Song of Dragons: The Complete Trilogy

by Daniel Arenson

  Gloriae didn't bother turning to face him. She kept directing the horse down the dirt road, bouncing before Kyrie in the saddle. "Not until we cross the Alarath River. If we're to reach Fidelium by the new moon, we have a schedule to keep."

  Kyrie groaned. "Gloriae, seriously. My thighs and backside have blisters growing on their blisters. How can you ride so much? The horse is exhausted, and so am I." He pointed east. "I see a village. Let's go find an inn, eat, and rest."

  Gloriae nodded. "You're right, Kyrie. Let's go to town."

  Kyrie raised his arms in triumph, then wobbled in the saddle, and wrapped them around Gloriae again. "Great. Finally you're seeing some sense."

  They rode toward the village. A small fort rose upon a hill—merely a tower, wall, and stables. A score of cottages nestled below the hill by a temple and tavern. Fields of wheat and barley surrounded the village, fluttering with birds.

  "Do you think anyone's alive in this one?" Kyrie asked. At the last few towns they'd passed, everyone was dead, soulless, or hiding.

  Gloriae nodded. "I bet we can find a new, living horse." She rode past the cottages, heading toward the fort and stables.

  "What? Gloriae! Stop it. Stop it! Turn this horse around right now, and take us to that tavern." He moaned. "Oh stars. I can smell beef stew from here, and bread, and beer."

  Gloriae sniffed the air. "I can smell fresh horses ahead. You were right, Kyrie. This horse is exhausted. We'll find a fresh one."

  Kyrie cursed to high heavens, and would have jumped off the horse, were he not terrified of breaking his neck. Gloriae was deaf to him, and Kyrie could do nothing but cling to her, arms around her waist, as she rode past the village. Once they reached the fort and stables, Gloriae finally stopped the horse and dismounted.

  "Now you may get off the horse," she said.

  Kyrie dismounted and moaned. His thighs were so chaffed and stiff, he could barely walk. He rubbed them.

  "I'm going to that tavern," he said. He began limping downhill, leaving Gloriae behind. After a few yards, he regretted walking. Walking now hurt just as much as riding. Kyrie sighed. He wished they could have flown. Flying was the way to travel. But how could they? At daytime, anyone would see two flying dragons. And at night, well... he wasn't going anywhere in the open at night, not anymore.

  He reached the tavern, stepped inside, and found more soulless people. They lay on the tables and floors, drooling. Kyrie tried not to look at them and stepped into the pantry. His eyes widened, his nostrils flared, and he sighed contentedly.

  "Lovely," he said to himself, admiring the smoked hams, biscuits, jars of preserves, turnips, and best of all—caskets of ale. He licked his lips, prepared for a solid few hours of dining and drinking.

  Hooves sounded outside. "Kyrie Eleison!" came Gloriae's voice from outside the tavern. "Are you in there? Come. I have a fresh horse. We ride."

  Kyrie snorted. "You ride, I eat."

  Her voice darkened. "Don't make me come in there to get you."

  Kyrie took a bite of ham, chewed lustfully, and called out with his mouth full. "I'd like to see you try."

  Not a minute later, Gloriae was dragging him by the hair out of the tavern.

  "Ow!" he cried, sausages and bread rolls falling from his arms. "Let go, I'm carrying food and drink here, for stars' sake."

  She glared and gave his hair a twist. He groaned. "You're lucky I'm dragging you by the hair, not your ears... or worse. On the horse. Now."

  She finally released him. Muttering, Kyrie collected the fallen food. He hadn't grabbed much—the sausages, the rolls, two jars of jam, and a skin of ale. He stuffed them into the saddle's side bags.

  "Gloriae, this new horse stinks," he said. "Hasn't anybody washed it?"

  Gloriae mounted the horse and settled herself in the saddle. "No, Kyrie. The stable boys were gone. I reckon they fled into the countryside when the nightshades arrived. The horse is dirty, but it's rested, and has been eating leftover hay. I released our old horse into the farms; it's too weary to keep journeying."

  Kyrie muttered and climbed onto the saddle behind Gloriae. His thighs protested, but he drowned the pain in curses and grumbles. Gloriae kneed the horse, and they left the village and resumed journeying north.

  "So how many more horses are you going to break today?" he asked.

  Gloriae shrugged. "As many as it takes. Benedictus gave us a time and place to meet him. I expect to be there."

