A Night of Dragon Wings

by Daniel Arenson

  "Goodnight, Lyana," he said softly.

  She raised her head, kissed his lips, and cuddled against him.

  "I love you too, Elethor," she whispered. "Always."

  The candles guttered into darkness, and they slept.

  SOLINA

  She lay in his bed under the quilts. She paced his room and caressed the marble statues he had sculpted. She lifted the wooden turtle he had carved for her, kissed its head, and placed it back upon the shelf. She stepped outside and gazed upon the trees. She dreamed. She missed him. Loneliness clawed at her and stung her eyes.

  I am so sad without you, she thought, pacing his chamber again and again like a prisoner in a cell. I am so alone. I want you with me.

  But it was time to leave this place. It was time to rule. To conquer. To slaughter his people and bring him here—to warmth, to memory, to light.

  To me.

  She stepped toward the door of his chamber, placed her hand on the knob, and closed her eyes.

  I wish I could stay here forever. She was young here, only twenty-three and still bright with youth, and her face was unscarred, and no pain or hatred or death filled her heart. A perfect day.

  She tightened her lips, twisted the knob, and opened the door.

  She stepped out of memory and into the chamber.

  She walked up the stairs, emerging to the rim of the well. All around her spread the Hall of Memories, its columns rising from darkness to the shadowy domed ceiling. The pit surrounded the well, spreading all around her like a moat around a tower. Once only shadows and wind had filled this pit. Today her glory festered here.

  "My children," she whispered.

  The spawn of nephilim filled the pit, biting and mewling and clawing at one another, their bat wings beating and their eyes leaking pus. Each was the size of a man already, and they were growing larger every day, the strong feeding upon the weak. They writhed in the pit like a pile of maggots. A million or more rotted here. The strongest rose to the top, teeth bloodied and bellies bloated with the flesh of their brothers. For a mile deep they festered, stinking of decomposing flesh and blood and nightsoil.

  "You will rule the world someday," Solina said softly. She stood upon the bridge, looking down at them. They reached out to her, claws shaking and glimmering with blood. They hissed her name.

  "Sssolina… Sssolina…"

  Mature female nephilim clung to the columns around the pit. Fifteen of them screamed here, bellies bulging and contracting and birthing more spawn into the pit. Blood poured down their legs, and nothing but wounds now spread between their thighs, and still their spawn burst out screaming and hungry to fall onto the million others.

  Lord Legion himself clung to the sixteenth column, father of his brood. He licked his lips, gazed upon his wives and children, and gave a toothy smile. His drool rained.

  "My queen," he said to her, bowing his horned head.

  "Your brood is strong, Legion," Solina said to him from the bridge. "They will consume the world."

  The great nephil hissed. Twenty feet tall, his body like a blackened cadaver, he spread out his bat wings, lovingly embracing the stench of his spawn. He inhaled and licked his chops.

  "He will lead them when I'm gone," Legion said. "He will be the greatest among them, a devourer of the weak, a conqueror of dragons."

  Solina smiled and placed her hands upon her belly. She could almost feel her son wriggle inside. She could almost hear him screech.

  The weredragons killed my child with Elethor, she thought and closed her eyes. But Lord Legion has given me a new heir, and he will be greater. He will rule this world.

  She still ached from the night she had allowed Legion to know her. Her belly gave a twist, and Solina gasped. That was his son. That was the demon child within her. His claws tugged at her womb, still too weak to break through.

  But soon, my child, she thought. Soon you will emerge into this world and be my heir, a great king the world will cower from.

  She opened her eyes and looked back at Legion.

  "Keep mounting the females," she told him. "Again and again. We need more. I want them pressed against the ceiling until they crack it. Very soon, Legion, we will have enough to cover the sky of the world."

  He nodded, fangs bright with drool.

  "For you, my queen, I will create a mountain of spawn."

  She nodded and crossed the bridge. As she left the Hall of Memory and marched toward her throne room, she caressed her belly and smiled.

  LYANA

  She flew across the desert, fire in her belly. Behind her flew ten thousand warriors, a swarm of dragons and griffins bearing archers on their backs. They flew low. The desert raced below them, boulders blurring into streaks. The sun pounded above. The air whipped them and screamed in Lyana's ears.

