A Night of Dragon Wings

by Daniel Arenson

  Finally the dusty, chipped bridge led her to the towering well.

  The well was wide—wide enough for a dragon to swim in—and pale bricks formed its rim. It seemed less like a well from here, and more like a pool upon a tower top. Water rose to the brim, silver and opaque and perfectly still. A staircase led from the edge down into the water.

  Solina stood above the pool. She lowered her head, and the cold wind played with her hair. She breathed deeply, in and out, again and again. All around her lurked the shadowy pit.

  The place of my heart. The innermost whispers of my soul.

  She stepped onto the staircase that led into the pool. When her sandals touched the first step, the water rose over her ankles, cold and warm at once, both soothing and stinging like a memory of lost love. She kept descending, taking each step slowly. The water rose to her knees, stung the jewel at her navel, and finally rose to her neck. She raised her head, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She descended the last step, and the water covered her.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw feathery white light. A warm breeze caressed her skin and hair. Slowly the light parted like silk curtains and she saw it.

  A tremulous smile touched her lips and tears stung her eyes.

  "Home," she whispered.

  Marble statues filled the small room, carved in her likeness. Tapestries hung from the walls, and plush rugs covered the floor. Upon shelves stood the wooden statuettes he would whittle: deer, leaping fish, and her favorite—a turtle with emerald eyes he had carved especially for her. Upon a table stood a plate of bread rolls, a bowl of apples, and a jug of wine. His bed stood under a window, topped with quilts and pillows, the place where they would kiss, love, sleep, and whisper all the whispers of their hearts.

  Outside the windows the day was clear and warm. Birches and cypresses rustled upon the hill, and the scent of jasmines wafted. Only scattered white clouds filled the blue sky. Birds chirruped and bees bustled around the honeysuckle. It was spring in Requiem, a day of peace, of warmth, of him and her.

  A day for us. A free day. A perfect day.

  The cruel King Olasar, his pitiful daughter Mori, the haughty Lady Lyana and Prince Orin—they were all gone to Oldnale Farms far in the east. Nova Vita was theirs, just hers and Elethor's—a spring for their love, a spring to lie in bed and hold each other, to sit upon the hill and watch the trees, to be free, a day of no fear, no hurt.

  She looked around his chamber. Marble statues. Shelves with books and geodes and his carvings. The table with the bread and wine. His bed of quilts. And silence. Waiting. A loneliness like a house after death.

  "I created this for us, Elethor," she whispered. She tasted her tears. "You remember. It was the best day of our lives. A day for us. A perfect day."

  She had found this old place in this old palace: the Memory Pool, a place where she could weave her dreams. The Ancients, it was said, would enter this pool to return to their childhoods in old age, to revisit old ghosts before the great journey to the world beyond. Solina had only bad memories from her childhood, memories of the dragons slaying her parents, of captivity in the hall of the Weredragon King. But this memory… this memory from only a decade ago… this was pure. This had been—was!—her one perfect day, the one perfect piece of her soul.

  "You remember, Elethor." She lay upon his bed and looked up at the ceiling. Cracks spread there like cobwebs, but they were beautiful to her; she knew each one. "You remember how we lay here. We made love three times that night, and you were so lazy in the morning. You didn't want to wake up. Do you remember?"

  She was weeping. Her tears flowed down her cheeks and dampened the quilt.

  Why did such pain have to fill this world? Why had so much fire burned her? She was but a mortal, but a frail woman, and she had walked through fire, blood, and death. She had fought the dragons and slain them, and she had raised beasts from the desert, and she had done great things upon this earth.

  "But this is all I ever wanted, Elethor. This day again and again and again. A day for us. A perfect day. I will bring you here to this Palace of Whispers, to this Memory Pool, and you will be here with me." She clutched the blankets. "We will be here forever."

  She turned her head aside, blinked the tears from her eyes, and pulled a blanket over her. She felt so cold and she longed for his embrace. She looked outside the window at the clouds that glided, and she missed him so badly that her insides ached and she could barely breathe.

  LYANA

  Corpses littered the city. Thousands lay dead here, Lyana thought—tens of thousands. She flew over Confutatis, her heart a block of ice.

