Table of Contents
SONG OF DRAGONS
BOOK ONE: BLOOD OF REQUIEM
BOOK TWO: TEARS OF REQUIEM
BOOK THREE: LIGHT OF REQUIEM
SONG OF DRAGONS
THE COMPLETE TRILOGY
by
Daniel Arenson
Copyright © 2011 by Daniel Arenson
All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.
BOOK ONE: BLOOD OF REQUIEM
PROLOGUE
War.
War rolled over the world with fire and wings.
The Vir Requis marched. Men. Women. Children. Their clothes were tattered, their faces ashy, their bellies tight. As their cities burned behind them, they marched with cold eyes. All had come to fight this day: the young and the old, the strong and the wounded, the brave and the frightened. They were five thousand. They had no more places to hide.
The dying sun blazed red against them. The wind keened. Five thousand. The last of their race.
We will stand, we will fly, we will perish with fire and tooth, Benedictus thought, jaw clenched. Men will say: Requiem did not fade with a whimper, but fell with a thunder that shook the mountains.
And so he marched, and behind him his people followed, banners red and gold, thudding in the wind. Last stand of Requiem.
It was strange, he thought, that five thousand should move together so silently. Benedictus heard only thumping boots. No whispers. No sobs. No whimpers even from the children who marched, their eyes too large in their gaunt faces. The Vir Requis were silent today, silent for the million of their kin already dead, for this day when their race would perish, enter the realm of memory, then legend, then myth. Nothing but thudding boots, a keening wind, and a grumbling sky. Silence before the roar of fire.
Then Benedictus saw the enemy ahead.
The scourge of Requiem. Their end.
Benedictus let out his breath slowly. Here was his death. The death of these hunted, haunted remains of his kind, the Vir Requis who had once covered the world and now stood, still and silent, behind him.
A tear streamed down Benedictus's cheek. He tasted it on his lips—salty, ashy.
His brother's host dwarfed his own. Fifty thousand men stood ahead: swordsmen, horsemen, archers, all bedecked in the white and gold that Dies Irae had taken for his colors. They carried torches, thousands of fires that raised smoky pillars. Countless griffins flew over these soldiers, shrieking, their wings churning the clouds. The army shimmered like a foul tapestry woven with images of the Abyss.
Benedictus smiled grimly. They burned our forests. They toppled our cities. They chased us to every corner of the earth. If they force us to fight here, then we will die fighting well.
He clenched his fists.
War.
War crashed with blood and screams and smoke.
Benedictus, King of Requiem, drew his magic with a howl. Black wings sprouted from his back, unfurling and creaking. Black scales rippled across him, glinting red in the firelight. Fangs sprang from his mouth, dripping drool, and talons grew from his fingers. Soon he was fifty feet long, a black dragon breathing fire. Requiem's magic filled him, the magic of wings and scales and flame, the magic that Dies Irae lacked and loathed. Benedictus took flight, claws tearing the earth. His roar shook the battlefield.
Let them see me. Let them see Benedictus the Black, for one final time under the sky, spreading wings and roaring flame.
Behind him, the Vir Requis he led changed form too. The solemn men, women, and children drew the ancient magic of their race, grew wings, scales, and claws. They too became dragons, as cruel and beautiful as the true dragons of old. Some became elder beasts missing scales, their fangs long fallen. Others were young, supple, their scales still soft, barely old enough to fly. A few were green, others blue, and some blazed red. A handful, like Benedictus, bore the rare black scales of old noble blood. Once the different colors, the different families and noble lines, would fight one another, would mistrust and kill and hate. Today they banded here, joined to fight Dies Irae—the young, the old, the noble and the common.
This night they fought with one roar.
The last Vir Requis, Benedictus thought. Not humans. Not dragons. Weredragons, the humans call us. Shunned. Today is our last flight.
War. With steel and flame.
