"The creature is struggling, yeah?" said one soldier and laughed, and more laughter sounded. Boots kicked Lacrimosa, their steel jabbing, and tears filled her eyes.
"Please," she tried to whisper, but could not speak through the muzzle. The soldiers laughed and kept kicking and jabbing her.
She wanted to shift, to take human form, to try and escape her chains, but dared not. As a dragon, her scales offered some protection. If she became human, the boots and spears could kill her. She remained chained, beaten, spat on. The torture seemed to last forever, an eternity of pain, leaving her squirming and unable to beg for mercy. Finally—it must have been ages before it happened—a voice spoke over the soldiers' laughter.
"Enough."
It was only a cold word, spoken softly, but at once the boots and spears ceased their torture. The boots backed off, slammed together in attention, and one soldier cried out, "The Commander, his lordship Dies Irae, Light of Osanna!"
As the dust settled, Lacrimosa moaned and blinked feebly. She could still not raise her head, and saw only the men's boots and dust, and droplets of her blood upon the ground. A new pair of boots strode between the soldiers, but these boots were not leather. They were made of golden Vir Requis scales—the rarest color—and steel claws grew from their tips, like the claws of a dragon. Dies Irae's boots, Lacrimosa knew.
For a long time, Dies Irae merely stood above her, and though she could not see his face, she felt his eyes boring into her. Then he turned to face his men. "All right, men, you've had your fun. This beast must reach Confutatis alive. If we reach my city, and the weredragon is dead, it will be your hides. Understood?"
"Yes, Commander!" a dozen voices shouted together.
"Leave us," Dies Irae said, and the boots marched away.
For a long time, Lacrimosa lay on the ground, struggling not to whimper. His boots faced away from her, as if he still watched his men depart, or maybe gazed upon his camp in reflection. Finally he turned back toward her, placed his boot under her chin, and forced her head back painfully. Lacrimosa grimaced, the muscles in her neck creaking, and found herself staring up at Dies Irae.
He looked down upon her, cloaked in samite, his armor bearing the jeweled likeness of a griffin. His visor was raised, and Lacrimosa could see his face—a hard face, golden and cruel, so much like the face of Benedictus, but colder. His eyes stared at her, ice blue, and she shivered under his gaze.
"Hello, Lacrimosa," he said. "Hello, sister-in-law."
She could not speak for the muzzle around her mouth, nor had she any words to say to him.
"How is Agnus Dei?" he asked, his boot still under her chin, its steel claws painfully close to piercing her. "How is my daughter?"
Lacrimosa growled, and smoke rose from her nostrils. How dared he? Fury and pain bloomed inside her, a hundred times more powerful than when the men tortured her. She struggled against her chains, but could not free herself, and only froze when she felt the claws of his boots press closer against her. She froze but fumed, a growl in her throat. Agnus Dei is not your daughter, snake, she thought. She is everything like Benedictus and nothing like you. There is nothing pathetic, base, and cruel to her, and you are all pathetic cruelty. I will kill you, Dies Irae, or my husband will.
It was as if he heard her thoughts. "She is my daughter, sweetness. I remember that day in the woods. That day you surrendered to me. You want to kill me now. I see that in your eyes. You may think, even, that you can kill me, or that your husband can. Yes, I imagine that he will emerge from hiding now, that he will fly to Confutatis on some bold rescue mission. I am sure he is flying now in pursuit. I will kill him, Lacrimosa. I will kill him, but I will not kill you, and I will not kill our daughter. No. You two will live."
The way he said it, Lacrimosa knew: Benedictus was getting the sweeter deal.
She growled again, and blew flames from her nostrils, but Dies Irae only laughed. He pulled back his boot, letting her head hit the ground with a thud. He marched away. Soon Lacrimosa heard the cries of griffins, the thud of their wings and the scratching of their talons, and the scurrying of soldiers as they gathered their camp.
Griffin wings fluttered above, a shadow covered her, and talons grabbed her. Dies Irae cried "Fly!" above her, and the griffin lifted her. The ground grew far below her, and a hundred griffins flapped wings.
