A Day of Dragon Blood (22 page)

Elethor cursed himself. He cursed the wyverns. He cursed Solina and all her men. He had left the dead to rot behind him. He would now leave the living too, and the fires of sacrifice burned through him.

"We do not fly to Oldnale Manor. If wyverns flew there, Treale, we must trust that your family fled. Twenty-five thousand souls live in Nova Vita; that is where Solina heads. That is where we head too." He growled and blew a blast of fire. "We failed to block her passage into Requiem; we can no longer save the countryside. We fall back to the capital."

Treale gasped and tears filled her eyes. She shook her head mightily and roared her fire.

"My king! I cannot abandon my family. I cannot leave them to die." She glared at him, fire sparking between her teeth. "I must fly to them, my king."

He glared back at her, eyes narrowed. "You are a soldier of Requiem, Treale Oldnale. You train for knighthood. Your duty is with your king." He lowered his head, chest aching, and his voice softened. "I lost my family to Solina; I know the pain of loss. But our duty now lies at the capital; it is Nova Vita we must defend now. And you will fly there with us."

Treale gave him a long stare, rage and tears mingling in her eyes. Then she blasted fire, spun around, and began flying east.

"I go to warn my family!" she said. "That is where my duty lies. Goodbye, King Elethor! We will meet in our starlit halls of afterlife!"

With that, she disappeared into the clouds, roaring fire.

Elethor watched the clouds, throat tight.

Her family will die,
he knew.
She will die.
Her home and people will burn. All of Requiem will rise in flame again.
He howled, letting rage overflow his terror.
But I will save my city. If Requiem burns around us, I will save our last bastion.

"Fly!" he cried. "Fly with all your speed!"

They flew through the night, three thousand strong, sons and daughters, a young king, a bloodied knight. The darkness spread endless before them and the winds of war screamed.

 
 
SOLINA

He entered her tent clad in armor, clutching his throat and still wheezing. He took slow, confident paces and held his back straight and shoulders squared—a pathetic attempt to restore some pride. He had lost their catch; no steel armor nor strong stance could save his pride today.

Solina sat in her chair, feet upon a footstool. Around her draped the walls of her tent—thick red cloth embroidered with golden suns. Candles burned upon giltwood tables around them. Solina sipped wine, then placed her goblet down. She gave Mahrdor a long, silent look. He stared back steadily, blue eyes emotionless, but his fingers still clutched his throat, and his lip gave a twitch.

Solina sighed. "You let the bird fly."

When he spoke, his voice was but a hoarse whisper. "A dragon, my queen, not a bird; a dragon who nearly clawed my throat out." He pulled his hand back, revealing a neck scratched red and raw. Blood still dripped from it.

Solina laughed. "The Lady Lyana Eleison. I grew up with her, Mahrdor—a pampered girl born into splendor. I saw her cry once when a bee stung her in the gardens. And this rich, spoiled spawn of a lordling, born with a silver spoon up her backside, nearly clawed out the throat of mighty General Mahrdor, Lord of Tiranor's Hosts?"

As stiff as he stood, he managed to stiffen further. "My queen, the girl you knew has grown. She is a vicious beast now, a creature, a—"

"Was she a dragon in your tent?" Solina asked.

Mahrdor began to say something, then closed his mouth. He inhaled sharply through his nostrils. "My queen? I—"

"You claim she is no bird, but a creature, a... how did you call it? A vicious beast? Your tent still stands, does it not? Charred, yes, but still standing. I saw it from the hill. Surely a vicious
dragon
would have torn your tent to shreds."

Something cold and dangerous filled his eyes. She had never seen him stare at her like that. Quick as it kindled, the blue fire in his eyes died. He raised his chin. "She shifted into a dragon outside my tent."

"And yet..." Solina crossed her legs upon the footstool. "And yet you were found gasping and croaking
inside
your tent, clutching at your throat. You were dragged from the smoke nearly dead. Curious thing, is it not? One could almost think—it's a long stretch of imagination, to be sure, but hear me out—one could almost think that a chained, pampered, utterly defenseless girl choked you... not a dragon." She raised her palms, as if weighing one enemy in each. "Vicious dragon? Chained girl? Which was it, Mahrdor? Which of these horrible enemies did this to you?"

