A Day of Dragon Blood

ELETHOR



They flew through the night, thousands of dragons with blazing eyes. Clouds hid the stars and rain fell. Only the fire in their maws lit the darkness. Their wings glided upon the wind. Below them, red firelight raced against mountaintops and cliffs.

"Be strong, Mori," Elethor whispered into the wind. "I'm coming home."

When he looked northeast, he saw the distant red glow. It still lay many leagues away, but rose like a dawn. Firelight. The wilderness of Requiem burning. Solina flies there.

He looked over his shoulder. His army stretched for a league behind, the slower dragons dragging like a wake. Elethor cursed. They were only as fast as their slowest soldiers.

"Fly, dragons of Requiem!" he shouted in the night. "Fly with all your might!"

He looked back into the northern darkness. Nova Vita lay there beyond mountains, forests, lakes, and fields. Hundreds of leagues still lay between them and their home. Elethor had been flying for a day and night, and his wings ached, and his lungs burned, and dull pain throbbed in his chest. He forced himself onward.

Soon true dawn rose in the east, as red as the distant fires. Clouds stretched across the sky like bloody fingers. When Elethor looked at his army, he saw dragons panting, wobbling, and falling out of formations. Behind him, the stragglers were nearly too distant to see. Many of the dragons who had guarded the border—those who had been stationed closest to Ralora—had joined them. The others were making their own way to the capital; it could be days until they began to arrive. Elethor ground his teeth, spat flame, and cursed some more.

"We must rest, my lord," said a lavender dragon who flew by him—the young healer Piri. Like all healers, she wore a litter over her back; upon it, fastened with ropes, Lyana lay in human form. The knight's eyes were still closed, her wounds still raw.

Smoke rose from Elethor's mouth, nearly blinding him. He wanted to keep flying. How could he stop when Solina burned the farmlands, when her army flew toward Nova Vita, when the last Vir Requis faced the wrath of twenty thousand wyverns? He growled and forced his wings to keep flapping. He had to save Mori. He had to save Treale if he still could. He had to stop Solina from felling the city his ancestors had built.

"My lord!" said Piri. Her tongue lolled and her eyes rolled back. She wobbled as she flew, jostling Lyana upon her back. "Please, my lord, we must rest."

The lavender dragon looked ready to fall from the sky; if she fell, Lyana would fall with her. How long had they been flying? A day and night, or was it two nights? Elethor could no longer remember; he could barely form thoughts. All he knew was pain—the blaze in his lungs, the throbbing of his wings, the stabs in his chest. Exhaustion overwhelmed him, numbing even this pain. He felt like he could fly forever until he collapsed at the gates of Nova Vita.

"Solina," he managed to whisper. "Solina, I am coming for you."

Yet how would he fight her, sapped of strength, his army close to collapsing? Piri was right. They had to sleep, eat, and regain their strength. Even if they could reach Solina without rest, they would reach her exhausted; she would crush them.

He nodded and tossed his head to scatter the smoke from his nostrils. "We set camp." He raised his voice. "Dragons of Requiem, we land."

He began spiraling down toward a valley between rolling mountains. A river pooled there into a lake, its shores grassy. A few feet above the lakeshore, Elethor filled his wings with air, reached out his claws, and landed with a groan. As soon as his wings stilled, pain blazed across them, down his chest, and into his jaw. He felt like he would never fly again. He looked above him to see thousands of dragons land around him, moan, and collapse.

Elethor shifted into human form. At once sweat covered him. He wiped it from his eyes, approached Piri, and helped unload the litter Lyana lay on. He laid his betrothed upon the grass and knelt over her.

"Lyana," he whispered and held her hand.

Her eyes fluttered opened; she seemed just now to be rising from her long silverweed sleep. She blinked at him, then gasped and tried to rise, but straps still held her to the litter.

"Elethor!" she said. "El, the wyverns, they—"

"I know, Lyana." He touched her forehead; it was hot. "We've been chasing them north for two days. You drank silverweed and have been sleeping." He began unbuckling the straps that held her onto the litter. "We're in Cela Mountains, a third of the way to Nova Vita."

As soon as her straps were opened, she sprang up, crashed into his embrace, and held him tight. She sniffed and her fingers dug into his back.

"Oh, Elethor," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He closed his eyes and lowered his head. She felt so thin in his arms, frailer than he'd ever known her. He held her awkwardly, daring not touch the stitches that ran across her back. He wanted to stroke her head, but her scalp was still raw; red stubble covered it. He gently kissed her forehead.

"You need not be sorry, Lyana," he whispered. "I am sorry, though. I sent you into danger. I let this happen to you. I'm sorry, Lyana. I will never send you away again." He raised her chin with his finger and kissed her lips. "I'm not letting you get into any more trouble."

She laughed weakly and tears sparkled in her eyes. "My parents could never keep me out of trouble; you won't either." Then she sniffed again and touched his cheek. "Did you grow a beard, Elethor? It suits you. You look like your father."

He snorted. "You lose hair, I gain it." Then he pulled her close again, nearly crushing her against his chest. "You scared me, Lyana. Stars, I'm glad you're back. I—"

I love you, he wanted to say. I love you like a new spring after winter. You are the strongest, bravest woman I know.

Yet as he held her, he could say none of those things. He could still feel the touch of her lips on his. And he still thought of Orin, the man she had loved, the man they had lost. He still thought of Solina, whose kisses never felt like this, warm pecks of the lips, but like spirits shooting through him. He loved Lyana; he knew that. How could he not? Lyana was wise and strong and beautiful. And yet... and yet...

I hold her because Solina left. I hold her because my brother died. He looked away.

Soldiers approached them, carrying battle rations: dried meats, kippers, bread rolls, and jars of apple preserves. Elethor accepted the food gratefully, both for his hunger and the awkwardness of his embrace with Lyana. He released his betrothed, and for long moments they ate in silence.

The commanders of his phalanxes approached. Most were survivors of the old City Guard—seasoned warriors. A few were minor nobles—one an Oldnale, an uncle of Lady Treale, another a distant cousin of Bayrin and Lyana. Elethor gave them their orders:

"We sleep for five hours. Then we fly again."

Within moments, the soldiers of the Royal Army lay with closed eyes; those who had followed him to Ralora Beach, and those who had joined them from the border stretching west. Elethor lay upon the grass, looking up into the clouds. Lyana nestled in his arms, her head against his chest, her breath soft. She slept, mumbling and holding him. He kissed her cheek.

Dawn rose around them, blood red. In the northeastern horizon, distant fires glowed.

Be safe, Treale, Elethor thought, staring to her distant home. Come back to us.

As he held Lyana, he thought of Treale's soft hair, her dark eyes, and her warm lips against his cheek. He thought of Solina, the love of his youth, who flew from the north. He wanted to think about nobody but Lyana, nobody but this perfect woman in his arms—and she was perfect, even with her hair sheared and her body bruised. And yet his belly knotted, and his thoughts swirled like ghosts rattling in his skull. Finally he slept, Lyana warm in his arms.