The guard widened his eyes, silent for a moment, then burst out laughing. Treale stood, barely daring to breathe. It was a long moment before the guard could speak again.
"You!" he finally said. "You—a dog from Osanna, a land of flea-ridden woolmongers—want to serve in the Palace of Phoebus?" He raised his spear. "Find yourself a brothel to spread your legs in. That is all your kind is good for, whore. Be thankful we even let you do that much; I say we should butcher your kind like weredragons." He raised his visor, revealing a leathery face, and spat at her feet. "Kneel and clean the cobblestones of my spit; that's what you Osannan scum are worth."
Treale stood frozen, rage flaring within her. She was a daughter of a great lord. She had flown by the King of Requiem in battle. She was a warrior, a woman of starlight, a—
You are alone, a voice whispered inside her. Your home is gone; your father is dead and probably your king. Whatever nobility you once claimed is lost.
She bit down on her anger. If saving Mori meant giving up some pride, well… she had enough of that pride to give.
She knelt. She cleaned the cobblestones with the hem of her cloak. She clenched her jaw and tried to ignore the burning in her eyes.
When she rose to her feet, she bowed her head and spoke softly.
"I will clean for you in the dungeon, if you let me. If I cannot stand there as a guard, let me serve you as a maid. I can clean. I can cook for jailors. But one thing I insist upon." She raised her eyes and met his gaze. "I want to work near the weredragon's cell. Her people burned my village. I will watch her suffer and I will hear her scream."
The guard looked over his shoulder at his phalanx, then back to Treale. He reached into her cloak, cupped her breast, and squeezed hard. Treale sucked in her breath and froze, daring not move. She wanted to shift, she wanted to burn him, she wanted to run… yet she could only stand here frozen between her pride and Mori.
"Yesss," the guard said slowly, crushing her in his hand. "Yes, I think we might just find you some work underground. There are many cobblestones there for you to clean."
He released her, and Treale gasped with the pain, and her legs shook.
Think of King Elethor, she told herself. Think of how you lay by his side, kissed his cheek, and flew with him. Think of the courage he gave you.
"Th-thank you, my lord!" she said to the guard. "I… I will serve Tiranor as best I can."
He snorted. "Yes, we'll make sure that you do. Quite often and quite well."
He grabbed her arm, digging his fingers so deep Treale gasped and thought he'd tear her skin. He began dragging her across the square, moving closer to the palace. Treale struggled to match his wide strides; when once she fell, he dragged her until she could walk again.
Think of King Elethor. Think of how you kissed his cheek. Think of the stars of Requiem; they shine here too.
Soon the palace loomed above them. The staircase rose hundreds of steps, ending with towering doors of ivory flanked by faceless statues, each larger than a dragon. Above this gateway rose walls and towers of limestone; the steeples clawed the sky. Treale was expecting a long climb, but the guards dragged her past this staircase toward a pathway alongside the palace. They walked along walls lined with archers. Fig and carob trees rose to her left; to her right rose the stone of Tiranor's center of power.
Finally they reached a small archway filled with a wooden door; a back entrance. More guardsmen waited here, spears crossed. The leathery-faced guard dragged Treale through the doorway and into the palace.
They moved through chambers and halls. The tiles gleamed white, and golden filigrees covered granite columns. Treale was hoping to see more of the palace; if any in Requiem still lived and hoped to fight, they would need the layout of this place. The guard, however, soon dragged her onto a staircase that plunged underground.
They descended for what seemed like miles, coiling deeper and deeper into darkness. Candles lit the rough walls. The steps were so narrow and craggy Treale nearly fell. Outside the palace, the sun had pounded her, and the heat had coiled around her like serpents. Here, as they descended, the air grew so cold that Treale shivered. Stairs led to tunnels, then stairs again, then doorways and more tunnels. This place reminded her of the labyrinth beneath Nova Vita where she and Mori would read books; these halls were just as dark and twisting. But Requiem's tunnels had also been warm and dry and safe. This place reeked of mold and echoed with distant screams.
Finally, after what seemed an hour of plunging, they reached a hall lined with cells, and those distant screams exploded like demons of sound.