  The ancient capital of Osanna was home to a million souls, a great labyrinth of white stone and cedar. Its walls had stood for thousands of years, and its towers kissed the sky. Today holes peppered those walls; in some parts they had fallen completely. Towers lay smashed, crushing houses and streets beneath them. Everywhere she looked—in gardens, squares, and streets—dead nephilim lay rotting, cut with griffin talons, pierced with arrows, or burnt with dragonfire. Many griffins lay dead too, their wings torn off and their bellies slashed. Vir Requis lay dead in human forms, indistinguishable in death from the corpses of Osannans; many of this city's people had fallen too, bitten apart by the feasting horde.

  The stench of rot and blood filled the sky. Outside in the fields, living dragons and griffins stood side by side, digging mass graves and shoving piles of bodies into them. Flies buzzed and crows feasted.

  Again you bring death, Solina, Lyana thought as she circled above the city like one of the crows. Again you bring blood. But now not only Requiem knows your evil, Solina. Now the world will fight you with one great cry. You have kindled a fire you cannot tame.

  The sun set upon a city of blood and tears.

  Bells of mourning rang in the night.

  Lyana found a cobbled square beneath an archway, curled up in dragon form, and slept dreaming of white demon eyes.

  Dawn rose, and three monarchs met in the Palace of Osanna. Upon his throne of giltwood sat King Shae, elderly ruler of Osanna, his beard flowing and white, his eyes sad and wise beneath black brows. Before him stood Vale, the Griffin King, his breast mottled white and his yellow eyes solemn. Lyana stood there too, Queen of Requiem, clad in her silvery armor, her sword upon her waist and her helm upon her head. Three rulers of three great kingdoms; they stood silently as funeral bells rang across the city and echoed in the palace hall. They stood here alone.

  It was Lyana who spoke first.

  "King Shae," she said. "We must attack Tiranor. Join your forces to mine and let us strike the desert." She pounded fist into palm, then turned to the Griffin King. "King Vale, most noble of beasts! The nephilim attacked your homeland too. Now fly with us. Let griffins fight with dragons; let talons and claws join in war. Together we will topple the halls of the desert queen."

  She had expected a long day of arguments, of pounding fists, even of pleading.

  Instead she got two nods, one from each king.

  In the hall of Osanna, she closed her eyes, clutched trembling fingers behind her back, and whispered.

  "Thank you."

  She left the palace with more fear in her belly than during the battle.

  Fire and blood will cover the world, she thought. She stood outside the palace doors, shifted, and took flight. No place is safe now; no land will be spared death.

  Lyana had never been particularly pious. Her mother had been a priestess. Her friend Mori had spent hours in the temple, singing old songs and praying to the stars. Lyana had always preferred drilling with her sword, or roaring her fire, or polishing her armor; her weapons and strength had been her gods. Yet today she flew outside the city, walked through forests in human form, and prayed.

  "Please, stars of Requiem," she whispered among the naked trees. The first snows of winter glided and clung to her cloak and hair. "Please, stars, do not let the light of the world go out. I am afraid. I am afraid for my husband. I am afraid for M
ori and for Requiem." She closed her eyes and clenched her jaw, and pain dug through her. "I am afraid for myself. I miss my parents and I'm so scared."

  Tears filled her eyes. She could not remember when she had last cried. She spent all day here in this forest, and when night fell she looked up at the stars, and sang to them softly, and clutched her sword's hilt so tightly that her fingers ached.

  "I am Lyana," she whispered to those distant lights, the constellation Draco, stars of her fathers. "I am Queen of Requiem. I am your daughter. I will walk in your light, stars; this I swear. Light this long, dark night."

  She slept among the trees in dragon form, curled up as snow coated her blue scales. Dawn rose pale around her, and icicles filled the forest, and Lyana took flight. Osanna rolled cold and glimmering around her, but when she looked south, Lyana could imagine the desert, and there the sand was hot and the sun burned her.

  LEGION

  Legion licked his chops and snapped his teeth and slashed his claws. He grinned and howled and tasted the blood of dragons.

