A Day of Dragon Blood

LYANA



Pain burned across her like scarabs ripping flesh from bone. Every flap of the wyvern's wings shots bolts of fire through her. She sat in the saddle, chains clutching her in an iron embrace. All around her, the army of wyverns flew, a storm of scales rising and falling. Wind gusted, rain fell, and the wyverns soared. Lyana winced, her stomach rising and falling like a dead jellyfish on a storming sea. She felt a stitch on her back open and blood trickle to her tailbone. She closed her eyes and let out a soft moan.

"Silence," said Mahrdor. He sat in the saddle behind her, his arms reaching around her as he held the reins. "Make another sound, and I'll cut off your hand and gag you with it."

She fell silent. They had stitched the raw, bloody lashes across her body, but not before rubbing ilbane into them. The poison still burned, spreading through her. Every jostle in the saddle felt like whips beating her anew. She opened her eyes once more, saw the wyverns rise and fall in the rain, and swallowed to stop from gagging.

Oh Elethor, she thought and her eyes stung. I failed you.

He was waiting at Ralora Beach, she knew—hundreds of leagues away. Because of her... because of her. She grimaced and cursed herself, the anguish a claw inside her. She had fallen into Mahrdor's trap so easily. She had doomed her people to death—sweet Princess Mori, her dearest friend; her family, whom she loved more than life; Elethor, her betrothed and king. I doomed them all.

A gust of wind blew rain across them. The wyvern bucked and howled, and Lyana dug her fingernails into her palms. She felt another stitch open, and she trembled with the pain. What I must look like now... Her face felt swollen; she could barely see through her puffy eyes. Her torso bore a network of long, raw welts still oozing blood between the stitches. The chains dug into her, working their way through her skin. Her scalp still felt raw and bare. If her family saw her now, would they even recognize her, or see only a bloodied, beaten wretch?

A thunderbolt crashed and the wyverns screeched. A few spewed acid into distant forests below; where the foul liquid landed, the trees crumbled. Lyana looked around her, trying to place her location. She could see almost nothing through the storm: trees below, the shadow of mountains ahead, a river to her west. They had crossed the Tiran Sea yesterday, but Lyana did not know this land.

This is not Requiem, she thought. She had flown over Requiem countless times, traversing it north to south, east to west. She knew every mountain, river, and forest in Aeternom's Kingdom. She breathed out sharply through her nose.

Of course.

She shook her head. How had she not guessed it? Solina's army would not invade Requiem's southern border; a thousand dragons patrolled it, from Gilnor's swamps in the west to Ralora Beach in the east.

"We're flying over Osanna," she whispered as thunder rolled.

Osanna. Ancient realm of men. Empire of steel and stone. Its soldiers rode horses, unable to become dragons like Requiem's children; they could not stop an army of wyverns. Osanna's border stretched across the east of Requiem, from the snowy mountains of northern Fidelium and down hundreds of leagues to the southern sea. Not with every dragon alive could Requiem patrol that great wilderness of forest, mountain, and plain.

Lyana gritted her teeth. She had to escape. She had to warn Elethor. Images of the Phoenix War swam before her: burning people in the streets, children torn in two, severed limbs littering the underground. I can't let my city burn again.

The fear and anger pounded through her, overpowering her pain. She looked down at the irons binding her: they wrapped around her torso and clasped her wrists behind her back. Her armor and sword were as parts of her; they could shift into a dragon with her. But these manacles were foreign constraints. If she shifted now, they would dig through her enlarged body, shoving her back into human form.

Her mind worked feverishly. Mahrdor would have the keys. She knew such men; he wanted to control her, to own her, to have power over her enslavement and freedom. Even if he intended to never unlock her, he would keep the keys on him. Part of owning someone is having the power to free them... and refusing to.

She would kill him, she swore. Even if they flew at full speed, it would take several days to reach Nova Vita; she would kill him before that time. She would kill him tonight, or next night, or while they rode this wyvern, or outside the very walls of Nova Vita, but she would kill him. She would not let him reach her city. She would not let him bring death and blood to her people.

