For the first time, Elethor saw that the rider on her back was gone. Her saddle was singed black. When Elethor looked over his shoulder, his stomach plummeted and he wanted to gag. His own rider still sat upon his saddle—a charred corpse with a gaping skull.
Elethor cursed, tore off the saddle, and let the man fall; they would have to bury their dead later. He dived. Treale dived at his side. They pulled their wings close and curved their flight, racing toward the opening in the mountainside.
"Griffins and dragons!" Elethor roared as he flew. "Into the mountain! Into their halls. Rally here—we enter the darkness."
Thousands of dragons and griffins heard his cry and flew around him. Clay balls shot toward them. Blasts flared. Fire blazed. Griffins and dragons tore apart. Elethor roared, shot a stream of fire into the hole, and men inside burned.
He was first to enter. He dived into the opening and blasted fire in every direction. Upon staircases, bridges, and crumbling floors, men screamed and burned and fell. Arrows clattered against his scales. One slammed into his chest, and Elethor howled and snapped it off. He blew more fire.
He landed upon a rocky floor. Around him loomed a cave carved by the blast. Along the walls, halved hallways and chambers crumbled. It looked like a great ant hive that a giant had punched. Men scurried everywhere, firing arrows, and Elethor blew more flames. Treale and other dragons flew into the cave behind him, and their fire turned the place into an oven.
When the flames died, they revealed a chamber full of charred Tiran corpses. Elethor flapped his wings, grabbed onto the opening of a corridor, and shifted into human form. He ran into the shadows to find more Tirans firing arrows. He raised his shield, and the arrows peppered it. Men shouted and raced toward him, swinging swords.
Treale leaped at his side, her own sword blazing. Elethor raised his blade and snarled. Behind them, more of their warriors—soldiers from both Requiem and Osanna—raised their swords.
They had entered the mountain. The search for Solina began.
MORI
The skies above Irys, ancient capital of Tiranor, swirled with blood, fire, and endless beasts of scale, feather, and rot.
Everywhere Mori looked she saw them. Salvanae streamed around her like banners in a storm, shooting lighting from their mouths. Griffins shrieked and swooped, talons outstretched, to tear down buildings. Dragons blew fire across streets and forts. Upon their backs, the soldiers of Osanna shot a rain of arrows that clattered against streets, rooftops, and the armor of Tiran soldiers.
The warriors of the enemy were not idle. Nephilim filled the sky like murders of undead crows. Phoenixes blazed and shrieked and crashed into dragons, burning them down. Wyverns beat their leathern wings and spewed their acid; the foul liquid tore into bodies and rained blood upon the city below.
Mori had seen the fall of Nova Vita, but she had never seen such slaughter, tens of thousands falling together, and a city of a million souls—twenty times the size of Nova Vita at its largest—burning and crumbling. As she flew between the beasts, her heart pounded, her eyes stung, and she could barely breathe.
"Bayrin!" she shouted. "Come with me. We're going to the palace. I know the way."
She winced, snarled, and pulled her wings close to her body. She dived, skirted around a soaring wyvern, and arced over a nephil. She dared not breathe fire—not yet. She needed to save her flames.
"Mori!" Bayrin shouted behind her. "Bloody stars, Mori, you know, we are part of a phalanx, and—damn it!
The green dragon cursed, swerved around a phoenix, and barely dodged two swooping nephilim. Mori spared him only a glance. She kept flying, dodging the creatures, seeking the palace between the flames.
"Princess Mori!" cried the rider on her back, a young man of Osanna. "Mori, wyvern on your tail!"
"Shoot the rider!" Mori replied. "Keep your arrows flying!"
Crossbow bolts whizzed around her. Upon her back, she heard her rider respond with arrows. Mori kept flying, rising and falling between the combatants. Behind her, she heard Bayrin cry for their phalanx—a group of one hundred dragons and salvanae—to follow. Mori could not even spare them a glance. She had to find the place. She—
There! Among flames and smoke ahead spread a cobbled square, an expanse large enough for armies to muster upon. Mori knew this place. Here was the Square of the Sun, a sprawling disk of stone in the south of the city.
