A Day of Dragon Blood

ELETHOR



He stood above the twin graves, head lowered, despair clutching at his throat.

"You fly now in our starlit halls," he said. His eyes stung. "Fly well, Yara and Tanin, warriors of Requiem."

A wave of tears spread over the crowd. Weeping rose in swells. Thousands had come to the funerals—soldiers, farmers, tradesmen, the old and the young. They covered Lacrimosa Hill where years ago Requiem's great queen had fallen in battle. They wore white robes—Requiem's color of mourning—fastened with silver birch leafs, sigils of beauty and peace. The families of the slain lay upon the graves, clutching the tombstones and crying to the sky.

Warriors? Elethor thought, looking at the families who wept—mothers gasping for breath, fathers sobbing, siblings barely old enough to fly. No, they were not warriors. Tanin was but a farmer's boy, Yara the daughter of a baker—youths I sent south to die.

True warriors had once guarded Requiem, thousands of men and women trained to defend their realm. They lay now in thousands of other graves, their tombstones dotting the hill like stone flowers. Grass rustled here but no more trees; the holy birches of Requiem had burned in the war last year, charred boles falling like so many bodies.

If she can, Solina will kill everyone who weeps here, Elethor thought. If I cannot stop her, we won't even lie in graves. Our bones will lie charred among our toppled halls.

Mother Adia, High Priestess of Requiem, stood at his side. Cloaked in white, she was a tall woman, cold and handsome as a marble statue. She raised her arms and sang above the cries of the crowd.

"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." She raised her head to the heavens. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

Across the hill, the children of Requiem repeated the prayer. Elethor looked above to that sky and saw dragons there, hundreds of them. Nearly all the old City Guard had fallen last year. Lord Deramon had raised a thousand more recruits—youths from across the land—and they now roared above, wings beating and breath steaming. The sight of them soothed Elethor. They were perhaps merely the children of farmers and tradesmen, youths who had never held a sword or shield, but their breath was still hot, their claws still sharp.

When you invade us again, Solina, you will find us ready. You will find Requiem's roar still loud.

The people dispersed slowly, holding one another and shedding tears. Most still bore scars from the phoenix fire. Many had lost limbs, eyes, faces. Many had lost parents, siblings, children. Yet even now they mourned two more fallen. Even now they craved life and wept for its loss. Solina had not taken their humanity; that soothed Elethor as much as the dragons above.

Lord Deramon approached him, a white cloak of mourning draped across his chain mail and breastplate. His calloused hands clutched an axe and sword. The grizzled warrior, his flaming red beard streaked with white, bowed his head.

"My king," he said, "let us fly together."

Elethor nodded, summoned his magic, and shifted. He took flight as a brass dragon, flames trailing from his jaws. Deramon shifted too and flew beside him, coppery and clanking, a burly beast of a dragon. They left Lacrimosa Hill and headed toward Nova Vita, capital of Requiem, which rose white and pure from the charred forest.

"How are the new recruits?" Elethor asked him, the wind nearly drowning his words. He glided on a current.

Deramon snorted a blast of fire. "Mere youths. They are soft. They weep at night in the bowels of Castra Murus; I hear them." He growled. "But I will harden them, my lord. They will fly as warriors."

Elethor nodded, but his belly knotted. They had raised new forces for Requiem, but were they enough to hold back Solina? A thousand sentries now guarded Nova Vita, a new City Guard. A thousand more flew along the southern border, patrolling the wastelands of swamp and sea that separated Requiem from the desert. When he looked south of the city, he saw the remainder of their forces training in fallow fields—three thousand soldiers of the Royal Army drilling with swords or flying as dragons.

I lead a few thousand callow, frightened youths... against the might and wrath of a desert empire.

"Will it be enough, Deramon?" he asked. Wisps of cloud streamed around them. "Solina is raising a great host. Our spies speak of myriads of wyverns and men. Will you harden these youths in time?"

Our spies. He snorted to himself. Those spies were his best friend, Bayrin Eleison, and his betrothed, Lady Lyana. Aside from his sister, they were the people he loved most in the world, and yet he could not speak their names today. To speak their names is too painful. Too dangerous. Today Bayrin is more than my friend, and today Lyana is more than my betrothed. They are the hope of Requiem.

Deramon growled. Smoke rose from his nostrils, nearly hiding his head. "They will be ready, Elethor. They will fight to the death for you." The old warrior looked at the young king. "Requiem will stand, my lord... or she will fall with a roar that will echo through the ages."

Elethor grumbled under his breath. "I prefer the former."

