A Dawn of Dragonfire - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,23

Elethor whispered. "Lyana?"

Bayrin stared, squinting. With a grunt, the young guard took flight from the wall, wings thudding. His tail snaked behind him, and his green scales turned red in the firelight. With a curse and icy fear twisting his gut, Elethor flew too. The wind tasted like smoke, too hot for winter. The two dragons, brass and green, flew toward their distant comrade. The farms of Requiem rolled beneath them: fields of wheat and barley, rows of apple trees, pastures of sheep and cattle. Fifty thousand Vir Requis lived off this land; in his mind, Elethor already saw it burning.

They reached the blue dragon two leagues from the walls of Nova Vita. It was Lyana, and she was hurt.

"Sister!" Bayrin cried and circled around her.

Blood splashed Lyana's scales. A burn mark ran across her belly and leg. Her eyes, large emerald orbs, were haunted.

"Bayrin," she whispered, voice trembling. Her wings shook. "Elethor. Help me to the city. Quick! The phoenixes. They're coming. Faster!"

Elethor stared into the southern horizon. From here, he could see the flames rising, thrashing the sky and racing across the land. When he squinted, he thought that the fire took the form of great eagles, dragon-sized, their wings like fountains of sunfire. The fire crackled and he could hear their shrieks.

"Where are the others?" Elethor demanded. "Where is my father, his five thousand dragons?" Horror pounded through him, shaking his limbs. Were they all gone like his brother?

But Lyana was already flying back to the city.

"To Nova Vita!" she called. "Hurry!"

Elethor cursed and followed. Bayrin flew at his side.

As they flew, Elethor watched the city grow closer. Its walls rose, white and craggy, defending temples, homes, and workshops. Three hundred years since the Destruction when the tyrant Dies Irae had razed this land, Requiem's dragons were recovering. Trees grew where once fire and war had raged. Vir Requis sang and prayed where once skeletons had lain burnt. A million dragons had once flown here; Dies Irae had killed all but seven, but now myriads lived behind these walls, a renaissance for their race.

I will not let Requiem fall again, Elethor vowed.

When they landed on the walls, they shifted back into human forms. When their wings and scales vanished, they stood panting on the parapets. Lyana faltered, and Elethor caught her.

"Lyana!" he said. "What happened?"

Ash covered her face and darkened her hair. Her armor was singed and bloody. Pain filled her eyes, and something else… a haunting fear.

"They're coming," she whispered through pale lips. "The phoenixes. Great birds of flame." She clutched his shoulders. "We must get everyone into the tunnels. Everyone! And barricade the entrances. They will be here soon."

Bayrin stared at her, slack-jawed. The gangly young man rubbed his eyes.

"Sister, who is coming? What are these phoenixes?"

She glared at him, five years his junior and nearly a foot shorter, but twice as commanding. "I'll explain later. Now fly over the city, both of you! Sound the alarm. Roar the call. I'll run between the houses. Go, you blockheads!"

With that, she ran down the wall's stairs, dashed across a street, and began pounding on house doors.

Elethor looked back south. He could see them clearly now—countless firebirds, huge eagles blazing with fury, flying their way. With a growl, he shifted back into a dragon and began circling over the city.

"People of Requiem!" he roared. The city streets and houses spun beneath him. "This is Elethor, son of King Olasar. On my command, leave your homes and head to the tunnels. Now! Everyone must enter the tunnels at once!"

Bayrin was flying too, wings churning the hot air, roars shattering the night. "Enemies at the gates! Into the tunnels! Into the tunnels!"

Below them, Lyana was banging on doors and helping people outside. Soon thousands crowded the streets, shouting and weeping.

Three entrances led to Nova Vita's tunnels. Originally a network of natural caves, the tunnels now held stairways, cobbled floors, archways, and bridges—masonry added over centuries. In those underground chambers, Requiem stored its winter food, its ancient books, its magical artifacts. They were secret places for kings, priests, and scholars. Today thousands raced toward them.

As Elethor flew, sounding the alarm, fear pounded through him. Nobody else was flying back from the inferno. Was Lyana the only survivor? Was his father… No. Elethor swallowed the thought. Do not panic, he told himself. Not now. Not until everyone is safe.

When he looked back south, he saw them closer. The phoenixes were only a league away. The farms outside the city kindled, and