A Day of Dragon Blood (27 page)

The faces of her parents, charred and gaping, filled her eyes. Thousands of souls now burned in the city, crying out to her, begging for aid.

With a yelp, Treale spun and began flying toward the city again.

They need me. I can't leave them. I must save them!

She howled as she flew, a black dragon in the blood-red dawn. Soon the city was closer, rising from inferno. The eyes of the wyverns burned. Their banners flapped. Their songs rose—songs of glory, light, and death. No more dragons flew. The wyverns were swooping and tearing down the last trees, homes, and statues. The sun rose, its red light falling upon little but rubble.

They're all dead,
Treale thought as she flew over blazing farmlands.
Stars, they're all gone, they're all fallen.

She mewled and spun around again. Once more she began flying north. She had to hide. She could no longer help her people. If she died with them, her bones would lie here forever, useless. In the forests of the north she could survive, she could seek survivors, she could...

I am a coward.
She growled and her eyes burned.
I am a soldier, yet I flee from battle.
She looked up, seeking the stars of Requiem, seeking their guidance. Yet she could not see the sky, only smoke and ash, black and red. No more starlight fell upon Requiem. Voice torn, fire in her maw, she cried out the prayer of her people.

"Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky." She howled as she flew. "I will find your sky again, Requiem. I vow to you."

Shrieks of rage flared behind her.

She turned to see a dozen wyverns tear themselves from the army over Nova Vita, howl at the sky, and fly toward her.

Treale cursed. She cursed Tiranor, she cursed the Sun God, and she cursed herself for her stupidity. They had heard her cries, seen her fire, and now she too would die, and her bones would not even rest among her comrades, but burn in the wild.

She could charge at them, she knew. For death! For Requiem! For eternal starlight—to die in battle, to rise to the starlit halls in a final blaze of glory.

Instead, she kept fleeing toward the northern forests.

King's Column still stands in the ruins of our palace,
she thought. The legends whispered that it would stand so long as a single Vir Requis lived. If she was the last one alive, she would not die here, she would not let that ancient column fall.

The world burned. She flew over the ruin of her home. The wyverns howled behind her. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw their eyes blaze, their riders aim crossbows, and their maws gape, full of acid. A dozen flew there, maybe more, black and red and golden in the clouds of smoke.

She shot through ash until the cries of the city faded behind her. She burst through flame and flew through smoke, coughing, blinded, the heat searing her belly. When she looked behind her, she saw only black and red swirls, a nightmare world, the Abyss itself risen to fill Requiem. Yet still she heard the wyvern cries. Still they followed her. Crossbow bolts whizzed through the smoke around her, and one grazed her tail. She bit down on a scream.

They can't see me. If they can't hear me, they will lose me.

She swallowed. She blinked. She shoved down the horror that filled her. She flew.

Treale no longer knew north from south. She saw nothing but smoke around her, smoke above her, and fires below her. The world spun. Was she still flying to the forests, or had she changed direction in the inferno, and was flying back toward the ruin of her capital? She heard the shrieks behind her, distant and echoing.

Just keep those shrieks behind you,
she told herself.
Just fly away from them as fast as you can.

She trembled. Her scales felt hot enough to melt; they expanded in the heat so that she could barely move. Her lungs and throat blazed as if she had swallowed lava, and she did not know how much longer she could fly. Yet she forced herself to keep flying, one flap of her wings after another. She tried to keep her body slim, to leave no wake through the smoke. Yet she must have been leaving a trail, for the shrieks still sounded behind her, and more bolts flew toward her. One lashed her side, and she bit down on a yelp. She gritted her teeth, blinked her eyes, and flew onward.

"I'm sorry, Elethor," she whispered. "I'm sorry I could not fight by your side, could not die by you."

In the haze of smoke and fire, she lay by him again upon the hill. She talked to him of their pasts, and kissed his cheek, and slept by his side—young and scared, but feeling safe by her king. It was a last, kind memory and she let it fill her. If nothing else—if all the halls of Requiem fell, and she died here in the wilderness, and jackals ate her bones—she still had that memory. She had still lain upon a hill with her king, and talked to him of old manor halls and puppets and dreams. She still had one dream of soft, quiet camaraderie to soothe her in the flames.

It seemed like she flew for hours. Her head was muzzy, and a deathly haze had begun to drown her pain, when finally she emerged from the smoke. An ancient forest rolled before her, spreading into red dawn, a tangle of shadows and secrets.

Before the wyverns could emerge from smoke behind her, Treale swooped. She all but crashed into the forest, snapping branches and slamming, half dead, onto the hot earth. She shifted into human form at once. In her smaller, weaker body, she trembled so violently that she could only lie shaking. Ash covered her. Welts rose across her skin. She coughed on the ground, gasping for breath.

"Please, stars," she prayed. "Let me live. Let me
live
. I cannot die here, away from my people, shameful. Please don't let me die."

She could not stop shaking. The trees rose above her, labyrinths of wood. She coughed and sucked the hot air for breath, and her eyes rolled back, and the haze of death spread across her.
No! No.
She clawed the ash. She bit her cheek and pain flared. She forced a deep, raw breath, and her lungs screamed in agony. She tried to remember that night—the night she had lain by Elethor upon the hill—and draw strength from it, to once more taste the clear air and feel brave.

The wyverns roared. Their cries nearly shattered her ears.

"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.