A Night of Dragon Wings

by Daniel Arenson

  He turned to look at Lyana. She stared back with huge eyes like green wells, and he knew that she was thinking the same thing.

  "Will it be enough?" he whispered.

  She squeezed his hand. "I don't know." Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but deep and haunting like ghosts in an ancient forest. "Maybe not, Elethor. But we will lead them nonetheless, and we will burn the enemy upon her towers, even if we fall in flame too."

  "For the glory of our stars," he said. "For Requiem."

  Her eyes dampened. "For Mori."

  A scream rose from the camp, and Elethor sucked in his breath and spun his head around. He stared at the forest and the scream rose again—a scream of such terror and pain, for an instant he thought the Abyss had risen into the world.

  The camp below stirred. Requiem's survivors rose to their feet and spun toward the sound. Steel hissed as Elethor and Lyana drew their swords. His heart hammered and his old wounds blazed.

  She found us. Stars, Solina found us.

  The trees stirred, and Elethor prepared to shift into a dragon, to blow his fire, to burn and die. Yet it was no Tiran troops who burst from the trees, but a single, haggard man with wild hair and wilder eyes. At first Elethor thought him some mad woodland hermit; he was shirtless even in the cold, his ribs showing beneath his skin. His teeth were missing, and dried blood caked his hair. He ran barefoot toward the cave, fell to his knees, and howled to the sky.

  "Stars," Lyana whispered and gasped, and then Elethor recognized the man, and his breath caught.

  This man was no wild hermit.

  He was Vir Requis.

  He was Leras Brewer and three moons ago, he had been strong, somber, a warrior of Requiem. Elethor had sent him south to spy in Tiranor before Requiem's survivors attacked.

  He returned to us a broken beast.

  Jaw clenched, Elethor sheathed his sword and marched down the mountainside toward the fallen, wailing man. Lyana rushed at his side, and guards of the camp, clad in armor and holding spears, hurried forward too. Soon a ring of people surrounded Leras.

  The young man—Stars, he looks old now, Elethor thought—lay trembling, knees pulled to his chest. Tears filled his eyes, and his toothless mouth smacked open and shut. A memory flashed through Elethor's mind, a vision of shriveled beings of the Abyss, sucking the air and smacking their gums.

  Elethor's head spun. He knelt by the trembling man and touched his shoulder. Leras cowered and wailed.

  "Please," he begged, "please don't touch me, please don't hurt me. No more. No more."

  Lyana stood above them. She raised her head and coned her palm around her mouth.

  "Piri!" she cried. "Piri, we need you and your healers! Bring silverweed!"

  Elethor looked down at the trembling man. Burn marks stretched across his chest. They had tortured him—burned him, broken his teeth, maybe broken his mind. Bile rose in Elethor's throat, thick with guilt.

  I sent him south. I sent him to this.

  "Nobody will hurt you here, Leras," he said softly. "You are safe here. You are home. You are home. We will heal you."

  Leras stared with wild, red-rimmed eyes. He reached up and clasped Elethor's cloak, fingers bony and digging. His breath trembled and his ribs rose and fell like twigs upon a stream.

  "You… you must flee!" he said, voice slurred with pain. "You cannot fly south. You cannot. She… she is freeing the nephilim, my king. The… stars!" Tears rolled down his cheeks. "Flee, King Elethor! Take these people and flee north—as far as you can—and never return."

  Feet stomped through the crowd, and Piri Healer came walking forward, clad in the white robes of her order. With Mother Adia fallen and the Temple destroyed, young Piri had become the closest thing Requiem had to a new High Priestess. Her dark braids were stern, her eyes sterner. Behind her trailed her pupils, a dozen young women in white silks, baskets of herbs and bandages in their hands. Piri knelt beside the wounded Leras, reached into her robes for a bottle of silverweed, and broke the wax seal with her thumb.

  "Drink," she said, holding the bottle forward. "Drink and you will sleep and heal."

  Elethor raised his hand, blocking the bottle from reaching the wounded man.

  "Wait, Piri," he said softly. He kept his voice steady, but his insides roiled.

  The young healer's eyes flashed. "My king! I—"

  "Wait." His voice was harsh. He looked back at the trembling, wounded man. "Does Solina fly north? What do you know? Speak, Leras. Tell me everything."

