A Birthright of Blood (The Dragon War, Book 2) (27 page)

"I'm joining them," he
said, grinding his teeth.

Before he could reach the
staircase, Valien grabbed his arm.

"No, Rune," he said
and glared. Weariness filled his eyes, but fire too. "You do
not fly out as a dragon. You fight in the tunnels. We've discussed
this. They know the color of your scales; they would mob you on
sight."

Rune growled. "I want to
fight in the sky!" he said. "I will not watch my comrades
fly out while I cower here."

Valien tightened his grip.
"Cower, Rune? No. You fight the way I need you to fight—in
shadow. Striking from the dark. That is your task."

He looked out the arrowslits.
The imperial dragons were crashing against the resistors. Scales
flew like kicked seashells. Smoke and fire stormed across the sky.
As dragons died, their magic vanished. Human bodies tumbled to the
hillsides.

"We won't last much longer
here," Rune said. "They fight too well in the air."

Valien nodded, released him, and
returned to the table. "Which is why we must keep fighting
underground. Tunnel by tunnel. House by house."

Rune walked to the table too; he
had to lean against it for fear of falling. He sighed and wiped
sweat off his brow.

"They are too many,"
he said. "They've claimed too much. How much longer can we
hold out, Valien?"

He no longer asked: Can we win?
He knew the answer. They could not.

"As long as we can,"
Valien replied. "A few days. Less than a moon. We cannot hold
this city forever. But we can make them pay a heavy price here. We
can make them bleed."

Rune left the table. He walked
toward the back of the hall. He faced the second, smaller staircase.
This one plunged down into shadow, dug into the hill. It led to a
tunnel, yet not one that linked to the network.

"When do we take these
stairs?" he asked softly.

Armor creaking, Valien came to
stand beside him. The older man placed a hand on Rune's shoulder.

"I will not yet give the
order," he said. "We cannot be seen to flee so quickly,
not if we've already begun this fight."

Rune looked at him. Valien's
face was haggard and leathery beneath his beard. His eyes stared
grimly at the shadowy stairs. A struggle raged behind those eyes,
some old memory of pain. The man's calloused fists clenched at his
sides.

The
tunnel leads into the sea,
Rune thought, looking back at it. It led into the water where he'd
swim with Tilla. The water where ships had sailed. The water this
town had grown along, that had brought it life… that could now save
them.

He tried to imagine crawling
down this tunnel on his elbows until water roared, dark and salty and
stinging his wounds. He would swim—for how long? He'd have to hold
his breath for as long as he could, swimming south. He'd emerge from
the sea, breathe air, sink again and swim some more.

He would flee his home… and
Lynport would burn behind him.

The bodies would remain behind
him.

The memories, his childhood, and
Tilla… they would all remain behind.

He turned away and marched back
toward the table. Kaelyn and several other resistors were frowning
at the map, tracing tunnels and discussing troop movements. Rune
jabbed his finger against the parchment.

"We'll strike them here in
the butcher shop, the eastern gates, and the old smithy." He
looked up and met Kaelyn's gaze; she stared back, eyes haunted in her
sooty face. "Are you ready to fight some more, Kaelyn?"

She managed a trembling smile,
her teeth white against the mud and ash on her face. "Always."

They returned to the tunnels.

They fought on.

 
 
LERESY

He could not breathe.

The fear pounded through him.
His pulse beat in his ears like war drums. The air was cold in the
potter shop—he knew it was—yet sweat soaked his clothes. At his
side, Yorne, that gaunt bastard, was peering out the window's
shutters and saying something to Leresy, but he couldn't hear.

The
damn blood in my ears is too loud!
Leresy thought. He pawed at those ears, as if he could tear out the
sound, but his fingers trembled. His breath shook.

He looked around him. Twenty
other Lechers filled the brick shop. The shelves had fallen and the
pottery lay smashed. Their tunnel gaped open in the floor. Leresy
had a map of the network, and Yorne claimed to have memorized it
already. But it was all a mess to Leresy. It was all a confusion of
darkness and blood and everywhere his father's soldiers. How many
tunnels had he crawled through? How many men had he seen torn apart,
their blood splashing the city? He did not know.

