A Night of Dragon Wings (Dragonlore, Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  She lowered her head. Memories of Requiem flowed over her, as powerful as whips: Lacrimosa Hill where she had stood with her brother, the library with the leather books, and her canopy bed where she would laugh with Bayrin. Her trembling returned, and tears filled her eyes, but she knuckled them dry. She could not panic now. She could not weep now. They were still in danger; there would be time for tears later.

  "Let's go," she said. "We'll walk to the mountains as humans so the nephilim don't see us. We'll fly from there. I'm strong enough."

  They began the journey. Mori walked with her arms slung across Treale's shoulders, and the young squire held her waist and helped her every step. The nephilim kept swarming above, screaming of the dragons they'd eat. If they saw Mori and Treale, two haggard women, they did not see them as prey. When one landed in the desert before them, and hissed at them, Mori nearly fainted with fright. The nephil, however, only tossed its head, spraying drool, and took flight again.

  "Dragons!" it screeched. "Solina will feed us. We will feast upon them!"

  Mori tightened her lips and kept walking toward the mountains. "Come on, Treale. Let's hurry. I reckon Solina told these creatures they can only eat prisoners and dragons, not her people. They must think we're Tirans. But once they get hungry enough to forget orders… I want to be far away."

  They seemed to walk forever. The sand burned Mori's bare feet, and the sun pummeled her. When evening fell, she looked behind her. The city of Irys was distant now, a patch of stone under the red sky. Nephilim still bustled above it, cawing and swirling, landing and soaring. None now flew over Mori and Treale; they were safe from them here.

  When Mori looked west toward the mountains, she let out a sigh. They still seemed so distant, leagues and leagues away, no closer than they had ever been.

  "Once we get to those mountains, we can fly," Treale said. "We'll be far enough from the nephilim. They're staying at the city, and they won't see two dragons from there."

  Mori nodded. Yet how far was enough? She felt weak, and her eyes rolled back. When she blinked, she found herself sitting in the sand, legs splayed out.

  "Oh, Mori," Treale said softly, knelt, and touched Mori's forehead. "I'm sorry; I pushed you too hard. We'll rest for a bit here, okay? We'll keep walking toward the mountains later, and then I can fly and carry you."

  Mori nodded, head spinning. Treale let her drink some more; there were only a few sips left, and Mori left the last one for Treale, yet the squire insisted that she was not thirsty. They nibbled on more bread and cheese as night fell. The sun dipped behind the horizon so fast here in Tiranor, not a slow melting sunset like the northern ones of Requiem, but a plunge into darkness. The stars emerged overhead, piercing bright, millions of them. The Draco constellation shone in the north—the stars of their home.

  "Can we sleep a little, Treale?" Mori whispered. "I'm so tired. So tired. Can we sleep just for a little?"

  Treale nodded. Nothing but leagues of sand surrounded them, but thankfully the wind lay low, and the dunes did not swirl. Treale laid out her cloak, lay down upon it, and Mori lay beside her.

  With the sun gone, it grew very cold very fast. The day had been so hot, and sweat had drenched the two women, and the sun had burned their skin. Now it felt like winter, and Mori shivered. She clung to Treale, sharing her warmth. Weariness tugged on her as tightly as chains.

  "Mori?" Treale whispered. "Do you remember my canopy bed in Oldnale Manor, the one we'd sleep in as children? Remember how we'd hide under the blankets, pretend it's a palace, and read books? Let's pretend we're sleeping there now."

  Mori smiled, remembering that great bed with its oak posts, soft mattress of feathers, and woolen quilts. She imagined that she lay there again, and slowly the beating of her heart eased.

  "Thank you, Treale," she whispered. "Thank you for coming for me."

  They slept embraced, their breath mingling.

  They woke to a dawn of shrieks and rot.

  Mori opened her eyes and shivered. She had not expected to sleep this long, yet the morning rose around her, and she still lay by Treale. The desert shook around them. Nephilim swarmed above, their wings tossing the sand into clouds. Mori coughed; the sand entered her nostrils and mouth. Treale woke at her side and coughed too, and they could barely see through the sandstorm. The shadows of the nephilim shot overhead, wings beat, stench flared, and shrieks cracked the air.

