A Night of Dragon Wings

by Daniel Arenson

  She winced and sucked in her breath. "El…"

  He put one hand on the small of her back and pulled her against him. He tugged at her clothes almost violently until she stood naked, and his eyes stung, and his heart thrashed against his ribs, and his fingers trembled, and he kept seeing them—kept seeing the demons tear at the walls, pull brick from brick, slash his people apart until their blood gushed and their limbs fell.

  "El, please," she whispered.

  He realized that he was grabbing her so tightly his fingernails had cut her. He released her and took a shuddering breath. She stood before him, naked in the candlelight, her hair a pyre of flame. The scars of war covered her flesh, but she was beautiful to him. He sat on the bed, and she stood before him, and he reached up and touched her cheek with trembling fingers.

  "Lyana," he whispered. "I…"

  I'm afraid, he wanted to say. I can't stop seeing the blood. I want to roar in rage and fly to battle as a hero, but I can't stop my chest from hurting, or my stomach from feeling so cold and tight.

  But he could say none of those things, and he knew she understood. He saw it in the softness that filled her eyes, and he felt it in her fingers as they touched his hair.

  He pulled her onto the bed, and placed her on her back, and when he climbed atop her and loved her, he closed his eyes, and he could barely breathe. But he made love to her—no, not love, but something rougher this night, something that felt more like a battle, like a war against demons, and sweat drenched him, and he hurt her. Stars, he hurt her until she gasped and bit into the blanket and cried.

  When it was over, and he lay beside her, he found that tears filled his own eyes, and he pulled her against him and held her so tight he nearly crushed her.

  So many died. So many gone. So many will still die as we fly into the southern horde.

  She kissed his lips.

  "I am yours," she whispered. "In bed. In battle. In the glory of our halls when we rebuild them—or in the starlit halls of our fathers. You are my king. You are my husband. You are my love." She held him tight and closed her eyes. "We fly together, Elethor; always."

  They slept holding each other through the long, cold night.

  TREALE

  She stood upon the cliff, the wind in her hair, and looked at her king. Treale had dreamed of this for so long—to finally stand beside him again. He was so close now she could reach out and grab him, yet he had never seemed farther to her, not in all the forests and deserts she had hid in.

  Once more they stood upon Ralora Beach. Last year she had stood here with Elethor and three thousand dragons, a green army awaiting the southern fire. Today a hundred thousand warriors covered the cliffs, hills, and beach: griffins, salvanae, soldiers of Osanna, and dragons of Requiem. Last year Solina had lured them here, allowing her forces to crush Nova Vita. Today Elethor had decided the queen's fall would begin in this same place.

  You are thinking of her now, Treale thought, looking at the young king. He was staring south, the wind ruffling his dark hair. You are thinking of Solina, the one you loved, the one you vow to kill. But I am thinking of you, Elethor. I am thinking of the night I kissed your cheek, and I am standing here beside you, and you cannot even see me.

  Treale lowered her head, and the wind played with her long black hair, scented of the sea. She closed her eyes. So many nights she had dreamed of him! When she had lain curled up in charred forests, fleeing the wyverns, she had pretended to still lie by his side like that night upon the hill. When she had huddled in alleys in cruel Irys, or crawled over dunes that burned her, or trekked through the swamps of Gilnor to seek sanctuary in the north, she had thought of him. She would remember talking to him about her puppets, and kissing his cheek, and sleeping all night by his side under the stars, feeling safe by her king. And then… and then after all those long moons, she had met him again! She had returned to him. She had flown with true dragons and fought by his side, driving the nephilim from the ruins of Bar Luan.

  And he had gone into his tent.

  And he had taken Lyana into his bed.

  And her heart had been broken; it still felt like shattered clay in her breast.

  Oh, he had given her a compulsory embrace, and squeezed her shoulder, and thanked her for saving his sister. He had kissed her forehead, then pulled Mori into his arms again and nearly crushed her, and not a moment later he was walking with his soldiers and talking of battles, and Treale had remained standing in the ruins, cold and alone.

