Song of Dragons: The Complete Trilogy

by Daniel Arenson

  She slammed the book shut, stood up, and went to the Black Magic section of the library. She climbed a ladder to the tallest, dustiest shelf. It lay cloaked in shadows and cobwebs. She blew the dust away, brushed the cobwebs aside, and rummaged through the shadows. Soon she found an ancient codex, bound in red leather, titled Artifacts of Wizardry and Power.

  She returned with the book to the floor by the window. The sunlight was fading outside. Soon it would be dark and the nightshades would emerge.

  "We better hurry," Kyrie said, looking out the window. He clutched his dagger.

  "I know, Kyrie. One last book." Gloriae opened Artifacts of Wizardry and Power on the floor, blew more dust away, and began reading. The first chapter spoke of glowing "Animating Stones", which could let statues, suits of armor, and even corpses walk. The second chapter was titled "Summoning Stick"; it showed a golden candlestick decorated with emeralds, which when lit could summon others to aid. The third chapter described the Griffin Heart—"we already know about that one," Gloriae muttered—and the fourth chapter made her gasp and slap the page.

  "Here," she said. "The Beams. We found what we need."

  Kyrie turned from the window, face pale. "Great, Gloriae. But I think reading time is over."

  Outside, the nightshades screeched. Night had fallen.

  Gloriae tucked Artifacts of Wizardry and Power under her arm, then looked around.

  "Where can we hide here?" she whispered. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the library.

  "The fireplace," Kyrie suggested and pointed. "You'd reckon nightshades would hate fireplaces. Firelight and all."

  Gloriae considered. If cornered, they'd be stuck there. Then the nightshades screamed closer, and she saw them swirling outside the window, and she nodded.

  They raced to the fireplace and climbed inside. The chimney led into darkness above, two feet wide.

  "Into the chimney," she whispered. "Side by side. We'll be hidden there."

  She and Kyrie wiggled into the chimney. Soot covered Gloriae's white robes, filled her hair, and tickled her nostrils. Kyrie coughed beside her, pressed against her, and she elbowed him.

  "Shh!" she whispered. "No coughing. And keep your feet inside the chimney. They're dangling into the hearth."

  He grumbled and pulled his feet up. It was a tight squeeze. Gloriae's back was flat against the chimney bricks. She was pressed against Kyrie, his nose against her cheek, his breath against her mouth.

  "Gloriae," he whispered.

  "Shh!" She elbowed his stomach—hard—and he grunted and fell silent. Artifacts of Wizardry and Power almost slipped from under her arm, and she tightened her grip on it.

  For a moment there was silence. Then Gloriae heard the library doors swing open, and the nightshades swarmed in.

  Their shadows danced even inside the chimney. The candles she and Kyrie had lit blew out, leaving them in darkness. The nightshades screamed, the sound echoing in the chimney, making them wince. Gloriae shut her eyes and prayed to the Sun God to save her... though she suspected the book under her arm would provide more succor.

  Kyrie slipped an inch.

  His foot dangled into the hearth.

  The nightshades froze, then shrieked so loudly, the library shook. Gloriae heard books fall off the shelves.

  She grabbed Kyrie and pulled him up. The nightshades howled and swirled.

  "Climb!" she whispered to Kyrie. "Quickly."

  They scurried up the chimney, wriggling into the darkness.

  A nightshade's head emerged into the fireplace beneath them.

  Gloriae froze. Were they high enough? Were they dark enough?

  She peeked down. The nightshade's head was huge; it filled the fireplace. It looked left, right, and then up into the darkness. Its glittering eyes narrowed, as if it tried to peer into the shadows.

  It can't see us, Gloriae thought. It may hate light, but it needs some light to see.

  The nightshade began to sniff. Its head wasn't solid, merely wisps of darkness and stars, but it seemed to have nostrils. Gloriae scratched the chimney wall, so that ash fell down the chimney. The nightshade sniffed the ash, snorted, and shook its head wildly.

  It left the fireplace.

  Gloriae and Kyrie breathed out shakily. They dared not speak or move, not until the nightshades gave a final screech, swirled, and seemed to leave the library. Finally, when they were sure the library was empty, they crawled back into the fireplace and onto the floor.

