Demonfire

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Not until that day, when they settled, metal skins steaming with heat, in the village green. Three black silhouettes, against the soft spring evening, their wings hooked forward and veined with bone, their lifeless heads holding all of hell’s fury in their throats. As she watched the grass char and die beneath their claws, Maeve could almost smell the brimstone in their bellies, the sour avarice, all the coppery blood of virgins spilled to power their flight.

The king’s dragons. And with them, the king’s men.

She stood, cursing as her bad knee buckled, and hauled herself to her feet, the tremble in her hands spilling ink across the table. It drenched the parchment laid out before her, snuffed the candle in a sputter of drowned wick, and then there was nothing but the dimness and the march of boots.

The knights came down the ramp that opened in the dragons’ chests, their movements oddly muted, no shouted orders or scrape of steel. Silver armor glinted amid the buttercups and poppies thronging the lane, and far off, she could hear a robin still singing, tucked amid the apple trees.

It couldn’t be happening. Not this.

Not again.

Maeve wiped her hands methodically on a rag, cleaning the ink off each finger. She was supposed to be going home now, bottles of ink clinking in her pack, walking past Hilda’s farm with that big mean gander, thinking about broken quills and the stew for that night’s supper, watching the first of the stars come out over a mug of cider. Thirty years old, but with weariness ground into her very bones.

“In the king’s name, and by his will, we’ve come.” The voice rang through the quiet, louder somehow than a shout. One of the silver-clad knights was outlined in light, white and merciless, like the sun’s reflection on snow. It hurt to look at him, at the holy symbol burning around his neck, and yet Maeve could not look away. “All villagers are required to assemble in the square for the selection of the saints. And the burning.”

Someone was sobbing. She tore her eyes away from the spectacle, the brooding fangs and claws of the dragons, now shrouded in gloam, and made her halting way over to Lori at the next stall over. She had two children, a twelve-year-old boy and a nine-year-old girl. Too close to the age of sainthood for comfort. The farmwife clutched their hands, their strawberry-sticky fingers, but they tugged away and ran off across the green, the girl whooping with excitement. Maeve rested a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s not forever,” she said at last, scraping the words from a barrel somewhere deep inside her chest.

Lori looked at her. A long, long look, and her eyes far too keen. “It might as well be.”

There was nothing more to say.

Maeve watched the farmwife straighten, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, and resurrect a smile whose glitter was as painful as the dragon knight’s luminance. She walked away, slow and steady, skirts sweeping against the muddy street. Bracing herself for the king’s tithe.

She should have gone with her, should have lined up in the square with the innkeep and the candlemaker, the butcher and the tailor. Arrived on time and kept her head down low, avoided attracting attention. But her feet wouldn’t move.

The sight of the dragons had pried off the scab over her memory and the wound wept.

The leathery flap of demon wings. The roast-pork scent of charred flesh, the reek of burned hair. Wind against her face and the matte black shadows of dragons chasing her over the clouds below, embers glowing in the ships’ opening maws.

Her knee twinged, and Maeve dug her knuckles against it, hissing at the flare of pain. In the moments her memories had stolen from her, the village had emptied, leaving her half-hidden in the darkness of the market stall. Only the distant sound of a child coughing, echoing off the walls and the crumbling fountain in the town square, hinted at where they had gone.

Hells.

It seemed her choice had been made for her.

Quietly, she backed away from the stall. She’d have to slip out past the dragons, but once she was in the back lane, the woods were just a step away. One night sleeping rough wouldn’t kill her, complain as her knee might, and then the dragons would be gone.

Gone, and carrying their cargo of innocents away.

She damned her cowardice and crept between the buildings. Past the smithy and its still-cooling forge, past the bakery and the lazy wink of the one-eyed cat, tail twitching as he awaited mice foolish enough to seek breadcrumbs. Children’s toys lay abandoned in the streets, a barrel of onions overset and laundry ripped from clotheslines with the wind of the dragons’ landing. Her breath was thunderous in her lungs, heart hammering against her ribs. Only one more alleyway, and then she would be clear. Hidden. Safe.

“Going somewhere?”

She flinched wildly, bracing herself against the brick wall.

The white-fire knight raised an eyebrow at her from the end of the alley. Radiance dripped from the amulet about his neck like liquid gold, smoking as it hit the ground. A light so bright that it consumed his shadow.

“O-out. I. I’m.” She yanked herself together. “I’m from out of town, my lord. I must have gotten lost looking for the town square.”

“I’m sure,” the knight said agreeably. “It can be quite difficult to find a place when everyone else is headed there at the same time.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“But here, allow me.” He flourished his arm. “I can offer my service as an escort. To keep you from getting lost once more.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself, my lord. Just point me in the right direction and I’ll be off.”