Solina's dungeon, Treale thought and shivered.
"Sharik!" shouted the guard who held her arm. "Sharik, damn you. Come, boy. I have a treat for you."
At first Treale was sure the guard was calling his dog. When a burly, bald man came trundling up the tunnel, Treale realized: This was Sharik, and she was the treat.
"Sharik here, Sharik want treat," rumbled the man. "Give to Sharik!"
He had but three teeth, and moles covered his pasty lump of a head. He was wide and fierce-looking as a bull; a golden ring even pierced his flat nose. He wore a tattered canvas tunic, and a ring of keys jangled on his belt. His flesh was lumpy and pale like old turnips; Treale doubted the man had seen sunlight in a year.
The guard shoved Treale toward him, and Sharik caught her. The brute dug yellow, cracked fingernails into her arm. His breath assailed her, scented of rot. His nose sniffed at her cheek, and his tongue thrust out. Treale pulled back an inch, narrowly dodging the wet appendage.
"Give this one a job, Sharik," said the guard and laughed. "Have her empty your chamber pot, mop the blood off the floors, or even warm your bed at night if you please. I'll come for her some nights; on those nights she's mine. Do you understand, Sharik?"
The bullish man drooled and huffed. "Sharik likes treats."
He reached into Treale's cloak and tried to grope her. She struggled in his grasp, and he shoved her, then backhanded her. Pain exploded. White light flashed. She hit a wall, and Sharik raised his fist again.
"Sharik, no!" said the guard. "I want her beautiful. Do not scar this one. She is my gift to you; keep her pretty."
Sharik snarled, but when the guard reached for his sword, the jailor lowered his gaze and grumbled under his breath. His fingers still dug into her arm, so strong she thought he might break her bone. When the guard turned to leave, Treale almost wanted to call after him. No, don't leave me here, don't leave me with this man, with these screams, with this smell of blood. Yet she remained silent. Mori was somewhere here in this nightmare; Treale would stay, and she would save her.
"Come," Sharik grumbled, his voice like cascading stones. "Follow Sharik. Work for you."
He pulled her down the hall, trundling like a bear. Treale dragged behind him, and as they passed along the cells, she nearly gagged. She bit down on a scream.
Stars, no… how could such terror exist? Stars, how could such evil lurk in this world?
Prisoners filled the cells, broken and shackled and turned into wrecks of humanity. One man hung from chains, his legs cut off and the stumps still dripping. In another cell, children hung upon the walls, their skin burned off, their eyes pleading and their mouths gagged. In a third cell, a jailor was busy stretching a man on the rack; the prisoner howled, his arms dislocated. Treale wanted to close her eyes. She wanted to weep. She wanted to fall and curl up and never look at these horrors again. Yet she forced herself to look. Somewhere, in one of these cells, Mori languished.
Stars, Mori, I'm so sorry. Now Treale could not help it; tears streamed down her cheeks. I'm so sorry you are here.
Yet where was the princess? Before Treale could find her, Sharik pulled her into a cell. This one was empty. Chains hung from the ceiling and fresh blood and hair covered the floor. For a moment, Treale was sure the jailor would imprison her here, and she made to flee, but he grabbed her and grunted.
"Clean!" he said. "Clean cell. Clean floor."
He stepped back into the hall, grabbed a bucket and rags, and shoved them at her.
"Clean! Clean and you eat later. Clean floor."
When Treale hesitated, Sharik grabbed a whip from the wall. Before Treale could react, he landed a blow across her shoulder. She yelped. The whip lashed through her cloak and tore her skin.
"Clean!" Sharik said. "Clean floor. Make clean for next prisoner."
Her welt blazing, her eyes still damp, Treale knelt. She grabbed a rag and dipped it into the bucket of water. She began to scrub.
"Faster!" Sharik said and his whip landed again. Treale yelped, her back blazing, and cleaned faster.
"When I'm done cleaning," she said and dared to look up, "I want to see the weredragon. I—"
The whip landed a third time, blazing against her from shoulder to tailbone. Treale arched her back and yowled with the pain. Sharik grumbled and clenched his fists.