They flew over fields and forests, and over marble cities where statues of Dies Irae glittered. They flew over mountains and lakes. They flew over Requiem Forest, where the ruins of the Vir Requis courts lay burned and toppled, and when Lacrimosa saw her homeland below, she shed tears.
They flew, a hundred griffins, a bound Vir Requis, crossing hundreds of leagues, heading to the Marble City, to Confutatis, to Dies Irae's home.
Fly west, Agnus Dei, Lacrimosa thought, willing the words into her daughter's mind. Fly away from here, fly to find your true dragons, fly with Kyrie into distant lands. And my sweet husband, I pray that you too flee, that you too fly west, though I know you're coming here, that you're following.
That last thought made fear wash over her, colder and crueler than any fear she'd ever known. As the talons clutched her, and Dies Irae barked commands above, Lacrimosa shut her eyes and trembled.
BENEDICTUS
Benedictus cursed as he flew.
He cursed such foul words, he thought birds might fall dead from the sky, and the clouds themselves wilt. He cursed his old bones, and the wound on his chest that ached in this high, cold air above the clouds. He cursed himself for sleeping while Dies Irae had kidnapped Lacrimosa. Most of all, he cursed his torn wing; it meant he flew so much slower than griffins, flew so slowly as Dies Irae bore Lacrimosa to imprisonment and torture.
"You got what you wanted, brother," he said as he flapped that wobbly, torn wing. The clouds streamed around him. "You got me out of hiding. I'm flying to meet you again."
He knew what he must do. He knew what he should have done years ago. He would meet Dies Irae, kill the man, and steal back the Griffin Heart. With the amulet, he could reclaim the griffins. With the amulet, he could topple Confutatis, that city of marble and gold and malice. With the amulet, he could save Lacrimosa, save his children, create a world safe for Vir Requis.
"I will face you again, brother, and kill you. I spared you last time. No more."
Benedictus sighed, a deep sigh that felt close to a sob. Were these but fantasies? In his mind, he saw himself biting his brother, spilling his blood, killing him for all the evil he'd done. He saw himself with the Griffin Heart, the old hero, King Benedictus risen to reclaim his glory.
He sighed again. Fantasies. Deep inside his old heart, he knew that he flew to his death, a death at Lacrimosa's side. I will die with you in the Marble City, Lacrimosa, but in our hearts, we will be in Requiem.
He thought of his daughters—of Agnus Dei, who grew hunted, and of Gloriae, who grew molded into evil—and a tear fled Benedictus's eye. It had been so long since he'd cried, and when he looked down to see where his tear fell, he saw the ruins of Requiem. Once those forests had rustled with countless birch trees, and Vir Requis children raced between statues, and wise elders walked in robes upon cobblestones. Now the birches were burned, still blackened, and ivy grew over smashed columns. So many lay dead there—a million skeletons burned and broken. His parents, his wise old uncles, his fussy aunts, the cousins he would wrestle and hunt with, his friends... all dead now, all bones and ash.
Benedictus forced his gaze away. He narrowed his eyes and stared east. Confutatis lay beyond that horizon.
Dawn was rising, the sky was clear, and this was griffin country. It's too dangerous to fly in the open, Benedictus thought.
As if to answer his thought, shrieks sounded below. Benedictus stared down to see three griffins upon a fortress.
Benedictus cursed. He tried to fly faster, but could not. As he watched, riders leaped onto the griffins, and they flew toward him.
Benedictus flapped his wings as powerfully as he could, but
his left wing blazed with pain, and he grunted. "So much for out-flying them," he muttered.
He roared, reached out his claws, and then the griffins were upon him.
He took out the first one with a blaze of flame. As it fell burning, the other two griffins attacked, one at each side. Benedictus slammed his tail into the right griffin. He hit its rider, sending the man tumbling to the ground. The left griffin bit Benedictus's shoulder, and he roared.
He clawed the griffin, etching red lines down its flank. The right griffin was riderless, but still attacked, and Benedictus howled as its talons scratched him. He lashed his tail, bit, and clawed. He hit one griffin, and it tumbled. The second bit again, and Benedictus roared and blew fire. It caught flame, and Benedictus bit into its roasting flesh, spat out a chunk, and kicked.