  The man's raw fingers groped at Elethor's armor, smearing blood. His eyes widened and his body shook.

  "She is sending men to fetch the key. The key from…" He coughed and shook for a moment, then spoke in sobs. "From the tower! I saw the bodies. Stars, the bodies that fell from the tower. Cut, mangled, twisted. She wanted to send me in too. She pulled me from the dungeon. She wanted me inside. Please. Please! I shifted. I flew. I came here. She will free them!" His voice rose to hoarse, anguished shouts. "She will find the key and she will unlock the Iron Door. The nephilim will fly. You cannot fight them. You must flee! Fly north, King Elethor. Fly north. Never return!"

  Leras's tears flowed, and sobs racked his body, and Elethor only held the man, unable to speak, barely able to breathe. His fear pulsed through his chest, and he felt the blood leave his face.

  Herself pale, Piri poured the silverweed into the man's mouth, but he sputtered, unable to swallow. He hacked and laughed and wept.

  "Fly," he whispered, "and never return."

  His eyes rolled back, and he fell limp in Elethor's arms.

  "Leras!" Piri cried. She pulled him from Elethor's arms, laid him upon the ground, and tried to revive him. She pounded his chest, poured more silverweed into his mouth, and shook him, but he would not wake. He lay with a smile—a last smile of peace—and staring eyes.

  The people of Requiem stood all around, whispering to one another. Many trembled. Elethor rose to his feet and turned toward them.

  "You have nothing to fear!" he called out. "Vir Requis, return to your tents and caves. You are safe here. I promise you this. You are safe."

  Yet as the crowd dispersed, Elethor heard them whisper, and a few wept. As Elethor stood above the body, he realized that he had drawn his sword. Cold sweat drenched him and his breath quickened.

  Lyana looked at him, eyes wide, her own hand around her sword's hilt.

  "He spoke of the nephilim," she whispered. Her face was ghostly white. "The Fallen Ones. I've heard of them, Elethor." She spun and began walking through the forest. "Come. I will show you. Stars save us if he spoke truth."

  Teeth clenched and sword drawn, he followed, and the man's dying words echoed in his mind.

  Fly, King Elethor! Fly and never return!

  LEGION

  He howled in the depths. He screeched and laughed and banged against the walls until the pain twisted through him, and all around him swirled his brothers with fang and claw and horn and tongue.

  "I am Legion!" His voice rose like steam. "I will bite, I will feast, I will serve. Free us! Free us, Goddess. Free us, Savior. I will serve! I will bring chaos."

  His brothers and sisters filled the court around him, so thick he could barely see the walls, barely see these bricks that entombed them. Their eyes dripped pus. Their maws opened, drooling, screaming, seeking man-flesh to feast upon, craving sweet blood to suck. The nephilim climbed and twisted around the columns, scuttled across the ceiling, bled and screamed and flapped wings. A bloated, crawling nephil bit into a smaller beast, cracked his spine between his jaws, and fed and licked and laughed and screamed.

  "Wait, brothers and sisters!" Legion rose among them, climbing upon scales and flesh and rusted armor. He raised his claws and howled. "Do not yet feast! Do not feed upon us, brothers and sisters. I am Legion! I will lead you to the world. I will lead you to man-flesh and sweet red blood. I will serve! She will come."

  The thousands surrounded him, a sea of tooth and claw and blood, milky eyes blazing,
drool dripping, hisses rising. They howled at him and climbed atop one another, mad in their pen, shaking the columns with their screams. They had been mad for so long.

  "We must feast!" cried one, a lanky beast with moldy flesh, one wing torn off, and a scar that rent his rotting head.

  "We must drink blood!" cried another, a shriveled twig of a creature, teeth running across her head and torso like stitches.

  "No more, no more!" wept a swollen creature, flesh bubbling and sores seeping. "The pain! End the pain!"

  Legion flapped his wings. Those wings blazed with agony; they had been cramped for so long, atrophying in this prison, their leather brittle and old, their bones like rusted blades. Yet he flapped them, screamed, and rose in a wake of fire until he hit the ceiling. He slashed his claws and wings, beating his brethren aside. He scuttled and descended onto his throne of bones, rusted spikes, and mummified flesh.

  "See my burning crown!" he shrieked. "See the blaze of my fire! Hear my words, for I am Legion your lord!"

