A Dawn of Dragonfire: Dragonlore, Book 1 (17 page)

"Thank you, Elethor," she said.  "But for now, focus less on protecting me and more on finding this Starlit Demon.  All right?"

His eyelids flinched, as if her words stabbed him, and Lyana sighed inwardly.  What did he want her to do?  To throw her arms around him, weep and kiss him, and vow her eternal love?  He was her betrothed now; his older brother had died, so he had inherited all of Orin's claims, his titles, and his woman.  Lyana was a daughter of Requiem, and she accepted her laws.  That did not mean her grief left her.  That did not mean she could forget how Elethor had spent years shunning the court, yearning for the woman who now burned it.  He confessed that he lacked Orin's strength and wisdom.  Did he want her to deny it?  She could not.  He was her king now.  She would respect that.  But love him… love him like she loved Orin?  Accept him as a hero, a protector?  She could not.

"All right, Lyana," he said softly, and pain lived in his voice.  "We enter the darkness."

He turned back to the lock, took a deep breath… and twisted the key.

The lock clanked.

The doors to the Abyss, this dark lair of secrets deep below Requiem, began to creak open.

Lyana shuddered and gritted her teeth.  Iciness stung her fingertips and roiled her belly.  She would never admit it, of course.  She was a soldier.  A heroine of Requiem.  She must show strength, especially now, especially to Elethor.  And yet as the doors creaked open, revealing mist and shadow, cold sweat washed her.

She did not know what she was expecting.  Demons to attack?  Rotting bodies to lunge at all?  Soon the doors were opened wide, and she saw nothing but shadow, smoke, the glimmer of smooth stone walls.  That was all.  Just a tunnel.  And yet this darkness filled her with more fear than skeletons or demons would.  She could kill skeletons or demons, smash them with her sword, beat them down, defeat them with all her skills of war.  It was the darkness she feared.  The secrets.  The unknown.

"Are you sure you're all right, Lyana?" Elethor asked, standing at the doorway.  "You're pale, and your fingers are trembling."

She snorted and shoved by him.

"Out of my way, Elethor."  She drew her sword.  "I'm going in."

She walked through the archway, sword drawn in one hand, tin lamp in the other.  She delved into the darkness.

The chill filled her bones.  Mist swirled around her legs.  As she walked, her boots clanked, echoing like the laughter of demons.  Her lamplight flickered against smooth walls carved by old streams.  The floor curved steeply, forcing her to move slowly.  The tunnel plunged into darkness like a giant's gullet.  She kept listening for enemies, but heard nothing—no grunts of beasts, no scuttling feet, no screeches of ghosts.

There is nothing here,
she told herself. 
No demons.  No skeletons.
  She clenched her jaw and held her sword high.

Bring me strength, Levitas,
she prayed to her sword as she walked.  It was an ancient weapon, its blade engraved with coiling dragons, its pommel shaped as a claw.  Her father traced its lineage back to Terra Eleison, a knight of Requiem who'd survived the griffin war, helped found Nova Vita, and restored their house to glory.  Many Vir Requis today carried longswords, heavy weapons for both hands; Elethor carried one at her side, the old blade Ferus.  Lyana's sword was shorter, faster, easy to wield in one hand; the weapon of a knight.

Your sword was ancient even then,
Father had said when giving her the blade five years ago.  It had defended Requiem for centuries and slain many of her foes.
 
Lyana tightened her fingers around the leather grip.  Under the sky, she fought with claw and fire, a dragon roaring her fury.  Here she would wield this ancient shard of steel.

May Levitas defend me underground,
she thought,
in darkness, far from the sky of Requiem.  Shine bright, Levitas.  Shine bright, for the world is full of more darkness than I can bear.

They kept walking down the tunnel.  Lumps rose upon the walls like warts.  When Lyana touched one, she found it clammy.  She imagined herself walking through the veins of some great beast of stone, and she shuddered.  She held her lamp out at arm's length, but could see only several feet ahead.

A screech filled the darkness.

Lyana froze, panting.  She raised her sword.

"What was it?" she whispered.  A shiver ran through her.

Elethor stood frozen by her side, his own sword raised.  He stared ahead, but the darkness nearly swallowed their lamplight.  They saw nothing.  Silence filled the tunnels.

