A Dawn of Dragonfire: Dragonlore, Book 1 (8 page)

Elethor clenched his fists and lowered his head.  The pain constricted his throat, and his eyes stung.

"My brother is dead.  My father flew to war.  Tiranor attacks, and… what if Solina is among them?  What if the woman I love returns with fire and death?"  His chest felt tight, and he could barely see the floor's tiles.  "What do I do now, Gloriae?  Give me advice, my queen."

A voice rose in the temple, speaking in exaggerated falsetto.

"Well, first thing, my lad, I advise getting a haircut and a shave.  You look like a bloody sheepdog.  I don't know whether to help you or pat you."

Elethor raised his head and frowned.  From between the columns stepped Bayrin Eleison, a gangly young guard with large ears, a head of orange hair, and mocking green eyes.  An impish smile split his wide, freckled face.  He wore a steel breastplate engraved with the Draco constellation.  A sword, its pommel shaped as a dragonclaw, hung at his side.

"Bayrin!" Elethor said and grimaced.  "How could you joke in a place like this, in a time like this?"

The young man shrugged.  "The world is burning, my friend.  What better time to joke?"

Eldest of Lord Deramon's children, Bayrin was nothing like his fiery sister Lyana.  When Lyana would lecture, Bayrin would joke.  When Lyana would drill with sword and dagger, Bayrin would sneak into the armory and draw rude pictures on shields.  Lyana was a warrior, Bayrin a prankster.  Ostensibly a city guardsman in his father's force, Bayrin spent less time patrolling the streets, and more time singing hoarsely in alehouses.

He's just as insufferable as his sister,
Elethor reflected with a sigh. 
But he's also my best friend.

"Bayrin, you think every time is best for joking."

The young man gasped.  "Me?  Never in the bedroom.  No, Elethor.  That is all serious business in there."  He looked around him.  "But unless you plan on bedding a fifty-foot statue of a dead queen, I think we're safe."  He stepped forward, and now his smile did vanish, and his eyes turned somber.  He clasped Elethor's shoulder.  "But I'm also sorry, my friend.  Deeply and truly.  I heard about your brother."

Elethor nodded and looked away, blinking.  He did not want to cry in front of Bayrin, his friend who seemed to live for laughter, but couldn't help a tear from falling.

"I can't stop thinking that… that
she
did it.  Solina."  He looked back at his friend.  "When Orin burned her, she swore that she'd kill him someday."

Solina.  Queen of Tiranor.  My love and fire.

"We don't know that yet," Bayrin said softly.  "Mori is still sleeping; she's hurt and in shock, and might not wake for a while.  We'll have answers in time.  But come now, El.  A fire burns in the south and the sky turns red.  The city needs you."

Elethor nodded, eyes lowered, and they walked across the tomb to its towering doors.  The weight of the sky seemed to hang on Elethor's shoulders.  He forced himself to walk straight, to hold his head high, to square his shoulders, to be a prince of Requiem.  Inside, however, he felt ready to collapse.

My sister is hurt.  My brother is dead.  My father flew to war.
  He clenched his jaw, eyes stinging and throat burning. 
Be strong, Elethor.  Keep walking.  The city needs you.  There will be time for grief later.
 

They stepped under a towering archway, its keystone embossed with golden dragons, and exited Gloriae's Tomb.  From atop the marble staircase, Elethor saw the city roll across hills below.  Domes and towers rose from the birch forest, glittering with icicles.  Towering walls circled the city, rising from among the snowy trees like a crown of stone resting in white hair.  Lord Deramon's dragons perched upon the towers and walls, watching the south where red light glowed.

The fire of Tiranor flies there,
Elethor knew. 
Stars protect you, Father.

Elethor had been born after the war with Tiranor.  Orin had been only a babe.  But he had heard the tales countless times.  In his mind, he could see that old war as if he himself had fought it.  Father, then a young brash king, had flown against the deserts of Tiranor, howling with rage and vowing to avenge the death of his brother, whom Tiran soldiers had slain with arrows.  The Tirans had no dragon forms; theirs was a doomed battle.  They fought in caves, in forts, in mountains, firing arrows and spears against the wrath of Requiem's dragons.  They died.  Their palace fell.  Father himself slew the king and queen of Tiranor.

But he spared the young princess,
Elethor thought, heart wrenching.  Father had spared Solina.  He returned to Requiem with scars, dark eyes, and a girl who grew to bring fire, passion, and unending sweet pain to Elethor's life.

