Song of Dragons: The Complete Trilogy

by Daniel Arenson

  Kyrie sat down beside him, and for long moments, the two said nothing. Finally, when his breath had slowed and his sweat dried, Benedictus spoke in his low, gruff voice.

  "I knew your parents, kid."

  Kyrie spun his head toward him so fast, his neck hurt. "My parents?"

  Benedictus nodded. "Aye. Your father was a bellator in my court. Do you know what that means? In our forests of Requiem, the bellators were our warriors of noble blood, commanders of our wings; like knights in the armies of Osanna. Your father was among the best I knew. I knew your mother too. I courted her once, but she chose your father instead." He chuckled—a deep, sad sound, lost in memories. He gazed into the trees, as if again seeing those marble tiles and columns that grew between the birches in Requiem's old courts.

  "I... I didn't know. They died when I was six. I remember little. I never met another Vir Requis until I met you, not since Lanburg."

  Benedictus rubbed his shoulder again and grimaced. His scar, peeking from under his shirt, seemed livid. "He was a proud warrior, your father. I fought with him. When Dies Irae killed your parents, I... that's when I gathered the last of us, that's when I marched to Lanburg Fields, to our final stand."

  Kyrie felt his fingers tremble. He buried them in his pockets. "I thought my parents died at Lanburg Fields. I was there, but I don't remember much."

  "They died a month before. Dies Irae murdered them. He torched their house and shot them when they fled. I'm sorry, kid. They were friends of mine. You survived. You were but a little one. We took you with us to Lanburg. We took all the orphans. There was nowhere to hide you, nowhere safe left in the burning world. You flew as warriors. I thought all the children had died." Benedictus's eyes were suddenly moist. "But you lived."

  Kyrie bit his lip. His eyes were moist too, and he took short breaths, struggling to curb his tears. He could not cry before Benedictus, before his king. For the first time, Benedictus was talking about the past, speaking to him as an equal, and Kyrie's head spun.

  Through clenched teeth, Kyrie said, "I will kill Dies Irae some day." He clutched Benedictus's shoulder and stared at him. "Fight with me, Benedictus. Fly with me again. Let us seek more Vir Requis. There are more. There must be more. Let us raise our banners, fly one more time, fight Dies Irae again. If we can grab the Griffin Heart, the griffins will fly with us. We can rebuild Requiem. We will speak the old words. I remember them." His voice shook, his body trembled, and tears flowed down his cheeks. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

  The softness in Benedictus's eyes, that sadness of memory, died. At once his eyes were cold again, his face hard. He rose to his feet, shoving off Kyrie's arm. Once more he was Rex Tremendae, the hunter, the gruff man who knew nothing of "weredragons".

  "Go home, Kyrie," he said and started walking away.

  Kyrie leaped to his feet and began to follow. Griffin blood and feathers covered the forest floor. "I have no home."

  Benedictus did not turn to look at him as he walked, boots crunching leaves. "So just go away."

  Kyrie shook his head, eyes stinging, heart thrashing. "How can you still say this? After what just happened? I want to fight!"

  Finally Benedictus looked at him, eyes blazing, deep and dangerous like demon caves. "You need to know how to fly, kid, if you want to fight Dies Irae."

  Kyrie bristled. "I'm a great flier. Did you not just see that? Did you not see me shake off three griffins between the trees, shoot among them in the skies, blind them with sunlight, claw them as they wobbled around me?"

  Benedictus spat again. His boots kept thumping, and he seemed not to notice the branches snagging him as he walked. "I saw a stunt show. You're a great showman, you are. Doing loops. Flying up and down like a bird. Are you a dragon, or are you a sparrow? You want to fight Irae, you better straighten out, lose your hotshot attitude, and learn to fly straight."

  Kyrie felt mad enough to catch flame. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to calm his anger. "Will you teach me?" he said.

  Benedictus grunted. "You will learn nothing. I've known young Vir Requis like you. Showoffs. Hotshots. We had a lot like you in the war. They fall from the sky faster than raindrops."

  Kyrie struggled to keep up with Benedictus's long strides. Branches slapped him, smearing him with sap. "I won't fall so easily. Fly again, Benedictus. Fly against Dies Irae like in the old days."

