Song of Dragons: The Complete Trilogy

by Daniel Arenson

  It knows we're alive, Kyrie thought. Stars, it knows.

  The sound of hooves sounded outside.

  "Back, demons!" cried a voice outside. Several other voices screamed. "Back!"

  The nightshade over Kyrie and Gloriae screamed. It was so loud, Kyrie's ears thrummed. With a jerk, the nightshade left them and flowed outside the window.

  Kyrie raised his head an inch. Gloriae did the same, staring at him. Her eyes were ice, as if she felt no fear.

  "Is it gone?" Gloriae whispered.

  Kyrie nodded. "For now. But they'll return. It smelled a ruse. Let's move upstairs, it might be safer there."

  They hurried to the tavern's second floor and entered a bedroom. They found a single bed, two bodies within it.

  "Under the bed," Kyrie whispered. "They might not find us there."

  "Kyrie, these are nightshades. They're smart enough to look under a bed."

  Kyrie glared. "If you have any other ideas, I'd like to hear them. I don't think they're that smart. If they were smart, they'd have caught us in the common room. We leave the bodies in the bed. We hide beneath them. If a nightshade enters the room, it'll see the bodies and leave."

  Gloriae sighed. "Well, I don't have any better ideas, so we'll try it."

  They crawled under the bed. It was dusty, dark, and cold. They crept into the middle and huddled together. The nightshades shrieked outside, and soon the screams of men died. Kyrie could hear the nightshades smash tables and plates in the common room below. He pushed himself deeper into the shadows under the bed, close to Gloriae.

  As Gloriae huddled against him, Kyrie found himself cursing the endless circumstances he found himself pressed against her. First there was the horse, then the table, now this. He tried not to think about her. He tried to ignore the smell of her hair, the curve of her body, the beauty of her eyes. But damn it, how could he ignore all that when he kept finding himself huddled against her?

  Cool it, Kyrie, he told himself again. This is hardly the time or place. And it's Agnus Dei you love. Only her. Not Gloriae.

  As the nightshades screamed downstairs, Kyrie thought of Agnus Dei. He remembered the softness of her lips against his, the warmth of her hands, her mocking eyes. He missed her so much, he ached. He couldn't wait to get back to her, to get away from Gloriae.

  Someday you and I will live together in a reborn Requiem, he thought, willing his thoughts to travel into her mind. We'll be together forever, Agnus Dei. I love you.

  The door burst open, and two nightshades flowed into the bedroom. Kyrie froze, not daring to breathe. Gloriae clutched his hand so tightly, it hurt.

  The nightshades screamed and swirled across the room. The curtains swung, and the lamp on the bedside table guttered. The nightshades sniffed the bodies on the beds, screeched, and then they were gone.

  "It worked!" Gloriae whispered.

  Kyrie nodded. "Let's stay under here for tonight. We might be safe here if they return. You sleep for a few hours, and I'll watch. I'll wake you for your watch."

  He had barely finished his sentence before she was asleep, her face on her hands. Kyrie could barely see her in the darkness. Once, when the moonlight flowed through the window, it touched her cheek. Kyrie marvelled at how soft and white it looked.

  Then shadows covered the moon, and the night fell into long, cold darkness.

  LACRIMOSA

  She walked through the country, watching leaves fall from wilted trees. They glided before her, danced around her feet, and reminded her of the birch leaves that would fall in Requiem. My home.

  She smiled sadly as she recalled the light that had shone between Requiem's columns, and the harpists who walked in white silk, and the birches she would play among as a girl. Those columns were smashed now, and the birches burned, and so did Osanna now lie in ruin.

  Everywhere she looked, Lacrimosa saw the nightshades' work. Smoldering houses. Fallen temples. Bodies lying along the roads. When she saw these empty shells, she wiped the sweat and dirt off their faces, and closed their eyes lest flies nest within them, and prayed for them. She no longer knew if the stars heard her prayers, if they still lit the world. How could such horrors exist in realms where stars still shone? Perhaps their light was not holy, but mere memories of old gods, dying flames.

  Icy wind blew, ash fluttered, and Lacrimosa felt coldness spread inside her.

  "All the world has fallen. Can I still find starlight under the sky? Can I still find joy here for my family?"

