A Night of Dragon Wings

by Daniel Arenson

  Help me, stars of Requiem. Light my way here in darkness.

  Wings began to sprout from her back; she felt them scrape against the walls. Her fingernails began growing into claws. Her teeth began lengthening into fangs. Across her frail legs, golden scales began to appear.

  I will find your sky, Requiem! Help me fly.

  Her body began to balloon, and a tail began to grow beneath her, and Mori could taste the sky and starlight, and—

  As her limbs grew, the chains dug into her flesh. Pain burst. Her magic began to fizzle.

  No. No! Clutch it. Shift! Break the chains!

  She clenched her jaw, growled, and clutched her magic, tried to keep shifting, to keep growing, to—

  A yelp fled her throat.

  Her limbs grew too fast. The chains tore into her. Blood dripped, and her magic vanished like birds fleeing a disturbed tree.

  Her scales disappeared, her claws and fangs retracted, and Mori lowered her head. She sat shaking, and blood dripped from where the chains had bitten into her. She shivered for long moments, head spinning.

  Try again. Shift! You can break the chains, you…

  Yet the darkness clutched at her. She was too weak, too hurt. Too much blood had spilled. Her forehead hit her knees and Mori gagged, losing the gruel the jailor had fed her. She could not stop trembling, and she could barely breathe.

  I'm sorry, Requiem. I'm sorry, stars.

  She closed her eyes, wept quietly, and let the long, dark night draw her into its embrace.

  SOLINA

  The palace doors opened, and her guards dragged in a lanky man robed in muddy black. A hood covered his face; Solina could see only strands of dangling white hair. Sitting upon her ivory throne, she narrowed her eyes and watched as her guards, tall men bedecked in steel, shoved the man down upon the floor of her hall.

  "My queen!" said a guard. His voice echoed behind his falcon visor. "We found this one skulking outside the palace, muttering strange spells. He claims he's a weredragon."

  Fifty guards, ten generals of her army, and three Sun God priests filled her throne room. They all sucked in their breath. Solina leaned forward in her ivory throne. The fallen man coughed; the sound echoed in her silent hall.

  "Stand up!" she barked. She rose from her throne, her jewels jingling, and walked down the stairs of her dais. Her sandals clacked against the gold and white tiles of her hall. Granite columns rose around her, the stone a mosaic of reds and blacks and whites, their capitals coated in platinum.

  "My Queen Solina!" said the robed man.

  He pushed himself to his feet. His hood had fallen back, revealing a smooth face that belied his long white hair; that face looked no older than her own. His eyes were shrewd, his nose thin, his mouth a red line across his pale skin. His hands, which peeked from his robes, were long and skeletal; in one, he clutched a staff.

  A guard kicked the man's leg behind his knee, forcing him to kneel.

  "Kneel before Queen Solina, scum!" the guard said.

  The other guards goaded the man with spears. Another kick sent him facedown upon the tiles, and a boot pressed against his nape. The man coughed and hissed but did not struggle to rise.

  "My queen!" he said, voice serpentine. "I only seek to serve you. I come from Requiem, I—"

  Solina waved her guards back and glared down at the weredragon. Her chest rose and fell. She knew this one. She had seen him during her captivity in Requiem. He had been but a youth then, a scrawny boy who always seemed too pale, the son of the palace servants. Twice she had caught him peeking through a keyhole, watching her bathe.

  "Nemes," she said, voice twisting in disgust. "I know you. On your feet."

  Solina was a tall woman, but when Nemes stood, she felt short; he towered above her, thin and long and pale as a bone. His lips twitched in a mockery of a smile; those lips looked more like crawling snakes to her. She remembered the stories whispered about Nemes in Requiem: the animals he skinned and dissected in the forest, the books of dark magic he read, and the women he would leer at, Lyana foremost among them. Yes, she remembered this youth, now this man before her. She remembered him and he disgusted her.

  "Queen Solina!" he said and sketched a bow, struggling perhaps to reclaim some of his lost pride. "I remember you a beautiful maiden, a rose in the thorny court of dragons; your beauty has only grown, and here I find a golden deity, a—"

  Solina drew her twin sabres with a hiss, crossed them, and thrust both blades against Nemes's neck; if she pushed them but a hair's breadth closer, she'd cut his skin. He froze and his voice died.

