A Day of Dragon Blood

BAYRIN



He was flying over the eastern forests, the city walls a distant crown behind him, when he saw the shadow. Bayrin cursed and spat fire.

The darkness spread over the mountains, a hundred miles away—as far as his eyes could see. At first he thought it a cloud, but it moved too swiftly. It looked more like a great flock of ravens, but ravens would be too small to see from here. Bayrin growled deep in his throat.

Wyverns, he thought. When he sniffed the air, he caught a hint of their stench; they stank like vinegar and sulfur.

"Damn it, Elethor, where are you?" he muttered, gliding on the wind. His king had gone south to stop these beasts from invading; now they flew from the east. A chill ran through Bayrin, rattling his scales and rippling his tail. Had these beasts skirted the Royal Army... or crushed it?

"Well, the fun begins," he said, turned around, and began flying back to Nova Vita. "El, if you're alive, you better get back here soon to join the party."

As he flew, he tossed his head back and blew blasts of diagonal fire—the shape of falling columns. Patrolling several leagues around the city, his fellow outflyers blew their own blasts and began to fall back to the walls. The walls themselves brimmed with dragons, a good five hundred of them, wearing the armor their smiths had been forging all year.

Will the acid eat through steel as through flesh? Bayrin wondered. He growled again. We'll soon find out.

As he approached the city, he roared the call. "Enemy at the gates! City Guard, man your posts!"

Roars and blasts of fire rose from the dragons upon the walls. The city erupted into chaos. Guards streamed out of craggy Castra Murus, shifted into dragons, and flew to perch at their posts: fifty dragons upon the palace, fifty on the Temple of Stars, and hundreds more spread across the walls. A hundred guards marched down the streets in human form, clad in breastplates and holding swords and shields. Their faces were hard as iron masks.

"People of Nova Vita!" Bayrin cried as he circled above the city. "Evacuate into the tunnels. Walk calmly in single file—like we drilled. Into the tunnels!"

Families began leaving their houses, frowning at the skies. A few children were laughing and elbowing one another; they thought this too was a drill. Others sniffed the air, seemed to detect the distant stench of the wyverns, and their eyes darkened. The people began to snake down the streets—some limping, others moving on crutches, the stronger helping the weaker. Soon they were filing into the three archways that led underground.

Bayrin looked over his shoulder toward the east. He flew too low to see the shadow now, but the acrid stench still wafted on the wind. He thought he could hear a distant buzzing like a cloud of locusts. He cursed under his breath as he flew over the city.

"Damn it, Elethor, where are you?"

As people streamed through the streets below, Bayrin flew toward the palace. He landed outside its doors, shifted into human form, and ran into the main hall. Several guards stood upon its tiles; behind them, Mori sat upon the Oak Throne.

The princess looked at him over the guards, and Bayrin's breath caught and his heart twisted. Stars, he thought. Her eyes seemed to drown him, gray pools of infinite depth. Mottles of sunlight kissed her pale cheeks, and her chestnut hair cascaded. Such sadness clung to her that Bayrin ached; with only a look across the hall, her eyes spoke of Orin's death, of the fall of Castellum Luna, of their kiss in the mists of northern isles, and of the wildfire that raced toward them. For the length of her stare he froze, unable to move or speak or breathe. A guard in the hall stirred and his armor creaked, drawing Bayrin's gaze. He cleared his throat and scowled.

"Men!" he barked. "Into the tunnels. Guard the people underground. Move! I'll lead the princess to safety."

The guards bowed their heads. "Yes, Lord Bayrin," they said and raced outside, drawing their longswords.

Bayrin looked back at Mori; they were alone in the palace. She rose from her throne, face blank. She wore a gown of bluish gray—the color of her eyes when she cried—and a sword hung from her waist, its pommel shaped as a dragonclaw. Bayrin crossed the hall, walked up the marble stairs to the dais the throne stood on, and reached out his hand.

"Come, Mors," he said softly. "Let's get you into the tunnels."

She stood frozen before her throne. Between the eastern columns, she could see the city where dragons perched upon roofs and walls. The sky was turning red; distant fires blazed.

"Where is Elethor?" the princess whispered. "Where is my brother?"

Bayrin took her hand. He spoke softly. "I don't know, Mori. Come, we must go."

She turned to meet his gaze, and again the sadness of her eyes flooded him. Her lips parted, pink in her pale face like a flower in snow. Her hair swayed in the wind that blew between the columns. She seemed to him almost a figure of starlight, a ghost in the hall. He tightened his hand around hers, and she raised her head, took a slow breath, and nodded. He helped her down the stairs of the dais, and they crossed the hall in silence. The columns rose around them, and Bayrin wondered if this was the last he'd see them standing.

Outside he found a sky the color of burnt flesh. Hundreds of dragons of the City Guard perched atop roofs and walls, staring east with narrowed eyes. Smoke rose from their nostrils in hundreds of plumes. On the cobbled streets, people were still moving toward the tunnels; guards in armor guided them. Bayrin saw an elderly woman limp forward, leaning against her daughter. One child pushed a wheelbarrow where lay his legless brother. Many people still bore the scars of last year's war, limbs and faces twisted with old fire.