  Benedictus stopped walking and spun toward Kyrie, glaring. "The old days are gone," he growled, voice so loud that birds fled. "My wing is torn. I can barely fly straight these days. I could barely beat those griffins. I'm old and wounded, and I'm tired. It's over, kid."

  Kyrie shook his head in disbelief. How could Benedictus say this? How could their great king, the Vir Requis who had killed so many griffins, speak this way?

  "But don't you hate Irae?"

  In a flash, so fast Kyrie could not react, Benedictus grabbed Kyrie's throat and slammed him against a tree. Kyrie could not breathe, could not struggle, could not move, could only stare at Benedictus's burning eyes. Stars floated around him, and he thought he would die.

  "Dies Irae kidnapped my daughter," Benedictus said, voice cold, his fingers tight around Kyrie's throat. "I hate him more than you can imagine. You cannot know how I feel."

  Kyrie could not breathe. He could barely speak. Sure he would pass out any second, he managed to whisper hoarsely. "He murdered my family. I know exactly how you feel."

  Benedictus let go. Kyrie fell to the ground, clutching his throat, taking ragged breaths. Stars still floated before his eyes.

  "I want you gone by tomorrow," Benedictus said, walking away into the trees, leaving Kyrie gasping and coughing on the ground. "I told you. The war is over."

  DIES IRAE

  When his hall's doors slammed open, and Gloriae limped in bloody and bruised, Dies Irae did not need to be told.

  He knew at once.

  Benedictus still lived.

  "Daughter," he said, rising from his throne.

  Dirt and blood covered Gloriae's breastplate. She dragged her left leg, which was a bloody mess. She carried her helmet under her arm, and her face was ashy, her hair tangled. As she limped across the marble tiles, her blood trickled. The lords and ladies of the court gasped and stared.

  "Father," she said, limping toward his throne. "I would not rest. I come bearing news. Benedictus— he— he's—"

  "He's alive," Dies Irae said, voice icy.

  Gloriae nodded, panting. "He slew us all. My men. Our griffins. The boy Kyrie Eleison flies with him. Let us go. Now! On the hunt." She drew her sword, then wobbled. Dies Irae dashed forward and grabbed her, holding her up.

  "Daughter," he said and caressed her cheek. She looked up at him, green eyes so large and beautiful. Dies Irae kissed her bloody forehead. "You are hurt. Come sit by my throne."

  She nodded, and they walked across the hall. The nobles of the court stared silently, the light from the stained-glass windows glinting in their jewels.

  Light filled his court this day, glistening upon these jewels, upon golden statues of his likeness, upon filigreed columns and chandeliers. This court was a place of beauty, of light and truth, of righteousness and splendor... but today it seemed dark to Dies Irae. All the gold and jewels in Osanna, his empire, could not light his eyes today.

  He sat Gloriae on the stairs by Osanna's Ivory Throne. Servants rushed forward to bandage her leg, to pour wine into her mouth, to remove her bloodied armor. Dies Irae watched them work, then turned his gaze to his left arm, the deformity Benedictus had given him. And now... now Benedictus was back.

  With sudden rage, Dies Irae grabbed his crystal goblet and tossed it with a howl.

  The lord and ladies of his court, a hundred jeweled nobles, started and stared at their feet. Only Gloriae, the servants bandaging her leg, did not flinch. Blood speckled the marble stairs beneath her, and her eyes burned.

  "You failed me," Dies Irae said to her. "You failed to kill him."

  Her cheeks
flushed, and for a moment Gloriae looked ready to scream. Then she lowered her eyes. "Forgive me, Father. I have failed you once, but I will not fail again. Let us fly on the hunt. I know where he is. We will find him. We will kill him. I will kill Kyrie Eleison, and you will kill Benedictus." She drew her sword with a hiss.

  Dies Irae began to pace the hall. Around him the nobles spoke in hushed tones, daring not meet his eyes; a wrong glance now could kill them, they knew. Gloriae shoved away the servants tending to her, rose to her feet, and limped beside him. Pink splotches spread across her cheeks, and fire blazed in her eyes. Her hand trembled around the hilt of her sword.

  "Is he plotting a return?" Dies Irae wondered aloud.

  Gloriae spat onto the marble tiles. "He flies with the boy. The weredragons plan an attack against us, Father. They will gather more. They will fly upon this city."