"I don't know," he whispered.  "Was it the Starlit Demon?"

Lyana squared her jaw.  "If it is, we will tame the beast.  Come, we go farther."

They walked five more steps before the screech sounded again.

It was so loud, Lyana grimaced.  She nearly dropped her sword and lamp to cover her ears.  The tunnels shook and a crack ran along a wall.  Many feet pattered in the distance, clanking, scratching.  The screech went on and on, rising and falling, a banshee cry.  Lyana's insides trembled and she could barely breathe.  A ghostly light glowed ahead and shadows scurried.

"Stay by me, Lyana," Elethor said, hand clutching his sword.  Sweat beaded on his brow.

Keeping her eyes on the tunnel ahead, Lyana laid down her lamp and drew her dagger.  She held both blades before her, ready to fight whatever enemy approached.

A shadow lurched.

A creature emerged from the darkness.

Lyana grimaced.  Her heart burst into a gallop, and cold sweat flooded her.

With a screech, the creature scuttled forward on many legs.  It looked like a great centipede, many feet long and wide as a tree trunk.  Its body was made of segments, each bloated and furry like the body of a spider.  Its curved legs looked sharp as blades.  Worst of all, however, was not the body that snaked behind, but the front of the creature.

It had the head, torso, and arms of a human girl, no older than ten.  Her flesh was pale, her red eyes rimmed in black, her hair scraggly.  Her bloated belly was slashed open, revealing cockroaches that nested and bred inside her.  The girl grinned, showing rotting teeth, and raised her arms.  Her hands ended with curving, yellow claws that dripped sizzling liquid.  Below her belly, her centipede body pulsed black and hairy, coiling into the shadows behind her.

"Stars," Elethor whispered.

"What are you?" Lyana shouted at the beast, baring her teeth.  "Why do you dwell in Requiem?"

The creature stared at her, eyes dripping pus, and tilted her head.  She opened her mouth wide, and her tongue rolled out, a foot long and covered in ants.  She screeched, a deafening sound that made Lyana grimace and scream.

"This is… not… Requiem!" the creature said, voice like shattering glass.  Blood dripped from her eyes down her cheeks.  "This is the Abyss.  I am Nedath, guardian of this realm.  Turn back, creatures of sunlight!  Leave our… world…"

Her voice turned to wind that howled, blowing back Lyana's hair.  The creature thrust herself up, rising ten feet tall upon her bloated segments.  Her spider legs stretched out like black blades.  Blood spurted between the demon's sharpened teeth, spraying Lyana's face.  The droplets stung like acid.

"Turn back, Nedath, guard of the Abyss!" Elethor cried.  He waved his lamp, as if light could cow this creature of darkness.  "I am King Elethor Aeternum.  My forefathers sealed you here.  Now obey me."

The creature cackled, hair rustling with maggots.  With a screech, she spat a glob of blood and mucus at Elethor.  He swung his blade, blocking the discharge.  What droplets sprayed him sizzled, and he cried in pain.

"Turn back, creature!" Lyana cried, waving her sword.  "I am Lyana Eleison, daughter of Lord Deramon, knight of Requiem!  You will kneel before me."

She swung her sword, but Nedath pulled her body back, and the blade whistled through air.  The creature cackled and spat a glob of bloody mucus.  Lyana had no time to parry, and the glob hit her face.

Her eyes blazed with pain.  She could not breathe or see.  She screamed; it felt like her face was being ripped off.

"Elethor!" she tried to shout, but the mucus entered her mouth, choking her, running down her throat like a living thing.

"Back, creature!" Elethor cried, voice muffled, a million leagues away.  "Turn back into the darkness."

Lyana could not see him.  She swung her sword blindly, not knowing if she hit anything.  The creature screeched again, but she could barely hear.

She fell.  She hit the ground.  She dropped her weapons, clawed at her face, tried to tear the slime off her eyes, her nose, her mouth.  Her head hit the ground, and she heard only a distant screech, a cry of horror, and then nothing but cruel cackling.

 
 
ADIA

She moved between the wounded, her robes soaked with blood.  Her fingers stitched wounds, her eyes shed no more tears, and her heart felt no more pain.  Around her the wounded shivered, wept, and screamed; she healed them.  The dying lay feverish; she comforted them.  The dead lay stinking; she prayed for them.  She was a healer, a priestess, and a mother grieving.

