A Night of Dragon Wings

TREALE



She was stoking the fireplace in Sharik's small, craggy chamber when she heard shouts, ran into the dungeon corridor, and saw the golden dragon.

Her breath died and for an instant Treale froze, eyes stinging and fingers trembling.

She had been working in this dungeon for six days now, serving her master, Sharik. For six days she had swept his floor, stoked his fireplace, cooked his meals, and—she cringed to think of it—emptied his chamber pot and washed his foul tunics. For six days she had cleaned up after his work, mopping blood and gore from under the bodies he tortured. For six days he would grumble, fondle her, slap her if she met his eyes, and spit upon her. For six days she had tried to grab his keys—but whenever she inched close, she earned another smack that left her head ringing, and at nights his girth would cover his treasure.

And Mori was so close! Treale had heard the princess whimper down the hall, and she longed to run to her, to whisper under the door, to comfort her, to let Mori know she was here. And yet how could she?

During the days, Sharik kept her at his side. She would mop blood from cells where prisoners hung, their flesh lacerated, their skin peeled. She would collect the fingers he severed and burn them. She would bring water and food to whimpering or screaming mouths, trying to keep these broken bodies alive.

And yet the chamber at the hall's end where Mori lay… that was forbidden. In that chamber lay Tiranor's greatest prize, the Weredragon Princess herself. Only Sharik brought food and water to that chamber. Only Sharik mopped the blood from that floor. Even at nights when Sharik slept, Treale could not approach Mori's shadowy cell. During those long cold nights, Treale languished in her own prison—locked with Sharik in his room, forced to sleep on the floor by his chamber pot and gobs of drool.

And now—after six days of blood and screams that would forever haunt Treale—Mori's chamber door lay shattered across the corridor, and Sharik ran toward the frail dragon that emerged from it.

With a gasp, Treale began running too.

This corridor was narrow, but the golden dragon was frail enough to fit, her scales dulled and her wings limp. Mori tried to blast Sharik with fire, but only sparks left her mouth, and only wisps of smoke left her nostrils. She tried to lash her claws, but Sharik's club swung down, and Mori whimpered and fell against the wall.

Sharik raised his club again, prepared to shatter the dragon's head.

With a scream, Treale leaped and clung onto the jailor's back.

"Treale!" Mori cried.

Sharik howled and bucked beneath her, and Treale screamed and clutched his throat, trying to choke him. His club flailed and slammed against a wall. He swung the club backward, and pain blazed across Treale's shoulder. She yowled. She thought the blow might have shattered her bone. She slid off Sharik's back and slammed against the floor. The club swung down, and she rolled aside. The club cracked the floor by her, and Treale kicked, hitting Sharik's leg.

He crashed down atop her, and Treale gasped and yelped. His weight was immense; he was thrice her size. His hand reached out, fingers thick and clammy, and clutched her throat.

Treale gurgled for breath. She clawed at his hand, but it was like clawing a slab of ham. She drew blood but could not break his grip. Stars floated before her eyes. She thought her neck would snap. Sharik snarled above her, drooling onto her face; his eyes were mad. Treale kicked, again and again, hitting his belly; it was like kicking a soggy old mattress. He seemed not to feel the pain, and his fingers kept clutching her throat, and blackness spread across her vision.

Her eyes rolled back.

Goodbye, Mori, she thought. Goodbye, Requiem. I'm sorry. I failed you, Mori. I failed.

Sharik howled.

The fingers loosened around her neck.

Treale gasped for breath, a gasp she thought could swallow the world. The blackness pulled back from her eyes like curtains, and stars exploded across the dungeon. She struggled to her feet, clutching at her throat and hacking, and saw Sharik howl. Mori's horns had gored him; they pierced his back and emerged bloody from his chest. The blood soaked his tunic and sprayed Treale's face.

His club lay fallen. Treale grabbed it and swung. The wood cracked against Sharik's skull. She felt the blow reverberate up the club, up her arm, and into her shoulder.

Sharik tilted, head caved in, and crashed to the floor. He lay still, dead eyes staring, blood pooling beneath him.

Behind him, the slim golden dragon mewled, and her magic left her. Where a dragon had stood, pressing against the corridor walls, now lay a frail, scarred woman with pale skin and wispy hair.

Treale leaped over Sharik's body and knelt over Mori. She cradled her princess in her arms, and her tears splashed against Mori's cheek.

"Mori," she whispered, holding her princess close. "Mori, I'm here. I've come for you. I'm going to get you out of here."