Arrows pelted Benedictus, jabs of agony. Most shattered against his scales, but some sank into his flesh. Their tips were serrated, coated with poison that burned through his veins. He roared and blew fire at the men below, the soldiers his brother had tricked or forced into battle today. They screamed, cursed him, feared him; the Vir Requis were monsters to them. Benedictus swooped, lifted several soldiers in his claws, and tossed them onto their comrades. Spears flew. Flaming arrows whistled. Everywhere was blood, fire, and screaming.
War. With poison and pain.
Around him, the Vir Requis flew as dragons, the forms they always took in battle. They breathed fire and roared. Spears and arrows plucked the young from the skies. Their scales were too soft, their wings too small. They hit the ground, screaming, soon overcome with swordsmen who hacked them. Blood splashed. In death they resumed human forms; battered, bloodied, butchered children.
They take our youth first, Benedictus thought. He slammed into soldiers below, biting, clawing, lashing his tail, ignoring the pain of swordbites. They let us, the old, see the death of our future before they fell us too from the skies.
These older Vir Requis—the warriors—fought with fire, claw, and fang. These ones had seen much war, had killed too many, bore too many scars. Soon mounds of bodies covered the battlefield. The Vir Requis howled as they killed and died.
Our race will fall here today, Benedictus thought as spears flew and shattered against his scales. But we will make a last stand for poets to sing of.
And then shrieks tore the air, and the griffins were upon him.
They were cruel beasts, as large as dragons, their bodies like great lions, their heads the heads of eagles, their beaks and talons sharp. In the books of men they were noble, warriors of light and righteousness, sent by the Sun God to fight the curse of Requiem, the wickedness of scales and leathery wings. To Requiem they were monsters.
Today Benedictus saw thousands of them, swooping beasts of feathers and talons. Two crashed into him, scratching and biting. One talon slashed his front leg, and Benedictus roared. He swung his tail, hit one's head, and cracked its skull. It tumbled. Benedictus blew fire onto the second. Its fur and feathers burst into flame. Its shrieks nearly deafened him, and it too fell, blazing, to crash into men below.
Panting and grunting with pain, sluggish with poison, Benedictus glanced around. The griffins were swarming; they outnumbered the Vir Requis five to one. Most Vir Requis lay dead upon the bloody field, pierced with arrows and spears and talons. And then more griffins were upon Benedictus, and he could see only their shrieking beaks, their flashing talons. Flaming arrows filled the air.
Has it truly been only five years? Benedictus thought as talons tore into him, shedding blood. Haze covered his thoughts, and the battle almost seemed silent around him. Five years since my father banished my brother, since a million of us filled the sky? Yes, only five years. Look at us now. Dragons fell around him like rain, maws open, tears in their eyes.
/> "No!" Benedictus howled, voice thundering. He blew fire, forcing the haze of death off him. He was not dead yet. He still had some killing in him, some blood to shed, some fire to breathe. Not until I've killed more. Not until I find the man who destroyed us. Dies Irae. My brother.
He clawed, bit, and burned as his comrades fell around him, as the tears and blood of Requiem filled the air and earth.
He fought all night, a night of fire, and all next day, fought until the sun again began to set. Its dying rays painted the world red.
Pierced by a hundred arrows, weary and bloody, Benedictus looked around and knew: The others were gone.
He, Benedictus, was the last.
He flew between griffins and spears and arrows. His brethren lay slain all around. In death, they lay as humans. Men. Women. Children. All those he had led to battle; all lay cut and broken, mouths open, limbs strewn, eyes haunted and still.
Benedictus raised his eyes. He stared at the army ahead, the army he now faced alone. Thousands of soldiers and griffins faced him under the roiling clouds. The army of Dies Irae.
He saw his brother there, not a mile away, clad in white and gold. Victorious.
Bleeding, tears in his eyes, Benedictus flew toward him.
Spears clanged against Benedictus. Arrows pierced him. Griffins clawed him. Still he swooped toward Dies Irae. Fire and screams flowed around him, and Benedictus shot like an arrow, roaring, wreathed in flame.
Dies Irae rose from the battlefield upon a griffin, bearing a lance of silver and steel. Gold glistened upon his armor and samite robes. He appeared to Benedictus like a seraph, a figure of light, ablaze like a sun.
