Song of Dragons: The Complete Trilogy

by Daniel Arenson

  Gloriae froze.

  She wanted to roar. She wanted to flee. But no. She must remain silent. She must alert no one. Had anyone heard her tables falling over? Would anyone burst into this room, see her like this, see the monster she'd become?

  Silence, Gloriae, she told herself. Breathe. Think. Calm yourself. Do not panic.

  She shut her eyes, forced deep breaths, and imagined herself as a girl again. She forced the image of her human form into her mind. A girl, slender but strong, of golden locks, of green eyes, of marble skin. She took deep breaths and opened her eyes.

  Once more she was a girl.

  "Was it all a dream?" she whispered. No. She could see claw marks on the floor, and her room was a mess. Gloriae trembled. Cold sweat drenched her, soaking the shirt under her breastplate. She had never known such terror, not in all her battles.

  A thought struck her. She tugged open a drawer and grabbed a leather pouch. Inside were crumbled ilbane leaves. Fingers shaking, Gloriae reached into the pouch and touched the leaves. She yelped, dropped the pouch, and pulled back her hand. She stared at her fingers. They were red and blazed as if she'd touched open flame.

  Sun God... I'm infected.

  Gloriae clutched her head. She understood what had happened. Lacrimosa had given her the disease, the curse. Gloriae now carried that evil within her.

  She too had become a weredragon.

  Gloriae began to weep. She curled up on her bed, hugged her knees, and sobbed. She had never cried so much in her life. She was a freak now, diseased and monstrous. How would she continue? How could she face her father again? How would she ever get married, have children, raise a family? Would her children inherit this curse? She wanted to scream, to call for help, but dared not.

  A knock sounded on the door. "My lady?" came May's voice. "My lady, are you well?"

  "Leave me!" Gloriae cried. She rose to her feet, frantic, hair wild. I must hide this mess, she thought. Nobody must know. Nobody must ever know.

  Gloriae nodded. Yes, yes. She would keep it secret. She would tell nobody. How would they know? If she never shifted again, they could not. It was simple.

  She allowed herself a wild, weepy smile. "I can hide this."

  She placed a rug over the claw marks on the floor, righted her furniture, and arranged everything as it had been. Perfect. Finally she spent a few moments fixing herself. She removed her sweaty clothes and brushed her hair. She pulled on leggings, a cotton shirt, a leather belt, tall boots—her clothes of battle. She owned no gowns or dresses. She had never been much of a girl, she thought, but now she wanted to be nothing more.

  "May!" she called.

  Her handmaiden stepped into the chamber, and Gloriae pulled her into an embrace.

  "Hold me," she whispered, trembling. "Tell me it'll be all right. Please." Tears filled her eyes.

  They sat on the divan, and May held her and smoothed her hair, and Gloriae slept in her arms.

  She woke up to discover that night had fallen. May slept against her, her arms around her. Gloriae gazed upon the girl, her best friend since childhood, her only friend. I won't let you down, May, she thought. I won't let evil fill this world. You're my friend. You're pure and good. How can I let you live in a world so dangerous, so cruel?

  Gloriae knew what to do. She had known for years perhaps, but never dared. Tonight she would dare.

  Moving slowly, she wriggled out of May's embrace and placed a blanket upon the girl. Eyes narrowed, she silently put on her armor: her breastplate of steel, molded to the curve of her body, gilded and jeweled; her helmet, its visor a golden mask of her face; her greaves and vambraces, their steel bright. Finally she donned Per Ignem, lifted her shield, strapped her crossbow to her side, and left her chamber.

  She found her father in his hall. He sat upon the Ivory Throne, talking to the gaunt Lord Molok. When Gloriae entered the hall and walked across it, the two men turned to face her. Molok wore no helmet today, and she could see his ashen face, sunken eyes, and slit of a mouth. Her father was frowning.

  "Father," Gloriae said when she reached his throne. She slammed her fist against her breastplate.

  He nodded. "Daughter."

  "Take me to the Well of Night."

  Dies Irae rose to his feet, his face reddened, and for a moment Gloriae thought that he would strike her. But he only stared at her, eyes harder than his fists. "No."

