Kyrie's claws almost caught her, but Dies Irae's mace slammed into them, knocking them away. Kyrie howled and blew fire into the sky. One griffin rose behind him, clung to his back, and bit his shoulder.
"Fly, Kyrie!"
The last thing Mirum saw was Dies Irae's mace. It swung toward her head.
She felt only an instant of pain.
White light flooded her.
Floating.
Her spirit... flying, gazing down upon her body, her blood upon the mossy old stones of Fort Sanctus, her home, the home of her forefathers.
And then... nothing but light.
Father....
Child....
She could now see nothing, nothing but white, but she could imagine the rolling lands of her realm, their proud towers standing again, the sea that called her home.
I'm going to that world, the kingdom of waterdepths, the land of seaweed and seashells, of beads of light and endless sleep, endless wonder.
It was like falling asleep...
...and she was gone.
KYRIE ELEISON
"Mirum!" Kyrie howled.
The griffin on his back shrieked and dug its talons into him. Kyrie struggled, lashing his tail, and freed himself. Two more griffins flew at him, one from each side.
Mirum....
Tears in his eyes, Kyrie pulled his wings close. He swooped from the tower top to the boulders below, the rocky beach, and the crashing waves. Water sprayed him. He twisted, skimmed across the water, and shot up. The griffins followed, reaching out their talons.
"No... Mirum...," Kyrie wept. He could barely see the waves, the clouds, the fort, the griffins that followed. All he could see was the image of Dies Irae clubbing Lady Mirum, the image of her falling, head cracked. Dead. She could not have survived that blow; Kyrie knew it. And yet... he had to go back. He had to get her body, to bury her at sea.
Fly, Kyrie! Her voice still echoed in his mind. Leave me!
A griffin slammed into Kyrie, and its talons ripped off scales. Kyrie screamed, pain blazing. He blew flames, roaring red flames of all his fury, setting the griffin alight. It shrieked so loudly, it hurt Kyrie's ears. It swooped into the sea, then emerged smoking and screaming.
Fly!
"I'll come back for you," Kyrie swore... and he flew.
He flew low and skimmed the water, the wind lashing him. He was soon a league from Fort Sanctus. When he looked back, he saw the griffins following. Dies Irae, Gloriae, and Molok rode them. Damn. Dragon eyes were sharp—sharper than his eyes in human form—and Kyrie could see that Dies Irae glared, his thin mouth curving. His mace was raised.
Let's see how fast you bastards can fly, Kyrie thought and narrowed his eyes. He pumped his wings. At night, streaming over fields and seas, he could travel hundreds of leagues in a flight. Now he flew faster than ever. There was no way those griffins could fly half that fast, Kyrie told himself. Not while bearing armored riders.
He rose above the water, moving higher and higher. He crashed through the clouds and emerged into startling blue sky, the sun a blazing disk above, blinding him. Kyrie found an air current and shot forward, body straight as a javelin. He gritted his teeth and flapped his wings madly, pushing himself forward with all his strength. He was moving so fast now, the clouds below him blurred. The sun hit his back, and the icy air bit him. He had never flown faster.
Beat that, Irae, he thought and grinned bitterly.
Then he heard it.
A griffin shriek.
He turned his head and cursed. Impossible! The griffins were pursuing, bodies like arrows. How could they fly so fast?
Kyrie grunted. He flapped his wings with all his might. His body ached. The air stung him, icicles covered him, and he could hardly breathe. It was cold up here, freezing, the air so thin his head spun. He would not survive much longer at this altitude. Kyrie lowered himself just a few hundred yards, dipping into the clouds. Moisture clung to him and filled his maw, eyes, and nostrils. When he turned his head again, he could see nothing but cloud, but he heard them. They were moving closer. Gritting his teeth, Kyrie kept flying, aching, moving faster than an arrow. He must have traveled thirty leagues, maybe more, but could not lose them. He pulled his wings close, dived, and emerged from under the clouds.
He saw a land of rock and water. He still flew over the sea, but great stone teeth now rose from the water, some hundreds of feet tall. The jutting rock formed towers, snaking walls, canyons of foaming sea. Rising from crashing waves, the rocks looked like forts, with pillars and bridges and tunnels, battlements of some forgotten water gods. The sea roared between the pillars, through the stone tunnels, moving in and out of crevices like the watery breath of sea monsters. Kyrie had never seen this place, this realm of rock and foam and salt, and he gasped at its beauty and danger.
