A Dawn of Dragonfire: Dragonlore, Book 1 (7 page)

What unholy magic had created these beings?  Lyana growled and swooped.  She had seen one turn into Solina, adopted sister to her fallen betrothed. 
These are no demons,
she thought. 
They are men and women with magic similar to ours.  We can turn into dragons; they turn into these creatures.

She could not fight fire.  If she could face them in their humans forms, she could kill them.

She dived toward Aranath Mountains below, chunks of black rock in the night.  The phoenix light blazed against them, racing across the black stone and patches of snow.  Lyana would come to these mountains with Orin—sweet, handsome Prince Orin—and they would walk through caves, whispering, holding hands, stealing kisses. 
If I must die today, let these caves be my place of eternal rest.

"Come on, you bastards!" she shouted over her shoulder.  She blew a jet of fire back toward the three chasing phoenixes.  "You killed him.  You killed my love.  Now come face me."

She swooped, claws extended.  She knew these mountains better than anyone in Requiem.  Wind whistled around her, and the phoenixes cried so loudly, snow cascaded and melted below.  She saw the cave there,
her
cave, hers and Orin's, its mouth round and five feet tall, short enough that she'd always had to stoop to enter.

She landed outside the cave.  As soon as her claws hit the ground, she shifted into human form.  Her wings pulled into her back.  Her fangs and claws retracted.  Instead of scales, steel armor covered her body.  Her sword—as much a part of her as her arm—still hung on her belt.  She ran into the cave, hand on its hilt.

She spun around, the cave walls close around her, and saw an inferno.

Damn them.
  This delay shot fear through her.  She needed to reach Nova Vita quickly.  Mori had fainted after only a vague warning and might still be sleeping.  Did the city know of this phoenix fire?  Did they know they could not fight, only hide?  Lyana had to warn them.  She had to fly now.  She had to kill these beasts quickly, or it would be too late.

The phoenixes landed outside the cave.  Snow melted and fell like rain around them.  Wings thrashing, they reached into the tunnel with claws of fire.  The flames blazed.  Lyana leaped back; the heat blasted her armor, and she felt like her eyeballs could melt.  She retreated into the darkness.

The first time we made love was here, sweet Orin,
she thought, eyes stinging and throat burning.  The image kept playing before her eyes—his head rolling from the sack, burnt and grimacing—even now as these beasts of sunfire clawed outside.

"Come in and face me!" she cried.  "You are like us children of Requiem.  You have human forms; I have seen it.  Come face me, or are you such cowards that you dare not face one woman?"

They howled and flared.  Their heat drenched Lyana with sweat; locks of her damp, red hair stuck to her face.  She snarled, holding her sword before her.  With her left hand, she drew her dagger, its blade shaped as a dragonclaw.  The heat of battle raged over her loss of Orin, simmering over her grief.

"Be with me, stars of Requiem," she prayed.  "May your light shine upon my blades."

With cries of fury, the phoenixes outside shifted.

Their fire pulled into them, twisting and coiling into human shapes.  The flames darkened and hardened, like lava cooling into stone, until they became flesh.  They stared at her, eyes still burning like coals.  They wore breastplates of steel emblazoned with the golden Sun of Tiranor, and swords hung at their sides.  Their hair was a blond so pale, it was almost white.  Their skin was golden, their eyes blue and cold.  Each wore a chain holding a crystal glimmering with fire.  Two were men, their faces bearded and cruel.  The third was a woman holding a sabre and a spear.  The sides of her head were shaven, revealing sun tattoos, and her lips were pierced with rings.

"See how she cowers in darkness," said the woman to her companions.  Her voice was cold, her eyes ruthless.  "When the dragons burned our homeland, they howled with their pride, their bloodlust, their cruelty.  See what pathetic creatures they've become."  She snarled and her voice rose to a shout.  "Hail the Sun God, destroyer of Requiem!"

"Tirans," Lyana said, eyes narrowing.  "Return to your homeland that we burned.  Leave Requiem, or we will kill you on our mountains, like we killed you in your deserts."

The female Tiran smirked.  Her armor was bright, and her blades glimmered like shards of light, flames racing across them.

"You may call me Phira of the Two Blades," she said, raising her sword and spear.  "Do you see them?  They will cut your tongue from your mouth, weredragon."  She spat out the last word in disgust.

