Bayrin stood in the forest camp, stuffing his supplies into his pack, when Piri Healer marched up toward him, raised her chin, and announced: "Bayrin, I'm flying with you to find the salvanae."
The camp bustled around them. Over a thousand Vir Requis had been hiding here in Salvandos, several leagues west of the border with Requiem, since Nova Vita's fall. The forest spread around them, leaves red and gold and crunching underfoot, giving way to a chalky mountain that rose like a wall. Elders were tending to pots of simmering stew, children ran playing with wooden swords, and guards in muddy armor patrolled the palisade of sharpened spikes that surrounded the camp.
They had been living here for several moons now, and Bayrin had done his best to avoid Piri during this time. Packing his things today, he had congratulated himself on avoiding her until his very last day here… and now as she stood before him, chin raised and arms crossed, he cursed under his breath.
"Piri," he said and glared, "I fly alone."
She glared back with those lavender eyes he used to marvel at, and which he now hated. She was a tall woman, taller even than most men, and Bayrin had always felt uneasy around women this tall. She wore the white robes of a healer, the hems muddy, and her dark hair fell across her shoulders in two braids. When she scrunched her lips, Bayrin couldn't help but remember kissing those lips four years ago, and the memory sickened him.
"Bayrin Eleison!" she said and placed her hands on her hips. "You know the old saying: Those who fly alone die alone. I'm not letting you fly alone to seek aid from the salvanae. I'm going with you, like it or not."
Bayrin groaned so loudly he blew back a curl of his hair. It had been four years since he'd kissed her, and since then, it seemed Piri followed him everywhere. Before the wars, she would sneak into Castra Murus, barracks of the City Guard, and try to slink into his bed at night. Whenever he would pass her in Nova Vita, she would gaze at him lovingly, sending him fleeing. Even here, in this camp, she had been giving him longing looks for moons now, and he had barely avoided her.
Looking at those flashing, lavender eyes, Bayrin sighed. It was not that he hated Piri; truly, he did not. But stars, why did she have to pursue him so urgently?
So I kissed her. So what? They had rolled around in the hay a few years ago, and she had demanded marriage. Not a week had gone by since their first kiss, and Piri had already planned what they'd name their children. Bayrin had tried telling her he was too young for marriage—and certainly too young for children. He had tried to avoid her since. Yet year after year, she pursued him, tried to kiss him again, even tried to lie with him, and nothing could dissuade her.
"Piri," he said and frowned. "No. Just no. I know why you want to fly with me, and it won't work."
It was her turn to snort. She rolled her eyes. "Bayrin, don't you get a big head. Do you truly think I'm still infatuated with you? I'm long over what happened between us; not every girl in camp loves you, Bayrin Eleison, despite what you might think." She raised her nose at him. "I want to fly with you because I know Salvandos. I've visited Har Zahav before, the mountain where the salvanae live, to train as a healer. You need me as your guide. I've spoken to King Elethor about this, and he quite agrees. Ask him if you like; he will command you fly with me."
Bayrin sighed. He could just imagine Elethor's grin. On many nights back in Nova Vita, Bayrin would complain about Piri's onslaught, and Elethor would howl with laughter. Whenever Elethor—just a young prince then—would see Piri in the city streets, he would point her toward Bayrin and wink as the young woman began her pursuit. One time, when Bayrin had been hiding in an alehouse, Elethor had smuggled Piri inside under his cloak, then laughed for days about the mugs Bayrin had broken trying to flee the place.
"Of course Elethor would say that," he muttered.
He grabbed his longsword and buckled it to his belt, careful avoid Piri's gaze. As he was packing his pan, cutlery, and tinderbox, she kept standing with hands on hips, merely staring. As he was counting his rations—strings of sausages, sacks of oats, and jars of preserves—she began tapping her foot.
"Are you quite ready, Bayrin Eleison, or are you going to wait until the nephilim kill us all?"
