A Night of Dragon Wings

ELETHOR



Behind him, the dragons fled toward the temple ruins—mothers, children, elders. At his sides, a hundred dragon warriors flapped wings and blew fire. Before them, the army of nephilim spread, covering the sky and horizon, a buzzing horde of countless demons.

As their wives, children, and elders escaped, Elethor and his dragons shot forward, roaring fire.

The nephilim crashed against them.

Elethor howled and blew his flame. The fire crashed against one nephil, and the beast screeched and fell. Two more nephilim flew at him, one from each side. Elethor spun and clubbed one with his tail, driving his spikes into its rotted flesh. The second nephil crashed into him and grabbed hold like a great spider clutching its prey. Teeth bit into Elethor's back, and he roared. Claws ripped at his flank.

He dipped in the air, twisted his neck, and bit into the nephil. It felt like biting mummified flesh. The beast opened its mouth and screeched; the sound was so loud and shrill that when it faded, Elethor heard nothing but ringing. He flamed the beast, and when it screeched again, the call washed over Elethor like white light.

It fell. More swooped from above. There must have been ten thousand.

Stars, give me strength. Let me hold them back just long enough—long enough to let the others flee into the temple, to hide among its stones and shadows.

"There, my Lord Legion!" rose a voice from the mass of nephilim—the rumble of a dragon's voice. "The brass dragon! That one is their king. Feast upon him, my lord!"

Elethor flamed one nephil, clawed another, and looked up toward the voice. He growled and rage flared within him, spilling between his teeth in rivers of fire.

A gray dragon flew ahead between the nephilim, his eyes red, his mouth open in a gloating, snaggletoothed grin. Elethor knew this one.

"Nemes," he growled.

So that is how they found us.

Roaring, Elethor beat his wings and rose higher. He blew flame and flew through the fire, shooting toward the traitor.

Nephilim crashed into him. Teeth bit and claws swung; he felt them tearing off scales. He roared and blew fire in a ring. They surrounded him, a cell of putrid flesh and rotting eyes. Their wings blocked the sky. Their sores oozed pus. A claw lashed his wing, tearing a rent through it.

"Nemes!" Elethor shouted. He barreled forward through the beasts, seeking the gray dragon. He had never felt such bloodlust, such a craving to kill and destroy his enemies; today he hated Nemes more than Solina herself.

"Elethor!"

Garvon's gravelly voice rang out. The burly white dragon rose and tugged at him, pulling him back into a ring of other dragons. They blew fire, holding back the beasts.

"Garvon, he betrayed us!" Elethor said. "Nemes—the gray dragon. Help me find him."

He whipped his head from side to side, seeking the traitor, but saw only nephilim. The trees below cracked and fell under their shrieks. The half demons chewed severed limbs of Vir Requis, tossed their heads back, and swallowed greedily. When he glanced behind him, Elethor saw his people vanish into the distant temple, scurrying into its crumbled halls and secret tunnels. He looked back south, seeking Nemes again, and growled.

I will find you yet, Nemes, and I will burn you with my fire.

He spun and began flying north to the temple.

"Fly, warriors of Requiem!" he shouted. "Fall back to the temple. Fall back!"

They flew around him, bloodied and slashed and panting. They blew fire over their shoulders, burning nephilim, yet the swarm spread for miles; they seemed endless. Elethor beat his wings madly. A nephil swooped from above, and claws thrashed, and Elethor banked. He soared, flamed the beast, and clawed another dead. More rose below them, and Garvon rained fire upon them.

A hundred dragons had remained to hold back the swarm; perhaps twenty still lived. They raced over the collapsing forest toward the temple. Every moment, another one fell. Nineteen remained. Then eighteen. Soon only a dozen. In death, their magic left them, and they crashed into the trees—torn apart and splattering blood upon the fallen leaves of autumn.

Finally Elethor and his surviving warriors reached the temple. The ruins spread below them like the scattered bones of a stone giant.