  "We are strong!" he said, his cry rising and tearing the air and cracking trees and boulders. He flapped his wings and rose upon fire. "We feed! We feed!"

  Across the ruins, the Fallen Horde roared, swirled across the sky, and covered the ground, an endless swarm. His children screamed and laughed and flew around him, thousands of his spawn torn from the wombs of his wives. Already more nephilim rutted in the dirt, and rotted wombs swelled, and more beasts burst through flesh to feast upon their mothers.

  "The world imprisoned us!" Legion cried. They answered his call with thousands of screams. "Now we kill. Now we eat. Now we drink blood. We are the nephilim! We were the Fallen. Now we rise! We rise!"

  Countless screams shook the world, boulders rolled, trees fell, and the ruins crumbled below.

  "We rise!" the nephilim howled. "We rise!"

  Legion flew around them, blood roaring, halo flaming, tongue licking, wings beating. He rose. He rose! He fed. He ate! He killed. Solina freed him! He was a god. He was Prophet. He was Legion.

  "The dragons cower!" he shouted. "The world trembles. We are strong! We are Nephil. We are Enemy. We are Nemesis. Our jaws will crush their spines!"

  As he flew drooling, he caressed his belly. His own womb swelled, and he felt the vermin kicking and biting inside, drinking his blood and eating his innards.

  Soon, precious spawn, he thought. Soon you will burst from me too, and you will eat my flesh, and you will grow to lead this swarm.

  He landed upon the roof of the crumbling temple. Blasts of fire burst from within. The flames sprayed from every window and hole. One flame blasted not two feet from Legion, clawing at the sky, and heat baked him. The vermin bustled inside his womb, and Legion heard their muffled screams.

  Yes, Legion thought, yes, the fire burns us, my vermin. But not for long. They are weak. They are afraid. We will eat them, and their blood will nourish us.

  He spread his wings wide, curtains of black leather, and raised his claws. His halo blazed and screamed. He howled to the sky of nephilim, and they swirled above and around him, a storm of rot.

  "Tear down these walls!" he shouted. "Drag the beasts out and rip them apart! Feast, nephilim. We rise! We rise!"

  They howled around him and the ruins shook.

  "We rise!"

  ELETHOR

  "Break down the walls!" the beasts screeched outside. "Break them down!"

  They huddled in the darkness—a few hundred Vir Requis, perhaps the last of their kind. They were ashy, bloody, and famished. They crowded together, mothers embracing weeping children, youths clutching swords, elders whispering. Around them rose the walls of the ancient temple—mossy bricks, roots and branches pushing between them, as old and brittle as the scrolls of ancient scribes.

  Outside the horde cried for blood. White eyes like smelters blazed at every window and hole. Claws tore at every brick. The ceiling was crumbling, and through it the Vir Requis saw no sky, only more fangs and blazing eyes and claws that thirsted for blood. Countless of the creatures swarmed there; they covered the sky, the forest, and the ruins, breeding and multiplying until it seemed the world itself would crash beneath them.

  Elethor shifted into dragon form, moved toward a gaping hole in the wall, and replaced a weary silver dragon who blew fire there. The silver stepped back and shifted back into human form—a weary, gaunt woman. Elethor placed his maw into the hole and blew his flames, driving back the nephilim who clawed and bit there. His flames roared and crackled, flowing over his vision, but in his brief pauses for breath, Elethor saw the horde and fear clutched him.

  Thousands. A hundred thousand. More. They covered the sky and land, a mass of scale and rot; he saw no end to them.

  Elethor howled as he sprayed his fire. He could not hold them back much longer. They had moments before they grew too weary for fire, before these walls fell and the demons drowned them.

  Finally his fire was drained. He pulled back, panting, and another dragon replaced him. Elethor shifted back into human form and stumbled into the center of the room. His people crowded around him, wailing and staring from wall to ceiling.

  At every window, doorway, and hole, dragons stood blowing fire. No more than a dozen dragons could fill this crumbling hall; if more Vir Requis shifted, they would crush one another.

  Bricks shifted.

  Claws drove past stone.