Benedictus, of black scales and blood and fire, and Dies Irae, of gold and white upon his griffin. They flew toward each other over the mounds of dead.
Benedictus was hurt and weary. The world blurred. He could barely fly. He was too hurt, too torn, too haunted. Dies Irae crashed into him, a blaze like a comet, so white and righteous and golden. Benedictus howled, hoarse. He felt Dies Irae's silver spear pierce his wing. He heard that wing tearing, a sound like ripping leather. It was the most terrifying sound Benedictus had ever heard, and the pain seemed unreal, too great to truly fill him. He crashed into the griffin that bore his brother. Screaming, mouth bloody, he bit down. His jaws severed Dies Irae's arm. He felt the arm in his mouth, clad in armor, and he spat it out, saw it tumble to the ground.
Dies Irae screamed, cried, and clutched the stump of his arm. Blood covered him. His griffin clawed Benedictus's side, pain blazed, and Benedictus kicked. He hit the griffin's head, crushing it. The griffin fell. Dies Irae fell. His brother hit the ground, screaming. His griffin lay dead beside him.
Benedictus landed on the ground above his brother.
The battle froze.
The soldiers, knights, and griffins all stood still and stared, as if in shock. Benedictus stood panting, blood in his mouth, blood on his scales, and gazed down at his brother. Dies Irae looked so pale. Blood covered his golden armor and samite robe.
"My daughter," Benedictus said, voice low. "Where is Gloriae?"
"Please," Dies Irae whispered, lips pale, face sweaty. "Please, Benedictus. My brother. Please."
Benedictus growled. He spoke through the blood in his maw, voice hoarse and torn. "You destroyed us. You butchered a million souls. How dare you ask for mercy now? Return me my daughter."
Dies Irae trembled. Suddenly he looked so much as he did years ago, a timid and angry child, a scorned brother cast away from his father's court. "Please," he whispered, clutching his stump. "Please."
Benedictus raised a clawed foot, prepared to strike down, to kill the man who had hunted his race to near extinction. Dies Irae shut his eyes and whimpered. His lips prayed silently and his blood flowed.
Benedictus paused.
He looked around him. No more Vir Requis flew. Their war had ended. The time of Requiem had ended.
It is over, Benedictus knew. No. I will not end it this way, not with killing my brother. It is over already.
With a grunt, Benedictus kicked off the ground, flapped his wings, and rose into the air.
Men and griffins screamed around him.
"Kill him!" Dies Irae shouted below. "Don't let him flee! I want him dead!"
Benedictus would not look back. He could see only the thousands of bodies below. I will find you, Gloriae. I won't forget you.
His wings roiled ash and smoke. Arrows whistled around him, and he rose into the clouds. He flew in darkness. Soon the screams of men and griffins faded into the distance.
Benedictus the Black, King of Requiem, disappeared into the night.
MIRUM
The Lady Mirum was riding her mare by the sea when she saw the griffins. She shivered and cursed.
The morning had begun like any other. She woke in Fort Sanctus to a windy dawn, waves crashing outside, the air scented of sea and moss. Julian packed her a breakfast of bread and kippers wrapped in leather, and she took the meal on her morning ride along the gray, foaming sea. No omens had heralded danger; no thunderstorms, no comets cutting the clouds, no strange pattern to the leaves of her tea the night before. Just another morning of galloping, of the smells of seaweed and salt and horse, of the sounds of gulls and sea and hooves in sand.
Yet here they flew, maybe a league away, their shrieks clear even over the roar of hooves and waves. Mirum saw three of them—great beasts, half lions and half eagles, fifty feet long. In the distance, they looked like seraphs, golden and alight.
Griffins. And they were heading to Fort Sanctus. Her home.
Mirum's mare bucked and whinnied.
"Easy, Sol," she said and patted the horse's neck, though she herself trembled. She had not seen griffins in ten years, not since Dies Irae had killed her father, not since she had sworn allegiance to the man at age sixteen, kissed his hand so he'd let her live, let her keep the smallest of her father's forts.