  "Benedictus can go eat a toad's warts," Kyrie said. He sighed. "I wonder if the old man found anything. Stars know we haven't found much at Confutatis. Unless you count the fact that Dies Irae is obsessed with glorifying himself, which I think everyone has sort of figured out by now."

  Gloriae turned in the saddle and glared at him. "Kyrie, do you mind not whining and complaining so much? Do I have to hurt you again?"

  Kyrie rubbed his neck. He sighed deeply. "You're right, Gloriae. It's just... I miss your sister. And I'm worried about her, and Lacrimosa, and yes, even Benedictus. I know I've been snapping at you a lot. I also haven't been sleeping much, what with those nightshades shrieking all night, which isn't helping."

  As Gloriae bounced in the saddle, pressing against him, Kyrie knew he was speaking only half-truth. True, the nightshades kept him up a lot. But half the time, maybe most of the time, it was Gloriae who kept him awake. Gloriae's hair in his nostrils. Her body close to his, sometimes pressed against him. Her green eyes, cruel and mocking, and those freckles on her cheeks, and the curve of her—

  Kyrie gritted his teeth. Stop that, he told himself. It was bad enough that thoughts of Gloriae filled his mind all night. He didn't need to think of her—not like that—during the daytime too. He forced himself to think of Agnus Dei again, and his heart melted like butter on hot bread.

  Agnus Dei. As beautiful and tempting as Gloriae was, Kyrie knew that Agnus Dei was his true love. He thought of her brown eyes, her mane of bouncing curls, the softness and fullness of her lips. He thought of her pride, her strength, and the softness she showed only to him. Her heart was pure and good, even if she kept it wrapped in fire. Kyrie missed her. Badly. It ached more than his blisters.

  "Are you okay, Gloriae?" he asked her. "You seem so strong. As if you feel no pain. If you ever want to talk, we can—"

  "Kyrie, save it for my sister. I'm Gloriae the Gilded. I feel no pain."

  Kyrie nodded. He remembered how Gloriae had wept over May's body. How much pain that one must carry... to have grown up in Confutatis, under the iron fist of Dies Irae.... Kyrie couldn't even begin to imagine it. He suddenly felt such pity for Gloriae, that his arms around her felt less like an attempt to keep from falling, and more like an embrace. If she felt the change in his grasp, she gave no note of it.

  They rode silently for a while, Gloriae's curls bouncing as always against Kyrie's face. He occupied himself by looking at the landscapes—hills dotted with oaks, deer, and the occasional fort and village. Every once in a while, peasants, beggars, soldiers, or other motley travellers greeted them on the road. A few seemed hungry enough to attack, but Gloriae and Kyrie merely flashed their blades, and the hungry folk moved on.

  "Come nightfall, most of them will be with the nightshades," Gloriae said.

  Kyrie nodded. Every day, they saw fewer people on the roads, and more bodies in the gutters.

  "At this rate, Osanna won't be much better than Requiem within a week," he said.

  Gloriae turned her head and snarled. "Don't say that," she said. She clenched her fists. "Never say that again."

  Kyrie glared back at her. "Why not? It's true. You released the nightshades, Gloriae. Take a long, hard look around you. The bloody things are turning the world into a—"

  Suddenly she was crying. Kyrie stopped speaking. He had expected her to fume, scream, maybe even attack him. He had not expected this. She turned to face him. Her tears flowed down her cheeks, her lips trembled, and her eyes turned red.

  "Kyrie," she whispered.

  He didn't kno
w how to react. He hated Gloriae. He wanted her to feel pain. Didn't he? Yet somehow—Kyrie couldn't figure out how—they found themselves standing on the roadside, embracing. She wept against him.

  He patted her head awkwardly. "Gloriae, it's okay. We're going to trap the nightshades, and bring things back to normal."

  She spoke into his shirt. "I'm scared, Kyrie. I'm so scared all the time. During the days, during the nights. I did this. I know it. I tried to kill you, and I destroyed the world instead. I'm so sorry." Her fingers dug into him. "I want to go home, Kyrie. I want to ride my griffin again, and live in my palace, and be strong. Be brave. Be certain of my way. I hate being so lost, so confused."

  Her body trembled against him. She leaned back and looked at him with watery eyes, her lips quivering. Strands of her hair covered her face, and Kyrie drew them back, and tucked them behind her ears.

