Elethor turned and saw light blaze over the battle, overflowing him with white. The eastern cries rose, and the nephilim howled in fear, blinded with the light, their dark scales bleached. They hissed and clawed at one another and wailed to the sky. Elethor looked into the light, and his eyes watered.
"Lyana."
She flew from the dawn, a blue dragon with sunrays bursting around her. She sounded her roar, the song of Requiem, and blew her fire. She charged toward the nephil horde. Behind her from the light emerged more dragons—thousands of them in every color, all blowing their flames, a great host of Requiem roaring its song.
Tears filled Elethor's eyes.
More Vir Requis live. Lyana found them. We are not alone.
The nephilim howled, heads whipping from side to side. Some turned to flee. Others screeched and cowered. Some bared fangs and raised claws. Lyana and her dragons crashed into them, and the world exploded, and beams of dawn blazed through the Fallen Horde like spears of light.
Eagle cries rose in the north, and Elethor turned to see a griffin host—ten thousand beasts or more—their fur and feathers golden in the morning, their beaks wide and their talons outstretched. Riders sat upon them, clad in the armor of Osanna, bearing bows and spears. This host too charged toward the nephilim, ablaze in light and crying for battle. The nephilim wailed and fluttered before them, pierced with arrows.
From the west rose a keening song, clear and cold as winter dawn.
Elethor turned and lost his breath.
"Salvanae," he whispered.
The true dragons flowed from the west, wingless and long, coiling and uncoiling in the sky like serpents upon water. Their beards fluttered like banners. Their crystal eyes shone. Their scales rippled and they trumpeted their song. Among them flew several Vir Requis, flapping wide wings, and Elethor wept in the sky.
A golden dragon flew among them.
Mori. Mori.
From the west, the salvanae crashed into the nephilim, and lightning flowed from their mouths, and their teeth bit the demon host. The nephilim howled in fear. They scattered. They fled. They died and fell upon the scorched earth.
The battle raged through the dawn and day, a tapestry of light and darkness, a song of blood and fire. The armies of the world crashed over the ruins of Bar Luan, and nephilim rained dead, and finally the survivors of the horde turned to flee. Screeching and licking their wounds, those nephilim who still lived flew southward, and the griffins and salvanae chased them and slew them over the forest, so that only a handful escaped bloodied and wailing to their desert queen.
When the sun began to set, Elethor landed upon the ruins of the world, his scales dented and chipped. Nephil corpses piled around him, hiding the forest; countless rotted and bustled with flies, and even the crows would not touch them.
He looked toward a crumbling wall that rose from the carnage. A golden dragon perched atop it, gazing upon the battle with soft eyes. Elethor flew and landed upon the wall too, and the golden dragon looked at him. Elethor's limbs shook and his eyes stung.
"Mori?" he whispered.
She shifted into human form and stood before him, as pale and wispy as a ghost, and her hair fluttered in the wind. Her gray eyes stared up at him, huge pools like oceans under clouds. Elethor shifted too. They stood upon the wall, and he touched her cheek, not sure if she was real or a spirit.
"El," she whispered. "El, we saw the ghosts! The ghosts of Bar Luan! We arrived at your forest camp, and they were fleeing the nephilim, and they summoned us here. Ghosts are real!"
Right then, Elethor did not care about the dead, only the living. He blinked tears from his eyes. He pulled his sister into his embrace and almost crushed her, and he rocked her in his arms, and he whispered her name again and again.
A cackle rose beneath the wall.
His sister still in his arms, Elethor turned and looked down. Upon a pile of nephil corpses lay a bloodied, laughing man. His left arm and both his legs were severed. Blood oozed from his stumps, caked his long white hair, and covered his face, and yet still he laughed hoarsely and coughed.
Elethor growled.
"Nemes," he said through clenched teeth.
The traitor looked up at him, spat blood, and laughed some more.
"You have failed, Elethor," he said, blood in his mouth. "My Lord Legion has left this place; you could not kill him. He returns now to his palace in his southern empire, and he will return, mightier than ever before." Nemes had only one hand left, but he clenched that fist as if clutching onto life itself. "You will bow before him!"