  "Silence, slithering snake," she said. "What does a weredragon, a beast of night, seek in the courts of the Sun God?"

  He tried to step back from her blades, but her men held him fast. He licked his lips, tried to speak, and when his neck bobbed, her blades drew a drop of blood. He whispered hoarsely.

  "I do not serve the stars of the night, those petty gods of Requiem," he said. "Mine is a different, older lord. I will help you wake him. I will help you slay the weredragons."

  Solina snarled and took a step nearer. She bared her teeth and glared at him closely; her nose was but an inch from his. She drove her blades but a whisper closer, and another drop of blood dripped down his neck.

  "Perhaps I shall begin with slaying this weredragon," she said.

  What game did this reptile play? Surely he knew he would die in this court. She knew he was mad; all of Requiem knew that. But she had not known the depth of his madness, if he was truly so keen to abandon his life.

  He licked his lips again; his tongue was serpentine, a snake emerging from its lair. He hissed his words.

  "I am, my queen, but a humble servant, the son of a servant. The weredragons themselves cared not if I lived or died; why should you? But I can give you their king, the cruel Elethor. Why kill me when I can deliver him to you? For three moons now, your men have sought him in the wilderness, burning forests and fields, scouring mountains and plains—and still the weredragons evade you. I was part of their camp. I can lead you there."

  Solina growled. She lifted one of her blades, keeping the other on his neck, and placed it against his cheek. A red line of blood appeared. He hissed and dared not move.

  "Why?" she whispered. "Why, Nemes, do you betray your filthy kind?"

  A throaty chuckle rose from him, then died when the blades cut deeper.

  "They are filthy, my queen, you are right. I cleaned their filth. I watched my grandfather sweep their floors, chop their wood, empty their chamber pots, wash their clothes… and all the while, they never invited him to a feast, or a hunt, or a ball. He died alone, thin and overworked. The same happened to my father. The same would have happened to me, had you not burned their cursed court to the ground." He hissed a laugh. "The weredragons speak of their justice, their pity, their wisdom, yet they are cruel. They are weak. In Tiranor I see strength! When you invaded Requiem, I saw a proud, noble people, a strong race, a beautiful race, a race where the powerful can rise, where pity and weakness are crushed. This I seek to serve, not Requiem's cruel lords. Allow me to serve you, my fair queen, my goddess of pride and strength, and I will deliver you the Weredragon King and what remains of his court."

  She stepped back and sheathed her blades. Nemes gasped and clutched at his throat and cheek where lines of blood ran. Solina nodded at her guards, and they promptly kicked Nemes down again. He lay on the floor before her, a boot pressed against his neck, spears against his back.

  "Empty words," she said and spat. "Do you think I will trust you? Your kin are reptiles; you are merely a worm. I should kill you now. Guards! Hang his head upon Queen's Archway. Let the city—"

  "You seek the nephilim!" cried Nemes, cheek pressed against the floor.

  Her men had drawn their swords and raised them. Solina held up her hand, stopping them from landing the blows. They stood frozen, sabres held above the worm.

  Solina's heart raced. She sucked in her breath and snarled. He knew. Sun God,
the worm knew of the key. He knew of the Iron Door and the creatures who lurked behind it. She knelt above him, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and raised his head. She glared into his eyes.

  "What do you know of this?" she hissed.

  Blood covered his cheek. He still managed to grin.

  "One of Elethor's spies made it to our camp," he said. "A man you took to Tarath Gehena. He babbled. The weredragons knew not what he meant. But I do." He licked blood off his lips. "I know of the dark arts. I know of the Palace of Whispers where the nephilim languish. I know of the tower where the key to the palace is guarded." His lips pulled back, revealing crooked teeth. "I studied their art. I studied the books of Legion, their demon lord. If you free the nephilim, I can help you tame them; I speak their tongue and know their lore. With the nephilim's power, you can crush not only the weredragons, but the world itself. I ask only to stand by your side and serve you as you reign, and to serve Lord Legion. Will you accept? Will you let me serve your glory, let me watch you crush the world under your heel? I will have my revenge. You will have the greatest empire this world has known."