  Nightshades still swirled and screeched outside, but the library seemed safe for now.

  "I'd wager they do a nightly patrol," Kyrie said, "scanning the buildings they haven't toppled yet. That's probably why we found no people in the library. Nobody wants to hide here, not if the nightshades come here at night."

  Gloriae nodded. "I hope they only scan the place once a night. We better stay near the fireplace, just in case we have to scurry in again. And this time please do not cough in my face, Kyrie."

  He bristled. "Well, don't elbow my stomach. I don't wear a breastplate like you do, and your elbows are bonier than a skeleton's backside."

  Gloriae lit one candle—she would risk no more light—and sat cross-legged at the hearth. She opened Artifacts of Wizardry and Power, flipped to the chapter on the Beams, and sighed.

  "Wonderful," she said. "We finally find the right book, and Dies Irae modified this one too."

  In the candlelight, she could see that more words had been effaced, new words replacing them. She read out loud. "'Lir Irae prayed to his father, the Sun God, for light to tame the nightshades. The Sun God, of infinite wisdom and power, created the Beams and filled them with his light and fire, so that Lir Irae might tame the nightshades in his name.'" She scrunched her lips and pointed at words. "'Lir Irae' is new; there used to be another name written here. The stuff about the Sun God is also new. But some of these words, such as 'created the Beams' and 'tame the nightshades', are the original text. You can see how the parchment is thicker, and the ink more faded."

  "So let's get this straight," Kyrie said. "We've spent hours in this library, and what have we learned? That thousands of years ago, somebody used something to tame the nightshades." He groaned. "Gloriae, we knew all this already."

  She glared at him. "Not something. We learned we must seek the Beams. We know there is an artifact that can help us, or was one. We know somebody created it, and it wasn't the Sun God."

  Kyrie sighed. He looked out the window at the nightshades that still swirled outside. "We'll learn nothing more here. Let's get some sleep, Gloriae. We'll head to Fidelium Mountains tomorrow, and see if the others learned anything better."

  Gloriae sighed too and closed the book. "All right, Kyrie. Good night."

  They huddled into the fireplace, under the chimney should they need to climb, and Kyrie took first watch. Gloriae leaned against the cold bricks, but could find no rest. She was cold, and the bricks hurt her head. Finally, silently, she shifted so that her head lay against Kyrie's shoulder, and so his arm draped over her. She did this as if in sleep, so he wouldn't object. She heard him sigh, but he let her nestle against him. His body was warm, and Gloriae felt safe against him.

  Visions of sunrise over clouds filled her mind, and the flapping of wings, and Gloriae slept.

  LACRIMOSA

  After seven days of flying over the ocean, Lacrimosa saw islands ahead.

  Tears sprung into her eyes. Her wings ached, but she forced herself to keep going. It had been days since she'd seen land—endless days of flying, floating on her back when she rested, drinking rain when it fell, eating fish when she could catch them. Lacrimosa had not felt such weariness since fleeing the griffins last summer.

  So do the fates taunt us, she thought. I drove myself to agony fleeing the griffins; now I do the same seeking them.

  The islands were still distant, mere specks on the horizon. As Lacrimosa flew closer, she saw that cliffs drove the islands up from the water, dangling with vines. Trees crowned the islands like b
ushy green hair. Gulls and hawks flocked among those trees, calling over the water.

  She saw dozens of islands. She flew to the nearest one. Palm trees grew from it, and a waterfall cascaded down its western facade. Lacrimosa was a league from the island when griffins shrieked, took flight from the trees, and began flying toward her.

  The sound made her start. For so many years, the shrieks of griffins had meant running, hiding, praying for life. For so many years, Dies Irae had ruled the griffins, driving them against the Vir Requis, destroying the world with their talons and beaks.

  But I no longer need fear them, Lacrimosa thought, watching three griffins approach. They no longer serve Dies Irae. They no longer hunt Vir Requis.

  Still her heart hammered. The griffins flying toward her were young, burly, twice her size. They shrieked and reached out their talons.

  "Griffins of Leonis!" Lacrimosa called. "I come as ambassador of Requiem. I come in peace. Will you let me land on the islands of Leonis, and speak with your king?"

