A Day of Dragon Blood (17 page)

There is power in my trophies. There is glory in the night. There is safety.

The alley opened into shadow, and soon they walked across the Square of the Sun, boots thudding against its cobblestones. Lingering peddlers and wandering youths saw the soldiers and scurried into shadow. Clouds flowed across the moon. Mahrdor took sharp, deep breaths, as if he could inhale the night itself. Soon, he thought, he would carry more teeth in his pouch—the teeth of Lyana. He decided to take her treasures slowly, to savor them: first a toe, then a finger, eventually her foot in a jar. He would keep her alive for as long as he could; for decades. She was his greatest prize, his rarest of birds, and he would make her last.

Finally he saw the winehouse again. It rose tall and narrow, built of rugged mudbrick. A sign hung above the door, painted blue and gold, featuring an oared ship and the words "The River Spice".

Mahrdor turned toward his men. The Gilded Guardians stood frozen, staring at him through their ibis helms. They gripped their swords.

"You know what to do," he told them.

They moved forward, automatons of steel and gold. One kicked down the door, and they streamed into the winehouse. Mahrdor stood at the doorway, smiling softly, watching them smash jugs of wine, crush tables, and shatter plates and mugs. Wine thick with clay shards sluiced around his boots.

"What are you doing?" cried a crinkly voice from the second story. "What do you want?"

The old winekeeper rushed downstairs into the common room, hair wild. Peras was his name, Mahrdor remembered.

Foolish man,
the general thought.
You should be fleeing across the rooftops, not charging into your death.

One Gilded Guardian grabbed the old man. The other drove a gauntleted fist into his stomach, then backhanded him. Blood filled the old man's mouth, and his scream faded into a gurgle. The guards shoved him down, and one kicked him. Coughing blood, Peras crawled into the corner and shivered. He tried to reach for a fallen knife, but a guardian stepped on his hand, then raised a fist above him.

"Enough," Mahrdor said.

The Gilded Guardians froze. The winehouse lay in ruins, and the only sound was Peras's hacking breath. Mahrdor approached the fallen, bloody man and opened the sack he carried. He held it upside down, and three heads rolled onto the floor.

When Peras saw the toothless heads of his sons, he tossed back his own head and howled. He leaped up and clawed at Mahrdor, crying in agony. Blood stained his tunic and tears filled his eyes.

"My sons! My sons! They were winemakers, only winemakers." He grabbed the fallen knife and slashed the air. His eyes were red, his face torn. "Damn you, Mahrdor! May the Sun God burn you!"

Mahrdor stepped back, dodging the knife, and drew his sabre. He thrust the blade. Steel gleamed in candlelight. The sabre drove into Peras's belly so smoothly Mahrdor barely felt any resistance; it was like skewering a slab of butter. He stepped closer, driving the blade down to the hilt, smiling softly. Peras gasped and blood trickled down his chin.

"You harbored a weredragon," Mahrdor said to the dying man. "I do believe it will be
your
soul that burns."

He shoved Peras back and pulled his sword free. The old man fell, whispered a last prayer to his god, and died between the heads of his sons.

Mahrdor stared down at the body and the heads. His lips curled in disgust. The remains looked to him like crushed worms. Briefly he considered taking a trophy from Peras too, but the man had only several teeth, and the rest of him was wretched. Bile filled his throat, and Mahrdor turned away.

"Burn them," he said to his guards. "Burn everything inside this place. It sickens me."

He stepped outside into the night and sucked the air. When his head stopped spinning, he spat and walked into darkness.

I don't need that old, shriveled body in my collection,
he told himself.
Soon we fly to Requiem. Soon I will have Lyana. Soon I will have all the trophies of a god's dreams.

 
 
DERAMON

"Into the tunnels!" he shouted, flying above the city. "Single file! Walk, don't run. Keep moving!"

Below him, the people of Nova Vita shuffled down the streets. Youths were snickering with their friends; Deramon saw one boy pinch a girl's backside, making her squeal. A few old women stood chatting in the corner. Deramon fumed and smoke blasted from his nostrils. Only a year had passed since Solina had burned this city, and already these people forgot the horror of war?

