Lyana ignored him and kept marching. She made toward a gateway in the palisade where two guards stood, bearing cracked shields and makeshift spears. They wore old, dented breastplates; one from the armories of Requiem, another stolen from a dead Tiran and still bearing the Golden Sun of Tiranor. When Lyana tried to march between them and into the camp, they moved closer together, making to block her way.
"Move!" Lyana barked and shoved them back. When they tried to grab her, she glared and bared her teeth at them. "I am Lyana Eleison, Queen of Requiem, your mistress. If you touch me, I will cut off your hands."
She gripped her sword's hilt and drew a foot of steel; it gleamed and the guards hesitated. Not wasting another moment, Lyana strode into the camp.
"Who leads this place?" she called out. "Bring him before me."
All around her, people abandoned gardens, wheelbarrows, toys, harps, and weapons. They began to gather around her, staring and whispering to one another. She heard her name spoken in awe. She knew these faces; she had seen them labor in Requiem's fields, dig in her mines, and forge steel in her smithies. She saw no nobles; the last lords and ladies of Requiem had fallen. Here were the commoners of Aeternum's Kingdom.
"Who leads you?" she repeated. She stepped onto a tree stump and wheeled her head around, seeking a ruler. "Bring him to speak with me."
Grom approached her, tall and grim, his ill-fitting armor clanking beneath his cloak. He cleared his throat and smirked.
"It will be… difficult to bring the Legless Lord here. I think you will find it easier if we took you to him."
Lyana gripped her sword tight and frowned. She was queen to these people; would she approach this Legless Lord, a son of Requiem, as an ambassador? She grinded her teeth.
"Very well," she said. "If truly this lord of yours— and I use the term lightly—has no legs and cannot approach me, take me to him."
She did not like this. These people had missed her coronation in the wilderness of Salvandos, yet they still knew her as the Lady Lyana, a knight betrothed to their king. And yet they did not bow before her.
I will find no loyalty here, she thought. Titles still mean something in the west, where King Elethor protects his people; here they are forgotten.
The brothers led her down a dirt path between gardens, tree stumps, and rows of game hanging from poles. A hall rose ahead, built of boles still rough with bark and the stumps of felled branches. Those branches, still leafy, formed a rough roof. The structure looked long enough to house a dragon.
They stepped through its makeshift doors, which were carved of branches and rope, and into a shadowy chamber. The air outside was cold and wet; inside the hall was hot and stuffy and scented of pine. A campfire burned upon the earthen floor, its smoke rising through a hole in the roof.
"My lord!" called Grom, standing at Lyana's side. "We have found another survivor. She is Lyana Eleison, once a lady of Requiem's courts; we found her by the eastern lake."
A cough sounded behind the campfire; a man sat there, hidden behind the flames. The coughing went on for a long moment, then ended with a wheeze. Finally the man behind the fire spoke, voice raspy.
"Bring her closer, Grom. Let me see her."
Grom and Gar grabbed Lyana's arms yet again. She tried to shake herself free, but the brothers gripped her firmly, and they pulled her forward. She grunted but walked with them; she was more curious to see this man than to fight his minions. They walked down the hall and around the fire, and there she saw the Legless Lord.
He was an older man; she guessed him sixty years old, maybe older. His cheeks were stubbly, his long hair grizzled. He wore a brown leather tunic and sat in a chair of twisting oak roots—a mockery of Requiem's old throne which had stood in its palace. Upon his knees, the man held a sword with a dragonclaw pommel; forged in dragonfire in Requiem's Castra Draco, Lyana thought. His legs ended below those knees, and cloth wrapped the stumps.
"Lyana," he rasped. Coughs seized him again, and he brought a handkerchief to his mouth. It was a moment before he could speak again. "Lyana Eleison, once a lady of Requiem; I am glad to see you survived the carnage. Welcome to our camp."
"Dorin Blacksmith," Lyana said, eyes narrowed. She recognized this one. He had forged steel in Nova Vita smithies, and he had served in the City Guard during the war, though last time she had seen him, he had walked on two legs. "I too am glad to see you live; I fought with you against the wyverns. I saw you slay two. You fought well, my friend."
