As she flew over the city, she looked south; the horizon glowed red. Distant fires blazed.
LYANA
Lyana Eleison, a knight of Requiem, stood in the hall of her king. She wore chain mail, a breastplate, and a helmet of steel. She clutched her sword so tightly her knuckles were white.
I will be strong, she told herself, struggling to calm her racing heart. I am a bellator of Requiem. Whatever evil befell my princess, I will fight it.
The palace's columns rose around her, pale as moonlight, their capitals shaped as dragons. Braziers stood among them, crackling with embers, filling the hall with warmth and light. Yet no fire could warm Lyana today; her chill gripped her from her belly, sending icy fingers through her.
People filled the hall around her: Lyana's father, the burly Lord Deramon; Lyana's mother, the willowy priestess Adia; King Olasar upon his throne, a crown of gilded oak roots upon his head; Prince Elethor, his eyes dark; a dozen guards with spears and shields. All eyes stared at the young Princess Mori who stood trembling upon the palace's marble tiles.
"Hush, child, you're safe now," whispered Adia. The priestess stepped forward, white robes fluttering, and embraced Mori. "Nobody will hurt you here."
Lyana looked at the two—her mother and her princess—and her throat tightened. I am a knight of Requiem, she thought. I am betrothed to a prince. Yet now I too want to weep into a warm embrace. Now I wish my mother held me, her daughter, the way she holds our princess.
"You're safe now, Mori," whispered Adia. "You're safe."
The princess wept, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Blood caked her hair and tears etched lines down her ashy face. She whimpered and clung to Adia, digging her fingers into the priestess's robes.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
Adia raised her eyes and looked over the weeping girl's head. She stared at the Oak Throne of Requiem, which stood upon a marble dais engraved with gilded leaves.
"Please, Your Highness," the priestess said, "let me take her to the temple. I will tend to her there."
King Olasar sat upon his throne of twisting oak roots. His brows were heavy and black, his beard snowy white. A tall man clad in dark green and steel, he held a sword on his lap—Stella Lumen, ancient blade of the legendary Lacrimosa, the queen who had fought the tyrant Dies Irae and reigned over ruins. He was a wise king, Lyana thought, and a brave warrior. She loved him like a second father.
"Not yet, Adia," the king said, eyes dark. "Let my daughter speak. Mori, look at me. Tell me what happened. Tell me everything."
Still clinging to Adia, the princess looked up at her father. Tears spiked her lashes and her lips trembled.
"They killed him," she whispered. "They killed Orin, Father! They killed him."
Lyana stared.
Her heart shattered inside her.
Orin. My betrothed. No. No…
Tears filled her eyes. Pain gripped her heart and squeezed. She looked up at her mother with burning eyes, at her father who stood by the throne, at Prince Elethor who gasped. Tears blurred her vision and the world spun around her.
Orin. Dead.
The grief swelled through the hall. Lyana found herself clinging to Elethor, digging her fingers into his back. He held her, tears in his eyes, his breath heavy. King Olasar rose to his feet, his chest heaved, and even this great ruler's eyes filled with tears. Lord Deramon gritted his teeth and clutched his axe, and the warriors who served him, guards of the throne, cried in grief.
He's gone. Stars, he's gone. My betrothed. My love. My Orin.
Lyana trembled as the world crashed around her. If the columns of this palace fell and King's Forest burned, she'd have felt no less grief and shock.
Her father spoke first. Captain of the City Guard, Deramon raised his voice above the cries of grief; it boomed across the hall.
"Who killed the prince?" he demanded. He was perhaps the greatest warrior in Requiem, a gruff man of muscle and grit, but even his eyes shone with tears. "Who killed Prince Orin?"
Mori dared not look at Deramon; she had always feared the lord's fiery beard, booming voice, and blazing eyes. Face pale, the princess ran to her father. She clung to the king. For the first time, Lyana noticed that blood slicked the princess's thighs, and an iciness seized her. She shivered. They killed Orin, and stars, what did they do to Mori?