Mori felt so thin in her arms, barely more than skin and bones. The princess smiled softly, a ghostly smile, and her eyelids fluttered.

"Treale," she whispered. "Are you really here? Is this a dream?" She reached up with a frail arm—stars, it was nothing but skin and bone!—and clung to Treale's shoulder. "Treale, I saw them! I saw Queen Gloriae, and Kyrie Eleison and Agnus Dei—the heroes from the old scrolls. They fly with us."

Treale's throat still throbbed with pain, and her arms shook with weakness, but she gritted her teeth and struggled to pull Mori to her feet. Other guards often patrolled these dungeons; they could appear any moment.

"Come, Mori! Stand. We have to go now. We have to run."

She looked around, waiting for guards to appear. Boots thumped somewhere above and screams echoed through the chambers. She growled as she pulled Mori to her feet. The princess could barely stand; she leaned against Treale, her arms around her shoulders.

"You have to walk as fast as you can," Treale said. She began to take slow steps down the hall. "Lean on me and let's get out of this nightmare."

Yet Mori did not move. She looked back at Sharik's body, a lump of warty white flesh and oozing blood.

"Wait," the princess whispered. "We need to free the others."

Treale hissed between gritted teeth, whipping her head back and forth. Stars damn it! she thought. The shouts of guards still echoed above; no doubt they had heard the fight, and they would burst into this corridor any moment. And yet… Mori was right, she knew. Other screams echoed here: the screams of prisoners who filled the cells, hanging from the walls, skin lashed and bodies broken.

We can't leave them here, Treale thought.

She moved back to Sharik's body. For six nights, he had lain snoring upon his keys; it took dying for him to lie upon his other side, the keys exposed. Still holding her princess, Treale grabbed the ring of keys and wrenched it off Sharik's belt.

"Come on, Mori!" she said, keys in one hand, club in the other. "Hold onto me and walk, and we're going to get everyone out of here."

She began moving down the corridor, heels digging into the floor, breath rattling and body aching. The screams rolled above, and boots still thumped, and steel clashed. Yet still the guards did not appear. What was happening in the upper chambers? Treale did not have time to guess. It sounded like a hundred soldiers were clanking above her; she knew she had only moments before they arrived.

Mori limped by her, arms around her neck, and Treale stumbled toward one cell. She thrust the keys into the door's lock. The lock clanked, and the door opened to reveal a cell with three prisoners.

The men lay upon the floor, bloodied and whimpering. Sharik had dislocated their arms upon the rack. They trembled, pale and sickly and coughing, blood upon their backs. For a moment Treale could only stand, breath wheezing, head spinning.

How can we do this? Guards shouted above. Hundreds filled the palace, and thousands filled the city. Scores of prisoners filled this dungeon, and most were too ill, frail, and wounded to walk; she could not carry them all.

Did I travel to Tiranor only to die in darkness? Did I survive the fire over Requiem, and fly through smoke and blood, to fall with my princess underground?

Treale tightened her lips. No. No, I will not die here. She knelt by the prisoners, somehow holding her club, her keys, and Mori. She growled. We will not die like rats in Tiranor's bowels. We will find our sky. We will fly over Requiem again.

"You must stand!" she said to the prisoners. "Stand and flee! Move, now, before guards arrive."

The prisoners crawled, struggling for breath, struggling to rise. One managed to stand, leaning against a wall, then fell and mewled. The others could not even do that. More wails rose from the other chambers, and voices cried out to her, begging for freedom, begging for death. Tears stung Treale's eyes, and she let out a frustrated yowl.

"How can I do this, Mori?" she whispered. The princess still leaned against her, so frail she could barely support her own weight. "How can we free them? There are so many… so many wounded…"

The prisoners were crawling toward her, bloody hands outreached, when a shriek pierced the dungeons.

It was a shriek like shattering glass, like rending souls, the primordial cry of ancient evil. It was so loud, the dungeon shook and dust rained, and Treale dropped club and key and covered her ears. The prisoners moaned and fell. The floor shook and cracks raced along the wall. Mori winced and also covered her ears, and the shriek kept flowing, rising to an impossible pitch, so shrill Treale thought her eardrums might rip.

When finally the shriek ended, Treale turned to face the cell door. She raised her club. Outside in the hall, a shadow was stirring.

Stars of Requiem, be with me.

