A Day of Dragon Blood

ELETHOR



Elethor, King of Requiem, stood upon Lacrimosa Hill before the leaders he had summoned to his council: A true dragon of the west, a griffin of the east, and a prince in armor upon his horse.

Around them, grass rustled and trilliums bloomed white. Burnt birches spread for miles, but new saplings grew between them. A flock of small, white clouds herded across the sky and distant geese honked. It was a beautiful day, but darkness lay upon Elethor's heart as he regarded his guests.

He stroked his beard as if he could draw strength from it. He had not shaved in a moon's turn, and the beard still felt foreign, too scratchy and hot and altogether not him. His father had worn a beard; so had his grandfather. Elethor joked that he was too busy to shave, but in truth, he had grown the beard to feel more like a king. On days like today, meeting these foreign leaders, it wasn't helping; he still felt too young, a mere sculptor, not a ruler of Requiem. He looked at his sister who stood beside him, a princess clad in a gown of green and silver, and drew comfort from her eyes.

If the beard doesn't help, at least I have Mori, he thought. The others might see him as too young, too callow, too weak—Elethor the sculptor, the young prince who had never wanted the throne, who had always shunned the court, and kingly beard be damned. But to Mori he was King of Requiem, as noble as their father; he could see that in her eyes, and that soothed him. He turned back to his guests.

"Friends," he said. "I have asked you to meet me here—a council of the great northern kingdoms. Thank you for taking the journey to my home in such a dark hour."

The true dragon, a salvana from the western realms, batted long white eyelashes. No wings grew from his back, yet he floated above the hill like a serpent upon water. A hundred feet long he was, with scales like disks of beaten gold. His beard was white and flowing, his moustache long, and his eyes like crystal orbs. Like all true dragons, he had no human form; the salvanae lived feral in the west, building no homes and forging no metal, but praying and singing in the wild. This salvana was the greatest among them: Nehushtan, a priest and leader of Salvandos.

"It has been three hundred years," the true dragon said, "since I flew above this place, child of stars. The seasons have turned, and once more Requiem calls for aid." When he blinked, his white lashes fanned the grass.

Elethor nodded to him, then turned to his right. A prince of griffins stood there, large as a dragon. His breast, head, and talons were those of a great eagle, noble and white as a winter sky before snowfall. His lower half was that of a great lion, larger than any true lion of the wild, and golden as bales of hay on a fall's sunset. His name was Velathar, son of King Vale, descended from the great Volucris himself, the griffin who had led his kin from captivity in Osanna back home to Leonis Isles. The griffin prince bowed his head to Elethor and gave a low caw.

Finally Elethor looked ahead. A man sat there upon a horse, his beard brown and flowing. A crown of gold sat upon his head, and he was clad in a brown robe embroidered with green trees. A sword hung upon his thigh, the scabbard filigreed with leaves. He was Prince Raelor of Osanna, son of King Aera, descended of the priest-king Silva who had raised Osanna from the ashes of its great wars.

"I have ridden hard for many days, King Elethor," said the prince. "I have answered your summons, though we in Osanna fight the darkness that grows in Fidelium. The dead rise from their tombs under the mountains, forge dark steel kissed with fire, and march across the plains. Already our northern forts have fallen. What urgent matter do you summon me here for in this time of war?"

Elethor rested his hand on his sword's pommel and raised his chin.

"It is a time of war for Requiem too. In the south, Tiranor musters a great army—twenty thousand wyverns fly for Queen Solina, mindless beasts that live for nothing but bloodshed. They are an ancient evil; for a thousand years, their eggs lay as stones in the sand, and now Solina has quickened them with the fiery seed of her lord. These beasts will fly over the sea, and they will invade Requiem, and they will burn this land with their acid. If Requiem falls, a hundred thousand Tiran troops, each armed with spear and crossbow, will follow the wyverns into this land. Solina's ambition goes beyond the destruction of Requiem; she will expand her empire here and build her forts upon your doorsteps. If Requiem should fall, no lands will be safe; not Salvandos to our west, nor Osanna to our east, or even the Griffin Isles across the sea."

Nehushtan blinked his glimmering orbs, fanning the grass with his lashes. His beard swayed and his floating body coiled behind him, golden scales chinking. He spoke in a voice like crumpling paper.

"Child of starlight, this seems to me a feud between Requiem and Tiranor alone. One might say this feud is between King Elethor and Queen Solina; a personal war. Why should we, the peaceful salvanae of the west, concern ourselves with conflicts not our own? We are a peaceful people; we true dragons live for meditation, for starlight, for prayer and wisdom. Not for bloodshed."

The prince of Osanna nodded upon his horse. "The wise salvana speaks truth. They say in my land that King Elethor and Queen Solina were once lovers, that the war between them has grown into a war between their hosts. You call us here for what—to ask for our aid? Why should Osanna fight your wars when our own borders are threatened?"

Elethor looked at his sister. Mori stared back silently. As always, her soft gray eyes could calm the storm in his soul. He took a deep breath, then turned back to his guests.