  You have Mori now, she thought, looking at him. You have your sister whom I saved. And you have your wife, whom I serve. And you have me, Elethor. You have me always; you had me since that night upon the hill. And still I wait for you. Still I stand by your side, but do you see me here?

  She walked across the cliff, moving closer to him, until she stood a foot away. Lyana stood at his other side, clutching her sword and also staring south. Mori stood beyond her, clad in armor—Treale had never seen the princess in armor before—and hugging herself. None seemed to notice her.

  "My king?" Treale said softly. He seemed not to hear her, and she touched his arm. "Elethor?"

  He seemed to wake from a dream. With a quick draw of his breath, he turned toward her, and his face softened.

  "Lady Treale," he said.

  Not his love, she thought. Not his wife or sister or even a friend. A lady. A cold title for a court. Her eyes stung and she blinked. She wanted to grab and shake him, to yell at him: Don't you remember that night? Don't you remember how you told me your story, and I told you mine—about the puppets, and Oldnale Farms, and… I kissed your cheek, Elethor, and we slept side by side. And now I am only a lady, this… this cold warrior like the thousands of them?

  But she could say none of that. Not with his wife by his side or even with Mori there. So Treale only swallowed and spoke soft words.

  "I will fight by your side, Elethor," she said. "I will not leave you. I promise. You have my fire—always."

  She lowered her eyes, the shame burning through her. Of course, she thought. Of course he was so cold to her. She had abandoned him in battle last year. When the wyverns had flown toward Nova Vita, she had defected. She had left his army despite his orders, had flown to Oldnale Farms and found her parents dead. She had deserted him; of course he would not show her the warmth he showed Lyana and Mori.

  I'm a traitor to him, she thought, and her throat constricted. She looked away lest he saw the tears in her eyes. I saved his sister, but he still remembers my sin.

  The wind blew, and she lowered her head.

  The invasion of Tiranor began with rain, wind, and beating waves. The dragons of Requiem took flight first, three thousand in all—all Vir Requis old enough to shift into dragons and fight. Today they were all soldiers. They roared and their scales clanked and their wings thudded, rippling the sea. Upon every dragon's back rode a soldier of Osanna, clad in steel and armed with bow, spear, and sword. Their bull horn banners streamed, and their shields caught the sun. They shouted for their land, and the dragons roared, and they raced across the sea into a horizon of rain and cloud.

  Behind them, the salvanae and griffins took flight too, a great host nearly fifty thousand strong. Upon their backs too rode soldiers of Osanna, clinging to their saddles. The army soon covered the sea like a great cloud, shimmering and snorting and rippling the water beneath them.

  Never had the world seen so many beasts fly together, Treale thought. Poets would sing of this day until the world fell.

  She flew, a slim black dragon with fire in her nostrils. Upon her back rode an Osannan soldier, a young man with a stubbly face, an impish grin, and a shock of brown hair.

  "Stop dipping so much!" he shouted down to her. "By the Earth God, you do wobble when you fly."

  She growled over her shoulder and found him grinning.

  "Be quiet, Jadin," she said and gave him her best glare. "Stars, you farm boys do whine a lot."

  He snorted. "I haven't seen my farm in a year now
. I'm a soldier; don't you forget it. If we meet any nephilim, it'll be my bow shooting at them."

  It was her turn to snort. "And my fire. I think they will barely notice your puny little arro—OW!"

  He had dug his heels deep into her flanks. Treale grumbled and cursed. She was a dragon of Requiem! It was ridiculous that she should wear a saddle like a horse. And yet the Osannans had insisted, saying something about how otherwise, they would fall and drown in the sea. Flying with Jadin upon her back, Treale did not think that would have been so tragic.

  "If you do that again," she said, "I'll bite your legs off."

  He flashed a grin. "I'll stop if you stop wobbling."

  She grumbled, looked back forward, and beat her wings with grim intent. She tried to forget he rode her. It would be a long flight. The sea stretched for many leagues between southern Requiem to the northern shores of Tiranor. Even flying at top speed, it would take hours to reach Tiranor, perhaps all day.

  Jadin began to sing old, rude limericks—something about the beasts he'd slay, the women he'd bed, and the gold he'd plunder. Treale grumbled and snorted fire and kept flying.

