A Dawn of Dragonfire: Dragonlore, Book 1 (19 page)

Mori raised her sword and prayed.

 
 
BAYRIN

Cold sweat washed him, and his fingers shook, but he forced himself to grin—a terrified, trembling grin.

"So, dear friends."  He forced the words through stiff lips.  "Thank you so much for visiting Requiem.  We do love visitors up here in the north.  I hope you enjoyed our tour, but now we really must be on our way."

The Tirans kept advancing toward him, sabres raised.  They bared their teeth.  Their faces became demonic masks in the light of the firegems.

Bayrin gulped, his own sword raised.  His limbs throbbed.  His every instinct called for him to retreat into the corner, to press his back against the wall, to move as far as he could from these men—even if that meant retreating only a foot.  He forced himself to step forward instead, feet numb.  With his left hand, he pushed Mori behind him, shielding her with his body.

Stars,
he thought.  What had that rabid, leathery-faced Acribus meant? 
Are you ready for more, weredragon?
he had asked.  Nausea filled Bayrin.  Had he meant that… had this man met Mori before… and hurt her?  Even now the Tiran eyed her with lust, that white tongue of his licking his lips and dripping drool.

"Well," he said to the five Tiran soldiers.  He forced a laugh, sweat dripping down his forehead.  "I suppose now is the time that you try to stab me, and I try to stab you, and swords clang and blood pours.  I do love swordplay—I'm quite good at it too—but I suppose I'll show some mercy, and I'll offer you a chance to settle this over a nice game of dice.  What do you say?"

The Tirans laughed.

One lashed his sword at him.

Bayrin parried, and steel clanged, and he couldn't help but yelp.  That drew more laughter from the Tirans.  They formed a semicircle around him, like vultures over prey.

His heart hammered so powerfully, Bayrin thought it would burst from his mouth.  His belly roiled.  How had he come to this?  He was no warrior like his father.  He knew no swordplay like his sister.  He… he was only Bayrin the prankster, the fool, the young man nobody expected anything of.  And yet here he was, in a dark dungeon, defending his princess against five soldiers.

A Tiran swiped his sabre, and Bayrin parried madly, holding his sword with two hands.  The Tirans laughed again, and Bayrin realized they were toying with him.  They knew he was no fighter.

"The boy wants to play dice!" one said and laughed, a hoarse sound, almost inhuman.  "Maybe we'll carve dice from his bones."

His comrades laughed, and one swung his sabre so fast, Bayrin could not parry.  The blade sliced his shoulder, blood sprayed, and Mori screamed.

"We'll play with his bones after we play with the girl," said another Tiran, voice a deep growl.  "I haven't had a girl since we left home."

Two more swords flew.  Bayrin parried left and right.  He thrust his weapon, trying to kill a man, but the Tiran parried and nearly yanked the sword from Bayrin's hand.

None of this should have happened,
he thought.  The scrolls should have taken them to safety.  They should have been on their way to find the Moondisk now. It should have been King Olasar fighting, or Prince Orin, or…

He gritted his teeth. 
But they're dead, Bay.  They're dead, and you're alive, so man up and defend your princess.

With a wordless cry, he thrust his blade at Lord Acribus.

The Tiran swung his sword, blocking the blow.  His left hand drove forward, and his fist slammed into Bayrin's face.

"Bayrin!" Mori screamed behind him.

White light flooded him.  He fell back, hit Mori, and she screamed.  He swung his sword blindly, pain suffusing him.  A blade bit his left arm, and a chill washed him.  Another blade flashed, and Bayrin raised his sword, blocking most of the blow.  But the sabre still sliced along his arm, cutting his sleeve and skin.  Another sword slashed.  Bayrin parried and tripped on a fallen brick.  He fell down hard, knocking the breath out of him.

He spat out a glob of blood, coughed, and said, "Do you…"  He coughed again.  "Do you give up yet?"

The Tirans stared silently for a moment, then laughed—cruel laughter like crashing stones.  Bayrin chuckled through the blood in his mouth.  He nodded, raised his eyebrows, and laughed harder until the Tirans' laughter grew too. 
This is what I've always known how to do… make people laugh.
  As his bloody laughter roared, he grabbed the fallen brick and hurled it.

It smashed into Acribus's firegem.

The laughter died when the gem shattered.  Acribus howled.  Fire burst from the shattered gem like demons escaping a tomb.  It raced across him, until Acribus blazed, a creature of fire.

