A Day of Dragon Blood (Dragonlore, Book 2)

by Daniel Arenson

  A DAY OF DRAGON BLOOD

  DRAGONLORE, BOOK TWO

  by

  Daniel Arenson

  Copyright © 2012 by Daniel Arenson

  All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

  SILAS

  Three dragons flew in the night, seeing demons in every shadow.

  The swamplands rolled below into darkness. Mist rose from the mangroves like ghosts, only to disperse in the flap of leathern wings. The clammy scents of moss, mud, and leaf filled the dragons' nostrils, mingling with the scent of fire that crackled inside their maws. No stars gleamed above; it was a night of cloud, of fear, of a quiet before the storm.

  "Where are you?" Silas whispered, scanning the darkness. His scales clanked and his scars still blazed. It had been a year since the war, a year since the Tirans had flown over these swamplands, killed his king, toppled his home, and left his body a ruin of burnt flesh and lacerations. A year—and still the scars burned, those that covered his body and those that clawed inside him.

  "My lord!" said Tanin, a young dragon who flew beside him. He was a mere boy, just turned sixteen, and green as his scales. "My lord, do you see something?"

  Silas grumbled. "I'm not a lord, Tanin. And lower your voice; it could carry for a mile on this wind."

  Farm boys, he thought and spat. They send me farm boys to lead in patrol. A year ago, Silas had served among a thousand true warriors, hardened dragons who fought for Requiem's glory. Nearly all had died in the war, burned in phoenix fire over the capital or cut with steel in its tunnels.

  Yet I linger. Thousands of warriors died around me, in glory and fury, and here I am... a scarred, twisted old thing serving with the children of farmers and bakers. He was barely thirty, but he felt old beside these youths—his soul like ancient leather, crumpled countless times, and his bones brittle as rusted blades.

  Wings churned the mist, and Yara flew up to him, her eyes bright. A slim silver dragon, a baker's daughter, she bared her fangs.

  "Silas!" she said, panting. "I saw something! A shadow in the night." She pointed her claws south.

  Icy fingers seemed to clutch Silas. He looked south but saw only leagues of shadows, swirling clouds, and mangroves that swayed over mud and water.

  Scales clattering with fear, Tanin snorted a blast of fire. "Where, Yara? Where?"

  Silas whipped his head around and hissed. "Silence, boy! Still your tongue and your fire."

  He turned his head back south. He narrowed his eyes, seeking, barely breathing. Gliding silently on the wind, he sniffed the air.

  Nothing, he thought. Nothing but leagues of these swamplands. No enemy. No—

  Beside him, the two young dragons gasped. Silas cursed and filled his maw with flames.

  Damn it.

  A dozen shadows swooped from the clouds, not a hundred yards away. Red eyes blazed and fangs glinted; Silas saw nothing more of the creatures but shadow. He growled, spat a curse, and blew a jet of fire.

  The flames spun and screamed, and for an instant Silas saw the beasts. His blood froze. They were large as dragons, their scales metallic, their wings wide, their jaws long and sharp as blades. Human riders sat astride them, faceless behind jagged helms. Then the fire crashed against the beasts, and their shrieks shattered the night. They screeched like smashing glass, like cracking bones, like storms. Their wings thudded and they crashed against him.

  Claws tore at his scales. Fangs drove into flesh. Silas growled and slashed at them, his claws screeching against scales as hard as iron. Sparks showered. He saw Yara and Tanin fighting beside him, and blood sprayed through the mist.

  "Yara, fall back!" Silas howled. "Send the signal!"

  One of the beasts swooped again, scales rippling and claws lashing. Silas spun, swung his tail, and hit a head of scales and spikes. Another beast flew at his right, a mere shadow in the night, and fangs dug into Silas's shoulder. Pain blazed and in a flash, Silas was back in the tunnels, back in the darkness under Nova Vita, fighting the war that had left his brothers dead and him this burnt shell of a man. Fire once more raced across him, burning as his city collapsed and all those he knew fell dead around him.

