"Good," Sila said. He raised his voice to a shout. "Next line—faster!"
The five shooters, their arquebuses still smoking, marched behind the formation and formed a new line. There they began to reload their guns. As they worked, the next line of men stepped forward. They pulled their triggers. Five more arquebuses fired, roaring across the island, loud as cannons. More holes tore through the wicker dragon.
Sila nodded in approval. For a long time, he had insisted his men drill with empty guns. Iron and gunpowder were rare upon these islands. But yesterday two dragons had flown here, speaking of three thousand more.
"Today we drill with live fire," he said softly.
After each line of gunmen fired, they stepped behind the formation to reload. It was a slow, tedious process. Damn too slow. Sila watched, grumbling.
First the men pulled gunpowder from pouches and refilled their barrels. New rounds—balls of iron the size of marbles—followed, pushed down with ramrods. Some rounds were the wrong size; they had to be wrapped in leaves to snugly fit. Once the barrels were loaded, the men filled the guns' flashpans with more gunpowder. These small, iron receptacles stuck out from the guns like ears; when ignited, they would deliver a spark into the barrel, lighting the main charge. Once barrel and flashpan were ready, the men strung fuses through their matchlocks like tailors stringing thread through a needle. When finally ready to fire, they'd light their fuses, pulling the triggers to bring matchlocks to flashpans.
"It's still too damn slow to reload," Sila said and spat. The whole process took a full minute, even for the fastest fingers.
By the time the first five arquebusers had reloaded, their comrades had all fired their guns. This formation—ten lines of gunners, the front line firing while the others reloaded—meant Sila could maintain gunfire throughout a battle without pause. But it also meant that, at any given moment, most of his men were reloading rather than fighting.
"Grandpapa will find a way to make the guns faster," Miya said.
Sila grumbled. "Your grandfather is a dangerous man. He nearly blew himself up—and half this island—with his inventions."
"And he invented these guns you now use!" she said. "And he invented the scope, which you're always looking through. And he invented the canals to bring water from the spring to our camp. And—"
"Yes, yes, I know all about his inventions," Sila said. "Half the time they work. Half the time they nearly sink the island. We should send him back to his rock."
Miya stamped her feet. "No! You cannot send him back. He's your father. When you're that old, would you like me to banish you to deserted rock?"
"I don't blast huts apart when trying to invent an ice-making machine."
He sighed. He didn't know how he—a burly, laconic captain—had been born to a scrawny, wild-eyed inventor like Bantis. Sometimes Sila wondered if the man had simply swapped his true babe with another, too consumed with a new invention to notice.
"Keep drilling!" he called out to his men. "I want you to double your speed. When the dragons fly here, it will save your life."
They nodded and Sila kept walking, crossing the grassy plateau toward a hill thick with mint bushes, brambles, and trees. These men drilled to slay dragons, but today Sila had two dragons he needed very much alive.
When he reached the hill, he turned to Miya.
"Stay here," he said. "I'll speak to them alone."
Her eyes flashed and she raised her fists. "I will go with—"
"You will do as I say," Sila said. He sighed and softened his voice. "Miya, you are young and fiery and proud. You grew up in peace, in sunlight, wild among the trees and upon the beach. I gave you a good life here. Or at least, I tried to."
She lowered her head, then looked up again, stood on tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. "You did."
"I gave you a life most of our people never knew. They burned, Miya. I watched them burn. I watched the Vir Requis burn them and laugh. I saw flesh peeling from bones, and I saw the proud palaces and temples of Tiranor fall. I saw women and children swimming after my ships, begging for room I did not have. I will speak to these shapeshifters now. I will ask them why they did this to us. I won't hurt them, but I will demand answers. Stay here, Miya. Stay in this valley in sunlight, grass and trees and water around you. I will step back into the fire."
Tears gleamed in her eyes, and she nodded. He left her there and turned toward the hill.
He began to climb. A natural path led up the hillside, carved by eighteen years of footsteps. Alongside the pebbly trail, mint bushes, olive trees, and brambles bustled with birds and mice. Ant hives and groundhog holes rose from wild grass. Boulders of chalk and granite speckled the hillside like white clouds upon a green sky.
