A Dawn of Dragonfire: Dragonlore, Book 1 (18 page)

He held Adia's arm, gently but firmly.  His hands were bloody and rough, and Adia wanted to break free, but she was so tired.  Her head felt so light.  His second hand held the small of her back, keeping her standing.

Sister Caela moved forward, lips tight, and knelt by the dying man.  With sure fingers, she uncorked her vials, then poured silverweed nectar into the man's mouth.

"Sister," he whispered, shaking now.  "Hold me.  Hold me as I leave."

The young woman held the dying man, praying for him, until he lay still in her arms.  Adia watched, eyes moist, and she shed tears, all those tears she had not cried for hours, maybe days.  Her body shook with them.

"Come, my love," Deramon said softly.  "You've not slept in three days.  Sister Caela will tend to these men for a few hours."

They left the armory, this place of death and blood and screams.  They walked down a tunnel, moving between soldiers who ran and survivors who huddled and prayed.  Darkness, stench, and whispers of fear swirled around them.  Adia's head spun.  Three days.  Had it truly been that long?  Only several lamps lined the tunnels, casting shadows like dark phoenixes.  From above came hammering and cries of battle.

"How are the defenses?" she asked.

Deramon clenched his jaw.  "Holding.  Barely.  The Tirans broke through one blockade—the entrance at the temple.  Many died.  We raised more boulders and are holding them back.  For now."  He looked at her.  "We will not hold out for long, Adia.  But we will hold out for the night."

She realized that Deramon too had not slept for three days.  His face was haggard.  New lines creased his face, and more white streaked his red beard.  His clothes and armor were covered in dust and blood.

"You look like you've been to the Abyss and back," Adia said.  She shivered, realizing the grimness of the phrase she'd chosen. 
No, he had not been to the Abyss, but Lyana now delves into that place.  Our daughter.  Our sweet, brave light.

Deramon seemed to read her thoughts.  He held her hand tight.

"I trust Lyana," he said, voice a low growl.  "She is the finest swordswoman I know.  She is wise and strong and fast.  If anyone can survive down there, it's our girl.  She'll return to us with the Starlit Demon.  I promise you."

Adia looked at him, and she wanted to believe, but she saw the fear in his eyes.  She knew that he himself did not believe those words.

Lyana will die,
she thought. 
We will die.  Requiem will fall.  But if we are doomed, we will go down fighting, and we will not give up until death's grasp pulls us to the stars.  Does my Noela wait for me there?

Survivors covered every corner of these tunnels, sleeping on the floors, standing against the walls, huddling into nooks.  Adia made her way between them, until she entered the wine cellar which had become their war room.  She and Deramon stepped in, and the chamber seemed so bare to her.  This was Requiem's new center of power, but where was their king?  He was gone into darkness.  Where was their princess?  She had flown into the night.  Where were Olasar and Orin?  Their bodies lay burnt in the inferno of the world.

Who will lead us now?
Adia thought.  How could this lost, hunted people survive underground with no father or mother?  She would be that mother, she knew.  She was a priestess, a leader, a healer. 
Let me lead and heal as best I can until my king returns.

Deramon moved about the room and found them mugs of wine, old cheese, and bread, but Adia could not eat nor drink.  She huddled on the floor by a casket, pulled her knees to her chest, and wept.

"My love," Deramon whispered.  He sat by her, wrapped his arms around her, and held her.  She trembled against him.  He was all cold steel and rough flesh; he seemed so strong to her, forever her lord and soldier.

"I'm so scared," she whispered to him.  "I'm so scared, Deramon.  I'm so scared for Bayrin, for Lyana, for everyone."  Her tears claimed her.

He kissed her head and held her close, his arms so wide and strong; when she was younger, Adia used to think he could lift the world with those arms.

Finally she slept, held in his embrace, her cheek against his shoulder.  She dreamed of gaping wounds and burning flesh and haunted, bloody eyes.

 
 
MORI

She could not breathe.  She could see nothing but clouds and stinging snow.  Her fear gushed through her, she blew fire, her wings beat madly, and it was all she could do to keep flying.

I'm suffocating
, she thought.  Her head spun and her lungs ached. 
I can't breathe.  Help, stars, help.

The shrieks rose behind them, cries like great eagles, like crashing flame, like the pain that still dug through her.  The phoenixes soared, chasing suns of fury, crackling and howling.