He will pin me down tonight, she thought. He will shove himself inside me as I lie chained, as he proves his dominion. And I will bite out his throat. She snarled into the rain. She could not grow dragon fangs while chained, but her teeth could still shed blood.

They flew for hours. They flew through wind and lightning, over forest and glen, over forts and snaking walls where men scurried like ants. They passed out of the storm into a red sunset, and the wyverns screeched, a sound like cracking mountains, like dying worlds. Thousands of the creatures howled in the red light, flies bustling in a puddle of blood. Solina rode at their lead, all in gold, her banner raised. The queen began to descend toward a field of rocks and wild grass, and the others followed. Air shrieked around Lyana, her head spun, and her stomach lurched. She had flown for countless hours as a dragon; flying in human form was new, and she gritted her teeth to stay conscious.

The ground rushed up to meet them. The wyverns filled their wings with air and landed, claws kicking up earth and grass. They tossed back their heads and shrieked to the sky, and the world seemed to shake. Mahrdor landed atop a hill, and when his wyvern bucked, Lyana fell back against the general. Her back blazed, an inferno of agony. His breath filled her ear, scented of wine and the honeyed scarabs he ate.

"Tonight you will dance for me again," he whispered.

His wyvern lowered its wing, forming a ramp to the ground. Mahrdor dismounted, grabbed Lyana, and pulled her to the field. She stood chained beside him, watching the army set camp, and tried to judge their location. Bayrin had said that, flying as hard as he could—pushing himself to the very limits of his strength—he could travel from Irys to Nova Vita in five days. If these wyverns flew as hard, they were in south Osanna now, somewhere west of Altus Mare port, but still south of the great city of Confutatis. The plains rolled for leagues around her, fading into mist and the shadows of jagged mountains.

Soldiers bustled about, their steel red in the sunset. As darkness fell, they lit torches and fires. Commanders marched around the camp, shouting orders as lower ranks unpacked supplies from their wyverns. Tents began to rise, squat and tan for the common soldiers, tall and embroidered for the officers. Around the campfires, the troops began to eat their battle rations: flat breads dipped in palm oil, dried fish, tangy cheeses, and dried figs and dates. Where the officers camped, cooks prepared more lavish meals: water fowl brought live in cages, slaughtered fresh, and roasted upon coals; platters of pomegranates, olives, and small hard apples; and soft breads cooked upon iron disks. Wine and beer flowed through the camp, and as darkness fell, soldiers sang of the conquest to come. The wyverns fed from sacks of rotten meat bustling with flies, and they too shrieked as if singing for war.

At the far side of the camp, upon a boulder the size of a house, stood a tall shadow—a woman holding a banner, her hair flowing in the night.

Solina. Queen of Tiranor.

Lyana gritted her teeth, staring at the queen over the army of man and beast. Was Solina staring back at her from the darkness? Lyana thought of how Solina had seduced Elethor in his youth, kissed him, made love to him in Nova Vita. The rage simmered inside her. This desert tyrant had tainted Lyana's betrothed, burned her home, and killed so many of her people.

I will kill you too, Solina, she thought, fists clenched behind her back. I will kill you and Mahrdor. I vow it. I vow it by the stars of my people. She raised her eyes, seeking those stars, but clouds covered the night. First night from Tiranor. How many more nights are we from my home?

Armor creaked and Mahrdor placed a hand on her shoulder. His fingers closed around it, too tight, driving pain through a welt that rose there. He gazed upon the camp with her. His face was blank, the face of a golden statue. Lyana stared at his belt where hung a ring of keys.

Those keys are for my shackles, she knew. And he wants me to see them. He wants me to know his power over me.

"You will dine with me tonight," he said. "Come, my tent is ready for us."

He gestured at a lavish tent, as large as a commoner's house, which rose upon a knoll. Its black canvas walls were emblazoned with golden suns. Gilded Guardians surrounded the tent, bearing spears and shields. Despite her fear and wounds, Lyana found that her belly grumbled. She could not remember when last she had eaten.

