A Day of Dragon Blood (Dragonlore, Book 2)

by Daniel Arenson

"Stars, give me strength."

  Burnt and shaking and gasping for air, Treale Oldnale pushed herself to her feet. The forest spun around her, and she had to grab a bole to stop from falling. She looked south and saw a wall of smoke like a shimmering tapestry. The wyverns shrieked within it. As she stood trembling, she saw them burst from the inferno and fly above the forest.

  Treale ran.

  She ran between the trees and leaped over roots. Above in the canopy, the wyverns overshot her. They appeared only as shadows against the smoke and clouds, black against black. Their cries rang out.

  "Find the weredragon!" cried one rider, voice distant and echoing. "Tear down the trees! The creature shifted and runs as human. Find it!"

  Treale's boots hit a root, and she fell. Her cheek slammed against the earth. She lay trembling, eyes burning. The wyverns soared overhead, bending the trees. She felt the blast of their wings. Droplets of their acid pattered around her, raised smoke, and began to eat into the earth. A few droplets hit Treale's boot, and she winced and gritted her teeth, struggling not to scream. She kicked the boot off, pulled her knee to her chest, and slapped at her foot. The flesh felt hot and raw.

  "Please, stars of Requiem, please. Let me live. Shine on me this red dawn."

  She looked up but saw no stars, only the canopies of trees, a sky of ash, and the shadows of wyverns that circled and screamed.

  Tears of pain streamed down her face. She did not know if any other Vir Requis still lived, or if she was the last. Her body shook so badly, she did not think she could rise. She gritted her teeth so hard they ached. She growled. Arms like wet towels, she managed to grab a branch. She pulled herself up. Her lungs burned and her knees shook wildly; she did not think she could still run.

  But Treale ran. She ran through the forest, not knowing what direction she moved. She could see only several feet ahead, and the trees rose like twisted goblins around her, their branches reaching out to snag her, to tear her clothes, to scratch her face bloody. She tasted the blood and sap on her lips. Still she ran, the forest spreading endlessly and the scourge of her people howling above.

  ELETHOR

  They stood behind the doors, swords drawn, and waited.

  The tunnel walls rose around them, craggy and black. Only several candles upon the walls lit the darkness; their light flickered and cast shadows like dancing demons. Elethor gripped the hilt of Ferus, his ancient sword. With narrowed eyes, he stared at the doors before him. He tightened his lips. He breathed slowly. He waited.

  His warriors stood around him. Lyana stood at his right, sword drawn in her right hand, dagger in her left. A helmet hid her stubbly head, the Draco stars carved onto its brow, and the candlelight danced against her breastplate, the ancient breastplate of a bellator. At his left stood Bayrin and Deramon, clad in the armor of the City Guard and clutching their own blades. A hundred other warriors—survivors of the battle over the mountains—filled the tunnel behind them, blades orange in the candlelight.

  A hundred souls stood in silence, staring at those doors. A hundred souls waited for death. Beyond those doors, a staircase rose narrow and steep toward the fallen city. The candles flickered with their every breath. Not a piece of armor clanked.

  Stars, be with us today, Elethor prayed silently.

  The doors before him were a foot thick, carved of oak bolted with iron. Great beams stood in brackets. No battering ram would break these doors, Elethor knew. A wyvern's tail perhaps could shatter them, but Elethor had ordered the doors built a hundred yards down the narrow staircase; no wyvern could fit down here to reach them.

  Behind him, the tunnel sloped into silent darkness. Beyond tunnel, portcullis, and more doors loomed the chambers where his people waited, where Mori waited, where the last light of Requiem glowed.

  All that separates them from their fall is me, my warriors, and a whisper of starlight.

  He flexed his fingers around the hilt of his sword, reminding himself that he had prepared for this day.

  We are safe here, he told himself. They will not claim these tunnels. We will hold back the enemy.

  A smaller, cold voice whispered in his head. But for how long? They had food and water for a year. It was a long time, but eventually their supplies would run out. What then? Would they starve here underground? He squared his jaw and clutched his sword tighter. Had he led his people into a tomb?

