A Day of Dragon Blood (24 page)

"Men!" he barked. "Into the tunnels. Guard the people underground. Move! I'll lead the princess to safety."

The guards bowed their heads. "Yes, Lord Bayrin," they said and raced outside, drawing their longswords.

Bayrin looked back at Mori; they were alone in the palace. She rose from her throne, face blank. She wore a gown of bluish gray—the color of her eyes when she cried—and a sword hung from her waist, its pommel shaped as a dragonclaw. Bayrin crossed the hall, walked up the marble stairs to the dais the throne stood on, and reached out his hand.

"Come, Mors," he said softly. "Let's get you into the tunnels."

She stood frozen before her throne. Between the eastern columns, she could see the city where dragons perched upon roofs and walls. The sky was turning red; distant fires blazed.

"Where is Elethor?" the princess whispered. "Where is my brother?"

Bayrin took her hand. He spoke softly. "I don't know, Mori. Come, we must go."

She turned to meet his gaze, and again the sadness of her eyes flooded him. Her lips parted, pink in her pale face like a flower in snow. Her hair swayed in the wind that blew between the columns. She seemed to him almost a figure of starlight, a ghost in the hall. He tightened his hand around hers, and she raised her head, took a slow breath, and nodded. He helped her down the stairs of the dais, and they crossed the hall in silence. The columns rose around them, and Bayrin wondered if this was the last he'd see them standing.

Outside he found a sky the color of burnt flesh. Hundreds of dragons of the City Guard perched atop roofs and walls, staring east with narrowed eyes. Smoke rose from their nostrils in hundreds of plumes. On the cobbled streets, people were still moving toward the tunnels; guards in armor guided them. Bayrin saw an elderly woman limp forward, leaning against her daughter. One child pushed a wheelbarrow where lay his legless brother. Many people still bore the scars of last year's war, limbs and faces twisted with old fire.

Stars, haven't these people suffered enough?
Bayrin thought, sudden rage finding him. He clenched his fist around the hilt of his longsword.
We barely survived Solina once; now she comes to burn us again.
He wanted to shift into a dragon, fly into the wyvern army, and slay Solina with all his fire and fury. For a year now, sadness had filled this city—had filled Bayrin too—as they healed, as they rebuilt, as they still wept for the dead and wounded.

Now this desert queen brings her steel and fire here again.
Bayrin growled.
Now she seeks to undo all our healing.

How could such cruelty exist? How could one queen feel such hatred, such rage, that she would seek to crush an entire race? Bayrin could not understand it. This felt like something from the old stories, the ones where King Benedictus fought as the tyrant Dies Irae slew all but the Living Seven. Bayrin had never imagined such terrors could truly exist outside of dusty old books, yet now he smelled them on the wind, and he heard their shrieks in the distance coming closer.

They reached a tunnel entrance. People were moving under the archway, down the stairs, and into shadow. The archway guards bowed their heads.

"Princess Mori," they said. "Lord Bayrin."

Mori bowed her head to them. She touched each guard on his shoulder and kissed his cheek. Their eyes were solemn, strong but frightened.

"Thank you, my friends," Mori whispered. "Thank you for your strength, for your steel, and for your courage."

Bayrin led the princess onto the narrow, candlelit staircase. Last year, the people had rushed into these tunnels, burning and terrified. Today they walked somberly, and every few feet, guards stood with spears, crossbows, and shields. At the bottom of the staircase, a heavy door waited, and more guards stood here to usher them through. Down the tunnels Bayrin and Mori walked, passing more and more guards, under the portcullis, and past doors of bronze.

Here spread a network of chambers where Requiem's people hid. Thousands of men and women—those too young, old, or wounded to fight—huddled here. Word had spread that the war had truly come, that this was no drill. Tears filled eyes, mothers embraced children, and whispers rose like maelstroms. In every chamber, three guards stood armed with steel.

"The Princess Mori," whispered a few people. More whispers rose through the tunnels. "The Princess Mori! Stars bless you, my lady."

Bayrin led Mori to the deepest chamber. The walls and ceiling loomed, carved with dragon claws. The air smelled of moss, soil, and fear. They moved to stand by a wall where candles burned in alcoves. Mori looked at Bayrin, held his hands, and her lips parted as if she would speak but could not find words.