He took a step forward. Cold light licked up the alley walls. “I’m afraid I must insist.”

Damn him and this alleyway.

“You are too kind, my lord.” Maeve let her ink-stained fingers settle, ever so lightly, on his arm. The metal of his gauntlets was warm as if they’d been sitting in the noontime sun, heated by the strength of his faith, and her palms began to sweat.

Courteously, the knight led her forward. Not to the square, but to the looming hulk of the dragons beyond.

“You’ll forgive me,” he said in that pleasant baritone. “I find I have forgotten my ceremonial regalia. The children love a good show.”

“Do they?” she said faintly. If she managed to duck his grip, she might be able to make a run for the trees. If her knee didn’t give out again.

“It’s good for morale. A nice spectacle, to remind everyone of the king’s generosity. Especially after the Demonfire Rebellions ten years back.”

She kept her breathing even. She dared not look up, to read the knowledge – or lack thereof – in his face. There could be no sign, no tell, nothing.

She made a noncommittal noise, staring at the first faint pinprick of starlight as if it could save her. As if safety weren’t a thousand miles beyond her reach.

“You don’t agree?”

Her eyes shot up to his. He looked mildly puzzled. A dog, rather than the stalking wolf that she’d expected. “Some events are better forgotten.”

He bowed his head. “We lost too many good people in the war.”

She gaped and caught herself, stumbling onward. “We did.” Grace was often attributed to saints and holy men, but she had never seen it up close. Dragon knights were necessary, grave, and noble; no one expected kindness from them.

They walked in silence up into the shadow of the dragons, their boots crunching on the burned grass and blowing ash that accompanied the heat of their landing. Up close, the heat they radiated was like a bonfire; a dry heat that seared the back of her throat and throbbed like a sunburn along her eyebrows and throat. Heat and blackness and fear.

Mankind was skilled at creating hells of their own making.

Maeve dug in her heels at the boarding ramp. “I’ll wait out here,” she said. “Please.”

“It won’t harm you,” the white-fire knight said patiently.

Any closer, and she risked revealing far more than her fear. “I can’t.” She swallowed. “Please, my lord, I swear on my life and my name that I won’t run. I’ll wait in this exact spot.”

A little furrow formed between his brows. “I trust you, but I don’t trust the dragon. They have minds of their own, on occasion.” He shot her an abashed look. “Truly, it’s safer if you come with me.”

Any further protest would engender suspicion, especially as he’d already caught her attempting to flee. She wished that she could believe his kindness wasn’t just an act, but he was a knight. Seeking justice was their nature.

Mutely, she nodded, and was led inside the belly of the beast.

The door screeched shut, and she was left standing in the vast, humid darkness, darkness pressing velvet fingers against her eyes, circling her throat, muffling all thought of light and sound and breath. Around her, through her, was a constant rumbling, bone-deep and almost inaudible. Beside her the knight clasped his amulet. “Karakyth, awaken.”

White fire blazed around them like a cleansing flame, there and gone, leaving Maeve blinking back spots across her vision. The room they stood in was made of some strange stone, black and scaled, obsidian-sheened. Small balls of white flame hung in recessed sconces, casting a steady, motionless illumination.

With a shiver, the knight drew his sword.

Maeve glanced behind her. Shadows. Emptiness.

The low rumble grew, louder and louder, like waves building towards a storm. A hissing, seething fury, echoing from the walls. Intruder, the dragon roared.

Shivers chased up her spine. An added weight draped across her shoulders. Experimentally, she twitched her shoulder blades, and felt the horrifying, achingly familiar drag of her missing wings. Her arrow-tipped tail lashed, a dart of leathery scarlet in the corner of her vision. Apparently the dragon’s illumination did more than light the room. It revealed all hidden secrets.

Carefully, slowly, she turned back to face the knight. The amulet and sword that he brandished, pale-faced.

She raised her hands. “Please.”

“Demon!” he snarled, knuckles white around the sword’s hilt. “Get thou back to the abyss!”

She almost laughed, but she wasn’t sure if the sound would come as a sob. Even the hells wouldn’t take her.

“Let me go, and I swear I’ll not harm a soul,” Maeve whispered. “I’m just the village scribe.”

His jaw clenched, something flickering in his eyes. But then it was gone, and all she could see was the molten star of the amulet in his hands. “Gods know I wish I could.”

He threw a handful of light at her face.

Pain smote her. A bolt of lightning sizzling along her nerves, a thunderclap of soundless pressure flinging her against the wall.

She blinked, dazed. Lost in shadow.

Air brushed across her skin, riffling the hair that concealed her horns. The distant roar of the dragon, as if down a tunnel.

Maevris Demonslayer, that dark voice hissed. Welcome home.