Gently, Elethor removed his arms from his sister, climbed off the wall, and stood before the hacking man. He drew his sword and held it above Nemes.
"You did this, Nemes," he said, chest tight. "You caused this death. You were a son of Requiem! You lived under my roof."
The wretched, dying man spat blood and hissed. His eyes blazed. "I served under your roof—like a worm crawling through the dirt. My father served you, as did his father; our backs nearly broke from bending to you and yours." He spat more blood, spraying Elethor's boots. "But now I bow before Legion, a great lord of darkness. Soon you will bow too, and your back will break, but that will not save you, boy king. You will beg and plead for mercy, but my Lord Legion will lock his jaws around your spine. He will snap you in two before devouring you." Nemes snorted and swept his one arm across the battlefield. "Who do you bring for aid? Griffins? Dragons of the west? Pathetic creatures. Do you think they can hold back the darkness that rises in the south? You have tasted but a bite from Lord Legion's feast. His greatest power still lurks in the desert, and he is coming for you, boy king. You cannot hide from him, only die. Only die."
Elethor growled and placed his sword against Nemes's neck.
"Soon you will be silent," he said. "You have betrayed your people, Nemes; for this you will die."
Silence fell over the battlefield. Elethor was vaguely aware of more Vir Requis coming to stand behind him: Bayrin, Lyana, Treale, and others. They stood silently, watching.
Nemes hacked more blood and laughed again. "I'm already dead, boy king," he said. "So are you. You don't know it yet. But you will. When the jaws of my lord close around you, you will." He coughed blood. "Go on, boy. Go on. Kill me. You were always a coward. You cannot even do this. But I am strong, Elethor, more than you can imagine. I—"
Elethor drove his sword down, piercing the traitor's neck.
He pulled his blade back, stumbled away, and Mori crashed back into his embrace. Bayrin wrapped his arms around them, and Lyana followed, then the others. They stood together, wounded and burnt and bloody survivors upon a mountain of corpses.
Holding his sister, wife, and friends, Elethor looked south. The ruins and bodies stretched for miles, but beyond them hung a cloud and dark mist.
Solina waits there, he thought. That is where we fly. Into darkness. Into the very lair of madness.
He held his friends and family close and shut his eyes, and the pain grabbed him like demon claws.
BAYRIN
He walked through the ruins of Bar Luan, calling her name. Ash covered his face and he shouted himself hoarse, but could not find her. He shifted, flew as a dragon over the carnage, then landed and turned human again. He walked among the dead—so many men and beasts rotting and bloody.
"Piri!" he shouted. "Stars damn it, Piri! Where are you?"
A few others had joined him. Treale walked among bodies across the ruins, armor sooty, also calling the healer's name. Many others searched for survivors: mothers cried the names of their children, wives called for husbands, and even griffins cawed and searched for their fallen comrades. Bayrin moved among the crowds in a haze. His heart would not slow down nor his fingers stop trembling.
"Damn it, Piri!" He shouted himself hoarse. "Piri, where are you?"
Clouds roiled overhead, and rain began to patter. Blood ran in rivulets between the corpses. Rainwater streamed off fallen trees and walls. Bayrin walked around a g
reat, smashed carving of a stoic face—it was large as a dragon—and over the roots of a fallen tree. Dead nephilim lay around him.
"Piri!" he shouted, seeking her in the mud and ruin.
"Bayrin?"
Her voice was so soft, so timid and afraid, that tears leaped into his eyes.
He ran toward her voice. He found her beneath a fallen wall. The stones buried her up to her chest. She looked up at him, only one arm free, and smiled softly. Her head lay in the mud, rainwater flowing around it. Blood soaked her healer's robes.
"Stars, Piri. Hang on."
Bayrin trembled and grabbed the fallen wall. He shouted and grimaced, but it would not move. Piri lay there, watching him, the sad smile never leaving her face. Blood matted her dark braids.
With a growl, Bayrin shifted into a dragon, grabbed the wall with his claws, and pulled at the bricks. The wall crumbled in his claws; it was like grabbing sand. He roared, eyes stinging, and tossed the bricks aside until he revealed her body.
Oh stars.