The blacksmith hacked a laugh, then coughed again. "Yes, I slew more than two. The last one did this." He swept his hand across his stumps. "You have emerged unscathed, I see, though perhaps with less hair."
She took a step closer to him, shaking off the brothers' hands.
"Dorin," she said, "King Elethor lives. He reigns in exile, leading a camp of a thousand Vir Requis. We still fight. We will assault Tiranor and we will slay her queen. Fly west with me now, join King Elethor, and we will rain fire upon the enemy."
Coughs interrupted Dorin's sigh. He dabbed his lips with his handkerchief. "Damn smoke and damn ash." He cleared his throat; a rough, rusty noise. "Since the fires in Nova Vita, my lungs are ruined." He hacked again, then tsked his tongue. "Do you see the ruin of war? My lungs. My legs. These ragged, haunted people I lead. That is what your King Elethor brought us; that is what he will bring those who still follow him." He shook his head. "Fly west to join the boy on another adventure? I think not. We've had enough of war; now is our time to grow gardens, to build halls, to find a new life here in the east. Requiem is fallen, my child. Her columns lie smashed, and her halls shattered; her cry is silenced. Let us find new spring here—in Second Haven—a new kingdom for the children of Draco."
Lyana raised her eyebrows. "Second Haven? A new kingdom?" She grabbed the man's shoulders. "Damn it, Dorin, Requiem still lives. Requiem is not a piece of earth; she is starlight, and she is the magic inside us. King's Column still stands; Requiem still roars. You are one of her children, and Elethor Aeternum is still your king."
Grom and Gar grabbed her and tugged her back. Lyana snarled, spun, and kicked at them. She hit the elder on his shin, and he raised his fist. Lyana leaped back, drew her sword, and nodded to him.
"Go on," she said softly. "Go on, Grom Miner. Make your move. You can soon become a Legless Servant to your Legless Lord."
The lanky miner rubbed his shin and spat. He looked at Dorin, hesitating. The Legless Lord grumbled and raised his hands.
"Brothers!" he said. "Leave her be. Lyana! Sheath your sword; we draw no steel in this hall."
She raised that sword higher. "You look upon Levitas, sword of Lord Terra Eleison, a Light of Requiem. I draw and raise my steel where I please, Dorin. You were a blacksmith once; you should show more respect to a blade of legend."
He sighed again, breath rattling like dice in his lungs. "I was a blacksmith; that is true. And these two brothers were miners; they are guards now. You were a knight; now you are a guest. Requiem has fallen. Her legends are nothing but burnt scrolls. Lower your sword; its history means nothing in Second Haven."
Lyana growled. "Nova Vita has not lain fallen for a year, and you forsake all memory of her halls and heroes?" She spat at his feet. "You fought nobly for Requiem over her capital; now you defile her. You may stay here, Dorin Blacksmith, upon this mockery of a throne you have carved. I lead these people west—with or without you."
She turned and marched back toward the door. She trudged out into the camp, stepped onto a boulder, and raised her voice.
"Children of Requiem!" she called.
Women planting seeds, men carving spears, and children weaving baskets looked up, pausing from their work. Lyana raised her sword so the light caught it.
"I am Lyana Eleison!" she shouted. "I am wed to King Elethor Aeternum, son of Olasar, descended from Queen Gloriae. I am Queen of Requiem. King Elethor still lives! Requiem still fights. Join me west, and—"
Pain shattered against her nape.
> Lyana fell from the boulder and hit the ground.
She flipped over and tried to raise her sword, but a boot pressed down on her wrist. The brothers stood above her, and behind them sat the Legless Lord in a wheelbarrow.
"Tie her up!" the grizzled old man shouted. "Guards, tie her to the tree."
Lyana kicked and nearly freed herself, but more men rushed forward. She leaped and tried to shift; they grabbed her legs, and one man swung a club. Pain exploded across her, her magic fizzled, and blood dripped into her eye.
She hit the fallen leaves.
Men leaped onto her, and dirt filled her mouth, and she couldn't even scream.
ELETHOR
Behind him, the dragons fled toward the temple ruins—mothers, children, elders. At his sides, a hundred dragon warriors flapped wings and blew fire. Before them, the army of nephilim spread, covering the sky and horizon, a buzzing horde of countless demons.
As their wives, children, and elders escaped, Elethor and his dragons shot forward, roaring fire.