  Solina stared down at him. What game was he playing? What weredragon trick was this? The dangers raced through her mind. He could be a spy sent by Elethor, hoping to win her favor. He could be planning to lead her into a weredragon trap. He could be an assassin, waiting to catch her alone. He could be insane. Solina knew enough of weredragons to never trust them; she would not trust this one.

  Unless…

  Unless there was some way he could prove his loyalty, prove his worth. Solina narrowed her eyes and nodded.

  Yes, she thought. Yes, a weredragon would do nicely. If he dies, he dies. And if he lives… I will be too strong for an empire of reptiles to hurt me.

  "Stand him up!" she shouted to her guards. "Chain him. Collar him. We leave for Tarath Gehena—right now." As Nemes struggled, and as her men clasped him in chains, Solina smiled. "The weredragon will prove his loyalty. The weredragon will retrieve the key."

  At once Nemes began to object, sweat upon his brow. "My queen! I… I am not a warrior, merely a priest of Lord Legion. I can help you speak with the nephilim, but to fetch the key, perhaps a soldier or—"

  "Gag him!" Solina said. At once her men silenced him.

  She walked across the hall toward her towering doors of gold and ivory. When she snapped her fingers, more guards stepped from between her columns to march behind her. The weredragon's chains rattled, and a thin smile twisted Solina's lips.

  When her guards opened the doors of her hall, she stepped outside and stood above the palace stairway. The Faceless Guardians, the great statues of her dynasty, towered at her sides. She gazed down upon her realm. The Square of the Sun spread below her, its cobblestones golden in the sunset. The Sun God's Temple rose to her left, scratching the sky, while Queen's Archway rose before her across the square, golden sunbursts shimmering upon its bricks. Beyond the square rolled countless houses and streets, finally fading into desert and delta. And there in the west, beyond dune and mountain, rose the tower. There awaited her glory.

  The sun dipped in the sky, a melting ball of orange. Its light caught the platinum capitals of the columns surrounding the square. They burned like a ring of torches, like the light of her heart, and like her glory that would soon bathe the world.

  BAYRIN

  He rocked on his heels, rolled his eyes, and blew out his breath.

  "Lyana!" he said. "You've been reading for ages. Will you tell us what the book says?"

  She sat before him on the rug, huddled against the cave wall. The ancient codex lay open before her, a tome the size of a suckling pig. Lyana raised her eyes from the pages, glared at him, and held her finger to her lips.

  "Shh!" she said and returned her eyes to the book.

  Bayrin groaned. "Lyana! Merciful stars, you heard what the spy said. War and destruction. End of the world. Toes stubbed left and right. Will you please quit your pleasure reading, stop shushing everyone, and tell me what the book says about these Falling Ones?"

  Lyana groaned too, an enraged sound like a mother bear disturbed in her cave. She bared her teeth at him.

  "Bayrin!" she said. "It's the Fallen Ones, or nephilim in their tongue. And maybe if you had spent fewer years chasing tavern wenches, and instead learned to read and write, you could study this book too."

  He raised his hands in incredulity. "I know how to read and write!"

  "Scribbling rude limericks on alehouse walls doesn't count, Bayrin. Now please shut that blabbering hole in your face and let me read."

  Bayrin let out the longest, loudest sigh of his life. He turned to face Elethor, who stood at his side in the cave.

  "Do you see, El? Do you see what I've had to put up with all my life? Bloody stars, since becoming queen, her tongue's only grown sharper; you could slice a wyvern to ribbons with it, no sword necessary."

  He expected Elethor to laugh; his friend would always laugh whenever he'd mock Lyana. And yet today Elethor only stood solemnly, face frozen, staring down at the book.

  Stars, Bayrin thought, you can barely even see his face anymore behind that dreadful beard of his.

  Where was the Elethor he had known, the young man who'd laugh or groan at his jokes? Where was the Lyana who'd leap up to punch him, not just glare and bury her nose in a book? Bayrin would welcome groans and punches over this tense silence, this… this wait for an evil he didn't understand.

  Stars, Mori, I miss you, he thought and closed his eyes. A lump filled his throat. He would have given the world to have her here now—to hold her, kiss her, never let her go. The beauty of silver rain on autumn leaves, of stars in purple sunset, of Requiem's fallen columns; all paled by the love, beauty, and goodness of Mori. He thought of her pink lips that would kiss him, her gray eyes looking up at him in wonder, the smoothness of her hair, and the purity of her heart as he held her against him.