"Mori, I return to my post," he said softly. "I will watch upon the walls, and I will fight in the sky above our city." He looked at the wall where hung a tapestry, its threads forming scenes of dragons flying under stars. "Mori, if I fail... if they break down the doors... you know what to do."

She looked at the tapestry and clutched the hilt of her sword.

"I know," she whispered.

He nodded, throat tight. "It will not come to that. Not so long as there is fire in my maw, strength to my claws, and wind in my wings. I promise you, Mori."

She lowered her head and nodded, bit her lip, and looked up at him. Tears trembled in her eyes, and she touched his cheek, then wrapped her arms around him. She held him tight.

"Be careful, Bay," she whispered. "I love you."

She looked up at him, and he cupped her cheek and kissed her—a long kiss that melted into rivers of mist. Bayrin closed his eyes, and again he lay upon grass in the Crescent Isle, the place where he had first kissed Mori. He could smell the pines and mist. He could feel the cool, damp air against his skin and Mori's soft hair in his fingers. She had been a mere girl then, frightened and meek, and he a lowly guard; the past year seemed like a lifetime of healing.

"I love you too, Mors," he whispered and held her close. He kissed her forehead. "I will come back to you. Always. Always."

He left the tunnels, her kiss still warm on his lips and the softness of her hair still tingling his fingers. When he emerged onto the city streets, he found them deserted; every last guard aboveground perched as a dragon upon the walls and rooftops. He shifted and took flight, wings raising demons of dust. He landed upon the eastern wall and stared into the distance.

The shadow was closer now. Fire raced below it, consuming the countryside, and smoke unfurled like wings. Bayrin could just make out the glint of distant armor and spearheads, just hear war drums on the wind. He shifted his jaw and fire sparked between his teeth.

Twenty thousand wyverns,
he thought.
A thousand dragons of the City Guard. Stars, Elethor, where the abyss are you?

Wings beat like more war drums, air blasted Bayrin, and his father landed beside him. Lord Deramon was a burly beast of a dragon, all clanking copper scales. The stone walls moaned below him, and so much smoke rose from his maw it hid the landscape.

"Any sight of the Royal Army?" Deramon asked, voice a grumble like gravel under boots.

Bayrin shook his head. "Nobody has seen Elethor. No word from him." He looked at his father and his stomach knotted. "We are alone."

Had Elethor fallen? What about Lyana? Bayrin's eyes burned and terror swelled inside him. He clutched the battlements, his claws digging into the stone. He forced himself to think of Mori's eyes, her lips on his, and the softness of her hair. If his king and sister were dead, he still had to fight—for Mori and for all the others underground.

The smell of smoke and acid filled his nostrils. The eastern shadow shimmered and grew.

 
 
SOLINA

Night began to fall when she saw the City of Dragons ahead. She bared her teeth and snarled. Her wyvern howled beneath her and clawed at the sky. Baal's scales clanged and as his tail lashed, Solina bounced in the saddle, pushed her knees against it, and smiled.

"Nova Vita," she whispered and licked her lips.

A year ago, she had ravaged this city—ripping dragons upon the streets, crushing houses, and burning the holy birches of Requiem. And yet these walls still stood.
Now is the time to finish the job.

"Mahrdor!" she shouted, voice rising on the wind. "Divide them up! Invasion formation. Go!"

When she looked over her shoulder, she saw him flying there upon his wyvern. His left hand was wrapped in leather, and his right hand clutched a sabre. Behind him flew two hundred phalanxes, each a hundred wyverns strong. Every wyvern howled for blood and clawed the air. Every rider raised a spear and cried for glory, for Tiranor, and for Queen Solina. The roar shook the sky. Every phalanx flew in formation, their banners sporting their sigils: bloody claws, flaming hearts, crossed sabres, blazing suns, and dozens of others.

"Phalanxes!" Mahrdor shouted, voice hoarse and deep in the wind. "Invasion formation! Sunfire! Bloodspear! To my right, move. Wyvern Claws, Heartflame, Sabre Steel—fan out, go!"

The general flew between the lines, arranging the phalanxes for invasion. From the border, the army had flown in a line—an arrow of glory. Now they spread out like a claw opening to clutch the city. They would encircle this pathetic Nova Vita, crush it in their grip, and claim its spoils.