  Gloriae took a step closer to him. She snarled. "I saw Lacrimosa, Father. I spoke to the beast. They are fully evil creatures, more than I knew. They die this night. No more ilbane. No more griffins. No more games. We release the nightshades. We wipe them out."

  Dies Irae bared his teeth, and his eyes looked ready to gore her. He grabbed her arm, fingers digging into her flesh. He leaned forward and whispered through clenched teeth. "You disobeyed me, Gloriae. You do not know what you ask."

  "I do, Father. I know very well. I know their power is greater than—"

  "You have not seen the nightshades," Dies Irae said, grinding his teeth. His fingers sent such pain through Gloriae, that she wanted to cry out, but held her voice. "I will show you. You think weredragons are evil? You think they are strong? You haven't seen these creatures."

  He began to drag her across the hall. She struggled to free herself from his grip, but could not. He dragged her through the doorway, down stairs, and along more halls. They walked for a long time. They moved down more stairwells, and down dark corridors, and finally into dungeons and tunnels.

  "You've never seen the darkness that lies beneath this city," Dies Irae said, still clutching her arm, still dragging her. "I raised you in light and beauty, surrounded with gold and jewels and goodness. You haven't seen what lurks beneath this place, far from the light of the Sun God."

  Gloriae gazed around, her father's digging fingers almost forgotten. She'd heard whispers of dungeons beneath Flammis Palace, but never seen them. The walls were roughly hewn, the floor raw stone, the ceiling dripping mold. It seemed that they traveled for leagues. The air was cold and clammy, the ground slippery. They plunged deeper and deeper underground, until Gloriae thought they would reach the end of the world.

  Finally a tunnel lead into a chamber where a hundred soldiers stood. They wore plate armor and carried battle axes. They slammed fists against breastplates, saluting their lords.

  "Soldiers, here underground?" Gloriae asked. "Father, wha—"

  "They are guards, Gloriae," he said. "They guard the terror that dwells behind these doors." He gestured at towering doors set into the stone wall.

  Gloriae looked at those doors and shivered. They were made of iron. Golden skulls were embedded into them, twice the size of men's skulls, soft light in their eye sockets. The skulls seemed to watch her, and Gloriae knew; the nightshades dwelled behind these doors.

  She shivered. Nightshades. In her childhood, she would fear them, see them in shadows under her bed, dream nightmares of them.

  "These creatures cannot be tamed like griffins," Dies Irae said. "They cannot be killed like weredragons. And you want to wake them?"

  Gloriae stared at that door. She thought back to her secret, her shame. I'm infested with the weredragon curse. I have the evil within me. I must make this land pure. For May. For all the other innocents. I cannot let anyone else catch their disease.

  "I want to see them."

  Dies Irae nodded to the guards, and several grabbed chains that hung from the doors. They began to pull, and the doors creaked open, inch by inch. Lights flickered in the eye sockets of the doors' skulls.

  Cold wind blew from beyond, sneaking under Gloriae's armor, and she shivered. She saw only blackness. When the doors were open, Dies Irae dragged her through the doorway, into the cold and darkness.

  She found herself in a chamber lined with torches. It was a great chamber, round and large as the amphitheater where Lacrimosa fought. It looked like a cave, its walls and floor rough, its ceiling hidden in shadows. In the center, Gloriae saw the well. She had always imagined a nor
mal well, maybe three feet wide. This well was a hundred feet wide—more a pool than a well, Gloriae thought—and not built of bricks, but carved of solid stone. Mist hovered over it.

  "Step up to the well, child," Dies Irae said, finally releasing her. "Gaze into the abyss."

  Suddenly Gloriae was fearful. Suddenly she wanted to flee back to her chambers, back to May. But she would not show her father any weakness. He had beaten this strength into her as a blacksmith beats strength into steel. She was a maiden of steel. She would face this. Whatever lay in the abyss, she would stare it down.

  She walked forward, knelt over the well, and gazed into the darkness.

  At first she saw nothing but black smoke, inky and swirling. She wanted to laugh. Had she been so frightened of nothing but this—smoke and shadows? She was about to turn away, but could not. The darkness seemed... endless, of a size unimaginable to her. Gloriae clutched the well's rim, fingers pushing against the stone. She thought that she gazed into the night sky. Was she gazing below into the earth, or above into the stars? This abyss had the same depth, endless, leading into realms unknown and light that did not shine. This was the opposite of light. Not darkness, no. Darkness was merely the lack of light. This... this was its antithesis, and it was greater, deeper, tugging at her soul.