"Speak again and Sharik take your teeth. Clean. Faster."
Treale cleaned. She did not speak again.
When the cell's floor was clean and the rags bloody, Sharik grabbed her by the hair. He yanked her up and dragged her out into the hallway. Treale yelped, her hair tearing in his paws, but he only tugged harder. He dragged her into a second chamber, closed the oak door, and locked it behind them.
This must have been his home, though it was barely better than the prisoners' cells. The chamber was rough and bare. It contained only a straw bed, a table laden with candles and dirty dishes, a chamber pot, and a chest of old rags.
"You sleep on floor," Sharik said. "Sleep!"
He raised his whip. Treale clenched her fists behind her back. She was a slight woman, thin and short and not very strong, and he was thrice her size. But she was young, she was fast, and she could fight him. There was no room to shift here, but she could grab his whip and strangle him, or gouge out his eyes, or….
No, she told herself. Even if you can defeat him, Treale Oldnale, he'd holler and guards will swarm here. Save Mori. Even if you must give up some pride. You might sleep on a floor this night, but Mori sleeps in chains.
She lay down on the floor like an obedient pup, hugged her knees, and looked up at Sharik. He stared down at her, his feet by her head, their nails cracked and moldy. Finally he grunted in approval, lolloped toward his bed, and climbed in. Soon the man was snoring like a saw, his drool seeping.
Treale rose to her feet. Her heart raced. The candles still burned upon the table, casting soft light. She tiptoed toward the bed and stared down at Sharik.
His keys.
They still dangled from his belt, each one longer than her hand. If Mori languished in this prison, one of these keys would open her cell. Holding her breath, Treale reached toward the ring of them.
Sharik snorted and rolled over, burying the keys under his girth.
Treale cursed this dungeon, cursed the gods, cursed every grain of sand in this desert and every brick in this dungeon. She reached around the brute, but he would not stir. She tried to roll him over; he would not wake or move. He kept drooling, and his snores kept rising, and the keys remained trapped.
Finally Treale fell to the floor, closed her eyes, and trembled. She was so weak, so tired; she could barely summon the will to breathe. Her belly ached with hunger. Sharik had never fed her as promised, and she felt too weak to crack open her second pomegranate. Her wounds blazed. Worst of all, the images of the prisoners would not leave her: their anguished eyes, their broken flesh, their seeping blood. Again and again, she saw Mori outside the palace gates, frail and screaming as they beat her.
"I will find you, Mori," she whispered into the darkness. "If not tonight, then tomorrow, or the day after, but I swear to you, I will find you, and I will free you."
She looked up at Sharik again; he had not budged, and his snores rose louder than ever. Treale wanted to try to move him again; with all her strength, perhaps she could roll him onto the floor, but what if he woke and beat her? He would soon roll over on his own, Treale told herself. After all, how comfortable could it be, sleeping on his keys? She had to wait but a moment longer. Maybe two moments. Maybe…
Her eyes closed. Blackness tugged at her. She lay, curled up and shivering, and slumber pulled her into a deep, dark nightmare of mangled bodies and shrieking falcons of steel.
SOLINA
She flew through the night, a phoenix of crackling fire and claws of molten steel. The desert streamed below her. She opened her beak and cawed to the darkness. She was fire. She was gold. She was might. She called to her lord the Sun God, and his glory rose from the eastern dunes to kindle her empire. The sand and clouds burned with his might. She flew through the dawn, a bird of beauty, a light to banish the darkness.
She had brought this fire to Requiem; the weredragons had doused it with their dark magic. She had brought wyverns and acid to their halls; they had fled.
But they cannot fight the nephilim. They cannot flee my long arm. Their halls are fallen; their skulls will be mine.
She had left her men in Irys, her oasis jewel. Today she flew alone. Today was a day of her glory.
I was born for today. You will see my power, Elethor. You will see my light.
The agony rose inside her, twisting like demon claws in her womb. A child had grown there, a life she had created with Elethor. The small light had died; her soul had extinguished with it. In her dreams, he cried to her, her son of golden skin and blue eyes, a paragon of light, a holy son—a gift to the world.
