A Dawn of Dragonfire

DERAMON



He slew the Tiran with a downward swing, driving his axe into the man's head, through helmet into skull. Blood spilled and the man fell dead, joining his fallen comrades. When he hit the ground, his visor clanked open, revealing a young face.

A boy, Deramon thought. Nothing but a stupid boy, fifteen if he was a day.

He spat and gritted his teeth. He cursed under his breath, damning Solina for this slaughter, for killing his people, and for forcing him to kill hers.

"Bring the hammers!" he bellowed. "Break this tunnel upon them!"

The corpses of Tirans and Vir Requis rose in piles. They stank, blood and offal seeping from them. Severed limbs littered the floor. Years ago, Deramon used to read to his children stories of epic battle. In those books, the heroes smote the enemies with light and justice. The books never mention the entrails and bones and human waste, he thought. They never mention the heroes cleaving the skulls of boys too young to shave.

Men came running from deeper below, holding hammers still hot from the forge. As Deramon and ten soldiers swung swords at those Tirans who surged from above, the hammermen slammed at the ceiling and walls. Chips of stone rained. One Tiran leaped forward and slew a hammerman. The Tiran fell, face caved in like a red crater, when a second hammerman bashed his skull. Blood splashed and the screams of men echoed. The body of a slain child lay torn under the fighters' boots, limbs ripped off, her head a flattened ruin. Chunks of stone fell and cracks raced along the tunnel walls.

"Where are you, Solina?" Deramon grumbled as he swung his sword and axe. "Come and face me again."

Two more men died. Hammers swung. Stones rolled and cracks pierced the ceiling.

"Back, men!" Deramon shouted hoarsely. Dust flew. "Back!"

He slew another Tiran, cleaving his armor with an axe blow, and leaped back into the darkness.

Boulders tumbled. Men screamed and dust filled the air. The tunnel collapsed.

A boulder slammed down an inch from Deramon. A rock crashed against his helmet, another against his pauldron. He ran, leaped over a body, and fell. His men leaped around him. The sound roared like an army of dragons. For a moment Deramon thought that all the tunnels below Requiem would crumble, that every last survivor would die.

Bayrin and Mori will live, he thought as rocks pummeled him. We've saved my son at least.

For long moments, he lay on his stomach, rocks raining against him. The dust flew; he saw nothing but gray and black. It seemed the passing of ages before he realized that he could hear men moan. One cursed and spat, while another wept and prayed. The dust was settling, and soon Deramon could see again. Men shifted around them, coated in dust, their blood seeping through it.

His body ached and his head rang. Grimacing, Deramon sat up and turned around.

The tunnel had collapsed into a heap of boulders. He could neither see nor hear the Tirans. Blood seeped from under the wreckage.

"Good," he muttered. May they all lie dead.

He rose to his feet, leaning against the wall for support. His men rose around him. Behind them, the tunnel sloped deeper into darkness; the prayers and cries of survivors rose from the depth.

I've buried us alive, Deramon thought. How long until we run out of air? How long until we all perish in the darkness? Will we ever find a way back to light?

He did not know. But death was delayed. They had staved off fire, even if hunger, thirst, and suffocation still awaited.

"Their battering ram will not break this blockage as easily," said Garvon, the captain with the white beard and one eye. Dust filled a gash along his cheek, and a dent pressed into his breastplate, leaking blood.

"No," Deramon agreed and scratched his own beard, wondering if he'd live to see it as white as Garvon's. "Go see my wife, Garvon. Go see Adia. Get your wounds bandaged. Silas!" He turned to see the younger soldier struggle to his feet; blood seeped from under his helmet. "Silas, can you stand? Can you still swing a blade?"

The young man nodded, lips tight, and lifted his fallen sword. "My blade will always swing for Requiem."

He is younger than my son, Deramon thought. But not as young as the boy whose skull I cleaved.

"Good. Stay here and guard this pile of rubble." Deramon passed his eyes over the others who were rising from the dust. "Talin! Raion! Stay here with him. The rest of you too. I'll send up fresh men."

Leaving them there, he walked with Garvon down the tunnel. Soon they were stepping through crowds of women and children. If the survivors had been cramped before, they were now pressed together, a wall of flesh and tears and blood.

This place is a grave, Deramon thought. How much more of these tunnels could they lose? So much of the underground had fallen. All that remained was this—a few burrows, a few alcoves, thousands of survivors breathing and crowding together. How long until their air was gone? A day? An hour?

We cannot wait for you, Bayrin, he thought. We cannot wait, Lyana. Return to us… or flee as far as you can, and never return to our tomb.

Robes swirled, and Adia came walking toward them. The survivors around her bowed their heads and moved aside as best they could, letting her pass. She mumbled blessings to them. The priestess's face was pale, her eyes sunken, and blood stained her robes.

"Deramon," she whispered. She touched blood that trickled down his forehead.

"We held them back," he said, so hoarse he could barely speak at all. "We brought the tunnel down upon them."

And upon a dozen of my own men, he thought.

She stood for a moment, stern, the Mother of Requiem, the great Priestess of Stars… and then her lips trembled, and she embraced him and clung to him.

"Thank the stars," she whispered. "Deramon, I thought you had left me. Stars, so many are dead. So many I cannot heal."

He looked over her shoulder at the survivors. Here too people were dying. Some were sick, their wounds festering. The elderly huddled on the floor and babes wept.

Deramon wanted to comfort his wife. To be strong for her, to give her hope… but he knew that hope was gone. We will die here. But we will die fighting.

"Adia," he began… and his breath died.

Cracks raced along the ceiling, and with a crash and sound like crumbling mountains, boulders rained. A hole broke open above, and firelight blazed, like the sun breaking through clouds.

"Storm the tunnels!" rose Solina's voice above. "Slay them all!"

Tirans leaped from above, tossed down shovels, and drew swords. Solina landed like a cat, snarled, and swung her twin blades. Vir Requis screamed and tried to flee, but there was nowhere to run; they fell dead at the Tirans' blades.

"Garvon, with me!" Deramon shouted and ran forward, shoving men aside. Behind him, he heard more of his troops rushing into the tunnel. He saw Solina stab an old woman who gasped and fell. Then a Tiran man charged toward him, thrusting a spear, and Deramon parried with his sword.

The Tirans' torches filled the tunnels. There were dozens, maybe hundreds. They kept pouring in from above. Cold winter winds came with them, shrieking through the tunnels, tasting of flame and night.

Deramon swung his blades. As soldiers, women, and children fell dead around him, he grimaced and thought: At least we now have air.