"Into the tunnels, come on, you lazy bastards!" Bayrin shouted, flying beside Deramon. The young dragon blasted fire across the sky. "If this were a real invasion, you'd all be charred bones by now. Move it! Move!"

The people below hastened their step and moved down the streets. They began snaking into the three archways that led underground: one marble archway at Benedictus Square, a second by the temple, and a third behind a copse of trees by the city walls. Clad in steel, men of the City Guard lined the streets, guiding the people into safety.

As Deramon flew above the city, his belly knotted.

"They're too slow," he muttered. "Damn too slow."

Beside him, his son sighed and shook himself, clanking like a bag of dice. "They'll move faster next time, or I swear, I'll start roasting people from above." He looked at Deramon. "Father, I've seen these wyverns fly. They're fast. Damn fast. Faster than Mori with a snapping turtle chomping her tail. If any show up here, the people will have to do better."

Deramon cursed under his breath, and so much smoke left his maw it nearly blinded him. Over the past few moons, every mason and carpenter in town had been working in the tunnels. After Solina had destroyed the underground labyrinth last year, Requiem had rebuilt it stronger and safer, but that wouldn't help if the people couldn't enter fast enough.

"Move it!" he shouted at the streets below where a few stragglers shuffled toward the tunnels. Finally—it seemed like ages—the last laggard disappeared underground.

"City Guard!" Deramon shouted; a thousand of the guards still lined the streets. "Shift and fly! Battle formations!"

At his order, a thousand men and women shifted into dragons and soared. Their roar shook the city. Four phalanxes—each with a hundred dragons—moved to perch upon the city walls. Four more phalanxes landed upon the palace, the Temple of Stars, and the city's two forts. The remaining dragons circled above Nova Vita, howling and roaring fire.

It wasn't perfect. Some dragons bumped against one another as they flew, and some seemed hopelessly confused, not sure if to perch upon a building or soar. Some phalanxes flew in tight formations, divided into battle flights of four dragons—two leaders flanked by two defenders. Other phalanxes flew in a confused cloud.

Bayrin grunted. "They're bloody farmers, Father. Look at them. Half of them look like they've never flown in their life." He sighed. "The wyverns will tear through them like Lyana's cooking through my bowels."

Deramon was busy howling commands. "Dragonclaw Phalanx, bloody stars, form rank! Flights of four, go!" He whipped his head around. "You! Where are you flying? What phalanx are you? Go, down there, guard the temple, girl!"

The groan that escaped his son's throat was loud as a roar. "Merciful stars, we're in trouble. Look at that one, Father. She's barely fifteen if she's a day, I reckon. And she's in the City Guard?" He panted and glared at Deramon. "Father, if Solina reaches this city, she'll be flying with thousands of wyverns—tens of thousands—each bearing a seasoned rider. How are these... these farm girls and bakers' boys going to stop her?"

Deramon was wondering the same thing. Last year, he had commanded a thousand tough, gruff men. All but two hundred had burned, and half of those survivors now guarded the southern border.
Damn it, I need more time,
he thought.
I need another year to turn these youths into warriors.

"It'll have to do," he said. He flapped his wings, rising higher, and waited until his guards finally manned their posts. "It's what we have, Bayrin. And they will fight when the time comes. They might be youths. But they can still blow fire. They can still slash claws. They will fight and they will protect our city." He cracked his neck. "At least, Bayrin... let me pretend. It's better to have hope than to despair." He blasted fire and howled to the city. "Drill's over! Return to your homes! City Guard—shift and regroup in the fortress courtyard!"

The tunnel doors opened and the people began streaming back into the streets. A few looked around nervously, possibly imagining the coming war. Others still laughed and gossiped as they went. Many were wounded, still carrying the scars of the phoenix attack; these ones limped and stared with haunted eyes. Others ran and laughed, the scars of war gone from their bodies and souls.

As the people returned to their homes and workshops, the dragons of the City Guard flew to their garrison, the squat Castra Murus by the northern wall. The thud of two thousand wings sent saplings bending, cloaks fluttering, and dust flying across the fort's battlements. When the dragons landed in the courtyard, they shifted into armored men and women bearing swords; they would need their steel should the battle move underground. Finally, after long moments of bumping into one another and Deramon shouting himself hoarse, they stood in formation—ten phalanxes, each commanded by a survivor of the old City Guard. They stood in rows, stiff, heads raised. One man scratched himself, then froze when Deramon scowled.