He's turning into a phoenix, here, underground,
Bayrin thought.  He leaped to his feet and grabbed Mori's hand.

"Come on, Mori!" he screamed.  "Run!"

He pulled her forward, sword swinging.  Fire blazed.  He could barely see.  He knocked aside a Tiran's sword, plowed forward, and drove his shoulder into the man.  The soldier crashed down, flames roared, and Bayrin and Mori whipped around him.

Firelight filled the chamber.  Behind Bayrin, a phoenix shriek rose, deafening.  It was a small chamber; the phoenix would be crushed, he knew.  It would burn everything alive inside.  He leaped onto the staircase.  He ran, pulling Mori behind him.

"Mori, run, faster!" he shouted.

Smoke and flames blasted their backs.  They raced upstairs into the fort's courtyard.  Tirans shouted and cursed behind them, running upstairs too.

Bayrin spun around and shoved Mori aside.  He shifted into a dragon, so fast that his head spun, and blew a jet of fire into the dungeon.

His flames roared, spinning and blazing down the stairway.  Tiran soldiers burned and fell back, dragonfire before them, phoenix fire in the dungeon behind.  They screamed.  Their screams filled Bayrin's ears, cries of such agony, that he knew he would forever hear them.  He kept blowing fire.  He could make out one Tiran, his skin bubbling, his flesh burning away, until the blackened thing fell back into the inferno and vanished in fire.

"Bayrin, fly!" Mori cried.  She shifted into a dragon and panted.  Firelight blazed against her golden scales.  "Acribus is a phoenix down there, he's still alive!"

Bayrin let his flames die.  He growled, spun, and slammed his tail against the entrance to the dungeon.  The crumbly archway collapsed, raining stones.  He slammed his tail again, shoving down more bricks and dirt.

"So we'll bury the bastard," he said.  "Help me."

The slim golden dragon trembled but began lashing her own tail and claws, shoving dirt and stones into the dungeon.  Soon the fire was contained.  Smoke rose between cracks and fissures.  Inside the tomb, the phoenix was screeching.

Bayrin surveyed the ruins, seeking more bricks.  He found only a few pieces of shattered columns.  He began shoving them.  With Mori's help, he placed them over the dungeon.  The phoenix inside was slamming against the blocked entrance, and the bricks and stones jostled.  Searing heat rose from below, almost intolerable against his claws.

 "This won't hold him for long," he said and heard the grimness in his voice.  "Let's get out of here."

The two dragons took flight.  They soared over the ruins, smoke and heat rising around them.  They righted themselves and began flying north, the scent of fire in their nostrils.  The frozen valleys of pines blurred beneath them.  The shrieks of the phoenix, and the screams of the burning men, still echoed in Bayrin's ears.  Most of all, he kept seeing Acribus lick his chops and heard the man's voice again: 
Are you ready for more, weredragon?
 

Bayrin growled, belly cold.  He began to descend toward the evergreens.

"Bayrin, fly, come on!" Mori cried above him.  "We have to fly fast before he escapes."

Bayrin shook his head.  Fire caressed the inside of his mouth.

"We're not flying anymore," he said.  He spiraled down toward a valley.  "We're too easy to spot in the air.  We're a beacon up there.  Tirans might still crawl this land.  We go on foot from here."

He crashed between branches and landed by a frozen stream.  His claws dug into snow, and when he shifted into human form, he shivered.  The pines creaked in the wind and sap covered him.  Blood dampened his clothes and his wounds blazed.  He sniffed the air and could still smell the phoenix fire, and when he looked south, he saw a plume of smoke rising between the trees.

Golden scales glimmered and Mori landed by him.  She shifted into human form and stood trembling, hugging herself.  She stared at him, her eyes huge and haunted, and for a moment, Bayrin could only stare at her.  So much pain lived in those gray eyes that his chest ached.

At home, he always knew what to say—he could spout countless jokes, bawdy lyrics, taunting puns.  Now he was speechless.  He took three steps toward her, reached out his arms, and embraced her.  She flinched and trembled like a bird caught in his palm, but soon her trembling eased and she laid her head against his chest.

"Oh Mori," he said softly, remembering those rabid teeth, that lolling tongue, those lustful eyes.  "Did…"

Did he hurt you?
he wanted to ask. 
What did he do to you?
  But the words caught in his throat.  He feared that if he spoke them, her heart would shatter.  So he only held her, kissed her forehead, and smoothed her hair.