"Tirans," Mori whispered, voice so soft, Lyana barely heard. "They bore the sun of Tiranor on their armor. Their swords were curved and gilded; they looked like beaks. They had golden skin, and blue eyes, and hair like platinum. I… they could fly, Father! They flew as firebirds, great beasts of flame. They are coming. They will be here soon. They burned him! And they will burn us. Father… they are coming, they…"
Mori's eyes rolled back, and she fell limp in the king's arms.
Lyana wanted to faint too. She forced herself to breathe, to focus her eyes, to clutch her sword. Tiranor attacking Requiem? She clenched her jaw. Tiranor had not attacked Requiem since the war nearly thirty years ago, a decade before Lyana's birth. She knew little of Tirans, only that they were proud, tall, and fair—a beautiful and cruel desert people with sapphire eyes and blades that thirsted for blood. Why would they attack Requiem?
But of course Lyana knew. She whispered the answer through cold lips.
"It's Solina."
Solina. The orphaned princess of Tiranor, taken captive to Requiem after the devastating war. Solina, who loved Elethor, who had attacked the king, who had fled burnt to her desert home.
Lyana snarled, pulled back from Elethor's embrace, and drew her sword.
"It's Solina!" she repeated, louder this time, loud enough for the hall to hear. "She killed Orin. And I will kill her."
The hall erupted in cries. Father and his men, warriors clad in steel, called for vengeance. Mother called for calm. Only Elethor stood silent, face pale and mouth open.
King Olasar stood, his unconscious daughter in his arms, and raised his voice.
"Silence!" he thundered. Pain filled his eyes, but he narrowed them and stared upon the hall. Mori hung in his arms, head tilted back, blood trickling. The hall fell silent; all eyes stared at the king. Lyana stood panting, sword drawn, grief like a talon clutching her.
The king turned his dark eyes toward Lyana's mother. The priestess stared back, blood smearing her white robes, her eyes huge and haunted.
"Adia," said King Olasar, "take my daughter to the temple. Heal her. Let her sleep. And Adia… prepare the temple for wounded. Many wounded." His jaw was tight. "And for the dead."
Adia nodded, face pale but strong. She walked forward and took Mori from the king's arms. Carrying the girl, she left the hall, robes sweeping behind her. Lyana watched the two leave, throat tight. She knew what this blood meant, this tremble in Mori's voice, the shame in her eyes.
They raped her. They will do the same to me if they can. Her eyes stung and her throat felt so tight she could barely breathe.
Next King Olasar turned to Lyana's father. Deramon stared back, eyes dark under his bushy red brows, his heavy hands upon his weapons. He stood clad in steel and leather, every inch a warrior, but Lyana saw the fear and pain that lurked behind his scowl. Father is as scared as I am, she knew.
"Lord Deramon," said the king, "prepare the City Guard. Summon every last man from your barracks, all one thousand. Man the walls and patrol the skies. Protect Nova Vita."
Deramon bowed, one hand on his sword's hilt, the other on his axe. His armor creaked.
"My king," he said gruffly. "It will be done."
With that, Deramon turned and marched out of the hall. His soldiers followed, armor clanking. Soon Lyana heard them shift outside—their wings thudded, and their howls shook the palace. She saw them take flight outside the windows, great dragons blowing fire.
Only Lyana and Elethor now remained before the king. The young prince had not spoken yet. He was pale and his fists shook at his sides. Lyana knew what he was thinking. He was thinking of her. The woman he loved. The
woman whose parents King Olasar had slain. The woman who, Lyana knew, now marched against them. Solina, bane of Requiem, forever a curse upon this place.
She knew Olasar was thinking the same thing. The king was staring at his son, the younger prince, now heir to his throne.
"Elethor," the king said, and for the first time his voice was strangely soft. "Sit upon this throne until I return. You rule in Nova Vita in my absence."
Still pale and silent, Elethor nodded. As the king walked across the hall, Elethor approached the throne and sat, eyes staring at nothing, fists still clenched at his sides. A tear streamed down his cheek.
"My king!" Lyana said as Olasar walked by her. "How shall I serve you?"
Olasar paused and stared at her, and Lyana lost her breath. She saw such pain in Olasar's eyes, such grief and rage and terror, reflections of her own turmoil. Olasar's lips trembled only slightly, and his brow remained strong, his jaw squared.