Lyana snarled. 
Weredragon
.  It was a dirty word, an ugly curse.  She was Vir Requis, a proud daughter of Requiem, descended from the hero Terra Eleison himself.  Hers was old blood, proud and pure.  Like every child of Requiem, she could grow wings and scales, breathe fire, and take flight as a dragon.  It was a magic old and noble, kissed with starlight. 
Weredragon
meant a reptile, a filthy beast.

"And you may call me Lady Lyana Eleison, a knight of Requiem, daughter of Lord Deramon and Mother Adia," she said.  "May the stars burn your souls."

She ran toward them.

The two men ran to meet her.  Lyana lashed her sword and dagger.  The soldiers parried.  Flames leaped from their swords and burned her sleeve.  She screamed, swung her sword, and blades clashed again.  She raised her dagger, parrying a thrust.  Flames hit the cave walls and steel rang.

"Requiem!" she cried.  "May our wings forever find your sky."

The words of her fathers.  The words of battle, of death, of blood and hope.

Her blades swung and thrust, glowing bright.  She knocked one sword against the wall, thrust her blade, and pierced the man's neck.  The second Tiran swung down his sword, and she raised her dagger.  The blades sparked.  The blow nearly dislocated her arm, and she screamed, but pulled her sword free and swung low.

Her blade slashed the leg before her, and the second man fell.  She leaped back, dodging his sabre, and thrust.  Her sword slammed into his mouth, muffling his scream.  Blood spurted and he fell.  More blood painted the cave walls and floor, congealing in the heat of fire.

Two men lay dead, sabres still crackling. 

Phira, the Tiran woman, snarled.  She stepped over the bodies and raised her blades.  Fire wreathed her, glittering upon the rings piercing her lips.  The suns tattooed onto her head seemed to burn with real fire, but her eyes were cold, chips of ice.  There was no humanity in them, only hunger and cruel amusement.

"Very good, girl," she said and licked those pierced lips.  "Not bad for a weredragon.  But now you will taste true steel."

Phira thrust her spear.

Her arms ached, but Lyana parried.  The blades clanged.  Phira's sabre swung next, and Lyana barely checked the blow.

Phira was strong, stronger than Lyana had expected.  She cried in pain.  Her sword nearly flew from her arm, and her bone felt like it could snap.  The sabre swung.  Lyana parried with her dagger.  Phira's spear sliced her hip, and she cried.

"Do you like the taste of my steel?" Phira asked, smirking.  She thrust her blades again.  Lyana parried, grunting in pain.  Sweat dripped into her eyes.  The spear sliced a lock of her hair, and the Tiran laughed.

"Yes, groan for me, weredragon," she said and spat.  "That's how I like to hear reptiles die."

Lyana screamed and thrust her sword.  Phira parried, caught her wrist, and bent her hand back. 
Fight her!
Lyana cried to herself. 
You are a knight of Requiem!

Phira clutched her right wrist, twisting, her strength almost unreal.  Lyana felt like her bones could shatter.  As her fingers uncurled and her sword fell, she thrust her dagger.  She aimed for Phira's neck, but the Tiran moved aside, and Lyana's dagger scraped across her pauldron.  Sparks flew.  Phira laughed and punched, slamming her fist into Lyana's face.

Light blazed.  Blood filled her mouth.  Lyana fell, hit the ground, and tried to rise.  Phira kicked her chest, knocking her onto her back.  Her boot stepped onto Lyana's left wrist, and she yanked her dagger free.  Stars floated before Lyana's eyes.

Up!  Up, daughter of Requiem!
  She growled and tried to rise, but the boot crushed her hand.  Phira's second boot pressed down on her neck.  Lyana couldn't breathe, couldn't even scream.  She groped for her weapons, but couldn't reach them.

Phira smirked above her.  "You must be that Lyana the Weredragon Prince spoke of," she said.  "The troops speak of this Prince Orin.  When my queen tortured him, he cried your name. 
Lyana, Lyana!
  All the while as Queen Solina's blade cut him, he shouted for you."  Phira laughed.  "He cried like a girl, they say, and squealed like a pig when my queen finally ran him through."

No.  No, stars, it can't be.
  Tears blurred Lyana's eyes.  She wanted to see him again, to hold her Orin, kiss him, heal him. 
But he's dead now, dead like the king, like so many upon the battlefield.

