A Day of Dragon Blood (5 page)

The Prince of Osanna spoke next. His horse sidestepped beneath him and nickered.

"The salvana speaks wisdom," he said. "Thirty thousand dragons fly here. Let them fight this war. Osanna is a great and ancient kingdom; our horses are swift, our steel is bright, and our hearts are brave. Yet when wyverns fly, let dragons fight them! We will fight our wars upon the ground." He shook his head sadly, and his voice softened. "Our kingdoms are allies; that is true. I grieve to see the blood that has spilled here... and the blood that will yet spill. Yet these are dark times, and we face our own threat in the north; we must fight our own enemies rather than yours. I am sorry, King Elethor of Requiem. We cannot help you."

With that, the prince kneed his horse, turned around, and galloped downhill. Soon he was but a speck in the distant fields, raising a cloud of dust as he rode into the east.

Elethor turned to the last of his guests, Prince Velathar. The griffin stared at him, tilted his head, and clawed the earth.

"Prince Velathar," Elethor said. He stared into the griffin's eyes. "My ancestors fought alongside yours. Will you fly with us again? Will you bring aid from your land, an army of griffins as fought here years ago? Let us join our great kingdoms again. Let us fight this evil from the south—for the sake of our old friendship."

Please,
he added silently.
Without you, we are alone.

The griffin lowered his head. He stared at the grass for a long time, perhaps thinking of his ancestors' bones that lay buried here alongside the bones of Queen Lacrimosa. The griffin raised his head and looked west at the distant golden thread—the retreating salvanae. He turned east and looked toward the horse that galloped there.

Finally he lowered his head again and nuzzled his beak against Elethor.

What does that mean? Does he mean to help us?

The griffin pulled back, and his eyes were sad. He gave a solemn shake of his head.

No.

With a great flap of eagle wings and talons that ripped the grass, the griffin soared. Soon he was flying into the horizon, a golden speck fading away.

Elethor and Mori remained upon the hill, alone in the forest. The only sound was the rustling grass. The siblings looked at each other. Mori's eyes were huge and round, the color of storm, and the wind ruffled her chestnut hair.

Elethor squeezed her shoulder. "We fought alone against the phoenixes," he said, "and we defeated them. We will defeat the wyverns too."

Mori lowered her head, held the hilt of her sword, and nodded. She did not need to speak; Elethor knew her thoughts. The same thoughts rattled through his skull.

The phoenixes killed nearly half our people. Only an ancient magic drove them away, not the heat of our fire, nor the sharpness of our fangs. Now a greater army flies against us... and we stand alone.

He pulled his sister close. She leaned against him, and the wind blew across them.

"We will fight alone," Mori whispered, "and we will defeat them. I believe. Deramon is a great warrior. So is Lyana and she will return to us. We will fight the wyverns in the air, and in our tunnels, and upon the mountains, and we will drive them back into the desert."

Elethor nodded. Deramon was a great warrior, it was true. So was Lyana. The rest of their army was composed of green youths, mere children torn from farms, bakeries, and vineyards. The wind seemed to invade his very bones, and he lowered his head.

A roar rose in the south, interrupting his thoughts. Heart thrashing, Elethor turned toward the sound. A black dragon was flying toward him and his sister, rising and dipping in the air.

When the dragon flew closer, Elethor recognized her. She was Lady Treale, the youngest daughter of House Oldnale which ruled the eastern farmlands. A youth of nineteen, Treale had begun squiring to Lady Lyana last year, training to become a knight. With Lyana away, Elethor had sent the girl to patrol the southern border; why did she now fly here outside Nova Vita?

"Treale!" he cried, pulled back from Mori, and shifted into a dragon. Brass scales clanked across him, fire filled his nostrils, and he flapped leathern wings. He took flight in a cloud of smoke.

The black dragon wobbled as she flew toward him, and puffs of weak smoke rose from her nostrils. Then Elethor saw what she carried in her claws, and his breath died.

Stars. Stars, no.

In each front claw, Treale held a body wrapped in a shroud.

They met above a forest clearing, spiraled down, and landed upon the grass. Treale placed the bodies down—the shrouds covered them from head to toe—then shifted into human form. She stood as a woman with smooth black hair, olive skin, and weary dark eyes. When she wobbled on her feet, Elethor shifted too and caught her.

