A Day of Dragon Blood

TREALE



As she flew toward the city, she watched it fall.

Her eyes stung, her lungs ached, and a cough still lingered in her throat. Her scales and wings were singed, and it was all she could do to keep flying. The lands of Requiem burned around her in the night: farms, grasslands, forests, all crackling and raising red pillars in the night. Before her, across the leagues, she saw Nova Vita, and she saw its towers fall.

The cloud of wyverns clutched Aeternum's City, a black claw from the south. The beasts kept swooping and knocking down homes. A great wyvern, bearing the banner of Queen Solina, unleashed balls of fire that rocked the city. As Treale flew, she watched the Temple of Stars shatter—the place where she'd been born. She watched the palace crumble until only one of its columns remained. She watched the walls themselves—the fabled white walls of Nova Vita, which Queen Gloriae herself had raised to defend her city—collapse.

"Requiem," Treale whispered. "Land of dragons. Realm of Aeternum. I watched your towers fall, and I shed tears, and I cried to the stars for your glory lost."

In her old books, King Benedictus had spoken those words—centuries ago when the griffins had toppled their forest halls. King Benedictus had borne the rare, black scales Treale too possessed. She was descended from him through his daughter, Agnus Dei, who had survived the slaughter.

And now I fly here, and now I watch the slaughter, and now I watch your towers fall, Requiem.

Treale flew closer to the city, then paused and hovered. Tears stung her eyes. The shrieks, war cries, and booms of shattering stone rose ahead. They slammed into her. The smell of acid burned her nostrils.

"What do I do?" she whispered, head spinning. Her breath quickened into a pant. Her chest ached. The cries slammed against her: the roars of wyverns, the chants of Tiran men, and beneath them... could she hear screams of pain, of her dying brothers and sisters?

What do I do?

Dawn began to rise around her, red and gray, and her eyes blurred. Hovering in midair, she looked aside. What would her ancestor Agnus Dei have done? In all the stories, Agnus Dei was a great warrior, a fiery dragon who charged recklessly into the hordes of the enemy. In old paintings and statues, she looked like Treale too—with dark fiery eyes and black hair.

"She would not run," Treale whispered. "She would roar her fury, blow her fire, and charge at the enemy. She would kill many wyverns until they finally tore her down."

And she would have died, whispered a voice inside her. She would have died and never given birth to her son Ben, and House Oldnale would never have been. I would never have been.

Treale turned and began flying north, heading toward the distant forests beyond fire and death. She could hide there. She could try to find other survivors. She could continue the battle from the wilderness. Her throat tightened as she flew, and tears flowed from her eyes.

The faces of her parents, charred and gaping, filled her eyes. Thousands of souls now burned in the city, crying out to her, begging for aid.

With a yelp, Treale spun and began flying toward the city again.

They need me. I can't leave them. I must save them!

She howled as she flew, a black dragon in the blood-red dawn. Soon the city was closer, rising from inferno. The eyes of the wyverns burned. Their banners flapped. Their songs rose—songs of glory, light, and death. No more dragons flew. The wyverns were swooping and tearing down the last trees, homes, and statues. The sun rose, its red light falling upon little but rubble.

They're all dead, Treale thought as she flew over blazing farmlands. Stars, they're all gone, they're all fallen.

She mewled and spun around again. Once more she began flying north. She had to hide. She could no longer help her people. If she died with them, her bones would lie here forever, useless. In the forests of the north she could survive, she could seek survivors, she could...

I am a coward. She growled and her eyes burned. I am a soldier, yet I flee from battle. She looked up, seeking the stars of Requiem, seeking their guidance. Yet she could not see the sky, only smoke and ash, black and red. No more starlight fell upon Requiem. Voice torn, fire in her maw, she cried out the prayer of her people.

"Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky." She howled as she flew. "I will find your sky again, Requiem. I vow to you."

Shrieks of rage flared behind her.

She turned to see a dozen wyverns tear themselves from the army over Nova Vita, howl at the sky, and fly toward her.

Treale cursed. She cursed Tiranor, she cursed the Sun God, and she cursed herself for her stupidity. They had heard her cries, seen her fire, and now she too would die, and her bones would not even rest among her comrades, but burn in the wild.

She could charge at them, she knew. For death! For Requiem! For eternal starlight—to die in battle, to rise to the starlit halls in a final blaze of glory.

Instead, she kept fleeing toward the northern forests.

King's Column still stands in the ruins of our palace, she thought. The legends whispered that it would stand so long as a single Vir Requis lived. If she was the last one alive, she would not die here, she would not let that ancient column fall.

The world burned. She flew over the ruin of her home. The wyverns howled behind her. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw their eyes blaze, their riders aim crossbows, and their maws gape, full of acid. A dozen flew there, maybe more, black and red and golden in the clouds of smoke.

