A Day of Dragon Blood (Dragonlore, Book 2)

by Daniel Arenson

  He walked toward her and embraced her. She laid her head against his shoulder, and they stood holding each other, watching the water crash.

  He turned around.

  Below the hill, his army stood—three thousand dragons clad in armor, snorting fire and smoke. They covered the valley, scales chinking, the heat of their flames filling the air. Elethor stood above them, still in human form—no longer a skinny youth, but a bearded man in armor, a sword at his side, his face scarred with war.

  It's been eight years since that day, he thought. And even now he missed the touch of sunlight, the kiss of her lips, and her hair between his fingers.

  She was different then. I was not wrong to love her then.

  He lowered his head and closed his eyes. The guilt clawed inside him, clutching his innards. She had been his love—his life. It's me she wants. It's our war—hers and mine. He gritted his teeth. And thousands will die for us.

  He turned away from his army and looked south. Mountains spread into a horizon of dark clouds. Ralora Beach lay beyond the shadows; from there she would emerge.

  Is Lord Oldnale right? Do I lead us to destruction? Will Requiem burn for the love and hatred of me and her?

  Staring into the southern clouds and rain, he remembered Solina killing the children in the tunnels, burning the city, screaming that she would slaughter them all. He clenched his fists.

  No. Oldnale is wrong. Solina would destroy us—for the death of her parents, for her captivity, for her madness.

  He shifted into a dragon, flapped his wings, and rose into the sky. He roared a pillar of fire.

  "Dragons of Requiem!" he called. "We fly! We fly to war!"

  They howled behind him. Their wings beat like war drums. Their flames rose. The Royal Army of Requiem took flight. Elethor soared into skies of cloud and rain, and his army followed with howls and fountains of fire. As he dived through the storm, Elethor remembered swimming after Solina as the water pounded him, chasing her, seeking her through mist and spray. He had caught her and kissed her that day; now he would meet her again... and kill her with steel, flame, and blood.

  SOLINA

  She stood upon the Tower of Akartum, the tallest spire of her palace, and caressed the chains embedded into the limestone.

  "Soon you will hang here, Elethor," she whispered. She imagined caressing his face like she caressed the chains, kissing him, and leaving him to wither in the sun. "Soon you will scream here upon the city your father burned."

  At her feet, five vultures cawed in an iron cage. They bit at the bars, screeched for food, and clawed the air. She had been starving them, tossing them enough raw meat to keep them alive but always hungry, always vicious. She cooed to them.

  "Soon, my darlings. Soon, when he hangs here, you will feed upon his flesh."

  The smiled softly, imagining it. How he would writhe! How he would beg! When the vultures tore into his flesh, he would weep for forgiveness. When the vultures tore out his eyes, he wouldn't even be able to do that. But he would scream.

  "Oh yes, you will scream, Elethor." Solina licked her lips. "The entire city will hear it."

  She swept her arms around her, spreading her light across Irys. The city rustled around her, the palms and figs swaying, the cranes and ibises singing, the River Pallan flowing like a string of silver. The sandstone temple rose before her, kissed in sunlight. The villas of the wealthy lined the riversides, while behind them stretched thousands of brick homes, silos, and shops. Far north, the city melted into Hog Corner and finally to delta and sea.

  "I will fly across this sea for you, Elethor," she whispered. "And I will bring you home."

  The vultures bit at their cage, screeching for blood.

  Smiling softly, Solina turned south and faced the desert. Upon the dunes stood her army. Twenty thousand wyverns screeched and clawed the sand, a host such as the world had never seen, twice the size and might of the phoenix army she had led last year. Men and women sat upon them, clad in steel, their shields like twenty thousand suns, their spears like rising sunrays. Solina raised her arms and cried to them.

  "You will slay dragons!" she shouted, and her riders raised their spears and howled. The wyverns tossed back their heads, jaws rising like blades, and roared. The city shook with their cry. It was a cry of war, of death, of light and victory and her eternal glory. It was a cry that thudded in her chest, blazed with light across her eyes, and filled her mouth with the taste of blood.

  "You will topple the lizard courts, avenge your fallen brothers, and bring the Reptile King in chains to die in sunfire!"