Standing upon the stairs of Gloriae's Tomb, Elethor shifted, growing and hardening into a brass dragon.  Bayrin shifted at his side, becoming a green dragon with white horns.  The two took flight, fire flickering between their teeth, and dived over temples, cobblestone squares, copses of birches, and marble homes.  Soon they reached the southern wall, a curving battlement fifty feet tall.  They landed upon its crenulations between dragons of Deramon's City Guard.  Before them in the south, firelight rose over King's Forest, and smoke billowed to paint the sky dark red.

"A forest fire?" Bayrin asked, frowning.  His own fire danced in his maw.  Scales clinking, he clutched the battlements so tight his claws dug grooves into the stone.

Elethor shook his head, scattering the smoke that rose from his nostrils.  "It is the fire of Tiranor herself."  He clenched his jaw, remembering the fire that had burned Solina, and how she trembled and cried in his arms.

A distant blue glimmer caught his eye.  He stared.  A dragon was flying from the south, a speck fleeing a wall of fire.

"Blue dragon," Elethor whispered.  "Lyana?"

Bayrin stared, squinting.  With a grunt, the young guard took flight from the wall, wings thudding.  His tail snaked behind him, and his green scales turned red in the firelight.  With a curse and icy fear twisting his gut, Elethor flew too.  The wind tasted like smoke, too hot for winter.  The two dragons, brass and green, flew toward their distant comrade.  The farms of Requiem rolled beneath them: fields of wheat and barley, rows of apple trees, pastures of sheep and cattle.  Fifty thousand Vir Requis lived off this land; in his mind, Elethor already saw it burning.

They reached the blue dragon two leagues from the walls of Nova Vita.  It was Lyana, and she was hurt.

"Sister!" Bayrin cried and circled around her.

Blood splashed Lyana's scales.  A burn mark ran across her belly and leg.  Her eyes, large emerald orbs, were haunted.

"Bayrin," she whispered, voice trembling.  Her wings shook.  "Elethor.  Help me to the city.  Quick!  The phoenixes.  They're coming.  Faster!"

Elethor stared into the southern horizon.  From here, he could see the flames rising, thrashing the sky and racing across the land.  When he squinted, he thought that the fire took the form of great eagles, dragon-sized, their wings like fountains of sunfire.  The fire crackled and he could hear their shrieks.

"Where are the others?" Elethor demanded.  "Where is my father, his five thousand dragons?"  Horror pounded through him, shaking his limbs.  Were they all gone like his brother?

But Lyana was already flying back to the city.

"To Nova Vita!" she called.  "Hurry!"

Elethor cursed and followed.  Bayrin flew at his side.

As they flew, Elethor watched the city grow closer.  Its walls rose, white and craggy, defending temples, homes, and workshops.  Three hundred years since the Destruction when the tyrant Dies Irae had razed this land, Requiem's dragons were recovering.  Trees grew where once fire and war had raged.  Vir Requis sang and prayed where once skeletons had lain burnt.  A million dragons had once flown here; Dies Irae had killed all but seven, but now myriads lived behind these walls, a renaissance for their race.

I will not let Requiem fall again,
Elethor vowed.

When they landed on the walls, they shifted back into human forms.  When their wings and scales vanished, they stood panting on the parapets.  Lyana faltered, and Elethor caught her.

"Lyana!" he said.  "What happened?"

Ash covered her face and darkened her hair.  Her armor was singed and bloody.  Pain filled her eyes, and something else… a haunting fear.

"They're coming," she whispered through pale lips.  "The phoenixes.  Great birds of flame."  She clutched his shoulders.  "We must get everyone into the tunnels.  Everyone!  And barricade the entrances.  They will be here soon."

Bayrin stared at her, slack-jawed.  The gangly young man rubbed his eyes.

"Sister, who is coming?  What are these phoenixes?"

She glared at him, five years his junior and nearly a foot shorter, but twice as commanding.  "I'll explain later.  Now fly over the city, both of you!  Sound the alarm.  Roar the call.  I'll run between the houses.  Go, you blockheads!"

With that, she ran down the wall's stairs, dashed across a street, and began pounding on house doors.

Elethor looked back south.  He could see them clearly now—countless firebirds, huge eagles blazing with fury, flying their way.  With a growl, he shifted back into a dragon and began circling over the city.