  "Here we are, boys," Lyana called over her shoulder. "Stay low and burn those sails!"

  The River Pallan stretched across the desert ahead, a scar of blue and green rifting the land. It flowed several leagues away; they would be there in moments. Reeds, palm trees, and fields of barley grew alongside it. Upon the water rose hundreds of white sails, each emblazoned with the Golden Sun of Tiranor.

  These waters will boil, Lyana thought, and the trees and sails will blaze.

  She looked to her left. Far in the north, she could just make out a sprawling patch of brown and green. Distant white towers rose from it, mere twigs from here. There lay Irys, capital of Tiranor, a hive of a million souls. A second army flew toward it, a cloud in the northern horizon; Mori and Bayrin flew there with thousands of warriors.

  But that is their battle, Lyana thought and looked back east. Here is mine.

  The Pallan flowed so close now, Lyana could count the sailors' shields. She growled and filled her maw with flame.

  "Burn every last ship!" she shouted to the dragons, griffins, and soldiers who flew behind her. "Sink them all."

  She streamed forward, leaving the desert to dive over fields and trees. Irrigation canals stretched below her like blue cobwebs, and farmers dashed to hide in their homes. Behind Lyana, her dragons roared, her griffins shrieked, and their riders—men and women of Osanna—sounded their war cries.

  Lyana reached the water. She banked and dived to skim southward along the river. Rushes and palms billowed at her sides, bending under the flap of her wings. Ships rowed and sailed beneath her, and she bathed them with flames.

  As her fire rained, arrows soared. Lyana roared. Arrows clattered against her scales. One shot through her wing, and another slammed into her back leg. Upon her back, Wila of Osanna fired down her own arrows, screaming the battle cries of her people. One of her arrows pierced a Tiran sailor upon a ship, sending him plunging into the water.

  Around Lyana, dragons and griffins swooped to tear and burn the ships. Arrows flew in both directions, fired by both northern riders and Tiran sailors. Several griffins crashed dead into the river, their necks pierced with arrows. The ships rocked madly and sails blazed. One dragon screamed, arrows in her neck, and shifted back into human form; she crashed into the water.

  Lyana rose higher, arrows whistling all around. The river stretched before her, a great stream that flowed into the southern horizon; it ran for so many leagues it could take days to clear. She snarled and dived again, raining fire on more ships. More arrows flew. One scraped Lyana's cheek, and Wila shouted upon her back.

  "Five damn arrows in my shield!" she cried to Lyana. "Bastards."

  Lyana could not spare the woman a glance, but she heard the whoosh of Wila's arrows flying by her ears. Two arrows pierced sailors upon ships below. The sails and masts blazed.

  Lyana growled, flew along the water, and dived again. More ships burned, and more griffins and dragons fell pierced with arrows and spears.

  Screeches sounded in the south.

  Black shadows took flight.

  "Here they come!" Lyana shouted over her shoulder to her warriors. "Griffins—into battle formations, go! We'll hold them back. Dragons,
you keep burning those damn ships!"

  She growled, beat her wings madly, and shot forward. A hundred nephilim rose from the trees alongside the riverbanks like giant diseased crows. They shrieked and drove toward her. Lyana roared and blew her flames. Griffins shrieked around her and reached out their claws. The nephilim crashed against them with thuds and exploding fire.

  Blood splattered the trees and turned the rivers red. Dragons shot below, spraying fire. Ships burned and sank. Arrows filled the sky. Nephilim rose everywhere, and claws thrashed at Lyana, and she roared and bit into diseased flesh, then spat out maggots. Griffins shrieked and fell and clawed all around her.

  Lyana shot between nephilim, soared higher, and gazed south. The river stretched into the horizon, thick with hundreds of ships. All along the riverbanks, more nephilim were taking flight. Southern Iysa still lay too far to see.

  But we will reach the city, Lyana swore. We will pave a path of fire toward it, and we will burn it down.

  "Dragons, keep burning the ships!" she shouted. "Griffins, battle flights of four—hold those nephilim back!"