  Where are you now, Mori? Do you too have a cave to hide in, somebody to talk to?

  Elethor believed her a prisoner in Tiranor; others whispered that the princess lay dead among Nova Vita's ruins. Bayrin knew that she lived; he refused to believe anything else. And if she was Solina's prisoner…

  Bayrin clenched his fists. If you hurt her, Solina, I will crush you in my claws, and I will burn down your city with my flames.

  He shook his head wildly.

  "That's it!" he said. "I've waited long enough. I want to fly. I want to burn." He walked around the book, sat down by Lyana, and shoved her aside. "Let me see what this storybook of yours says."

  "Bayrin!" she began and launched into a lecture, but he ignored her.

  He stared down at the cracked old parchment. A baker's boy had saved the book, an ancient tome titled Mythic Creatures of the Gray Age, when fleeing the city. Upon its pages appeared illustrations of a thousand beasts: griffins, dragons, undead warriors, and every other creature that had ever walked, slithered, or flown. Lyana had the bestiary open to a chapter titled "Nephilim".

  On the left page sprawled an illustration of a battle. In a valley stood an army of knights and archers. Toward them swarmed a host of rotting, twisted giants. Each stood thrice the height of a man. Each wore motley pieces of armor over rotten, scaly flesh. Some were bloated, their skin oozing; others were lanky and covered in spikes and horns. All bore tattered wings tipped with claws. A crimson serpent appeared upon their shields and helms, their sigil.

  "Merciful stars," Bayrin said. "Ugly bastards, aren't they?" He leaned down and squinted at the opposite page. Lines of text appeared there, nearly too small for him to read. "What's it say here, Lyana?"

  Sitting beside him, she groaned. "I thought you said you could read, Bayrin."

  "I can! But these letters are so small and faded, and they're written in the tongue of Osanna, which only old priests and shriveled-up scribes can read anyway."

  "Well I can read it, and the only thing shriveled up here is your brain. I'll read it for you; if you squint any harder, you
r eyes will be sucked into your skull." She shoved him aside, cleared her throat, and began to read from the page, translating the words as she went.

  "Ten thousand years ago, the children of darkness emerged from their Abyss, crawled upon the earth, and took human wives. Thus were born the nephilim, the Fallen, the spawn of darkness dwellers and human wombs. Tall as giants they grew with rotted flesh, blazing eyes, and wings like black banners. They roamed the land, and their cries shook the mountains, and their claws tore down the walls of cities.

  "The Ancient Ones, the desert dwellers whose daughters birthed the nephilim, raised a great host. They drove the nephilim into the Palace of Whispers, their great fortress in the desert, and sealed them in a deep chamber. An iron door they wrought for the prison, which they locked with an iron key.

  "The fathers of the Fallen, demons of the Abyss, raged at the shame of their children. They took the iron key into Tarath Gehena, a dark tower, and placed guardians around it, so that none will see the shame of their fallen spawn."

  When she finished reading, silence fell upon the room. Elethor stood frowning down at the book; he had not spoken all day. Lyana hugged herself.

  "I don't get it," Bayrin said and furrowed his brow. "If you wanted to seal these critters, why even make a key? Why not just… build a door that cannot open, or destroy the key—why hide it in some tower?" He sighed. "Of course some madwoman like Solina would eventually seek this key. Didn't the Ancients have any sense?"

  Lyana glared at him. "They had more sense than you, Bayrin, and so do most bricks. They didn't use a regular door. The nephilim would smash through it. They used a magical door, a Door of Sealing; nothing can break through those. The Ancients lived ten thousand years ago, before Tiranor and Requiem even existed, and they crafted many magical artifacts. If you had ever paid any attention to your tutors, instead of scribbling naked ladies into your books, you'd have known that." She reached into her pocket and drew a filigreed key, identical to the ones Elethor and Mori wore around their necks. "Seen this key before, Bayrin? That's right. The key to Requiem's library, Chamber of Artifacts, and… the Gates of the Abyss." She shuddered and pocketed the key. "Doors of Sealing exist in Requiem too, though their history predates our own. Without a key, they're forever closed."