A Memory of Fire (The Dragon War, Book 3) (18 page)

He could barely see her; she was
but a shadow in the night. He squeezed her hand.

"Keep walking. Let's be
silent. We're almost there."

His throat burned. More than he
worried about the dragons hearing him, he worried about his voice
cracking. They walked atop the stream, the ice coarse with fallen
pine needles. The dark trees creaked, a wolf howled, and the dragons
screamed above.

"Find them!"

The cry rang out. Wings beat.
Wind howled and trees bent.

"Find the heir! He's in
these trees. Find him!"

Rune cursed and began to move
faster, limping. Wings thudded above. Claws tore at trees.
Firelight blazed overhead.

"Rune..." Tilla said.
She clutched the hilt of her sword. "I won't let them take us
alive. I..." She shook. "It doesn't have to hurt. One
thrust into the heart. I—"

He growled and grabbed her
wrist. "What are you talking about? Stars! Come, quickly.
We're close."

They ran along the stream. Ice
creaked and the fire blazed above. A thousand shrieks rose.

"Find the prisoner!"

A dragon swooped ahead. A
lashing tail shattered a pine. Branches snapped and icicles fell.
To their left, claws uprooted an oak. Dirt and snow rained.

Tilla froze, whispered a prayer,
and lifted her sword.

Rune grabbed her and tugged.
"Here!"

As trees snapped behind them,
they scurried up a hillside. Brambles tore at their legs. Rune knew
this place. Boulders should rise in a henge nearby, their surfaces
carved with ancient runes. He ran among the trees, seeking them.

"Come on, where are you?"
he whispered, and fear pounded through him. Had he flown to the
wrong riverbed? Had he already passed the boulders?

"Uproot every tree!"

Fire cracked. Branches tore.
Red light blazed against scales, and Rune cursed and ran at a stoop.

There!

In the firelight, he saw the
boulders. He ran, ignoring his pain, pulling Tilla behind him. He
raced around the henge and behind an oak. He knelt, fished through
snow and fallen leaves, and cursed again.

"Where are you...?"

A tree ahead crashed down.
Claws glinted. Rune's hand closed around the rope.

With a tug, he opened the
trapdoor, revealing an earthen tunnel. He leaped in and pulled Tilla
with him. He tugged the rope again, and the trapdoor closed above.

They slid down in the darkness,
mud and moss smearing against them, and landed in a cold chamber.
They lay silent for a long moment. Rune barely dared breathe. He
couldn't see in the darkness, but he felt Tilla grab his hand.

"Did they see us?" she
whispered.

He squeezed her hand. Her body
pressed against him.

"No," he whispered
back. "But wait. Listen."

They lay in the burrow. Above
them, he heard the shrieks of the dragons, claws lashing at wood and
soil, and wings beating. The Legions howled. Fire crackled. With
every heartbeat, Rune squeezed Tilla's hand tighter, praying the
dragons didn't find the trapdoor.

After what seemed an eternity,
the shrieks grew distant. The dragons flew on.

Rune let out a shaky breath.

"We're safe for now,"
he said. He leaned his head back against the soil. Every part of
him throbbed with pain. Every last shred of his skin burned. His
bones themselves felt ready to shatter, his muscles to tear. He
could do nothing but breathe.

In the dark, Tilla reached her
arms around him. She held him and kissed his lips, and her tears
splashed his face.

"I'm so sorry," she
whispered, voice trembling. "I'm so sorry that we hurt you. I
love you."

He held her for a moment, too
pained to move or speak. Finally he raised his head.

"Let's crawl deeper in.
There's food and supplies here."

They wriggled through the
darkness. Rune felt around, arms outstretched, tracing the walls.
He soon felt the wooden chest, opened it, and rummaged. It took long
moments to find what he sought: a tinderbox and an oil lamp.

He rubbed flint against steel.
When the lamp flickered to life, it illuminated a chamber the size of
his old prison cell. Shelves lined the walls, laden with jars of
preserves, dried meats, jugs of wine, and wheels of cheese. Swords
and crossbows hung upon another wall. In a second chest lay
blankets, bandages, cloaks, and leather boots.

"What is this place?"
Tilla asked. She stood hugging herself and shivering in the cold.

