A Day of Dragon Blood by Daniel Arenson

His eyes stung and worry gnawed his bones.
    Stars, Lyana. Be careful. Return to us soon.
    The River Pallan flowed into a delta, thick with reeds. The lights of the city faded behind him. Flowing toward the sea, he summoned his magic.
    Dark wings rose, spilling water. A shadow soared. A dragon flew in the night, flying north, flying home.

 
 
ELETHOR

    He stood above the twin graves, head lowered, despair clutching at his throat.
    "You fly now in our starlit halls," he said. His eyes stung. "Fly well, Yara and Tanin, warriors of Requiem."
    A wave of tears spread over the crowd. Weeping rose in swells. Thousands had come to the funerals—soldiers, farmers, tradesmen, the old and the young. They covered Lacrimosa Hill where years ago Requiem's great queen had fallen in battle. They wore white robes—Requiem's color of mourning—fastened with silver birch leafs, sigils of beauty and peace. The families of the slain lay upon the graves, clutching the tombstones and crying to the sky.
    Warriors? Elethor thought, looking at the families who wept—mothers gasping for breath, fathers sobbing, siblings barely old enough to fly. No, they were not warriors. Tanin was but a farmer's boy, Yara the daughter of a baker—youths I sent south to die.
    True warriors had once guarded Requiem, thousands of men and women trained to defend their realm. They lay now in thousands of other graves, their tombstones dotting the hill like stone flowers. Grass rustled here but no more trees; the holy birches of Requiem had burned in the war last year, charred boles falling like so many bodies.
    If she can, Solina will kill everyone who weeps here, Elethor thought. If I cannot stop her, we won't even lie in graves. Our bones will lie charred among our toppled halls.
    Mother Adia, High Priestess of Requiem, stood at his side. Cloaked in white, she was a tall woman, cold and handsome as a marble statue. She raised her arms and sang above the cries of the crowd.
    "As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home." She raised her head to the heavens. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."
    Across the hill, the children of Requiem repeated the prayer. Elethor looked above to that sky and saw dragons there, hundreds of them. Nearly all the old City Guard had fallen last year. Lord Deramon had raised a thousand more recruits—youths from across the land—and they now roared above, wings beating and breath steaming. The sight of them soothed Elethor. They were perhaps merely the children of farmers and tradesmen, youths who had never held a sword or shield, but their breath was still hot, their claws still sharp.
    When you invade us again, Solina, you will find us ready. You will find Requiem's roar still loud.
    The people dispersed slowly, holding one another and shedding tears. Most still bore scars from the phoenix fire. Many had lost limbs, eyes, faces. Many had lost parents, siblings, children. Yet even now they mourned two more fallen. Even now they craved life and wept for its loss. Solina had not taken their humanity; that soothed Elethor as much as the dragons above.
    Lord Deramon approached him, a white cloak of mourning draped across his chain mail and breastplate. His calloused hands clutched an axe and sword. The grizzled warrior, his flaming red beard streaked with white, bowed his head.
    "My king," he said, "let us fly together."
    Elethor nodded, summoned his magic, and shifted. He took flight as a brass dragon, flames trailing from his jaws. Deramon shifted too and flew beside him, coppery and clanking, a burly beast of a dragon. They left Lacrimosa Hill and headed toward Nova Vita, capital of Requiem, which rose white and pure from the charred forest.
    "How are the new recruits?" Elethor asked him, the wind nearly drowning his words. He glided on a current.
    Deramon snorted a