  Dies Irae nodded, the conviction growing in him, festering like a wound. "Yes, he will return now. If he found the boy, that will embolden him. Two weredragons? He will think it an army." He stared at his daughter. "Can you find the way back, Gloriae? We will kill him."

  Gloriae snarled and placed her helmet on her head. "Yes, Father. Let us fly together. The boy gave me this wound. He is mine. You will kill the Black Fang."

  Dies Irae nodded, fire growing in his belly. He clenched his good fist. Yes, I will find you, brother, and I will kill you. You have hidden from me for ten years. But you cannot hide any longer.

  "There are more," Dies Irae said. "More weredragons. There have been sightings of a red one—a young dragon, female they think, slim and the color of blood. Villagers spotted her flying over the Fidelium mountains. And in the north, they speak of a silvery dragon, female too. Females can breed, Gloriae. They can fill Osanna with their spawn. I will not have my empire infested with new broods of these creatures."

  Gloriae snarled and swung her sword. "I have killed their spawn before. If they breed, I will do so again."

  Suddenly a lord burst forward, abandoning a group of ladies he had been courting. Dies Irae could not remember his name, but he was a pudgy man, balding, bluff and drunk. He wore a billowy fur coat and tunic to cover his girth, and wore a ruby ring on each finger.

  "Bah, they cannot hurt you!" the lord blustered, cheeks red with wine. Sweat glistened on his brow. "My lord Dies Irae! You are powerful beyond measure. How can a handful of Vir Requis harm you?"

  Gloriae gasped.

  Silence filled the hall.

  Dies Irae's jaw twitched.

  For a long moment nobody spoke, and the lord stood teetering, nearly falling over drunk.

  Finally Dies Irae broke the silence. He stared at this corpulent lord, fist clenched. "What did you call them?"

  "Vir Requis, Vir Requis! Weredragons, whatever. Who cares? Call them what you like. They cannot harm us! Osanna is bold and strong." He drew his sword, swiped it so wide that Dies Irae had to leap back, and began singing a drunken war song.

  When a guard stepped forward to grab him, the lord stumbled back, sputtering. "Unhand me, man!" he cried, grabbed a bottle of wine from a table, and drank deeply. "I am no woman for you to fondle. Let go!"

  The guard shoved the man down, more guards stepped forward, and soon the large lord stood chained to a column. The other lords and ladies looked aside, too fearful to speak, to even look upon Dies Irae. They had seen too many chained to this column stained with old blood.

  "Sun God," Gloriae said, blanching. She returned to the marble stairs leading to Dies Irae's throne, faced that throne, and clenched her fists.

  A smile spreading across his lips, Dies Irae sat back on his throne. He watched as handlers brought in the griffin cubs. The young beasts—each the size of a horse—whimpered and screeched, claws clanking against the floor, beaks open in hunger. Their handlers kept them always famished, caged, dreaming of tearing their beaks into flesh.

  "Watch, Gloriae," Dies Irae said softly. "I want you to see this."

  Gloriae still faced the other way. "I do not wish to look upon this."

  Dies Irae glared at her. "I command it. Watch, daughter. Watch every bite."

  Gloriae turned, and when she saw the snapping griffin cubs, she shuddered. The chained drunkard was thrashing and screaming. His screams of terror soon turned to screams of pain. The lords and ladies watched, silent, as the griffin cubs feasted, as new blood stained the column.

  "Sun God," Gloriae whispered again, staring with narrowed eyes. Her skin was ghostly white.

  When the griffin cubs had finished their meal, gulping down the last bites, their handlers led them away. The drunk lord was now nothing but bones, skin, and blood against the column.

  "These cubs will grow," Dies Irae said softly to Gloriae. His daughter looked ready to throw up. "In a few years, they will be fifty feet long, and fine fliers. And they will fly in a world without weredragons."

  Gloriae nodded but said nothing. She was a fierce warrior, Dies Irae thought; he had raised her for fierceness, for cruelty. But he had not finished the job. He had not finished molding her. Some of life's harshness still frightened Gloriae, harshness like the justice he dealt in his court. But she would learn. He was a good teacher, and he would teach her, would kill all softness and mercy within her.

  He rose from his throne, caressed Gloriae's hair, and kissed her head.

  "Come, Gloriae," he said and began to walk across the hall, heading toward its doors. "My brother awaits. We head to the griffin stables. We fly."