"A gopher hole," Rune
said. "The Resistance uses them. Hundreds exist across
Requiem. They're safe places for us to hide and recover from
injuries." He smiled wanly. "I suppose I no longer have
to worry about sharing our secrets with you."

He took a step toward a shelf of
food, but his legs swayed. His knees buckled, and he found himself
on the ground.

"Rune!"

Tilla knelt above him. She
placed her hands on his cheeks, her eyes soft with concern. He
looked up at her. Her face was so pale, her eyes so large, her hair
so smooth.

"There you are," he
whispered. "My Tilla. Tilla Roper."

The
coldness, the cruelty, the red spiral—they were gone from her eyes.
In them he saw his old friend, his
best
friend, the woman he loved. The woman he had saved. In her eyes, he
saw the waves and sand of their home.

"I'm going to heal you,"
she said. "I'm going to nurse you back to health. When you're
strong enough, we'll find a place for us. A safe place to live."

Rune's eyes fluttered. He tried
to hold her, but he had reached the end of his strength. She bustled
around the room, fetching supplies. She bandaged his wounds. She
laid fur blankets atop him. She held a mug of cider to his lips, and
she fed him preserves and cheese and wafers.

"What else can I do?"
she asked. "Tell me. Would you like more food? More drink?
Another blanket?"

He laughed softly. "You've
gone from soldier to a fussy old aunt. I want to sleep. Sleep
beside me, Till. Remember how we used to sleep on the beach at home,
wrapped in a blanket, watching the stars?"

Eyes damp, she nodded. "Of
course."

She removed her boots, tunic,
and leggings, remaining in her underclothes. Gently she crawled
under the blanket and huddled close to him, embracing him.

"Does it hurt when I hold
you?" she whispered, her lips touching his ear.

He shook his head. "Never."

She held him tighter, her body
warm. "Good. I don't want to ever let you go." She
blinked away tears. "You should never forgive me, Rune. I
don't deserve your forgiveness. But know that I'm sorry. Know that
I love you. I'll never let you go, and I'll never let you forget
that." She kissed his lips. "Goodnight, Rune Brewer of
Lynport."

"Goodnight, Tilla Roper."

The lamplight guttered away.
They slept in each other's arms.

 
 
LERESY

As the high command convened,
moving pieces across maps and discussing battle plans, Leresy crossed
his arms, stood in the shadows, and fumed.

How
dare he slap me?
he thought, grinding his teeth.
How
dare he? I am prince of Requiem!

Fists clenched, Leresy stared at
this Valien Eleison, this ragged, outcast knight—no better than a
common outlaw—who styled himself the leader of the Resistance. The
vagabond stood at the table, moving his finger across a parchment
map. His hair was long, scraggly, and streaked with white.
Salt-and-pepper stubble covered his cheeks, while the rest of his
face looked like beaten leather. Even his dress was coarse; the man
wore leathers, furs, and wools, the raiment of a beggar.

And
my sister follows him?
Leresy
scoffed.

"At dawn, we fly
northwest," Valien said, tracing his finger along plains and
forests. "We head straight to the capital. We cannot win a
slow war; we are too few. We must seize Nova Vita before the Legions
learn to fight our Genesis Shards. Speed is our ally."

His lieutenants stood at his
sides: Kaelyn with her ever-present bow and quiver, that southern
creature Sila, and a dozen resistors with gaunt cheeks and somber
eyes. The rest of their forces camped below the hill, a few thousand
men and women nursing wounds, eating and drinking, and polishing
swords.

They
are a rabble,
Leresy thought, disgust rising in his throat.
They
are nothing but outlaws. They only won a battle because I found the
Genesis Shards.
He looked back at Valien and hissed under his breath.
And
Valien takes credit for this victory.

"Let
us fly out at once," said Kaelyn, chin raised. "We've
lingered here long enough."

Valien shook his head. Leresy
was surprised the decrepit thing didn't shed dust with every
movement.

"We'll fly at dawn,"
the outlaw said. "We've been flying with no rest for days now,
and too many are wounded. Our fighters need one night upon solid
ground, not in the saddle. They need a night to nurse their wounds,
to eat, to ready their weapons and their souls. At dawn we fly. We
will fly for seven days and nights, and we will fall upon the
capital." He pointed at the map. "And we take the
throne."