  "Gloriae, have I ever told you about Requiem?" he asked.

  She shook her head.

  "I don't remember much of it," Kyrie continued. "But I know it was beautiful. I remember a stone temple, where chandeliers hung, and monks played harps and sang. The place glowed at night with candles."

  The memories flowed back into him, so real he could almost see them. Gloriae clung to him, staring with those moist eyes.

  "Keep going," she whispered.

  "I would sneak outside of services with my brothers. There were these trees outside the temple. I don't know their name, but they grew hard, green berries. We'd collect the fruit, and have wars, pelting one another from behind logs and benches." He laughed softly. "Requiem is still there. It's ruined now. That temple is gone. The people who prayed there are dead. But you and I are still here, and we have our memories. Once we defeat the nightshades, we'll go back there. We'll rebuild." He held Gloriae's hands. "And then we won't be lost anymore. We'll have our home. We'll have our purpose. We'll have Requiem again. You, me, and the others."

  Gloriae looked to the west, as if imagining those old temples. "That doesn't sound so bad," she said, voice almost a whisper.

  "Not at all," Kyrie said. But he wondered. Was it an empty dream? Could they truly defeat the nightshades? Even if they did, could they stop Dies Irae and his men? He sighed.

  "Let's ride," Gloriae said. "We'll be at Fidelium soon."

  They hid that night in a hollowed out log, which they first emptied of mud, twigs, and mice. The log was just wide enough for them, its bark rough and sticky. The nightshades screeched outside all night, and they could see their shadows and lightning, but they remained hidden and safe.

  In the morning, they emerged from the log with stiff muscles, and found that the nightshades had claimed their horse. The beast lay on its side, mouth foaming.

  "Look away, Kyrie," Gloriae said and drew her sword.

  "Gloriae, what are you— Stop tha—"

  Gloriae thrust down her sword, piercing the horse's brain. It died instantly, gushing blood. Kyrie covered his mouth, feeling sick.

  Gloriae removed her sword, cleaned it with a handkerchief, and stared at Kyrie. Her eyes were emotionless.

  "I put it out of its misery," she said. "Crows and jackals would've been eating it alive within the hour."

  Kyrie couldn't help but stare at the blood, which was now trickling between his boots. He looked back up at Gloriae, and found no pity, no compassion in her eyes. Gloriae the Gilded. The Light of Osanna.

  "Let's go," he said.

  They walked down the road, weapons drawn. Their robes, once white and pure, were now grimy with dirt and blood. Mud covered their boots. They walked all morning, their supplies slung over their backs. At noon they saw Fidelium Mountains in the distance, capped with snow. Kyrie's heart leaped. Agnus Dei will be there. He ached to hold her, kiss her, never leave her again.

  "We travel cross-country from here," Gloriae said. They left the dirt road and walked through a forest of elms, oaks, and birches. Ferns and bushes grew everywhere. Kyrie slashed at them with his dagger. Everywhere were roots to trip him and branches to slap him.

  They emerged from the trees in the afternoon, stepped into a field, and moaned. Kyrie felt like a deflated bellows.

  "The bastard," he said. "How did he know?"

  The mountain was still distant, but they were close enough to see Dies Irae's banners flapping across it. Archers covered the mountainsides, crouching in the snow. Below the mountain, thousands of soldiers drilled, kicking up snow as they marched and clashed swords. Knights on horseback rode among them, armor glinting.

  "Back into the forest, Kyrie," Gloriae whispered.

  They stepped back and hid behind an oak. They peered between the leaves, watching silently as the armies ahead drilled.

  Hundreds of tents spread below the mountain, Kyrie saw. Most were the simple, squat tents of soldiers. One tent was large as a manor, its walls made of embroidered, golden cloth; Dies Irae would be in that one. Three other tents were even larger, their walls black. Those last tents bulged and fluttered, as if beasts swarmed inside them. Kyrie could hear nightshades shriek, and he shuddered.

  "Agnus Dei hid here for a year once," he said. "And you and Dies Irae never thought of seeking her here. How did he know to come here now?"

  Gloriae bit her lip, considering. "Remember when the nightshades claimed Agnus Dei?"

  "Of course."

  "They must have seen her memories. They must have learned of this hideout. And they told Irae. Now he's here, waiting for us."

  A thought struck Kyrie, and he shivered. "You don't suppose that... the others got here before us? That Irae caught them?"