They reached the city. Wings scattering clouds, Elethor looked down upon his home. Nova Vita's walls rose from burnt trees, a ring of white. Dragons perched upon the crenellations, wings folded and eyes scanning the horizons. Beyond the walls, the city rolled upon hills: the palace, its columns soaring; the temple, its silver dome bright in the sun; two forts that bookended the city with towers and banners; and thousands of homes and workshops built of craggy white bricks.

Every house lost a soul, Elethor thought. Every house mourns.

He parted from Deramon, leaving the old warrior to clank and snort his way toward Castra Murus, the squat barracks of the Guard. Wind whistling under his wings, Elethor dived toward Requiem's palace. Even now, over a year since Solina had killed his father and brother, it felt strange to rule here. He still did not feel like a king, only the young prince. Every time he flew toward this edifice of marble, Elethor wanted to turn tail, flee into the forest, and spend his days sculpting, stargazing, and forgetting this war.

And yet every time, he tightened his jaw, narrowed his eyes, and flew between the marble columns into the hall of his fathers.

Upon the marble tiles, he shifted back into human form and walked, boots thumping. The throne lay across the hall, woven of twisting oak roots. But today Elethor did not walk toward this ancient seat. He crossed the hall, stepped through a doorway, and entered the east wing of the palace. Here, in a great chamber of stone, hung a dead wyvern.

Elethor stood before the corpse and stared.

Stars, look at it, he thought.

Lady Treale had found the creature, burnt and bloated, in the southern swamps by the bodies of Tanin and Yara. Some had wanted to bury it, others to burn it. Elethor had refused.

"Clean it and stuff it," he had told them. "Hang it up for us to study."

More eyebrows had risen when he insisted they hang the creature in the palace. Surely a dusty courtyard, or a barracks, or even a temple could store the beast? But no. Elethor had insisted. He wanted this creature here, in his home, under the same roof where he slept, ate, and waited for fire. He wanted to look at this creature every day, to stare at its fangs, its claws, its dead glare. This thing had killed two of his people; he would keep it close.

He felt so small standing before the wyvern. It hung on chains thicker than his arms. It must have been fifty feet long from nose to tail's tip; longer than but the greatest dragon. Dark scales covered it, square and metallic like plates of armor. It had only two legs, not four like a dragon, but those legs ended with claws as long, thick, and sharp as the heaviest greatswords in Requiem's armories; they made dragon claws seem like mere daggers. The beast's jaw thrust out into yet another blade, this one longer and wider than a man; Elethor imagined that it could crush through a dragon's scales like a spear into a spring doe.

Last time Bayrin had returned with news, he had reported an army of these beasts, twenty thousand strong. He had claimed they could spew acid, burning flesh off bones like fire eats leaves off trees. Elethor clenched his jaw as he stared at the great, hanging corpse.

Wings thudded and emerald scales flashed outside the window. Claws clattered against marble tiles behind Elethor. He turned to see, through the doorway, a lanky green dragon land in the palace hall.

"Bayrin!" he cried out.

His friend had been gone to Tiranor for three moons. The green dragon looked exhausted; his tongue lolled, his chest heaved, and his ears drooped. With a snort of smoke, he shifted into human form. Where a dragon had panted now stood a gangly young man, his shock of red hair wild, his eyes green and weary.

"Hello there, El," Bayrin said and walked toward the east wing. "Good to be home, and... stars above, what's wrong with your face?"

Standing in the doorway, Elethor uncomfortably scratched his beard. "It's... a beard. I figured I'd grow one."

Bayrin squinted and leaned closer. "That's a beard? I thought a weasel was attacking you; I was just about to tear it off." He shook his head in wonder. "By the stars, you're turning into your father, El. And what the abyss is that behind you?" He elbowed Elethor aside and stepped into the east wing where the dead wyvern hung. "Are you hiding any mistresses here, or... oh bloody stars."

Facing the hanging wyvern, Bayrin gaped. A strangled cry fled his throat, and he drew his sword.

"It's dead, Bay!" said Elethor and pushed his friend's sword down. "Don't cut my head off!"

Bayrin let out a stream of curses, slammed his sword back into its scabbard, and shoved Elethor back.

"Merciful stars, El! I just spent three moons in Tiranor counting those creatures. The last thing I need is to find one here!" He gave the beast a sidelong glance. "Even if it's dead, stuffed, and hanging from chains. Stars, they're ugly critters, aren't they? Almost as ugly as that hairy thing on your face." He shuddered. "Do you remember our old nurse, the one who once slapped me for stealing her wooden teeth and stuffing them into Lyana's skirts? This creature reminds me of her." He gave Elethor his own sidelong glance. "Come to think of it, so does your beard; I recall she had a bit of one herself."

Elethor embraced his friend. "Welcome home, Bay. Tell me the news! What did you learn? How is..." He swallowed, sudden fear twisting his heart. "How is Lyana?"