Stars, haven't these people suffered enough? Bayrin thought, sudden rage finding him. He clenched his fist around the hilt of his longsword. We barely survived Solina once; now she comes to burn us again. He wanted to shift into a dragon, fly into the wyvern army, and slay Solina with all his fire and fury. For a year now, sadness had filled this city—had filled Bayrin too—as they healed, as they rebuilt, as they still wept for the dead and wounded.

Now this desert queen brings her steel and fire here again. Bayrin growled. Now she seeks to undo all our healing.

How could such cruelty exist? How could one queen feel such hatred, such rage, that she would seek to crush an entire race? Bayrin could not understand it. This felt like something from the old stories, the ones where King Benedictus fought as the tyrant Dies Irae slew all but the Living Seven. Bayrin had never imagined such terrors could truly exist outside of dusty old books, yet now he smelled them on the wind, and he heard their shrieks in the distance coming closer.

They reached a tunnel entrance. People were moving under the archway, down the stairs, and into shadow. The archway guards bowed their heads.

"Princess Mori," they said. "Lord Bayrin."

Mori bowed her head to them. She touched each guard on his shoulder and kissed his cheek. Their eyes were solemn, strong but frightened.

"Thank you, my friends," Mori whispered. "Thank you for your strength, for your steel, and for your courage."

Bayrin led the princess onto the narrow, candlelit staircase. Last year, the people had rushed into these tunnels, burning and terrified. Today they walked somberly, and every few feet, guards stood with spears, crossbows, and shields. At the bottom of the staircase, a heavy door waited, and more guards stood here to usher them through. Down the tunnels Bayrin and Mori walked, passing more and more guards, under the portcullis, and past doors of bronze.

Here spread a network of chambers where Requiem's people hid. Thousands of men and women—those too young, old, or wounded to fight—huddled here. Word had spread that the war had truly come, that this was no drill. Tears filled eyes, mothers embraced children, and whispers rose like maelstroms. In every chamber, three guards stood armed with steel.

"The Princess Mori," whispered a few people. More whispers rose through the tunnels. "The Princess Mori! Stars bless you, my lady."

Bayrin led Mori to the deepest chamber. The walls and ceiling loomed, carved with dragon claws. The air smelled of moss, soil, and fear. They moved to stand by a wall where candles burned in alcoves. Mori looked at Bayrin, held his hands, and her lips parted as if she would speak but could not find words.

"Mori, I return to my post," he said softly. "I will watch upon the walls, and I will fight in the sky above our city." He looked at the wall where hung a tapestry, its threads forming scenes of dragons flying under stars. "Mori, if I fail... if they break down the doors... you know what to do."

She looked at the tapestry and clutched the hilt of her sword.

"I know," she whispered.

He nodded, throat tight. "It will not come to that. Not so long as there is fire in my maw, strength to my claws, and wind in my wings. I promise you, Mori."

She lowered her head and nodded, bit her lip, and looked up at him. Tears trembled in her eyes, and she touched his cheek, then wrapped her arms around him. She held him tight.

"Be careful, Bay," she whispered. "I love you."

She looked up at him, and he cupped her cheek and kissed her—a long kiss that melted into rivers of mist. Bayrin closed his eyes, and again he lay upon grass in the Crescent Isle, the place where he had first kissed Mori. He could smell the pines and mist. He could feel the cool, damp air against his skin and Mori's soft hair in his fingers. She had been a mere girl then, frightened and meek, and he a lowly guard; the past year seemed like a lifetime of healing.

"I love you too, Mors," he whispered and held her close. He kissed her forehead. "I will come back to you. Always. Always."

He left the tunnels, her kiss still warm on his lips and the softness of her hair still tingling his fingers. When he emerged onto the city streets, he found them deserted; every last guard aboveground perched as a dragon upon the walls and rooftops. He shifted and took flight, wings raising demons of dust. He landed upon the eastern wall and stared into the distance.

The shadow was closer now. Fire raced below it, consuming the countryside, and smoke unfurled like wings. Bayrin could just make out the glint of distant armor and spearheads, just hear war drums on the wind. He shifted his jaw and fire sparked between his teeth.

Twenty thousand wyverns, he thought. A thousand dragons of the City Guard. Stars, Elethor, where the abyss are you?

Wings beat like more war drums, air blasted Bayrin, and his father landed beside him. Lord Deramon was a burly beast of a dragon, all clanking copper scales. The stone walls moaned below him, and so much smoke rose from his maw it hid the landscape.

"Any sight of the Royal Army?" Deramon asked, voice a grumble like gravel under boots.

Bayrin shook his head. "Nobody has seen Elethor. No word from him." He looked at his father and his stomach knotted. "We are alone."

Had Elethor fallen? What about Lyana? Bayrin's eyes burned and terror swelled inside him. He clutched the battlements, his claws digging into the stone. He forced himself to think of Mori's eyes, her lips on his, and the softness of her hair. If his king and sister were dead, he still had to fight—for Mori and for all the others underground.

The smell of smoke and acid filled his nostrils. The eastern shadow shimmered and grew.