The griffin's rider thrust his lance. It dug into Benedictus's shoulder, and he growled, clawed, and snapped the man's head. The body slumped in the saddle. Benedictus clawed again, and the griffin fell dead from the sky.
Benedictus looked around. Were the griffins all dead?
No. The first griffin he'd burned was still alive, fur and feathers blazing. It shot toward him, screeching, its rider also burning and screaming. The man had removed his armor, and his skin peeled and blazed. His eyes had melted, but his mouth was still open and screaming. Still the griffin flew at Benedictus, talons outstretched.
Benedictus blew more fire. The blaze hit the griffin, pushing it back. It tumbled a few feet, then again flew at Benedictus. It looked like some roasted animal now, smoking and furless, its skin red and black and blistering. The beak was open and screeching, the rider writhing and screaming, a ball of fire and blood.
Benedictus howled and lashed his tail, driving its spikes into the griffin, and finally it tumbled toward the ground. It fell like a comet, still screeching, until it hit the ground and was silent.
Benedictus turned and kept flying after Lacrimosa.
"Damn the fire, and damn the blood," he said, jaw tight. He had seen so many burned this way, so many dying in agony. What was one more to the weight already on his soul? His wounds ached, blood dripped down his shoulder, but Benedictus ignored the pain. What were more scars to those he already bore, and what was more pain to the weight of his memories?
He gritted his teeth and flew.
Distant figures flew a league ahead, mere specks. Benedictus narrowed his eyes. More griffins, he knew. He didn't have to get any closer to know these were no birds, but riders Dies Irae had sent after him. Benedictus cursed under his breath and turned south. Storm clouds gathered there, maybe two leagues away. They would serve as cover. It was out of his way, but clear skies swarmed with griffins. If Benedictus wanted to reach Confutatis alive, he'd have to take the long route.
"I'm sorry, Lacrimosa," he whispered. He flew south toward those storm clouds, glancing east toward the griffins until he no longer saw them. "I'm sorry, love of my life. You'll have to hold on a little longer, but I'm coming for you. I'll be there soon."
His wing ached more than ever, a searing pain that drove down his entire left side. Soon Benedictus flew through rain and thunder. He told himself that the drops on his cheeks were only rain, not tears. Again, as with his hope of defeating Dies Irae and saving his family, he knew that he was lying to himself.
DIES IRAE
As they flew, Dies Irae couldn't help it. He kept looking over his shoulder, scanning the distance for Benedictus. At times he thought he saw the beast, but it was only a distant vulture, or another griffin on patrol, and once—Dies Irae shook his head to remember it—even a crow had made him squint and stare and hope.
Soon twilight fell, and Benedictus had not caught up. Of course not, Dies Irae told himself with a grunt. His brother still had a torn wing; he could not fly as fast as these griffins. It was pathetic. Benedictus, great King of Requiem, was but a slow, lumbering beast.
Should I send griffins after him, hunt him down? No. He will come to me. He will follow.
The setting sun gilded the mountains below. Their western slopes, snowy and undulating, glimmered like beaten gold. Their eastern slopes melted into mist, deep blue and purple strewn with black lines where rocks broke the snow. Yellow and orange wisps ran across the sky, and the clouds burned. The glory of Osanna, Dies Irae thought, admiring the masterpiece that was his empire. My land, beautiful, no longer tainted by the scaled beasts that once covered its skies.
But of course, some weredragons remained. A moan sounded below, and Dies Irae looked down. Volucris still clutched Lacrimosa in his talons. Her scales were dented, and blood seeped from nicks and scratches that covered her. Why does she not take human form? Dies Irae wondered. Why does she remain this beastly lizard? Dies Irae wanted to see her human shape again—ached for it. He remembered that night in Requiem Forest, how he'd pressed his body against hers, grabbed it, squeezed it. His blood boiled at the thought. He wanted that human body again, to clutch it, crush it, hurt it. He'd wanted this for years.
"Down, Volucris," Dies Irae said and tugged the reins. The sun dipped behind a western peak, and though Dies Irae was tempted to fly through the night, he would not. His griffins needed rest. So did his men. And Dies Irae wanted something this night, wanted it now. He looked back down at Lacrimosa, imagined her human form, and licked his lips.
