A Day of Dragon Blood (6 page)

Bayrin stood up, doffed his cloak, and shifted.

Wings burst out from his back with a thud. Claws and fangs thrust forward. Scales rose across him. The soldiers gasped. Before they could scream, Bayrin slashed his claws. He cut through steel. Blood spurted. Two soldiers fell dead. The third tried to run. Bayrin pounced and bit, and the man's scream died between his jaws.

It took only seconds. The three lay dead and torn apart.

Bayrin shifted back into human form and looked around, heart hammering. Had anyone seen him? His palms sweated and he panted. He had never before dared become a dragon here in Tiranor, especially not after seeing what they had done to Silas.

Stars, if anyone saw...

He stood still, heart hammering, waiting for wyverns to descend upon him, for their acid to wash the flesh off his bones. When long moments passed and no enemies arrived, Bayrin breathed out in relief. From around Old Mill, the same miserable sounds of Hog Corner still rose: the squeals of the town's cheapest women, the grunts of drunkards, the songs of sailors, the creaking of ships on docks, and the peddlers crying out their wares.

With a grunt, Bayrin pulled the three bodies into deeper shadows, around a few barrels, and toward a wharf behind Old Mill. A young woman lay there on the cobblestones, deep in dust's sleep. Praying she would not wake—if she did, he would have to silence her too—Bayrin shoved the bodies into the water. They sank in their armor. With any luck, they would remain in the depths.

He stepped back toward the crowded docks, still lightheaded, to find Lyana waiting for him in shadow.

"Spare a sun for an old beggar, my lady?" he rasped, hunched over and hobbling.

His sister stood in her disguise—hair smoothed and dyed a platinum blond, her pale skin painted a Tiran gold, and her northern eyes hidden behind a scarf. A white cloak draped around her, and she held her walking staff in hand.

"A sun for a dear old man," she said, fished in her pocket for a coin, and held it out.

Bayrin approached her, took the coin, and bowed his head. He whispered. "What news, Lyana?"

Softly she said, "Not here." She raised her voice. "May I buy you a bowl of soup, old man? To warm your old bones?"

He bobbed his head. "Old Mill serves good fish and onion soup, my lady, if it pleases you."

Truth was Old Mill served the worst fish soup in Irys, possibly in all of Tiranor. That served Bayrin well; it meant the fishhouse was empty but for three dust eaters, their heads upon their tables. Soon Lyana and Bayrin sat in the shadowy corner of the common room, eating bland soup with week-old fish from clay bowls. The owner of the fishhouse, a deaf old man, sat in the corner playing mancala against himself; the board was shaped of cracked old clay, and the pieces were mere pebbles. The three dust eaters snored.

Bayrin took a sip of soup, wrinkled his face, and spat it back into the bowl. "Horrible stuff, this. I think I swallowed a few drops too." He leaned forward. "What have you learned?"

He could not see through her scarf, but somehow he knew her eyes were haunted. Her skin was dyed gold, but somehow he knew that beneath that dye she was pale. Her hand trembled around her spoon.

"Bayrin, I met him! General Mahrdor himself! I danced for him at the River Spice, and... in his home."

He slowly placed down his spoon. "You... what?"

She nodded.

Bayrin tasted the soup again and forced himself to swallow. "Lyana! For a year you've danced for a thousand soldiers, and you barely learned what hand they toss a spear with. Then one day you meet the general of Tiranor's hosts... and get invited to his house?"

She nodded. "He liked my dancing."

Excitement leaped in Bayrin. For a year, he had been sneaking between Tiranor and Requiem, delivering what paltry knowledge Lyana gleaned—what formations she saw wyverns fly in, what new names soldiers gave their phalanxes, or how many wagons of helms and spearheads she saw leave the forges. They knew Tiranor was mustering a great army, and they knew an invasion was near, but the important knowledge—the date of the invasion and its location—eluded them. Would Mahrdor deliver this knowledge to her?

Alongside his excitement, sourness spread. Lyana, his sister... dancing for Mahrdor himself in his villa. Bayrin had invited enough young women to his own home to know what Mahrdor wanted.

"Lyana, did he touch you?" he asked, eyes narrowed. He clutched his spoon like a sword. "If he did, I will... I will..."