She shot through ash until the cries of the city faded behind her. She burst through flame and flew through smoke, coughing, blinded, the heat searing her belly. When she looked behind her, she saw only black and red swirls, a nightmare world, the Abyss itself risen to fill Requiem. Yet still she heard the wyvern cries. Still they followed her. Crossbow bolts whizzed through the smoke around her, and one grazed her tail. She bit down on a scream.

They can't see me. If they can't hear me, they will lose me.

She swallowed. She blinked. She shoved down the horror that filled her. She flew.

Treale no longer knew north from south. She saw nothing but smoke around her, smoke above her, and fires below her. The world spun. Was she still flying to the forests, or had she changed direction in the inferno, and was flying back toward the ruin of her capital? She heard the shrieks behind her, distant and echoing.

Just keep those shrieks behind you, she told herself. Just fly away from them as fast as you can.

She trembled. Her scales felt hot enough to melt; they expanded in the heat so that she could barely move. Her lungs and throat blazed as if she had swallowed lava, and she did not know how much longer she could fly. Yet she forced herself to keep flying, one flap of her wings after another. She tried to keep her body slim, to leave no wake through the smoke. Yet she must have been leaving a trail, for the shrieks still sounded behind her, and more bolts flew toward her. One lashed her side, and she bit down on a yelp. She gritted her teeth, blinked her eyes, and flew onward.

"I'm sorry, Elethor," she whispered. "I'm sorry I could not fight by your side, could not die by you."

In the haze of smoke and fire, she lay by him again upon the hill. She talked to him of their pasts, and kissed his cheek, and slept by his side—young and scared, but feeling safe by her king. It was a last, kind memory and she let it fill her. If nothing else—if all the halls of Requiem fell, and she died here in the wilderness, and jackals ate her bones—she still had that memory. She had still lain upon a hill with her king, and talked to him of old manor halls and puppets and dreams. She still had one dream of soft, quiet camaraderie to soothe her in the flames.

It seemed like she flew for hours. Her head was muzzy, and a deathly haze had begun to drown her pain, when finally she emerged from the smoke. An ancient forest rolled before her, spreading into red dawn, a tangle of shadows and secrets.

Before the wyverns could emerge from smoke behind her, Treale swooped. She all but crashed into the forest, snapping branches and slamming, half dead, onto the hot earth. She shifted into human form at once. In her smaller, weaker body, she trembled so violently that she could only lie shaking. Ash covered her. Welts rose across her skin. She coughed on the ground, gasping for breath.

"Please, stars," she prayed. "Let me live. Let me live. I cannot die here, away from my people, shameful. Please don't let me die."

She could not stop shaking. The trees rose above her, labyrinths of wood. She coughed and sucked the hot air for breath, and her eyes rolled back, and the haze of death spread across her. No! No. She clawed the ash. She bit her cheek and pain flared. She forced a deep, raw breath, and her lungs screamed in agony. She tried to remember that night—the night she had lain by Elethor upon the hill—and draw strength from it, to once more taste the clear air and feel brave.

The wyverns roared. Their cries nearly shattered her ears.

"Stars, give me strength."

Burnt and shaking and gasping for air, Treale Oldnale pushed herself to her feet. The forest spun around her, and she had to grab a bole to stop from falling. She looked south and saw a wall of smoke like a shimmering tapestry. The wyverns shrieked within it. As she stood trembling, she saw them burst from the inferno and fly above the forest.

Treale ran.

She ran between the trees and leaped over roots. Above in the canopy, the wyverns overshot her. They appeared only as shadows against the smoke and clouds, black against black. Their cries rang out.

"Find the weredragon!" cried one rider, voice distant and echoing. "Tear down the trees! The creature shifted and runs as human. Find it!"

Treale's boots hit a root, and she fell. Her cheek slammed against the earth. She lay trembling, eyes burning. The wyverns soared overhead, bending the trees. She felt the blast of their wings. Droplets of their acid pattered around her, raised smoke, and began to eat into the earth. A few droplets hit Treale's boot, and she winced and gritted her teeth, struggling not to scream. She kicked the boot off, pulled her knee to her chest, and slapped at her foot. The flesh felt hot and raw.

"Please, stars of Requiem, please. Let me live. Shine on me this red dawn."

She looked up but saw no stars, only the canopies of trees, a sky of ash, and the shadows of wyverns that circled and screamed.

Tears of pain streamed down her face. She did not know if any other Vir Requis still lived, or if she was the last. Her body shook so badly, she did not think she could rise. She gritted her teeth so hard they ached. She growled. Arms like wet towels, she managed to grab a branch. She pulled herself up. Her lungs burned and her knees shook wildly; she did not think she could still run.

But Treale ran. She ran through the forest, not knowing what direction she moved. She could see only several feet ahead, and the trees rose like twisted goblins around her, their branches reaching out to snag her, to tear her clothes, to scratch her face bloody. She tasted the blood and sap on her lips. Still she ran, the forest spreading endlessly and the scourge of her people howling above.