  The griffins and nephilim crashed and bit and clawed, and blood sprayed in mists. Below, dragons flew against the ships, and smoke rose in plumes.

  Lyana cursed as she killed. It would be a long, bloody flight south.

  ELETHOR

  They streamed across the desert, thirty thousand strong, a swarm of dragons and griffins all bearing archers of Osanna upon their backs. The dunes raced beneath them and the mountains loomed ahead.

  Elethor bared his fangs.

  Thirty thousand. It was the number of souls who had lived in Requiem before the wyverns attacked. Thirty thousand. They would crush the Palace of Whispers and they would catch Solina and they would burn her.

  "We will show you no mercy today, Solina," he hissed as he flew, flames in his mouth. "We will take no prisoners. You will stand no trial in our fallen halls. Today you die."

  Scales clanked and fire blasted. Treale darted up to his side. The black dragon stared with narrowed eyes, teeth bared. A snarl left her maw, and a dragonhelm rose upon her head, crowned with blades.

  "My king," she said and gave him a deep stare. "I fly by your side. I will kill for you. I will burn the enemy for you."

  "Not for me, Treale," he said. "For Requiem. For the souls of our fallen. For the souls who still live."

  All around them flew their warriors: dragons of Requiem with flames in their nostrils, true dragons of the east with fluttering beards, griffins with beating wings and yellow eyes, and upon every beast's back a warrior of Osanna bearing arrows and spears. They flew grimly, staring ahead in silence, rising and falling like waves upon the wind. Thirty thousand—a great northern host of light and fury.

  The dunes rolled below, soon giving way to rocky fields, boulders, and hills. The noon sun pounded when the host flew over the mountains, and their shadows raced across rocky slopes. Nothing lived here; Elethor saw no plant or beast. There were only these rocky peaks, this white sky, and this glaring sun. The silence unnerved him and he growled.

  Where are you, Solina?

  They kept flying, a cloud of scale and steel. The mountaintops jutted beneath them like the fallen bones of ancient stone gods. Finally they saw it ahead, and Elethor hissed and his heart twisted.

  The Palace of Whispers.

  It still lay leagues away, but even from here, Elethor could barely believe its size; it looked larger than a city. He could not decide whether the Palace of Whispers was a mountain covered with towers, archways, bridges, and walls, or whether he flew toward a fortress so massive it had grown to mountain size. Hundreds of towers rose here, and hundreds of windows and archways led into shadows. All were built of the same tan, hard limestone of the mountains around them; Elethor could see no other color. The Ancients had built this place thousands of years ago, and time had done its work. The towers rose, craggy and twisting like stalagmites. The walls lay crumbling and bent like castles of sand after a wave. And yet, despite its age and dilapidation, this place still held power; Elethor felt it emanating like heat.

  He kept flying toward the mountain. His host flew behind him. Elethor growled deep in his throat.

  It's too silent, he thought. Damn too silent.

  He could see no movement upon the towers or walls of the great fortress. No nephilim shrieked or flew. No banners fluttered. The ruins seemed dead, and that unnerved Elethor more than a cloud of demons.

  "I fly with you, my king," Treale said, voice strained. Upon her back, her rider—a young man named Jadin—nocked an arrow.

  They flew closer. The mountain grew ahead. Soon it loomed before them, a monolith large enough that nations could live within it. Still silence covered the land; Elethor heard nothing but the beating wings and snarls of his host. No Tiran soldiers. No nephilim or wyverns or phoenixes. Nothing but desert wind and those old stone battlements.

  Only a league separated them from the palace now. The towers and walls dwarfed them. Thousands of windows and archways peppered the mountain like maggot-holes. And still—silence. Stillness. Nothing but rock and wind.

  A creak sounded.

  A twang followed.

  Something moved upon a tower ahead.

  Elethor growled.

  A lone trebuchet had fired. The missile flew their way—a round ball of clay. It arced in the sky, dived down toward them, and slammed against a griffin.

  An explosion tore the sky.

  A boom rang out so loudly Elethor screamed. Light blasted. The impact tore the griffin apart; the beast scattered into gobbets of flesh. Flames burst out in rings. Ten more griffins—those who surrounded the one hit—tumbled down, lacerated and bloodied, wings and limbs torn off.