  He blasted more fire. It crashed into the creatures and showered, and Silas was back above the swamps, a year later, fighting to stop this war from flaring again. In the firelight, he saw Yara retreat. The young silver dragon puffed her chest, tossed her head back, and seemed ready to send the signal for aid—three upward blasts of fire.

  Before she could summon her flame, the shadowy beasts turned toward her, opened their maws, and spewed jets of pale liquid.

  Heat blazed and stench flared. Silas growled. The yellow projectiles slammed against Yara and she screamed—a sound of such agony that Silas knew it would forever haunt him. The liquid sizzled across the silver dragon, eating through her scales, melting her face, and digging into flesh. Her magic left her, the ancient magic of Requiem, the magic that let their people fly as dragons. She fell from the sky as a human, a young woman burning away into bones. She disappeared into darkness.

  "Oh stars, oh stars!" cried Tanin, and the green dragon turned to flee. He flew not fifty yards before the metallic creatures roared and spewed their acid. The sizzling streams crashed against the fleeing dragon, and Tanin howled and wept.

  "Please!" he cried, and his voice sounded so young, the voice of a mere boy. "I want to go home, please, I'm not a soldier, please..."

  He turned to look back, and his eyes met Silas's gaze. For an instant—a cold, terrible instant that lasted for ages—Silas stared into the eyes of a young, terrified boy who had believed in him... whom he had led to death. Then the acid dripped into those frightened eyes and melted them like flames melting candles. Tanin too became human and tumbled, burning into a red, bubbling chunk of meat that disappeared into shadow.

  Panting, Silas beat his wings and turned to face the creatures. In the darkness, he could barely see them—only the shape of their wings, the glint of their fangs, and the red of their eyes. They surrounded him, ten or more. The riders on their backs were mere shadows. Silas's heart pounded. He knew he had to send the signal, he had to blast his fire—three blasts into the air, a cry for aid—yet if he moved, they'd kill him. He had seen enough men die to know when his own death loomed.

  He tossed back his head and began to blow his fire.

  The creatures swarmed.

  A jet of acid flew. Silas soared and swerved. The blast slammed against his wing and he screamed. The heat blazed, enveloping him. Holes tore open in his wing; he heard wind rush through them. He flapped madly, trying to shake off the acid, but it stuck to him, eating, digging, tearing his wing apart until it fell like burnt paper shards.

  He began to tumble from the sky, beating one wing.

  The swamps rushed up toward him. Above him the beasts swooped.

  "Take him alive!" shouted a rider. "I want him alive!"

  The wind roared. Silas craned his neck as he fell and blew fire upward. The flaming pillar crashed against one swooping beast. It howled and pulled back. A dozen others dived down, great falling shards of black. Claws reached out and grabbed him, digging past scales into flesh.

  He crashed through mangroves into mud and moss. The beasts crashed atop him. Fangs dug into him, and chains swung and wrapped around
him. He glimpsed the riders leaping off their mounts, the glint of golden suns on their breastplates, and an iron club swinging toward his head.

  Light exploded and darkness fell like a cloak above him.

  Rain pattered.

  Wind howled.

  Stars swirled and Silas wandered through endless tunnels, seeking his dead brothers, seeking a way out.

  LYANA

  Lyana stood on the winehouse roof, watching the square below where thousands roared for death.

  It seemed every soul in Irys, this lush oasis city, had come to see the execution. Men, women, and children crowded the roofs of their mudbrick homes, peering between rooftop gardens of herbs, fruit, and vegetables. Soldiers, clad in pale breastplates and armed with spears, lined cobbled streets that snaked between palm groves, silos, vineyards, and workshops. Even the River Pallan, which coiled between the city's columned temples and villas, overflowed with ships—from the simple cogs of fishermen, to the great sailed ships of traders whose holds overflowed with spices, silks, and jewels from distant desert lands.

  Tiranor, Lyana thought, the sandy wind in her hair. Scourge of Requiem—gathered here in all her glory and might, as different from my home as sunlight from starlight. I stand in the lions' den.