He groaned, slammed an apple into his pack, and sealed it shut. He straightened, slung the pack over his back, and glared at her.
"I'm ready," he said. "Are you ready? To shut your mouth, that is?"
"Very clever, Bayrin." She nodded at his sword. "Why take a blade? Surely you could slay an enemy without it; they'll groan to death at your jokes."
She hefted her own pack, which hung across her back. Bayrin grumbled. He couldn't help but notice how the pack's straps pulled her silk robes taut, exposing her curves, or how her lips twisted as she smiled. A memory pounded through him: Piri four years ago, sneaking into his chamber and doffing her cloak to stand nude before him. They had made love three times that sweaty summer night.
With a grunt, Bayrin shoved the memory aside.
It's Mori I love, he thought, and sadness flowed over his memories of Piri's kisses. Mori—pure and beautiful, the love of his life. Stars, Mori, I won't forget you, not now, not ever. I will find you, and when I do, I'll never let you go again.
Eyes stinging, he shifted into a green dragon. He kicked off the earth, crashed through branches, and soared into the sky. He began flying west and shouted over his shoulder.
"If you want to fly with me, Piri, you better fly fast. I wait for no one."
The trees shook as she soared, a lavender dragon with silver horns. Her body was long and slim, her scales were bright, and fire flicked between her teeth. She flew like an arrow. Bayrin cursed, turned his gaze back west, and flapped his wings mightily.
He'd always been a fast dragon—not as fast as Mori, perhaps, but close. He flew now with every last bit of strength, determined to lose Piri over the wilderness. The forests streamed below him, an endless sea of red and gold. Mountain peaks rose ahead, white against the sky and cloaked in clouds. Bayrin dived between them on the wind, the scents of autumn in his nostrils. He flew toward a valley and streamed over a lake. His reflection raced across the water; the reflection of a lavender dragon raced there too.
Bayrin looked over his shoulder to see Piri close behind. Blasts of smoke rose from her nostrils. She snarled at him and beat her wings mightily.
"Bloody stars!" he cursed, turned his head back west, and flew with new vigor.
For a healer, she's damn fast.
"You can't escape me, Bayrin!" she cried behind him. "I'm just as fast."
She had the speed; Bayrin had to admit that. But did she have the endurance? He snarled and flew faster than he'd ever flown. The lake ended and forests of oaks and maples rolled below him. He flew until his wings ached, and his lungs felt ready to collapse, yet whenever he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Piri mere feet behind him. She panted, and her eyes were narrowed to slits, but she kept flying.
How many leagues did he fly? Bayrin couldn't tell; dozens perhaps. His body ached. He remembered flying across the northern sea with Mori, seeking the Crescent Isle, and the memory stung his eyes.
I wish you were flying here with me, Mori. We will fly together again. I promise you.
The sun began to set, and still the blasted lavender dragon flew behind him. Bayrin wanted to keep flying, but smoke rose thickly from his maw, and he was weary, so weary he wanted nothing more than to crash down and fall asleep.
Bloody stars, I'll lose the damn girl tomorrow, he thought and began to dive down. He spotted a clearing between trees where grass grew along a stream. He spiraled down, landed upon the grass, and shifted into human form. It was cold—damn cold—but still sweat drenched him. He knelt by the stream and drank deeply.
Piri landed by him, claws digging into the grass, and shifted too. She panted, and sweat dampened her hair and robes. She too approached the stream, knelt so close by him that their bodies touched, and also drank. She glanced at him, mouth dripping, and flashed a grin.
"Goo
d flight." She reached up and tousled his hair.
He turned aside with a grunt, trudged away from the stream, and lay upon the grass. He was too weary to eat supper, and besides, eating meant having to stay awake around Piri. He turned his back toward her, placed his head upon his pack, and pulled his cloak over him as a blanket. He paused long enough only to kick off his boots, then closed his eyes.
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, barel
y 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.
A Night of Dragon Wings (Dragonlore, Book 3) Page 11