"You did well," he said instead.  "But damn it, Mors, you make me look bad!  Flying fast like that… I'm going to tie some weights onto you next time so I can keep up."

A soft smile touched her lips, and Bayrin couldn't help it.  He grinned, a huge grin that made his cheeks hurt.  It was the first time he'd seen her smile since the Tiran invasion.

Her eyes were lowered.  She spoke, her voice so soft, he could barely hear.

"I bet I walk faster than you too."

He snorted.  "No way.  You walk like a turtle, I've seen it."

Still staring at her feet, she whispered, "You walk like a snail."

"Oh that does it!" he said, still holding her.  Mockingly, he pushed her back and started stomping through the snow.  "It's a race, turtle girl.  See if you can catch up."

The Crescent Isle lay countless leagues away.  They walked between the trees, smoke and phoenix screeches rising behind them.

 
 
ELETHOR

He ran down the tunnel, eyes stinging, heart pounding, searching for Lyana in the darkness.  He saw nothing but black mist, craggy walls, and shadows.  His boots thudded against soft ground, as if running over moss. 
Or over corpses
, he thought.

"Lyana!" he cried, and his voice echoed, taunting him, twisting through endless caverns.  His heartbeat pounded in his ears, and his clothes clung to him, damp with sweat.

The image still burned against his eyes—Nedath the Guardian, a rotting girl with the body of a centipede, lifting Lyana in her arms.  Licking her.  Biting her.  Elethor had tried to stop the demon, but Nedath moved too quickly.  She had vanished into the bowels of the Abyss with her meal—with Lyana.

"Lyana!" he called again, and again his voice echoed like a hundred ghosts.  Was she still alive?

As he ran, shadows swirled.  Feet clattered all around.  He could not tell if they moved near him or echoed from a distance.  Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, slapping against him.

"Elllethorrrrr…"

The voice rose ahead, high-pitched as wind between canyons, mocking him.  Laughter rolled.

"Nedath, come and face your king!" he cried again.  "Bring back Lyana or I will kill you."

Somewhere ahead, Nedath laughed and sang.  Her voice echoed from countless tunnels, a symphony of chaos.  "Again the humans run… again their sweet stench rises… again Nedath shall feed!"

Elethor ran, slapping cobwebs aside, trying to find the demon.  The tunnels branched, a labyrinth of them.  Whenever he thought he heard footsteps or laughter, he headed that way, but then heard the sounds from behind him.

The cobwebs flapped against him, heavy and thick.  Moans and pleading whispers rose from them.  Elethor raised his lamp… and felt nausea swell.

Some cobwebs held severed arms with fingers that still moved.  Others held ruined bodies stripped down to bones; the spines ended with withered heads whose mouths gasped, whose eyes spun, whose voices begged for death.

"Boy… boy, are you a skeley, are you skeley yet?" whispered one creature, an upside down, mummified thing, no thicker than Elethor's arm, its head shrunken and its lips smacking, its gums toothless.  "Boy, it's skeley good, do you think?"

Elethor screamed and shoved past the hanging, mummified creatures.  They gasped around him, eyes spinning and fingers twitching, swinging wildly on the cobwebs that bound them. 
Stars, what are these things?
  Elethor's head spun and he tasted bile. 
Were they humans once?  Will Nedath turn Lyana into one of them?

In the shadows, the demon's laughter rolled.

"Poor poor humans, yes, Nedath.  See how they cower!  See how their fear fills the air, so sweet.  Soon they will rot, and shrink, and hang, and lick, and smack, and whisper, and weep, and beg, and we will eat them slowly, yes Nedath, we will suck their juices dry, and the marrow from their bones, and their eyeballs, and their sweet innards, as they rot, and shrink, and hang, and…"

"Silence!" Elethor shouted, spinning around, seeking her, seeing only mist and cobwebs.  He wanted to rage, to find this creature and fight, to be strong and proud and a warrior like Orin.  But he felt close to tears.  His legs shook.  He gritted his teeth, and would have crumbled and wept had Lyana not needed him.  Around him the withered, hanging creatures swung on their cobwebs, sucking the air and whispering madness.

Be strong,
Elethor told himself. 
For Lyana.  You must find her.  You can't let her turn into one of these hanging things.

"Nedath!" he shouted, hoarse, close to panic.  He swung his sword, cutting cobwebs.  "Nedath, come and face me!"