This is where she whipped me. Mori clenched her jaw and swallowed. Her eyes burned and she could barely breathe. This is where she chained me for the crowds to see. This is where I screamed and bled.
Pain pounded through Mori. She could feel those whips upon her back again, tearing her skin, tearing her mind; she had never imagined pain could blaze so powerfully, shake and claim and twist her insides until she could not bear it. She could feel the chains around her wrists again. She could see the cruel jailor and feel his rough fingers forcing her jaw open. Mori screamed. She dived down, blasted fire at two nephilim who rose toward her, and skimmed along a street. She roared her flames, and men and women fell dead before her. Mori screamed and flew through the stone canyon.
Queen's Archway rose ahead. Roaring, Mori flew under it, her claws grabbing soldiers like an eagle grabbing prey. Past the archway, she soared high above the Square of the Sun, soldiers still screaming in her claws. She tossed the men down, knocking them against their comrades below, and bathed the square with fire.
The Palace of Phoebus rose before her from flame. A great staircase led from the square below to the palace gates. The Faceless Guardians flanked the ivory doors, statues that rose taller than dragons.
That is the place. That is where she hurt me.
Mori roared and wept. She flew toward the palace. Arrows fired all around her. Two shot through her wings. Another pierced her shoulder. On her back, her rider screamed and fell silent. Mori kept flying, howling, rage and pain tearing through her.
She flew up the stairs, clawing men apart, and soared up the palace walls. She bathed those walls and towers with fire.
Roars sounded behind her. The dragons of her phalanx descended upon the palace, howling and blowing flames. Their tails lashed at towers. Their claws tore at walls. Nephilim flew to face them. Mori roared and shot flames at the beasts. One nephil grabbed her leg, and she clubbed it with her tail, tearing the beast off.
She flew higher, shooting up in a straight line. Before her rose the Tower of Akartum, the tallest spire in Tiranor, perhaps in the world; it scratched the sky, looming above the city like a great needle of stone and platinum. Archers lined its top, and arrows flew, and Mori roared her fire until the archers burned and fell. She circled the tower, tears in her eyes. The city spread burning below her.
I screamed. I hurt. I cried. I will always scream, Solina. Always. Every night I will scream in my dreams, and every night I will feel those whips again, and I will destroy this place. I will crush these stones that held me.
She slammed her tail against the tower, again and again. She screamed. Stones cracked. Mori howled and barreled into the tower, claws lashing, teeth biting, eyes weeping. Bricks rolled.
Always. Always, Solina. Always you will hurt me. But know this—know that I'm the one who crushed your glory.
The Tower of Akartum cracked. With one more swipe of her tail, Mori sent it crashing down.
The great pillar of stone slammed into the palace. The roofs below collapsed. Walls fell. The lesser towers crumbled. Dust rose in clouds, and the dragons howled and soared.
The Palace of Phoebus, Solina's ancestral home, fell below them into a ruin of flame and dust and blood.
Mori rose higher, tears in her eyes, until she flew so high the cold air spun her head and she could barely see the streets below. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw her rider dead, pierced with a dozen arrows. Below across the city, fires burned and thousands of warriors flew and killed and died.
ELETHOR
They charged down the hall, a thousand warriors swinging blades
, trampling corpses beneath them. The soldiers of Requiem charged with longswords, clad in breastplates bearing the Draco stars. The soldiers of Osanna fought at their side, bull horns engraved upon their armor, their one-handed swords lighter but fast as striking asps.
"Get to the staircase!" Elethor cried, sword drenched in blood. He swung that blade with both hands, cleaving the armor of a Tiran warrior. "Take those stairs!"
This place had once been a banquet hall, Elethor thought; faded murals of feasts covered the walls, featuring the Ancients dining on roasted ducks, bowls of pomegranates, and peacocks still bright with feathers. This had been a place of life; today death filled the hall.
Dozens of Tiran soldiers stood between Elethor and the staircase leading deeper into the fortress. They wore armor so pale it was nearly white, the breastplates sporting the Golden Sun of Tiranor. Their sabres swung, spraying blood in arcs, the pommels shaped as sunbursts. Their visors swooped like beaks.