"This war is between Requiem and Tiranor, that is true," he said. "Solina does not yet threaten your lands. For years, Tiranor has remained in the southern deserts beyond sea and swamp, and she has grown strong. A great army now lurks there, greater than any in our northern realms. What if this army left the desert? Imagine this great host—so many men and beasts—here in the north, upon your very borders, with no desert or swamp between you and their wrath. Will Solina content herself with conquering Requiem alone? Perhaps. Or would she use this land as a base for further expansion? There aren't enough farms in Requiem to feed her troops; our land is rocky, mountainous, forested and wild. There are great plains of farmland in Osanna; Solina will crave them. There are great fallow fields in Salvandos; Solina will crave them too." He gripped the hilt of his sword. "We must band together to stop Tiranor from leaving her borders. This host threatens Requiem now; it will threaten you tomorrow. Let us join our armies. Let us keep Tiranor in the desert beyond sea and swamp."

He took a deep breath. At his side, Mori nodded, silently agreeing with his words. Elethor looked at his companions: a wise true dragon of the west, an eastern king, and a griffin from distant isles. They looked at one another, silent.

Prince Velathar the griffin broke that silence. He gave a series of caws and chatters, head tilted and wings ruffling. Elethor could not speak the language of griffins, but Prince Raelor of Osanna was descended from the great priest Silva, and he could speak the tongue of beasts. He listened, stroking his beard, and translated the griffin's caws.

"This is good and well for Salvandos and Osanna, says the Griffin Prince. But what of Leonis, the land of griffins? Its isles lie across many leagues of sea, and Tiranor is no threat to them, even should it conquer Requiem. Why should griffins fly to aid dragons?"

Mori approached the griffin, raised her arm, and touched the beast's great white head. For the first time, the princess spoke. Her voice was meek at first, but gained strength with every word.

"Dear Prince Velathar," she said, "I grew up reading stories of your ancestor, the great King Volucris, perhaps the greatest griffin who has lived. When I was a girl, I loved nothing more than hearing tales of Volucris flying to Requiem's aid, sounding his cry, and fighting alongside our Queen Lacrimosa in the Battle of King's Forest. That queen fell here, where we now stand, upon this hill that bears her name. King Volucris fell here too, and we in Requiem still remember his great sacrifice." She looked from companion to companion. "Our ancestors forged great alliances. They fought together against the evil of Dies Irae: griffins, salvanae, men, and Vir Requis. Our kingdoms joined hands then to defeat the evil that roamed this land. It has been many years since those days; have we forgotten the value of friendship since?" Tears sparkled in her eyes. "If you will not fight for the sake of your own realms, fight for that old alliance: for friendship, for justice, and for memory."

She finished her speech with a shuddering breath and stood, looking from one to another. Elethor moved to stand by her and placed a hand on her shoulder. If not for the solemnity of the council, he would have embraced her.

I love you, sister, he thought. Our father would be proud of you today.

The guests looked at one another, and Nehushtan spoke first. His scales clinked like a chest of coins as his body undulated above the hill.

"You have spoken well, daughter of starlight, and with much passion. It is true; our four realms fought together once. I myself flew here three centuries ago and fought in the Battle of King's Forest, perhaps the greatest battle this realm has known. Queen Lacrimosa, your ancestor, was a brave and noble queen; for many seasons I mourned her passing." The old dragon sighed. "Yes, I fought alongside Requiem then. But those were different days, long ago. Only seven Vir Requis then flew, the Living Seven whose statues still stand in your city; the rest lay as charred bones upon the land. We of Salvandos could not let those last souls perish; we flew then with wrath, with lightning, with starlight. We were proud to fight at the side of Queen Lacrimosa and her daughters, the warriors Gloriae and Agnus Dei. But now, Princess Mori... now the descendants of Lacrimosa flourish. Thirty thousand dragons live in Requiem, a great host of fire and fang. We in Salvandos hate war more than anything under the stars; today you have the might to fight your war alone."

The priest tilted his head, blinked, and turned aside. He began floating down the hill, his serpentine body coiling behind him.

"Wait!" Mori cried. "Nehushtan, why do you leave us?"

He did not reply. Beard fluttering, the old salvanae rose into the sky like a plume of smoke. Soon he was but a golden thread in the distance, flying west to his ancient realm.

The Prince of Osanna spoke next. His horse sidestepped beneath him and nickered.

"The salvana speaks wisdom," he said. "Thirty thousand dragons fly here. Let them fight this war. Osanna is a great and ancient kingdom; our horses are swift, our steel is bright, and our hearts are brave. Yet when wyverns fly, let dragons fight them! We will fight our wars upon the ground." He shook his head sadly, and his voice softened. "Our kingdoms are allies; that is true. I grieve to see the blood that has spilled here... and the blood that will yet spill. Yet these are dark times, and we face our own threat in the north; we must fight our own enemies rather than yours. I am sorry, King Elethor of Requiem. We cannot help you."

With that, the prince kneed his horse, turned around, and galloped downhill. Soon he was but a speck in the distant fields, raising a cloud of dust as he rode into the east.

Elethor turned to the last of his guests, Prince Velathar. The griffin stared at him, tilted his head, and clawed the earth.

