A Day of Dragon Blood - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,1

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