Clutching her shoulder, Mahrdor led her into the tent. Inside, his men had set an oak table, a bed topped with embroidered blankets, and iron candelabra holding a score of candles. A meal steamed upon the table—a honeyed roast duck on a bed of sliced limes, a platter of flat breads dipped in oil, stewed greens topped with sliced garlic and almonds, and a bowl of miniature oranges from the southern city of Iysa. A golden jug of wine stood by two jeweled cups. Two chairs stood at the table, their olivewood engraved with scenes of ibises flying over rushes.

"Sit," he told her, led her to a chair, and shoved her into it. "Eat."

He sat across the table from her, took a knife, and began to carve the duck. The skin cracked when he cut into it, and the meat's scent filled Lyana's nostrils. Despite herself, her mouth watered. She sat, wounds blazing, wrists bound behind her back. When he placed morsels on her plate, she leaned forward and ate. The meat was fatty and tender, the bread still steaming and dripping olive oil, and the stewed greens so soft they almost melted on her tongue. When he poured wine into her mug, she grabbed the rim with her teeth and drank; it was strong, dry wine that spun her head.

For a long while, they ate silently. Mahrdor watched her during the meal, eating little himself; he merely nibbled the odd morsel. His eyes never left her, but Lyana didn't care. She was famished and she ate whatever he gave her. She would need her strength to kill him. She would need her strength to flee this place.

Finally, when the duck lay as barren bones, Mahrdor sighed.

"It is a pity," he said. He reached across the table and caressed her raw scalp. "You had such beautiful hair. Dyed a Tiran platinum, I presume? Do I detect red stubble growing?"

She swallowed a bite of bread, glared at him, and said nothing.

He sighed. "Lyana, you misjudge me. That is your name, is it not? Lyana Eleison, a lady of Requiem's court?" He sipped his wine. "I care not that you are a weredragon. I knew you to be one the very first night I saw you. Did I hurt you then?" He shook his head. "I am not Solina. I wish not to torture you, nor beat you, nor parade you through the streets as the commoners pelt you with their trash. I did not give you your wounds; the queen did that. I did not place these manacles around you; she did."

She growled at him. "You caged me."

He raised his eyebrows. "Caged you? Yes, that I did. I caged you in a gilded work of art, its bars shaped as dragons—a home for a rare bird, for a beloved pet. Manacles of iron? Crude things. They do not befit one so fair."

"Then remove them from me."

"And see my rare bird fly away? No, I dare not. Not here in this camp." He picked an olive from a dish, placed it in his cheek, and sucked it. "I do not crave war, Lyana; it is a barbarous thing. I do not crave blood, nor the torture of my enemies; those are things for brutes, for lesser men. I am—"

"A collector, yes. So you have said."

He laughed—a cold, brief sound. "I do repeat myself, don't I? A fault I should remedy. But yes, Lyana, I am a collector of fine things. The map you saw in my chamber was set there to trap you; my other prizes are true trophies. Oh, I could make some trophy from you too; a shrunken head, perhaps, or a chair from your bones and skin. I would enjoy carving you into a piece of art, but I think you, Lyana, are a greater prize when living. I will modify you; a few changes here and there with knife and hammer. But aside from those, I will keep you as you are—a rare bird, a pet for a golden cage. Surely that is a better fate than what Solina can offer you; she would offer you only the dungeon, the lash, and the poison." He caressed her cheek. "I will protect you from her, Lyana, and you will be mine. A true weredragon noblewoman—the crown of my collection."

She raised her chin and glared. "You will not call me that word. I am a Vir Requis. I am descended from Terra Eleison himself. I am—"

"...in no position to make demands," he finished for her. He spat his olive pit into a handkerchief, folded it neatly, and placed it by his plate. "Are you done eating? Good, Lyana. Good. The food has done well with you; the color returns to your cheeks and the fire to your eyes. Soon your wounds will heal, and your hair will grow, and you will be as fair as before. I will see to it."

He rose to his feet and began to remove his armor. He placed his breastplate, vambraces, pauldrons, and a dozen other pieces of steel upon a table. When he stood clad in nothing but his tunic and breeches, he moved to stand by the bed.

