Dragons Lost

by Daniel Arenson

  "Fidelity." Cade waved his hand and cleared his throat. "Another sheet?"

  "All out." She pushed her spectacles up her nose and tugged her braid. "No more."

  He frowned and tilted his head. "What do you mean no more? You said we had enough paper to print a hundred books. We haven't even printed fifty."

  She placed her hands on her hips. "Well, somebody keeps making mistakes, spilling ink, spilling out letters, and ruining sheet after sheet. So now we're out, and you better find more."

  Cade rolled his eyes. "Well, somebody has been spending most of her time climbing trees to watch for firedrakes, as I've been working away here. If you had helped, maybe we'd have—"

  "Cade!" She took a step toward him. "Hush. Let's return to the paper mill." She opened her pouch. "We have enough money . . . I think. If we haggle. And if I tug my tunic low enough." She sighed. "You might have to show some leg yourself, Cade."

  "Yes, and then we can steal the paper as they flee in horror." He tugged up his belt. "Let's go."

  They walked through the forest, daring not fly as dragons, not with the sun still in the sky, not with firedrakes still patrolling. Even now as they walked, they saw two of the beasts glide above. Cade and Fidelity had to crouch, hide in a bush, and wait for the enemy to fly off before walking again.

  It took all morning before they emerged from the forest. In the distance, across grassy plains, rose the city of Oldnale. Its walls were pale, and behind them rose the domes of many huts. Several monasteries sent up their spires, and from them fluttered the banners of the Cured Temple. A river crossed the city, flowing out through an archway. Outside the city walls, along the riverbank, rose the paper mill.

  It was a large building, constructed of wood, its roofs tiled. Its many chimneys belched out smoke, and even from the distance, Cade heard the clank of machinery and smelled fire, oil, and metal. It was the only building noisy and smelly enough to be banished outside the city, which suited Cade fine; within the city walls lurked priests and paladins, and he preferred some clanging machinery and foul smoke any day.

  Cade and Fidelity walked across the fields, heading toward the mill. An old man and his wife, both nearly deaf, owned the place, employing twenty workers. Most of their business was supplying paper to print holy books, flyers for the Temple's announcements, and sometimes sheets for the nobles to write or draw on. Cade and Fidelity paid double the usual price—for the paper and for no questions asked.

  When they reached the mill, they saw Old Hilda outside in the yard. Cade waved toward the grandmother, the owner of the workshop.

  "Oi, Hilda!" he said.

  The plump woman stared at him, nodded curtly, and retreated into the mill.

  Cade bit his lip. "She's in a mood." He hurried his step. "Let's grab the paper and get back. I—"

  "Cade, wait." Fidelity held his arm, stopping him.

  He froze and frowned. "What is it?"

  "I don't know." Fidelity tugged her braid. "It's . . . Hilda was a bit odd."

  "She's always a bit odd. I saw her kissing her pet frog once. Mental, that one."

  "Odd but usually happy. Something's wrong."

  Cade's heart gave a twist. "Paladins in the paper mill?"

  Fidelity rocked on the balls of her feet. "They know we're printing books. They've been trying to find us. They'd go wait in every paper mill in the empire, knowing we'd have to show up and buy more." She looked at him. "We should turn back."

  "Turn back? Fi, we already bought a printing press. We're not buying a whole damn paper mill to hide away in the forest. How are we going to print our books now—on very big leaves?"

  "I don't know," she said. "Maybe printing these books has become too dangerous. Maybe we need to spread our word differently—with songs for poets to sing in every tavern in the Commonwealth, or maybe with spoken stories told at hearths and bedsides." She glanced at the paper mill again and sighed. "At least let's find a peasant. We'll pay him to buy paper for us."

  "And if the paladins are in there, who's to say they won't follow our paper mule? The fewer people who know about our operation, the safer we are. I'll go check the mill." He hefted up his belt. "Wait for me here. I'll be back soon. And if I'm not, don't follow me!" He looked at her, suddenly somber. "If something happens to me there, I want you to run. To hide. To keep going. All right?"

  "You're scaring me, Cade."

  He forced himself to smile, though he himself was scared. It felt like he had dodged capture too many times, and his innards shook. He patted her hand. "I'll see you soon, Fidelity."