  She looked to her left. Elethor flew there, Lyana and Mori at his sides.

  The royal family of Requiem, she thought. The man I love. The man so close and so far from me.

  Behind them, the army spread like a great tapestry, a league long. Treale looked over her shoulder at them, so many dragons and griffins and men. She imagined this army sweeping across Tiranor, claiming city and fort; the world had never known such might. And yet…

  Fear pounded through her. She had seen the nephilim. She had seen them slay so many. She had seen the Lord Legion rise, a great beast all of scales and horns and rot, his halo flaming like a sun. Could they truly kill this dark god? Even with all their might, could this northern alliance truly defeat Solina, or would they crash against the shores of Tiranor?

  A growl rose in her throat.

  Perhaps we fly to death, she thought. But I will fight by my king. I will never more abandon him. I will show him that I've grown brave.

  She narrowed her eyes, snarled, and flew.

  They flew for a long time.

  Dawn turned to noon, and the sun burned above; already it felt hotter than the sun of Requiem. They kept flying. Treale's wings ached and she snorted smoke. Her lungs blazed. She wanted to slow down—her body screamed for it—but when she looked around her, the other dragons still beat their wings mightily. Treale growled and kept flying.

  "Stop wobbling!" Jadin said on her back. "Treale, darling, are you getting tired?"

  "Tired of hearing your voice, boy," she said. "Save it for your battle cries."

  The noon sun trailed down in the sky. When Treale looked behind her, she saw that the army's formations had loosened. Griffins, salvanae, and Vir Requis now trailed behind her, the slower flyers dragging like a wake. King Elethor, however, flew far ahead of her now; Treale could see his brass scales glinting hundreds of yards ahead. By his side, she saw Lyana's blue scales, Bayrin's green ones, and Mori's gold.

  I will fight by their side.

  Treale snarled and flew faster.

  "That's more like it," Jadin said. "Go, little dragon, go!"

  Treale's breath ached. Her eyes stung. Her wings screamed with pain. The sun hung low in the sky when finally she saw rocky beaches ahead leading to a dead, golden desert.

  "Tiranor," she whispered.

  She drew flame into her throat, bared her fangs, and shot forward. Soon she flew by her king. Elethor was staring ahead with narrowed eyes, and smoke streamed from between his teeth. She gave him a nod and a grim smile; he returned the same.

  "I fly by you, Elethor," she said, fire flickering in her mouth.

  He growled and stared forward, and his claws flexed. "Be strong, Lady Treale. Be brave. We fly together." He looked at her and his eyes softened, and Treale could weep, because she saw that he did remember, that he too had never forgotten that night. "Stay safe, Treale. You are among the bravest, strongest dragons in Requiem, and you will make me proud this night."

  I love you, Elethor, she wanted to say. I love you always; from that night upon the hill until today and every day after this one. Always. Always.

  Yet she did not have to utter those words; in his eyes, she saw that he knew, and that though he was wed to another—though he loved Lyana with all his heart—he loved her too. That soothed her. That would give her strength this night.

  Lyana came to fly at their side, flames snorting from her nostrils. Bayrin and Mori joined them, flying so close their wings almost touched. Behind them spread thousands of other dragons, the last of their kind, and as the sun fell, their flames lit the darkness.

  They streamed toward the Tiran shore.

  The sun dipped into the sea.

  From the dunes of Tiranor, a dark host rose, and countless nephilim soared, screeched, and flew toward them.

  LYANA

  The sky burst with the demon horde.

  The beasts swarmed from the sands, myriads like clouds of locusts. Lyana roared, beat her wings, and drove forward. Her fellow dragons roared at her sides, and behind them cried the griffins and salvanae. The beasts ahead shrieked, their voices so high-pitched and deafening, the dragons' riders screamed.

  Stars save us, Lyana thought, fear chilling her. They knew we were coming. They knew where we'd land. These are no mere sentinels patrolling the border; this is an army bred to crush our invasion.

  "Hang on tight, Wila!" Lyana shouted to the woman who rode her, a young captain of Osanna. "This is going to get rough."

