saw more wyverns; hundreds now flew behind her. Their bolts and acid flew. Lyana gritted her teeth, beat her wings mightily, and shot into the storm.

  Thunder boomed. Lightning blazed around her. Rain pounded her, aching against her wounds. The winds billowed her wings; she nearly tumbled. She narrowed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Despite the agony, she flew on. Lightning crashed and the clouds roiled like smoky demons.

  I will never stop flying. Not until I reach Elethor.

  If Bayrin had delivered the message, Elethor and his Royal Army waited at Ralora Beach. It lay hundreds of leagues away.

  I must find him. I must summon him back to Nova Vita. If the wyverns reach the city before us, Requiem will fall.

  Lyana snarled and flew.

  MORI

  Silence filled the royal hall.

  Beyond the marble columns, silence filled the city.

  Mori sat upon the Oak Throne, barely wanting to breathe, and prayed for some sound, anything to break this emptiness. She wanted to hear armor creak as soldiers rushed outside, or dragons roar above, or minstrels play, or children laugh, or... anything other than this silence that rang in her ears.

  Outside, the guards manned their posts, perched upon wall and roof. Their family members, those too young or old or wounded to serve, huddled in their homes. Barely a breath stirred across Nova Vita, jewel of the north, capital of Requiem.

  We all wait, Mori thought, with bated breath, with tight hearts, with tingling fingers. We wait for the storm to strike. Stars of Requiem, look over my brother. Bring him home to me safely.

  She turned to her left, and the fear in her heart softened. Bayrin stood there, the only other soul in the hall. Her guardsman held the hilt of his sword, and a helm covered his head of shaggy red curls. When he saw her looking at him, he tilted that head to her, gave her a crooked smile, and winked.

  "You look quite comfortable in that throne, little one. I think when Elethor returns, he might find a contender for the crown."

  She gave him a shaky smile; the sound of his voice was desperate relief, a breath of air for a drowning woman.

  "I wish I never had to sit upon this throne," she said. Her smile faded and she looked at her feet; she was short enough that they did not reach the floor. "I miss the days my father sat here. I miss the days Orin filled the seat when Father was away. I..." She sighed and clutched her luck finger. "I never thought Elethor and I would be the ones ruling here."

  Bayrin cleared his throat theatrically. "Elethor and I, is it? Mors, my sweetness, dear old El rules alone; he is our king and tyrant, as tragic as that is. You are a seat filler." He gave her a penetrating stare. "At least you are quite prettier to look at than Elethor; guarding him is a real eyesore."

  Mori lowered her eyes. She wished she could laugh at Bayrin's words. More than anything, she wanted to lie in his arms in some fluffy bed, to watch the clouds outside the window, to laugh at his prattling until her cheeks hurt. She wanted little else from this life; not a throne to fill, not gowns, not power... only a warm bed, an open sky, and a man who loved her. She sighed. If Solina reached this city, even those humble dreams would be lost. Solina would burn them with the rest of this city.

  Before her eyes, she saw the Phoenix War again: Solina raining fire upon the city; children running burning through the streets; men crawling through tunnels, bleeding, missing limbs; and more painful than all, she saw her brother burnt and cut on the ground, entrails spilling, as Lord Acribus hurt her. She closed her eyes, as if she could banish those visions in darkness, but they still danced.

  Breathe, Mori, she told herself. Like Adia taught you. Breathe and be brave.

  Standing at her side, Bayrin took her hand and squeezed it. "Don't be scared, Mors. If any wyverns enter this room, I'll give them a taste of my fire. It doesn't taste quite as bad as my mother's porridge, but it'll do the trick."

  But Mori wasn't scared for herself; she had fought in a war already, and she was ready to fight another one. She was scared for her people: the farmers and tradesmen, the merchants and miners, the children and elderly. If Elethor did not return—she trembled to think of it, but knew that she must—she would lead what remained of Requiem. Could she and Bayrin truly fight Solina and all her hatred?

  She looked at Bayrin. He smiled at her, hand on the hilt of his sword.