"Prince Velathar," Elethor said. He stared into the griffin's eyes. "My ancestors fought alongside yours. Will you fly with us again? Will you bring aid from your land, an army of griffins as fought here years ago? Let us join our great kingdoms again. Let us fight this evil from the south—for the sake of our old friendship."

Please, he added silently. Without you, we are alone.

The griffin lowered his head. He stared at the grass for a long time, perhaps thinking of his ancestors' bones that lay buried here alongside the bones of Queen Lacrimosa. The griffin raised his head and looked west at the distant golden thread—the retreating salvanae. He turned east and looked toward the horse that galloped there.

Finally he lowered his head again and nuzzled his beak against Elethor.

What does that mean? Does he mean to help us?

The griffin pulled back, and his eyes were sad. He gave a solemn shake of his head.

No.

With a great flap of eagle wings and talons that ripped the grass, the griffin soared. Soon he was flying into the horizon, a golden speck fading away.

Elethor and Mori remained upon the hill, alone in the forest. The only sound was the rustling grass. The siblings looked at each other. Mori's eyes were huge and round, the color of storm, and the wind ruffled her chestnut hair.

Elethor squeezed her shoulder. "We fought alone against the phoenixes," he said, "and we defeated them. We will defeat the wyverns too."

Mori lowered her head, held the hilt of her sword, and nodded. She did not need to speak; Elethor knew her thoughts. The same thoughts rattled through his skull.

The phoenixes killed nearly half our people. Only an ancient magic drove them away, not the heat of our fire, nor the sharpness of our fangs. Now a greater army flies against us... and we stand alone.

He pulled his sister close. She leaned against him, and the wind blew across them.

"We will fight alone," Mori whispered, "and we will defeat them. I believe. Deramon is a great warrior. So is Lyana and she will return to us. We will fight the wyverns in the air, and in our tunnels, and upon the mountains, and we will drive them back into the desert."

Elethor nodded. Deramon was a great warrior, it was true. So was Lyana. The rest of their army was composed of green youths, mere children torn from farms, bakeries, and vineyards. The wind seemed to invade his very bones, and he lowered his head.

A roar rose in the south, interrupting his thoughts. Heart thrashing, Elethor turned toward the sound. A black dragon was flying toward him and his sister, rising and dipping in the air.

When the dragon flew closer, Elethor recognized her. She was Lady Treale, the youngest daughter of House Oldnale which ruled the eastern farmlands. A youth of nineteen, Treale had begun squiring to Lady Lyana last year, training to become a knight. With Lyana away, Elethor had sent the girl to patrol the southern border; why did she now fly here outside Nova Vita?

"Treale!" he cried, pulled back from Mori, and shifted into a dragon. Brass scales clanked across him, fire filled his nostrils, and he flapped leathern wings. He took flight in a cloud of smoke.

The black dragon wobbled as she flew toward him, and puffs of weak smoke rose from her nostrils. Then Elethor saw what she carried in her claws, and his breath died.

Stars. Stars, no.

In each front claw, Treale held a body wrapped in a shroud.

They met above a forest clearing, spiraled down, and landed upon the grass. Treale placed the bodies down—the shrouds covered them from head to toe—then shifted into human form. She stood as a woman with smooth black hair, olive skin, and weary dark eyes. When she wobbled on her feet, Elethor shifted too and caught her.

"Treale," he said, examining her. Dirt and blood stained her armor. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, eyes haunted. "No, my lord. The blood isn't mine. It's... theirs." She looked at the bodies and her eyes dampened.

Mori came flying toward them, a slim golden dragon. She landed, shifted back into human form, and rushed to embrace Lady Treale; the two were childhood friends. Heart hammering, Elethor looked at the bodies. The shrouds hid their faces. They seemed so small, so frail.

"Who are they?" he whispered.

Treale looked at the dead and spoke softly.

"They are Tanin and Yara, a farm boy and baker's daughter. They served my father in our lands; they grew and baked our grains. They fell at the border." She looked at Elethor, and horror replaced the grief in her eyes. "When I found them, they were burnt with acid. Their commander, a soldier named Silas, was missing. Wyverns did this, my king." She clenched her fists and her voice shook. "Solina murdered them."

Elethor held her shoulders and stared into her black eyes.

"Did you see the wyverns, Treale?" he asked sternly. "Do they invade Requiem?"

She swallowed. "I saw a dead one on the ground, charred with dragonfire—a great beast all in iron scales like armor. I ordered my men to gut it and bring it to their king; they fly a day behind me. Three live wyverns flew there. When I arrived with my men, they retreated into the south." She snarled. "The cowards invaded, murdered, and fled. I wanted to chase them. I will find them and kill them still! But... I had to bring them back, my king. I had to see them buried. I had to..."

Pain overflowed her words, and she closed her eyes. A tear drew a line through the dirt on her cheek. Elethor held her, kissed her forehead, and looked over her head to the south.

Again you bring death to my door, Solina, he thought. Rage flared within him, so hot that he gritted his teeth. He held Treale close. Our neighbors abandoned me, but I do not face you alone, Solina. You will find that every dragon in Requiem fights you with a great roar.