Shrieks sounded above him. Kyrie raised his head and saw the griffins swooping from the clouds, talons outstretched, beaks open.
Damn it.
Kyrie veered aside, but a griffin clawed his leg, drawing blood. Cursing, Kyrie shot into the clouds again. The griffins followed. He dived to the sea, but another almost clawed him. A third flew from below, and Kyrie swiveled, dodging it, then spun again, just missing another griffin. They surrounded him.
Damn the stars!
Kyrie blew fire. The griffin ahead swerved, dodging the flames. Kyrie swooped, zoomed by it, almost hit the water, then straightened himself to skim over the waves. The boulders rose around him, black and jagged, and one almost hit his shoulder. Waves and foam brushed his belly.
You're fast bastards, he thought, but let's see you maneuver.
Stone walls rose ahead, a canyon between them, barely wider than his body. Kyrie flew into the canyon, the walls rushing by his sides. The sea roared below, spraying him with foam, and he could barely see the sky. Screeches came behind him, and when Kyrie glanced over his shoulder, he saw the griffins follow him into the canyon.
Rocks jutted out from the cliff sides, and Kyrie flew up and down, dodging them. He snaked around boulders like liquid silver streaming through a labyrinth. Fire pumped through him, and despite the danger and anguish, Kyrie grinned over gritted teeth. This was what he'd been born for. This was flying. In some places, the canyon walls met above him, forming tunnels. One tunnel was so low, Kyrie's belly grazed the sea as he flew. A thud came behind him, followed by a shriek of pain.
"Having fun, girls?" Kyrie shouted over his shoulder, and saw that one griffin was hurt, its shoulder bleeding. Kyrie grinned and kept flapping his wings, which was hard to do in a tunnel this narrow. His heart raced. I was made for this.
Suddenly the canyon curved, and Kyrie made a sharp turn. His shoulder grazed the stone wall, and he grunted, but he made the turn with nothing but a scratch. Behind him came a thud, a shriek, and a rider's cry; one griffin at least had not made the turn. Kyrie kept flying. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that the wounded griffin was gone. So was its rider, the gaunt Lord Molok. Kyrie hoped he was dead.
The canyon ended, the walls giving way to a network of jagged pillars. Some met above him, crisscrossing, molded together. Kyrie flew up and down, left and right, moving between the pillars at top speed. Around one column, a boulder rose from the waves, and Kyrie shot straight up, under an overhanging stone, left around another column, and quickly down into a tunnel.
Damn, he thought, then heard a crash behind him. A second griffin was gone. Its rider, the beautiful and icy Gloriae, crashed into the water.
One griffin remained now, and one rider.
Dies Irae.
The man who'd killed Mirum.
Kyrie grunted. Now we're even.
Flying between the stone boulders, he spun to face Dies Irae on his griffin. He howled and blew fire.
The flames roared, and the griffin rose, dodging the fire, but hit an overhanging arch of stone. The beast screeched, and Kyrie shot forward, claws slashing.
Dies Irae pulled the reins, and his griffin bucked, raising its tal
ons. Kyrie's claws hit the griffin's leg, drawing blood. The griffin reached out to bite, but Kyrie was too fast. He dodged the beast, then lashed his spiked tail.
He hit Dies Irae, cracking his armor. Blood seeped from the steel. More blood flowed down the griffin's flanks. Kyrie growled.
"You're dead now, Irae," he said. Smoke rose from his nostrils. "You killed Mirum. You killed my family. And now I'm going to kill you."
He sucked in air, prepared to blow flames and roast the glittering, one-armed lord.
Dies Irae raised a crossbow.
So fast Kyrie barely saw it, a quarrel flew. It slammed into Kyrie's chest.
Kyrie howled. Pain bloomed, twisting and sizzling. He knew that pain. Ilbane. The quarrel was coated with the poison.
Kyrie gritted his teeth. No! No. This does not end here. He blew fire.
The flames roared, hit the griffin, and its fur kindled. It screeched, and Kyrie tried to fly toward it, to claw it apart, to crush Dies Irae, but his wings felt stiff. He could barely fly. He dipped several yards.