  "What evil is this?" she whispered. It seemed to pull her soul downward, out of her body, so that her consciousness ballooned and filled the well like spreading ink. All her life, she had seen the world from the confines of her skull. Such a small enclosure. Now she knew that the world was larger, infinitely so, not only of three dimensions, but of endless layers and eternal time. The enormity made her grimace, fall to her knees, and cry.

  Then she saw them.

  They coiled in the darkness—maybe yards away, maybe millions of leagues away. They were long, murky black, not made of solid matter, but of darkness and smoke and lightning. Their eyes shone like stars, their teeth dripped smoke, and they stared at her, and spoke to her, and filled her mind and body, and enough, enough, please— Please, Father, enough! I cannot bear them. I cannot stand them inside me, cannot stand the size, the darkness, the dimensions, I want to leap into the abyss, I want to become one of them, to expand and fill the universe, and... God... Sun God, please, if you have power here, save me, I—

  Hands clutched her. Someone pulled her back.

  "Where... where am I?" she mumbled. She was lying on a rough stone floor. She gazed up and saw a man there, a man with a face like a griffin, his nose hooked like a beak, his skin golden, his hair slicked back. Who was he? He'd been her father once, a thousand lifetimes ago, but what did that mean?

  "Do you understand, Gloriae? Do you understand why we must never release them?"

  Gloriae blinked. "I... the world is so large, Father. It is larger than this place, I... we can fill it. We can see it!" Tears streamed down her cheeks. "It's horrible, please, save me, make it stop, make them stop pulling me." She curled up and wept.

  Dies Irae pulled her to her feet. He slapped her face. The pain shot through her, and suddenly she felt herself... sucked up, pulled back, drawn inside her body. Her soul slammed into her skull, and she wobbled. It felt like smoke retreating back into a jar.

  "I..." She blinked, looked around, and saw that they no longer stood in the chamber of the nightshades. They were back in the room with the guards. She had not even noticed herself returning to this place.

  "Come, daughter, we return to the air and light and music of the world."

  She followed him in a daze, climbing endless stairs, and neither spoke. It was not until she stood in the gardens of the palace, breathing the sweet night air, watching lords and ladies travel paths between cypresses, that Gloriae shook her head and blew out her breath. She had returned to herself; the nightshades were gone from her mind.

  "They cannot be tamed," Dies Irae said, and Gloriae started, for she hadn't realized that he still stood by her. "And you cannot release them. Only the one who sits upon Osanna's throne can open the Well of Night, and I will not. I will not release the terror that lurks there. One day you will sit upon the Ivory Throne, daughter. You will have the power to guard or release these creatures. When that day comes, remember this night. Remember what you saw there. Remember to keep it forever sealed."

  Gloriae nodded. "The abyss will remain sealed, today and always."

  Dies Irae nodded. He left her there in the garden. She spent a long time walking its paths, gazing up at the stars, lost in thought.

  BENEDICTUS

  Benedictus trudged toward the gates of Confutatis, cloak wrapped around him, two daggers at his belt.

  Other travelers covered the roads around him. Benedictus saw pilgrims in robes and sandals; Sun God priests in samite riding white horses; merchants in purple silk riding in carriages; shaggy peddlers riding mules, leading wagons of wares; thin peasants and farmers, their tunics muddy and patched; and many armored soldiers, their shields emblazoned with griffin heads.

  Benedictus scowled under his hood. He remembered days years ago, before Dies Irae, when he'd visit Confutatis with his father to meet its wise king. Few soldiers had marched these roads then, and the farmers were not bedraggled, but healthy and bearing wheelbarrows of crops. Monks had worn homespun robes and worshiped the benevolent Earth God, not this vengeful Sun God who cloaked his priests in gold and jewels. Now the priests were wealthy, the soldiers many, the peasants hungry, the Vir Requis dead. Sad days, Benedictus thought, staring at his boots so as not to gaze upon these processions of might and vicious piety. Cruel days.

