A Night of Dragon Wings (Dragonlore, Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  He roared and shoved one back with his shield. The other lashed claws, scratching across his breastplate and raising sparks. Elethor drove his sword's crossguard into the beast, and its skull cracked, and it howled. The demon behind his shield began biting at the wood, and Elethor drove forward, crushing the beast between his shield and the wall. Another spawn came racing from the forest and leaped onto him, and Elethor crashed down. Within an instant, three of the beasts were atop him, biting and slashing, and one's claw broke through his breastplate to scratch his chest. Elethor screamed and saw nothing but their rotting faces.

  A blade whistled overhead. Steel crashed into a spawn's head, crumpling it like a tin mug, and the creature fell. Elethor leaped to his feet, swung down his sword, and slew another. At his side, he glimpsed one of the survivors, a boy of fourteen named Yar. The boy was trembling but managed to swing his sword again, stabbing another spawn. They swung their blades together, and soon the last of the creatures lay dead.

  Yar shook, bent over, and gagged. Elethor placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. The corpses lay stinking; cockroaches and worms fled from them.

  Elethor stepped over the corpses and looked outside. Across the forest, more female nephilim were falling over, howling and tearing down trees, and spawning their vermin. Hundreds of the infants shrieked.

  At least, Elethor thought wryly, we didn't meet any ghosts.

  "We can't fight them," Yar whispered, trembling. "So many. Hundreds."

  Elethor grunted. "We're trapped in here." He stared at the youth. "Yar, carry the toddlers with you; they are too young to shift. Fly behind me. We're breaking out."

  The youth trembled and clutched his sword before him. "There are thousands of nephilim out there. Where will we go?"

  Elethor stared outside into the forest; he could see the vermin emerging from rotten wombs, crawling to the breast, and feasting upon the meat. In moments, they would be racing here to feast upon Vir Requis too.

  He clenched his fist. Damn you, Solina. Damn you, Nemes. With Garvon dead, Yar was the only survivor in this huddle old enough to fight; the others were mere children. There is no more safety here.

  "Yar," he said, "listen carefully. There is a wide hall among the ruins—about five hundred yards from here. There are stone faces on the walls, and the roots of trees clutch the place, sending trunks up through the ceiling. Don't look outside now! Some Vir Requis hide there, and they hide as dragons; I saw their fire blasting out the windows. Our burrow is too small; we cannot hold back these spawn with our swords. The great hall is wider. We can crouch there as dragons and join our fire to those who already hide there."

  Yar's hands shook around his hilt. "My lord, five hundred yards… stars, we'll never make it. They'll tear us apart."

  Ahead in the forest, the fresh spawn raised their faces from the bloodied torsos of their mothers, stared toward the tunnel, and hissed. With screeches, they came racing toward them.

  "They'll tear us apart here," Elethor said. "Yar, get the others! Follow me to the hall!"

  Snarling, Elethor raced outside into the forest, shifted into a dragon, and blew his fire. The nephilim howled and swarmed toward him.

  BAYRIN

  Bayrin had heard tales of Har Zahav, the mythical golden mountain of the salvanae. In old books, he had read how Kyrie Eleison and Agnus Dei, the great hero and heroine of Requiem, had visited this place to summon the salvanae to aid them. Those books described a volcano of pure gold rising from the forest, above it a sky full of the true dragons. In countless illustrations, tapestries, and paintings Bayrin had admired the scene: the two Vir Requis, among the last of their kind, flying to the golden hall under a sky of coiling, glittering salvanae with flowing beards and crystal eyes.

  During the journey here, Bayrin had imagined himself like Kyrie Eleison, the old prince of Requiem, and imagined Piri as Agnus Dei, the fiery warrior-princess. He had imagined them too flying among wise salvanae toward a mountain of wonder and magic.

  Now Har Zahav rose before him, the golden mountain of legend, and Bayrin's eyes dampened at its glory lost. Nephilim had flown here. Whatever beauty had once shone here had fallen to their rot.

  "Stars," Piri whispered, flying beside him. Her eyes dampened. "Stars, Bayrin, we're too late."

  A battle had raged here not long ago. The pines lay smashed and burnt below. The mountain did rise ahead—triangular and golden like in the paintings—but blood and ash now coated it, and the corpses of both salvanae and nephilim lay upon its slopes. More bodies littered the forest below: salvanae torn into segments, the glow of their eyes dimmed, and nephilim charred with lighting, their corpses bustling with maggots.