He shifted back into human form and knelt above her, tears in his eyes. Her body was broken. Every bone in her must have snapped. Bayrin blinked, barely able to see. He touched her cheek.
"Piri, you're going to be fine. I'm going to take you home."
She raised her good arm. It trembled. She touched his cheek and smiled and whispered. He had to lean down to hear her words.
"Bayrin," she whispered. "Bayrin, do you remember Requiem?"
He smoothed her hair. "Of course, Piri."
"I'm flying there now, Bayrin. I can see them." Tears flowed from her eyes. "I can see the columns again, all in silver and moonlight, and I can see my parents there and all those I could not heal." She trembled in the mud and rain. "Bayrin, do you remember how I sneaked into your room once? Remember how surprised you were? And how we kissed, and you said that I was so beautiful?"
He laughed through his tears. "I'll never forget."
She laughed too, a weak, broken sound. "It's a good memory. I never forgot it." She sniffed, eyes red. "It was my best day. I love you, Bayrin. I love you. No! Don't say anything back. I know, Bay. I know." She caressed his cheek. "Be with her, Bayrin. Take care of Mori and be happy with her. Protect her. Promise me."
He nodded and whispered, throat tight. "I will."
"Will you hold me, Bay? One last time?"
He held her in the mud, her head against his chest. She held him with one arm and smiled softly, and her breath died. She stared over his shoulder, and he held her against him, and he wept for her. He placed her down, kissed her forehead, and closed her eyes.
"Goodbye, Piri. May the song of harps lead you to our starlit halls. You will find Requiem's sky. You will fly home."
He shifted into dragon form. He lifted her body gently in his claws. He flew with her. He flew for hours until he found a hill far from the battle, a sanctuary where he could not see or smell the death. Pines rose twisting here, their needles rustling in the wind and coating the ground, and pinecones lay strewn and glistening in the rain. Between the pines he could look west to distant, lush forests, a river, and a lake where deer herded. A quiet place. A peaceful place. A place of pine, water, and memory.
He buried her there and placed his sword upon her breast, a sigil of honor for a soldier of Requiem. He rolled a boulder onto her grave, and with his dagger, he engraved it with her name, a birch leaf, and the Draco stars. He whispered.
"Goodbye, Piri Healer, a daughter of Requiem, a healer of starlight."
He flew back to their camp, found Mori, and held her, and they stood silently together for a long time.
ELETHOR
He stood upon the mountain, the wind ruffling his hair, and gazed upon a host like a frozen sea. Snow swirled through the air, coating the mountainsides, pines, and wrath of wounded nations.
Below him in the valley stood the survivors of Requiem, all in dragon forms—over three thousand of them, joined from his camp and Second Haven. Every Vir Requis old enough to fly and breathe fire stood here in the snow, smoke pluming from their nostrils, frost upon their scales.
East of them stood a host of griffins, over twenty thousand strong, snow in their fur and rage in their eyes. King Vale stood at their lead upon a boulder, the greatest among them, his head raised and his talons like great swords.
Beyond the griffins, an army of salvanae coiled above a frozen lake, as large and mighty as the host of griffins. The true dragons hovered, their long bodies undulating like waves, scales chinking like purses of jingling coins. Their beards were long, their eyes blazing, their breath fuming.
Finally, in a field of grass and stone, stood the soldiers of Osanna. Fifty thousand rallied here, each warrior bearing a sword, spear, and bow. Their breastplates and shields sported engraved bull horns, the sigil of Osanna's Earth God, a deity of all things growing and good and a nemesis of Tiranor's flaming lord. These warriors would ride to battle upon the beasts that flew. From the backs of griffins and dragons, they would shoot their arrows and toss their spears, and when they landed in the cities of Tiranor, they would draw swords and fight the enemy in streets and halls.
"A hundred thousand men and beasts," Elethor said softly as snow swirled around him, coated his beard, and frosted his armor. "Will it be enough?"
He turned to look at Lyana who stood at his side. She reached out, took his hand, and squeezed it. Their leather gloves creaked.
"All free nations fight against the evil in the south," she said. "It will be enough, or we will perish. But fly south we must. I would rather die charging into evil than waiting for it to come."