Nobody knew the age of Bar Luan; books from a thousand years ago called these ruins ancient. Walls carved with reliefs of men and beasts rose from the forest, crumbling and mossy, chunks of them missing as if giants had chewed upon them. Some walls cradled dark archways with stairs that plunged into darkness. Others lay fallen. Great stone faces, carved larger than dragons, stared stoically from some walls that still stood; other faces lay fallen and overgrown with moss and vine.

The roots of great trees clutched these ruins, twisting over them like woody tentacles or the wax of melted candles. Years ago, paved roads and courtyards had spread here; today trees and roots broke through the cobblestones, casting them aside like discarded dice. Years ago, pyramids had risen here from the trees; today only one remained standing, its stairs so chipped they would send climbers tumbling.

Bar Luan, Elethor thought. House of ghosts.

They called it a temple; it looked more like a city. Ten thousand people could have lived here, maybe twice that many. Elethor thought the place nearly as large as Nova Vita.

"Go, into the doorways, into the halls!" he shouted. Dozens of doorways filled the walls, leading to chambers and dungeons. They were small passageways built for the Ancients, a people short and slim; the nephilim would not fit through.

Elethor dived toward one doorway, a narrow opening with a lintel shaped as a stone lion. Before he could land, two nephilim swooped and crashed into him, shoving him against cracked cobblestones.

Elethor writhed beneath them. He whipped his tail, hitting one beast. It screeched, deafening him. Again ringing rolled over him; he could barely hear anything else. The second beast bit, driving teeth into Elethor's left shoulder, the one already scarred from wyvern acid. He bellowed, kicked, and rolled. They slammed into a wall, sending it crumbling. The nephil roared, and Elethor beat his wings. He rose ten feet and rained his fire, catching the nephilim before they could rise. They blazed, screeching and kicking, knocking into walls and statues. Stones cascaded and fallen leaves burned.

Elethor looked around him; he could see one last dragon land, shift into human form, and run into a doorway between hanging roots. The rest had either hidden in the ruins or lay dead.

Above the ruins, thousands of nephilim blocked the sky.

Elethor growled, resisting the temptation to fly at them; he still craved to roast Nemes. Instead he shifted into human form and ran toward the doorway.

Nephilim swooped behind him.

Their claws scraped against the cobblestones.

Elethor leaped into the doorway and rolled.

Behind him in the courtyard, the nephilim shrieked. They bit at the doorway. Their claws reached into the darkness, each as long as Elethor's sword. He drew that sword and slashed at them. He cut one finger off—it was longer than his arm—and black blood sprayed him. Their teeth snapped at the doorway, their eyes blazed, and rocks tumbled.

Elethor retreated deeper into darkness. The walls were built of rugged bricks overgrown with moss. The ceiling was low, only a finger's length above his head, and the doorway only five feet tall; the Ancients must have stood hardly taller than children. Elethor walked around a bend, moving out of the doorway's line of sight. When he stepped a few more paces into darkness, he bumped against something soft.

He turned to see two children kneeling in the shadows, a boy and a girl with muddy blond hair. Elethor recognized them as twin children from his camp.

"Aw da monstews outside?" asked the girl; she looked to be about five years old.

Her brother raised a wooden sword. "I'll protect you."

Elethor knelt by the children and examined them for wounds; they were bruised and muddy and scratched, but otherwise unhurt. When he looked behind him, he could no longer see the doorway, but he could still hear the nephilim shrieking. The twins clung to him, one clutching him from each side. They shivered.

Nemes, Elethor thought. His old servant. A Vir Requis. How could a son of Requiem do this?

As the children embraced him, Elethor's head spun with rage. Solina had betrayed him, but she had always been a daughter of Tiranor; this was a stab in the back, and Elethor swore that someday, somehow, he would reach Nemes and slay him.

The nephilim shrieked outside. The temple shook and dust fell from the ceiling. The rage and darkness of an ancient horde howled outside, and Elethor held the twins close, shut his eyes, and struggled to breathe.