  Gloriae looked at him. Fear filled her eyes. "I don't know."

  Kyrie looked back at the mountain. He watched the golden tent's door open, and saw Dies Irae emerge. He wore his gilded, jewelled armor; it glinted like a small sun. As Kyrie and Gloriae watched from the trees, Dies Irae walked toward the dark, fluttering tent and stepped inside. The tent fluttered more wildly, and the nightshades inside screeched.

  "Dies Irae is having fun with his new pets," Kyrie muttered. "Now we know where he keeps them during the daytime."

  When he looked at Gloriae, he took a step back. She was pale, trembling, her fists clenched. She bared her teeth. She looked like a cornered wolf.

  "I'm going to kill him," she said and took a step out of the trees.

  Kyrie grabbed her shoulder. She spun toward him, snarling.

  "Let go!" she hissed.

  He pulled her back into the brush. "Gloriae, Irae banished you. He disowned you. If you walk up to him now, he'll kill you."

  She snorted, sword drawn. "He won't kill his daughter."

  "You're not his daughter. You know that now, don't you? And Irae must know it too, or suspect it. Gloriae, please. We'll find a better way."

  Her eyes narrowed, and blood rushed into her cheeks. Suddenly she was the old Gloriae, horrible and merciless. "What other way?"

  Kyrie thought fast. "Look at that camp. Irae has been here for a while, I'd wager; at least a couple days. The full moon is tonight. If your family already arrived here—your real family—they'd have seen Irae and backtracked."

  Gloriae's freckles seemed to flash with rage. Golden flecks danced in her eyes like flames. "Where would they go?"

  "To Requiem," Kyrie said. He didn't know if that was true. He knew, however, that he had to get Gloriae away from here—as far as possible. If they lingered, she'd march to Dies Irae, confront him, and die. "We've talked of rebuilding Requiem; they'd know to go there, realizing we'd think the same thing."

  Gloriae considered him, head tilted, as if she were a bird of prey deciding when to swoop. Kyrie wasn't sure why he cared about her welfare. He hated Gloriae almost as much as he hated Dies Irae, didn't he? So what if she confronted Dies Irae and he killed her? And yet... Kyrie didn't want her to die. She was a Vir Requis. She was his companion. And she was Agnus Dei's sister. He would do what he could to save her.

  "Why don't we hide in these woods?" she asked. "We might have a bett
er chance of finding the others here, if they're still on their way."

  A gruff voice answered behind them. "This is why."

  Kyrie and Gloriae spun around to see five soldiers charging at them, swinging swords.

  Kyrie snarled and raised his dagger. He deflected the sword of a sallow-faced soldier with a missing tooth. The soldier grunted and swung his sword again. Kyrie ducked. The sword whistled over his head. Kyrie thrust his dagger and hit the soldier's chain mail; his blade did the armor no damage.

  He leaped back. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Gloriae had killed one man, and was battling the others. The soldier swung his sword at Kyrie again. He parried with his dagger, grabbed a branch, and yanked it. He ducked, and the branch slapped the soldier's face.

  Kyrie thrust his dagger. It sank into the soldier's cheek, scraped along his skull, and entered his eye. The man screamed. Kyrie pushed the dagger deep, twisted it, and pulled. It came free with blood and eyeball juices.

  A second soldier swung his sword at Kyrie. Kyrie jumped back, tripped over a root, and fell. The soldier raised his sword. Kyrie threw a rock at his face. The sword came down. Kyrie rolled and buried his dagger in the soldier's thigh. He twisted and pulled the blade. The man fell, and Gloriae's sword slammed into his head.

  Kyrie panted, glancing around. The five soldiers were dead.

  "Stars," he muttered, heart pounding and fingers trembling. "I only killed one, and you killed four, Gloriae. And you're not even out of breath."

  She pointed her bloody sword to the mountains. "But I can't kill four thousand."

  The sounds of battle had alerted the army. Soldiers were leaving the camp and running toward the trees.

  Gloriae wrenched a sword out of a dead soldier's hands. "Ever use one of these?" she asked Kyrie.

  "Of course," he lied.

  Gloriae shoved the hilt into his hand.

  "Good," she said. "Now run!"

  They ran between the trees, branches lashing their faces, roots and pebbles threatening to trip them. The sounds of soldiers came behind—clanking armor, shouts, hissing swords.