  The sound of hooves came behind him, and Benedictus turned to see a knight on horseback leading twenty marching soldiers. The knight wore plate armor and bore a banner with a red, two-headed griffin upon a yellow field. The peasants on the road leaped into the muddy gutters and knelt. Benedictus stepped to the roadside and kept walking, refusing to cower in the mud.

  "You there!" came a voice. "Peasant."

  Benedictus stared from inside his hood. The knight reined his courser and stared down upon him. "Into the gutter with you," he said.

  Benedictus forced his growl down. He bowed his head. "The road is wide, and you have room to pass. I don't disturb you."

  The soldiers clinked in their armor, reaching for their swords. The knight raised an gauntleted fist. "I said into the gutter. I want you kneeling in the mud as I ride by."

  This time Benedictus did growl. He wanted to shift. He wanted to turn into a dragon and kill these men. He recognized this knight's banner. A two-headed griffin upon a yellow field—this was the banner of House Crudelis, a banner of foul memories. Ten years ago, Benedictus had flown to aid a burning village in Requiem. When he'd arrived, all the villagers were already dead, their bodies tortured and raped. The griffins and soldiers of Osanna had come, destroyed, and left. Only the banner of Crudelis remained, flapping over a pile of dead Vir Requis children.

  "Ride by, Crudelis," Benedictus said from the roadside. He reached into his cloak and grabbed a dagger's hilt. "Ride by and let me be. I don't want trouble."

  The soldiers stood at attention, but sneaked glances at one another. Crudelis stared down, silent for a long moment. Then he dismounted, walked toward Benedictus, and reached for his sword.

  Benedictus thrust his dagger into the knight's visor, deep into his head, spurting blood.

  As the knight fell, the soldiers charged. Benedictus ran into the forest. He dared not shift. If they knew a Vir Requis was here, garrisons would storm this forest. Benedictus ran, his old wounds aching, his fists pumping. The soldiers clanked behind him in their armor.

  Benedictus grunted. He might just escape them. He was thirty years older than these soldiers, but their armor slowed them. Just as he began to feel safe, something whizzed by his ear. A quarrel hit a tree ahead. More quarrels flew.

  "Great," Benedictus muttered as he ran. "They have crossbows."

  One quarrel scratched his shoulder, tearing his cloak and drawing blood. Two more hit a tree b
efore him. Benedictus ran from tree to tree, cursing. He saw a declivity ahead, leaped down, and fell. He rolled over roots and rocks, hit a fallen bole at the bottom, and pushed himself up with a grunt. The soldiers stood above, firing down. One quarrel scratched Benedictus's leg. He ran behind more trees, kicking up mud.

  "Damn," he muttered. He was too old for this. His lungs ached. He kept running until he reached a cliff, thirty feet tall and covered with vines.

  Benedictus spun around, his back to the cliff, and faced the soldiers. Boulders and brambles rose at his sides. He was trapped.

  As the soldiers approached, Benedictus raised his hands.

  One of the soldiers had a red griffin inlaid into his helmet. With Crudelis dead, this one seemed to have taken command. He grinned at Benedictus, a wolf's grin.

  "Are you surrendering, old man?" the soldier said with a sneer. "You do not surrender to us. We are soldiers of Dies Irae. We take no prisoners." His grin widened and he stepped toward Benedictus.

  "I'll have to kill all of you," Benedictus said. "I can't let any escape to call for help. If you do this, you will all die."

  The soldiers laughed. Their leader raised his sword.

  Benedictus shifted.

  He did as he'd promised. A few tried to flee, calling for help. Benedictus crashed through the trees toward them, claws outstretched, and tore them down. They were too far from the road; if anyone heard their cries, they wouldn't know where to look. It only took a few moments. It was like stomping on bugs.

  Benedictus shifted back into his human form. The soldiers lay dead around him, armor broken, blood feeding the earth.

  As he walked back through the forest, seeking the road, Benedictus lowered his head. He hated killing. What he'd just done lay sour in his belly like rotten meat. He knew these men were no innocents; their leader had murdered many Vir Requis, and even the younger soldiers, those who'd not fought in the war, had been brainwashed into malice, tools of death for Dies Irae. Still Benedictus hated the blood on his hands.