  A great boom shook the tunnels. The candles flickered and dust fell. Above, through many feet of stone, he could hear the distant cries of wyverns. Elethor narrowed his eyes and sucked in breath. A second crash shook the tunnels, and again the wyverns wailed, a distant sound like ghosts. Elethor snarled. When he looked at his sides, he saw Lyana, Bayrin, and the others clutch their swords tight. More booms sounded. More dust rained and the candles danced. Muffled voices rose in song: the battle songs of Tiranor, songs of triumph and bloodlust.

  For the first time somebody spoke. "Bloody stars," Bayrin muttered and spat. "They're destroying the city. Bastards."

  Lyana looked at her brother, then turned toward Elethor. Their eyes met. Any other day, Elethor would have expected to see Lyana roll her eyes, scold her brother, and launch into a lecture. Today she only stared silently, and new ghosts haunted her eyes. Elethor remembered holding her in the Abyss as Nedath's curse spread across her, as her body wilted and her teeth fell. They had emerged from darkness. They had defeated ancient evils underground. The memories pained Elethor but comforted him too; they had faced darkness before and defeated it. They would face this new darkness together too.

  "Elethor," she said, pale. "Bayrin is right. I know he rarely is, but... they aren't leaving one building standing."

  Elethor nodded, fist clenched at his side. He spoke in a low voice. "I know. But I would rather them crush buildings than bodies." He shook his head, struggling to drown panic. "Stars, Lyana, they ripped through our army. They were like hawks in a cloud of sparrows."

  Lyana looked behind her where warriors filled the tunnel. "There are twenty thousand wyverns above us. They outnumbered us over the forest." She looked back at him, eyes dark. "Elethor, we have twenty thousand Vir Requis in the lower chambers. One dragon for every wyvern." She bared her teeth. "Let us fly! Let us fly in battle, the great last stand of the Vir Requis. Let every child, grandparent, and wounded son of Requiem fly to war today. We will make such a roar."

  Her eyes glistened in her pale face, and her hands gripped her weapons. She is a warrior, Elethor thought, raised on tales of knights and epic battle. But I am a king.

  "Lyana, these wyverns crushed soldiers—dragons trained to fly in formation, to blow fire from above, to slash claws, to lash tails. My soldiers trained for a year, and these wyverns tore through us." He shook his head. "Thousands of survivors hide below us, it's true. Children. Mothers and babes. Old men and women. Cripples." He sighed. "Even as dragons, their fire is weak, their claws soft, their hearts frightened. Many of them have lost their fangs to old age; many others haven't even grown theirs. No, I will not lead them out to die in the skies. There is safety underground."

  Her eyes flashed. "Elethor! Last year they tore through these tunnels like—"

  "Last year this place merely stored grain and wine. Last year no doors stood here. We have thick doors now and strong men to guard them; three levels stand between the Tirans and our people. They will not break in so easily this time."

  Bayrin, who had watched the exchange with dark eyes, let out a slow breath. Dirt smeared his face and hair, and a wound spread across his arm.

  "Famous last words, El," he muttered. "Bloody stars, but for the first time in my life, I'm going to agree with Lyana. We—"

  Battle cries surged behind the doors, cutting off his words. Armor and weapons clanked above, and soon Elethor heard boots thudding down the staircase, rushing from the city into the tunnels. The cries of Tirans rose, hoarse and crude. Above them rose a shrill voice; it made Elethor close his eyes, grind his teeth, and cringe with old pain.

  "Kill
the weredragons!" cried Solina behind the doors. "Bring me the Reptile King alive! Slay the others."

  The boots thudded and the Tiran voices rose in wordless, enraged shouts. With a boom that shook the tunnels, they crashed against the doors.

  Elethor tightened his grip on his sword. His hand was sweaty. Why hadn't they carved this tunnel wider, wide enough for a dragon to blow fire? Why hadn't they made the doors thicker, or carved them with arrow slits? They hadn't had enough time! Not enough time to dig, to prepare, to—

  The Tirans slammed against the doors again. They creaked, and Elethor found himself snarling.

  Deal with this now. You cannot change the past. Face them down as you are.

  He looked to his left at Bayrin and Deramon. They stared back and nodded.

  "We fight with you, my friend," Bayrin whispered.

  Deramon growled. "We kill for you, my king."