  "We seek dragon blood!" they howled. "We will find the dragons, and we will feast! We fly to blood and organs and sweet marrow. We rise, we rise!"

  Mori and Treale lay huddled together. The sand rose and stormed around them. The horde seemed to swarm forever, blasting their faces and fluttering their hair and cloaks with beating wings. Finally the last nephil disappeared overhead, leaving the sand and stench to settle. Globs of nephil drool and pus littered the desert like boils upon patchy skin.

  Mori rose to her feet and stared north. Her heart thrashed against her ribs, and her legs shook. She shielded her eyes with her palm and stared after the dwindling nephil army.

  Stars, she thought and her breath quickened.

  "Treale!" she said. "Treale, they… they seek dragons!"

  The young squire pushed herself to her feet. Sand filled her long black hair, painting it yellow. She shook that hair and patted sand off her tunic.

  "I heard!" she said. "Bloody stars, trust me, I heard; they've been screaming about that for two days now. That's why we're walking in human forms, isn't it?"

  Mori wheeled toward her, and a smile spread across her face. She grabbed her friend's shoulders. "But Treale! Don't you understand? How did I not see this earlier? If they seek dragons, that means others still live! More Vir Requis survived, not just you and me!"

  She trembled and panted, still grinning. Bayrin! Bayrin might be alive! And my brother Elethor, and my friend Lyana, and maybe more—many more.

  Of course, if they did live, they were in grave danger. Solina had summoned these new beasts to hunt them—just like she had summoned the wyverns and phoenixes. But still, they could be alive. That filled Mori with such joy that she lifted her chin and began walking again, not even waiting for Treale.

  "Mori!" Treale said behind her. "Wait up. Mori!"

  But Mori would not wait. She kept walking, head high, biting her trembling lip.

  They're alive. I know it. They have to be. Otherwise Solina would never have sent these beasts to find them.

  Treale rushed up beside her, buckling her cloak and tossing her pack across her shoulders. They walked through the sand, stepping around the globs of nephil drool.

  "Mori, please," Treale said. "I… I hope they're alive too, but… I don't want us to get our hopes up. Okay, Mori? You understand, right?" She looked down at her feet. "Mori, we both saw the wyverns destroy Nova Vita. It was a slaughter. I don't know if anyone else escaped. It could be Solina lied to these nephilim, or maybe only a very, very small handful survived in the mountains where the miners work."

  Mori stopped walking and turned to face her friend. She sniffed and tightened her fists.

  "Bayrin is alive," she said. "I feel it. I know it. Elethor and Lyana are alive too. They are great warriors and… stars, Treale. Solina wouldn't wake this horde of demons for a few miners. She sent them to catch Elethor! He's always been the one she wanted. This whole war started because of this… this unholy obsession she has with him. Elethor is alive, and if he's alive, I bet he kept Lyana and Bayrin close to him. We'll find them, Treale." A tear rolled down to her lips. "I won't stop looking. I believe."

  She looked behind her; the city was distant and the nephilim had left it. She looked ahead; the horde had disappeared over the mountains.

  Now we fly.

  Mori summoned her magic and shifted.

  Her wings wobbled. She tried to take off, flew a few feet, and dipped. Her claws hit the sand, and she kicked off again, flapped her wings with all her strength, and rose into a tottering flight. It took several heavy strokes to fill her win
gs with enough air and rise higher. She dipped again, snarled, and finally managed to rise and glide.

  I will find you, Bayrin. I will find you, Elethor and Lyana. I swear.

  Yet as she flew, she wondered: If truly she found Bayrin, would he even recognize her now? Whom would he find when he held her in his arms? Not the old Princess Mori, the timid girl whose lips he would kiss, who would laugh at his jokes. No; she could barely remember that Mori anymore. She did not know who she was now. A princess of Requiem? A famished prisoner, her back scarred and her mind forever haunted? In the dungeons of Tiranor, had something broken deep inside her, something that could never heal? She did not know.

  "You are Mori," she whispered as she flew. "You are Mori, Mori, Mori."