A twisting carob tree crowned the hill, the tallest tree upon Maiden Island. Its branches spread out like a crown, thick with dark leaves. Its roots rose from a carpet of fallen fruit. Wooden strands wove together into its bole, forming a grandfatherly face, complete with two burrows for eyes. Sila often thought of the tree as the island's grandfather, an ancient sentinel watching over him. Sila was not a religious man—back in Tiranor, he had spent little time worshiping the Sun God, the lord of the desert—yet he often thought this tree holy.
You've watched over us for eighteen years, Old Carob, he thought, climbing the trail toward the tree. Today you watch our greatest enemy.
Climbing the hill, he could see the island spread all around. The hills rolled down, thick with brush, to golden shores. The sea spread into every horizon, azure under the clear sky.
Maiden Island, he thought and clenched his jaw. A new haven. I will not let it burn too.
He took the last few steps toward the hilltop, approached Old Carob, and stared at the two prisoners tied to the trunk.
"Vir Requis," he said, hand on the pommel on his saber.
They stood in human forms now. The ropes binding them to the tree would keep them humans. It had taken a hundred men to cudgel the dragons, knocking their magic out of them. Bruised and bound, the two hardly looked threatening now, but Sila had seen their dragon forms: one dragon large and silver, missing a horn, the other slim and green.
Demons.
The silver dragon now stood as a man, his dark hair streaked with white, his leathery face thick with stubble. He stood tall and wide; his shoulders bulged under his tattered tunic. Sila was among the tallest, strongest men on this island, and this man seemed his match. He seemed on the wrong side of forty—about the same age as Sila—but his eyes seemed older, haunted with ghosts. Those eyes glared now, steaming with rage, but Sila had stared into the eyes of enough enemies to recognize old pain.
Two men of an age, Sila thought. Two warriors with dark eyes. What secrets do your eyes keep?
He turned to look at the second Vir Requis. This one was as different from the man as fire from ice. She was a young woman, perhaps twenty years old. Her hair cascaded in waves the color of dark honey, and her hazel eyes blazed with fury. She hadn't the skin for the southern sun, and her nose and cheeks had begun to peel, and her lips were dry and cracked, but she still exuded a northern beauty. Her sharp features and golden mane gave her feline look, a tied lioness who couldn't wait to rip out his throat.
"Two Vir Requis sweep onto our shore," Sila said, flexing his fingers around his hilt. "Two dragons are captured. What should we do with them?" He turned back toward the beefy, haggard man. "You. You have the bearings of a soldier. How did you find us?"
The man's eyes simmered like smelters. When he spoke, his voice was raspy like a man being strangled, a mere death gasp.
"I thought all Tirans were dead. How did you get here?"
Sila raised his eyebrows and thrust out his bottom lip. "Asking questions, are we? My friend, where I come from, the man with the sword asks the questions. The man beaten and tied answers. So tell me. We have hidden here for years. How did you find us, and how many will follow you?"
The man spat, nearly h
itting Sila's boot. "You hide here from Frey Cadigus. So do we."
Sila blew out his breath and shook his head. "Of course you would claim that. Yet how can I believe you? You perhaps convinced my daughter, but she is young and naive. I've seen too many of your kind. I know your evil, weredragon."
For the first time, the young woman spoke up, straining against her ropes.
"You will not call him that word!" she said and bared her teeth. "You will not use that... slur. He is Vir Requis. He is the son of a noble, proud race fallen into darkness, and he fights to restore its light. You speak to Lord Valien Eleison, leader of the Resistance. For twenty years, he's been fighting Frey Cadigus, the man you fled. Show him respect."
Sila turned back toward her. "So quick to change flags, are we? I know you lie. I know you scout these islands for Frey Cadigus, your lord. Are Frey's soldiers so cowardly that a few bruises and a rope make them turncoats?"