  When Elethor looked to his right, he saw Lyana glaring at the doors, blades raised. She spared him a quick glance, eyes blazing with green fire, and smiled crookedly.

  "I'm ready to spill blood," she said. "Keep count, El; I bet I can kill ten times more than you."

  Elethor nodded at her, silent. Good. This was the Lyana he wanted to see, not the Lyana with sad eyes, but the knight with the fiery stare.

  The doors shook again and splinters cracked. The Tirans howled behind the oak and iron. Again and again the doors shook, and every boom rolled through the tunnel, louder than thunder. Thud. Thud. The Tirans howled. Solina screamed. Thud. Thud. Splinters flew.

  "Break them down!" Solina shouted.

  Her men roared. Boom. Thud. Splinters flew. Candles fell around Elethor. He stood still, staring at the doors, waiting. His warriors stood around him. Boom. Thud. Again and again. Screams and shrieks. Thud. Thud.

  "Requiem," Elethor whispered. "May our wings forever find your sky."

  His men repeated the words around him. The Tirans screamed for blood. Their shadows danced under the doors. Boom. Thud. Screams and splinters.

  And then... silence.

  Ragged breath, curses, and grumbles sounded behind the doors. Boots stomped upstairs and Solina's shrieks faded. Soon the sounds of her men faded too, moving back to the city above.

  Elethor released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He squinted at the doors.

  What are you doing, Solina?

  "Stars yeah!" Bayrin said at his side. He grinned wildly. "The doors stood! The bastards couldn't break them. This time we were ready for them!" He growled at the doors. "Pity, almost; I was looking forward to shoving my sword up Solina's backside."

  When Elethor looked at Lyana, he saw less hope there. The knight was still staring at the doors, her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened.

  "I don't like this," she whispered.

  Bayrin snorted. "Why, Lyana? You were worried you couldn't kill as many men as me? The cowards gave up! They thought they'd find undefended tunnels like last year. Well, they—"

  Elethor interrupted his friend. "They'll be back, Bay. Keep your sword drawn. Get ready. Wait."

  Silence fell.

  They stood, gripping weapons, breath soft.

  Above, the sounds of collapsing buildings faded, and even the wyvern shrieks died.

  Elethor caught his breath. In the silence, his ears rang.

  With a swell like a typhoon, a thousand wyvern shrieks rose above. Elethor grimaced. The sound was so loud and shrill he couldn't help but cry out. Bayrin snarled and winced, Deramon cursed, and Lyana growled. It sounded like the entire army of wyverns cried above the stairs. Acrid stench flared, so hot it burned Elethor's nose, eyes, and throat.

  Lyana straightened and her face paled. Her eyes widened and she shouted, "Back! Everybody back!"

  Confusion reigned. Lyana began retreating, trying to herd soldiers back into darkness. Elethor stared at her, then back at the doors. The stench of acid intensified. His eyes stung so badly, he could barely see. The wyverns above howled. A sound like a river roaring plunged beyond the doors.

  Smoke and stench exploded, and the doors began to sizzle. Acid seeped around and under them.

  "Stars," Elethor whispered. He spun and began running. "Back, everyone! Deeper into the tunnels—move!"

  Acid sluiced around his boots. The soles began to sizzle. He cursed and ran. A hundred soldiers raced before him. Bayrin and Deramon ran cursing at his side. When he looked over his shoulder, Elethor saw the doors splintering. A hinge fell. Acid burst through a hole and shot into the tunnels. The doors looked like a dam holding back a river—a dam about to collapse.

  Elethor looked back ahead and ran, teeth bared and eyes burning. The darkness swirled. Behind him, he heard the doors shatter.

  MORI

  They huddled in the chambers of the third level—twenty thousand souls, weeping, shaking, and praying. Mori stood by the tapestry she had woven, struggling to calm her beating heart. The sea of people rolled around her. Wounded soldiers, survivors of the battle, writhed upon the floor, their flesh twisted with acid. Children screamed and clung to their mothers. What soldiers could still stand manned the doors, swords drawn and faces hard. From above, Mori heard faded echoes of battle: wyverns screeching, buildings collapsing, and men howling. With every boom of a collapsing tower, the people shivered; some wept and trembled.