  Around his head, his halo of fire crackled. He alone among the Fallen bore this flaming crown, for he was Legion; his mother had been the mortal Priestess Queen of the Old God, and his father had been Sharael, Demon King of the Abyss. Legion's blood swarmed with maggots, with pus, and with royalty, and upon his brow his birthright of lordship blazed. The beasts around him reached out to his crown, hissing and wailing, the firelight painting them red.

  "Your pain will end!" Legion cried. "One day she will come—our savior. Hear me, Fallen Ones! Hear my howl. I am Legion! I am Prophet! One day she will open the Iron Door. One day a goddess of platinum and light will free us, and I will lead you to serve her. I will lead you to freedom! We will feast upon sweet, living blood and bones and skin and organs."

  They roared around him, chanting his name, screaming for blood, spraying drool and pus and smoke. They crashed against the walls and columns, mad with hunger and thirst, eyes spinning, teeth biting at their own flesh. Not all believed him. Many roared and flew toward him through the mass, snapping teeth and lashing claws, until his servants beat them down.

  "You lie!" the rebels cried, weeping blood. Their hearts beat madly beneath their brittle flesh, deep red and black. Their veins pulsed and their wounds dripped. "We hunger! We must eat one another. We must eat you!"

  Legion rose tall upon his throne of the dead. He was so thin here, so frail, his skin clinging to his bones like old flesh on discarded blades of war. All around him, filling the stone court, his brothers and sisters spread and writhed and bled.

  "No!" Legion cried, halo blazing. "No. We must wait. Do not weaken us. We are strong! We are Fallen. We are Chaos. We will remain strong and we will feast! She will free us. One day she will open the door, a goddess of platinum, a deity of steel." He shook his fists above him, claws digging into his palms. "I have foreseen it. I am Prophet. I will lead you out the Iron Door that seals us. I will feed you flesh and blood! We will crush the world and devour those who imprisoned us."

  They roared and flew and clawed and bit and wept around him. Myriads filled this prison, crushing one another, clawing uselessly at the walls. Sometimes Legion thought them a single, writhing mass, many merged into one creature over the millennia. Behind them stood the Door, towering, solid iron, never rusting, forever sealing them here, forever burning their flesh, forever containing their madness.

  "The door will open! I am Legion! She will free us, and we will crush those who sealed us, we will destroy the world, we will bring chaos and terror, and their spines will snap between our jaws, and their blood will be our wine. Hear me! Follow me, nephilim. We will be free!"

  They roiled like a boiling sea and howled and begged and roared. Fangs and claws rose, red with blood, and eyes blazed, and snorts of fire burned, and wings beat as his brothers and sisters climbed one another, gasping for air to howl. Upon his throne of mummified flesh, Legion bared his fangs and laughed and screeched. He could already taste the hot blood and bones, and he shrieked so that the chamber shook—a great cry to his goddess… to Solina.

  TREALE

  She sailed into Irys wrapped in cloak and hood, the desert wind kissing her lips with the taste of sand.

  The boat was long, narrow, and oared, and she stood upon its prow and watched the city. Her heart thrashed and she clenched her fists under her cloak's long sleeves. The delta teemed with ships around her, hundreds of them: trundling cogs laden with chests of grains, fruits, and iron ore; military longships where soldiers shouted orders as they rowed, shields and spears strapped across their backs; the creaky barges of leathery-faced fishermen, their hulls speckled with barnacles; and towering merchant ships with sunbursts upon their sails, their decks bearing bundles of silks, sacks of gems, and exotic beasts in cages. Everywhere Treale looked, sails creaked, oars rowed, men shouted, and gulls flew to nest upon masts and ropes. Reeds swayed everywhere, a field of them rising from the waters, and Treale saw at least two rafts entangled among them. Cranes, ibises, and birds she could not recognize flew overhead, squawking in a chorus. The smells of salt, seaweed, fish, and spices filled the air so thickly Treale could barely breathe.

  "Please, stars of Requiem," she whispered in the shadows of her hood. "Watch over me here in this southern land of sun."