  She might not know what that name meant anymore, whether it was the name of a princess, a prisoner, or a survivor, but she would not forget it. She would cling to herself. She would hang onto that name like a rope, for below her spread an endless pit and the reaching claws of monsters.

  She flew over the mountains, their peaks carved from tan, bare rock. Treale flew at her side, black scales shimmering under the sun. The Tiran Sea shone blue and white to the northeast; distant beyond that horizon lay the ruins of Requiem, too far to see from here. When Mori looked northwest, she could just make out a green haze: the swamps of Gilnor. Beyond them lay a wilderness of forests where lived the salvanae, the true dragons… and safety, and hope, and a dream.

  They flew toward that distant green patch, two dragons in an endless sky.

  ELETHOR

  The southern swarm grew, a stain upon the sky, and the distant shrieks rose.

  Elethor stood upon the mountain, clad in plate armor. His leather glove creaked as he gripped his sword's hilt. He stared south. Fall was fading into winter, and the forest trees were nearly bare now; the branches and trunks of birch, maple, and beech grew dark from carpets of orange and red. Cold wind ruffled Elethor's hair and stung his face. Clouds veiled the sky and a drizzle fell.

  "With rain and wind," Elethor whispered, "with bare trees and bare hearts; thus did winter find us."

  It was an old poem. He could no longer remember the poet, but he remembered Mori quoting those words every winter by the fireplace. She would shudder, and he would laugh, muss her hair, and tease her for fearing the wind and rain and coming cold. She would smile hesitantly, and they would drink mulled wine and stoke the fire.

  Yet now the storm does rise, and we are bare before it.

  The dark cloud was spreading, still leagues away but moving fast. Thousands of beasts seemed to fly there, black and red and crying into the wind. Even from here, Elethor could detect their stench; they smelled like rotten corpses. They were mere specks from here, but when he squinted, Elethor could see beating wings, glints of sun on armor, and lanky limbs.

  Nephilim. The spawn of demons and mortal mothers. He gripped his sword tight. Stars, Solina, what have you done?

  He looked below the mountainside to their camp. A thousand souls lived there—people who depended on him, people he had protected for moons now, people who might die this evening. They could hear the distant shrieks; as they moved between the trees, the survivors cocked their heads, listened to the southern cries, and began to whisper. A few men drew swords.

  Elethor snarled, fear gripping his heart like claws. He stared at the spreading shadow. It was buzzing and shimmering, a foul tapestry. How long before it reached them?

  He missed Lyana and Bayrin so fiercely his chest tightened. He did not relish the thought of fighting without them, yet they had flown west and east, seeking aid.

  Will you fetch aid for a pile of corpses?

  An old man walked up the mountainside, clanking in armor. A scar rifted his creased face, and braids filled his white beard. A patch covered his left eye, and his gnarled hands clutched a sword and shield.

  "Garvon," Elethor said and nodded his head. The old man had fought in the City Guard for forty years; he was one of the only guards to survive Nova Vita's fall.

  "My king." The old man's breath rattled. He spat, then turned to stare south. His eyes darkened and he grumbled. "Bloody bollocks, what are those?" He covered his eyes and squinted. "Wyverns? Stars, there's an army of them."

  Elethor shook his head and spoke softly. "Not wyverns. Nephilim."

  Garvon grunted and stared at him with his one narrow, shrewd eye. "Nephilim? My king, they're only a legend. Don't tell me you believe—"

  "I believe what I see, Garvon, and those are no wyverns." Elethor inhaled deeply. "They're flying our way. They know we're here."

  Garvon flexed his fingers around his sword hilt. "They're just scanning the forest. We've seen Solina patrol here before. We're hidden under the trees; they won't find us."

  Elethor looked down at the camp. A moon ago, leaves had covered these trees, and not even wyvern eyes could see through their cover. Today the branches were bare. From here upon the mountainside, Elethor could see huts and tents. They had covered their dwellings with woven curtains of leaf and vine, but that would not fool seeking eyes.

  "These are no scouts, Garvon. This is an army, as you said." He grunted. "Solina would not invade Salvandos with an entire army; she would not risk angering the salvanae. Not unless she knew we were here." He began walking downhill. "We evacuate. At once."