  It was the Day of Sun's Glory, the pinnacle of the moon's cycle; tonight that moon would be black in the sky, and tomorrow the sun would rise victorious. The people wore white and gold to worship their fiery god, and the scent of myrrh wafted through the city, thick and heady in Lyana's nostrils. She had always loved the smell, but today it smelled like corpses to her. It was a day for all great things in Tiranor, this land of sand and stone—for war, for worship... and for death.

  The crowd's roars swelled when five wyverns emerged from the Temple of the Sun, a sandstone edifice whose columns and towers rose above the city, capped with platinum. The scaly beasts dragged themselves from the temple's bowels and onto the hot, sun-drenched streets. Even in the glare of Tiranor's blazing sun, their scales were midnight black, their eyes red pools like fire underground. Riders sat upon them, their helms shaped as cranes' beaks, their whips ringed with gold.

  Lyana grimaced and clenched her fists. The first time she had seen the wyverns, she had thought them some strange, southern dragons—they were large, scaled, and winged like the dragons of the north. But unlike dragons, they had but two legs—muscled and wide as their tails, with claws like great swords, twice the size of dragonclaws. Their jaws thrust out like blades, lined with teeth. Worst of all was the weapon that spewed from those jaws; Lyana had seen their acid burn only once, eating a condemned thief into bones, and it still filled her nightmares.

  Chains dragged behind the wyverns. When they stepped farther from the temple, the shackles tugged their captive out onto the street: a bloody, lacerated dragon.

  "Silas," Lyana whispered. Tears stung her eyes.

  The wyverns grunted and trundled down the streets, dragging the chained dragon behind them. Silas breathed raggedly. His one wing was missing, burnt to nothing but a charred bone. His scales were dented, his horns sawed off. As the wyverns dragged him along the road, his blood trailed behind him. All around the crowds roared, stamped their feet, and pelted Silas with refuse and stones.

  Lyana's legs shook, she panted, and her head spun.

  "Oh Silas," she whispered.

  She had fought alongside him in Nova Vita, battling the phoenixes over the city of dragons. He had served her father, the Lord Deramon; in her childhood, Silas often guarded her chamber at night and taught her swordplay during the day. She had to save him. She had to discard her disguise, shift into a dragon, swoop and grab him and fly with him to safety. She had to—

  You have to serve your kingdom, whispered a voice inside her. You have to stay at your post. You are a daughter of Requiem, and you serve all her people... even if you must let one die.

  It was the voice of her father, her king, and her ancestors—the voice of her honor and memory. It was a voice she hated this day.

  She adjusted the silk scarf around her eyes. The loomers of Confutatis, ancient city of the eastern realms, had woven this scarf, and they had imbued it with all their skill and magic. From one side, the cloth was translucent as summer mist; from the other, solid and thick as wool. Through the scarf, the world shone clear to Lyana; to any observer, the silk hid her green northern eyes. To this city she was but Tiana, the blind dancer of the River Spice. Her hair, once a pyre of fiery red curls, now hung smoothed and bleached a platinum blond—the hair of a Tiran. Her skin, once pale and strewn with freckles like starfields, now gleamed golden, rubbed with dyes that would tint her for moons. Once she had worn the armor of a bellator, a knight of Requiem; today she wore but strands of white silk that revealed more flesh than they hid.

  I was Lady Lyana, a defender of Requiem, a warrior who could shift into a dragon and roar to battle, save Silas, and burn my enemies. She squared her jaw, heart pounding. Now she must be only Tiana—only the blind dancer from the southern dunes, only a girl with a scarf over her eyes, a girl who could not even see this dance of blood before her. How I wish that I were truly blind today.

  The five wyverns moved along the Palisade of Kings, a wide cobbled road lined with palms and obelisks capped with platinum sunbursts. Blood trailed behind the dragging Silas, and the multitudes roared. Cranes and ibises flew overhead, and soldiers on horseback rode behind the dragon, bearing the banners of Phoebus—a flaming sun upon a white field. The procession made its way down the palisade, under the great Queen's Archway whose stones were carved with sunbursts, and into the Square of the Sun where thousands roared and raised their hands to the heavens. The true sun blazed overhead, drenching the city, a god of light and heat and punishment.

