A Dawn of Dragonfire

SOLINA



With a trembling heart and the whispers of old pain, she walked toward his home.

Solina had told herself she would be strong this day. She was a queen of Tiranor, a great warrior clad in steel and gold. Her twin blades were sharp, her army was vast, her power endless. She was hardened by fire, then by sand, finally by blood. She had not thought this place could hurt her.

Yet some pain drove past armor, and some memories haunted even great queens of cruel desert lands. As Solina walked toward Elethor's old home upon the hill, that pain clutched her heart and twisted.

It was a small home for a prince—a narrow hall, its walls lined with columns, their capitals shaped as dragons. It rose upon a hill where grass had once rustled, pines rose like sentinels, and birds always sang. Solina remembered the old smell of the place, the sweetness of lilac in the gardens, the wine that forever poured here, the musk of him as they made love between these walls. Now the grass was burnt, the pines fallen, and she only smelled smoke and blood. The columns still stood, but while they were once snowy white, soot now stained them.

"This was a good place," Solina whispered as she walked uphill. "This was the only place we found peace, away from the court of the cruel king."

She stepped between columns toward the hall's doors. Once carved with dragons and stars, they were now charred and cracked; the phoenix fire had reached even this place, the doors to her chamber of old secrets. When she shoved them, the doors opened, showering ash. Solina stepped inside, heart like a bird caught in her ribcage.

She saw the chambers as they had been, lush with flowers from the gardens, warm with pillows and divans, sweet with the secrets of forbidden love. She would lie naked here by his side, holding him, and they would talk and kiss and laugh until dawn rose. She remembered the wooden turtle with emerald eyes he had carved her, and his songbirds in their golden cage, and the tears she cried here when the pain of exile was too strong.

The room now lay in ruin. The fire had burned those pillows, divans, and flowers. All that remained were seven marble statues, life-sized, and Solina's breath caught.

They were her.

She stepped toward one, tears stinging her eyes, and touched its cheek. The statue stared back, a girl blossoming into womanhood, pure and beautiful, her eyes soft and her lips smiling. She was draped in cascading robes that revealed her left breast, and her hands were held out as in offering.

"Oh, Elethor," she whispered.

He had not forgotten. He still loved her, had missed her like she missed him, and suddenly Solina was trembling. She wanted those days back, if only for a respite from this pain and fire. She wanted to see the wooden turtle again, and hear the birds sing, and lie with him and kiss him with all those forbidden kisses.

She looked away.

"But those days are gone," she said and clenched her fists. "I was an exile then. I was afraid. I was weak. I was burned. I returned to my southern land, and now I come here as a queen."

Sudden rage exploded in her. Who was that smiling, beautiful woman carved of marble? That was not her. Not anymore. The dragons had burned her, ruined her beauty, scarred her face and soul. With a snarl, Solina drew her dagger and pulled it down the statue's face. The marble chipped, and she kept hacking at it, until a rut halved the statue's face.

"There," Solina said and touched the scar that rent her own face. "Now you are Solina of Tiranor, burned with fire, seeking revenge."

She moved between the other statues, hacking at them, until scars snaked down their faces, torsos, and legs. She would allow no more memories of pureness to fill this chamber. Those memories were lies.

"My power is truth," she whispered.

She opened her leather pack and looked inside. Nestled between rations, sharpening stones, and bandages lay a box carved of olive wood, a foot long and half as wide. Golden runes of suns and flames lined the wood, twisting and glowing. When Solina touched the box, it nearly seared her hand. The weapons within buzzed as if begging for release.

"Soon your fire will be unleashed," Solina whispered. With an angry jerk, she sealed her pack, spun around, and marched out of Elethor's house. She walked downhill between charred pines and birches, jaw clenched, refusing to look back. She would never return.

"I will scar you too, Elethor," she whispered as ash blew around her boots and phoenixes shrieked in the sky. "I will destroy all memories of this place. I will fill it with only my strength and majesty."

She made her way through the ruined city of Nova Vita. The birches still smoldered, charred sticks rising from mounds of ash. The palace rose ahead, its proud columns blackened, its lush gardens now crackling with scattered flames. The city amphitheater dipped into a hillside, a bowl cut into the earth, its tiers of seats holding charred bones, its stage splashed with blood. A hill of bodies burned between the columns of a temple, an offering of death for the cruel stars of Requiem.

No more weredragons filled this place—their vile, shapeshifting bodies now cowered underground. Her troops of Tiranor lined the roads, tall and proud men and women, their skin golden and pure, their hair shimmering platinum, their eyes sapphire jewels. They were as noble a race as weredragons were foul. Even as smoke rose across the city, their armor glimmered, and the firegems around their necks cast ten thousand lights. They stood with swords drawn, the blades curved like the beaks of sacred ibises, their pommels carved as sunbursts. Above them a hundred phoenixes circled in patrol of the skies. Ash rained and smoke rose in pillars.