Sol nickered and bucked again. The griffins were flying closer, shrieking their eagle shrieks. Though still a league away, Mirum could see glints of armor, and the stream of golden banners. Riders. She felt the blood leave her face.
Dies Irae's men.
Maybe, Mirum thought with a chill, Dies Irae himself rode there.
The wind gusted, howled, and blew Mirum's cloak back to reveal her sword. She placed her palm upon the old pommel, seeking strength in the cold steel. It had been her father's sword, the sword he'd worn the day Dies Irae murdered him. Please, Father, give me strength today.
"Come, Sol," she said and dug her heels into the mare. "They're heading to Sanctus. Let's meet them."
Sol was a good horse, well trained, from her father's stables. Most of those stables had burned in the war, their horses slaughtered or stolen, but Sol had remained. She now galloped, kicking up sand and seaweed, the waves showering foam at her side. The morning was cold, too cold for spring. Clouds hid the sun, and the sea was the color of iron. The wind shrieked and cut into Mirum. As she rode, she tightened her woolen cloak, but that could not ease her tremble. Fort Sanctus still lay half a league away, a jutting tower of mossy stone and rusty iron. It rose from an outcrop of rock over the sea like a lighthouse. There was no doubt now; the griffins were flying toward it, and would be there soon. If they found what Mirum hid there....
Even in the biting wind, sweat drenched Mirum. She cursed and kneed Sol. "Hurry, girl," she said. "Hurry."
A wave crashed against a boulder, and water hit Mirum, soaking her hair and riding dress. The gray wool clung to her, salty and cold, and Mirum tasted salt on her lips. In a flash, the memory pounded through her. She remembered herself ten years ago, only sixteen, a youth caught in the war. She remembered Dies Irae murdering her father before her eyes, how the blood had splashed her face.
"He stood against me," Dies Irae had said to her then, bloody sword in hand. "He stood with the weredragons." He spat that last word, the word he'd invented to belittle his foes, as though it tasted foul. He held out a hand h
eavy with rings. "But you need not suffer the same fate. Kiss this hand, Lady Mirum, and join my ranks. Join me against Requiem, and I will let you keep what remains of your father's lands."
She had been a child. Scared. Innocent and shocked. The blood of her father had still covered her, his body at her feet. She wanted to spit at Dies Irae, to die at his sword, to die at her father's side. But she was too frightened, too young. She kissed his ruby ring, swore allegiance to him, swore to join his quest to destroy the Vir Requis.
"Good, my child," he said and kissed her bloody forehead. He knew her that night, raped her again and again, then left her at dawn in Fort Sanctus, alone and bloody, corpses surrounding her.
She had not seen him since that winter.
Fort Sanctus was close now, casting its shadow over Mirum and her horse. It was but a single tower, mossy and old, topped with iron crenellations brown with rust. Once it had been a proud fort, but its soldiers and servants had perished in the war. Only old Julian remained, loyal steward of her father, and several fishermen in the village that sprawled behind the tower. Mirum had done what she could to maintain the place—cleaning the fireplaces, sweeping the floors, and helping to mend the fishermen's nets. She had no money to hire help, and Julian was getting on in years. And so Sanctus had fallen into disrepair, a sore thumb here on the beach, a crumbling tower of moss, rust, gull droppings, and haunting memories.
The waves now pummeled it, raising fountains of foam. Gulls flew around the fort, cawing. Their cries seemed to warn Mirum. "Go! Go!" they seemed to cry. Flee!
Loud as they were, their cries drowned under the shrieks of griffins. The beasts swooped down just as Mirum reined in her horse by the fort.
The griffins were beautiful. Even as horror pounded through her, Mirum recognized this beauty. The fur of their lion bodies shone golden, and the feathers of their eagle heads glowed white as fresh snow. Gilded helmets topped those eagle heads, in the manner of horse armor, glistening with rubies. Their wings, a hundred feet in span, churned the air so powerfully that the sea rippled. When the griffins landed on the outcrop of stone where Fort Sanctus stood, their talons cut grooves into the rock.
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