"Will what, eat his soup?" He could feel her glare through her scarf. "Bayrin, unless you can cut through Mahrdor's breastplate with a wooden spoon, focus on what's important now. I saw a map in his villa. A map of Tiranor and Requiem with wooden wyverns arranged for invasion. Ralora Beach, Bay. That's where he's going to attack. It'll be on summer solstice; he talked of leaving that morning." She reached across the table and clutched his hand. "We finally found what we came for. Leave. Tonight. Tell Elethor the news. The invasion is only seventeen days away."

Bayrin looked around nervously. As blind Tiana, his sister was meek and quiet, but today bits of Lady Lyana flared—learned, lecturing, and
loud
. The dust eaters, however, continued to drool contentedly at their tables. The deaf cook was picking his ear while squinting at the mancala board. Bayrin let out a shaky breath and glared at his sister.

"All right, Lyana, we fly home tonight." He placed down his spoon. "Right now."

She shook her head. "You fly. I'm staying here."

He looked around again, leaned forward, and hissed. "Lyana! Forget it. You saw what they did to Silas. These people don't play games. Three soldiers attacked me tonight. Their bodies lie at the bottom of the Pallan, breastplates slashed with dragon claws. Mahrdor will notice three missing men. If he finds their bodies and sees the claw marks, he'll go hunting dragons."

His sister gave him a crooked smile. "What dragons? I am but Tiana, the Blind Beauty, the dancer from the southern dunes. And I've gained his trust—or at least his lust." She squeezed his hand. "Bay, I've spent a year working for this. I can't leave so soon. I will learn more. If I charm him, he might even take me on the invasion; generals have been known to take mistresses to war. He—"

"He wants to invade my kingdom, Lyana. I don't want him invading my sister too. No way. You agreed to dance for Requiem, not to... to..." He felt his cheeks flush.

"It won't come to that. He only wants me to dance; that is all I will do for him."

She patted his hand, but Bayrin heard the hesitation in her voice.

She's lying,
he thought.
She will lie with the enemy for Requiem; she might have done so already.
The thought sickened him more than the stale soup.

"Lyana," he finally said, "as your older brother, I forbid it. You will not stay."

She scoffed, blowing out her breath so loudly it blew back a strand of her hair. "Do you? Bayrin, you might be my older brother, but I am a knight. You are not. I am betrothed to our king. You are not. And I will choose my path, not you." She rose to her feet, leaned forward, and kissed his cheek. Her voice softened. "Go home, Bayrin. Warn our people. Be safe. I love you, brother."

He stood up, still trembling. He wanted to grab her, to drag her with him, to take her away from this... this nightmare city that swarmed with hatred, blood, and acid. But before he could react, she spun and left the fishhouse, her cloak fluttering. He remained standing in shadow.

"Goodbye, Lyana," he whispered. "I love you too, sister. Be careful. Stars, be careful."

He stepped outside into a night of vomiting drunkards, sailors tugging whores, and dust eaters licking their desires with wild eyes. He stepped behind Old Mill where blood still coated the cobblestones. He leaped into the water where bodies still lay. He swam. Underwater, he could see torches flicker above, the hulls of ships, and the glint of fallen coins. He rose for air and sank again. His eyes stung and worry gnawed his bones.

Stars, Lyana. Be careful. Return to us soon.

The River Pallan flowed into a delta, thick with reeds. The lights of the city faded behind him. Flowing toward the sea, he summoned his magic.

Dark wings rose, spilling water. A shadow soared. A dragon flew in the night, flying north, flying home.

 
 
ELETHOR

He stood above the twin graves, head lowered, despair clutching at his throat.

"You fly now in our starlit halls," he said. His eyes stung. "Fly well, Yara and Tanin, warriors of Requiem."

A wave of tears spread over the crowd. Weeping rose in swells. Thousands had come to the funerals—soldiers, farmers, tradesmen, the old and the young. They covered Lacrimosa Hill where years ago Requiem's great queen had fallen in battle. They wore white robes—Requiem's color of mourning—fastened with silver birch leafs, sigils of beauty and peace. The families of the slain lay upon the graves, clutching the tombstones and crying to the sky.

