A Dawn of Dragonfire - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,81
Here in the narrow depths, they will fall."
No, Deramon thought. We cannot defeat them, even here. Not with so few men. Not against the wrath and fire of these southern demons. They needed aid; Deramon knew that. They needed his children back.
Boots thumped behind him, running up from the deeper tunnels, and a man called out, "Lord Deramon!"
He turned to see Silas, a young soldier who had once guarded the eastern wing of Olasar's palace. Today half his face was burnt and bandaged, but he still carried a sword and shield. His eyes were wide and blood splashed his dented armor.
"What is it, Silas?" said Deramon. "Speak."
The young soldier reached him and bowed his head. "My lord Deramon, men are fighting at the silo. One stabbed another. Others are trying to grab the sacks of grain."
Deramon began marching at once, fists clenched. Silas followed. What guards lined the walls stood at attention, chins raised, hands grasping swords and spears.
Children of Requiem squabbling over grain like hens, Deramon thought in disgust. I will have them flayed. His anger bubbled in him. His king had fallen. The new Boy King had plunged into darkness. He, Deramon Eleison, was caretaker of Requiem now, an ancient and proud kingdom. He would not let it descend into madness on his watch.
He marched down sloping, twisting tunnels like the veins of a stone giant. Soon he reached the lower silos. The main pantries were higher up, in the chambers Solina had claimed; there Requiem stored its dried fruit, vegetables, smoked meats, salted fish, barley, and sacks of golden grain. Here in the depths was only what grain the upper chambers could not hold—a meager supply that Deramon doubted could feed the survivors for a moon. Ten guards stood at the silo's gateway, holding back a crowd of men who were trying to push through. One man lay dead in the corner, a knife in his heart.
"My daughter is starving to death!" a man was shouting, shoving a guard. "Starving! She has not eaten in three days. She is only four years old. How could you stand here like this, letting us die?"
Another man began shoving a second guard. "There is grain behind you! You are a man of Requiem, or do you serve the Tirans? Let us through."
The guards were scowling and shoving the men back. "The grain is rationed. Your children are not starving; they received grain like everyone else."
The first man had tears on his cheeks. "What grain? She hasn't eaten in three days! Where are these rations? Not all received them." He grabbed the guard's spear and tried to wrench it free. "I will hand out the grain."
His guards bowed their heads. The men who'd tried to break through cried of hunger, of famished children, of youths eating double rations, leaving others to starve. Deramon listened and scowled. He was a fighter; he knew how to kill an enemy with steel, claw, and dragonfire. Hunger was a foe he had never known, and it might be the foe that slew them here.
How long before this grain is gone? How long until we turn to eating one another? Two moons? One?
"Silas," he said to his guard, "organize another round of rations—one cup of grain per person. Take what men you need to make sure everyone eats. If you see anyone eating double rations, depriving another of food, I want them clamped in irons and brought before me."
Silas bowed. "Yes, my lord."
Sacks of grain were opened and gourds being filled when shouts rose from the tunnels behind. Steel clanged and cries echoed. A soldier came racing from around the corner, face red.
"My lord Deramon! Tirans are breaking through the barricade. They have a battering ram."
Deramon cursed, drew his sword, and ran. His soldiers ran with him. He raced up the tunnels, heart hammering.
Maybe it won't be hunger that kills us after all, he thought. He rounded a corner and beheld the barricade collapsing, sending boulders tumbling and dust flying. Through the wreckage, he glimpsed a battering ram slam into the rocks. Tiran troops stood around it, blades drawn and eyes full of bloodlust.
It is a blessing, Deramon thought and snarled. We'll die of steel and fire. We'll go down fighting after all.
A dozen Tiran troops broke through the wreckage, leaped over the boulders, and ran toward him. Deramon howled, swung his sword, and leaped into battle.
MORI
Her pain had faded into a daze. Her wings blazed with agony; she knew