"You will fly at my side, Lady Lyana," he said, voice soft. "We call the banners. We summon the Royal Army. And we fly south. We fly to war."
Lyana sucked in her breath. Not since the war thirty years ago had the Royal Army—five thousand warriors led by the king and his knights—flown to war.
Orin. My love. My eternal prince. Tears stung her eyes, but she bowed her head. She gritted her teeth, grief and rage like ice and fire crashing inside her.
"To war," she whispered.
They marched across the hall, boots echoing against the tiles. Around them between the columns, Lyana saw thousands of dragon wings and blasts of flame. When they reached the hall's end, the gatekeepers bowed and opened the doors, revealing Nova Vita. Deramon's guardsmen ran between the birches, shifted into dragons, and took flight.
King Olasar marched into the courtyard and shifted. His wings thudded, and he flew as a great black dragon, flames seeking the sky. Lyana was prepared to shift too, but paused and looked back over her shoulder.
Elethor sat upon the throne across the hall, staring at her. He looked so small in the empty palace, nearly lost in the grip of the twisting Oak Throne.
"Lyana," he said and stood up. In the empty hall, his voice echoed and flowed to her. "Lyana, I'm sorry. Be careful tonight."
For the first time, Lyana realized that by the law of Requiem, she was now betrothed to Elethor. His older brother is dead; he inherited the right of succession, and he inherited me.
Lyana nodded, silent, jaw clenched. She turned and left the palace, leaving him among the marble columns. The dragons of Olasar's army, five thousand warriors, were taking flight, following their king to the south. Already Lyana saw a fiery glow upon that horizon, sending red claws toward their home. She shifted, flew to join her king, and roared her flame.
A wall of fire rose ahead, shimmering with sound and heat.
OLASAR
A fire rose in the south. From the inferno flew the phoenixes, beasts woven of flame, large as dragons and cruel as wildfire. Thousands shrieked and beat blazing wings, showering sparks. Their cries seemed to shake the world.
"The sun herself has hatched," King Olasar whispered, "and given birth to countless birds of prey."
The enemy soared, lighting the night with fury. The clouds themselves seemed to burn, roiling and raining ash. The phoenix army swallowed the sky and stormed forward; they would reach him soon.
Olasar flapped his wings and blew fire. He roared, a dragon roar that could shatter men's ears. Behind him, his army answered his call. Five thousand dragons howled, a song of rage and fire.
He turned to face them, his wings churning the falling snow. They flew in phalanxes, each lead by a bellator with gilded horns, each a terror of a hundred dragons. Fifty knights and thousands of hardened warriors; they all roared in the night. Their jets of flame rose like pillars of a burning cathedral, blazing against their scales. Their fangs shone like whetted daggers.
"Dragons of Requiem!" King Olasar called to them. "Show the enemy no quarter. Defend our land. Destroy these beasts of unholy fire!"
Their cries shattered the night. The falling snow flurried and steamed around them. Olasar turned back toward the enemy, the countless phoenixes that had swallowed their southern lands, slain his son, and now flew toward Nova Vita itself. The firebirds screeched and burned with the fury of the sun.
"To war!" Olasar shouted and flew toward them.
"To war!" cried five thousand voices behind him.
Their wings thudded. Their flames roared. Thousands of dragons, warriors of Requiem, soared through wind and darkness. Their cries rose in the night—for war, for fire, and for glory. The smell of smoke and fear filled Olasar's nostrils, and he bared his fangs.
As my forefathers fought for Requiem, I will fight too. For the memory of my son. For the eternal light of our people. I will not let Requiem fall again.
The phoenixes flew toward them, a mile away, then a hundred yards. Their heat blazed. Olasar had never felt such heat; it stung his eyes and throat. The firebirds soared and swooped, their cries thudded in his ears… and then they were upon him.
Roaring, Olasar blew a jet of fire. It crackled, spun, and slammed into a phoenix. The great bird tossed back its head and screeched. The dragonfire only seemed to fuel the creature; it grew larger, and its talons lashed.
The claws slammed into Olasar, and he howled. The fire roared across his chest, raising welts. The heat consumed him, and all around, countless other phoenixes flew. He swung his claws, tearing into one. It was like clawing a campfire; there was no flesh to cut. The phoenix roared, a sound like an erupting volcano, and thrust its beak.
