A Night of Dragon Wings (15 page)

Her voice spoke softly beside him.  "Bayrin?"

He ignored her.

She spoke softly again, and he felt her fingers in his hair.  "Bayrin, are you sleeping?"

He grumbled under his breath, keeping his eyes stubbornly shut, though he could feel her looking at him.  The woman was a leech!  He had never met anyone so clingy.  He did not want to speak to her.  He did not want to remember her kisses, those warm kisses that used to intoxicate his youth.  He did not want to remember her lithe, naked body pressed against him, the warmth of her as they made love, her teeth biting his shoulder, or…

Stop it.
  He ground his teeth. 
Stop thinking about her, Bayrin.  It's Mori you love.  It's Mori you are sworn to protect.  Just ignore Piri.

He lay still for long moments, pretending to sleep, and she did not speak again.  Finally he heard her lie down behind him.  She wriggled in the grass, and he felt her pressed up against his back.  Her arm reached over him, and she nestled close under his cloak.

He groaned.

"Piri!" he said.  "What are you doing?"

She cuddled against him, arm draped over him.  He could feel her breasts press against his back, and her hand strayed down, moving dangerously close to the very last parts he wanted her near.  He sucked in his breath.

"I'm trying to sleep," she whispered, her lips touching his ear.  "I thought you were sleeping too."

He wriggled in the grass, moving away from, placing a good foot of space between them.

"Well, sleep away from me!" he said and closed his eyes tight.

He heard her stand, walk around him, then lie down on his other side.  When he opened an eye, he saw her facing him.  She wiggled closer to him, so close that she pressed against his chest.  She sneaked under his cloak, draped an arm and leg over him, and cuddled.

"But I'm cold and I forgot my cloak at the camp," she said. 

"Not my problem, Piri."

His cheeks flushed. 
Stars damn it.
  Her body against his was affecting him, like it or not.  She pressed close against him, felt his arousal, and smiled.

"Please, Bayrin?  I don't want to freeze to death."  She closed her eyes, still smiling, and nuzzled her cheek against his cheek.  "I'm just going to sleep.  I know you still love Mori.  I'm not going to do anything, I promise.  Just… sleep…"

Her voice softened, and soon she was breathing deeply, sound asleep against him.

Bayrin cursed inwardly.  He cursed Piri.  He cursed Elethor for sending her here.  He cursed the desert of Tiranor, and he cursed his own blood for boiling.  Piri mumbled in her sleep and cuddled even closer, pressing hard against him.  Stars, how would he possibly sleep like this?

He sighed.  It would be a long night.  It would be a long quest.

 
 
TREALE

She was stoking the fireplace in Sharik's small, craggy chamber when she heard shouts, ran into the dungeon corridor, and saw the golden dragon.

Her breath died and for an instant Treale froze, eyes stinging and fingers trembling.

She had been working in this dungeon for six days now, serving her master, Sharik.  For six days she had swept his floor, stoked his fireplace, cooked his meals, and—she cringed to think of it—emptied his chamber pot and washed his foul tunics.  For six days she had cleaned up after his work, mopping blood and gore from under the bodies he tortured.  For six days he would grumble, fondle her, slap her if she met his eyes, and spit upon her.  For six days she had tried to grab his keys—but whenever she inched close, she earned another smack that left her head ringing, and at nights his girth would cover his treasure.

And Mori was so close!  Treale had heard the princess whimper down the hall, and she longed to run to her, to whisper under the door, to comfort her, to let Mori know she was here.  And yet how could she?

During the days, Sharik kept her at his side.  She would mop blood from cells where prisoners hung, their flesh lacerated, their skin peeled.  She would collect the fingers he severed and burn them.  She would bring water and food to whimpering or screaming mouths, trying to keep these broken bodies alive.

And yet the chamber at the hall's end where Mori lay… that was forbidden.  In that chamber lay Tiranor's greatest prize, the Weredragon Princess herself.  Only Sharik brought food and water to that chamber.  Only Sharik mopped the blood from that floor.  Even at nights when Sharik slept, Treale could not approach Mori's shadowy cell.  During those long cold nights, Treale languished in her own prison—locked with Sharik in his room, forced to sleep on the floor by his chamber pot and gobs of drool.

And now—after six days of blood and screams that would forever haunt Treale—Mori's chamber door lay shattered across the corridor, and Sharik ran toward the frail dragon that emerged from it.