Bayrin sighed and looked back at the hanging wyvern. "She's in better shape that our friend here. But I'm worried. El, the invasion is near, and she thinks she knows where Solina will attack."

For long moments, Bayrin spoke, telling of his time in Tiranor: of the ships mustering for war in the docks; of the wyverns that drilled above Irys in battle formations; of Silas executed in town square; and of Lyana dancing for General Mahrdor, learning of a journey on summer solstice, and seeing a map of wyverns invading Ralora Beach.

When he was done speaking, Elethor stared silently at the hanging wyvern.

If Lyana is right, thousands of these creatures will fly into Requiem this moon. Memories of the Phoenix War pounded through him: burning homes, lacerated children, Solina's lips against his, and her dagger slicing his face. Her last words to him echoed.

I will kill them all, Elethor! she had screamed, his blood on her face. I will burn them all with my fire. You will watch! And then you will crawl to me and beg to be mine.

He left the wyvern and entered his throne room. He walked toward the Oak Throne, sat between its twisting roots, and gazed upon his hall. Bayrin came to stand before him, hair draggled and face smeared with mud.

"Am I a good king, Bayrin?" Elethor asked, voice low.

Bayrin raised his eyebrows. "You could give me a castle or two, command a few concubines to warm my bed, and I wouldn't mind a golden Bayrin statue in the city square... but otherwise you're doing fine."

Elethor sighed and looked upon the wide hall, the columns topped with dragon capitals, and the charred birches that creaked outside.

"I sent her into danger, Bay. They burned Silas in the town square. If... if they catch Lyana..."

Elethor's throat constricted. He had loved Solina for so many years, a love of fire, pain, and blinding passion. His love for Lyana was newer and had grown gradually, not a crashing flame, but warm embers that heated slowly. Would his first love kill his second?

Bayrin raised his chin and clenched his fists. "My sister outstubborns mules to pass the time. I'd drag her back in chains, if I had any." He sighed. "She will learn what more she can, and she will return. On the summer solstice our future will unfold: for Requiem, for Tiranor, for Lyana... for us. The war is coming, El. It flares again this moon."

War. Elethor's jaw clenched and icy waves rose inside him. His fingertips trembled. How many more graves will I stand over? How many more families will I watch mourn?

He nodded and rose to his feet. "I'll summon a council of the highborn. I'll fly to Oldnale Manor today. We will speak—the three great houses of our realm—of how to crush this threat."

Bayrin gaped at him, white showing all around his irises. "Fly to Oldnale Manor? Summon a council? Elethor! Solina is at our doorstep. Call the banners. Lead the Royal Army south—today, now, right after you shave your ridiculous beard. We meet Solina over the shore. We kick her lovely golden backside back into the desert."

"No, Bay." Elethor shook his head. "I will not lead Requiem to a rushed war—not without first discussing it with the highborn."

"What's to discuss?" Bayrin raised his hands to the heavens. "Stars above, Elethor, let's fly south now. We'll fly there together. You, me, and these three thousand toddlers you've trained into an army. It's war again and I'm not missing out on the fun."

Elethor laughed mirthlessly and traced the scar splitting his face, the scar Solina had drawn. "This is what the fun of war gave me." He sighed. "Bay, summer solstice is twelve days from today, isn't it? The flight south will take six days, seven if we're slow. That gives us some time." He bitterly twisted his jaw. "You know what Lord Yarin Oldnale thinks of me, what many of the people think too; that I'm but a youth, inexperienced and irrational. I will not fly to war on a whim." He raised his hand to silence Bayrin, who had begun to protest. "War is here, Bay, I know that. And we will fight this war. But we will meet first—House Aeternum, House Eleison, and House Oldnale from the eastern farms—like the great councils my father would hold." He clasped Bayrin's shoulder. "Stay here, Bay. Stay with Mori. I will summon the farmlords and be back here in four days."

Bayrin's face changed like the sea in sunrise. "Mori," he whispered. "Damn it, El, I missed her." He ran a hand through his hair, sniffed at his clothes, and cleared his throat. "How do I look?"

"Slightly worse than the dead wyvern."

"Good enough!" He turned to leave, then looked back and sighed. "If I weren't eager to see your sister, I'd drag you south right now. You got lucky. Fly fast, El. Stars, you better be back here on time. Twelve days, my friend. Twelve days until twenty thousand of these buggers knock on our doors."

The two embraced—a long, wordless, crushing hug. Then Elethor stepped outside, shifted into a dragon, and kicked off the palace stairway. His wings billowed with air, and he soared over the city.

"The wait is over, Solina," he whispered as the wind whistled around him. He remembered the softness of her lips, the warmth of her body, and the bite of her blade. "You were my love. You were my life. You will die in my fire."