Solina called out as she walked. "Sandfire Phalanx, fall in behind me! Jade Phalanx, follow! Deserthawk, follow!"

Her troops slammed blades against shields and cried for blood. They marched down the road behind her, boots thudding as one. As they moved between the ruins, Solina summoned more troops, and soon a thousand marched behind her. A snarling grin twisted her lips.

"It is time," she said, "for a fire in the deep."

This would be no long siege. She would not wait here for moons, even years, until the weredragons' food and water dwindled. She would break through their defenses. She would burn them all, and her men would take their women, and her blades would cut her old love.

"For your glory, Sun God," she whispered and looked to the heavens. The sun burned there behind smoke and cloud; it was smaller here in the north, and colder, but Solina would bring all its wrath to this place. She would serve her lord with the flames he'd given her. Her hand clutched the firegem around her neck and its heat shot through her, rivers of flame in her veins.

Soon they reached the tunnel entrance, where a hundred Tirans stood with drawn steel. The archway rose around the darkness, stained with fire and blood. The stairs plunged into shadow.

Elethor waits down there.

Lord Deramon had raised barricades of stone, sealing her outside. He would find that no rock could face the flame of Tiranor.

As her troops stood behind her, swords raised, Solina opened her pack. Delicately, as if handling a holy artifact, Solina withdrew the long box of olive wood. It thrummed and its runes blazed, nearly blinding her.

She whispered a prayer to the Sun God. "May your light forever cast out the darkness. May your fire forever burn out the cold."

She caught her breath and opened the box.

Six clay balls lay there, placed into holes lined with cloth. They nearly burned her hand when she touched them. Decorative red lines, shaped as flames, ran across them.

"Tiran Fire," she whispered. A hungry smile touched her lips.

Her priests had labored for moons to produce these weapons. Each clay container had taken many nights of work and prayer. One alone could destroy a phalanx of troops. Six would destroy Requiem.

She raised the box over her head, ignoring the heat that ran down her arms, and faced her troops. Firelight blazed in their eyes.

"For the glory of the Sun God!" she called. "We cast out the darkness!"

Her troops howled and waved their weapons. Their roar shook the ground. Snarling, Solina turned back toward the tunnel, thrust the box forward, and sent the six balls of Tiran Fire tumbling into darkness.

She stood facing the stairway, panting, teeth bared. She let the empty wooden box thud to the ground. The clay balls clanked down the stairs, and Solina snarled and waited… one breath, two, three…

An explosion rocked the city.

Fire and wind blasted from the darkness, and Solina turned aside, gritting her teeth. Dust flew and coated her. Rocks fell. The ground shook beneath her boots. The flames roared so loudly she could hear nothing else.

Soon she heard more sounds—screams from below.

A smile spread across her face, becoming a grin.

When the dust settled, she found the staircase coated with debris, some stained with blood. Black lines stretched along the walls. Solina drew her twin blades, Aknur and Raem, and the golden runes upon them blazed. She would lead the charge.

"For the Sun God!" she shouted. "And for Tiranor!"

Her army answered the call behind her, shouting so loudly, the ruins shook. "For the Sun God! For Tiranor! For Queen Solina!"

Solina charged into the darkness with her light and heat. She raced down stairs covered with dust and rock. Her men charged behind her, shouting for sun and glory. The walls rushed at her sides, stained with blood and ash and weredragon stench. Her blades blazed like the sun, casting out the shadows.

This is my purpose, Solina thought with a snarl. This is my glory. I will banish the darkness of reptiles with my lord's light.

At the bottom of the staircase, the barricade Deramon had raised was gone. The boulders were smashed to shards. Grooves dug into the walls. Blood, dust, and chunks of flesh covered everything. Blades raised, Solina stepped over the debris… and crashed against an army of weredragons.

Dozens of them filled the darkness, thrusting their straight, heavy blades of the north. The stains of fire and blood coated them. Stubble covered their faces and pain filled their eyes. They were desperate men, pushed into a corner, and wild; but Solina was glorious and strong and she would defeat them.

Her twin sabres lashed. Aknur, her left blade of nightfire, parried a blow from a weredragon's sword. Raem, her right blade of dawn, sliced into a man's neck. Blood sprayed like sunrise. Her troops roared behind her and burst into the chamber, sabres clashed against longswords, blood spilled, men fell. They fought over the bodies of the fallen, boots snapping bones and crushing faces.