  Their howl swept over her like wind from the desert, like the breath of her lord. She whistled, a sound like a bird of prey, and her wyvern took flight from the courtyard below. The beast's wings thudded, bending palm trees and sending sand flying across the palace. His scales, square plates like armor, clanked and glimmered. His eyes blazed red, his black teeth snapped, and smoke rose from his nostrils. Baal, the king of wyverns—a forge of acid, a deity of wrath and muscle and bloodlust.

  When he reached the tower's battlements, Solina climbed into his saddle. She grabbed the shield and spear that hung there and raised them—sun and sunray. She dug her heels into Baal, and the wyvern's wings beat like a storm into sails. The beast soared, wind streamed Solina's hair, and she snarled.

  "To war!" she cried and raised her spear higher. The tip glinted, a beacon of fire.

  "To war!" howled twenty thousand riders behind her, and wyverns screeched, and wings thundered. The city streamed beneath her, trees bending and leaves flying under the blast of leathern wings. When she looked behind her, she saw her army following, a sunlit host, a light upon the desert, a fire to burn out the darkness of dragons.

  "To Requiem!" she shouted.

  "To Requiem!" rose the cry behind her.

  They streamed over delta and sea. To war. To Requiem. And to Elethor.

  "We will meet again, my love, my life," she whispered, remembering those days long ago when she would love him in darkness. Soon no more darkness would hide him. Soon he would hang upon her tower, and her lord's light would strip him bare, and his bones would be her toys.

  The wrath of Tiranor flew, and Solina smiled.

  LYANA

  Pain burned across her like scarabs ripping flesh from bone. Every flap of the wyvern's wings shots bolts of fire through her. She sat in the saddle, chains clutching her in an iron embrace. All around her, the army of wyverns flew, a storm of scales rising and falling. Wind gusted, rain fell, and the wyverns soared. Lyana winced, her stomach rising and falling like a dead jellyfish on a storming sea. She felt a stitch on her back open and blood trickle to her tailbone. She closed her eyes and let out a soft moan.

  "Silence," said Mahrdor. He sat in the saddle behind her, his arms reaching around her as he held the reins. "Make another sound, and I'll cut off your hand and gag you with it."

  She fell silent. They had stitched the raw, bloody lashes across her body, but not before rubbing ilbane into them. The poison still burned, spreading through her. Every jostle in the saddle felt like whips beating her anew. She opened her eyes once more, saw the wyverns rise and fall in the rain, and swallowed to stop from gagging.

  Oh Elethor, she thought and her eyes stung. I failed you.

  He was waiting at Ralora Beach, she knew—hundreds of leagues away. Because of her... because of her. She grimaced and cursed herself, the anguish a claw inside her. She had fallen into Mahrdor's trap so easily. She had doomed her people to death—sweet Princess Mori, her dearest friend; her family, whom she loved more than life; Elethor, her betrothed and king. I doomed them all.

  A gust of wind blew rain across them. The wyvern bucked and howled, and Lyana dug her fingernails into her palms. She felt another stitch open, and she trembled with the pain. What I must look like now... Her face felt swollen; she could barely see through her puffy eyes. Her torso bore a network of long, raw welts still oozing blood between the stitches. The chains dug into her, working
their way through her skin. Her scalp still felt raw and bare. If her family saw her now, would they even recognize her, or see only a bloodied, beaten wretch?

  A thunderbolt crashed and the wyverns screeched. A few spewed acid into distant forests below; where the foul liquid landed, the trees crumbled. Lyana looked around her, trying to place her location. She could see almost nothing through the storm: trees below, the shadow of mountains ahead, a river to her west. They had crossed the Tiran Sea yesterday, but Lyana did not know this land.

  This is not Requiem, she thought. She had flown over Requiem countless times, traversing it north to south, east to west. She knew every mountain, river, and forest in Aeternom's Kingdom. She breathed out sharply through her nose.

  Of course.

  She shook her head. How had she not guessed it? Solina's army would not invade Requiem's southern border; a thousand dragons patrolled it, from Gilnor's swamps in the west to Ralora Beach in the east.

  "We're flying over Osanna," she whispered as thunder rolled.

  Osanna. Ancient realm of men. Empire of steel and stone. Its soldiers rode horses, unable to become dragons like Requiem's children; they could not stop an army of wyverns. Osanna's border stretched across the east of Requiem, from the snowy mountains of northern Fidelium and down hundreds of leagues to the southern sea. Not with every dragon alive could Requiem patrol that great wilderness of forest, mountain, and plain.