  "When the wyverns attacked last year, we found no allies," Bayrin said softly. "The world did not believe that Solina could threaten it too. Stars, Piri. Look at this world now."

  Those salvanae who had first found Bayrin and Piri in the forests now flew around them. At the sight of their bloodied mountain and the corpses of their brothers, the salvanae tossed back their heads and cried with grief. Their calls rang out like mournful bells, like forests weeping, and their tears fell as rain into smoldering fires.

  "Salvandos!" they cried. "Salvandos, land of the true dragons! We will avenge you, land of Draco. Your beauty rivaled the light of stars, Salvandos! You were brighter than sunlight, sweeter than wine."

  Gliding beside him, her lavender scales glimmering under the veiled sun, Piri looked at Bayrin with soft eyes.

  "Are the other salvanae all dead?" she whispered.

  Bayrin looked ahead across the smoldering forests to the mountain. He squinted and then breathed in relief.

  "Look, Piri," he said and pointed a claw. "Some still live."

  A group of salvanae rose from the mountain, their scales splashed with blood. They coiled skyward, wailing in grief, then dived down the mountainside toward their slain kin. Flying serpents, they had no limbs or wings, and Bayrin caught his breath, wondering how they would lift the bodies and carry them to burial. The salvanae opened their mouths wide, tears in their eyes.

  Piri gasped and looked aside. "Stars, Bayrin! They… stars! They're eating them!"

  As he glided toward the mountain, Bayrin stared with disbelief. Piri was right. The living salvanae took the tails of their fallen into their mouths. They began to swallow the fallen like snakes swallowing their prey. As they ate the dead, more salvanae coiled above, singing songs of mourning. The clouds parted, and rays of light fell upon the golden mountain, and the song rose like the keen of harps. Bayrin knew he should be horrified. Stars, they're cannibals! And yet, as he glided upon the wind, this act—the consumption of the fallen—seemed not obscene but deeply sad, deeply respectful.

  "It's a last honor," he whispered. "The fallen will become part of the living. Their blood will live on."

  When the bodies were gone, the salvanae rose—heavier and rounder—into the air. They coiled toward the top of their golden volcano and vanished inward into darkness.

  Above the mountain floated a great, golden salvana with a flowing white beard. He came flying across the charred forest toward Bayrin and Piri; they met above golden, bloodied foothills.

  "Children of Draco," said the salvana, and his eyes shone with tears.

  Bayrin recognized him; here was Nehushtan, High Priest of Salvandos. Bayrin had seen the wise old dragon in Requiem; Nehushtan had visited Nova Vita a year ago to meet with Elethor.

  Sudden rage filled Bayrin, erupting from his nostrils with puffs of smoke. He wanted to slash his claws at the old salvana, to slam him against the mountain, to burn him dead.

  When the wyverns attacked, you abandoned us! he wanted to shout. Elethor begged you for aid, and you refused. Look at you now! Look at your dead.

  He fumed, unable to speak. Nehushtan only looked at him, tears in his eyes. When Bayrin looked into those great, glittering orbs like crystal balls, his rage faded. Such sadness lived in those eyes, such regret.

  I am sorry, those eyes seemed t
o say to him, and starlight swirled inside them. I am sorry and I will forever mourn.

  Hovering in midair, Bayrin snorted smoke and looked aside.

  "Nehushtan," he said. "I am Bayrin Eleison, a son of Requiem, and this is Piri Healer, a daughter of our stars. We come on behalf of King Elethor and Queen Lyana. Let us fly into your hall. Let us speak." He looked over the bodies of nephilim that still littered the mountain and forests. "We have much to discuss."

  Smoke rose from scattered fires. Ash painted the sky. The stench of rot filled the air. Salvandos burned, and the salvanae above wept, their tears falling as rain to wash the blood and soot. Bayrin thought back to that day eight years ago when Solina had fled Requiem, scarred and screaming of vengeance. Now that vengeance burned the world.