The smirk never leaving her face, Phira knelt.  Her knee drove into Lyana.  She gasped in pain, and Phira's hand clutched her throat.  Lyana struggled, and Phira backhanded her, rattling her jaw.  She spat blood and coughed, gasping for breath.

"We shall see," the Tiran said, "if I can make you squeal and beg for death too."

She kept one hand on Lyana's throat.  Her second hand drew a serrated knife from her belt.  Despite the heat that still lingered, her hand was icy.  Lyana kicked the air, trying to hurt her, trying to break free.  She could not.  She could see only stars, the Tiran's snarl, her cold eyes.  Her knife ran down Lyana's cheek, drawing blood.

"Filthy weredragon," Phira said in disgust.  "Will you beg for death too before I pull you entrails from your body?"

Lyana clenched her fists.  She was a bellator, a knight of Requiem. 
I will not die today.

With a howl, she grabbed Phira's wrist, twisted, and shoved the knife up.

The blade slammed into the Tiran's neck.  Blood gushed, showering onto Lyana's face.  Screaming, she twisted the blade.

For an instant, Phira stared in shock, eyes wide, spittle on her lips.  Then she screamed, a gurgling sound.  Lyana shoved the woman off, rose to her feet, and lifted her fallen sword.

Phira convulsed on the ground, knife still buried in her neck.  Fear flooded her eyes.  Lyana looked down at her, dripping sword in hand.  With her other hand, she wiped the blood off her face.

"Will you beg for death?" she whispered.

Phira stared up at her, eyes blazing.

I didn't think so.

Lyana drove her sword down, blood splashed, and it was over.

She turned, ran out the cave, and stood upon the snowy mountainside.  Screeches and howls rose in the night.  Lyana was slick with blood, her eyes stung, and her knees shook.  She had never killed before; tonight she had taken three lives.

No,
she told herself and forced a deep, shuddering breath. 
There's no time for horror now.
  She allowed herself to count to five.  That was all. 
One.  Two.  Three.
  She trembled, forced another breath, and clenched her jaw. 
Four.  Five.

She leaped and shifted into a dragon.

I must save Requiem.  I can feel no fear.  No pain.  Not now.  Not yet.  There will be time for pain later.
  A blue dragon, she flew north, heading toward the city of Nova Vita. 
I will warn them.  I will save them, even if I can no longer save those left behind.

She shot through the night.  Behind her, flames rose and all the horrors of the world seemed to cry for her blood.

 
 
ELETHOR

My brother is dead.

The thought clutched him like claws of ice.  Fear for his father, his sister, and his friends filled him too, but all drowned under the flood of grief. 
Orin.  My brother.  My pillar of strength.  Gone.

He stood in Gloriae's Tomb, a towering hall of marble, its ceiling domed, columns lining its walls.  There were many places Elethor could have gone this night.  He could have gone to the temples and sat by Mori's side.  He could have stayed on the Oak Throne, gazing upon an empty hall.  He could have flown over the city with Lord Deramon, waiting for danger in the dark.  But he had come here, to this place of shadows and solitude, to think and to pray.

The statue of Gloriae towered above him.  Carved of marble, the legendary Queen of Requiem rose fifty feet tall.  She held a sword of stone, and her hair was gilded.   Her stone eyes stared forward, brave and determined.   Elethor stood before the monolith, gazing upon the queen who had defeated Dies Irae, rebuilt Requiem from ruin, and founded this city of Nova Vita.

"I am descended from you, my queen," Elethor said softly to the statue.  "But I lack your strength."  He lowered his head.  "In the stories you are always strong, brave, and noble.  Even when Dies Irae murdered your parents, you fought with fire and defeated your enemies.  Lend me strength now."

The statue was silent, staring into the shadows of the hall, eyes forever strong, sword forever drawn.  The true Gloriae was entombed beneath the statue, Elethor knew, her bones resting eternally in the earth of the city she'd built.  Would her city now fall?

He clutched the hilt of his sword, seeking strength from the leather grip.  Ferus was an old longsword, forged in dragonfire a century ago.  Its blade was three feet long, pale and grooved.  Its crossguard and pommel were dark, unadorned steel.  Many lords of the court wore decorative blades, pieces of art that glittered with gold and jewels.  Today Elethor had chosen a simple sword; a weapon meant for battle, not ceremony.  He had trained with Ferus for years—every prince of Requiem learned swordplay from childhood—but had never swung it in battle.

Orin was the warrior.  He should be the one standing here, preparing for war.