A Night of Dragon Wings (18 page)

"These are no scouts, Garvon.  This is an army, as you said."  He grunted.  "Solina would not invade Salvandos with an entire army; she would not risk angering the salvanae.  Not unless she knew we were here."  He began walking downhill.  "We evacuate.  At once."

"My lord," Garvon began, chin raised, "I say we stay.  We fight.  We slay them upon the—"

"The days of fighting are over," Elethor said, still walking downhill.  "At least until Lyana and Bayrin return with aid.  We flee to the temple."

Garvon muttered as he walked downhill, breath snorting and armor clanking.  "That temple might make us miss the nephilim.  I prefer fighting beasts I can see, rather than ghosts.  Beasts you can cut and burn."

They had discovered the temple three moons ago, a network of ruins a few leagues north in the forest.  Elethor had wanted to set camp there, to hide among its fallen statues, crumbling archways, and dungeons.  The others—everyone from Garvon to Bayrin and Lyana—had adamantly refused, quoting old tales of the ghosts who dwelled in those ruins.

The Ancients built those temples,
Lyana had warned,
and some say their ghosts still haunt the place.  Let us hide among trees, not old stones that still whisper.

Yet now these trees were naked, and stones could protect them, even if they had to share those stones with spirits.

He reached the foothills and entered the camp.  The distant shrieks rose louder now.  The survivors stood still, staring south.  Children raised wooden swords as if, with enough courage, they could slay any enemy.  Wounded men lay legless in carts, faces pale.  Mothers clutched babes to their breasts.

One thousand and fifty-four souls.  The last lights of Requiem.

Elethor climbed onto a fallen log.  He gripped Ferus's hilt so tightly his fingers ached.  The people came to stand around him, forming a ring in the forest.  Elethor looked from face to face.  They were pale.  They were afraid.  These were not fighters; nearly all their fighters had died in Requiem.  These were elders, children, mothers, wounded.

"People of Requiem!" Elethor said, looking from face to face.  They stared back silently.  "Queen Lyana and Lord Bayrin have flown to fetch aid; they will return with it, I promise this to you.  But now we must move.  Now we must flee danger.  I will lead you north through the forest, and we will hide among the ruins of Bar Luan.  We will find safety there until help arrives."

The people exchanged dark glances.  They whispered prayers and curses.  One old man drew his sword and a child whimpered.  They had all heard stories of Bar Luan, the fallen temple of the Ancients.  In a thousand bedtime stories, they had heard of the ghosts who wandered there, the spirits that sucked the blood of the living, and the old pain in the rocks.

Yet what choice do I have?
Elethor thought. 
We can face old stories.  Or we can face beasts that fly upon the sky.

The distant shrieks rose higher—cruel, inhuman shrieks, high-pitched like shattering glass.  A stench wafted on the wind, scented of corpses.  A child began to cry, and a few of the wounded whimpered.  A young woman cursed and drew a chipped sword.

"Be calm!" Elethor said.  "Danger approaches; the enemy flies from the south.  We will hide in the temple, and we will find safety there.  I promise this to you.  I swear it on the name of my fathers.  Now move!  Walk in human form.  Stay under the trees and wear your cloaks of leaf and vine.  Move silently, move fast, and stay under the cover of the branches.  The temple is three leagues away.  Follow me now!"

He stepped off the log.  The ring of people parted, and Elethor began walking north.  His heart pounded so madly he thought that, were he not wearing a breastplate, it could leap from his chest.  He walked silently, lips tight, hand still gripping his sword.  Around him, the people glanced at one another uneasily.

"Follow, now!" Garvon hissed, moving from survivor to survivor.  "Do not pack.  Leave your things!  Move—no, leave your supplies.  Move!"

Behind them in the south, the nephilim shrieked.  Elethor marched among the trees, leaves and twigs snapping under his boots.  Behind him the people walked, faces pale, clutching spears and swords or simple staffs they had carved from fallen branches.

Please, stars, don't let them see us,
Elethor prayed silently. 
Let us live until Bayrin and Lyana return.

They moved through the forest in single file, silent.  These people had fled the phoenixes into the tunnels under Nova Vita, then the wyverns; they knew how to move silently and swiftly.  Strings of leaves covered their heads and cloaks, red like the forest around them.  Eyes darted.  Voices whispered.  Fingers twisted around weapons.

"Legion, Legion!" rose a distant shriek behind them, curdling Elethor's blood.  "You promised flesh!  You promised dragon bones.  We hunger!  We thirst!"