The nephilim crashed against them.
Elethor howled and blew his flame. The fire crashed against one nephil, and the beast screeched and fell. Two more nephilim flew at him, one from each side. Elethor spun and clubbed one with his tail, driving his spikes into its rotted flesh. The second nephil crashed into him and grabbed hold like a great spider clutching its prey. Teeth bit into Elethor's back, and he roared. Claws ripped at his flank.
He dipped in the air, twisted his neck, and bit into the nephil. It felt like biting mummified flesh. The beast opened its mouth and screeched; the sound was so loud and shrill that when it faded, Elethor heard nothing but ringing. He flamed the beast, and when it screeched again, the call washed over Elethor like white light.
It fell. More swooped from above. There must have been ten thousand.
Stars, give me strength. Let me hold them back just long enough—long enough to let the others flee into the temple, to hide among its stones and shadows.
"There, my Lord Legion!" rose a voice from the mass of nephilim—the rumble of a dragon's voice. "The brass dragon! That one is their king. Feast upon him, my lord!"
Elethor flamed one nephil, clawed another, and looked up toward the voice. He growled and rage flared within him, spilling between his teeth in rivers of fire.
A gray dragon flew ahead between the nephilim, his eyes red, his mouth open in a gloating, snaggletoothed grin. Elethor knew this one.
"Nemes," he growled.
So that is how they found us.
Roaring, Elethor beat his wings and rose higher. He blew flame and flew through the fire, shooting toward the traitor.
Nephilim crashed into him. Teeth bit and claws swung; he felt them tearing off scales. He roared and blew fire in a ring. They surrounded him, a cell of putrid flesh and rotting eyes. Their wings blocked the sky. Their sores oozed pus. A claw lashed his wing, tearing a rent through it.
"Nemes!" Elethor shouted. He barreled forward through the beasts, seeking the gray dragon. He had never felt such bloodlust, such a craving to kill and destroy his enemies; today he hated Nemes more than Solina herself.
"Elethor!"
Garvon's gravelly voice rang out. The burly white dragon rose and tugged at him, pulling him back into a ring of other dragons. They blew fire, holding back the beasts.
"Garvon, he betrayed us!" Elethor said. "Nemes—the gray dragon. Help me find him."
He whipped his head from side to side, seeking the traitor, but saw only nephilim. The trees below cracked and fell under their shrieks. The half demons chewed severed limbs of Vir Requis, tossed their heads back, and swallowed greedily. When he glanced behind him, Elethor saw his people vanish into the distant temple, scurrying into its crumbled halls and secret tunnels. He looked back south, seeking Nemes again, and growled.
I will find you yet, Nemes, and I will burn you with my fire.
He spun and began flying north to the temple.
"Fly, warriors of Requiem!" he shouted. "Fall back to the temple. Fall back!"
They flew around him, bloodied and slashed and panting. They blew fire over their shoulders, burning nephilim, yet the swarm spread for miles; they seemed endless. Elethor beat his wings madly. A nephil swooped from above, and claws thrashed, and Elethor banked. He soared, flamed the beast, and clawed another dead. More rose below them, and Garvon rained fire upon them.
A hundred dragons had remained to hold back the swarm; perhaps twenty still lived. They raced over the collapsing forest toward the temple. Every moment, another one fell. Nineteen remained. Then eighteen. Soon only a dozen. In death, their magic left them, and they crashed into the trees—torn apart and splattering blood upon the fallen leaves of autumn.
Finally Elethor and his surviving warriors reached the temple. The ruins spread below them like the scattered bones of a stone giant.
Nobody knew the age of Bar Luan; books from a thousand years ago called these ruins ancient. Walls carved with reliefs of men and beasts rose from the forest, crumbling and mossy, chunks of them missing as if giants had chewed upon them. Some walls cradled dark archways with stairs that plunged into darkness. Others lay fallen. Great stone faces, carved larger than dragons, stared stoically from some walls that still stood; other faces lay fallen and overgrown with moss and vine.
The roots of great trees clutched these ruins, twisting over them like woody tentacles or the wax of melted candles. Years ago, paved roads and courtyards had spread here; today trees and roots broke through the cobblestones, casting them aside like discarded dice. Years ago, pyramids had risen here from the trees; today only one remained standing, its stairs so chipped they would send climbers tumbling.