  The griffins flew around her, cawing. Lacrimosa shivered. Golden fur covered their lion bodies. White feathers covered their eagle heads. Their beaks were large and sharp; Lacrimosa had seen such beaks kill so many dragons. Memories of the war assaulted her; Dies Irae and his men riding griffins, swooping upon Vir Requis children, cutting them down—

  She forced the thought away. "Requiem will be reborn," she said to the griffins. They were circling around her, shrieking. "I am Lacrimosa, Requiem's queen. I seek Volucris, your king."

  They shrieked with new vigor. They clutched her limbs, and Lacrimosa cried and thought they would bite her. But they began to fly to the island, dragging her with them.

  "Let go," she said, frowning. "I can fly myself."

  They cried and kept dragging her forward. Lacrimosa remembered how Volucris had once carried her to Confutatis. She felt a prisoner again.

  Soon they flew over the island. The foliage was so thick, she couldn't see the ground. Mist hovered over the trees. Pillars of stone thrust out from the greenery, bedecked with vines. Griffins covered these pillars, nesting in eyries. For leagues in the eastern ocean, Lacrimosa saw other islands—hundreds of them—griffins flying above them.

  Lacrimosa wriggled in the griffins' grasp. "Where are you taking me?"

  Of course, griffins could not utter the language of men or Vir Requis; they only shrieked, cawed, and squawked. They flew with her to a jagged stone pillar. It seemed a league high, towering over the island, taller than the highest steeple in Osanna. A nest crested the tower, shaking in the winds.

  The griffins flew to that nest, and placed Lacrimosa upon the branches, grass, and leaves. They tilted their heads at her, cooed, and one took flight.

  "Does he go to call Volucris?" Lacrimosa asked the remaining two griffins. They nodded.

  She waited. The winds blew, and the nest shook, teetering on the pillar. She remained in dragon form, should she fall and need to fly. Once she tried to stand up, to peer down the pillar, but the griffins shoved her back down.

  "Am I your prisoner?" she asked, baring her fangs. "I am Queen of Requiem. Do not hold me down if I wish to rise."

  They shrieked and tilted their heads, and when Lacrimosa tried to rise again, they pushed her down a second time.

  Lacrimosa swallowed her pride. She would let them win this battle. She would have to impress Volucris, king of these islands, not these griffins.

  An hour passed, maybe two, and finally Lacrimosa saw ten griffins fly toward her. Volucris flew at their lead.

  The King of Leonis landed before her. He was the largest of the griffins, fifty feet long and burly. Lacrimosa stared into his eyes, ice in her heart. She remembered Dies Irae riding this griffin. She remembered Volucris hurting her, biting her, carrying her to pain and torture. She bowed her head to him.

  "Your Majesty."

  Volucris walked toward her, and at first Lacrimosa feared he'd hurt her again. Once more she could feel that old pain, his talons that cut her.

  Volucris bowed to her, and nuzzled his beak against her head. He cooed.

  Lacrimosa touched his cheek, its soft feathers, the tear that flowed down them. "I'm sorry, Volucris," she whispered. "I'm sorry for what Dies Irae did to you, how he enslaved you with his amulet. I'm sorry for what he forced you to do."

  Volucris nodded, and his tear fell into the nest.

  "And I'm sorry for what the Vir Requis elders did," she whispered. "We created the amulet with the blood of griffins. We enslaved you too. We forced you to guard our skies, before Dies Irae stole the Griffin Heart."

  Volucris stared at her, silent.

  Lacrimosa too was crying now. "Requiem was punished for her sins, mighty Volucris. We enslaved you. We paid for that. Dies Irae made us pay. He turned you against us, turned our slaves into our destroyers. But we are reborn now. We rise from our sins and destruction with purer hearts, kinder souls, stronger spirits. Will you forgive us? Will you befriend our new nation?"

  Volucris looked to the west, as if he could see over oceans to the distant realms of Osanna, where he was slave to Dies Irae, or to the lands of Requiem, where the Vir Requis kings had bound him. He looked at her and said nothing. Then, so fast that she gasped, he took flight.

  His wings flapped, rattling the nest. He gestured with his head for her to follow.