His lips pulled back in but the slightest snarl, and his hands formed fists at his sides. "A girl who can
become
a dragon, a—"

"A girl who became a dragon
after
choking you." She rose to her feet and approached him. "Mahrdor, you lead this army. You command the hosts of the Sun God himself. You are, supposedly, the greatest soldier in my kingdom. And this..." She touched his neck. "The work of a chained, pampered girl from a soft northern land."

He stared at her silently. She could see his emotions: rage, shame, and finally... finally the blank duty of a soldier. He lowered his head, jaw clenched.

"I failed you, my queen." Fists clenched at his sides, he knelt before her. "Forgive me, your highness."

She sighed again, stepped aside, and looked at the back of the tent. A clay jug sat there, a cloth atop it. When she sniffed the air, its scent tingled her nostrils. She turned back toward her general. He looked at the jug, paled, and returned his eyes to her.

"My queen. I..." He breathed sharply. "I beg you."

"Beg me?" she said and snorted a laugh. "I begged too, Mahrdor. I begged the weredragons to spare my parents' life. I begged them to release me from my northern captivity. I begged so many times." She touched her line of fire, the scar that ran down her face, neck, and chest. "But they scarred me, Mahrdor. They deformed me. It was Lyana's betrothed who gave me this scar, the lover of the woman you freed." She pointed at the jug. "Now you will carry scars too. Do it silently. Your left hand; the one you tried to conceal your neck with. Make not a sound. If you scream, your right hand will follow."

His lip curled. "And if I refuse?" he rasped.

She shrugged. "Refuse then. Storm out of my tent and try to escape; we will hunt you. Try to kill me. You could not defeat a chained girl; you will not defeat me."

He took a step toward her. His eyes blazed. "If I escape, you will hunt me, but you will not catch me."

"Perhaps." She sat back down and sipped her wine; it tasted of berries, oak, and a hint of spices. "You could perhaps evade us for a while. You could seek exile in some distant land, a sojourner. Instead of your villa upon the River Pallan, you could squat in alleys in Confutatis, or live feral in Hostias Forest, or become a hermit in some western mountain in Salvandos. You could forsake your servants and fine meals; you could eat squirrel dung if you like. It bothers me not; it would, in fact, amuse me. Then, a few years down the line, I will find you with a long beard and some ratty cloak—a pathetic disguise—and I will dip your head into my vase. Or..." She raised her left hand and flexed the fingers. "You can do this quickly, you can do it silently, and we can keep flying to Nova Vita."

He stared at her. Their eyes locked for what seemed the turn of seasons. She saw the madness there, that madness he kept hidden, that drove him, that would have him prove his loyalty today. She herself would have run, but he would be too stubborn, too proud.

He tore his eyes away, walked toward the jug, and thrust his fist into the acid.

His jaw clenched and his body shook, but he did not make a sound.

 
 
ELETHOR

They flew through the night, thousands of dragons with blazing eyes. Clouds hid the stars and rain fell. Only the fire in their maws lit the darkness. Their wings glided upon the wind. Below them, red firelight raced against mountaintops and cliffs.

"Be strong, Mori," Elethor whispered into the wind. "I'm coming home."

When he looked northeast, he saw the distant red glow. It still lay many leagues away, but rose like a dawn. Firelight. The wilderness of Requiem burning.
Solina flies there.

He looked over his shoulder. His army stretched for a league behind, the slower dragons dragging like a wake. Elethor cursed. They were only as fast as their slowest soldiers.

"Fly, dragons of Requiem!" he shouted in the night. "Fly with all your might!"

He looked back into the northern darkness. Nova Vita lay there beyond mountains, forests, lakes, and fields. Hundreds of leagues still lay between them and their home. Elethor had been flying for a day and night, and his wings ached, and his lungs burned, and dull pain throbbed in his chest. He forced himself onward.

Soon true dawn rose in the east, as red as the distant fires. Clouds stretched across the sky like bloody fingers. When Elethor looked at his army, he saw dragons panting, wobbling, and falling out of formations. Behind him, the stragglers were nearly too distant to see. Many of the dragons who had guarded the border—those who had been stationed closest to Ralora—had joined them. The others were making their own way to the capital; it could be days until they began to arrive. Elethor ground his teeth, spat flame, and cursed some more.