It's him,
Mori thought, eyes burning and wings trembling.  The clouds streamed around her. 
He flies there as a firebird.  The man who… who…

Once more she lay upon that oak table, staring into Orin's dead eyes.  Once more his hand clutched her throat, and his pain drove into her, and her mouse fluttered in her pocket like a heart, until her weight crushed him.  Once more Solina stood above her, watching, laughing.

"Mori!" rose a shout, distant and muffled, as from leagues away.  "Mori,
fly
!"

She blew fire, clearing the haze, and saw Bayrin flying at her side.  His green scales flashed between the clouds, and his tail nudged her, steadying her flight.  The fire of the pursuing phoenixes gilded the clouds.

"Mori, fly!" Bayrin shouted.  "Faster!"

She flew, neck outstretched, tail straight, wings churning the clouds.  She sliced the sky, wind blowing around her.

Orin always said I was the fastest dragon in Requiem.

Bayrin flew at her side, flames seeping between his teeth.  Soon he was falling behind, and Mori forced herself to slow down, though all her horrors blazed behind.  She could not see them clearly—the clouds still hid them—but their shrieks tore the sky, and their fire blazed like sunset.

If he catches us, he will kill Bayrin,
she thought. 
But he will not show me that mercy.  He will chain me, and rape me again and again, and force me to watch Solina kill Elethor.

A growl found her throat, surprising her.  She had not thought any anger remained in her, only fear, and yet her rage now blazed.

So I will not let him catch me.

"Bayrin!" she cried, flying at this side.  "Keep your neck and tail straight!  Keep your body smooth!  Cut through the wind, like this."

She was slim and small; he was long and gangly.  She shot forward, as straight and flat as she could, until she flew before him.  The wind flowed around her.

"Fly in my slipstream, Bay!" she shouted.  "I'll shield you from the wind."

They drove forward, the shrieks rising behind them, the wind howling.  The clouds parted, and Mori found herself under blue sky.  Mountains rolled below, their slopes golden, the peaks white with snow.  Between them, silver strings of frozen rivers snaked through forests of evergreens.  Red light blazed against the landscape, and when Mori turned her head, she saw the phoenixes emerge from the clouds.

There were five.  Their flames twisted and rained sparks.  Their beaks like molten steel cried in fury.  One phoenix led the pack, larger than his brethren, his wings a hundred feet wide.  He was Lord Acribus.  Mori knew it was him; she knew the cruelty in those white eyes.

"Bayrin, fly!" she shouted.

He was lagging behind, tongue lolling, chest rising and falling.  He stared at her, eyes glazed; he had reached the end of his strength.

Again she saw Solina in her mind, scarred face cold, blue eyes staring.  Again she heard that voice.

Have your treat, dog.

The fingers dug into her, and she could not breathe, not even scream.

"No," she told herself, wings flapping. 
I won't let them catch us.
  Her breath ached in her lungs. 
Never.  Never again.

She looked around madly, over mountain and river and forest, seeking a place to hide.  When she saw the fallen tower, she gasped.  It lay upon a mountaintop, jagged and crumbling.  These were the ruins of Draco Vallum, she knew.  She had always loved books of maps and histories; she had spent so many hours poring over them in the library.  She remembered reading about these ruins—the crumbling remains of proud, ancient forts from Requiem's Golden Age before the griffins destroyed the land.

"Bay, fly to the ruins!" Mori shouted into the wind.  "Do you see them?"

She slapped him with her tail, nudging him in the right direction.  He panted and his eyes rolled, but he managed to nod.  The two dragons, gold and green, began diving down toward the mountains.  Wind howled and Mori's belly twisted.  She swooped so fast that she nearly fainted, and the tug of the world pulled her stomach and skull.  She gritted her teeth and kept diving.

"We'll have to fight them in the ruins!" she said.

Memories pounded through her, and she saw herself again in Castellum Luna, slamming the doors shut, racing into darkness.

That is where he killed Orin, hurt me, and spat on my bleeding body.
  Suddenly Mori wanted to turn away from these ruins.  She wanted to fly to the phoenixes, to die in their fire, to fall burnt upon the forests of her homeland.  Anything seemed better than hiding underground, waiting for him to shove her down, clutch her throat, grunt above her as she wept.

