A Dawn of Dragonfire

DERAMON



He stood, stiff and aching, and lowered his head. The smoke stung his eyes and his gut felt colder than the heart of winter. His men stood at his sides, staring at the ground. His wife stood ahead, eyes raised, praying to the ceiling as if stars could still shine upon them.

"May the Draco constellation bless their spirits. May their souls find their way to our starlit halls."

Adia closed her eyes, whispered last words, and nodded. Ten of Deramon's men began shoveling dirt into the ditch, covering the dozens of bodies. They had dug this crevice into the floor of a narrow, earthy tunnel, using makeshift shovels from broken axes and helmets.

This is no proper burial for warriors of Requiem, Deramon thought, jaw clenched. They deserved to be buried in a field of grass and flowers, or burned in a pyre like the great warriors of ancient days. Not this. He looked away, grimacing. And yet he knew they had to bury them somehow, and fast. If they began to rot, disease would spread, and more in these tunnels would die.

Adia sang softly as the dirt mounted, covering the bodies' limbs, then torsos, leaving the faces for last. Deramon had seen too many young men buried in his life, and they always buried the faces last. A bitterness caught in his throat, half a laugh, half a moan. It's as if we hope that, as we shovel on the dirt, the dead might still awake and cry for salvation.

His throat constricted. Noela was wrapped in a shroud when I buried her, he remembered. At least I never had to see her face—the soft, innocent face of a babe—covered in dirt. It had been thirteen years since his daughter's death, but the pain never lessened. If Noela truly waited among the stars, Deramon prayed that his fallen men would find her, protect her, and comfort her until the day they buried him too.

When the bodies were buried, Adia whispered, eyes damp. "As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home. Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

Deramon mumbled the prayer with the rest of his men. Would they ever see sky again? He did not know. Did the souls of the fallen truly rise to the Draco constellation, dine in ghostly halls among the great kings of old? Deramon did not know that either. When darkness surrounds you, belief in light comes hard.

An image flashed through his mind, churning his gut: his eldest children lying dead in a mass grave, earth piling up upon them. Bayrin's face was pale, a gash running down his cheek. Lyana was as beautiful as ever, as beautiful as the day she'd been born. Finally earth would cover their faces too, leaving them to rot underground. Deramon gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, banishing the image.

They're still alive, he told himself. Bayrin was brave and clever; not as hardened as some guardsmen, but quick-witted, resourceful. He would know how to survive, how to protect the princess. Lyana was just as clever, and swift with the blade; if anyone could survive in the Abyss, that shadowy world beneath these tunnels, it was her.

Deramon rubbed his shoulder; it still blazed from where Solina had cut him. Worse was the shame of failing to kill her. She was mine, he thought, stomach roiling. He had only to swing his axe one more time, and he could have slain the Queen of Tiranor, ended this war, and sent the invaders fleeing. And yet he had failed. He had let her wound him, let her reach the armory, burn the wounded, claim the upper chambers. He lowered his head, eyes narrowed to slits.

"Deramon," came a soft voice. Adia approached and placed a hand on his shoulder. She stared at him, eyes soft. "You should rest. When is the last time you've slept?"

He sighed and held her hand. "Time? It has no meaning in the dark. It might have been a day, maybe three days, maybe a week." He turned away from her and nodded at two of his men. "Baras, Ilvar, follow. We will inspect the lines."

They walked through a narrow, clammy labyrinth. The tunnels were darker and rougher down here. In the upper levels, passageways were wide and sturdy, their floors cobbled, their walls smoothed, their ceilings held with columns. Up there, archways led into fine chambers: the library, the armory, the wine cellars, and more. All these had fallen to Solina. Here, in the deeper levels, only crude burrows wound. Some were natural caves. Others were abandoned mines where the ancients had dug for iron and gold. All were as cold and dark as wormholes.

His men lined the walls, holding spears and swords; most were bandaged, burnt, and bloody. Survivors sat and lay at their feet: frightened children, mothers holding babes, and old men and women who whispered and wept. Every Vir Requis over age thirteen now stood as a soldier, even those who'd never swung a sword. They bore the steel of their fallen comrades. As Deramon walked down the lines, inspecting them, they stared back with solemn, deep-set eyes. Many were mere youths—boys who had never shaved, kissed a girl, or dreamed of war.

So many gone, Deramon thought as they walked. Once, he had commanded a thousand men of the City Guard, warriors to defend Nova Vita. Two hundred of those men now stood here; the Tirans had killed the rest. Once, five thousand more warriors, King Olasar's Royal Army, had fought for Requiem; they had burned over King's Forest. Once, fifty knights had defended the realm; now only one remained, his daughter.

So many burnt. So many dead. Even if Bayrin finds the Moondisk, and even if Lyana wakes the Starlit Demon, how can we recover from such loss?