  Two more leagues down the road of ruin, and Lacrimosa came upon the soulless body of a knight. He was middle aged, his face weathered, his beard rustling with insects. A swooping vulture was emblazoned on his shield. House Veras, she knew, and lowered her eyes. Her heart felt colder, the world darker. She had seen this coat of arms before. Griffin riders bearing these banners had descended upon her home once; it seemed a lifetime ago. The blood of her parents and siblings had splashed these vulture shields.

  "Are you the man who killed my family?" she asked the body.

  For once, no tears found her eyes. The pain seemed too great for tears; it froze them dry. Had her stars truly abandoned her? Or worse, did they mock her by showing her this knight, this murderer?

  A glint caught her eye, and she stared down. The knight bore a jewelled sword. Sapphires shone upon its hilt, arranged as the Draco constellation. The scabbard was filigreed with silver birches. This was no sword of Osanna. Now tears did fill Lacrimosa's eyes, and streamed down her cheeks. She smiled through them. She fell to her knees and raised her eyes to the sky. She laughed and trembled.

  "You have not abandoned me, my stars," she whispered. She laughed again and clasped her hands together. "I will never more lose hope in your glow."

  She reached gingerly toward the sword, as if reaching for a holy relic. It hissed as she drew it, and its blade caught the light. It shone upon her face like the Draco stars, like the souls of her slain family. This had been her father's sword.

  "I will never more lose faith, Father," she whispered. She took the scabbard and hung it from her belt. "I will never more fear, not with your sword on my waist. I will never more walk in darkness, for I know that your light shines upon me. Thank you for this gift."

  Vir Requis fought as dragons; their swords were beacons of honor, of ceremony, of beauty. Stella Lumen, her father had named this blade. The light of stars. The light of her soul.

  "I will carry your honor. I still fight, Father. For your memory. For your grandchildren. For our lost home. I love you forever."

  She kept walking through swirling ash and dead leaves, her hand on the hilt of her sword.

  That evening, she found a farmhouse among burned fields. The peasants burned their crops to ward off the nightshades, she thought. The sunset red around her, Lacrimosa entered the farmhouse, and found a family there. The nightshades had robbed them of their spirits. The parents huddled over three children, eyes still wincing, mouths still open as if in screams.

  Silently, Lacrimosa moved the bodies away from the hearth, and laid them side by side. She gave them water from her wineskin, closed their eyes, and covered them with blankets.

  Night was falling. Lacrimosa scanned the room and saw a chest by the wall. She hid inside, closed the door, and waited.

  She did not have to wait long.

  The nightshades emerged as the sun set, howled, rattled the house, and shook the chest. Lacrimosa shivered inside, hugging her knees, prepared to leap out if she must, to shift into a dragon and breathe fire. But the nightshades did not sense her. Perhaps they saw the soulless farmers, and knew they had already claimed this house, and moved on.

  She slept fitfully inside the chest, and emerged at dawn with stiff muscles.

  She missed her family. It ached in her belly. Hunger ached there too, but there was no food in this house. If there had been any before the nightshades, looters had taken it. Lacrimosa moved on. Once more she walked through desolation. She wore her father's sword on her hip, and kept her hand
on its pommel.

  In the afternoon, she saw the place she sought. The sea, and the port of Altus Mare, lay before her.

  She had never been to Altus Mare, but she knew it from stories. Poets sang of its crystal towers that gazed upon the sea; its thousand ships of wood, rope, and canvas; its wharfs where sailors, peddlers, and buskers crowded for space. In the stories, it was a place of exotic spices; shrimps cooked on seaside grills and served hot in fresh bread; dancers from distant lands, clad in motley; and a hundred bars where patrons told ten thousand stories of pirates, sea monsters, and adventure.

  Today Lacrimosa saw no life here. Smoke rose from the city, and vultures circled above it.

  She walked the road toward Altus Mare, and found that its walls had fallen, and no guards defended it. She walked in and saw looted shops, children cowering in a gutter, boarded windows, and everywhere—soulless bodies.

  She walked through the narrow streets, hiding her sword under her cloak. There were survivors here, but they huddled indoors. Lacrimosa could see them peeking between shutters, daring not speak to her. She kept walking, found a tavern, and stepped inside. It was empty, and she ate and drank from the pantry, then resumed her walk to the sea.