  And if the time comes, she thought, will he draw that sword for my last mercy? If our city walls lie fallen around us, and Solina's men pound at our doors, would Bayrin find the strength to plunge his sword into my breast, then fall upon it?

  She left her throne and walked across the great hall of Requiem's kings. Its marble columns towered, the tallest structures in Requiem. As she walked, Mori touched every pillar she passed. She had studied many scrolls about their history. Three hundred years ago, Queen Gloriae had risen from the ashes of war and built forty-nine of these columns. The fiftieth, which Mori now approached, was thousands of years old; the first King Aeternum, father of the dynasty, had carved that column in the days when Vir Requis still lived wild. In the books, it was written that even Dies Irae the Destructor, who had killed a million Vir Requis, could not topple that column.

  When Mori reached the ancient pillar, she placed her palm against it, lowered her head, and closed her eyes.

  "Please, King Aeternum," she whispered, willing her voice to travel past the ages, through generations of monarchs, to the first king of her land. "Please, my king, give us strength. Watch over us this hour. I will not let your column fall."

  She tried to imagine the old monarchs of Requiem standing here and praying: King Aeternum who raised this column millennia ago; King Benedictus who led Requiem in war against the griffins; the great Queen Lacrimosa who fell in the Battle of King's Forest; Queen Gloriae who raised Requiem from ruin and founded Nova Vita; Queen Luna the Traveler who had written many books and scrolls; and her father, King Olasar, the greatest man she had known.

  And now Elethor and I, the young prince and princess, are the last of our dynasty. Now we must pray, and we must fight.

  She opened her eyes, left the column, and approached the doors of her hall. They stood open before her, revealing the city. Mori stepped under the gateway, stood above a great marble stairway, and stared upon her realm. Cobbled streets snaked among young birches, spreading to white walls; beyond lay forests, mountains, and an orange sky. The wind billowed her hair.

  Bayrin came to stand beside her and held her hand. They stood together, silent, watching the long night fall.

  ELETHOR

  They perched upon the cliffs of Ralora Beach, three thousand dragons with smoke in their nostrils, fire in their maws, and fear in their hearts. Smoothed stones and seashells, white and indigo and deep purple, formed a mosaic upon the shore below, appearing and disappearing as the waves raced, crashed against the cliffs, and retreated in an eternal assault. Beyond this shore of stone and shell, the sea stretched into the horizon, a gray carpet patched with metallic blues and greens. The sky above mirrored the waters, roiling with clouds that veiled the sun.

  "Where are you, Solina?" Elethor whispered. He stood atop a towering boulder, the hi
ghest point on the cliff. Around him, his army spread like scaled crenellations—a dragon on every patch of bare rock. Behind them, where the cliff sloped to a landscape of hills, more dragons waited. Their eyes all stared. Their nostrils all smoked. Not a tail flapped nor a wing shrugged. Their bodies were tense, their scales silent, their fire simmering and ready to blow.

  "Come on, Solina," Elethor spoke to the sea. "You wanted to see me again. I'm here, waiting for you."

  When he narrowed his eyes, he saw nothing but the endless sea. The waves crashed. Foam sprayed. Clouds swirled. No wyverns, no Tirans, no old lover and desert queen.

  It was the summer solstice. If Lyana had been right, the Tirans would invade here today.

  When the sun dipped toward the horizon, the dragons began to move restlessly. A few blasted snorts of smoke, and Elethor heard scales clink. He grumbled and dug his claws into the cliff.

  "My lord, what should we do?" said Lady Treale, who perched upon a boulder beside him. The black dragon was staring into the horizon, her fangs bared. She was young, but she was of noble birth and a knight in training, so he had stationed her at his side. With every knight but Lyana slain in the Phoenix War, Elethor could not afford to turn squires away—not even the youngest daughters of farmland lords.

  It's not because of how she kissed my cheek, he thought. It's not because of her soft face smiling by my side at nights, nor the starlight in her hair, nor the light in her eyes. He grumbled low in his throat. Lyana is away—my betrothed, the woman I love. Treale is the closest thing here to a knight, and I need her near. That is all. That is all. And her pretty smile be damned.