  He left her standing in the grass. He walked onward toward the mill. When he turned back, he saw her standing in place. The wind rustled the grass around her, and she watched him, not turning away, still as a statue. This was the first time in months, Cade realized, that he would be apart from her.

  He walked onward toward the paper mill. A great wooden wheel spun in the stream, tall as a man, turning gears hidden inside the factory. Cade could hear those gears clanking as machines of wood, rope, and metal pounded wood pulp into paper. Chimneys blasted out smoke, and the smell filled Cade's nostrils.

  He knocked on the door. "Hilda, you in there?"

  When he peered through the window, he saw the mill operating as usual inside: gears churned, wheels turned, and beams of wood moved up and down like birds dipping to drink. Soggy wood pulp filled stone troughs. Workers were busy handling the machinery, pounding out sheets of paper and hanging them to dry.

  He saw no paladins. No soldiers.

  With a deep breath, Cade opened the door and stepped into the mill.

  "Hilda!" He spotted the old woman standing by a towering wooden wheel at the back. "Are you all right? I'm here to buy some paper for our local monastery. We're looking to write more prayer scrolls." It was an old excuse he knew nobody believed.

  Hilda looked up at him, and a tear trailed down her cheek. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

  Cade froze.

  He sucked in breath and took a step back toward the door.

  The door slammed shut behind him, and Cade spun around to see two soldiers standing there, armed with crossbows.

  When he spun back toward Hilda, he saw Lady Mercy emerge from behind the wheel. She wore her white plate armor, and she too held a loaded crossbow.

  "Don't shift." The paladin smiled thinly. "Don't resist. This doesn't have to hurt."

  Cade snarled and summoned his magic.

  He began to shift. Scales clattered across him. His wings burst out from his back, slamming against the machinery. Claws sprouted from his fingers and toes, digging into the floor, and he sucked in air, prepared to blow dragonfire.

  Mercy fired her crossbow.

  The bolt slammed into Cade's chest, cracking through his thickening scales, and he bellowed. Two jabs of searing, impossible pain slammed into his back—quarrels from the crossbows behind him—and Cade pitched forward. The pain drove through him, twisting, tugging at his muscles, squeezing his ribs.

  The bolts are covered in ilbane, he realized.

  Desperately clinging to his magic, he tried to reach toward Mercy, to lash his claws while he still had them.

  Smiling thinly, Mercy loaded and fired her crossbow again. The bolt slammed into Cade's neck.

  White, burning, all-consuming pain filled him, driving down his throat, into his belly, through his skull.

  He was barely aware of losing his magic. He slammed onto the floor, a boy again, his muscles too stiff to move.

  "Chain him!" said Mercy.

  More soldiers emerged from behind the machinery, bearing chains. As they tugged Cade's limbs, he cried out in pain; his muscles felt like splintering wood. He couldn't move, could barely breathe. The poison coursed through him. The soldiers slammed the manacles around his wrists and ankles, then slung chains around his torso.

  Smiling thinly, Mercy stepped toward him.

  "It hurts, doesn't it, sweet boy?" She knelt and stroked his sweaty brow. "The poison burns. The p
ure ilbane that burns all weredragons. You thought you could escape me, didn't you? I'm taking you to see your sister now, Cade. I've adopted Eliana as my daughter. She will watch as I hang you from the tallest spire of the Temple and the crows eat your flesh."

  Cade managed to stare at her, and through a clenched jaw, he hissed, "And you will burn when Requiem rises."

  Mercy straightened and drove her fist forward.

  Pain exploded across Cade's head.

  He saw no more.

  FIDELITY

  Two firedrakes burst into flight from behind the paper mill. Ten more rose from the city walls a hundred yards farther north, blasting streams of fire.

  Fidelity stood in the field, staring with wide eyes.

  "Cade," she whispered.

  Her fingers trembled. Her breath quickened. Her heart beat against her ribs as if trying to escape her body. The firedrakes rose higher, screeching, blasting out flame. Paladins rode on their backs, angelic figures all in white. Mercy herself rode one—a beefy copper beast—her banner streaming in the wind. And in the copper firedrake's claws Fidelity saw him: Cade, chained, beaten, bleeding, unconscious if not dead.