  When she reached the wharfs, she found that most ships were gone. The poets had spoken of a thousand ships here. Lacrimosa saw only four, and between them—row after row of empty wharfs.

  "They fled this city," came a voice behind her.

  Lacrimosa spun around, drawing her sword.

  She found herself facing a man with rough stubble, a shock of brown hair, and dark eyes. He appeared to be her age—somewhere between thirty to forty—and his weathered face spoke of years at sea.

  He nodded at her sword. "A fine weapon," he said, "but it won't help you here. Not against the creatures who sent these ships fleeing."

  Lacrimosa nodded, fingers trembling, and sheathed her sword. "Forgive me," she said. "I startle easily these days."

  The man squinted and gazed over the empty wharfs. The soulless bodies of several sailors lay there. Vultures were eating them alive.

  "This place is a graveyard, my lady," the man said. "Flee into the countryside. Hide in the hills. Or better yet, fall upon that pretty sword of yours. The death it will give you is kinder than the vultures." He gestured his chin at the birds, then lifted a rock at tossed it at them. They scattered, hissed, then returned to feast.

  Lacrimosa gave the man a closer look. He was dressed as a sailor, she saw, in canvas pants and a leather tunic. A short, broad sword hung from his belt.

  "Why do you not flee then?" she asked. "Why don't you fall upon your sword?"

  He drew that sword, and pointed the blade to one of the remaining ships. She was a small cog, smaller than Lacrimosa's dragon form, with a single mast. She sported the wooden figurehead of a griffin, its paint faded.

  "My ship," the man said. "I sail east today, seeking lands where no nightshades fly. Her name is Leo, after the star." He bowed his head to her. "And my name is Marcus."

  She examined the ship. She creaked as the wind rocked her. Lacrimosa turned back to Marcus and raised her eyebrows.

  "Marcus," she said, "the stars shine upon us. I have five copper coins, and one of good silver. Would you accept this payment? I would sail with you."

  "When ruin covers the world, what could coins buy?" Marcus said. "Smile for me instead; smiles are worth more these days."

  An hour later, they sailed the sea.

  A ship bearing a griffin figurehead, to sail to the land of the griffins. A ship named Leo, to sail to Leonis. Surely she was star blessed, Lacrimosa knew, standing on the ship's bow, gazing into the horizon. The wind whipped her hair and caught Leo's sails.

  She did not know much about sailing, but she learned, and she followed Marcus's orders, and the ship cut through the waters. They sailed east. East to Leonis. East to hope. East where the sun rose, and griffins dwelled, and perhaps Lacrimosa could find aid.

  Marcus joined her at the prow, and placed a calloused hand on her shoulder, and gazed into the sea.

  "You think the griffins can truly fight nightshades?" he asked, squinting.

  Lacrimosa saw old pain in his eyes. For so many years, she had lived the pain of Requiem's loss. Did Marcus feel the same now, his own home destroyed?

  "Do you have a family?" she asked him softly.

  He scratched his cheek. "A wife," he said, voice low. "Once."

  He turned away, entered the ship's belly, and soon returned with a bottle of wine. He opened it, drank, and passed the bottle to Lacrimosa. She drank too. It was strong and thick, and only several sips made her head fuzzy.

  "I'll teach you a song," he said, and began to sing a song about randy sailors, and buxom maidens, and unholy deeds that made Lacrimosa laugh and feel her cheeks burn.

  "You should not sing such songs to a lady!" she said, but could not stop laughing. The song got ruder and ruder as they drank, and soon Lacrimosa sang along, voice loud, singing words she'd normally blush to utter.

  She had not laughed in so long.

  When the bottle was empty, and Marcus had taught her several more songs, she finally fell silent. She gazed into the sea, wrapped her cloak around her, and whispered.

  "The sun is setting."

  Marcus's eyes darkened. "Would nightshades fly this far out to sea?"

  Lacrimosa clutched the hilt of her sword, remembering Marcus's advice. Fall upon it. She shivered. "I don't know."

  Soon they sailed in darkness. It was a quiet night. Lacrimosa heard nothing but the water, gently lapping against Leo, and the creaking of wood and rope. The breeze was soft, and the stars shone above. She saw the Draco constellation in the north, and smiled sadly. Requiem lay beneath those stars.

