A Day of Dragon Blood

MORI



They huddled in the chambers of the third level—twenty thousand souls, weeping, shaking, and praying. Mori stood by the tapestry she had woven, struggling to calm her beating heart. The sea of people rolled around her. Wounded soldiers, survivors of the battle, writhed upon the floor, their flesh twisted with acid. Children screamed and clung to their mothers. What soldiers could still stand manned the doors, swords drawn and faces hard. From above, Mori heard faded echoes of battle: wyverns screeching, buildings collapsing, and men howling. With every boom of a collapsing tower, the people shivered; some wept and trembled.

"Be strong, Elethor," Mori whispered, clutching her luck finger behind her back. "Be strong, Bayrin and Lyana."

She missed them. Her chest ached for them. She wished she could be with them now, guarding the upper tunnels, a sword in her hand. She was no warrior, but surely anything was better than this—waiting here in the darkness, only a few candles lighting the chambers, surrounded by tears and wails and the stench of burnt flesh.

One wounded guard moaned only several yards away, his face melted away, his eyes gone; he gaped with empty sockets. Mother Adia knelt above him, her robes stained with blood and death. Younger healers, her pupils, were moving between the other wounded, applying ointments to wounds, pouring silkweed into mouths, and praying. Yet even the healers trembled, and even their faces were pale.

They are all scared, Mori realized—healers and guards, the wounded and the strong. So many, even those untouched by acid, still bore the old scars of the Phoenix War. There is no hope here, only fear.

Mori tightened her lips. No, she was no warrior, but she was a leader to these people. She was a princess of House Aeternum, an ancient dynasty that had ruled in Requiem for millennia. She would help her people in her own way.

"Children of Requiem!" she called. Her voice was small at first, nearly drowned under the sounds of battle and weeping. She called out louder. "Vir Requis! Hear me, my people."

They looked at her—children, the elderly, guards, healers and wounded. Many still wept and trembled. Mori forced herself to stay strong, to calm the thrashing of her heart. So many eyes upon her spun her head, but she clutched her luck finger, and she spoke loudly so that her voice carried through the chambers.

"My brother, King Elethor, protects us. His sword is sharp, his armor thick. Our soldiers stand at his side; they are brave and strong. We are safe here." She turned to look at Adia who still knelt above the blinded man. "Mother Adia! May I lead the people in prayer?"

Holding the wounded guard, Adia stared across the people at Mori. Her eyes were deep, dark pools reflecting the candlelight; the shadows of memory and loss danced in them. She nodded silently. Her lips twisted but she said nothing.

Mori began to sing. She was no priestess, but she loved the temple services; she would always sing the prayers along with Mother Adia, voice quiet and shy, but pure. Today she let her voice sing out loudly for all to hear; it still sounded high to her, too high, not deep and sonorous like Adia's voice. Yet it carried through the chambers, and the people sang with her.

"As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home. Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

As they sang, the fear seemed to leave the people; their trembles eased, their tears dried, and their backs straightened. They had sung these songs a year ago in the Phoenix War. The Living Seven had sung these songs three hundred years ago, fighting Dies Irae and his griffins. Three thousand years ago, King Aeternum himself—the first king and Mori's ancestor—had carved these words into King's Column, which still rose above them.

In generations to come, Mori thought, the Vir Requis will think of us—of me and my people—singing our words underground. We will survive. We will pass our song on, a torch of starlight, a dream to forever find our sky.

Screams echoed through the tunnels above.

Mori's voice died.

The people began to whisper and weep again. The guards at the doors clutched their swords and looked around with narrowed eyes. The screams rolled above them, torn in anguish. The stench of acid hit Mori's nostrils, so sharp it burned through her nose down to her throat and lungs.

"Stars," she whispered. She looked over the crowd of survivors at Mother Adia. The priestess met her gaze, eyes wide with terror.

Boots thudded outside the doors. Men screamed. The smoke and caustic stench swirled. Voices cried in anguish. Fists began pounding at the chamber doors. She heard them cry of Requiem, cry for starlight, cry for their king.

"Open the doors!" Mori cried to her guards. "It's our men! Open the doors!"

Her guards, faces pale and jaws clenched, lifted the bar from the doors' brackets. At once the doors slammed open. The smell of acid flared. From the darkness, a Vir Requis guard ran into the lower chambers, screaming. His flesh twisted with acid. Mori screamed too. He looked, she thought, like tallow melting in a suit of armor.

The burnt man ran five paces into the chamber. His eyes had burned away. His mouth screamed, a gaping hole in his ravaged face. People scurried aside, wailing. The guard fell to his knees, gave a last cry, then fell forward and lay silent.