Warriors?
Elethor thought, looking at the families who wept—mothers gasping for breath, fathers sobbing, siblings barely old enough to fly.
No, they were not warriors. Tanin was but a farmer's boy, Yara the daughter of a baker—youths I sent south to die.

True warriors had once guarded Requiem, thousands of men and women trained to defend their realm. They lay now in thousands of other graves, their tombstones dotting the hill like stone flowers. Grass rustled here but no more trees; the holy birches of Requiem had burned in the war last year, charred boles falling like so many bodies.

If she can, Solina will kill everyone who weeps here,
Elethor thought.
If I cannot stop her, we won't even lie in graves. Our bones will lie charred among our toppled halls.

Mother Adia, High Priestess of Requiem, stood at his side. Cloaked in white, she was a tall woman, cold and handsome as a marble statue. She raised her arms and sang above the cries of the crowd.

"As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home." She raised her head to the heavens. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

Across the hill, the children of Requiem repeated the prayer. Elethor looked above to that sky and saw dragons there, hundreds of them. Nearly all the old City Guard had fallen last year. Lord Deramon had raised a thousand more recruits—youths from across the land—and they now roared above, wings beating and breath steaming. The sight of them soothed Elethor. They were perhaps merely the children of farmers and tradesmen, youths who had never held a sword or shield, but their breath was still hot, their claws still sharp.

When you invade us again, Solina, you will find us ready. You will find Requiem's roar still loud.

The people dispersed slowly, holding one another and shedding tears. Most still bore scars from the phoenix fire. Many had lost limbs, eyes, faces. Many had lost parents, siblings, children. Yet even now they mourned two more fallen. Even now they craved life and wept for its loss. Solina had not taken their humanity; that soothed Elethor as much as the dragons above.

Lord Deramon approached him, a white cloak of mourning draped across his chain mail and breastplate. His calloused hands clutched an axe and sword. The grizzled warrior, his flaming red beard streaked with white, bowed his head.

"My king," he said, "let us fly together."

Elethor nodded, summoned his magic, and shifted. He took flight as a brass dragon, flames trailing from his jaws. Deramon shifted too and flew beside him, coppery and clanking, a burly beast of a dragon. They left Lacrimosa Hill and headed toward Nova Vita, capital of Requiem, which rose white and pure from the charred forest.

"How are the new recruits?" Elethor asked him, the wind nearly drowning his words. He glided on a current.

Deramon snorted a blast of fire. "Mere youths. They are soft. They weep at night in the bowels of Castra Murus; I hear them." He growled. "But I will harden them, my lord. They will fly as warriors."

Elethor nodded, but his belly knotted. They had raised new forces for Requiem, but were they enough to hold back Solina? A thousand sentries now guarded Nova Vita, a new City Guard. A thousand more flew along the southern border, patrolling the wastelands of swamp and sea that separated Requiem from the desert. When he looked south of the city, he saw the remainder of their forces training in fallow fields—three thousand soldiers of the Royal Army drilling with swords or flying as dragons.

I lead a few thousand callow, frightened youths... against the might and wrath of a desert empire.

"Will it be enough, Deramon?" he asked. Wisps of cloud streamed around them. "Solina is raising a great host. Our spies speak of myriads of wyverns and men. Will you harden these youths in time?"

Our spies.
He snorted to himself. Those spies were his best friend, Bayrin Eleison, and his betrothed, Lady Lyana. Aside from his sister, they were the people he loved most in the world, and yet he could not speak their names today.
To speak their names is too painful. Too dangerous. Today Bayrin is more than my friend, and today Lyana is more than my betrothed. They are the hope of Requiem.

Deramon growled. Smoke rose from his nostrils, nearly hiding his head. "They will be ready, Elethor. They will fight to the death for you." The old warrior looked at the young king. "Requiem will stand, my lord... or she will fall with a roar that will echo through the ages."

Elethor grumbled under his breath. "I prefer the former."

They reached the city. Wings scattering clouds, Elethor looked down upon his home. Nova Vita's walls rose from burnt trees, a ring of white. Dragons perched upon the crenellations, wings folded and eyes scanning the horizons. Beyond the walls, the city rolled upon hills: the palace, its columns soaring; the temple, its silver dome bright in the sun; two forts that bookended the city with towers and banners; and thousands of homes and workshops built of craggy white bricks.