"Treale," he said, examining her. Dirt and blood stained her armor. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, eyes haunted. "No, my lord. The blood isn't mine. It's... theirs." She looked at the bodies and her eyes dampened.

Mori came flying toward them, a slim golden dragon. She landed, shifted back into human form, and rushed to embrace Lady Treale; the two were childhood friends. Heart hammering, Elethor looked at the bodies. The shrouds hid their faces. They seemed so small, so frail.

"Who are they?" he whispered.

Treale looked at the dead and spoke softly.

"They are Tanin and Yara, a farm boy and baker's daughter. They served my father in our lands; they grew and baked our grains. They fell at the border." She looked at Elethor, and horror replaced the grief in her eyes. "When I found them, they were burnt with acid. Their commander, a soldier named Silas, was missing. Wyverns did this, my king." She clenched her fists and her voice shook. "Solina murdered them."

Elethor held her shoulders and stared into her black eyes.

"Did you see the wyverns, Treale?" he asked sternly. "Do they invade Requiem?"

She swallowed. "I saw a dead one on the ground, charred with dragonfire—a great beast all in iron scales like armor. I ordered my men to gut it and bring it to their king; they fly a day behind me. Three live wyverns flew there. When I arrived with my men, they retreated into the south." She snarled. "The cowards invaded, murdered, and fled. I wanted to chase them. I will find them and kill them still! But... I had to bring them back, my king. I had to see them buried. I had to..."

Pain overflowed her words, and she closed her eyes. A tear drew a line through the dirt on her cheek. Elethor held her, kissed her forehead, and looked over her head to the south.

Again you bring death to my door, Solina,
he thought. Rage flared within him, so hot that he gritted his teeth. He held Treale close.
Our neighbors abandoned me, but I do not face you alone, Solina. You will find that every dragon in Requiem fights you with a great roar.

 
 
BAYRIN

He limped along the docks, hunched over, cloaked and hooded in ratty old homespun. His hand, black with dirt, reached out in supplication.

"Suns for the poor?" he croaked as sailors walked by. "Spare coins for a poor old beggar, my lords?"

The sailors ignored him and walked on, speaking to one another of finding a winehouse, soft beds, and cheap women to warm them. These ones had not seen land for weeks; they had the hungry look of men too long at sea. Bayrin could not guess what ship they had come from; hundreds lined the docks of Hog Corner. Some were mere fishermen's barges, others merchant ships with embroidered sails. Some were wide and sturdy, built for sailing north, out of the delta and into the salty sea. Others were slim and long and lined with oars, made for rowing south along the River Pallan to distant jungles of spice, jewels, and slaves. Many ships—those farther along the docks, where soldiers patrolled and no beggars dared shuffle—were military machines laden with steel and Tiran fire.

If you wanted news, Bayrin knew, you came to Hog Corner. Centuries ago, it was said, pigs would wallow here in mud, giving the place its name. Squatted upon the northern fringe of Irys, where the Pallan turned from river to delta, Hog Corner still boasted as much mud and stench as ever. Upon its hundred docks, merchants, soldiers, prostitutes, and beggars all mingled and fought and shared their tales. There were no temples in this part of Irys, no palaces or villas or nobles. In the winehouses, brothels, and alleys of Hog Corner, far from the great gilded columns of the city south, Bayrin could hear tales of sea battles, songs of distant lands, and mostly gossip. If you wanted to know which lord bedded which noblewoman, which priest was caught stealing gold, or which officer was smuggling women into the barracks, you came to this place. If the River Pallan was the artery of Tiranor, here was its throbbing heart.

"Suns for the poor, my ladies?" Bayrin croaked in his best beggar's voice. "Spare some old copper suns?"

The young women walked by, faces gaunt and eyes sunken. These ones were the dust eaters, he knew; wretched souls addicted to the southern spice. They would sell their clothes, their bodies, and their souls for but spoonfuls of the stuff. They gave him dead stares and shuffled onward, always seeking, always hunting the next taste of their elixir.

Bayrin grumbled under his hood. When he brushed dirt off his cloak, his own stench wafted and sickened him. He still could not get used to smelling this bad. A year ago, only his cloak would stink; now it seemed to have permeated his hair and skin.

