Song of Dragons: The Complete Trilogy
Page 5
Eyes narrowed, Dies Irae thrust his sword into Father's chest.
"Father!" Benedictus shouted and ran forward, but the hall was long. Long enough for Dies Irae to grab the Griffin Heart, which hung around Father's neck. Father gasped, his blood gushing, and his fingers clawed the air.
"I can't grow fangs," Dies Irae said and snapped the amulet off its chain. "But swords can bite just as deep."
A roar sounded behind. Dies Irae spun to see Benedictus shift into a dragon and leap at him.
Dies Irae snarled and raised the amulet.
With shrieks and thudding wings, a dozen griffins swooped into the hall and crashed into Benedictus. As his brother's blood spilled, Dies Irae smiled.
The griffins were his.
Requiem's greatest servants became her greatest enemies that day. They flew for him. They toppled the columns of this court. They tore down the birches. They burned all the shame and weakness from his heart; he was their master, and the world was his.
The Requiem War began.
Standing on the beach, Dies Irae clutched the Griffin Heart. The amulet bit into his palm. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to release the memories. That had been many years ago. The Vir Requis were nearly extinct now. His father was dead, the Oak Throne destroyed, Requiem in ruin. Benedictus was gone; nobody had seen him in a decade.
He released the amulet and took another deep breath. If he let the pain claim him now, let the memories fill him, he could lose track of time, drown in his rage, spend days in it. He gritted his teeth.
"There's no more time for memories," he whispered to Volucris, the greatest of the griffins, a prince among them. He mounted the beast. "Our war is not over yet. There is a weredragon to find."
As he took flight, Dies Irae imagined crushing Kyrie's bones, like he had crushed Mirum... and he smiled.
KYRIE ELEISON
As Kyrie traveled the land by foot, he learned something new about himself.
He hated walking.
Loathed it.
A blister grew on his right heel, two on his left. He didn't even know which foot to limp on. He had stubbed two toes against a root a league back, and the nails were turning black. Disgusting, he thought. His legs ached, and his wounded chest burned. His back also screamed.
He spoke between gritted teeth to the surrounding trees. "I. Hate. Walking."
He wanted to fly—to turn into a dragon, flap his wings, feel the rush of air, the power. That was the way to travel. But not today. Nor for the past month he'd spent walking in human form.
Flying, he knew, was just too dangerous.
Dies Irae was after him. Kyrie had seen parchments posted upon roadside taverns, crossroad signs, even the occasional oak. "Weredragon at large! Kyrie Eleison, escaped monster, transforms into a blue reptile. Bring dead or alive to the nearest Sun God temple for reward."
Kyrie snorted whenever he saw the posters. The crude drawing of a dragon was laughable; it showed him clutching a maiden in each hand, toppling a house with his tail, and chomping a baby. Ridiculous. If anyone ate babies, it was the beautiful and icy Gloriae; the young woman seemed just vicious enough.
Laughable as the poster was, Kyrie still dared not fly. Not with griffins patrolling the skies. An hour did not pass without Kyrie hearing a distant griffin cry. Several times a day, he saw them too, like eagles high above. And he knew they were looking for him.
Indeed, as Kyrie now limped on his blisters, more shrieks sounded above. Griffins. Three or four, by the sound of it. With a grunt, Kyrie dived into a leafy bush. He saw the griffins between the branches, talons like swords. Did Dies Irae ride one? The griffins shrieked again, then were gone, flying into the distance.
Kyrie sighed and climbed out from the leaves. He sat down on a fallen log and gazed around him. The forest was thick, and Kyrie couldn't see more than a few yards in each direction. Oak, birch, and ash trees grew here, and most seemed centuries old, thick and knotty. Their leaves rustled, scattering motes of light. Fallen logs crisscrossed around him, covered with moss and mushrooms.
"What am I even doing here?" he asked aloud.
Nobody answered but chirping birds, pattering squirrels, and rustling leaves. There was nobody here. Nobody in the entire forest.
Benedictus is dead, he told himself. I'll never find him here. I'm the last Vir Requis. And once those griffins catch me, I too will die.
Kyrie suddenly felt hot, his blood boiling. He wanted to scream, but dared not. Instead he gritted his teeth and punched a tree trunk. It hurt. Good. Physical pain could drown anguish. Pain was easier than anguish.