  She took flight too. Surrounded by griffins, they flew across the waters, over the islands, heading further east. Lacrimosa gazed in wonder below her. The islands were beautiful; waterfalls cascaded from them, trees rustled upon them, and griffins flocked in all directions.

  They flew for an hour, over many islands, until Lacrimosa saw a great island ahead, three times larger than the others. A mountain grew atop it, all stone and vines. Many griffins flew there, and nested in alcoves across the mountainsides.

  Volucris led the group to the mountaintop, where Lacrimosa saw a great nest, a hundred yards wide. A harem of two dozen females brooded there. Lacrimosa saw many griffin eggs. Among the eggs lay a golden candlestick decorated with emeralds.

  Volucris gestured with his head to the back of the nest. Lacrimosa looked, and saw a griffin cub lying on his side. He was so small, the size of a pony. His eyes fluttered, and his breath was shallow. Sweat matted his fur.

  "Your son," Lacrimosa whispered to Volucris. "He is ill."

  Volucris nodded. With his beak, he nudged Lacrimosa toward the cub.

  Lacrimosa stepped forward, still in dragon form. Two female griffins were tending to the child. They backed away, and Lacrimosa knelt before him.

  "Hey there," she whispered. "Good morning, sweetness."

  The cub blinked at her. He tried to coo, but the sound was weak. His leg was wounded, Lacrimosa saw, sliced from heel to knee. Maggots and pus filled the wound, and lines of infection ran from it. Lacrimosa winced.

  She turned to Volucris. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "How can I help him?"

  Volucris gestured back at the cub. He lowered his head, raised it again, and pointed at the child with his talons. He's trying to tell me something, Lacrimosa knew. But what?

  "Do you want me to do something to him?" she asked.

  Volucris nodded.

  "Do you think I can heal him?"

  Volucris nodded again.

  Lacrimosa returned her gaze to the child. How could she heal this? She knew some herbalism, some home remedies. But even if she had herbs, alcohol, and bandages, this wound was beyond her. This wound meant death. Lacrimosa had seen many such wounds during the war. They ended with fever and a grave.

  She whispered into Volucris's ear. "His leg is beyond me. We could try to amputate it, but... I don't think that would help. The infection runs through his whole body now." A tear rolled down her cheek. "I cannot heal this."

  Volucris cawed and gestured at the cub. He nudged her back to him.

  Lacrimosa looked at the child again. She shook her head, and another tear fell. "I'm sorry. I cannot heal him."

  Volucris nudged her
again, mewling. He pushed her toward the child, almost violently. Lacrimosa wanted to object. She wanted to flee.

  "Please," she said. "Don't shove me. I can't heal him."

  He placed his foot on her head, and pushed it toward the child. He forced her face near the wound. It stank of rot. The maggots in the blood swirled. Lacrimosa grimaced and tried to pull away, but Volucris held her face up to the wound.

  "Please, release me," she said.

  The child was shifting, trying to caw. His eyes fluttered.

  "Ma," he seemed to say. "Ma. Caw! Ma."

  Lacrimosa closed her eyes, the stench of the wound in her nostrils. The child would die, she knew. Son of Volucris, prince of griffins, heir to these islands. An innocent child, perhaps the first griffin born in freedom. Lacrimosa thought of all those griffins born into slavery—first in Requiem, then in Osanna. How could she let this one die? She bore responsibility to them. As she wanted to rebuild Requiem, she owed Leonis a debt too.

  "Ma," the cub cawed again. "Caw. Ma. Ma."

  He was in pain. He was weeping. Suddenly it no longer mattered that he was a prince, that Lacrimosa's fathers had enslaved his people. All that mattered was that he was a child. A child in pain, a child dying. Wasn't that the entire gravity of it?

  She felt tears gather once more in her eyes. One tear fell, splashed into the wound, and raised steam.

  Volucris and the other griffins all cried. The cub yelped and tried to move, but was too weak. Another tear fell from Lacrimosa, hit the wound, and more steam rose. My tears hurt him, she thought, but she could not curb them. They fell into the wound, hissing and steaming, as the griffins shrieked.

  And then Lacrimosa noticed that when the steam cleared, the wound looked better. The pus drained from it. New blood filled the wound, and then it scabbed over.