Elethor gritted his teeth.  Around him, the survivors whispered and a few mewled.  The shrieks still sounded distant—leagues away—but louder than the crash of columns.

"We must feast!  We must drink dragon blood."  The cries rolled across the sky, loud and shrill as snapping bones.  "Where do dragons hide?"

Requiem's survivors watched the skies, clung to one another, and raised their weapons.

"Keep moving!" Elethor hissed.  "Garvon, keep them moving."

A hundred men and women served in their new army, a force Elethor had dubbed the Camp Guard; old Garvon led them.  These soldiers, clad in dented armor and bearing longswords, moved along the line of survivors, rallying them forward.  They kept moving through the forest.  Elethor quickened his walk to a run; the others ran behind him.

"I am Legion!" rose a cry from behind.  The stench of rot blazed.  "I am Prophet.  I lead you to dragons!  A camp, a camp!  Dragons were here.  Dragons are near!  I smell them, brothers and sisters.  I smell sweet dragon blood to drink, and bones to crack, and marrow to suck, and meat to lick, and souls to break.  Dragons flee!  Dragons will die."

A shadow shot above the branches overhead.  The survivors bent, wailed, and pointed.  The shadow circled, then soared again, and Elethor snarled.

Stars save us.

He had seen illustrations of nephilim, those spawn of demons and their mortal brides, great lanky beasts with bat wings.  In real life, they were more hideous than anything an artist could draw.  The nephil above looked, Elethor thought, like a strip of dried meat, its fingers clawed, its mouth full of teeth like swords.  A halo of flame encircled its head.  The creature howled, and trees shattered, and the survivors covered their ears.  The sound was so loud Elethor shouted through his clenched jaw.  The scream pounded through his chest; it felt like it could snap his ribs.

"Shapeshifters, shapeshifters!" cried the creature.  More shadows shot overhead.  "Humans walk, humans smell like dragons.  Feast upon them!  I am Legion.  I am Prophet.  I bring you blood and bones!"

Three nephilim swooped, crashed between branches, and landed on the forest floor before them.

Elethor snarled, shifted into a dragon, and blew a stream of fire.  Around him, men of the Camp Guard shifted too and blew their flames.  The nephilim screeched and burned, and a fourth one swooped from above.  Its claws reached out, grabbed a child, and ripped her apart.  Blood spattered.  People wailed.

"Shift and fly!" Elethor shouted.  "Fly, Vir Requis!  Into the sky."

They screamed.  They wept.  They shifted into dragons—elders, mothers, youths.  A few Vir Requis were mere babes or toddlers, too young to shift; their mothers carried them in their claws.

Elethor crashed between the branches into the sky.  Thousands of nephilim swarmed and howled.  At his left, one swooped and grabbed a young red dragon.  The nephil ripped off her head and swallowed it; the dragon's body returned to human form and crashed down.  At Elethor's left, a nephil crashed into a silver dragon, slashed its claws, and gutted the dragon as easily as a fisherman gutting his catch.

"Fly, Vir Requis!" Elethor shouted.  "Fly north.  Fly to the temple!"

He could see Bar Luan perhaps a league away, rising from the forest.  A few staircases, a crumbling archway, and craggy walls remained from what was once a sprawling complex; these remnants would have to serve them now.  Dragons began flying toward it, blowing fire over their shoulders at pursuing nephilim.  Elethor rose, blew a flaming jet at a beast, and ducked to dodge its tumbling body.  Thousands of the creatures covered the southern sky, swarming forward.

"Fly, Vir Requis!" he howled.  "Hide in the temple."  He roasted another nephil, a scaly beast clad in rusted armor, and rose higher.  "Camp Guard, rally here!  Hold them back.  Battle formations, here!"

A clanking white dragon rose ahead, horns long and eyes red—Garvon, chief of the Camp Guard.  A gash ran down his side, seeping blood, but still he fought, blowing fire at nephilim above.  A dozen other dragons, wearing the great dragonhelms of the Camp Guard, rose around them and blew their fire.

"Hold them back!" Elethor shouted.  "Let the others flee.  Flame the beasts!"

Behind him, the women, elders, and children were fleeing north.  Before him and his fellow soldiers—less than a hundred dragons—the nephil host spread.  Thousands of beasts, maybe tens of thousands, covered the horizon.  They screeched to the heavens, and the trees below cracked and fell, and boulders rolled.  The earth itself seemed to shake.