Bar Luan, Elethor thought. House of ghosts.
They called it a temple; it looked more like a city. Ten thousand people could have lived here, maybe twice that many. Elethor thought the place nearly as large as Nova Vita.
"Go, into the doorways, into the halls!" he shouted. Dozens of doorways filled the walls, leading to chambers and dungeons. They were small passageways built for the Ancients, a people short and slim; the nephilim would not fit through.
Elethor dived toward one doorway, a narrow opening with a lintel shaped as a stone lion. Before he could land, two nephilim swooped and crashed into him, shoving him against cracked cobblestones.
Elethor writhed beneath them. He whipped his tail, hitting one beast. It screeched, deafening him. Again ringing rolled over him; he could barely hear anything else. The second beast bit, driving teeth into Elethor's left shoulder, the one already scarred from wyvern acid. He bellowed, kicked, and rolled. They slammed into a wall, sending it crumbling. The nephil roared, and Elethor beat his wings. He rose ten feet and rained his fire, catching the nephilim before they could rise. They blazed, screeching and kicking, knocking into walls and statues. Stones cascaded and fallen leaves burned.
Elethor looked around him; he could see one last dragon land, shift into human form, and run into a doorway between hanging roots. The rest had either hidden in the ruins or lay dead.
Above the ruins, thousands of nephilim blocked the sky.
Elethor growled, resisting the temptation to fly at them; he still craved to roast Nemes. Instead he shifted into human form and ran toward the doorway.
Nephilim swooped behind him.
Their claws scraped against the cobblestones.
Elethor leaped into the doorway and rolled.
Behind him in the courtyard, the nephilim shrieked. They bit at the doorway. Their claws reached into the darkness, each as long as Elethor's sword. He drew that sword and slashed at them. He cut one finger off—it was longer than his arm—and black blood sprayed him. Their teeth snapped at the doorway, their eyes blazed, and rocks tumbled.
Elethor retreated deeper into darkness. The walls were built of rugged bricks overgrown with moss. The ceiling was low, only a finger's length above his head, and the doorway only five feet tall; the Ancients must have stood hardly taller than
children. Elethor walked around a bend, moving out of the doorway's line of sight. When he stepped a few more paces into darkness, he bumped against something soft.
He turned to see two children kneeling in the shadows, a boy and a girl with muddy blond hair. Elethor recognized them as twin children from his camp.
"Aw da monstews outside?" asked the girl; she looked to be about five years old.
Her brother raised a wooden sword. "I'll protect you."
Elethor knelt by the children and examined them for wounds; they were bruised and muddy and scratched, but otherwise unhurt. When he looked behind him, he could no longer see the doorway, but he could still hear the nephilim shrieking. The twins clung to him, one clutching him from each side. They shivered.
Nemes, Elethor thought. His old servant. A Vir Requis. How could a son of Requiem do this?
As the children embraced him, Elethor's head spun with rage. Solina had betrayed him, but she had always been a daughter of Tiranor; this was a stab in the back, and Elethor swore that someday, somehow, he would reach Nemes and slay him.
The nephilim shrieked outside. The temple shook and dust fell from the ceiling. The rage and darkness of an ancient horde howled outside, and Elethor held the twins close, shut his eyes, and struggled to breathe.
BAYRIN
He woke up with a stiff neck, Piri still cuddling against him.
Merciful stars, he thought and sighed. His every part ached, and he had barely slept with the girl clinging to him.
It's an amazing discovery, he thought. A creature for one of Mori's bestiaries—half woman, half leech.
"Up, up!" he said. "It's morning."
He struggled to rise, but Piri only mumbled, scrunched her lips, and wrapped her arms more closely around him. She kept sleeping. For such a slim young thing, she was surprisingly strong, pinning him down.
"Piri Healer!" he said with a groan. "Stars, get off."
The girl was intolerable. Throughout the night, whenever he would crawl away from her, she would snuggle closer, trapping him in her embrace. Whenever he did fall asleep, moments later she would mumble or kick her legs, waking him. And now dawn had risen, and still he could not extricate himself.
A Night of Dragon Wings (Dragonlore, Book 3) Page 15