But she growled and kept swooping.

I'm stronger now.  Bayrin is with me, and we both bear swords.  This time I will fight him… and I will kill him.

She looked over her shoulder.  The phoenixes swooped behind her, talons outstretched.  Fire rained from them, and their wings crackled like crashing pyres.  Mori stared into his eyes—white orbs of swirling flame.  There was so much hatred there.  Mori had never known such hatred and madness could exist.  Though the phoenixes drenched the world with searing heat, she felt cold.

"Mori, come on!" Bayrin shouted.

The dragons were near the ruins now.  Little remained of Draco Vallum, this old fortress of fallen heroes.  Only one wall still stood, craggy like the gums of an old stone giant.  The rest of the fortress lay as fallen bricks.  Mori discerned half of an archway leading into a cellar, and she dived toward it.

"We'll kill them in shadow," she shouted and swooped.

The ruins rushed up to meet her.  She landed, claws digging into snow.  At once she shifted, becoming a girl again, and drew her sword.  She ran, blade in hand, and leaped through the archway.  She found herself upon a staircase plunging underground.

"Bayrin, in here!"

She turned to see him land in the snow outside.  The lanky green dragon shifted, and Bayrin ran forward in human form, drawing his sword.  He leaped onto the staircase to join her.

Mori had time to see the phoenixes land too, melting the snow, before she turned and ran downstairs into darkness.

The steps were narrow and craggy.  She tripped, pitched forward, and just barely righted herself and kept running.  Bayrin ran behind her, boots thudding and scabbard banging against the walls.  He cursed as he ran, such foul words that Mori had never heard.  She cursed too, repeating words she had never dreamed a princess would utter.

Soon she heard other voices—calling for her blood, calling for her flesh.  When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw the Tirans, and she saw
him
.

In human forms they were no less frightening than phoenixes.  The Tiran soldiers wore armor darkened with soot, and their sabres were bloody.  Her tormentor walked at their lead, the Lord Acribus, his face like beaten leather and his eyes cruel, blue chips.  He opened his mouth, revealing his yellow teeth, and his tongue licked his lips, serpentine.

"Mori!" he called to her.  He grinned like a rabid animal, drooling.  "Are you ready for more, weredragon?  Are you ready to scream?"

Fear pounded through Mori, nearly freezing her.  Her heart thudded, tears leaped into her eyes, and she whimpered.  But then she saw that his arm was bandaged.  She had cut him there with Orin's dagger. 
He can be hurt.  He's just a man now, not a phoenix, not a demon, and I can kill him.

She and Bayrin reached the end of the staircase.  They found themselves in a dusty, ancient cellar, too narrow for shifting into a dragon or phoenix.  Rusted blades lay upon the floor between fallen bricks, the wood and leather of their hilts rotted away.  The back of the chamber lay in shadow.  Mori raced into the darkness, seeking a tunnel, a doorway, somewhere to flee, but found herself facing a brick wall.

She spun toward the Tirans, her back to the wall.  Bayrin stood by her, panting and holding his sword before him.

"Bayrin," Mori whispered.  She reached out and clutched his hand.  "Bayrin, we will fight them."

He nodded and spoke with a choked voice.  "Be brave, Mori.  I won't let them hurt you."

At that moment, she loved him—loved him like she loved Orin, her fallen hero, like she loved Elethor, her new king.  Bayrin was no warrior, she knew.  To her he'd always been a fool, a jokester, Elethor's gangly friend whom she always thought looked like a grasshopper.  Yet now he stood by her, sword raised, sworn to defend her… and in the darkness of this chamber and her fears, she loved him.

Acribus came walking toward them, a half snarl, half smile on his lips.  His firegem blazed around his neck, painting his face red.  Drool dripped down his chin.  He was tall, even taller than Bayrin, and twice as wide.  He cracked his knuckles and stripped Mori naked with his eyes.  His tongue licked his chops, dropping as far as his chin.  Lust for her body and blood filled his eyes.

"Men," he said to his four companions.  "Kill the boy.  Keep the girl alive.  We'll have our fun with her."

The four soldiers eyed her, no less hunger in their eyes, and raised their swords.  They approached Bayrin, their firegems crackling; in the flickering light, they looked like demons of shadow and fire.