  Lyana gritted her teeth. She had to escape. She had to warn Elethor. Images of the Phoenix War swam before her: burning people in the streets, children torn in two, severed limbs littering the underground. I can't let my city burn again.

  The fear and anger pounded through her, overpowering her pain. She looked down at the irons binding her: they wrapped around her torso and clasped her wrists behind her back. Her armor and sword were as parts of her; they could shift into a dragon with her. But these manacles were foreign constraints. If she shifted now, they would dig through her enlarged body, shoving her back into human form.

  Her mind worked feverishly. Mahrdor would have the keys. She knew such men; he wanted to control her, to own her, to have power over her enslavement and freedom. Even if he intended to never unlock her, he would keep the keys on him. Part of owning someone is having the power to free them... and refusing to.

  She would kill him, she swore. Even if they flew at full speed, it would take several days to reach Nova Vita; she would kill him before that time. She would kill him tonight, or next night, or while they rode this wyvern, or outside the very walls of Nova Vita, but she would kill him. She would not let him reach her city. She would not let him bring death and blood to her people.

  He will pin me down tonight, she thought. He will shove himself inside me as I lie chained, as he proves his dominion. And I will bite out his throat. She snarled into the rain. She could not grow dragon fangs while chained, but her teeth could still shed blood.

  They flew for hours. They flew through wind and lightning, over forest and glen, over forts and snaking walls where men scurried like ants. They passed out of the storm into a red sunset, and the wyverns screeched, a sound like cracking mountains, like dying worlds. Thousands of the creatures howled in the red light, flies bustling in a puddle of blood. Solina rode at their lead, all in gold, her banner raised. The queen began to descend toward a field of rocks and wild grass, and the others followed. Air shrieked around Lyana, her head spun, and her stomach lurched. She had flown for countless hours as a dragon; flying in human form was new, and she gritted her teeth to stay conscious.

  The ground rushed up to meet them. The wyverns filled their wings with air and landed, claws kicking up earth and grass. They tossed back their heads and shrieked to the sky, and the world seemed to shake. Mahrdor landed atop a hill, and when his wyvern bucked, Lyana fell back against the general. Her back blazed, an inferno of agony. His breath filled her ear, scented of wine and the honeyed scarabs he ate.

  "Tonight you will dance for me again," he whispered.

  His wyvern lowered its wing, forming a ramp to the ground. Mahrdor dismounted, grabbed Lyana, and pulled her to the field. She stood chained beside him, watching the army set camp, and tried to judge their location. Bayrin had said that, flying as hard as he could—pushing himself to the very limits of his strength—he could travel from Irys to Nova Vita in five days. If these wyverns flew as hard, they were in south Osanna now, somewhere west of Altus Mare port, but still south of the great city of Confutatis. The plains rolled for leagues around her, fading into mist and the shadows of jagged mountains.

  Soldiers bustled about, their steel red in the sunset. As darkness fell, they lit torches and fires. Commanders marched around the camp, shouting orders as lower ranks unpacked supplies from their wyverns. Tents began to rise, squat and tan for the common soldiers, tall and embroidered for the officers. Around the campfires, the troops began to eat their battle rations: flat breads dipped in palm oil, dried fish, tangy cheeses, and dried figs and dates. Where the officers camped, cooks prepared more lavish meals: water fowl brought live in cages, slaughtered fresh, and roasted upon coals; platters of pomegranates, olives, and small hard apples; and soft breads cooked upon iron disks. Wine and beer flowed through the camp, and as darkness fell, soldiers sang of the conquest to come. The wyverns fed from sacks of rotten meat bustling with flies, and they too shrieked as if singing for war.

  At the far side of the camp, upon a boulder the size of a house, stood a tall shadow—a woman holding a banner, her hair flowing in the night.

  Solina. Queen of Tiranor.

  Lyana gritted her teeth, staring at the queen over the army of man and beast. Was Solina staring back at her from the darkness? Lyana thought of how Solina had seduced Elethor in his youth, kissed him, made love to him in Nova Vita. The rage simmered inside her. This desert tyrant had tainted Lyana's betrothed, burned her home, and killed so many of her people.

  I will kill you too, Solina, she thought, fists clenched behind her back. I will kill you and Mahrdor. I vow it. I vow it by the stars of my people. She raised her eyes, seeking those stars, but clouds covered the night. First night from Tiranor. How many more nights are we from my home?