  "Cade . . ."

  Fidelity summoned her magic and began to shift.

  No! a voice cried in her head. No, Fidelity, you cannot!

  She released her magic and stood panting. The dozen firedrakes rose higher, then turned to fly west—toward the capital—taking Cade with them.

  Fidelity's knees shook. She wanted to scream. She wanted to chase them. Yet she had promised him! She had promised to stay behind if he fell, to keep printing the books, to keep fighting for Requiem. If she chased him, she too would be captured or killed. Yet how could she just stand here, just let them take him?

  She was panting now. Cold sweat drenched her, and her eyes stung. She could barely breathe. She had to calm herself. She had to think. Think!

  She sucked in breath.

  The firedrakes were flying farther away, Cade in their grip.

  Think, Fidelity.

  If she charged recklessly into battle now, a single dragon against a dozen firedrakes and riders, she would die. She knew that. She could only become a small dragon, smaller than these firedrakes; she could hope to perhaps best one of the beasts in battle, maybe two, not a full dozen.

  Yet if she simply remained here, doing nothing, Cade would die. Perhaps he was dead already; that would be a blessing, she knew. If Cade still lived, Fidelity knew what his fate would be. She had been fighting for Requiem long enough to know. A couple of years ago, the Cured Temple had captured another Vir Requis, a man Fidelity had never even met. But she had heard the tales of his fate. The Cured Temple had the man whipped in the Square of the Spirit before a crowd of thousands, then proceeded to cut off his manhood, and finally had him drawn and quartered, letting mules rip off his limbs. The remains were hung upon the walls of Nova Vita, a piece at each gate, a warning to any who chose not to purify their babes.

  I can't just stay here as that happens to Cade, Fidelity thought, tears in her eyes. Yet if I chase him, if they catch me, the same will happen to me.

  As she hesitated, the firedrakes were moving farther away, becoming but specks on the horizon. Fidelity fell to her knees, struggling for each breath.

  "I will not abandon you, Cade," she whispered. She raised her chin and squared her jaw. "I will not abandon you to torture and death. I promise you. I promise."

  She knew what to do. She would seek Julian and Roen. She would have to convince them to finally leave Old Hollow, to finally join her fight.

  "And then we will come for you, Cade," she said, staring as the firedrakes vanished across the horizon. "We will come to the city of Nova Vita, and we will stand before the Cured Temple as they bring you out to death." Fidelity clenched her fists. "And then the Temple will see three dragons of Requiem, blowing fire and flying in all their glory."

  She turned around. She shifted. She rose as a blue dragon and flew south—to the forest, to Old Hollow, to the only two who could help her.

  DOMI

  She stood at the window, wrapped in a sheet, as the firedrakes flew into the city with Cade in their claws.

  Domi knew it was him. Even standing here, far from them, she knew. Cold sweat trickled down her back, and her knees trembled. A dozen firedrakes were flying outside above the city, crying to the sky, and upon them rode paladins in splendor, their white armor filigreed and jeweled. Mercy herself rode there, and her firedrake clutched him. Cade was bruised, chained, his face bloody, but even from this distance Domi recognized him.

  "Cade," she whispered, her breath quickening. "Oh stars, Cade."

  A voice rose behind her, slurred with sleep. "Domi . . . Domi, sweetness, close the curtains. Come back to bed."

  The firedrakes glided down outside, moving away from her view. They would be heading to their dungeon, leaving Cade to the mercy of the torturers. Domi's eyes stung.

  Oh stars, it has to be him. He didn't listen to me. He tried to fight and they caught him. She trembled. What do I do?

  "Domi?"

  She spun around, her breath shaky. Gemini lay in his bed—their bed now—eyes opened to slits. He reached an arm out toward her, but it thumped down a second later, and he closed his eyes.

  "Come to bed, Domi," he mumbled. "Let's cuddle."

  She spun back toward the window. The firedrakes were gone.

  "I have to save him," she whispered. Her eyes stung. She remembered the day she had met Cade, how he had stood over the graves of his parents, how she had embraced him, whispered "Requiem" into his ear. She could not let him die here. Could not let one of the last Vir Requis perish before a crowd screaming for blood.

