A Dawn of Dragonfire - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,20

in the heat of fire.

Two men lay dead, sabres still crackling.

Phira, the Tiran woman, snarled. She stepped over the bodies and raised her blades. Fire wreathed her, glittering upon the rings piercing her lips. The suns tattooed onto her head seemed to burn with real fire, but her eyes were cold, chips of ice. There was no humanity in them, only hunger and cruel amusement.

"Very good, girl," she said and licked those pierced lips. "Not bad for a weredragon. But now you will taste true steel."

Phira thrust her spear.

Her arms ached, but Lyana parried. The blades clanged. Phira's sabre swung next, and Lyana barely checked the blow.

Phira was strong, stronger than Lyana had expected. She cried in pain. Her sword nearly flew from her arm, and her bone felt like it could snap. The sabre swung. Lyana parried with her dagger. Phira's spear sliced her hip, and she cried.

"Do you like the taste of my steel?" Phira asked, smirking. She thrust her blades again. Lyana parried, grunting in pain. Sweat dripped into her eyes. The spear sliced a lock of her hair, and the Tiran laughed.

"Yes, groan for me, weredragon," she said and spat. "That's how I like to hear reptiles die."

Lyana screamed and thrust her sword. Phira parried, caught her wrist, and bent her hand back. Fight her! Lyana cried to herself. You are a knight of Requiem!

Phira clutched her right wrist, twisting, her strength almost unreal. Lyana felt like her bones could shatter. As her fingers uncurled and her sword fell, she thrust her dagger. She aimed for Phira's neck, but the Tiran moved aside, and Lyana's dagger scraped across her pauldron. Sparks flew. Phira laughed and punched, slamming her fist into Lyana's face.

Light blazed. Blood filled her mouth. Lyana fell, hit the ground, and tried to rise. Phira kicked her chest, knocking her onto her back. Her boot stepped onto Lyana's left wrist, and she yanked her dagger free. Stars floated before Lyana's eyes.

Up! Up, daughter of Requiem! She growled and tried to rise, but the boot crushed her hand. Phira's second boot pressed down on her neck. Lyana couldn't breathe, couldn't even scream. She groped for her weapons, but couldn't reach them.

Phira smirked above her. "You must be that Lyana the Weredragon Prince spoke of," she said. "The troops speak of this Prince Orin. When my queen tortured him, he cried your name. Lyana, Lyana! All the while as Queen Solina's blade cut him, he shouted for you." Phira laughed. "He cried like a girl, they say, and squealed like a pig when my queen finally ran him through."

No. No, stars, it can't be. Tears blurred Lyana's eyes. She wanted to see him again, to hold her Orin, kiss him, heal him. But he's dead now, dead like the king, like so many upon the battlefield.

The smirk never leaving her face, Phira knelt. Her knee drove into Lyana. She gasped in pain, and Phira's hand clutched her throat. Lyana struggled, and Phira backhanded her, rattling her jaw. She spat blood and coughed, gasping for breath.

"We shall see," the Tiran said, "if I can make you squeal and beg for death too."

She kept one hand on Lyana's throat. Her second hand drew a serrated knife from her belt. Despite the heat that still lingered, her hand was icy. Lyana kicked the air, trying to hurt her, trying to break free. She could not. She could see only stars, the Tiran's snarl, her cold eyes. Her knife ran down Lyana's cheek, drawing blood.

"Filthy weredragon," Phira said in disgust. "Will you beg for death too before I pull you entrails from your body?"

Lyana clenched her fists. She was a bellator, a knight of Requiem. I will not die today.

With a howl, she grabbed Phira's wrist, twisted, and shoved the knife up.

The blade slammed into the Tiran's neck. Blood gushed, showering onto Lyana's face. Screaming, she twisted the blade.

For an instant, Phira stared in shock, eyes wide, spittle on her lips. Then she screamed, a gurgling sound. Lyana shoved the woman off, rose to her feet, and lifted her fallen sword.

Phira convulsed on the ground, knife still buried in her neck. Fear flooded her eyes. Lyana looked down at her, dripping sword in hand. With her other hand, she wiped the blood off her face.

"Will you beg for death?" she whispered.

Phira stared up at her, eyes blazing.

I didn't think so.

Lyana drove her sword down, blood splashed, and it was over.

She turned, ran out the cave, and stood upon the snowy