With a gasp, Treale began running too.

This corridor was narrow, but the golden dragon was frail enough to fit, her scales dulled and her wings limp.  Mori tried to blast Sharik with fire, but only sparks left her mouth, and only wisps of smoke left her nostrils.  She tried to lash her claws, but Sharik's club swung down, and Mori whimpered and fell against the wall.

Sharik raised his club again, prepared to shatter the dragon's head.

With a scream, Treale leaped and clung onto the jailor's back.

"Treale!" Mori cried.

Sharik howled and bucked beneath her, and Treale screamed and clutched his throat, trying to choke him.  His club flailed and slammed against a wall.  He swung the club backward, and pain blazed across Treale's shoulder.  She yowled.  She thought the blow might have shattered her bone.  She slid off Sharik's back and slammed against the floor.  The club swung down, and she rolled aside.  The club cracked the floor by her, and Treale kicked, hitting Sharik's leg.

He crashed down atop her, and Treale gasped and yelped.  His weight was immense; he was thrice her size.  His hand reached out, fingers thick and clammy, and clutched her throat.

Treale gurgled for breath.  She clawed at his hand, but it was like clawing a slab of ham.  She drew blood but could not break his grip.  Stars floated before her eyes.  She thought her neck would snap.  Sharik snarled above her, drooling onto her face; his eyes were mad.  Treale kicked, again and again, hitting his belly; it was like kicking a soggy old mattress.  He seemed not to feel the pain, and his fingers kept clutching her throat, and blackness spread across her vision.

Her eyes rolled back.

Goodbye, Mori,
she thought. 
Goodbye, Requiem.  I'm sorry.  I failed you, Mori.  I failed.

Sharik howled.

The fingers loosened around her neck.

Treale gasped for breath, a gasp she thought could swallow the world.  The blackness pulled back from her eyes like curtains, and stars exploded across the dungeon.  She struggled to her feet, clutching at her throat and hacking, and saw Sharik howl.  Mori's horns had gored him; they pierced his back and emerged bloody from his chest.   The blood soaked his tunic and sprayed Treale's face.

His club lay fallen.  Treale grabbed it and swung.  The wood
cracked
against Sharik's skull.  She felt the blow reverberate up the club, up her arm, and into her shoulder.

Sharik tilted, head caved in, and crashed to the floor.  He lay still, dead eyes staring, blood pooling beneath him.

Behind him, the slim golden dragon mewled, and her magic left her.  Where a dragon had stood, pressing against the corridor walls, now lay a frail, scarred woman with pale skin and wispy hair.

Treale leaped over Sharik's body and knelt over Mori.  She cradled her princess in her arms, and her tears splashed against Mori's cheek.

"Mori," she whispered, holding her princess close.  "Mori, I'm here.  I've come for you.  I'm going to get you out of here."

Mori felt so thin in her arms, barely more than skin and bones.  The princess smiled softly, a ghostly smile, and her eyelids fluttered.

"Treale," she whispered.  "Are you really here?  Is this a dream?"  She reached up with a frail arm—stars, it was nothing but skin and bone!—and clung to Treale's shoulder.  "Treale, I saw them!  I saw Queen Gloriae, and Kyrie Eleison and Agnus Dei—the heroes from the old scrolls.  They fly with us."

Treale's throat still throbbed with pain, and her arms shook with weakness, but she gritted her teeth and struggled to pull Mori to her feet.  Other guards often patrolled these dungeons; they could appear any moment.

"Come, Mori!  Stand.  We have to go now.  We have to run."

She looked around, waiting for guards to appear.  Boots thumped somewhere above and screams echoed through the chambers.  She growled as she pulled Mori to her feet.  The princess could barely stand; she leaned against Treale, her arms around her shoulders.

"You have to walk as fast as you can," Treale said.  She began to take slow steps down the hall.  "Lean on me and let's get out of this nightmare."

Yet Mori did not move.  She looked back at Sharik's body, a lump of warty white flesh and oozing blood.

"Wait," the princess whispered.  "We need to free the others."

Treale hissed between gritted teeth, whipping her head back and forth. 
Stars damn it!
she thought.  The shouts of guards still echoed above; no doubt they had heard the fight, and they would burst into this corridor any moment.  And yet… Mori was right, she knew.  Other screams echoed here: the screams of prisoners who filled the cells, hanging from the walls, skin lashed and bodies broken.