"That bloody, stupid, cursed map," Kyrie said and spat.
Breathing hard, he pulled the rolled up map from his belt. The parchment was old, cracked, and burned in one corner. The sea had soaked it, leaving it wrinkled. For five years, he'd carried it on his belt, refusing to shelf or box it. For five years, it had been his hope.
But the map couldn't be real. It too was just a child's dream. Wasn't it?
Kyrie unrolled the parchment. The ink was faded and smudged, but Kyrie had examined this map so many times, he could read it with eyes shut. He had found the parchment when he was eleven. An old peddler had ridden his donkey to Fort Sanctus, his cart overflowing with trinkets. Mirum bought a pan, tea leaves, and a necklace of agate stones. Kyrie wanted to buy a knife with a horn handle, but then saw a pile of scrolls. Fort Sanctus had a few scrolls in the basement; some contained prayers to the old Earth God, others epic poems of legends. Kyrie loved reading them, especially the poems. Most of the peddler's scrolls contained prayers to the new, cruel Sun God, but a few featured maps. And one map—the smallest, most tattered one—made Kyrie's heart skip.
The map showed a mountain, a river, and forest. It marked several villages and a cave. A road led between a castle and a port, and several roads led to towns. It was a map for peddlers, but Kyrie didn't care for its trade routes. What caught his eye was the map's corner, where Hostias Forest lay. Above that forest, smaller than his fingertip, appeared a picture of a black dragon. "Beware," was written over the drawing, "the black fangs."
A black dragon. Fangs.
Benedictus.
Kyrie had bought the map, the knife with the horn grip forgotten. Gasping, he'd shown it to Mirum, talked about it all day, told her that this map showed the location of Benedictus, the legend, the king in exile.
"Kyrie," Mirum would say, "it might be only a decoration, a scribble. It might mean nothing. And the map might be old, drawn when many dragons filled the land."
Kyrie would shake his head. "No. It's Benedictus. I know it."
Mirum would sigh, say nothing more, and ignore the parchment that forever hung at Kyrie's side. She let him believe, Kyrie knew, because she wanted him to have hope, to have a dream, to feel he wasn't the only one. For years, Kyrie clung to that dream, knew that Benedictus still lived, that somewhere there were others like him. Others who could turn into dragons. Others who were hunted, who hid, who remembered Requiem. Others who could some day come together, raise their race from hiding, and once more find the skies.
But standing here in the forest, wounded, hungry, hunted... it was hard to believe. Things were so different now. He had followed the map here, to this forest, to this corner where black fangs should bite. And what did he find? Birds. Squirrels. Shattered dreams.
"Damn it!" Kyrie suddenly shouted, not caring if griffins heard. He no longer cared about anything, and he pounded the tree again. Fingers shaking, he tore the map to shreds. "Damn Dies Irae, and damn Benedictus."
He stood panting, leaning against the tree, eyes shut... when a voice spoke.
"And damn loud, bratty kids scaring away deer."
Kyrie froze, then spun around, eyes opening.
A man stood before him.
Kyrie breathed in hard, fighting the urge to become a dragon, to attack or flee. This man was trouble; Kyrie could smell the stink of danger on him.
"What do you want?" Kyrie demanded, e
yes narrow.
The man spat and growled. "For you to shut up. I was just about to shoot a stag, and you scared him off. How about you keep your trap shut, or go whine in somebody else's forest?"
The man wore ragged furs and carried a bow. A quiver hung over his back, full of stone-tipped arrows. He looked familiar, though Kyrie couldn't remember where he'd seen him. He seemed to be in his fifties, his face weathered like old leather. His hair was black and shaggy, strewn with gray, and his eyebrows were thick. His eyes were dark and piercing, two burning coals.
"It's not your forest," Kyrie said, anger bubbling in him. "You look like a common woodsman—or outlaw, more likely. You don't own this place, so bugger off."
Kyrie instantly regretted those words. The man took a step forward, and Kyrie suddenly realized how tall and powerful he was. He was perhaps forty years older than Kyrie, but all muscle and grit. A scar ran along his cheek, and another scar peeked from under his collar. In some ways, this ragged man, with his furs and arrows, seemed even more dangerous than Dies Irae with all his armor and griffins.