I
made a mistake,
he thought, lips trembling.
I
should never have come here. Yet how can I flee without seeming the
coward?

Yorne turned toward him. The
gruff, tattooed man was still talking, but still Leresy couldn't make
out the words.

I'm
going to die here,
he thought, staring at his men.
The
enemy approaches. I'm going to die with this lot of stinking,
drunken louts. Oh stars.

"Ler!"

A small hand grabbed his arm.
Leresy turned and saw Erry. The urchin was kneeling by the front
door. She gave him a glower, peered out the keyhole, then turned
back toward him. Soot filled her hair and coated her leather armor.
A bandage wrapped around her arm.

"Erry," he whispered.

He tried to imagine the day she
had first come to his camp, how they had eaten the boar, how he had
taken her into his bed. He tried to imagine holding her again,
stroking her hair, kissing her head, and protecting her.

When
I protected her, I myself always felt so safe,
he thought.
I
wish I could feel safe now.
His eyes stung.
I
want to be back in my tent, back with Erry in my arms, not here
waiting with her to die.

"Ler, damn it!" she
said and tugged his collar. "Are you listening to me?"

She had been talking, he
realized. He forced himself to swallow. He forced himself to speak
through tight lips.

"Yes," he said.

She glared. "Good!
They'll be here soon. They're down the block now, twenty of them,
moving house by house." She grinned. "Ler, you take these
ones out. It's your turn. Looks like a good batch of them too."
She winked. "You'll find one of them familiar, I think."

Leresy sucked in a shaky breath.

Be
strong,
he told himself.
Be
strong. You're a Lecher. You lead the Lechers! Show Erry you're
strong.

He moved toward the door and
peered through the keyhole. A small mirror was placed across the
street, hidden in a water spout. In the reflection, he could see
them.

"Burn me," he
whispered.

Twenty legionaries were moving
down the street, bedecked in black armor. They bore loaded
crossbows. They were tall, strong men, an elite group of fighters,
yet their commander towered above them. The brute stood seven feet
tall and wide as an ox. He did not wear the polished black armor of
the Legions, but patches of rusted iron cobbled together over strips
of chainmail. Scars rifted his stubbly head, and dark circles hung
under his beady eyes.

"Beras the Brute,"
Leresy whispered. Through he still hid in the pottery shop, hidden
from view, he clutched the hilt of his sword.

He kept watching, sweat
trickling down his spine. The legionaries were marching down the
alley; it was too narrow for a dragon. They stopped at a barbershop
about fifty yards away. Beras approached the door, grunted, and
kicked.

The door shattered open.

At once, the legionaries leaped
forward. Crossbows thrummed. Bolts shot into the house.

"Slay all inside!"
Beras howled and burst into the barbershop. His men followed,
drawing their swords.

Curses rose and echoed down the
alley.

"Nothing but damn dummies
again!" Beras shouted. "Don't touch them, men. Damn
Resistance has rigged up these bastards with Tiran fire. A spark
from your sword can set them off."

The brute trundled back into the
alley, and his men followed.

"Damn it," Leresy
whispered. "They figured out the dummies."

He himself had almost died
touching one of the straw men; Kaelyn had pulled his hand back,
saving his life. The Resistance had spent days sewing these decoys
together. They wore armor and helms, and they carried swords, but
inside their suits, they were only straw soaked with Tiran fire. The
liquid was costly—a single vial of Tiran fire cost more than ten
barrels of gunpowder—but it would ignite on a single spark. Any
soldier within ten feet of a Tiran straw man would be torn apart.

As Leresy watched, Beras and his
men kept moving down the street. They passed by the next house. A
family had lived in the small, clay home before being evacuated.
Since then, Leresy knew from his map, a family of Tiran dummies had
taken residence.

"Load your crossbows,"
Beras ordered and kicked in this door too.

The men stepped forward.
Crossbows fired.

An explosion rocked the street.

The house crumbled.

The clay walls shattered and the
roof blazed. One man fell back, burning and screaming.