The torchlight flickered madly outside, casting shadows and red light across the floor. Something was moving in the hall. Snorts rose and a stench like rotten flesh and mold invaded Treale's nostrils. A long shadow fell across the corridor outside the doorway, and the shriek sounded again, so loud Treale fell to her knees and winced and thought her skull might crack.

"Treale," Mori whispered. She trembled against her.

"Be strong, Mori," Treale whispered back. Her heart thrashed and her chest rose and fell. "Whatever walks outside, we will face it."

Was a wyvern crawling in the corridor? No, impossible; wyverns were too large to fit down here. Was it a phoenix? No; she would have felt the heat. Some beast, some evil, crawled outside the cell. Its breath snorted as if sniffing for flesh, and claws clanked against the floor, and the shadow neared, and finally the creature appeared at the doorway.

Treale froze. Such terror pounded through her she couldn't even scream.

She had faced wyverns in battle over Ralora Beach. She had seen the death of her parents. She had sailed from Osanna to Tiranor and survived for days in these dungeons, witnessing the blood and gore and agony of Tiranor's torture. Yet she had never seen anything that filled her with such pounding, twisting, screaming terror. Her teeth clenched, sweat drenched her, and her knees felt soft as wet cloth.

"Stand behind me, Mori," Treale whispered. Without removing her eyes from the creature, she knelt, placed Mori upon the floor, and straightened again. She raised her club with shaking, clammy hands.

The creature regarded her, one eye bright yellow, the other milky white and swollen. It crawled on hands and knees, body long and lanky, its bones thrusting against leathery skin. It looked almost like a man, but far too large; Treale guessed it would stand fifteen feet tall, if it had room to straighten. Leathern swings sprouted from its back, and its claws were long and thin. As it stared at her, its lips pulled back to reveal fangs like daggers. When its tongue lolled, drool dripped and sizzled against the floor.

"Stand back!" Treale warned and raised her club. Her knees shook, but she snarled and stayed standing. "You will not enter this place."

Its tongue licked its chops, long and wet like a sea serpent. Its white eye spun madly, the size of a melon, oozing pus.

"Fleshhhh," it hissed, eyes blazing. "We must eat, yes, we must lick blood, we must suck marrow. Fleshhh."

Quick as a spider, it scuttled on hands and knees into the chamber.

Treale yelped and leaped back. She swung her club, and it clanged against the demon's shoulder. The beast barely seemed to notice. Its head whipped from side to side, taking in the cell, like a starving man stumbling upon a feast and for a moment overcome, not sure which dish to devour first. Mori crawled into the corner, face pale, and Treale stood over her, club trembling in her hands. The beast gave them a stare, then looked back at the prisoners who mewled upon the floor. It finally seemed to make up its mind.

It pounced onto one prisoner, a man with dislocated arms and severed fingers, and began to feast.

Treale winced and Mori yelped. Blood and entrails splattered. The prisoner gave a last scream, then died as the beast fed. It ate greedily, claws lashing and teeth ripping flesh, then turned and pounced upon a second prisoner. The man screamed as the creature sucked up his entrails. The third prisoner, back lashed and legs broken, whimpered and began crawling away, but the demon leaped upon him too, and more blood splashed.

"Come on, Mori!" Treale cried. She grabbed the princess and pulled her up. "Run, Mori!"

As the demon feasted upon the third prisoner, crunching bones and sucking organs, the two young women stumbled out into the hall.

A second shriek, coming from ahead, tore through the dungeon. Walls cracked and dust rained. Treale screamed and Mori whimpered. More shadows stirred, and a second beast scuttled into the dungeon, licking its chops. This one's flesh was so rotten, it hung in tatters, revealing white bones. It crawled forward, long and rail thin. Its nostrils flared, and with a howl, it burst into a cell where children hung from a wall. The beast began to feast, splattering blood. The children screamed and died between its teeth.

"Nephilim," Mori whispered, her arms around Treale's shoulders. Her voice was weak, and her arms shook.

"Demons?" Treale whispered.

"Half demons. I read about them in my books. Their fathers were demons from the Abyss who took human brides; these are their spawn." She began to limp forward again. "Hurry, Treale!"

They rushed down the corridor as the nephilim screeched and slurped and feasted behind them. As they passed by cells, they saw that the prisoners had already been devoured. The doors lay shattered, and only bits of hair and bloodied chains remained beyond them. More screeches rose above; the dungeons were swarming with these creatures.

"More flesh!" rose cries behind them. "We must drink more blood! We crave more bones, comrades, and marrow to suck."