Soon Deramon turned around a bend and reached the barricade, a pile of boulders and pikes blocking the upper chambers. Fifty men stood here, clad in plate armor, swords drawn; they were as many as could fill this tunnel. Silence blanketed the darkness. No more screams rose from above.

Good, Deramon thought. May our men who fell captive find some peace in death.

"Garvon," he said to one of his captains—a gaunt man with one eye, a white beard, and a splintered shield. "How is the guard?"

The man bowed his head. A cut ran down his cheek, freshly stitched. "Quiet, my lord. The Tirans have made no attempt to break the barricade for hours. They're regrouping; many of them are wounded too."

"They will attack soon," Deramon said, voice hoarse. Stars, if they have more of that dark magic that broke our first barricade, how will we hold back the tide?

Garvon nodded, gripping his sword. "We are ready for them, my lord. We will hold them back. And if they break through, we will fight them in the tunnels and cut them down in darkness." He raised his chin. "The upper chambers are wide; they could burn us there. Here in the narrow depths, they will fall."

No, Deramon thought. We cannot defeat them, even here. Not with so few men. Not against the wrath and fire of these southern demons. They needed aid; Deramon knew that. They needed his children back.

Boots thumped behind him, running up from the deeper tunnels, and a man called out, "Lord Deramon!"

He turned to see Silas, a young soldier who had once guarded the eastern wing of Olasar's palace. Today half his face was burnt and bandaged, but he still carried a sword and shield. His eyes were wide and blood splashed his dented armor.

"What is it, Silas?" said Deramon. "Speak."

The young soldier reached him and bowed his head. "My lord Deramon, men are fighting at the silo. One stabbed another. Others are trying to grab the sacks of grain."

Deramon began marching at once, fists clenched. Silas followed. What guards lined the walls stood at attention, chins raised, hands grasping swords and spears.

Children of Requiem squabbling over grain like hens, Deramon thought in disgust. I will have them flayed. His anger bubbled in him. His king had fallen. The new Boy King had plunged into darkness. He, Deramon Eleison, was caretaker of Requiem now, an ancient and proud kingdom. He would not let it descend into madness on his watch.

He marched down sloping, twisting tunnels like the veins of a stone giant. Soon he reached the lower silos. The main pantries were higher up, in the chambers Solina had claimed; there Requiem stored its dried fruit, vegetables, smoked meats, salted fish, barley, and sacks of golden grain. Here in the depths was only what grain the upper chambers could not hold—a meager supply that Deramon doubted could feed the survivors for a moon. Ten guards stood at the silo's gateway, holding back a crowd of men who were trying to push through. One man lay dead in the corner, a knife in his heart.

"My daughter is starving to death!" a man was shouting, shoving a guard. "Starving! She has not eaten in three days. She is only four years old. How could you stand here like this, letting us die?"

Another man began shoving a second guard. "There is grain behind you! You are a man of Requiem, or do you serve the Tirans? Let us through."

The guards were scowling and shoving the men back. "The grain is rationed. Your children are not starving; they received grain like everyone else."

The first man had tears on his cheeks. "What grain? She hasn't eaten in three days! Where are these rations? Not all received them." He grabbed the guard's spear and tried to wrench it free. "I will hand out the grain."

Deramon stormed toward them, howling. "Cease this!"

His guards bowed their heads. The men who'd tried to break through cried of hunger, of famished children, of youths eating double rations, leaving others to starve. Deramon listened and scowled. He was a fighter; he knew how to kill an enemy with steel, claw, and dragonfire. Hunger was a foe he had never known, and it might be the foe that slew them here.

How long before this grain is gone? How long until we turn to eating one another? Two moons? One?

"Silas," he said to his guard, "organize another round of rations—one cup of grain per person. Take what men you need to make sure everyone eats. If you see anyone eating double rations, depriving another of food, I want them clamped in irons and brought before me."

Silas bowed. "Yes, my lord."

Sacks of grain were opened and gourds being filled when shouts rose from the tunnels behind. Steel clanged and cries echoed. A soldier came racing from around the corner, face red.

"My lord Deramon! Tirans are breaking through the barricade. They have a battering ram."

Deramon cursed, drew his sword, and ran. His soldiers ran with him. He raced up the tunnels, heart hammering.

Maybe it won't be hunger that kills us after all, he thought. He rounded a corner and beheld the barricade collapsing, sending boulders tumbling and dust flying. Through the wreckage, he glimpsed a battering ram slam into the rocks. Tiran troops stood around it, blades drawn and eyes full of bloodlust.

It is a blessing, Deramon thought and snarled. We'll die of steel and fire. We'll go down fighting after all.

A dozen Tiran troops broke through the wreckage, leaped over the boulders, and ran toward him. Deramon howled, swung his sword, and leaped into battle.