"More dummies," Beras
said. He hawked, spat, and glared at the burning man. "Somebody
put that bastard out. We keep moving. Bloody resistors are in one
of these houses; dragons keep rising from this alley. Their tunnel
is here somewhere."

Leresy gulped.

Stars,
they're only a few doors away now,
he thought. He clutched the hilt of his sword, but his hand was so
sweaty the hilt kept sliding.
They
will be here in moments.

"How far are they?"
Erry asked, kneeling beside him.

He pulled away from the keyhole.
"Five doors down." The sounds of shattering wood and
thrumming crossbows rose outside, and Leresy swallowed. "Four."

Erry sucked her teeth. "Ready?"

He nodded.

He looked up at the rope. It
dangled over the pottery shop doorway. He traced it up to the
rafters, where it vanished into a hole in the ceiling. Leresy tried
to draw a deep breath, but it shuddered and only entered his lungs in
spurts.

Another door shattered outside.
More crossbows thrummed.

"Three," Erry
whispered, replacing him at the keyhole.

Leresy could barely breathe.
His throat was too tight. His pulse raged in his ears like galloping
horses. He looked behind him at his twenty men, hardened Lechers
with stubbly faces and dour eyes. They clutched the hilts of their
swords, ready for battle.

Oh
stars, the blood will spill. Oh stars, I'm going to die.

Leresy closed his eyes for just
an instant, but it was enough. He could see the battle again, the
massacre at Castra Luna. Behind his eyelids, he saw his soldiers
fall screaming, so many youths torn apart.

You
died there too, Nairi,
he thought, and his eyes burned with tears. And now Erry was here, a
new light in his life. Now Erry was in danger.

Another door shattered outside,
and Erry peeked through the keyhole.

"Two," she whispered.

His throat was so dry. His
breath panted. The room spun. He looked over at Erry, and his chest
twisted. She was so young. She was so small. Beneath the mud
caking her, she was only a frail doll, so delicate, so fair.

I
can't lose her too. I can't…

A
door shattered outside.

"One
more door," she whispered, peering out the keyhole. "Wait
for it…"

Leresy grabbed the rope. His
hand shook, damp with sweat, but he clutched the rope tight like a
drowning man. He could hear the soldiers creaking outside, only a
few yards away. He could smell their sweat and leather.

I
don't want to be here,
he
thought.
Stars,
I want to be back home. I want to be back at the Bad Cats. Anywhere
but here…

"Wait for it…," Erry
mouthed, not even daring to whisper.

Boots thudded.

Shadows fluttered under the
pottery shop doorway.

"Now!" Erry screamed.

Leresy started. He stared.

"Now, damn it!" Erry
cried, grabbed his hand, and yanked the rope down.

Shouts sounded outside. Leresy
knelt, stared through the keyhole, and saw three barrels crash down
from the pottery shop roof. They hit the alleyway and slammed into
the soldiers.

"Back, damn it!"
somebody cried and yanked Leresy backward.

The world seemed to explode.

Gunpowder blasted, so loud
Leresy thought it would tear his eardrums. The pottery shop door
crashed open. Leresy fell onto his backside and stared, eyes wide.
Outside in the street, the barrels were gone. Flames roared.
Soldiers lay dead, torn apart. A severed head burned. Blood
spilled. A few men still lived; they clutched at their cracked armor
as their innards leaked. They wept.

"Attack!" Yorne
shouted, leaped over Leresy, and burst into the alley. The other
Lechers ran behind him, swords swinging. Erry ran among them,
howling for battle and waving her blade.

Leresy sat in the pottery shop,
unable to rise, unable to breathe, just staring through the shattered
door.

Five or six legionaries still
stood. They swung their swords against the Lechers. Blades clanged.
Yorne's sword cleaved a man's leg, then slammed down against his
helm. Erry screamed as she duelled another legionary.

Leresy could only stare.

So
much blood,
he thought, chest rising and falling like a frightened hare.
So
much death.

"Leresy, damn it, come on!"
Erry screamed outside. She gestured toward him, then cursed and
raised her blade, parrying a blow.