A second quarrel flew.
Wings aching, pain blazing, Kyrie managed to flap aside. The quarrel scratched his shoulder, tearing off a scale, burning. Kyrie roared. He felt ready to pass out, but he mustered every last bit of rage, horror, and hatred in him, and he shot forward.
For Mirum. For my father, mother, brothers, and sisters. For ten years of hiding in stinking barrels. He opened his maw, howling, prepared to bite off Dies Irae's head.
For an instant, his eyes locked with Dies Irae's stare. The man's eyes blazed. He seemed full of so much hate, so much pain, that Kyrie nearly faltered. What was it? What caused the man to hate Vir Requis so much?
It happened so fast, Kyrie barely registered it. Dies Irae tugged the reins, and the griffin shot up.
No! Kyrie tried to follow. He flapped his wings, but felt so heavy. The griffin was shooting into the skies. It was getting away.
"Come back here, coward!" Kyrie howled. He blew fire, but his flames felt weak. They could not reach the griffin, who was only a distant spot now.
A third quarrel came zooming down. Kyrie spun aside, and the bolt missed him. He flew higher and higher, and his head exploded with pain.
"Irae, come back here and finish what you started!" he cried, then shut his eyes with pain. He dipped a hundred yards, another hundred. Another quarrel flew. It sank into his shoulder, and he screamed. He fell. He crashed into the sea. His wings would no longer move, and his muscles ached. Waves roared around him, icy cold, and water filled his mouth. He swam toward a boulder that rose from the waves, clutched it, and climbed onto it.
He became human again.
He clung to the rock, shivering. His shoulder and chest bled, and the ilbane coursed through him. It wouldn't kill him, he knew. He remembered what Dies Irae had said; the stuff was not lethal, but it burned. Worse than the pain was his grief.
Dies Irae had gotten away—gone to fetch more griffins, no doubt. The man was a coward. And....
Kyrie lowered his head. He tasted salt on his lips, and didn't know if it was from the sea, or his tears. Mirum. His best friend, the light of his life. Mirum was dead.
A wave washed over him, and Kyrie barely held onto the boulder. His clothes, which had shifted with him, now clung to him, cold and wet. His veins felt full of lava, and his head felt ready to crack. The waves kept pounding him. He looked around, but saw only furious water, jagged rocks, and pillars of stone. He was a hundred leagues away from shelter, from civilization, from life. He was stuck here on this jagged rock, shivering, bleeding, maybe dying. More griffins would arrive any moment. The waves roared so loudly, his ears ached.
Kyrie lowered his head against the stone. He closed his eyes. It cannot end here. I cannot die here like this. Not now.
He took a deep breath, lungs aching. With trembling fingers, he felt for the parchment map. It was still there, hanging from his belt. It was soaked, but it was still there.
There was only one thing to do now, Kyrie knew. It was a crazy quest, a fool's quest. The chase of a myth. But Kyrie knew it was the only path he could now follow.
He must find him.
He must still live... somewhere.
Kyrie nodded. He would seek Benedictus.
DIES IRAE
Dies Irae could barely hold the reins. His shoulder ached. The armor was dented, and blood seeped through its joints. His griffin, Volucris, was also wounded; his fur smoked and stank, and blood poured down his sides. Dies Irae clenched his jaw and clung to Volucris as he flew. Smoke filled his nostrils, and he grunted and coughed.
It seemed an eternity before he saw land ahead. A beach of black rocks stretched for a hundred yards, giving way to a forest of elms and birches. Gritting his teeth, Dies Irae directed Volucris to the shore. His ears ached as he descended. He landed upon the rocky beach.
Grimacing, Dies Irae alighted from Volucris, then stood before the foaming sea. He removed his pauldron. Beneath the gilded steel, his shoulder was a mess. A bruise was already spreading, and the skin was cracked and bleeding.
Disgusting reptile, Dies Irae thought. Lady Mirum had been hiding him all this time. Dies Irae wished he could club her again, hear the crack of her skull. He should fly back to her body and let Volucris eat it.
He clenched his good fist. Kyrie Eleison. A living weredragon.
Dies Irae spat. How could one of the monsters have escaped him for so long? Dies Irae decided not to kill the boy. No. Once he mustered reinforcement, he would capture the monstrosity, chain him, and display him as a freak for Osanna to jeer at. The last member of a wretched race, Kyrie would become a side show, a curiosity for a menagerie.
