A Day of Dragon Blood

DERAMON



"Into the tunnels!" he shouted, flying above the city. "Single file! Walk, don't run. Keep moving!"

Below him, the people of Nova Vita shuffled down the streets. Youths were snickering with their friends; Deramon saw one boy pinch a girl's backside, making her squeal. A few old women stood chatting in the corner. Deramon fumed and smoke blasted from his nostrils. Only a year had passed since Solina had burned this city, and already these people forgot the horror of war?

"Into the tunnels, come on, you lazy bastards!" Bayrin shouted, flying beside Deramon. The young dragon blasted fire across the sky. "If this were a real invasion, you'd all be charred bones by now. Move it! Move!"

The people below hastened their step and moved down the streets. They began snaking into the three archways that led underground: one marble archway at Benedictus Square, a second by the temple, and a third behind a copse of trees by the city walls. Clad in steel, men of the City Guard lined the streets, guiding the people into safety.

As Deramon flew above the city, his belly knotted.

"They're too slow," he muttered. "Damn too slow."

Beside him, his son sighed and shook himself, clanking like a bag of dice. "They'll move faster next time, or I swear, I'll start roasting people from above." He looked at Deramon. "Father, I've seen these wyverns fly. They're fast. Damn fast. Faster than Mori with a snapping turtle chomping her tail. If any show up here, the people will have to do better."

Deramon cursed under his breath, and so much smoke left his maw it nearly blinded him. Over the past few moons, every mason and carpenter in town had been working in the tunnels. After Solina had destroyed the underground labyrinth last year, Requiem had rebuilt it stronger and safer, but that wouldn't help if the people couldn't enter fast enough.

"Move it!" he shouted at the streets below where a few stragglers shuffled toward the tunnels. Finally—it seemed like ages—the last laggard disappeared underground.

"City Guard!" Deramon shouted; a thousand of the guards still lined the streets. "Shift and fly! Battle formations!"

At his order, a thousand men and women shifted into dragons and soared. Their roar shook the city. Four phalanxes—each with a hundred dragons—moved to perch upon the city walls. Four more phalanxes landed upon the palace, the Temple of Stars, and the city's two forts. The remaining dragons circled above Nova Vita, howling and roaring fire.

It wasn't perfect. Some dragons bumped against one another as they flew, and some seemed hopelessly confused, not sure if to perch upon a building or soar. Some phalanxes flew in tight formations, divided into battle flights of four dragons—two leaders flanked by two defenders. Other phalanxes flew in a confused cloud.

Bayrin grunted. "They're bloody farmers, Father. Look at them. Half of them look like they've never flown in their life." He sighed. "The wyverns will tear through them like Lyana's cooking through my bowels."

Deramon was busy howling commands. "Dragonclaw Phalanx, bloody stars, form rank! Flights of four, go!" He whipped his head around. "You! Where are you flying? What phalanx are you? Go, down there, guard the temple, girl!"

The groan that escaped his son's throat was loud as a roar. "Merciful stars, we're in trouble. Look at that one, Father. She's barely fifteen if she's a day, I reckon. And she's in the City Guard?" He panted and glared at Deramon. "Father, if Solina reaches this city, she'll be flying with thousands of wyverns—tens of thousands—each bearing a seasoned rider. How are these... these farm girls and bakers' boys going to stop her?"

Deramon was wondering the same thing. Last year, he had commanded a thousand tough, gruff men. All but two hundred had burned, and half of those survivors now guarded the southern border. Damn it, I need more time, he thought. I need another year to turn these youths into warriors.

"It'll have to do," he said. He flapped his wings, rising higher, and waited until his guards finally manned their posts. "It's what we have, Bayrin. And they will fight when the time comes. They might be youths. But they can still blow fire. They can still slash claws. They will fight and they will protect our city." He cracked his neck. "At least, Bayrin... let me pretend. It's better to have hope than to despair." He blasted fire and howled to the city. "Drill's over! Return to your homes! City Guard—shift and regroup in the fortress courtyard!"

The tunnel doors opened and the people began streaming back into the streets. A few looked around nervously, possibly imagining the coming war. Others still laughed and gossiped as they went. Many were wounded, still carrying the scars of the phoenix attack; these ones limped and stared with haunted eyes. Others ran and laughed, the scars of war gone from their bodies and souls.

As the people returned to their homes and workshops, the dragons of the City Guard flew to their garrison, the squat Castra Murus by the northern wall. The thud of two thousand wings sent saplings bending, cloaks fluttering, and dust flying across the fort's battlements. When the dragons landed in the courtyard, they shifted into armored men and women bearing swords; they would need their steel should the battle move underground. Finally, after long moments of bumping into one another and Deramon shouting himself hoarse, they stood in formation—ten phalanxes, each commanded by a survivor of the old City Guard. They stood in rows, stiff, heads raised. One man scratched himself, then froze when Deramon scowled.

Finally, when all stood at attention, Deramon shifted too and stood before them in human form. Bayrin stood at his side, shaking his head sadly.

"Farm girls and bakers' boys," the young man repeated and sighed.

Deramon grumbled as he stared at his warriors. Elethor had drafted every healthy Vir Requis over fifteen years old, but some here looked younger. A few girls were so short and skinny they looked barely old enough to fly, let alone fight a wyvern. Some boys looked so green, Deramon half expected them to be chewing straw and herding sheep right here in the courtyard. Some were scrawny, others fat. A dozen or so were old graybeards with bent backs. Some had the pale look of scribes or priests, others the tanned look of farmers. They all had but one thing in common. They all looked scared.

"They sent me boys and girls!" Deramon shouted at them. He spat noisily. "They sent me the sons of farmers, boys who had never held a sword. They sent me the daughters of seamstresses, girls who had only wielded needles. They sent me weak, frightened children!"

They stood at attention, stiff, a few trembling. Deramon growled and continued.

"But now war is coming. Now you are no longer youths." He raised his voice. "Now you are men and women of the City Guard! Now you are warriors of Requiem!" He stared from one to another, scowling. "I once led a thousand seasoned fighters; they fell. You are here to continue their fight. You are here to honor their memory." He paced the courtyard, moving across the lines. "But when Queen Solina invades our city, you will not fight for honor. You will not fight for glory. You will not fight for gold, because I'm not going to pay you." He stood still and faced them. "You will fight for farmers and seamstresses, for scribes and masons, for winemakers and shepherds. You will fight for your fathers, your mothers, your siblings, your grandparents. You will fight for your homes, because if you don't, Solina will destroy those homes and kill those families." He drew his sword and raised it. "Today you are warriors! Today I am proud of you. Raise your swords, City Guard!"

They roared. A thousand blades rose like a steel forest. At his side, Bayrin was grinning wildly and raising his sword so high, his arm looked ready to dislocate.

The roaring continued for long moments. When Deramon stalked off to his chambers, he heard the guardsman swing blades, cheer, and speak of slicing Solina to ribbons. They laughed. The fear had left them.

But fear still dwells inside of me, Deramon thought. He closed the door to his small, shadowy chamber in the heart of Castra Murus. The air was cold and damp, and Deramon poured himself a mug of strong spirits. He drank; it burned down his throat. When he closed his eyes, he saw the faces again—the faces of his dead men, staring up at him as he shoveled dirt into their graves.

"They're only youths," he whispered in the dark. "Only children. Stars, don't let them die under my command." He lowered his head and his shoulders shook. "Stars, don't let me lose these boys and girls too."

He looked out the window at the sky. Night was falling. War was near.