For you, she thought. For you I burn. For you I conquer. They killed you, my son. The weredragons killed you, and I will slaughter them all, and it will not be enough. For you I raise this army; in your memory the nephilim shall rise.
She screamed to the sky, wings showering flame.
The mountain rose before her in the south, an edifice of stone under a yellow sky. It rose taller than the peaks of Amarath Mountains where she had crushed the Weredragon Army. It rose taller than the great mountains of Ranin where she would make love to Elethor in their youth. It rose like her empire, undying, eternally strong.
When she flew closer, she saw that towers, archways, and walls covered the mountain, ancient beyond reckoning, faded into mere hints of their past glory. Steeples, once topped with battlements, now rose crumbling like melted candles. Archways, once gleaming in welcome, now rose craggy like the mouths of caves. Walls, once bright with soldiers and banners, snaked across the mountain like the faded trails of goats.
This had been a great fortress once—an entire city, a palace that had housed myriads. Thousands of years had passed since the Ancients had raised it. This was all that remained: rugged boulders, snaking trails, echoing chambers. In the rains and winds of time, the fortress had melted into the mountain like a corpse's flesh melting into the earth.
The sun crackled overhead. Heat waves rose from the endless dunes. Solina flew toward the mountain, a comet of fire. As a phoenix, her wings were two hundred feet wide; she was a beast of wrath. And yet the mountain dwarfed her. She felt like a mere spark by this stone edifice.
A great archway loomed upon the mountainside, as tall and wide as Queen's Archway back in the capital. Shadows loomed beyond. When Solina flew near, her flames lit a hall carved from living rock.
She shrieked—an eagle's cry that echoed down the mountainside—and flew through the doorway.
Walls of stone streamed at her sides. Her flaming wings beat, sending dust flying to reveal chipped mosaics of coiling serpents and manticores. The firelight leaped against the walls. The hall drove into the mountain, its ceiling a hundred feet tall.
The nephilim will emerge from this canal like a child from its mother's womb. I will be their mother.
She landed upon the dusty mosaic. She shifted into human form. Her flames writhed around her, then gathered into the amulet she wore around her neck. She clutched the amulet in her hand and raised it, casting its light against the grand hall of the Palace of Whispers.
Once this place
had been beautiful. Once the Ancients had lived here, a people of golden light. Statues rose here, faded now with the years, showing a people slim and fair, their heads oval, their eyes almond-shaped, their hair flowing. Once the limestone statues had held blades; today but stumps of rusted metal remained.
"Once you ruled this world," Solina whispered to the statues. "But you sinned. You lay with the demons of the Abyss. You birthed the nephilim. They destroyed you, but I will rule them." She clenched her fist around her amulet. "You buried and sealed them. You tried to hide the shame of your spawn. They were your children and you shackled them. I will free them. I will rule what you imprisoned."
She walked deeper into the hall and entered a doorway. A dark corridor loomed before her, and she walked upon limestone tiles, her sandals clattering. Her light shone upon walls covered with silver runes and faded murals. The Ancients had drawn their wars here, a hundred feet tall upon the walls of their palace. The murals rose around her, painted in faded blacks, golds, and reds.
Solina saw hordes of men, great armies in steel, tossing spears and shooting arrows at their enemy. Painted nephilim charged across the walls, life-sized, thrice the height of men. The giants lumbered, bat wings spread wide, fangs and claws painted a faded blood red. Men died between their teeth and under their feet, crushed and devoured. Solina raised her amulet high, shining her light. The painting of a great nephil covered the ceiling, spines dangling from its jaws, a flaming halo around its head. Solina smiled to imagine the nephilim walking again, feasting upon the weredragons' backbones.
She explored the Palace of Whispers for hours. She climbed staircases and gazed upon shadowy halls. She moved through chambers where stood hundreds of statues, stone armies of sandstone and gold. She walked down winding halls lined with dozens of doors, labyrinths like the veins of a giant. The palace seemed endless. Solina thought that all the people of Tiranor, two million souls, could reside within these halls and think them roomy. This was not merely an abandoned palace, but a city.
A Night of Dragon Wings (Dragonlore, Book 3) Page 9