We can't leave them here,
Treale thought.

She moved back to Sharik's body.  For six nights, he had lain snoring upon his keys; it took dying for him to lie upon his other side, the keys exposed.  Still holding her princess, Treale grabbed the ring of keys and wrenched it off Sharik's belt.

"Come on, Mori!" she said, keys in one hand, club in the other.  "Hold onto me and walk, and we're going to get everyone out of here."

She began moving down the corridor, heels digging into the floor, breath rattling and body aching.  The screams rolled above, and boots still thumped, and steel clashed.  Yet still the guards did not appear.  What was happening in the upper chambers?  Treale did not have time to guess.  It sounded like a hundred soldiers were clanking above her; she knew she had only moments before they arrived.

Mori limped by her, arms around her neck, and Treale stumbled toward one cell.  She thrust the keys into the door's lock.  The lock clanked, and the door opened to reveal a cell with three prisoners.

The men lay upon the floor, bloodied and whimpering.  Sharik had dislocated their arms upon the rack.  They trembled, pale and sickly and coughing, blood upon their backs.  For a moment Treale could only stand, breath wheezing, head spinning.

How can we do this?
  Guards shouted above.  Hundreds filled the palace, and thousands filled the city.  Scores of prisoners filled this dungeon, and most were too ill, frail, and wounded to walk; she could not carry them all.

Did I travel to Tiranor only to die in darkness?  Did I survive the fire over Requiem, and fly through smoke and blood, to fall with my princess underground?

Treale tightened her lips. 
No.  No, I will not die here.
  She knelt by the prisoners, somehow holding her club, her keys, and Mori.  She growled. 
We will not die like rats in Tiranor's bowels.  We will find our sky.  We will fly over Requiem again.

"You must stand!" she said to the prisoners.  "Stand and flee!  Move, now, before guards arrive."

The prisoners crawled, struggling for breath, struggling to rise.  One managed to stand, leaning against a wall, then fell and mewled.  The others could not even do that.  More wails rose from the other chambers, and voices cried out to her, begging for freedom, begging for death.  Tears stung Treale's eyes, and she let out a frustrated yowl.

"How can I do this, Mori?" she whispered.  The princess still leaned against her, so frail she could barely support her own weight.  "How can we free them?  There are so many… so many wounded…"

The prisoners were crawling toward her, bloody hands outreached, when a shriek pierced the dungeons.

It was a shriek like shattering glass, like rending souls, the primordial cry of ancient evil.  It was so loud, the dungeon shook and dust rained, and Treale dropped club and key and covered her ears.  The prisoners moaned and fell.  The floor shook and cracks raced along the wall.  Mori winced and also covered her ears, and the shriek kept flowing, rising to an impossible pitch, so shrill Treale thought her eardrums might rip.

When finally the shriek ended, Treale turned to face the cell door.  She raised her club.  Outside in the hall, a shadow was stirring.

Stars of Requiem, be with me.

The torchlight flickered madly outside, casting shadows and red light across the floor.  Something was moving in the hall.  Snorts rose and a stench like rotten flesh and mold invaded Treale's nostrils.  A long shadow fell across the corridor outside the doorway, and the shriek sounded again, so loud Treale fell to her knees and winced and thought her skull might crack.

"Treale," Mori whispered.  She trembled against her.

"Be strong, Mori," Treale whispered back.  Her heart thrashed and her chest rose and fell.  "Whatever walks outside, we will face it."

Was a wyvern crawling in the corridor?  No, impossible; wyverns were too large to fit down here.  Was it a phoenix?  No; she would have felt the heat.  Some beast, some evil, crawled outside the cell.  Its breath snorted as if sniffing for flesh, and claws clanked against the floor, and the shadow neared, and finally the creature appeared at the doorway.

Treale froze.  Such terror pounded through her she couldn't even scream.

She had faced wyverns in battle over Ralora Beach.  She had seen the death of her parents.  She had sailed from Osanna to Tiranor and survived for days in these dungeons, witnessing the blood and gore and agony of Tiranor's torture.  Yet she had never seen anything that filled her with such pounding, twisting, screaming terror.  Her teeth clenched, sweat drenched her, and her knees felt soft as wet cloth.