Her hair, shaved off in her captivity last year, now grew several inches long. It fell across her brow and ears, little cascades of orange curls kissed with snow. Her eyes, green as a spring forest, stared deeply into his. Fields of freckles spread across her pale face; Elethor knew and loved every one.
He looked south over forest and mist, imagining the desert. Tiranor, he thought. So many times, Solina had lain in his arms, or walked with him through the forests, or stood with him upon the hill, and spoke of her desert realm. She would describe dunes kissed golden with dawn, oases lush with palms and birds, and towers of limestone that rose capped with platinum. She spoke of the dragons burning those trees and toppling those towers, and how one day she would restore her land to glory. She spoke of a magical realm of secrets, a desert paradise of pomegranate wine, figs sweet as honey, smooth myrrh and chinking gold—a land of beauty, of wonders, of ancient wisdom.
"We will live there together someday, Elethor," she had whispered so many times in the halls of Requiem, her eyes rimmed red and her fingers clutching him desperately. "It will be our place, our secret land of magic. We will rule there together, queen and king of the desert, so far from the dragons who hurt us."
Elethor had never been to Tiranor, the land that Solina's heart had always beaten for. Now he would see those towers, those oases, and those statues and steel and treasures.
And we will burn them. Stars, Solina, we will burn your land and burn you. He clutched his sword so tightly his fist trembled. You drove me to this, Solina; now Tiranor will rise in flame.
"The north has mustered!" he cried to his army, palm coned around his mouth. "We have gathered our hosts, and we will crush the desert. We fly at dawn tomorrow. Rest tonight, northern warriors. Tomorrow we fly to victory!"
They cheered, a hundred thousand warriors roaring for victory and vengeance and flame. But Elethor only stood, jaw squared, chest tight. He could not roar with them. He could not find joy in this; the fires of war had never lit his heart, and even now, with so many dead behind them, he could not summon the flame that drove Solina, that drove these warriors below the mountain. He held Lyana's hand tight and looked at her. She looked back up at him, lips tight, and nodded.
"I fly by you, my king," she said. "Tomorrow and always. Our wings beat together, and our fires will light the long, cold night."
He spent that night in a tent the men of O
sanna had brought upon griffinback. The tent was wide, its walls woven of thick green cloth, and they had set a bed, a table topped with candles, and a tall bronze mirror within it.
Elethor stood before that mirror and gazed upon himself. It had been moons since he had looked at his reflection. Tonight he barely recognized himself. Two years ago, when Solina had invaded Requiem with her army of phoenixes, he would look into his mirror and see a thin, pale young man with soft cheeks—a boy who pined for his lost love, who shunned the court, who hid within his walls, sculpting his desire over and over. Today, Elethor did not find that boy staring back from the mirror. He was not yet thirty, but looked older; his beard had thickened, his body had grown gaunt and hard, and lines marred his brow. Instead of the soft woolen tunics of a prince, he wore the steel plates of a soldier. Mostly his eyes had changed; they were sunken, hard, and dead as the ruins of a fallen kingdom.
I look ten years older than I should, he thought. And I have the eyes of an old man.
Lyana came to stand by him and placed her hand on his shoulder. She was barely taller than that shoulder, and so thin, but her eyes stared into the mirror with all the strength and grief of an aging, hardened warrior. If he was a battered longsword forged in dragonfire, she was the blade of a knight, scarred with a thousand nicks but strong as the steel of ancient heroes.
She helped him unclasp his armor, piece by piece. She placed his pauldrons on the table, then his greaves and vambraces, and finally his breastplate. When he stood before her in his damp woolen tunic, she placed her hands on his shoulders. She stood on her toes, her eyes still haunted, and kissed his lips.
He began unclasping her armor, buckle by buckle. He moved slowly at first, placing every piece of steel aside. But soon his fingers grew rough, and she gasped as he pulled at the straps, tore her breastplate off, and tossed it aside with a clang. His chest was too tight. His heart pounded with too much pain. He clenched his jaw and swallowed, forcing the terror down, and tugged the lacings of her tunic. Fabric ripped in his fingers, and he let out a hiss that felt almost like a snarl, and tore at her clothes.
A Night of Dragon Wings (Dragonlore, Book 3) Page 22