"Soldiers of Tiranor!" Solina howled, riding at their lead. She grabbed the banner pole from its ring on her saddle and raised it high. Her standard blew wide and long—a golden sun upon a white field. Her soldiers howled for their queen.

"Queen Solina! Queen Solina! For the glory of Phoebus!"

Even in the wind, their voices reached her, so loud and deep they thudded in her chest. They gained speed. Below them the lands streamed, and the wind shrieked, and the clouds swirled, and Solina howled for the glory of her lord.

"Soldiers of Tiranor!" she shouted again, banner held high. "Tonight your wyverns will feast upon dragon flesh!" The riders howled and the wyverns shrieked. "Tonight the light of the Sun God will banish the darkness of reptiles!" The soldiers roared and brandished their sabres. Solina screamed hoarsely. "Tonight every phalanx will prove its glory and strength! The phalanx that kills the most weredragons will enjoy the greatest spoil: the Weredragon Princess for its men's pleasures!"

The riders howled their approval. The phalanx commanders raised their banners high and chanted their names.

"Sunfire!"

"Bloodspear!"

"Sabre Steel"

Two hundred banners flew. Two hundred phalanxes roared for their glory.

"We fly to war!" Solina howled, raising banner in one hand, sabre in the other. She cried out the Old Words of her people. "We will never fall!"

They answered her call. "To war! To war! We will never fall!"

The city loomed near now—so near that she could see the dragons upon its walls.

"Destroy this city!" she shouted and the army roared. "Bring me the king and princess alive! Slay every other reptile you find!"

They shot through the wind. Their banners streamed. Their wyverns cried. They crossed fields and flew over burnt forests, moving closer, until the city loomed three leagues away, then two, and Solina snarled. She reattached her banner to her saddle and grabbed her shield. She held sword and shield before her.
Soon I will lick blood from this steel.

She was snarling, already tasting the coppery sweetness, when roars rose in the south.

She turned in the saddle and saw him there.

My love. My youth. My sunfire.

"Elethor," she whispered.

She knew it was him. From here the dragons were but a distant cloud, a shimmering shadow of color and flame, but she knew that he flew there. She could feel him on the wind, hear him in the distant roars. Once more she heard his cry—echoing from eight years ago—as he stood upon the walls of Nova Vita, calling her name.

"Solina!" His voice had been raw and torn. "Solina!"

She had wept that day, burnt and bleeding and alone. She had left him, going into her exile. She had fled into the sand, raised her kingdom from ruin, raised this army, raised this glory to light the world. And now he would shout again above the walls of Nova Vita. Now again fire would burn and blood spill.

"Elethor," she whispered again, "you have come to me."

How many times she had kissed him! How many times she had loved him in the dark! Today he would be hers again, not a lover, but a prisoner. Today he would cry her name again, not in love, but in agony as she ripped into his flesh.

"Elethor..."

She clutched her sabre between her teeth, grabbed the reins, and pulled her wyvern around. The beast banked, tilting so steeply that Solina nearly fell from the saddle. She snarled and began flying south.

"Riders of Tiranor!" she cried. "Assault formation! Form rank! Follow me—we fight in the sky!"

The other riders noticed the distant cloud too. From here the dragons were a mere smudge in the sunset, a shimmer of scales, blue and red and green. Fire rose from them like sunbeams. Their howls rolled upon the wind. Solina led the charge, sabre raised, shouts ringing hoarsely. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw her army change formation; now they formed a great fist in the sky. Her strongest phalanxes flew at the vanguard, armed with spears and crossbows. Their wyverns filled their maws with acid; the sharp stench filled Solina's nostrils and burned her lungs. She inhaled deeply, savoring it.

"For the Sun God!" she cried and her army echoed her call. "Banish their darkness with our light!"

The two armies streamed toward each other. When the dragons came nearer, Solina bared her teeth in a grin. At most four thousand dragons flew toward them—probably fewer.
We outnumber them five to one.

"For Requiem!" rose their distant cries, deep and echoing against the stony mountains below. "Requiem!"

The sunset blazed red, casting beams across the land like spilling blood. The mountains below kindled in the light. Dragonfire rose in pillars. Wyverns screeched. Soon only a league separated the armies, and Solina raised her blade and cried to her love.