She fought for hours. Aknur and Raem spun like disks of light. Blood coated her armor when she finally drove into the deeper chambers, where tunnels snaked wide and tall, lined with doors. The women and children of Requiem cowered here, wailing. They began to flee, a mad rout into darkness.

"Kill the reptiles!" Solina cried hoarsely. "Kill them all."

She marched through the tunnels, swinging her blades. Soldiers still hacked at her. A child ran to her left, wailing. Solina swung Aknur and cut him down. More soldiers raced up from the darkness, blades lashing. She parried and thrust, shedding their blood upon the fleeing survivors.

"Solina of Tiranor!" howled a deep voice, and Lord Deramon himself marched toward her. He bore a sword in one hand, an axe in the other. His armor was thick, his arms wide, his face cold.

She smiled at him and raised her sabres in salute. "Come die at my feet."

They circled each other, blades raised, and blood pounded in Solina's ears. It was Deramon who had caught her making love to Elethor. It was Deramon who had told her secrets to the king—who had her burned, exiled, torn apart from her lover. It was Deramon who would now die in pain and fear.

Her sabres lashed. He parried. His axe flew and she blocked, riposted, shouted in rage. Steel rang and pain thrust up her arms. Men fought around them, but Solina would not remove her eyes from her foe. He was a tall, broad man—almost twice her size—and his blades were heavier than hers. But she was younger and faster. Aknur blocked a thrust of his sword, and Raem, her blade of dawn, slammed against his breastplate.

Steel dented and Deramon grunted. His axe thrust, and Solina fell to one knee as she parried. Aknur, blade of nightfire, clanged against his axe. Raem swung against his leg, steel sparked against steel, and Deramon grunted. She leaped up and swung both blades down.

He blocked one. The other hit his shoulder, cleaving his pauldron, and blood seeped.

She lashed again at once. This was her chance to slay him. But despite his wound, he did not miss a step of the dance. His sword rose, blocked her blow, and his axe slammed against her breastplate.

Steel bent. Pain blazed. She gasped for breath and found none. His sword clanged against her pauldron, and she thought her arm would dislocate. She fell, armor dented, by the body of the child she'd slain.

Deramon stood above her and stared down, eyes cold, blood seeping. A lesser warrior might have given her some last words, spoken some poetry of farewell or justice. Deramon wasted no time on dramatic partings; he lusted for nothing more than the kill itself. His axe swung down.

On her knees, Solina raised her blades and crossed them. The axe slammed down, chipping Aknur and shooting pain down her arms. Keeping Raem raised, Solina dropped Aknur, snarled, and grabbed the dead child's hair. She tugged the head up and tossed the small, lacerated body at Deramon.

The child slammed against him, and Deramon fell back a step. Solina leaped up, swung her blade, and hit Deramon's helmet. He staggered.

She would have killed him then. She would have ended this. Yet Deramon had no honor; he would not even duel her to the death. Five of his men rushed forward from the shadows, blades lashing. With a snarl, Solina grabbed the fallen Aknur, parried a blow, and stepped under an archway. Here she could slay them one by one.

Men lashed at her. Moans and wails rose behind her. Solina glanced at the reflection in her blades. A wild smile tingled across her face. Perfect.

As men thrust blades at her, Solina retreated through the archway and into the chamber of wails. She found herself fighting in Requiem's old armory, now a hospital crowded with dying weredragons. They lay around her on the floor, bandaged, burnt, some with severed limbs, others with gaping wounds. A hundred filled this place. A single healer, a young woman with a stern braid of dark hair, huddled over the wounded.

Soldiers of Requiem came spilling into the chamber, and Solina fought alone. The hospital was wide, fifty feet deep, its ceiling twenty feet tall. She licked her lips. It is large enough. It is time for fire.

She parried a blow, clutched the firegem around her neck, and smiled.

She summoned her lord's gift.

At once, she burst into flames. They raced across her, scorching, intoxicating. She reached out her arms, and flaming feathers grew from them. She howled, and her voice became the shriek of an eagle. Men cowered before her. The wounded burst into flame. The young healer screamed and ran, a living torch. Solina grew in size until she was a great phoenix, dragon-sized, an inferno of flame and smoke and wind.

The hundred wounded weredragons blazed. A few were well enough to run, but none made it to the doors. They fell, burning into charred bones. The fire filled the chamber until it was a furnace, a pyre for her glory. The weredragons at the door howled. Some brought crossbows but their darts only passed through her flames, and Solina screeched, a great bird of sunfire.

She was a queen. She was a goddess. Soon she would destroy these tunnels, find her cowering Elethor, and she would burn him too until he screamed and begged and knew her glory.