She fixed him with a steady, haunted stare. "Yes, I am a turncoat. I turned against Frey Cadigus. But not because of your bruises or your ropes. I rebelled against him three years ago, and I've been fighting him since. I hid from him in mud and ruin. I flew through fire and rain to charge against his lines. I crawled through darkness, and I killed, and I watched my comrades die. And I still fight him. Until my last breath." Her eyes bored into him. "Frey destroyed Tiranor and he destroyed Requiem too. He burned your land; he cloaked ours in darkness. I hate him more than fire hates the rain."
For a moment Sila could say nothing, only stare into the woman's eyes. He had commanded merchant ships through storms. He had commanded ships in battle. He had led men from fire into light. He could read eyes like other men read books, and he could spot a lie like a hound spotting a hare. There was no deception in this woman's eyes. She either spoke truth, or Vir Requis could tell lies like the greatest actors.
He turned back toward the haggard man, this Valien Eleison. "How many do you lead? My father spoke of seeing hundreds of you upon your island. Why are you there? Do you plan an attack against us?"
"We plan an attack against Requiem," Valien growled, and again Sila was taken aback by the sound. The man's voice was little more than a hiss like leather dragged over stone. "We lost a battle upon Requiem's southern coast. We fled to these isles to regroup. We will fight again. You are not our enemy, Tiran. We share an enemy. I lead three thousand fighters, all sworn to slay the emperor. Free me... and join us."
Sila barked a laugh. "Even if I did believe you were a rebel Vir Requis, now you truly speak madness. We are no army here, Valien Eleison. We fled war. We built a new life here. We are people of peace now."
"Is that why I hear gunfire?" Valien grumbled. "Is that why your men carry hand cannons and grapples? Those are tools for slaying dragons."
"Aye." Sila nodded. "For slaying dragons who would attack our shores."
"And yet you did not slay me and Kaelyn. You hear me speak and doubt seeps through you. Deep inside, you believe me, Sila of Tiranor. Because I am like you, and you see it."
It was Sila's turn to growl. His fist clenched around his hilt, and he drew a foot of steel.
"We are nothing alike, weredragon," he said, and his voice shook. "I know your kind. I saw thousands of you swoop and burn my home. I saw—"
"You saw the soldiers of Frey Cadigus," Valien interrupted. "You saw dragons in armor, their helms displaying the red spiral. You saw men march in black steel, the sigil of Frey upon their breasts. You did not see me. You did not see the Resistance. And yes, Sila of Tiranor, we are alike. We both lead men. We both carry the scars of war; I see them in your eyes." His mouth twisted into a mockery of a grin. "And we both hate Frey Cadigus. The question is, Sila... will you hate him in hiding, or will you fight with me?"
Sila found that his fist trembled. Sweat trickled down his back. Damn it. Damn it!
He took a step closer, muscles tense and heart pounding. He stood only a foot apart from Valien and stared into his eyes, seeking deceit and finding none.
"Frey cannot be defeated," he said. "All of Tiranor fought him. Three million of my people perished in his flame. You lead a few thousand warriors. Among my people, only two thousand are strong enough to fight. We cannot defeat him."
Valien's twisted grin—a wolf's grin—only widened.
"A few thousand dragons... bearing two thousand gunmen on their backs. The world has never seen such an army. We cannot fight him? Oh... I think we can."
Sila stared at him a moment longer, silent and still.
Then he drew his sword, thrust it forward, and sliced Valien's ropes.
"Come with me to my camp," he said.
As they walked down the hillside, Sila's throat tightened and he could not stop his heart from thrashing. When he looked toward the sea, he saw the waters turn red again, and he saw the refugees begging and scratching at his hull.
I fled war, he thought, fists clenched. Curse the Sun God. Now it returns to me not with fire, but with a whisper and a hope.
When they reached his daughter, and she stared at him with earnest eyes, Sila decided that he believed Valien's story... and that frightened him more than a hundred enemy dragons.
LERESY
He spent all night in the hole, digging with his shovel, collecting soil thick with gems, and sifting with a canteen he'd punched full of holes. Erry had given up only an hour after sundown, then gone to sleep upon the beach, but Leresy would not sleep. This was too important.
"Here is my salvation," he whispered as dawn crept through the cave entrance. "Here is my father's death."