  Domi forced herself to take a deep, shuddering breath and walked toward the bed. She leaned over Gemini and kissed his lips.

  "Sleep, my sweetness," she whispered. She grabbed a pillow and placed it within his arms; he embraced it as if holding her. "Sleep well."

  His breathing deepened. Domi raised her chin, swallowed the lump in her throat, and grabbed her white livery. She slipped on the garment, then sneaked out of the bedchamber.

  She tiptoed through the Temple. It was still early morning, but already hundreds of people were bustling about. Two paladins raced down a hall, their armor clanking. Priests knelt in a chamber, praying to a marble statue of Druid Auberon, the ancient founder of the Cured. Servants rushed from here to there, some bearing plates of breakfast for their lords, others hurrying back and forth with laundry, dishes, and chamber pots to wash. Five soldiers in chainmail—Domi had never seen lowborn soldiers inside the Temple—ran by her. All across the Temple, she heard more footsteps, muffled conversations, and prayer. Whenever she passed by a window, Domi saw more signs of activity: hundreds of firedrakes perched upon roofs or patrolled the skies, and thousands of soldiers gathered along the streets and in the Square of the Spirit.

  Soon the bells of victory will clang, Domi thought as she rushed down a staircase. Soon the news will spread across Nova Vita that Cade Baker, a weredragon, is here.

  She shuddered. Two years ago, Domi had lived here in this city, a wild firedrake, when the last Vir Requis had been captured. She had stood outside the Temple, gazing over the square with her dragon eyes, as the priests had tortured the man. The sight of blood and gore, the screams, the stench of death, and the cheering of the crowd still filled Domi's nightmares.

  I cannot let this happen to Cade. Her eyes stung. The guilt of watching one Vir Requis die still hung across her shoulders; she would not add to it.

  "I'm going to save you, Cade," she whispered.

  Where would they take him?

  Of course, she thought.

  To the Temple dungeon! She had heard Gemini speak of it during his nightmares, pleading in his sleep, desperate to escape. The paladins would take Cade there first, she surmised. They wouldn't execute him right away, not until they spread the word, until they gathered a crowd.

  I have time. I must simply fi
nd the dungeon. I can still save him.

  A soldier raced down the corridor, clanking in his chainmail. Domi came to stand before him, blocking his passage.

  "Wait!" she said.

  The man halted, cursing, and wiped sweat off his brow. "Out of my way, girl."

  Domi allowed her lip to quiver, and she breathed deeply, chest heaving. "I . . . I was told to hasten to the dungeon! I . . . I'm new here, and I don't know where that is, and I'm scared." She let a tear trail down her cheek; with everything happening, it wasn't difficult to conjure.

  The soldier grunted. "Bloody Abyss! Walk down the hall, take two lefts, and down the stairs—four stories down, and keep to the south wing. And get out of people's way! There's something up." He leaned closer to her. "A weredragon's captured, I hear. Maybe several. Every soldier in the city is summoned to duty."

  He ran on, leaving her in the corridor. Domi squared her shoulders and hurried on her way, following his instructions. She got lost twice, had to backtrack, but eventually found herself moving under ground level. There were no windows here, and lanterns hung on the walls, lighting her way. Here too activity bustled. Guards raced back and forth. A paladin marched down a corridor, barking orders to several men-at-arms. A priest hurried forth, and a healer rushed by Domi, carrying bloody rags.

  Cade's blood, Domi thought, belly twisting. It chilled her, but she hoped it was a good sign. Perhaps fresh blood meant that Cade was still alive, that they were bandaging his wounds, healing him so he could be tortured to death later. Domi just had to make sure she rescued him before "later."

  She sucked in air and squared her jaw. There was only one way she could save Cade now.

  I'll have to become the dragon. I'll have to blow my fire. I'll have to burn every last guard, grab the damn boy, and fly.

  She stepped down another staircase, entering a dingy corridor. The floor here was not tiled, and the roofs were but craggy stone. The burrow seemed to have been carved into the living rock. Screams echoed ahead, and Domi smelled blood and human waste. Another priest rushed by her, holding a bloodstained book wrapped in leather. Domi had a chance to read the spine: "The Book of Requiem"