  Marcus stood beside her, hand on his sword's hilt. For a long time he was silent. Finally he spoke, voice soft.

  "My wife's name was Aula." He stared into the night. "I buried her at sea with my unborn child. I loved her. I don't know why I tell you this. I want to tell someone before...."

  He froze.

  He spun around.

  Lacrimosa followed his gaze and felt her insides wilt.

  Two stars moved toward them from the night. Eyes. Nightshade eyes.

  The creature screeched, and the ship rocked, and Lacrimosa bit down on a scream.

  "Did it see us?" she whispered.

  Ten more pairs of eyes opened in the dark. Screeches jostled the boat, and this time Lacrimosa did scream. Marcus drew his sword, grabbed her arm, and pulled her.

  "Into the hull!" he whispered, pulling her downstairs. "We hide."

  They raced into the shadows, and leaped behind caskets and a roll of canvas. A lamp hung from the ceiling, swaying madly. Lacrimosa's heart pounded and cold sweat drenched her. The shrieks grew louder, and the ship rocked, nearly capsizing. Barrels, rope, and jugs rolled across the floor.

  Marcus gripped his sword. "I won't let them take us alive." His eyes were dark, his jaw tight.

  The ship jolted.

  Splinters flew.

  Lacrimosa screamed, and the ship swayed, and something slammed into it again. More splinters flew. The lamp fell and shattered, and the floor began to burn. A third time, something crashed into the ship, and wood shattered. The head of a nightshade burst into the hull, screaming, eyes blazing. Water followed it, crashing into the ship. A second nightshade slammed into the hull, and the world became fire, water, and smoke.

  The nightshades began tugging her soul, and Lacrimosa howled and fought them. Through the fire and darkness, she saw Marcus draw his sword. He was burning.

  "You will not take us alive!" he shouted.

  He thrust his sword into his chest.

  Lacrimosa screamed.

  Tears filled her eyes.

  With a howl, she shifted.

  Her body ballooned, until she was forty feet long, and the ship shattered around her. Tears in her eyes, anguish in her chest, she dived into darkness. She swam into the black water, seeing
nothing, trembling, Marcus's cry echoing in her mind. Her tail flapped behind her, driving her deeper and deeper.

  The nightshades screamed behind her.

  Lacrimosa swam until her lungs ached, and she hit the seabed. She would need to breathe soon. When she looked above, she saw nightshade eyes scanning the darkness, a dozen pairs.

  Do I die here, at the bottom of the sea? Do I die alongside Marcus?

  Her lungs screamed. She trembled. The nightshades swarmed above, and in the light of their eyes, Lacrimosa saw Marcus's sword. It sank slowly, hit the sand beside her, and was still.

  AGNUS DEI

  "Father, please, will you stop doing that?" Agnus Dei said. She snorted, blowing back a curl of her hair.

  Father growled. "Doing what?"

  "Humming. You've been humming for days."

  He scowled at her, the legendary scowl of King Benedictus. "I do not sing. I do not dance. And I definitely do not hum."

  Agnus Dei shook her fist. "Stars, are you stubborn!"

  They walked in silence for long moments. Their boots rustled weeds that grew from the road. A stream gurgled at their side, and oaks swayed around them, their leaves red and yellow. Blue mountains soared to the east.

  "There!" she suddenly said, wheeling toward Father. "What was that?"

  Benedictus raised his eyebrows. "What?"

  "That sound! That sound that left your throat. That hum."

  He snorted. "That was no hum. That was just me clearing my throat."

  "You clear your throat to the tune of Old Requiem Woods?"

  He sighed and shook his head. "Agnus Dei, do you have something against Old Requiem Woods?"

  She jumped up and down in rage and kicked a rock. "Oh, it is a lovely tune... if you're eighty years old. And you have a lovely humming voice... that is, if you're a toad. But since I'm nineteen, and not a toad, I would dearly appreciate it if you stopped humming. Okay? You've been humming Old Requiem Woods for three days. Three days. I've had enough of Old... Requiem... Woods. For a lifetime."

  His eyes twinkled, and King Benedictus, the Black Fang himself, began to sing. "Old Requiem Woods, where do thy harpists play, in Old Requiem Woods, where do thy dragons—"