"Now," he said, "dance for me. Dance like you danced in my home. Dance and you will see that home again—and never more Solina's dungeon."

She stared at him. He stared back, digging his gaze into her.

For Requiem.

She rose to her feet so suddenly her chair fell back and nearly knocked over a candle. Her chains clanked. Never removing her eyes from his, she danced.

Once she had danced in silks; today she wore chains and tatters. Once she had swayed like a desert wind; today she moved like a trapped bird fluttering against the bars of its cage. He eyed her hungrily. As she swayed near him, he tugged at the rags she wore, tearing a strip of cloth. He bared his teeth, a rabid wolf eyeing his prey.

As she danced before him, chains chinking, he reached out like a striking asp, grabbed her, and pulled her onto the bed. He shoved her facedown onto the mattress, and when she looked over her shoulder, she saw him undoing the laces of his breeches.

When he mounted her, she closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and buried her face in the bed. She wanted to do it now, but forced herself to endure him. He was lustful now. He was strong now. He would be weak soon. He had known her twice before; she could endure it again. She closed her eyes and thought of the skies of Requiem, the sound of harps in marble temples, and the thousands of dragons who flew like shards of colored glass under the stars.

When he was done with her, he rose to his feet, breathing heavily. He approached the table, yawned magnificently, and began to pour more wine.

"By the Sun God, Lyana," he said, "you do take the strength out of a man."

Quick as a juggler, Lyana shoved her bound wrists under and around her legs; her arms were now bound before her, not behind her back.

She leaped toward him.

She wrapped her chains around his throat and pulled.

The jug of wine fell and shattered.

Their lovemaking had weakened him; it had strengthened her. He made a choking sound, struggling for breath and finding none. She dug her heels into the floor, growled, and pulled back with all her might, willing the chains to dig into his neck. He reached over his back, and his fingers grazed her scalp; he could have grabbed her hair, had Solina left her any. She tugged the chains with all the strength she still had.

"I am Lyana Eleison, daughter of Lord Deramon and Mother Adia," she hissed into his ear. "I am a knight of Requiem. I am a daughter of starlight. You will die today."

He stumbled back to the bed, clawing at her. He was a tall man; she was slight. She clung to his back, tugging, grinding the chains. Blood dripped down his chest. He croaked for breath. They slammed into a candelabrum; the candles fell onto the rug. He stumbled toward the tent walls. She dug her heels and pulled him back.

Die already! She gritted her teeth and hissed as she pulled the chains. He took a step toward his armor and sabre. Snarling, she tugged the chains mightily; they dug into his throat. He kept walking. Another candleholder fell and the rug began to blaze. His hand reached for his sword. He grabbed the hilt.

Lyana twisted the chains and gave a mighty tug. Mahrdor drew his sword, gasping for breath. She pulled him back. He raised the blade. His bare feet stepped onto the burning rug, and with a choked mewl, he fell forward.

He crashed to his knees, and Lyana tugged backward, growling and straining, until he gave a last gurgle, and his head slumped forward.

Crouched above him, Lyana snarled and looked around the tent. The flames had spread to the walls and crackled, raising black smoke. Shouts rose outside. She heard soldiers clanking toward the burning tent. She straightened, panting and growling, a feral animal. Her arms and legs were still manacled. Gilded Guardians burst into the tent.

With a shout, Lyana slammed her fists against a burning chair, sending it flying. It crashed into the guardians and blazed. There were three of them, their blades only half-drawn.

Stars of Requiem, be with me.

Lyana crouched, grabbed Mahrdor's sword, and wrenched it free from his grip. Was he dead or merely unconscious? She had no time to check. Wrists bound, she swung the sabre with both hands. She drove the blade down, hitting one guardian where his pauldron met his neck; her blade drove several inches down his torso. She pulled it free, swung again, and cleaved the neck of another guard.

The third managed to draw his own sword. Lyana swung, parried, and drove the blade forward. It clanged against the guardian's armor. The tent blazed. Lyana swiped her sword across the tabletop, sending burning scraps into the guardian's face. When he fell back, she drove her blade down hard, cleaving him.

