A Dawn of Dragonfire - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,75

fort. They should have sent my mother; she's a healer, and could have healed the pain inside of Mori. But they sent me… Bayrin. A lowly guard. A jokester. A fool. Why should they fight and die, while I flee over wild country?

He ground his teeth. He had to believe. He had to find this Moondisk, if it truly existed, or die seeking it. He would not be a coward, hiding beyond map and measure as his kingdom fell.

"We will return, Requiem," he whispered into the wind. "Fight. Stay alive. We will bring aid."

Mori looked at him, wings churning the clouds, smoke seeping from her nostrils. He could see the same thought in her eyes.

They glided over mountain and forest. In the afternoon, they spotted goats upon a mountain and swooped to hunt. They flew again with bellies full, soaring over an icy lake, a frozen waterfall, and cliffs bristly with pines. At night they slept as dragons, curled up in the snow, coiled together for warmth. At dawn they flew again, frost on their scales, blowing fire to warm them.

For three days they flew—over ancient forests, plains of snow, and mountains that rose around them as jagged walls. On the fourth morning, the sun cold in an iron sky, they saw Terius Sea ahead.

It stretched beyond Bayrin's sight, curving to span the horizon. Lines of foam ran across it. The water was deep iron, stained cobalt where hidden valleys plunged. Jagged boulders rose from the depths like the hands of drowning gods. Bayrin had once flown east to Altus Mare, a port city in the kingdom of Osanna. There the waters had been green and bright, but here they spread like oil, dark and foreboding. He hovered before the sea, wings flapping.

"I'm scared," Mori said, flying beside him. There was no wind, and he could hear her words clearly, even above the thud of their wings.

He gestured with his head toward the rocky beach, snorted a blast of fire, and spiraled down. Soon he felt the spray of crashing waves. He filled his wings with air, reached out his claws, and landed, smoke rising from between his teeth. Mori landed beside him, claws nearly silent against the rocks, and folded her wings. The sea grumbled before them, spraying them with salt.

"Mori," he said, "you used to love books of maps. How far is the Crescent Isle from this shore?"

She stared into the sea. "Hundreds of leagues," she said. "A distance as wide as Requiem. But… those maps are very old, and the Crescent Isle appears only in ancient myths. I don't know what the true distance is." Her claws dug into pebbles. "Maybe the island doesn't exist at all."

Bayrin shot a jet of flame over the waves. Was this a fool's errand? They could perhaps navigate by the stars—he knew some of the skill—but how far could they possibly fly at once? Fifty leagues? A hundred? Soon or later, they would need rest. What if they found no island; were they doomed to drown?

Despite his earlier vows of heroism, he was tempted to turn around, find a quiet forest, and spend the rest of his days there with Mori. They could live forever here in the hinterlands, far from any phoenix or war. They would hunt goats, and sleep in their cloaks, and Mori would kick him at night, and he would smooth her hair, and kiss her cheek, and never have to feel like a failure again, the lowly son of a great father.

So don't act like a lowly son, whispered a voice in his head. All your life, you've watched men praise your father, worship your mother, admire your sister for her courage and knighthood. So you would mock them, and run off with Elethor to alehouses, and forget the world. But now Requiem needs you—not the great Lord Deramon, or the beloved priestess Adia, or the brave knight Lyana, but you… Bayrin. Now is your time to be the hero.

Bayrin didn't know who spoke to him. Was it a part of his own mind? The stars of Requiem? Was it the voice of Elethor, his best friend and now his king?

"Bay, are you all right?" Mori asked. She touched him with her snout, her breath warm against his scales.

He shrugged his wings. "I could use a ship. And a night's rest in a soft bed. And some tavern wenches with big eyes and bigger mugs of ale. But otherwise I'm fine. Are you ready for the