He found a snowy valley and began to descend. His men followed, leading their griffins down in spirals, until talons kicked snow and men dismounted with creaking armor. Volucris tossed Lacrimosa down, and she rolled in the snow, hit a boulder, and moaned. Chains still bound her limbs and wings, and a muzzle clutched her mouth.
"Set camp," Dies Irae told his men. "We spend the night."
His men scurried to raise tents, tether and feed griffins, kindle campfires, and distribute rations. As they bustled across the valley, and griffins gulped chunks of raw cattle, Dies Irae walked toward Lacrimosa. His boots crunched the snow, their golden scales glinting. A cold wind blew, rattling the tents and rustling Dies Irae's cape. He smiled thinly when Lacrimosa saw him approach and whimpered. Snow whitened her chains, and droplets of blood speckled the snow around her. Dies Irae saw the lines of Volucris's claws across her flanks, and his smile widened.
"Hello, Lacrimosa," he said when he reached her.
She stared up and said nothing. A tear streamed down her cheek.
"Darling," Dies Irae said. He placed his good hand upon her head. Her scales were cold, surprisingly smooth, shimmering like mother-of-pearl. "Will you not take human form? I've waited long years to see you again."
She stared up at him. Still she said nothing.
Dies Irae pursed his lips, looked aside, then with a sudden movement, he kicked Lacrimosa's head. She cried out and fresh tears sprung into her eyes. Blood dripped between the iron bars of her muzzle.
"Turn into a human," he said.
She snarled, smoke leaving her muzzle. Finally she spoke, voice muffled behind the iron. "I know what you'll do if you see my human form. I will not allow it. I will not let you rape—"
"I will not rape you," Dies Irae interrupted her. He snorted. "Look at you. Bloody. Covered in ash, snow, and mud. What kind of unclean creature do you think I am? I have my standards, Lacrimosa. Once you were fair; a princess in silk and jewels, young and beautiful, and yes, I took you then. Look at you now. Old. Filthy. What man would touch you?"
She stared at him, eyes blazing, and fire glowed inside her muzzle. Her tears dried, and her stare blazed with such hatred, that Dies Irae snickered. He raised his foot to kick her again.
Lacrimosa flinched, looked away, and shifted.
Her wings pulled into her back, her scales vanished, and she shrunk in size. Her chains and muzzle, shaped to fit a dragon, fell into the snow. She lay before him, bloody and wet, her silvery dress tattered. Her hair like moonlight covered her face.
Dies Irae was surprised by the force of his memories. They hit him so hard, he took a step back. Requiem rushed back into him, not Requiem today of ruins and
ash, but the Requiem where he'd lusted for Lacrimosa, a land of passion and anger.
"Stand up," he said softly.
Lacrimosa raised her head to look at him, and Dies Irae saw that she was still beautiful. He hadn't seen her in... what was it? Fifteen years? And yet her beauty had only grown, even as blood and dirt caked her, even as her hair was tangled and her dress torn. He stared at the tatters of that dress, and at the flesh he could see through it. Her left thigh was bare, and he could see the tops of her breasts, pale and small. Yes, she was filthy, bloody, deplorable, but he wanted to renege on his promise, to grab her, hurt her, take her right there.
"You promised," she whispered to him.
He spat. "Stand up."
Legs trembling, she struggled to rise, and finally stood in the snow. She glared at him, chin raised, snowflakes in her hair. Her body shook; from fear or cold, Dies Irae did not know.
"You promised," she whispered again.
He grabbed her arm, digging his fingers into her white skin. "I lied," he said.
She glared and bared her teeth, as if she were still a dragon with fangs to flaunt. "If you touch me," she said, voice strained, "I will turn into a dragon. I will become one as you're in your passion, as you're inside me, and I will kill you."
Dies Irae hesitated. He hadn't considered that. It was possible, he conceded; she had nothing to lose. If he dragged her into his tent, and took her there, he'd be vulnerable. If she became a beast, her claws and fangs could tear him apart.
"Not if I drug you with ilbane," he said. "I'll fill your mouth with it, like I did that day."
Song of Dragons: The Complete Trilogy Page 16