  "Be strong, Elethor," Mori whispered, clutching her luck finger behind her back. "Be strong, Bayrin and Lyana."

  She missed them. Her chest ached for them. She wished she could be with them now, guarding the upper tunnels, a sword in her hand. She was no warrior, but surely anything was better than this—waiting here in the darkness, only a few candles lighting the chambers, surrounded by tears and wails and the stench of burnt flesh.

  One wounded guard moaned only several yards away, his face melted away, his eyes gone; he gaped with empty sockets. Mother Adia knelt above him, her robes stained with blood and death. Younger healers, her pupils, were moving between the other wounded, applying ointments to wounds, pouring silkweed into mouths, and praying. Yet even the healers trembled, and even their faces were pale.

  They are all scared, Mori realized—healers and guards, the wounded and the strong. So many, even those untouched by acid, still bore the old scars of the Phoenix War. There is no hope here, only fear.

  Mori tightened her lips. No, she was no warrior, but she was a leader to these people. She was a princess of House Aeternum, an ancient dynasty that had ruled in Requiem for millennia. She would help her people in her own way.

  "Children of Requiem!" she called. Her voice was small at first, nearly drowned under the sounds of battle and weeping. She called out louder. "Vir Requis! Hear me, my people."

  They looked at her—children, the elderly, guards, healers and wounded. Many still wept and trembled. Mori forced herself to stay strong, to calm the thrashing of her heart. So many eyes upon her spun her head, but she clutched her luck finger, and she spoke loudly so that her voice carried through the chambers.

  "My brother, King Elethor, protects us. His sword is sharp, his armor thick. Our soldiers stand at his side; they are brave and strong. We are safe here." She turned to look at Adia who still knelt above the blinded man. "Mother Adia! May I lead the people in prayer?"

  Holding the wounded guard, Adia stared across the people at Mori. Her eyes were deep, dark pools reflecting the candlelight; the shadows of memory and loss danced in them. She nodded silently. Her lips twisted but she said nothing.

  Mori began to sing. She was no priestess, but she loved the temple services; she would always sing the prayers along with Mother Adia, voice quiet and shy, but pure. Today she let her voice sing out loudly for all to hear; it still sounded high to her, too high, not deep and sonorous like Adia's voice. Yet it carried through the chambers, and the people sang with her.

  "As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you a
re home, you are home. Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

  As they sang, the fear seemed to leave the people; their trembles eased, their tears dried, and their backs straightened. They had sung these songs a year ago in the Phoenix War. The Living Seven had sung these songs three hundred years ago, fighting Dies Irae and his griffins. Three thousand years ago, King Aeternum himself—the first king and Mori's ancestor—had carved these words into King's Column, which still rose above them.

  In generations to come, Mori thought, the Vir Requis will think of us—of me and my people—singing our words underground. We will survive. We will pass our song on, a torch of starlight, a dream to forever find our sky.

  Screams echoed through the tunnels above.

  Mori's voice died.

  The people began to whisper and weep again. The guards at the doors clutched their swords and looked around with narrowed eyes. The screams rolled above them, torn in anguish. The stench of acid hit Mori's nostrils, so sharp it burned through her nose down to her throat and lungs.

  "Stars," she whispered. She looked over the crowd of survivors at Mother Adia. The priestess met her gaze, eyes wide with terror.

  Boots thudded outside the doors. Men screamed. The smoke and caustic stench swirled. Voices cried in anguish. Fists began pounding at the chamber doors. She heard them cry of Requiem, cry for starlight, cry for their king.

  "Open the doors!" Mori cried to her guards. "It's our men! Open the doors!"

  Her guards, faces pale and jaws clenched, lifted the bar from the doors' brackets. At once the doors slammed open. The smell of acid flared. From the darkness, a Vir Requis guard ran into the lower chambers, screaming. His flesh twisted with acid. Mori screamed too. He looked, she thought, like tallow melting in a suit of armor.

  The burnt man ran five paces into the chamber. His eyes had burned away. His mouth screamed, a gaping hole in his ravaged face. People scurried aside, wailing. The guard fell to his knees, gave a last cry, then fell forward and lay silent.