He had fashioned his shirt into a sack. Inside glowed thousands of red crystal shards. Each one was no larger than his smallest fingernail, and inside them glowed swirling red liquid like lava.
He straightened, and his back creaked after so many hours hunched over. He lifted the sack of shards, tossed it across his shoulder, and climbed outside the hole into daylight.
Genesis Isle sloped down around him, littered with the barrels, tools, and weapons Bantis had built. Below upon the sand, Erry lay sleeping, her cheek on her hands.
"Wake you, you lazy dog's bottom!" Leresy called out and began walking downhill. "I damn well broke my back while you were dreaming of unicorns."
She sat up, moaned, and rubbed her eyes. "Bloody bollocks, Ler. I wasn't dreaming of no damn unicorns. I was dreaming that you actually had some muscles on you." She stared at his bare torso and grinned. "A good night of shoveling didn't help that dream come true."
He stomped down to the beach, kicked sand onto her, and placed down the shards as she cursed.
"I dug them all up," he said. "What do you reckon they are?"
She spat out sand. "Ladybug shite."
"Be serious." He growled and lifted a shard; it was the size of an apple seed. "These aren't natural gems. They're polished. It looks like... like pieces from a smashed stained-glass window, but there's some liquid inside. They almost look like drops of blood." He blew out his breath. "Bantis said they're a great weapon. How do you kill with them?"
Erry chewed her lip. "Well, we can tell Frey they're candies and maybe he'll choke. Or we can call him over, then spill the shards onto the floor, so he trips and breaks his neck. Or wait—I know! We can wait until he's very frail and old, and then pelt him to death with them—death by a thousand tiny jabs." She nodded thoughtfully, lower lip thrust out. "Quite a weapon. Definitely more powerful than dragonfire."
Leresy waited and sighed. "Are you done?"
"Or maybe we can—"
"You're done!" he said. "Be quiet. Burn me, I preferred you sleeping. Let's take these shards and find Bantis. He'll know what to make of this."
He cracked his neck and summoned his magic, preparing to shift.
He cleared his throat.
He twisted his toes.
"Or maybe we can make him a necklace so pretty, he'll abandon his wars and become a bar singer named Freyina," Erry said brightly, ignoring him.
/> Leresy grumbled.
What the Abyss is wrong?
He strained again, tugging at his magic, but no wings sprouted from his back. No scales grew across his body. He remained standing in the sand, a human.
I'm just tired, he thought. He had been digging all night, and was just too weary to fly.
"Or maybe we can—"
"Shut up, Erry!" he said. "I'm trying to focus here."
He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and searched deep inside him for the old magic of Requiem, the magic that flowed from the old gods, that let his people become dragons. He felt the flickers inside him, mere whispers. He tried to grab them, but it was like trying to catch the memory of a fading dream; it slipped from his consciousness like smoke between fingers.
He opened his eyes, kicked sand, and shouted.
"Stars damn it! What the Abyss?" He looked at Erry. "I can't do it. It won't work."
She snickered, reached over, and patted his privates. "So it's finally happened."
He grabbed his wrist, tugged her hand away, and snarled. "Don't you worry about that. That is fine. I can't... oh bloody stars, I can't shift into a dragon."
She frowned and tilted her head. "What are you on about?"
"You heard me." He spat into the sand. "I can't shift."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's the damn shards."
He looked at the sack of them. They were glowing behind the cloth. And Leresy understood. He clutched his head, leaned over, and laughed.
"Oh maggoty dog vomit," he said, borrowing one of Erry's cusses, and laughed again. He looked up at Erry and grinned. "Erry! He's a genius. Bloody stars, the man is a genius."
"What are you talking about?" she demanded again, glaring. "Stop laughing like an idiot. If you can't fly home, I'm flying without you."
She raised her chin and stretched out.
Nothing happened.
She growled, strained, and hopped about.
She remained a human.
"Having trouble?" Leresy asked.
She roared and glared at him, barely five feet tall but looking fierce as a demon.
A Memory of Fire (The Dragon War, Book 3) Page 5