Being a beggar is not my style,
he thought. He was a noble son of Requiem, the personal guardian of Princess Mori Aeternum herself. He should not
stink
. A sigh fled his chafed lips.

They send my sister to be a dancer,
he thought bitterly,
in a winehouse far in the clean, safe city south—right outside the palace! But old Bayrin... he gets to wallow in mud and stink like the hogs that gave this place its name.

"Come on, Lyana," he whispered into the night. "Bring me some news of this invasion, and let's leave this cursed city."

He missed home. The memory of Requiem pounded through him every night—the rustle of birches, the beauty of white marble columns, and the loving eyes of his princess. More than anything, he wanted to see Mori again, to hold her, stroke her soft hair, kiss her lips, and never let her go.

If you saw me now, Mori, you'd wrinkle your nose and shove me away in disgust.
A smirk twisted his lips.
I should return to Requiem like this, in my foul disguise, and see if your love for me is true.

"Come on, move it, ya wretches!" rose a voice ahead. Bayrin raised his hooded head, peered into the shadows, and saw three drunken soldiers stumble down the docks. They were leaving the Black Shell, the seediest winehouse in Irys, a place where drunkards and dust eaters spent their paltry coins. Their boots sloshed through puddles, and one drew his sabre and flailed it about haphazardly. A group of sailors and peddlers scurried out of their way, and the soldiers moved on, leaning against one another. They began to sing a slurred song.

"Dragons fly

And dragons burn

Dragons scratch and bite

But Tiran men

With spear and blade

Will bloody dragons smite!"

They began to sing a second verse—this one quite ruder, detailing different parts of dragon anatomy Tiran blades would slice—when the soldiers noticed Bayrin. One kept singing. The others scowled and nudged their comrade.

"What are you looking at, beggar?" one soldier said. "Bugger off, will ya? Go!"

He marched toward Bayrin and kicked, knocking him down. Under his cloak, Bayrin wore boiled leather inlaid with steel rings, but still the kick drove out his breath and spread agony through him. He lay on cobblestones damp with water, blood, and vomit.

"Spare a few copper suns, my lords?" he said, speaking with his grainy beggar's voice. "Spare a few coins for an old, limp beggar before you sail off to smite the bloody dragons?"

The soldier kicked him again. His boot, tipped with steel, slammed into Bayrin's hidden leather armor, sending blooms of pain spreading through him. He grunted.

I am a son of Requiem. I can turn into a dragon. I can kill these men and burn every ship in this port.
He ground his teeth, coughed, and forced himself to lie still. He had to wait for Lyana; she met him here every three days, and he hadn't missed a rendezvous yet.

"Pardon, my lords, pardon," he said and began crawling away. Bayrin, the guardsman from Requiem, would have fought and killed these men; here in Tiranor, he was but an old beggar, feeble and groveling.

"He thinks we're lords!" said one of the soldiers, a brawny man with a stubbly face, dented armor, and flushed cheeks. "Do we look like lords, you scum?"

Another kick sent Bayrin crashing down. The soldiers laughed. Boots nudged him and spears poked him. Under his hood, Bayrin snarled. These men were weak. Cowards. They taunted an old, defenseless beggar, yet if they knew who he truly was...

"I say we cut off his head!" cried one. "A little killing to whet the appetite before we go slay some reptiles."

"Shove your spear up him!"

"Cut his guts out!"

The boots kicked, a spear scratched his thigh, and laughter rang. Bayrin crawled along the docks. Ahead rose the Old Mill—an abandoned mill now turned into a den of dust eaters. Coughing and grunting, Bayrin scuttled toward it on hands and knees. He crawled into the shadows behind its old bricks, leaving the sailors, dust eaters, drunkards, whores, and peddlers behind. The three soldiers followed, laughing and spitting upon him.

"He thinks the shadows can hide him, friends!"

"Good. Let's kill him nice and quiet in the dark."

Bayrin looked around him. He saw nobody but his three tormentors. Only the tallest masts of ships peeked over the roof of Old Mill. Only the loudest drunkards could be heard from behind its brick walls. Nothing but him, three Tiran soldiers, bricks, and shadows.

The soldiers raised their swords.