  Nehushtan turned and began flying around the mountainsides, and Bayrin and Piri followed. Upon the western slope, they found more bodies, blood, and rot. Hundreds of nephilim lay dead upon the foothills like great insects swept down a river. A great hole loomed open in the mountainside, its rim showing the marks of claws and teeth. The mountain was not solid, Bayrin saw, but hollow; through the hole, he saw salvanae coiling among orbs of floating light. They seemed to fill the mountain like ants filling a hive.

  Beard flowing like a banner, Nehushtan coiled through the air, flew into the hole, and vanished into the mountain. Bayrin glanced at Piri, and she looked back, eyes sad. They flew side by side, heading over the bodies and through the gaping hole. They entered the hall of Salvandos.

  The mountain's innards loomed around them, a cavern the size of a city. Glowing orbs floated through the hall, casting their light upon golden walls and burrows. The place indeed seemed like a great hive; salvanae coiled through the air, flowing from and into round passageways. Far below upon a polished floor, a pile of nephilim lay dead and burnt between fallen boulders. Several dead salvanae lay around them, torn apart.

  Nehushtan flew upward and crashed between a cluster of floating orbs, sending the balls of light flying. Bayrin and Piri flapped their wings, rising after him. He led them to a wall of pods like a honeycomb. Thousands of the alcoves covered the wall; the heads of salvanae peeked from some, their eyes blinking and their beards hanging.

  Nehushtan hovered before one pod. He turned to look at Bayrin and Piri and nodded.

  "You will spend the night here," the old priest said. "Inside you will find sweet fruit and sweet water, and you will rest." His lips pulled back, revealing sharp teeth, and his brows pushed low; suddenly his face was terrible, a mask of rage. "And tomorrow, children of Draco… tomorrow you will fly with the hosts of Salvandos. Tomorrow we will fly to blood and death and song. Tomorrow we fly to war."

  With that, the true dragon flew away into shadow.

  The entrance to the pod was round and narrow; it could perhaps fit a slim and long salvana, but not a bulky dragon of Requiem. Bayrin clung to the opening with his claws, shifted into human form, and climbed in. He looked over his shoulder to see Piri do the same.

  The pod was long, round, and narrow—a cozy little nook. Standing here in human form, Bayrin felt like a small forest critter nesting in a hollow log. Fresh leaves carpeted the floor, and the walls were carved of smooth stone. In the back lay clear, round vessels holding fruits, wine, nuts, and leafy greens. At first Bayrin thought these made of glass, but when he lifted a sphere, it burst and spilled berries into his hands.

  Bubbles, he thought and began to eat. The berries too burst when he ate them, spilling juice down his throat. He began tearing into the other bubbles and feasting.

  "Come on, Piri!" he said through a mouthful of almonds. "It's good."

  He looked over his shoulder at her… and the rest of the almonds fell from his gaping mouth. She stood naked before him, holding her cloak in one hand. Her body was tall, lithe, and tanned. She let the cloak drop and took a few steps toward him.

  "Bayrin," she said softly. "Forget about your belly for now. Take me instead."

  He sighed and rose to his feet. She took his hands and smiled at him, a smile that began seductively but ended trembling, and her eyes dampened.

  "Piri!" he said and touched a tear on her cheek.

  She placed her hands in his hair and kissed him deeply. Her lips were soft and full, and her tongue sought his, and her naked body pressed against him. For a moment Bayrin closed his eyes, overwhelmed with the warmth and softness of her.

  Then he broke their kiss and looked aside.

  "Piri, I can't," he whispered. "I'm sworn to another."

  She touched his cheek, tears in her eyes. "I know, Bay. I miss Mori too. She was my princess and my friend. But… it's been moons now. We lost so many in Nova Vita. I loved Mori, but we have to move on; we have to realize she is gone. I am so sorry for your loss, Bay, but…" Her tears flowed. "But I love you. I need you now. I've loved you for years, Bayrin—since our first kiss four winters ago under the stars. You remember that night, don't you? Will you not return my love now, here, as the world burns?"

  She tried to kiss his lips again, but he turned his head, and her kiss landed on his cheek.

  "Bay," she whispered, held his head, and turned it toward her.

  He stepped back and held her waist, keeping space between them. He stared into her eyes.

  "Mori is still alive," he said, unable to keep anger away from his voice. "I know it. I can't betray her." His voice softened and he held her hands. "Stars, Piri, you are beautiful. You are kind and brave and you are…" He couldn't help but look down at her naked body, then up again, and a sigh fled his lips. "Stars, but you are perfect. But I can't. Not while there's still a chance Mori will return."