Leresy hissed again from the
shadows. They had invited him to their council, but he would not
speak here. He would not dignify this mob rabble with his wisdom.

You
want the crown for that pup, Rune,
he
thought, glaring at the man.
You
want to pull his strings even as he sits upon the Ivory Throne. I
know your mind, Valien Eleison, traitor of Requiem.

Leresy couldn't help it. He had
vowed to remain silent, but words fled his lips.

"I demand another Genesis
Scope," he said, taking a step closer to the table.

All eyes turned to stare at him.
Some glared with open disdain while Kaelyn sighed and gazed with
pity. No emotion, however, filled Valien's eyes; his stare was cold
and dead.

"You lost your scope,
Leresy Cadigus," the outlaw said. "You insisted on
clutching your scope in your claws, for you were too proud to bear a
rider. You will have no new scope. Kaelyn, Erry, and I will bear
the remaining three."

Leresy bared his teeth and
hissed. "It's I who found the Genesis Shards. They are my
weapons! It's my ingenuity that won us the battle upon the coast. I
will have a new scope!"

Valien himself bore one scope
upon his belt. Leresy marched up toward the man, prepared to wrestle
the scope free, but froze a few paces away. His heart raced and
sweat trickled down his back. Leresy was a strong warrior—he had
proven himself in battle—yet Valien was still taller and wider.

"Hand me your scope!"
Leresy barked. When Valien said nothing, Leresy spun toward his
sister. "Kaelyn—you bear a scope too. The one I gave you.
Return it to me! Or give me half the shards within so I can build a
new one."

His sister shook her head.
"Stars damn it, Ler, you're drunk. There aren't enough shards
to go around, and you know it. Go to bed. Sleep it off."

Leresy cackled. "Oh, I'm
very sober. I see things very clearly." He pointed a shaky
finger at them. "You want the throne for yourselves! You want
to use my weapon—mine!—to seize my prize."

"Leresy!" Kaelyn
shouted, her voice ringing across the hill. She stomped forward,
eyes blazing, and grabbed his arm. She leaned close, sniffed, and
wrinkled her nose. "Damn it, you reek of booze." She
looked back at the council. "I'll take him to his bed."

When she began dragging him
downhill, Leresy struggled, but she was damn strong for her size. He
couldn't pry her fingers off his arm, so he only stumbled after her.

"I had only a few sips,"
he said, tugging his arm but failing to free himself. "Kaelyn,
damn it! Release me. Give me my scope back. You want the throne
too! You want all the glory, and you don't care about anything I
do." Tears of rage stung his eyes. "I found the weapon.
I should lead this rabble, not you and that outlaw. Did you bed him,
Kaelyn?" He spat. "The camp says you did. Are you a
princess or a whore?"

She gave his arm a twist. Her
eyes blazed. "Leresy, damn you!" They reached his tent,
which stood in a valley by an oak. "Sleep it off. I'll forget
what you said here, but promise me—sleep it off, and no more booze
tonight."

With that, she shoved him into
his tent. He stumbled backward, his heels hit a chair, and he fell
down hard. The tent flap closed, and he could hear Kaelyn march
away, returning to her council.

Leresy wanted to run after her.
He wanted to shout, to fly as a dragon, to torch the council and burn
them all. How dared they steal his weapons? How dared they send him
to bed—as if he were some temperamental child, not a prince? He
grabbed a bottle of rye from his pack, uncorked it with his teeth,
and drank deeply.

"I am prince of Requiem!"
he said, speaking to his bottle. "I'm the one who found the
Genesis Shards. And now they plot to take my throne. Valien wants
what is mine!"

His head spun and the spirits
burned down his throat. He barely felt the hand touch his shoulder.
He spun around, spilling half his drink, and saw Erry there.

The little urchin was staring up
at him, her eyes solemn, that ridiculous short hair of hers falling
across her brow. Leresy had forgotten he'd let her stay in his tent,
warming his bed at night.

"Ler," she said softly
and tried to take the bottle from him. "You've had enough."

He scoffed. "I can hold my
liquor. I'm larger than a shrimp like you. I'm a man! I'm a
prince. And Valien..." He hissed and took another swig. "He's
a pig who plots to steal what is mine."