  "My lord," Garvon began, chin raised, "I say we stay. We fight. We slay them upon the—"

  "The days of fighting are over," Elethor said, still walking downhill. "At least until Lyana and Bayrin return with aid. We flee to the temple."

  Garvon muttered as he walked downhill, breath snorting and armor clanking. "That temple might make us miss the nephilim. I prefer fighting beasts I can see, rather than ghosts. Beasts you can cut and burn."

  They had discovered the temple three moons ago, a network of ruins a few leagues north in the forest. Elethor had wanted to set camp there, to hide among its fallen statues, crumbling archways, and dungeons. The others—everyone from Garvon to Bayrin and Lyana—had adamantly refused, quoting old tales of the ghosts who dwelled in those ruins.

  The Ancients built those temples, Lyana had warned, and some say their ghosts still haunt the place. Let us hide among trees, not old stones that still whisper.

  Yet now these trees were naked, and stones could protect them, even if they had to share those stones with spirits.

  He reached the foothills and entered the camp. The distant shrieks rose louder now. The survivors stood still, staring south. Children raised wooden swords as if, with enough courage, they could slay any enemy. Wounded men lay legless in carts, faces pale. Mothers clutched babes to their breasts.

  One thousand and fifty-four souls. The last lights of Requiem.

  Elethor climbed onto a fallen log. He gripped Ferus's hilt so tightly his fingers ached. The people came to stand around him, forming a ring in the forest. Elethor looked from face to face. They were pale. They were afraid. These were not fighters; nearly all their fighters had died in Requiem. These were elders, children, mothers, wounded.

  "People of Requiem!" Elethor said, looking from face to face. They stared back silently. "Queen Lyana and Lord Bayrin have flown to fetch aid; they will return with it, I promise this to you. But now we must move. Now we must flee danger. I will lead you north through the forest, and we will hide among the ruins of Bar Luan. We will find safety there until help arrives."

  The people exchanged dark glances. They whispered prayers and curses. One old man drew his sword and a child whimpered. They had all heard stories of Bar Luan, the fallen temple of the Ancients. In a thousand bedtime stories, they had heard of the ghosts who wandered there, the spirits that sucked the blood of the living, and the old pain in the rocks.

  Yet what choice do I have? Elethor thought. We can face old stories. Or we can face beasts that fly upon the sky.

  The distant shrieks rose higher—cruel, inhuman shrieks, high-pitched like shattering glass. A stench wafted on the wind, scented of corpses. A child beg
an to cry, and a few of the wounded whimpered. A young woman cursed and drew a chipped sword.

  "Be calm!" Elethor said. "Danger approaches; the enemy flies from the south. We will hide in the temple, and we will find safety there. I promise this to you. I swear it on the name of my fathers. Now move! Walk in human form. Stay under the trees and wear your cloaks of leaf and vine. Move silently, move fast, and stay under the cover of the branches. The temple is three leagues away. Follow me now!"

  He stepped off the log. The ring of people parted, and Elethor began walking north. His heart pounded so madly he thought that, were he not wearing a breastplate, it could leap from his chest. He walked silently, lips tight, hand still gripping his sword. Around him, the people glanced at one another uneasily.

  "Follow, now!" Garvon hissed, moving from survivor to survivor. "Do not pack. Leave your things! Move—no, leave your supplies. Move!"

  Behind them in the south, the nephilim shrieked. Elethor marched among the trees, leaves and twigs snapping under his boots. Behind him the people walked, faces pale, clutching spears and swords or simple staffs they had carved from fallen branches.

  Please, stars, don't let them see us, Elethor prayed silently. Let us live until Bayrin and Lyana return.

  They moved through the forest in single file, silent. These people had fled the phoenixes into the tunnels under Nova Vita, then the wyverns; they knew how to move silently and swiftly. Strings of leaves covered their heads and cloaks, red like the forest around them. Eyes darted. Voices whispered. Fingers twisted around weapons.

  "Legion, Legion!" rose a distant shriek behind them, curdling Elethor's blood. "You promised flesh! You promised dragon bones. We hunger! We thirst!"

  Elethor gritted his teeth. Around him, the survivors whispered and a few mewled. The shrieks still sounded distant—leagues away—but louder than the crash of columns.