Come back to me from your wilderness, Bayrin,
she prayed silently as she bandaged a burnt, trembling man. 
Come back from the darkness, Lyana.  I love you, my children.

The man groaned, his face melted away, his hands burned to stumps.  If he died, Adia thought, it would be a blessing for him, and yet she fought for him, gave him the nectar of silverweed to dull his pain, and she refused to surrender his life.  He was somebody's son, and Adia too had a son.  What if Bayrin returned to her like this, burned into red, twisted flesh and pain?  She moved to a young girl, her legs shattered, her hand severed, and she prayed for her, bandaged her, set her bones as best she could.  What if Lyana returned to her broken and bleeding too?

Stars, please.  I already lost one of my children.  I already lost my sweet Noela.  Don't let me lose Bayrin and Lyana too.

Her worry seemed too great for Adia to bear, and yet she bore it.  She was High Priestess of Requiem.  All these bleeding, broken, burnt souls were her children too.  They lay in rows upon the floor, dozens of them filling the armory.  The swords and shields were gone from this place, taken to battle; the wounded were returned.  Every few moments they were carried in: men whose legs ended with stumps, men with entrails spilling from sliced bellies, men burnt and cut, men crying for wives and mothers.  In battle they were brave warriors, heroes of Requiem.  Here in her chamber, they were sons and husbands, afraid, the terror of battle too real.

"Mother Adia… Mo…"  A wounded man reached out to her.  Skin hung from his hands, the flesh of his fingers blackened, falling to show the bone.  "Mother, a prayer, please…"

She turned to him, placed her hand on his forehead, and prayed for him.  She prayed to the stars to comfort him, to heal him or lead him peacefully to the halls of afterlife.  And yet Adia did not know if starlight could reach these tunnels.  All her life, she had prayed in temples between columns and birches, watching the sky.  Now that sky burned, and here they hid, in darkness and pain. 
The world has become fire and shadow, and all starlight is washed away.

But still she prayed.  Still she believed, forced herself to.  If her stars had abandoned her, what purpose did her life hold?  So she prayed for this burnt man, kissed his bloodied forehead, and bandaged his wounds.  She gave him the nectar of silverweed, until he slept, feverish and dying.

"As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles," she whispered, lips sticky with blood, "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 are home, you are home."  She held him as his breath stilled and his face smoothed.  "Requiem!  May our wings forever find your sky."

She closed his eyes, covered him with his cloak, and stood up.  She pulled him to the corner and placed him among the piles of bodies.  There he would stink, decay, lie as rotting flesh until they found room to bury the dead.  Adia needed men to dig graves underground, or soon the disease of bodies would claim them all.  She needed healers to help her.  She needed her husband by her side, and she needed her children back, and she needed this war and death to end.  But all she had were her hands that could stitch a wound and hold a dying man, her bandages and nectar, and whatever faith still remained in her heart.  And she used them all as the blood flowed, the stench of bodies wafted, and soldiers kept dragging new death into her chamber.

Stay safe, Bayrin and Lyana.  Stay alive.  Return to me.

She did not know how many hours or days passed as she worked, healing and praying.  She did not know night from day.  When her husband appeared at the doorway, armor splashed in blood and eyes dark, her fingers were sore, her eyes stinging, her head light.  She walked to him, embraced him, and kissed his bristly cheek.

"Adia," Deramon said to her, voice deep as these tunnels, rough as his hands and hair and body.  "You need sleep.  You need food and drink.  Come, we will rest.  Sister Caela will take over."

The young healer stood by his side, a girl no older than Lyana, her hair braided tight behind her head, her eyes haunted but strong.  She held bandages, towels, and vials of herbs and silverweed.

Adia shook her head.  "Sister Caela is too young.  She is only a healer in training.  She… come, sister.  Work with me.  Help me."

A man wept at her left, crying for his mother.  His hands clutched a wound on his stomach; it gaped open, glistening and red, gutting him.

"I want to go home," he whispered, lips pale, eyes deathly.  "Please.  Please, I want to go home."

Adia realized that he was just a boy, younger than her own children, and she turned to him, to heal him, to pray for him, but Deramon held her fast.

"Let Sister Caela tend to him," he said, voice low, touched by a softness Adia rarely heard in him.