Outside, she heard more soldiers shouting and running uphill. Smoke filled the tent now, so thick that she coughed and could barely see. She leaped over a flaming rug, knelt by Mahrdor, and grabbed the keys from his belt. Frantically, she twisted her fingers; with her wrists bound, she could not fit the key into the manacles' lock.

Soldiers burst into the tent.

Lyana swung around, lashed her sword, and tossed a flaming table against them. Key in hand, she leaped over fire, through tent walls, and out onto the hill. She rolled in the night, still chained, toward an army.

Soldiers came rushing up toward her. With her mouth, Lyana thrust key into lock and twisted. The manacles around her wrists clanked open, revealing bloodied flesh. The soldiers ran, shouted, and began drawing their blades. Teeth bared, Lyana thrust the key into the chains around her legs. The lock clinked. The chains fell. The soldiers reached her.

She swung her sword, parrying one weapon. A second sabre nipped her shoulder, and she screamed. She raised her blade, parried, and thrust. Blood splashed. Lyana leaped back.

Pain exploded when she summoned her magic. Her head spun. She could barely cling to it. She was too wounded, still coughing, still too weak. Scales appeared and disappeared across her. A sabre swung down, and she raised her blade, barely parrying. Wyverns shrieked around her and the clouds above swirled. Two of the scaled beasts came swooping toward her. The world burned and spun.

Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky.

Her mother's words spoke in her mind, deep and strong, comforting her.

This is not me. I am not a wounded creature who lies in the mud. I am Lyana Eleison. I am a knight of Requiem, daughter of a great priestess. I walked through the Abyss itself. I fought in the Phoenix War. I am Vir Requis and I will find my sky.

Blades lashed down toward her.

They clanged against scales.

Her wings beat like war drums, sending smoke and dirt flying. With a great roar, a dragon roar, she soared. Her claws lashed men. She flew higher. Wyverns swooped toward her, and she blew her fire. The jet of flame roared, lighting the night, and slammed into the beasts. They howled and bucked, and Lyana shot between them.

She flew straight up, moving so fast that her head spun. She dared not look behind her. She crashed through clouds until the stars burst into light above. The Draco constellation shone, the stars of her fathers. She flew toward it.

Shrieks sounded below her. She looked down to see wyverns—a hundred or more—burst from the clouds toward her. Riders sat upon them, and their crossbows fired. Lyana howled and banked, and the bolts shot around her. One scratched her shoulder. Another pierced her wing, and she roared in pain. She rained her fire, hit one wyvern, and flew southward.

The beasts shrieked. Jets of acid flew.

Lyana soared, neck craned back, so fast she nearly blacked out. The acid flew beneath her; she flapped her wings mightily, but drops still sizzled against her tail. She howled. It felt like a hundred arrows slamming into her.

I am a bellator of Requiem. I am a warrior. I walked through the Abyss. I will fly!

In the south, she saw the storm still brewing. Lightning burst inside the clouds, stains of light. Lyana growled and flew toward the tempest. An army of wyverns flew behind.

Acid sprayed. Lyana swooped and shot forward, narrowly dodging it. A drop splashed her wing and ate a hole through it, only coin-sized but blazing with agony. Wind whistled through the opening. She roared and flew forward, straight as a javelin.

When she looked over her shoulder, she saw more wyverns; hundreds now flew behind her. Their bolts and acid flew. Lyana gritted her teeth, beat her wings mightily, and shot into the storm.

Thunder boomed. Lightning blazed around her. Rain pounded her, aching against her wounds. The winds billowed her wings; she nearly tumbled. She narrowed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Despite the agony, she flew on. Lightning crashed and the clouds roiled like smoky demons.

I will never stop flying. Not until I reach Elethor.

If Bayrin had delivered the message, Elethor and his Royal Army waited at Ralora Beach. It lay hundreds of leagues away.

I must find him. I must summon him back to Nova Vita. If the wyverns reach the city before us, Requiem will fall.

Lyana snarled and flew.