  She stormed forward. The nephilim shot toward her, eyes blazing and jaws snapping and bat wings wafting their stench.

  The two armies crashed above the beach.

  Dragons slammed into nephilim. Fire exploded and rained and shot in pillars everywhere. Claws lashed and fangs bit, and from the backs of dragons, a rain of arrows whistled, red shards in the firelight.

  "Lyana, your left!" Wila cried from her back.

  Lyana banked and saw a nephil swoop her way, claws outstretched. Wila shot her bow, and an arrow slammed into the beast; it bucked and shrieked and kept swooping. Lyana roared her fire, and the nephil blazed.

  Lyana banked again, narrowing dodging the flaming beast as it fell. Wila screamed and held out her shield, and the nephil's claw scraped against it before the beast crashed against the beach below. Lyana soared and blew more flames. More nephilim fell before her. Claws and teeth shone everywhere.

  Stars damn it! Lyana thought. With Wila on her back, she could barely fly properly. She could not soar straight up, or spin, or whisk like a bee between the swarming enemies; Wila would fall. Lyana gritted her teeth and flew onward, lashing her claws and blowing her flames as Wila shot arrows.

  "Crash through them!" Elethor roared somewhere above her. "Past those cliffs—land above them!"

  Lyana looked up, seeking her husband. The sky was burning. Dragons, salvanae, and griffins flew everywhere, crisscrossing and scattering and regrouping and all roaring their cries. Nephilim crashed against them—some of the beasts swung curved, rusted blades—and blood splattered. Bursts of dragonfire exploded. When howls sounded in the south, Lyana looked to see new combatants arriving: hordes of burly wyverns blowing acid and phoenixes crackling with fire. They too crashed into the battle. The sands below turned red with blood. Bodies rained and piled up and drifted into the sea. Lyana couldn't even see the sky, only beasts and men screaming and killing.

  This should not have happened, Lyana thought in a daze. Her eyes blurred. They knew. They were waiting for us. They are too many.

  For an instant Lyana froze, barely able to fly, barely able to breathe. She had fought many battles. She had slain Tirans in the Phoenix War when they first invaded her land. She had walked through the Abyss and fought its creatures. She had defended Nova Vita even as it crumbled under wyvern acid. She had fought hordes of nephilim above cities and temples. And yet this… Lyana had never se
en a battle like this. Hundreds of thousands of creatures flew and died here, spreading for a league around. To call this a battle, she thought, diminished its magnitude; here was a great song of blood and flame and carnage.

  I never knew, she thought, eyes stinging. I never imagined. We should have run. We should have hidden. We will burn the world from this place.

  "Lyana!" Elethor shouted. He dived toward her, blew fire over her shoulder, and a nephil shrieked behind her.

  She snarled. She soared. She fought.

  The battle raged through the night—a night of dragon wings and fire and rot. The dead covered the beaches and cliffs. They bobbed upon the water like thousands of fallen leaves. When dawn rose, it rose upon a world drenched in blood. When the battle finally ended, there were no songs of victory: there was only weeping, screaming, and everywhere the dead and wounded.

  Lyana landed upon the cliffs of Tiranor. She shook so badly Wila nearly fell off her back. When the woman dismounted, Lyana shifted into human form and stood trembling.

  Stars save us, she thought, looking over the beaches below.

  "We won," Wila whispered. Blood splattered the soldier's pale face, and she clutched an arm that still sizzled with acid.

  "Nobody won this slaughter," Lyana replied and leaned against her, so weary she could barely stand.

  The hosts of the enemy lay dead, but so many of their own lay among them. Tens of thousands of corpses covered the beaches: piles of nephilim bustling with gulls and crabs, men and women slashed with claws and burnt with fire, and salvanae and griffins torn apart.

  Among the dead, thousands of wounded screamed and wept and begged. Men clutched at stumps or spilling entrails, calling for their mothers. Young women—torn from their homes into a war their brothers could no longer fight alone—lay burnt and swollen and screaming. Healers in white robes rushed among them, trudging through puddles of blood, but there were so many hurt, so many dying; every moment, another screaming warrior fell silent, voice forever lost.