"If you don't shut your mouth," the man growled, "I'll punch the teeth out of it."
Then Kyrie realized why the man looked familiar. He looked liked Dies Irae, cold and hard and dangerous. Only Irae is blond and golden like the sun, Kyrie thought, and this man is dark as midnight. They had the same brow. The same strong, straight nose. The same... aura, an aura of pride and power.
Kyrie's heart leaped.
"Benedictus," he whispered. "It's you." His fingers trembled, and he took fast breaths. "You're Dies Irae's brother. Benedictus the Black." His head spun, and words spilled from his mouth. "You can help me! You can fly with me against Dies Irae, steal his Griffin Heart, and defeat him."
The man stared at Kyrie as one would stare at the village idiot. He spat again. "What's wrong with you, kid? I don't know no Irae. Don't know no Benedictus. My name's Rex Tremendae. Now get out of my forest, or I'll stick one of these arrows in your throat."
GLORIAE
Gloriae cut the sky.
She lashed her riding crop, and her griffin shrieked, flapped her wings, and drove forward. The wind howled, biting Gloriae's face and streaming her samite cape.
"Fly, Aquila," Gloriae called to her griffin over the wind's roar. Her riding crop flew too. "Fly hard."
As Aquila flew, Gloriae narrowed her eyes and scanned the lands below. Hills, copses of trees, and farmlands stretched into the horizons. Hearth smoke plumed from a distant village, and a fortress rose upon a mountain.
"Where are you, Kyrie?" Gloriae whispered, willing her eyes to see through every tree, into every barn, down every road. He was down there somewhere. He would travel north, travel to Hostias Forest where they whispered that Benedictus still roared. He would stay off the roads, sneak into barns for food, and sooner or later she would find him.
"You cannot hide for long," she spoke into the wind, and her lips pulled back from her teeth. Men often called her smile a wolf's grin, and Gloriae felt like a wolf, a huntress, a creature that lunges and kills and digs its fangs into flesh. "I will find you, Kyrie Eleison, and I will not take you alive. No, Kyrie. My father wants to capture you, to parade you as a freak, but not I." She caressed the hilt of Per Ignem, her sword of northern steel, which hung at her side. "I will make you taste my steel."
When Gloriae remembered the last time she saw Kyrie, she snarled. She had nearly drowned that day, but she had pulled herself from the roaring water, had survived, and now she hunted again.
Soon she flew over the village. If you could call it that, Gloriae thought. It was merely a scattering of cottages around a square. It was a wretched place, the houses built of mud and cow dung, the roofs mere thatch that no doubt crawled with bugs. Gloriae wrinkled her nose; she imagined that she could smell the place's stench even in the sky.
She turned her head to see the three griffins she led. Lord Molok flew alongside two riders of lower rank, men whose names Gloriae hadn't bothered to learn.
"The village below," she called to them and pointed. "We seek the weredragon there."
They nodded. Gloriae tugged the reins, and her griffin began to descend. The cold air lashed her, and Gloriae pulled down the visor of her helm. Peasants scurried below, fleeing into homes and closing the doors. Gloriae smiled her wolf's grin. Did they think their huts of mud and dung could stop her, Gloriae the Gilded, a maiden of the blade?
She landed her griffin in the village square, sending pigs and chickens fleeing. Gloriae snorted. Pigs and chickens? Truly this was a backwater; just the sort of place a weredragon would hide, cowering in the filth of beasts and the hovels of commoners. Gloriae drew Per Ignem, and its blade caught the light. She craved to dig this blade into Kyrie, to let weredragon blood wash it.
"You reptiles killed my mother," she whispered inside her visor, her jaw tight. "I was only three, but I know the story. You killed her. You ate her. You burned our towns, and poisoned our wells, and drank the blood of our children. Now I will wet my steel with your blood, weredragon. I am Gloriae the Gilded. You cannot hide from me."
Her men landed behind her and dismounted. Lord Molok gazed upon the village silently, face hidden behind that black, barred visor. His lieutenants drew blades and awaited orders.
"Into the inn," Gloriae said, gesturing with her chin toward the building, a scraggly place of wattle and daub. "We will ask there."