Treale's feet slogged through blood. The nephilim screeched behind her. Every step seemed a mile long. The staircase rose ahead; it would lead them out of darkness. It was only ten paces away, but seemed the distance of seas and forests. She walked on shaky legs, Mori leaning against her.

The shrieks swirled behind her, louder now. "More blood! More flesh to suck!"

Shadows danced. The torches flickered madly. The staircase was only five paces away now. When Treale looked over her shoulder, she saw the nephilim emerge from the chambers, maws bloody. They tossed their heads back and howled, and the dungeons shook.

The prisoners had only whetted their appetite, she realized. And we're the main course.

She yowled, clenched her jaw, and kept trudging forward. Mori was frail, but she seemed so heavy now; Treale's limbs were too weak, too thin. The creatures began scuttling behind them, claws clanking against the stone floor. Treale yowled and tried to run, but her feet slipped in the blood, and she crashed to her knees. Mori whimpered and fell beside her.

"Blood! Flesh! Fresh sustenance, comrades, fresh bones to snap!"

The two nephilim came charging toward them. Treale screamed and leaped to her feet. Was this corridor too small? Would the walls crush her? Would she crush Mori?

The nephilim snapped their teeth.

"Stand back, Mori!" Treale shouted, summoned her magic, and shifted.

Her body ballooned, becoming the dragon. Flames crackled in her maw. Her scaly flank shoved against Mori, pinning the princess to the wall. Treale howled, a black dragon trapped in the corridor like a clot in a vein. The nephilim screamed before her, and Treale blew her fire.

The flames exploded through the dungeon, crashed against the nephilim, and roared into the cells lining the corridor. The half demons shrieked, stones shattered, cracks raced along the ceiling, and bricks tumbled. Treale kept blowing her flames, and the beasts kept screaming. A chunk of the ceiling crashed against Treale's back, and she howled. More stones slammed against the nephilim, and she heard one's spine snap. She kept roaring her fire, emptying every flame inside her, until the beasts lay burnt and broken and still.

Panting, head twisting with pain, Treale shifted back into human form. Smoke and flame filled the dungeon; she could barely breathe. She knelt above Mori, and tears filled her eyes. The princess lay on her back, eyes closed.

"Mori!" Treale called, lifted the princess in her arms, and shook her. "Mori, wake up. Stars, Mori!"

The princess lay still in Treale's arms. Stars, did I crush her? Did I kill her? She placed her ear against Mori's lips. A shaky sob fled Treale's own lips. Mori still breathed! Some life still filled her.

"I'm going to save you, Mori," she said.

She wrapped Mori in her cloak, then roared with pain as she lifted the princess. She was not much larger than Mori. And yet here in this dungeon, weakened and wounded, she slung Mori across her shoulders and began to climb the stairs.

Step by step, growling with effort, Treale carried her princess out of the dungeon. Screams rose above her: both the shrieks of nephilim and the cries of men. Treale kept climbing. The stairs seemed to twist forever, finally leading to corridors that twisted and chambers where blood flowed. Down one hall, she glimpsed a nephil scuttling and shrieking for blood; she heard more racing through the palace above her.

It seemed hours before Treale found the back door that led outdoors into sunlight.

The sun nearly blinded her, and for a moment Treale saw nothing but light; she had been underground for six days now. When she blinked, she saw the sky swarming with nephilim. Hundreds flew there, maybe thousands, lanky bodies twisting and coiling, black wings flapping. They shrieked and howled at the sun.

"Hail Queen Solina!" they cried. "Hail Legion! We are free! We will feast! We will devour dragons!"

Treale stared, frozen, and her eyes burned.

The world is overrun. Can we ever flee such evil?

She sniffed and tightened her grip on Mori; the princess still hung across her shoulder, wrapped in a cloak, unconscious and breathing softly.

"We're leaving this city," Treale said.

She began to trudge away from the palace, and soon she walked down an alley where people fled, pointed at the sky, and whimpered in corners. If anyone even looked Treale's way, they saw her carrying only a thin bundle wrapped in cloth, perhaps some kindling for a fire.

"We are leaving this cursed desert, Mori, and we are never coming back."

Her legs shook, her back blazed with pain, yet Treale kept walking—step by step, breath by breath. She would cross the desert afoot if she must. Soldiers raced around her, shouting and pointing at the nephilim who swarmed above. Children wept and families rushed into their homes and peered from windows.

Treale kept walking, Mori across her shoulder, the screams of the nephilim shaking the sky.