"We must rest, my lord," said a lavender dragon who flew by him—the young healer Piri. Like all healers, she wore a litter over her back; upon it, fastened with ropes, Lyana lay in human form. The knight's eyes were still closed, her wounds still raw.

Smoke rose from Elethor's mouth, nearly blinding him. He wanted to keep flying. How could he stop when Solina burned the farmlands, when her army flew toward Nova Vita, when the last Vir Requis faced the wrath of twenty thousand wyverns? He growled and forced his wings to keep flapping. He had to save Mori. He had to save Treale if he still could. He had to stop Solina from felling the city his ancestors had built.

"My lord!" said Piri. Her tongue lolled and her eyes rolled back. She wobbled as she flew, jostling Lyana upon her back. "Please, my lord, we must rest."

The lavender dragon looked ready to fall from the sky; if she fell, Lyana would fall with her. How long had they been flying? A day and night, or was it two nights? Elethor could no longer remember; he could barely form thoughts. All he knew was pain—the blaze in his lungs, the throbbing of his wings, the stabs in his chest. Exhaustion overwhelmed him, numbing even this pain. He felt like he could fly forever until he collapsed at the gates of Nova Vita.

"Solina," he managed to whisper. "Solina, I am coming for you."

Yet how would he fight her, sapped of strength, his army close to collapsing? Piri was right. They had to sleep, eat, and regain their strength. Even if they could reach Solina without rest, they would reach her exhausted; she would crush them.

He nodded and tossed his head to scatter the smoke from his nostrils. "We set camp." He raised his voice. "Dragons of Requiem, we land."

He began spiraling down toward a valley between rolling mountains. A river pooled there into a lake, its shores grassy. A few feet above the lakeshore, Elethor filled his wings with air, reached out his claws, and landed with a groan. As soon as his wings stilled, pain blazed across them, down his chest, and into his jaw. He felt like he would never fly again. He looked above him to see thousands of dragons land around him, moan, and collapse.

Elethor shifted into human form. At once sweat covered him. He wiped it from his eyes, approached Piri, and helped unload the litter Lyana lay on. He laid his betrothed upon the grass and knelt over her.

"Lyana," he whispered and held her hand.

Her eyes fluttered opened; she seemed just now to be rising from her long silverweed sleep. She blinked at him, then gasped and tried to rise, but straps still held her to the litter.

"Elethor!" she said. "El, the wyverns, they—"

"I know, Lyana." He touched her forehead; it was hot. "We've been chasing them north for two days. You drank silverweed and have been sleeping." He began unbuckling the straps that held her onto the litter. "We're in Cela Mountains, a third of the way to Nova Vita."

As soon as her straps were opened, she sprang up, crashed into his embrace, and held him tight. She sniffed and her fingers dug into his back.

"Oh, Elethor," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He closed his eyes and lowered his head. She felt so thin in his arms, frailer than he'd ever known her. He held her awkwardly, daring not touch the stitches that ran across her back. He wanted to stroke her head, but her scalp was still raw; red stubble covered it. He gently kissed her forehead.

"You need not be sorry, Lyana," he whispered. "
I
am sorry, though. I sent you into danger. I let this happen to you. I'm sorry, Lyana. I will never send you away again." He raised her chin with his finger and kissed her lips. "I'm not letting you get into any more trouble."

She laughed weakly and tears sparkled in her eyes. "My parents could never keep me out of trouble; you won't either." Then she sniffed again and touched his cheek. "Did you grow a beard, Elethor? It suits you. You look like your father."

He snorted. "You lose hair, I gain it." Then he pulled her close again, nearly crushing her against his chest. "You scared me, Lyana. Stars, I'm glad you're back. I—"

I love you,
he wanted to say.
I love you like a new spring after winter. You are the strongest, bravest woman I know.

Yet as he held her, he could say none of those things. He could still feel the touch of her lips on his. And he still thought of Orin, the man she had loved, the man they had lost. He still thought of Solina, whose kisses never felt like this, warm pecks of the lips, but like spirits shooting through him. He loved Lyana; he knew that. How could he not? Lyana was wise and strong and beautiful. And yet... and yet...