Through the doors, acid began to trickle into the chamber.

Mori stood frozen for an instant. In her mind, she saw everyone in these chambers—thousands of them—melting and burning, screaming, pawing at her, weeping as they died around her. For that instant, her heart froze and no breath found her lips.

She clutched her luck finger.

Panic later, Mori. Fight now.

She ran toward the shelves of supplies. "Grab sacks of grain!" she cried. "Pile them at the door! Soak up the acid!"

She grabbed a sack of wheat, dragged it toward the doors, and tossed it down. She drew her sword, slashed the sack open, and grain spilled. The wheat began to soak up the flowing acid. Some sluiced around her shoes, and her soles began to steam.

"Grab the grain!" she cried. "Stop the acid!"

Around her, some people wept and shivered, curled up into balls. Others began to pull more sacks of grain, slash them open, and spill their contents onto the acid that trickled from above. As they worked, more guards began running into the chambers. Some were so burnt, they were unrecognizable; they were but living wounds. Others suffered milder burns; they too began slashing open sacks of grain.

Stars, where is Elethor? Where are Bayrin and Lyana and Deramon?

Mori growled and kept working. Why had they not foreseen this? Why had they not carved drainage holes into the tunnels? She winced, cursing herself but knowing she could not change the past. Fight now. Save these people now.

The acid flow strengthened from trickle to stream. Mori dragged more sacks, slashed them open, and spilled more grain. People wailed around her. Some acid flowed around the grain and began eating at people's boots.

Elethor, where are you?

As she dragged a sack forward, she saw Adia dragging the dead man away, the one who had first burst into the chambers. His flesh dangled through his armor, and sudden horror pulsed through Mori. Was that... was that Elethor? Was that wounded, wreck of a person Bayrin or Lyana?

No. No! It can't be. Tears stung her eyes and she slashed another sack open. The acid was pouring more powerfully now. People were screaming. Several children shifted into dragons—they were but the size of horses—and clung to the ceiling.

"Do not shift!" Mori shouted. If they all became dragons, they would crush one another and breathe all the air. "Move into the deeper chambers. Go!"

They began to move through the network of chambers, pushing deeper, but acid kept pouring. More and more grain spilled. The acid began to eat through Mori's shoes; they were falling apart. She grimaced and kept working even as her soles began to blaze.

"Mori!"

She looked up and tears filled her eyes. Bayrin came running through the doorway. Behind him ran Lyana, Elethor, and Deramon. Acid was steaming on their boots and armor, but their skin was still smooth. Mori cried out to them, a tremble seizing her.

They leaped over the sacks of grain, which were still soaking up the acid, and began kicking off boots, unclasping armor, and removing gloves. They tossed the steaming leather and steel aside, then began slapping at their bodies.

"Merciful stars, this stuff is hot!" Bayrin cried. He pulled his tunic off and tossed it aside, remaining bare-chested. He slapped at his torso, searching for droplets of acid.

Mori rushed toward him. "Bayrin! The Tirans! Are—"

Eyes dark, he spat. "They haven't entered the tunnels, but they've got every last bloody wyvern flooding us with acid, I reckon."

Lips tightened, Mori turned to look at her brother. Elethor's shoulder was burnt, his jaw was tight, and his eyes blazed red and hard. He clutched his longsword Ferus.

"Keep stacking the grain!" he shouted to the people. "Every last sack—I want it blocking the doorway!"

They kept working. Soon a great pile of sacks—enough grain to feed hundreds—filled the doorway and half the chamber. The survivors huddled deeper against the walls, pushing into the further, deeper chambers, a sea of living flesh filling this labyrinth of stone. Mori stood huddled between Bayrin and Lyana. She reached out and clasped their hands—Lyana with her right hand, and Bayrin with her left hand, the one with her lucky sixth finger.

If we die, she thought, I die with those that I love. A bitter smile touched her lips. That is not a bad way to die.

She looked up at Bayrin. He met her eyes and squeezed her hand tight. They stood together—a king and princess, healers and wounded, nobles and commoners. They watched as the sacks began to melt, as the heat and stench rose. One man began to sing, voice hoarse, the old songs of Requiem. Hesitant, a woman joined him, and soon they all sang together—thousands of voices rolling through the tunnels, thousands of voices calling out the cry of starlight, the song of dragons.

Acid saturated the grain. The sacks melted away. The distant shrieks of wyverns sounded, and the acid grew to a river... then came gushing into the chambers.