Finally, when all stood at attention, Deramon shifted too and stood before them in human form. Bayrin stood at his side, shaking his head sadly.

"Farm girls and bakers' boys," the young man repeated and sighed.

Deramon grumbled as he stared at his warriors. Elethor had drafted every healthy Vir Requis over fifteen years old, but some here looked younger. A few girls were so short and skinny they looked barely old enough to fly, let alone fight a wyvern. Some boys looked so green, Deramon half expected them to be chewing straw and herding sheep right here in the courtyard. Some were scrawny, others fat. A dozen or so were old graybeards with bent backs. Some had the pale look of scribes or priests, others the tanned look of farmers. They all had but one thing in common. They all looked scared.

"They sent me boys and girls!" Deramon shouted at them. He spat noisily. "They sent me the sons of farmers, boys who had never held a sword. They sent me the daughters of seamstresses, girls who had only wielded needles. They sent me weak, frightened children!"

They stood at attention, stiff, a few trembling. Deramon growled and continued.

"But now war is coming. Now you are no longer youths." He raised his voice. "Now you are men and women of the City Guard! Now you are warriors of Requiem!" He stared from one to another, scowling. "I once led a thousand seasoned fighters; they fell. You are here to continue their fight. You are here to honor their memory." He paced the courtyard, moving across the lines. "But when Queen Solina invades our city, you will not fight for honor. You will not fight for glory. You will not fight for gold, because I'm not going to pay you." He stood still and faced them. "You will fight for farmers and seamstresses, for scribes and masons, for winemakers and shepherds. You will fight for your fathers, your mothers, your siblings, your grandparents. You will fight for your homes, because if you don't, Solina will destroy those homes and kill those families." He drew his sword and raised it. "Today you are warriors! Today I am proud of you. Raise your swords, City Guard!"

They roared. A thousand blades rose like a steel forest. At his side, Bayrin was grinning wildly and raising his sword so high, his arm looked ready to dislocate.

The roaring continued for long moments. When Deramon stalked off to his chambers, he heard the guardsman swing blades, cheer, and speak of slicing Solina to ribbons. They laughed. The fear had left them.

But fear still dwells inside of me,
Deramon thought. He closed the door to his small, shadowy chamber in the heart of Castra Murus. The air was cold and damp, and Deramon poured himself a mug of strong spirits. He drank; it burned down his throat. When he closed his eyes, he saw the faces again—the faces of his dead men, staring up at him as he shoveled dirt into their graves.

"They're only youths," he whispered in the dark. "Only children. Stars, don't let them die under my command." He lowered his head and his shoulders shook. "Stars, don't let me lose these boys and girls too."

He looked out the window at the sky. Night was falling. War was near.

 
 
ELETHOR

"Come on, Elethor!" she said. She tugged his hand and they ran through the forest. Solina laughed. "Come on, you turtle!"

Leafy branches slapped them. Moss and dry leaves flew from under their boots. Finally they emerged from behind alders thick with lichen, beams of sunlight fell, and they beheld the waterfall. Solina gasped and squeezed Elethor's hand so tightly she nearly crushed it.

"Beautiful," she whispered.

The water crashed down a cliff into a pond, spraying mist and foam. A great, mossy statue of a dragon perched atop the cliff, guarding the waterfall. The ancient children of Requiem had carved it, legends said, thousands of years before King Aeternum had raised the palace of Requiem.

Solina spun toward Elethor, teeth sparkling in her smile, her eyes glittering blue. Her chest rose and fell as she panted.

"Come on," she said, "let's get closer!"

Elethor stood before the pond. The waterfall's spray wet his face. "Why don't we just admire it from here, we can—"

With a snort, she leaped into the water, dragging him with her.

Water flowed over him and entered his nostrils. He thrust his head out and took a breath, only for Solina to splash him, filling his mouth with water.

"Elethor, come on. Closer! Right under it." She pointed at the waterfall that crashed ahead into the pool. Her hair turned dark gold with water, and her freckles shone like stars. She turned and began swimming toward the waterfall's wrath.