  She nodded, tears on her cheeks, and closed her eyes.

  "Then hold me one last time," she whispered. "Please, Bay. Hold me just once and hold me tight, because I'm so scared."

  He held her close, his arms around her, and she laid her head upon his shoulder.

  Behind her, a figure stepped into the pod. A voice rose, high and hesitant.

  "Bayrin?"

  He looked over Piri's shoulder.

  His breath died.

  At the doorway, clad in a white cloak, stood Mori.

  ELETHOR

  He flew across the temple ruins, roaring fire.

  "Vir Requis!" he shouted. "Fall back to the main hall! Fall back! We gather in the Hall of Faces."

  That hall, once the central temple of Bar Luan, rose at the back of the ruins. Over thousands of years, the rest of the complex had fallen to the encroaching forest; roots, trunks, and branches had gradually broken down Bar Luan's outer walls, smaller homes, and statues. The great Hall of Faces, however, still stood. Its walls were pockmarked and green with moss. The great stone faces upon those walls, each as large as a dragon, were smoothed with countless winters of rain and snow. Holes gaped open in the walls, punched by tree roots or the slow pummeling of the years.

  Today fire blasted from those holes, burning the spawn of nephilim. Some dragons hid inside that great hall; there was safety there, Elethor thought. But many Vir Requis—hundreds of them, perhaps—still hid across the rest of the complex. These ones crouched in human forms. They hid under fallen statues, inside the small stone homes of ancient monks, or in tunnels that had once led to cellars. These hideouts had protected them from the fully grown nephilim; those beasts were too large to enter burrows where humans could fit. Now, as Elethor flew above the ruins, the spawn of nephilim scuttled across the ruins like cockroaches, entering every hollow and hole and feasting upon what flesh they found. Hundreds swarmed.

  Three nephilim took flight from a craggy wall and flapped toward him. Their claws reached out, and their teeth snapped. Elethor doused them with fire. More nephilim soared from the ruins below and crashed into him. Elethor swiped his tail and crushed one's head. Another clawed his legs, and Elethor howled and flamed it.

  "Vir Requis!" he shouted. "Fly with me! To the hall!"

  A few Vir Requis burst out from their hiding places. Three children—ju
st old enough to shift—emerged from a cellar, shifted, and took flight. Nephilim screeched and swooped toward them. From under a statue rose a silver dragon; she clutched her babe in her claws, a boy too young to shift. Three youths ran from inside a crumbled old home, took flight, and roared fire.

  "To the Hall of Faces!" Elethor howled. "Enter through the windows at the back."

  He flamed another nephil. To his left, three dragons soared. Nephilim crashed into them, claws swinging. One of the dragons screamed, then fell as a bloodied human girl. Beneath Elethor, three graybeards ran from a cellar, swinging clubs at nephil spawn. One old man fell, and the spawn leaped onto him, and blood sprayed.

  The nephilim covered the sky. More kept rising from the trees. Elethor cursed and began flying toward the temple, spraying his fire.

  "Fly!" he shouted. "Vir Requis, to the hall! Follow!"

  Dozens of dragons soared around him, blowing their flames. Walls of fire rose around them. Nephilim tried to break through. They blazed and screeched and fell. The trees below kindled, and smoke filled the sky. Elethor coughed, barely able to see. More dragons kept rising from below. More nephilim crashed into them, biting and clawing. One crashed onto Elethor's back, and its teeth scraped his shoulder, and he roared and bucked. He slammed his tail like a scorpion, driving its spikes into the nephil; as the beast fell, he flamed it.

  "To the Hall of Faces!" he cried. "Enter the windows."

  He began circling the great, crumbling temple. Through holes in the walls and ceiling, he saw hundreds of Vir Requis inside. Most huddled in the center of the temple in human forms. The rest stood as dragons at the walls, blasting fire from windows, archways, and holes.

  "We're sending people in!" Elethor shouted at them through a hole in the roof. "Make room!"

  The dragons inside nodded, pulled back from one window, and opened a path for survivors. At once, the nephil spawn began clattering up the wall outside toward the window. Elethor swooped and whipped his tail, shoving them off. He blasted flames against the wall, burning the others.