Hovering in midair before the swarm, Elethor bared his fangs and growled.  Around him, his fellow dragons beat their wings and smoke rose from their nostrils.  Elethor's heart pounded, and fear and rage throbbed through him, tingling from his tail to his horns.

"Soldiers of Requiem!" he said to the dragons around him, a mere handful of warriors before the swarm.  "You will hold your ground.  You will hold the beasts back.  You will buy our people time to flee to safety."

Behind him, Elethor heard the survivors of Requiem fly farther; they would soon reach the temple.  Before him, the countless nephilim screeched and soared and circled in the air.  They flew in no battle formations like wyverns or phoenixes; this was a mob of devilry.

"Legion!" they howled. "Legion!  Prophet of the Fallen!"

The great nephil, their champion, rose from flame.  His halo of fire screamed.  His body was lanky; his ribs pushed against skin like dried parchment.  He howled to the sky, teeth long and thin and white, and his wings sprayed fire as he rose.  His cry was so shrill it raised boils across the nephilim around him.

"I am Legion, I am Prophet!" he screeched.  "I have led you to freedom.  I lead you to dragons.  Feast upon them!"

The thousands of beasts howled, beat their wings, and shot forward.

The dragons roared their flames.

 
 
LYANA

She crouched between the roots of fallen trees, stared downhill, and cursed.

The Tiran camp sprawled a mile away, covering the scorched earth.  Sooty palisades, carved from uprooted trees, encircled a mass of tents and huts and campfires.  Thousands of men swarmed there.  Many were soldiers, clad in breastplates of pale steel, suns upon their shields.  Others were masons; they bustled across scaffolding, raising walls of stone.

They are building a fortress here,
Lyana thought. 
A great barracks in the heart of Requiem.

She growled and clutched her sword Levitas.  Once fields had swayed here.  Once House Oldnale had plowed this land, growing barley and wheat and sweet peas.  Today the farms were gone, the earth scorched.  The old bricks of Oldnale Manor, where her squire Treale had lived, lay in wheelbarrows within the Tiran camp; those old stones of Requiem were now growing into the Tirans' fort.

"I swear to you, Treale," Lyana whispered, crouched behind the roots of the fallen tree.  "I will avenge you.  I will return to this place someday, and I will burn those who defile your home."

A screech rose from the camp, and Lyana winced.  Even here, a league away, the sound throbbed through her chest.  She pulled her cloak tighter around her, narrowed her eyes, and snarled.

A dozen nephilim guarded the camp below, patrolling the palisades of sharpened spikes.  Each stood as tall as a dragon, dwarfing the Tiran men.  Their bodies were emaciated, dried flesh clinging to bones, yet their claws and teeth were long and white; Lyana could see their glint even from here.  Bat wings beat against their backs, stirring ash beneath them.  Lyana had been traveling across the ruins of Requiem for ten days now, and she had seen their destruction everywhere:  their drool upon forest floors, corpses of animals torn apart, and trails of the rot they leaked.

Lyana longed to fly down there.  She long to test these beasts in battle—to see how fast they flew, to blow her fire upon them, to kill them upon the land they infested.  Yet she could not—not here, not alone.

We need more than dragons now.  We need the men of Osanna, and the griffins of the east, and the salvanae of the west.  We need aid or the world will fall.

With a grunt, she turned away from the roots and began moving downhill, away from the camp.  Her cloak fluttered in the wind, revealing the armor she wore underneath:  the ancient, silvery armor of a bellator, a knight of Requiem.  Her scabbard and helm bore engravings of the Draco constellation, the sigil of her order.

The bellators have fallen.  I am the last of their number.
  She walked down into the wind.  Dry leaves fluttered around her boots and her cloak billowed behind her. 
Yet I still serve my stars.  Now.  Forever.  Until my last breath.

She walked upon the scorched earth, moving between fallen trees and dead cattle until those stars glowed in the sunset.  Smoke still blew above Requiem, hiding all but the dragon's tail above, yet still Lyana gazed upon those lights, and she prayed to them.

"I still fight for you, stars of my fathers."  She drew Levitas, ancient sword of her order.  "I still fly under your light."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, she shifted into the blue dragon and took flight.  Nephilim patrolled this land; she had seen countless of the beasts while walking across Requiem, peering at them from between trees and boulders.  In the darkness she could fly silently, fire in her maw, sky beneath her wings.  She dived through the cold, long night.