She walked ahead, leading them, and kicked open the inn's door. Her boots were leather tipped with steel, and the door swung open easily, revealing a dusty, shadowy room where commoners cowered. The air stank of ale, sweat, and grease. If she hadn't been wearing a visor, Gloriae would have covered her nose.
"Who runs this sty?" she demanded.
A wiry man hobbled forward, bowing his head. He wore an apron and held a mug and rag. "Welcome to our town, fine lady! May I offer you some bread and butter, mayhap some ale or—"
"Still your tongue before I cut it from your mouth," Gloriae said, glaring at him. "Do you think I've come for the dung you try to pass off as food, or the piss you serve as ale? I come seeking somebody. A boy."
Three men sat in the back of the tavern. Two were thin peasants, but the third was taller and broader than a peasant, his clothes finer, and he bore a sword. He'd been a knight once, perhaps; maybe a follower of Osanna's old, corrupt kings. This one was trouble, Gloriae knew. She would keep on eye on that shadowy corner.
The barkeep bobbed his head and whined, drawing Gloriae's attention away from the burly man. "Yes, my lady," he said. "I understand. But there is no boy here, as you can see." He tittered. "We are but simple folk, and—"
Gloriae stepped toward him, reached out a gloved hand, and clutched his throat. "You talk too much," she hissed. She raised her sword above him. "A boy with blond hair. A weredragon child. If I find that you've seen him, barkeep, and fed him your gruel, I will have you beg for death."
A chair scraped behind, and Gloriae turned her head to see the burly man rise to his feet. He had not drawn his sword, but his fingers lingered near the hilt
"Sit down, drunkard!" Gloriae told him, her voice filling the hovel.
The man gave her a long, hard look. He did not bow his head nor lower his eyes. "There was no boy," he said, voice low. "And you may refer to me as Taras, not drunkard."
Gloriae shoved the barkeep away, and he fell to the floor, gasping and clutching his neck. Gloriae stepped toward that burly man, that Taras, her sword drawn. Her fellow griffin riders stepped behind her.
Facing Taras, Gloriae pulled off her helmet. She tucked it under her arm and shook her hair so that it cascaded down her back. The barflies gasped, and even Taras narrowed his eyes. Gloriae smiled thinly. Men often gasped when they first gazed upon her green eyes, her golden locks, her legendary beauty.
"Whoever you are," Gloriae said softly, a crooked smile finding her lips, "you will obey me. Sit down."
Taras gave her a long, hard stare... then sat back in his chair.
Taras still stared into her eyes, something few men dared. He had brown eyes, eyes that were tired but still strong. "I followed Osanna's old kings, and I worshiped her old Earth God. Your griffins killed our king and our monks, stripped our temples bare and crowned them with Sun Disks. Why do I bear a sword, my lady? It is not Vir Requis that I fear, but—"
Gloriae backhanded him, putting all her strength into the blow, and his blood stained her white leather glove. "You will not speak that name here," she hissed, voice trembling with rage. "You will not speak the name they gave themselves. They are weredragons; that is what you will call them. They are murderers. Do you work for them, worm? Did you hide the boy?"
She tried to backhand Taras again. He reached out and caught her wrist.
"I hide nothing," he said, glaring, and rose to his feet. He towered over her. "I know who you are. You are Gloriae. You are the daughter of the usurper, and you are no rightful ruler of Osanna. The old dynasty and monks will return, Gloriae the Gilded, and—"
Gloriae pulled back from him and swung her sword.
He was fast. He had expected this. Eyes still cold, he leaped back, drew his blade, and parried.
Gloriae kicked the chair at him. It hit his chest, tangled against his sword, and Gloriae swung her blade. The steel cut Taras's shoulder. He grunted, fell back, and Gloriae lunged with a snarl. Before he could recover, she shoved her blade into his chest, driving it through him and into the wall behind.
She stepped back, watched him die, then pulled Per Ignem free. Taras slumped to the floor, and Gloriae placed her helmet back on.
"Would anyone else like to cause trouble?" she asked, aware that she was smiling wildly, that her chest rose and fell, that her blood roared. When nobody spoke, she nodded. "I didn't think so." She looked at her men. "Torch the place; it stinks of old piss."
She walked out of the inn, snarling, as her men tossed logs from the hearth onto the floor. When she smelled smoke, she laughed and mounted her griffin.