  Armor creaked and Mahrdor placed a hand on her shoulder. His fingers closed around it, too tight, driving pain through a welt that rose there. He gazed upon the camp with her. His face was blank, the face of a golden statue. Lyana stared at his belt where hung a ring of keys.

  Those keys are for my shackles, she knew. And he wants me to see them. He wants me to know his power over me.

  "You will dine with me tonight," he said. "Come, my tent is ready for us."

  He gestured at a lavish tent, as large as a commoner's house, which rose upon a knoll. Its black canvas walls were emblazoned with golden suns. Gilded Guardians surrounded the tent, bearing spears and shields. Despite her fear and wounds, Lyana found that her belly grumbled. She could not remember when last she had eaten.

  Clutching her shoulder, Mahrdor led her into the tent. Inside, his men had set an oak table, a bed topped with embroidered blankets, and iron candelabra holding a score of candles. A meal steamed upon the table—a honeyed roast duck on a bed of sliced limes, a platter of flat breads dipped in oil, stewed greens topped with sliced garlic and almonds, and a bowl of miniature oranges from the southern city of Iysa. A golden jug of wine stood by two jeweled cups. Two chairs stood at the table, their olivewood engraved with scenes of ibises flying over rushes.

  "Sit," he told her, led her to a chair, and shoved her into it. "Eat."

  He sat across the table from her, took a knife, and began to carve the duck. The skin cracked when he cut into it, and the meat's scent filled Lyana's nostrils. Despite herself, her mouth watered. She sat, wounds blazing, wrists bound behind her back. When he placed morsels on her plate, she leaned forward and ate. The meat was fatty and tender, the bread still steaming and dripping olive oil, and the stewed greens so soft they almost melted on her tongue. When he poured wine into her mug
, she grabbed the rim with her teeth and drank; it was strong, dry wine that spun her head.

  For a long while, they ate silently. Mahrdor watched her during the meal, eating little himself; he merely nibbled the odd morsel. His eyes never left her, but Lyana didn't care. She was famished and she ate whatever he gave her. She would need her strength to kill him. She would need her strength to flee this place.

  Finally, when the duck lay as barren bones, Mahrdor sighed.

  "It is a pity," he said. He reached across the table and caressed her raw scalp. "You had such beautiful hair. Dyed a Tiran platinum, I presume? Do I detect red stubble growing?"

  She swallowed a bite of bread, glared at him, and said nothing.

  He sighed. "Lyana, you misjudge me. That is your name, is it not? Lyana Eleison, a lady of Requiem's court?" He sipped his wine. "I care not that you are a weredragon. I knew you to be one the very first night I saw you. Did I hurt you then?" He shook his head. "I am not Solina. I wish not to torture you, nor beat you, nor parade you through the streets as the commoners pelt you with their trash. I did not give you your wounds; the queen did that. I did not place these manacles around you; she did."

  She growled at him. "You caged me."

  He raised his eyebrows. "Caged you? Yes, that I did. I caged you in a gilded work of art, its bars shaped as dragons—a home for a rare bird, for a beloved pet. Manacles of iron? Crude things. They do not befit one so fair."

  "Then remove them from me."

  "And see my rare bird fly away? No, I dare not. Not here in this camp." He picked an olive from a dish, placed it in his cheek, and sucked it. "I do not crave war, Lyana; it is a barbarous thing. I do not crave blood, nor the torture of my enemies; those are things for brutes, for lesser men. I am—"

  "A collector, yes. So you have said."

  He laughed—a cold, brief sound. "I do repeat myself, don't I? A fault I should remedy. But yes, Lyana, I am a collector of fine things. The map you saw in my chamber was set there to trap you; my other prizes are true trophies. Oh, I could make some trophy from you too; a shrunken head, perhaps, or a chair from your bones and skin. I would enjoy carving you into a piece of art, but I think you, Lyana, are a greater prize when living. I will modify you; a few changes here and there with knife and hammer. But aside from those, I will keep you as you are—a rare bird, a pet for a golden cage. Surely that is a better fate than what Solina can offer you; she would offer you only the dungeon, the lash, and the poison." He caressed her cheek. "I will protect you from her, Lyana, and you will be mine. A true weredragon noblewoman—the crown of my collection."