  "Tiran fire!" Elethor shouted. "Keep flying—topple those towers!"

  He had barely finished his sentence when a hundred twangs sounded ahead. A hundred clay balls flew toward his host.

  "Dodge them!" Elethor howled. "Fly higher!"

  He soared. Upon his back, his rider—a gruff, mute knight of Osanna—fired an arrow and hit a clay ball two hundred yards away. It burst with light that blinded Elethor, and the blast of air sent him spinning backward. He crashed into a griffin, beat his wings, and rose higher. His warriors were scattering. Explosions rocked the sky, one after another. One clay ball slammed into a dragon, light blazed, and blood and flesh flew. A single, severed arm tumbled down toward the mountains.

  "Keep flying!" Elethor roared. His ears rang. He did not know if anyone could hear him. "To the towers! Burn those catapults. Treale—with me!"

  The black dragon flew above, scales splashed with blood. She nodded, dived, and flew at his side. They drove toward the fort's towers. Hundreds rose ahead, and more catapults fired. More balls of clay arced through the sky.

  Elethor darted left and right, dodging the missiles. Treale flew at his side, whisking around like a bee set to sting. The clay missiles missed them, and explosions blazed at their backs, blasting them with heat. The two dragons flew toward twin towers that rose ahead upon a peak; each held a catapult and Tiran soldiers in tan cloaks.

  "Treale, burn the left one. I've got the right!"

  He swooped toward the tower. The Tirans fired arrows. Elethor roared. One arrow snapped against his shoulder. Another thrust into his leg. He spewed a jet of fire.

  The tower top blazed. Men fell burning and rolled. The catapult rose in flame. To his left, Treale blew fire against the other tower, and its men burned and fell like comets to thump against the mountainsides.

  Elethor looked back at his army. Most were still flying toward the fortress. From a hundred other towers, more missiles flew. Every second, a blast blazed across the sky, and more dragons and griffins fell dead.

  "Attack the catapults!" Elethor shouted. "Tear them down!"

  A flight of griffins—four swooping birds—flew down toward one tower. A clay missile flew and slammed into one beast. The griffin burst into blood and gore. One other griffin shrieked and
tumbled, burning. The remaining two swooped and their talons tore down the catapult. Arrows pierced them, they crashed upon the tower, and the Tirans leapt onto them with swords.

  "Treale, there, the walls!" Elethor said. "Dive with me."

  She snarled and flew toward him. They swooped together. Below upon a snaking wall Tirans were firing three more catapults. Behind them in a ditch, baskets lay stacked with balls of Tiran fire—a hundred or more.

  The two dragons blew their fire, drenching the wall.

  "Treale, soar!" Elethor shouted. "With me!"

  They began to rise, flying straight up.

  White light flooded them.

  The sky burned.

  Flames licked their feet and Elethor could hear nothing but the ringing, see nothing but white light. He thought that he had died, that he flew in the afterlife of starlight.

  He could see the faces of his family—Orin, his father, and his mother. They awaited him, clad all in white, and smiled. They reached out to him.

  "Elethor!" they cried. "Elethor!"

  I'm flying to you… I can almost reach you… I…

  "Elethor!"

  A tail slapped against him. He looked and saw Treale flying by him. Ugly welts spread across her tail and back legs.

  "Elethor!" she said. "The fortress—look."

  He turned his head and looked down. He flew so high, he could cover the fortress with his feet. Dust rose in clouds. Elethor spun and began to dive, Treale at his side. When they grew closer, he saw it.

  A great hole stretched across the fortress where the Tiran fire had burst. The opening loomed fifty feet wide, large enough for dragons to fly through. Inside, Elethor saw burrows and halls where men raced.

  "We're going in, Treale," he said. "Can you fight? Is it bad?"

  She snarled and howled in rage. "I can fight! I fight for you, my king."

  For the first time, Elethor saw that the rider on her back was gone. Her saddle was singed black. When Elethor looked over his shoulder, his stomach plummeted and he wanted to gag. His own rider still sat upon his saddle—a charred corpse with a gaping skull.