  And truly a land of sun it was; Treale had never felt such heat, never seen such shimmering light. The sunlight seemed to bleach the world, fading all colors. Treale was used to the northern light of Requiem, a soft light that fell gently upon the green of summer, the orange of fall, and the white of marble columns. Here in Tiranor the sun pounded her cloak—she felt trapped in an oven—and doused the world with blinding whites and yellows. Even the water seemed barely blue, but more a bright white reflecting the sun's wrath.

  Behind her, the old peddler coughed, grunted, and spat noisily. She turned to see him squinting at her and scratching his privates. His face looked like beaten leather, and his hair hung in scraggly white braids. Between her and him rose sacks of Osannan silk and wool, treasures he'd claimed to have been shipping into Tiranor for forty years now.

  "Welcome to Tiranor, girl," he rasped and spat again. "It's hot and it's crowded, and if you're lucky, you'll last a day. They like Osannan silk here, but not Osannan refugees who stink of the sea. And darling, you smell like fisherman's feet and catfish guts. Now toss me that second silver coin of yours, unless you want to swim the last hundred yards to the docks."

  Treale was noble born; she had spent her youth in Oldnale Manor studying dialects of distant lands. Today she spoke with the eastern lilt of Osanna, great realm of men north of Tiranor and east of her fallen land of Requiem.

  "I thank you for the ride, old man, and for your warning. But I will not heed it. I survived the wars in north Osanna, even as the undead warriors who rise there slew my family and burned my village. I can survive the desert too."

  The old silkmonger scratched his stubble, hawked, and spat overboard yet again; Treale did not know how any man could produce so much spit.

  "The desert is crueler than any undead host," he muttered. "You should have stayed in Osanna and faced its ghosts. There you can fight on the ground with sword and shield; here weredragons swoop and rain fire from above."

  Treale looked across the water at fish that leaped between barges. Weredragons. It was a foul word, a slur she hated. She was a Vir Requis, a daughter of noble Requiem, a child of starlight, not some filthy beast. Yet she bit her tongue and swallowed her anger. Here she must not be Treale Oldnale, a lady of Requiem, but Till the refugee from Osanna, the humble daughter of weavers come to seek her southern fortune.

  But I will not seek fortune here, she thought. I will seek you, Mori. And I will find you. And I will free you. And we will escape this cursed desert and fly away together.

  The city docks spread before them, great cobwebs of wood and rope upon the water. As the boat rowed closer, Treale watched, cloak wrapped around her and hood pulled low despite the heat. Hundreds of people, maybe thousands, scur
ried upon the docks and boardwalks. Treale saw sailors in canvas pants, golden rings in their ears and sweat glistening upon their bare chests; wealthy merchants, bellies ample, sauntering in plumed hats and priceless purple robes; dockhands lifting caskets, sacks of grain, barrels of wine, and cages holding exotic birds of many colors; women swaying in silks that barely covered their flesh, their navels jeweled, accepting coins from sailors and leading them into alleys; and soldiers clad in pale steel, sunbursts upon their breastplates and shields, their spears bright. Above the docks loomed five craggy towers connected with a wall. Arrow slits peered from each tower like eyes, guarding the entrance to their realm.

  Tiranor, Treale thought and clasped her hands behind her back. Scourge of Requiem. Land of sun and heat and steel. I will find you here, Mori, and I will bring you home—wherever we find a home now.

  Soon she had paid the old monger and climbed off his boat onto a rickety dock. She took two steps, her head spun, and she reeled for a moment before taking a deep breath and walking on. Her legs felt like boneless chickens. How long had she been at sea? Treale could no longer remember. It had been three moons since Requiem had burned, maybe four. The days all blended into a great nightmare of running through forests, hiding in fields, finally reaching the great plains of Osanna in the east, then hitching rides with wagons to the southern port of Altus Mare. From there, Treale only remembered countless hours in a tottering boat, gagging into the Tiran Sea and baking in the southern sun. Three moons, maybe four; was that all? It seemed ages to her.

  But I still remember your columns, Requiem, she thought. And I still remember you, Mori. If all of Requiem lies fallen, and all her people but us lie dead, I will still save you.

  Children ran across the dock, carrying baskets of oysters, and nearly knocked Treale into the water. She tightened her lips, steadied her legs, and walked on. The planks creaked beneath her, and between them, she saw silvery fish whisk between weeds. When she raised her head, she saw the city of Irys before her, a great hodgepodge of sandstone and wood.