  KYRIE ELEISON

  "Benedictus," Kyrie said, "you can't go back to your hut."

  Benedictus stopped walking.

  Slow as sunset, he turned to face Kyrie. His face seemed harder than a mountainside, and his eyes burned. Words left his mouth slowly.

  "Why not?"

  Kyrie took a deep breath. His fingers tingled. He knew he had to tell Benedictus the truth, but he was afraid. What would Benedictus do to him? Would he beat him? Kill him, even? He took another deep breath, then spoke with a wince.

  "I let one get away, Benedictus. I'm sorry. Dies Irae will know we're here. He might be on his way already."

  Kyrie had expected Benedictus to be angry. The fury that suffused the man's face, however, still managed to surprise him. Benedictus's lips peeled back from his teeth. It was a wolf's snarl. He stomped toward Kyrie, eyes blazing. Kyrie tried to flee, but Benedictus caught his shoulders and shook him.

  "You... did... what?" Benedictus demanded.

  Kyrie lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry, Benedictus. I know I should have killed her. I wanted to. But... she's only a girl. I hesitated, and she escaped me. I was stupid. I realize now that she probably flew for reinforcements. I should have killed her right away, but I couldn't, Benedictus. I couldn't."

  Benedictus seemed ready to howl and beat him, but then his eyes narrowed. He sucked in his breath. "Who, Kyrie? Who couldn't you kill?"

  At the memory of those green eyes and golden locks, Kyrie shuddered. "Gloriae. Dies Irae's daughter."

  Benedictus's fingers dug into Kyrie's shoulders. "Gloriae? You saw her? She lives? Did you wound her?"

  What was going on? Kyrie felt dizzy. Benedictus seemed almost concerned about Gloriae, but that was impossible. "Yes, I saw her. I wounded her, but she's alive. I... what's wrong, Benedictus?"

  The man was suddenly pale. He released Kyrie and turned aside. For a long moment, Benedictus stared away from Kyrie, silent. Finally he spoke again. "Don't worry about it, kid. You did fine. But she'll be back here before long, and Dies Irae will fly with her. We pack our things. We go."

  Kyrie rubbed his shoulders where Benedictus had grabbed him. "Go where?"

  Benedictus lowered his head. "I don't know. But we can't stay here. This forest is no longer safe. We leave tonight."

  "Tonight?" Kyrie remembered Gloriae's boot on his neck, choking him, and the bite of her sword. He shook his head. "Gloriae might be back by then. Let's leave now! We can... we can go to Gilnor's swamps in the south and hide there. Or we can trave
l to Salvandos in the west; few griffins venture that far. Wherever we go, we have to leave now."

  Benedictus said nothing for a long moment. Finally he sighed and said, "I have nothing of value in my hut. A hammer and axe. A few bowstrings and arrows. Nothing more. But there is a treasure I must save from this forest. I go there tonight. We leave at midnight." He lifted a fallen branch and tossed it at Kyrie, who caught it. "Start building a fire. We'll hide half a league from it. If griffins arrive, they'll head to the smoke, and we'll see them."

  As Kyrie built the fire, he tried to ask Benedictus more questions. A treasure? Something to save tonight? What was the man talking about? And why, for stars' sake, did he seem so concerned about Gloriae's well being? But Benedictus only stood silently, staring into the forest, until the fire burned. They left the flames between stones, and walked north through the forest. Sunset began to toss shadows.

  "Where are we going?" Kyrie said.

  Benedictus grumbled. "You talk too much, kid."

  They walked for a long time through the darkness. It began to rain, and soon Kyrie was soaked and shivering. It was a cold night, starless, and Kyrie imagined that he could hear griffins in every gust of wind. How Benedictus could navigate in this darkness, Kyrie didn't know. He tried to ask more questions, but heard only growls in reply.

  Finally Benedictus stopped by an oak tree. He said to Kyrie, "Wait here."

  "Wait for what?" Kyrie said. His teeth chattered, and raindrops dripped down his nose.

  But Benedictus did not answer. He walked past the oak, disappearing into darkness. Just then the clouds parted, the rain stopped, and the stars shone. Kyrie saw that they had reached the crater. He remembered. This was where he'd first seen Benedictus shift. Starlight fell upon the clearing. It seemed to Kyrie like a holy place, almost like the old courts of Requiem. The crickets fell silent and the wind died.