Columns rose every few feet, supporting a low ceiling. Torches crackled. Along the walls, archways led into deeper shadows; more soldiers fought there. There was no room here for dragons or nephilim; here was a war of blade and armor, of hacking forward every foot through blood and entrails and corpses.
"Elethor!" Treale shouted at his side, her sword clanging against Tiran sabres. "What's up those stairs?"
Elethor took a sword's blow to the breastplate and cursed. He swung Ferus down, severing the Tiran arm that had attacked him. With another swing, he slew the man.
"I don't know!" he shouted back. "But we've got to move deeper. Let us fill every corridor, chamber, and staircase in this place."
He had no map of the palace. He did not know where Solina hid. We will fill this mountain like water spilled into an ant hive, he thought. Wherever you lurk, we will find you.
Finally, with a sword swing that clove a man's helmet, Elethor reached the stairway across the banquet hall. He shouted orders, and his forces split into five phalanxes. Each phalanx—a hundred soldiers strong—dashed into another hallway or chamber, leaving the banquet hall littered with corpses. Elethor ran up the staircase, leading his own phalanx, a hundred warriors of both Requiem and Osanna.
You cannot hide, Solina, he thought as he raced upstairs. We will bang down every door and overturn every brick until we find you.
Tirans raced down toward him. Blades swung and men fell dead, and Elethor kept climbing. Treale fought at his side, eyes narrowed and lips tightened; the staircase was only wide enough for two to fight abreast. Their hundred warriors ran behind them, awaiting their turn to fight.
"Solina!" Elethor shouted. He slew a man and climbed another step. "Solina, come and face me! Emerge from hiding, or are you a coward?"
A Tiran ran down toward him, thrusting a spear. Elethor cursed and dodged the weapon; it thrust between him and Treale. Their swords both swung, tearing into the man. They kept climbing. Through the walls, Elethor heard the battle ring across the palace; thousands of his troops were racing through the darkness, filling the mountain.
They fought for every step. They slew a dozen men before they burst into a second chamber—a columned hall lined with archways and torches. Murals covered the ceiling, depicting birds with the heads of men, and a dusty mosaic sprawled across the floor, its stones forming dolphins in a green sea. Fifty Tirans filled this chamber, and with battle cries, they charged forward.
"For Requiem!" Treale screamed and ran toward them.
Elethor ran at her side, and blades swung, and behind them their comrades burst into the chamber. Steel rang and blood washed the floors. Sabres slammed into Elethor's armor, denting it; he could feel his flesh bruising beneath. One sabre cleaved his pauldron, cracking the steel but only nicking his flesh. He kept swinging Ferus, painting the room red.
"Solina!" Elethor shouted. "Damn it, Solina, come face me!"
He snarled as he fought. Sweat drenched him. His wounds blazed. Solina could be anywhere in this fortress; how could he find one woman in this labyrinth? Perhaps she wasn't even in the mountain; perhaps she had fled to fight at another front. He swung Ferus at her men, craving to swing the blade into the queen.
"Solina!"
He charged through the chamber, his warriors at his sides. They barged through a doorway, fought up another staircase, and ran down a corridor, cutting men down. All across the fortress, Elethor heard steel ringing and men shouting; his other phalanxes were spreading across the place, filling every hallway, staircase, and chamber like poison seeping through veins. When he passed by an arched window, Elethor saw griffins and salvanae still fighting outside; the onslaught of Tiran fire had ended, and now nephilim—too large to fight in these halls—were charging at the beasts.
They raced through an ancient library, its shelves rotted away, its scrolls disintegrating under their boots. By a stone door, Treale slew a man, letting the crumbling papyrus drink his blood. For a moment no Tirans charged at them, and Treale leaned against a wall, lowered her head, and breathed raggedly. Blood covered her armor, helmet, and sword. Elethor stumbled toward her, leaned against the same wall, and for a moment they panted together.
"El—" Treale said, coughed a few times, and tried again. "Elethor, I… I can smell them. Rot. Worms. Nephilim are here."
Elethor nodded and wiped blood and sweat off his brow. Northern men, both of Requiem and Osanna, trudged through the dust toward them, blades raised and armor dented.