Fire blasted Olasar and raced across his scales. He reared and beat his wings, trying to scatter the phoenix flames; it only fanned the fire, making the bird larger, hotter, crueler. Its eyes crackled, white pools like smelters.
Olasar bared his teeth and soared higher. The phoenix chased him through the clouds. All around, he saw dragons battling more phoenixes. The flames and clouds roiled, and cries shook the sky.
"We cannot kill them, my lord!" cried a dragon to his left.
"The demons cannot be burned or cut!" shouted another dragon.
Everywhere he looked, Olasar saw dragons burning. Their wings flamed and they howled in the night. They fell around him. In death, Requiem's magic left them, and they took human forms. The bodies of men and women fell like comets.
"They must not reach Nova Vita!" Olasar shouted. Thousands of his people dwelled there—women, children, the elderly. He howled. "Dragons, hold them back!"
Five phoenixes soared toward him, a shower of flame. Their wings battered him. Their claws burned him. Their beaks of fire dug into his flesh. He roared, flapping his wings, beating them back. When he scattered their fire, they reformed. When he cut their bodies, the flames only burned his claws.
"We must retreat!" cried a slim blue dragon beside him. Her gilded horns shone in the firelight—a bellator's horns.
"Lyana!" Olasar cried to her. "Lyana, fly to Nova Vita! Get everyone into the tunnels and seal them! We will hold them back. Go underground!"
The young blue dragon howled. She blew flame at a swooping phoenix but could not stop its dive. It slammed into her, knocking her into a spin.
"I will not leave you, my king!" she cried, dodging the phoenix claws. "I will not leave my men!"
"Fly!" he cried to her. "Save those that you still can. Lead the city into the tunnels, Lyana! That is my command."
Three phoenixes crashed into him, and Olasar howled in pain. Welts rose across his belly. The scales covering his back blazed; he felt that they would soon melt. He could barely see; smoke and flame filled the night.
"Fly, Lyana!" he shouted.
He thought he glimpsed a flash of blue scales shooting into the distance. I must only hold the phoenixes back long enough, he thought. Long enough for Lyana to evacuate the city underground, to save herself and my living son. He gritted his teeth. I will hold them back.
"Dragons of Requiem!" he shouted into
the inferno. "Cut them with claws, scatter their flames, do not let them fly forward! Hold them back!"
The phoenix beaks bit. Their wings slammed into him like fountains of lava. All around he saw dragons blazing, shouting, and turning into men who burned and fell. The smoke filled Olasar's lungs. He could not breathe. Soon he could no longer see; he seemed to fly inside the sun.
Will Requiem fall again? Will it fall like in the days of King Benedictus, when the griffins toppled our halls?
A great howl rose before him, a sound of collapsing mountains, of primal rage, of shattering kingdoms.
The smoke parted. The flames rose in a wall. From the holocaust soared a phoenix, brighter than the others, slender and graceful. Its eyes were molten stars, blazing white. Its wings stretched out, red and orange, tapestries of inferno. It was the most beautiful creature Olasar had ever seen, a deity of punishment and brimstone.
The great firebird soared toward him. Its claws were shards of purest white, hotter than forge fire. They slammed into him, and the world burned, and white light flooded him.
Olasar the First, King of Requiem, fell from the sky.
He crashed through the clouds, tore through burning trees, and slammed into the snow. The shock and pain tore his magic from him. His wings pulled into his body, his claws and fangs retracted, and his scales vanished. He lay as a man, burnt and cut, dying. When he looked around him, he saw the bodies of slain soldiers; they too were only men now, their magic extinguished, their bodies seared red and black.
Olasar looked above him. The phoenix army covered the sky; he could see no end to them. They were flying north, heading to Nova Vita, the capital where forty-five thousand of his people still dwelled.
"Save them, Lyana," he whispered, feverish and trembling. Smoke rose from him. "Save our people."
The great, beautiful phoenix descended toward him, burning with the fire of the sun. So graceful, Olasar thought in a haze. So beautiful. How could something so beautiful be so cruel?
A Dawn of Dragonfire (Dragonlore, Book 1) Page 4