Dies Irae sat down with a grunt. Where is Gloriae? he wondered. Last he saw, she was swimming toward a boulder, bruised and battered. Had she flown back to land, or still remained at sea? Either way, she would live. He'd seek her soon.
Fingers stiff, Dies Irae caressed the amulet that hung around his neck, the amulet that contained the blood of the griffin king. As always, touching the amulet calmed him. The Griffin Heart. For centuries, it had hung around the necks of his ancestors, a jewel of Requiem's courts.
When Volucris saw the amulet, he bucked and clawed the air.
"Yes, Volucris," Dies Irae whispered. "Yes, it hurts to see, does it not? It burns your eyes."
The griffin growled, and Dies Irae patted him. Volucris mewled and clawed the beach. Dies Irae remembered that day long ago, the day he took the Griffin Heart, took the amulet that should have always been his.
"For one hundred generations, the Griffin Heart went to the firstborn," he had said that day, a younger man, not yet forty and still full of youth's rage and strength. "Father! How dare you deny me this?" Tears had stung his eyes, and his voice had quavered.
His father sat upon Requiem's throne of twisting oak roots, the throne now chopped up and burned. The king looked down upon Dies Irae, his firstborn, the giftless son. His shame. The shame of the court.
"My son," the king said, "I have told you. This court is forbidden to you. How dare you enter it? How dare you demand a gift from me?"
Around the court of Requiem, the lords stared silently, grim, hands on their sword hilts. They wore green and silver, dragons embroidered onto their tunics. Beyond the columns, Dies Irae could see Requiem Forest, the hoary birches that spread for leagues. Birds chirruped and griffins flew above.
Standing below the throne, Dies Irae glared at his father. "I will not hide in my chambers any longer. I will not sit with the women of your court, learning to scribe, learning to count, learning to become some servant to you. I am your firstborn. I demand the—"
"You are a disgrace!" Father shouted, rising to his feet. Dies Irae froze and stared. So did the lords of the court. Even the birds fell silent. The King of Requiem stood, white hair wild, liver-spotted fists clenched.
"Father," Dies Irae whispered, lips trembling.
The king took a step toward him, jaw clenched. "How dare you
demand anything from me? I do not know whose son you are, boy. You cannot turn into a dragon. What kind of Vir Requis are you? You think you can lead this people, sit upon this throne, use the Griffin Heart to tame them? You are no son of mine. I do not know what human my wife bedded, or how you were begotten, but—"
Dies Irae shouted, tears falling. "I am no bastard son! I am your son. The son of the king. No, I cannot turn into a dragon. I lack the gift. Others do too. Dozens of us were born this way, but you banish us. You make us your servants, but we're not weak. I will take the Griffin Heart. I will wear the amulet. I might not have dragon wings, but I will have griffin ones. And when I control the griffins, you will pay, Father, you will—"
"Brother!" came a voice from behind, and Dies Irae's voice died. Shaking with fury, he spun around to see Benedictus.
His younger brother was entering the hall. He wore green and gray, forest garb. He must have been out hunting, as was his wont. His black curls clung to his brow with sweat.
"Benedictus!" Dies Irae called across the hall. "Prince Benedictus, I should say. Heir to our throne. Baby brother." The words tasted vile.
Benedictus. Born to replace him, Dies Irae, the elder son. Benedictus, the second born. The great Vir Requis prince, able to become the great black dragon. Future king. You too will kneel before me, Dies Irae swore. You too will beg for mercy when the Griffin Heart hangs around my neck.
"Brother," Benedictus said and reached out callused hands. "Father. Please. Do not yell. Perhaps we can give the Griffin Heart to Dies Irae, Father. If I was born to sit upon the throne, he can sit beside me, rule the griffins for me."
Dies Irae spat. "I'll do nothing for you," he said. His hand strayed toward his sword. "I am first born, and I'll not see you sit upon any throne. If I cannot have this throne for myself, and myself only, I will destroy it. I will rule this kingdom, or I will burn it."
With a hiss, he drew his blade.
Bloodlust filled him, painting the world red.
Song of Dragons: The Complete Trilogy Page 4