"The bastards are fighting our griffins outside," Elethor said.
Treale shook her head. "No, Elethor, there are nephilim in here. Inside this mountain. The rot is rising from somewhere deep inside." She shuddered. "There's something festering in the heart of this mountain. It's the stench of nephilim, but somehow worse, more powerful."
Elethor sniffed. He could smell the blood, the crumbling scrolls, and their sweat—and overpowering it all, the stench of nephil rot. Treale was right. This stench wasn't coming from outside—at least, not all of it. A hive of these creatures lurked deeper. He raised his blade.
"Follow your nose, Treale. Wherever this smell is coming from, I wager that's where we'll find Solina."
They broke down a door, charged into a corridor, and slew three more men. Their warriors ran behind them.
They combed the palace for hours. They kicked down doors of corroded bronze. They swung their blades. Blood washed the palace and corpses piled up. A hundred warriors followed Elethor down a columned hallway; a dozen died when Tirans charged from one chamber. A dozen more replaced them, rushing down a staircase from a room they had claimed. This palace was a great, dusty hive of ancient stones and smashed statues. They fought hallway by hallway, room by room, bridge by bridge. Elethor thought the labyrinth would never end, and yet the smell grew stronger, and he moved deeper into the mountain. He left all windows far behind. The only light here came from the torches men carried. These halls were old, older even than the ruins of Bar Luan. Dust rose to their ankles, and wind moaned like ghosts.
"Down here, Elethor!" Treale shouted at his side. Her eyes were wide, and her chest rose and fell as she panted. "I can smell them. Here!"
She ran down a spiraling staircase. Elethor ran at her side, and dozens of their men followed. The stairs corkscrewed around a towering statue of an Ancient, his face stoic and his sandstone robes cascading like silk. At the foot of the statue, the stench of rot flared so powerfully Elethor nearly gagged.
A rough hallway plunged downward, its walls lined with torches. At the tunnel's end rose doors of bronze, large as the gates of palaces. Firelight limned the doors; flames burned behind them. Grunts, snorts, and gurgles rose from the chamber beyond.
Nephilim.
Elethor paused and looked at Treale. She raised her blade and stared back with tightened lips. Their men crowded behind them, armor dented and bloody, eyes grim.
"Once we enter, Treale, shift into a dragon," he said. "If nephilim are back there, the place is large enough to shift."
She nodded. "We'll break
down the doors and burn them all."
She took a step back, raised her shield, and made to charge down the corridor. Elethor placed a hand on her shoulder, holding her back.
"Wait, Treale," he said softly. "Before we go in there…"
She looked up at him with huge, dark eyes like pools of endless night, and Elethor swallowed, suddenly not sure how to proceed. They had survived this far, but now a fear gripped him like icy fingers around his spine. Treale's eyes seemed so large to him, so young, so loyal. Despite all the men she had slain, she seemed a mere youth to him now, an innocent young woman blinded by love for her king.
And he was afraid for her. He was afraid for all those who followed him, who obeyed his orders without question, who plunged into darkness to fight at his side. If too many nephilim lurked beyond these doors, there would be no sky to flee to.
It is victory now, Elethor thought, or death—death for me, my men, and this young woman who only a few years ago placed a frog on my dinner plate, then fled squealing and laughing, a child with no care in the world.
"El?" she whispered. "Are you all right?"
He held her shoulder. "Treale, if we don't make it out of here, I want you to know something."
Her lips parted, and Elethor knew she was remembering that night—that night upon the hill where she had kissed his cheek, where they had talked about their lives, where for one night Elethor had forgotten about Solina, forgotten about Lyana, and had almost loved her, almost left the world for her. He had thought about that night often, and today in her eyes, he saw that she had never forgotten—that she had relived her lips upon his cheek countless times.
"What is it, El?" she whispered.
"Treale, you fought bravely. You proved your honor. Whatever happens beyond those doors, you are Requiem's finest; never doubt that. Will you kneel before me?"
She gasped, swallowed, and nodded. She knelt, caked with blood and ash, and held out her sword in open palms.
A Night of Dragon Wings (Dragonlore, Book 3) Page 26