  A hole crashed open in the southern wall, showering dust. A nephil's arms reached inside and slashed, lacerating a Vir Requis child. The boy fell, his belly sliced open. Elethor screamed and swung his sword, cutting the nephil's arm. Black blood showered, and the arm withdrew. At once Yar, the young yellow dragon, leaped toward the new opening and roared fire. The nephilim outside shrieked.

  "The ceiling!" somebody shouted.

  Elethor looked up to see bricks shift. Fangs burst between the stones, and a hole gaped open, raining rock and dust and moss. A nephil's jaw thrust in, snapping, and Vir Requis screamed.

  "Burn it!" Elethor shouted, and one Vir Requis—an old graybeard—shifted and roared fire at the ceiling.

  Claws thrashed at the northern wall, tearing a window wider. A nephil reached into the hall, claws lashing, and a woman fell, her arm severed.

  Elethor shifted back into dragon form, raced toward the new opening, and blew more fire. The nephil screeched. Elethor's flames were weak now, mere sparks. He was too weary. When another dragon replaced him, Elethor could barely stand. He shifted into human form and looked around him.

  "Mama," whimpered a child and clutched her mother.

  "Stars of Requiem," whispered an old woman, holding her husband.

  And so it ends, Elethor thought. His armor felt so heavy; such a weight to bear. So does Requiem fade away, a small lingering light crushed under darkness.

  He looked up. Claws and teeth lashed at the ceiling, tearing stone from stone. All the terrors and evils of the world were digging in.

  "Requiem," he whispered. "May our wings forever find your sky."

  These were the ancient words of his people. Now the survivors repeated them as the claws tore the walls. A hole cracked open in the ceiling, and bricks rained, and a sickly red light fell. The nephilim shrieked and cackled.

  No, Elethor thought. He snarled and drew his sword. No, we will not fade like a guttering candle. We will die in a great pillar of flame.

  Yar stumbled toward him, panting and coated in sweat; another replaced him at the window. He stood by Elethor and bowed his head.

  "My king," the boy said.

  No, not a boy, Elethor thought. He is a man today.

  He clutched Yar's shoulder.

  "Yar, you fight nobly for Requiem." He looked up at the ceiling where claws tore brick from brick. He lowered his voice. "Yar—fly with me."

  Yar followed his gaze. The ceiling was trembling. Bricks and dust and moss fell, and the nephilim howled there, eyes blazing.

  "To the sky," Yar whispered.

  "To
death," Elethor said. "To glory. To our starlit halls."

  Yar bared his teeth, nodded, and clutched Elethor's shoulder. "We will fly, my king. We will fly there together."

  The temple shook and the shrieks nearly deafened them. King Elethor gave the orders, and the dragons pulled back from the walls, and the survivors crowded in the center of the hall. All around them the walls shook, the claws reached in, and the shrieks echoed. Elethor held his sword high.

  "Vir Requis!" he shouted, voice nearly drowning under the screams of the horde. "We fly now. We find our sky. Shift, dragons of Requiem, and sound your roar! Let the sky shake with the song of dragons!"

  In the darkness of night and demon siege, after seven days of hiding in shadow, the dragons of Requiem emerged from their temple and crashed into the sky.

  Elethor led the charge, a brass dragon with rippling scales and bright horns. His fire rose before him, a pillar of flame to lead their way. At his sides flew his soldiers, battle-hardened dragons with dented scales and broken claws, and their fire rose like the columns of afterlife. They shot through the collapsing roof and soared into a sky of demons. The nephilim spread endlessly into the night; thousands upon thousands covered the sky, a sea of rot and scale and blazing eyes.

  The dragons soared upward, flames and claws carving their way. Behind Elethor and his warriors flew his people, the elders and mothers and children, and they too roared and blew their flames. The dragons of Requiem rose, a few hundred souls in an endless ocean, and all around them the darkness closed in.

  Requiem! We will find your sky.

  To the stars that hid above beyond the cruelty of Solina. To that sky. To the white halls of afterlight. They flew to glory and death.

  "To death!" his warriors shouted at his side. "To fire!"

  From the east, dawn broke and distant cries answered their call.

  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.