"People of Requiem!" he roared.  The city streets and houses spun beneath him.  "This is Elethor, son of King Olasar.  On my command, leave your homes and head to the tunnels.  Now!  Everyone must enter the tunnels at once!"

Bayrin was flying too, wings churning the hot air, roars shattering the night.  "Enemies at the gates!  Into the tunnels!  Into the tunnels!"

Below them, Lyana was banging on doors and helping people outside.  Soon thousands crowded the streets, shouting and weeping.

Three entrances led to Nova Vita's tunnels.  Originally a network of natural caves, the tunnels now held stairways, cobbled floors, archways, and bridges—masonry added over centuries.  In those underground chambers, Requiem stored its winter food, its ancient books, its magical artifacts.  They were secret places for kings, priests, and scholars.  Today thousands raced toward them.

As Elethor flew, sounding the alarm, fear pounded through him.  Nobody else was flying back from the inferno.  Was Lyana the only survivor?  Was his father… 
No.
  Elethor swallowed the thought. 
Do not panic,
he told himself. 
Not now.  Not until everyone is safe.

When he looked back south, he saw them closer.  The phoenixes were only a league away.  The farms outside the city kindled, and their fire raced toward the walls.  Smoke unfurled like demons.  The farmers were shifting into dragons, taking flight, and heading toward the city.

"Everyone move calmly!" Lyana shouted below, still in human form, herding the people into lines.  "That's right, form lines, head into the tunnels one by one.  Stay calm and move quickly."

Father,
Elethor thought. 
Where are you?  Why don't you fly here too?

Shrieks sounded behind him, and Elethor turned to see the phoenix army fly over the walls.

The inferno stormed with heat, sound, and fury.  It felt like a sun exploding over Nova Vita.  Fire howled around Elethor.  He reared and flapped his wings to blow back the flames.  He only fanned them.  The phoenixes swooped, larger than him, wings crackling and beaks flowing with fire.  Their claws reached toward him, shards of lightning.

Below him, the people screamed.  They ran through the streets, blazing.  Cries of pain and fear rose across the city, muffled under the crackle and shrieks of the firebirds.

Elethor blew fire.  The jet spun and slammed into a phoenix.  The great firebird screeched, unharmed; the dragonfire only seemed to enlarge it, as if it sucked up the fire's strength.  It dived and slammed its claws into Elethor.

He screamed.  It felt like hot irons pressed against him.  He soared, spun, and swooped.  His claws tore into the phoenix's head, and he cried in pain.  Its fire blazed across his legs; he thought his scales might crack from heat.

"Elethor!" rose Bayrin's voice somewhere in the distance.  "Elethor, come, into the tunnels!"

The phoenixes swarmed everywhere.  Houses cracked in the heat.  People fell burning.  Some Vir Requis became dragons and tried to fly, only to crash into the phoenixes.  A young girl ran from her house, shifted into a lavender dragon, and took flight.  Before she could fly ten feet, phoenix claws tore her apart.  She crashed back onto the cobblestones as a girl, her neck and chest slashed open.

Smoke unfurled and flames filled the night.  Elethor flew, dodging phoenix claws and beaks.  He crashed through one's flaming wings, and the heat seared him.  His eyes and throat burned with smoke.

"Bayrin, where are you?" he shouted.  He could see nothing but fire.  "Lyana!  Mori!"

He heard Bayrin's voice again; it rose from the flames below.  "Elethor, down here, into the tunnels!"

Elethor dived through flames and flew down the streets, wings beating back fire.  People were still running toward the tunnels, some of them burning.  Many lay dead; Elethor could see their seared bodies through the fire.  The phoenixes were swooping, burning the fleeing people.  Some Vir Requis were shifting, taking flight, and fleeing into the night.  The phoenixes flew at them, caught them in their talons, and bit with fiery beaks.

One phoenix surged between buildings toward Elethor and slammed into him.  It felt like a furnace door opened and the flames knocked him back.  He hit a building, cracked the stone wall, and howled.  He clawed and blew fire, but could not hold back the phoenix.  Could nothing kill these beasts?  Around him, dragons soared, only to be slammed down and burned.  Bodies littered the streets.

"Into the tunnels, go!" Elethor shouted to the people.  "Don't try to fight, just run!"

A long, green dragon soared from the inferno, howling.  Leathern wings beat back the flames.  Bayrin roared and grabbed Elethor's shoulders.

"El, we must go!" he shouted.  "Now!"