  Across the square lay the Palace of Phoebus, a towering edifice, greater even than the palace of Requiem where Lyana served her king. Its columns rose three hundred feet tall. Stone guardians, shaped as faceless warriors, flanked its great doors; each statue stood taller than three dragons. The wyverns began climbing the stairs to the palace gateway. Silas dragged behind them; the dragon thudded against each step, groaning, smoke leaving his nostrils.

  Blow fire, Silas! Lyana thought. Blow your flame and kill what bastards you can!

  Yet he was too weak; she saw that. He was barely strong enough to cling to his dragon form. She saw the marks of whips across him. They had tortured him, forcing him to remain a dragon, though surely it took every last drop of his strength.

  Lyana clenched her fists. Queen Solina wants the mobs to see him as a broken, bloody beast, not a man.

  The doors to the palace, wrought of gold and ivory, swung open. As if summoned by Lyana's thoughts, Queen Solina stepped out of shadows, stood above the stairs, and raised her arms.

  The city bowed before her, a great wave of myriads. Jaw so tight her teeth ached, Lyana forced herself to bow too.

  "Blessed be the Sun God!" cried Solina. She wore steel so pale it was nearly white. A golden sun glimmered upon her breastplate, and twin sabres hung from her belt. Her platinum hair swayed behind her like a banner, and a crown of jagged, golden spikes rose upon her head like claws.

  You murdered my king, Lyana thought, a sandstorm of rage flaring within her. You murdered my betrothed. One day I will kill you, Solina.

  "Rise, children of the sun!" Solina cried, arms raised. Across the oasis city of Irys, the people rose and cried her name. "A beast we found lurking along our borders. A demon of scale and claw!"

  Upon the roofs and streets, the crowd roared. Lyana looked upon the people through the silk of her scarf. She had never seen such rage, such pure, storming hatred. It suffused the faces of the men and women of Tiranor, twisting them into cruel masks. It gushed from their throats in raw howls.

  We are but demons to them, Lyana thought. We, the children of Requiem, are a noble and ancient race—a nation that lives for music, for meditation, for peace. And we are nothing but monsters here.

  "The dragons burned yo
ur fathers and mothers!" Solina cried. "Thirty years ago, when they invaded our glorious land of sunlight, they toppled our towers and drank the blood of children." Her voice nearly drowned under the roaring crowd. "But we've rebuilt! Our palace stands anew and our people are strong!" She tossed back her head and howled her words to the sun. "We will never fall!"

  The roars swelled so loudly that Lyana felt them thud in her ears, pound in her chest, and shake the River Spice Winehouse below her feet.

  "We will never fall!" cried the people. "We will never fall! Hail the Sun God!"

  Lyana lowered her eyes. The first Tiran War had raged before her birth. Solina herself had been only a babe. Its wounds had long washed away from this city; all the fallen buildings stood again, and once more trees filled this oasis with life.

  "And yet the hatred we sowed then still blooms," Lyana whispered. "And it still burns our sons and daughters."

  The wyverns flapped their wings and tugged the chained dragon to his feet. Soldiers climbed the towering statues that flanked the palace doors, attaching chains to hooks. Soon Silas hung shackled between the stone guardians, a bloody dragon with one wing, displayed in all his wretchedness to the city. Solina stood before him, her boots red with his blood.

  "The dragons bring drought to our land!" the queen cried. "They drink the waters that should overflow the River Pallan! The dragons eat our grain, leaving our poor to hunger! The dragons mock our lord, the Sun God who gives us life, and worship the night!" With her every word, the crowd roared, and Solina spun toward the chained Silas. "Now Requiem will learn the price of its evil. Blessed be the Sun God! His fire shall extinguish all darkness. Soon we will burn all dragons and cast out their evil with light. We will never fall!"

  Fly now! cried a voice in Lyana's head. Toss off this silk scarf, discard your disguise, and fly as a dragon to save him. You are a knight of Requiem, no blind Tiran dancer!