A Night of Dragon Wings

ELETHOR



He lay in his bed—a mere pile of furs—and held Lyana close but could not forget the pain. She lay naked and sleeping against him, her head of fiery red curls upon his chest, and as he held her he thought: She is beautiful, and she is all I ever wanted, and I should be happy now but this hurts too much. This is all the sadness in the world.

He looked up at the cave's ceiling, rugged stone carved by dragonclaw into the mountainside. He looked at the walls where candles burned in alcoves. He looked back at Lyana and marveled at the milky pallor of her freckled cheek, the flame of her hair, and the warmth of her breath against him. He held her under the furs, his one hand on her thigh, the other on the small of her back. He never wanted to let her go. She was an anchor to him, and all around roiled a sea of blood and tears.

One thousand and fifty-seven.

Such a small number—a mere few trees from what once was a forest. Such a multitude—so many souls to lead, to defend, to give hope to. One thousand and fifty-seven. They survived the fall of Nova Vita. They slept in these caves and in the forest around it. They wore furs, and they ate what they caught, and they needed him, they needed their King Elethor to bring them hope, to lead them home, to defeat their enemies and bring new life to Requiem.

They need me to be my father. To be like the great kings of old. He closed his eyes. They need me to be a man I am not.

Lyana stirred against him. She mumbled something of poison that burned, crowds that chanted, and whips that lashed. When Elethor opened his eyes, he saw her wincing and biting her lip. She kicked under the furs, and he held her tight like holding a flouncing fish, and he kissed her head and whispered to her until she calmed. Lyana too, for all her strength in battle and fierceness by day, was afraid, was haunted, and was dependent on her king.

Sometimes Elethor envied her for her nightmares. They meant that she could sleep. He himself lay awake most nights, staring at this ceiling, holding his wife, whispering to her, trying to swallow the pain that filled his throat. Some nights the wyverns shrieked outside, seeking them as they hid under rock and leaf. Other nights his own demons called inside his head, memories of the Abyss, memories of children dead beneath him, memories of seeking his sister among the bodies.

He finally slept, but it felt like only moments passed before dawn's light fell upon his eyelids, and he opened them to see Lyana blink, the candles melted to stubs, and rain falling like silver curtains outside the cave. The sounds of the camp rose outside: soft voices, feet shuffling, and leaves rustling under boots. Lyana moaned, stretched under the blankets, and touched his cheek.

"Did you sleep?" she whispered. "You still look so tired."

I don't want to leave this bed, he thought, and I don't want to leave this woman, and I don't want to fight this war.

Yet he was Elethor Aeternum, King of Requiem, Son of Olasar, and he knew that he would still fly, still bleed, still roar his fire, even if he died upon the sands of Tiranor. But not yet. Not yet. This morning he lay in warmth, his wife pressed against him, the beauty of rain and leaf outside the cave that had become their home.

"Elethor," Lyana said, propped herself onto her elbow, and made to rise from the bed, but he held her fast. He pulled her back toward him and kissed her, and she closed her eyes.

They had been married for a moon now. They had wed in this forest, among leaf and rock, for the people to see, for the survivors to know that a king and queen led them, that there was still hope in the world, still light to follow. A moon had turned, a moon of waiting, of pain, of more love than Elethor had thought his heart could ever feel again, not a flame like the love of his youth, but a strong wine in autumn and warm blankets as rain fell outside. He made love to her now. They kissed as the light of dawn poured over them, and gasped, and he held her tight as she moved above him, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed. He rolled her onto her back and lay atop her, and she felt so frail and thin, this woman who had fought in wars, survived the desert, and slain her enemies with steel—here in his bed, she felt like a doll, a flower he could trample. She buried her hands in his hair, moaning, her eyes closed, a fragile white thing, her hair still short, her every freckle as familiar to him as the stars of his fathers' constellation. Those stars seemed to burn around him, and all the lights of the heavens to flare, and he closed his eyes and tightened his fists and could barely bear this blend of joy and pain that still clawed inside him. His eyes stung.

He lay beside her, and she nestled against him. She kissed his cheek and played with his hair.

"You should have done that last night," she said. "You would have slept better."

He snorted a weak laugh. "Maybe I will sleep all day. You go lead them, Lyana."

Yet he rose from the bed. He dressed and donned his armor—old armor forged in dragonfire, dented and unpolished and feeling more heavy than ever. He clasped Ferus to his side, his old longsword his father had given him, and stared into a small mirror they had found and hung here. He barely recognized himself these days. It had been only two years since Queen Solina had led the phoenixes into Requiem, yet he seemed to have aged twenty. Where was the soft-cheeked sculptor he had been, a youth with sad eyes? He saw a hardened man in this mirror, his face gaunt and bearded, his eyes deep set.

Lyana walked up beside him, leaned her head against his shoulder, and whispered to him. She had donned her own armor—the silvery steel plates of a bellator, a knight of Requiem. Her sword Levitas hung at her side, slimmer and faster than Ferus, but just as strong and sharp.

"Let us face the day, Elethor," she said. "Let us see our people. Let us give them another whisper of hope."

They exited the cave into a forest red and gold with autumn. Dried leaves carpeted the forest floor, and moss coated the trunks of birch, maple, and ash trees. Requiem lay but a league east from here; the forces of Solina dared not yet burn this land of Salvandos, still fearing the wrath of its leaders who dwelled far in the west, guardians of this forest.

Yet if her power grows, Elethor thought, she will burn this place too. Birds called overhead, flying south for winter, and Elethor watched them. They are heading to Tiranor. To Solina. Soon we will fly there too.

People moved about the camp, clad in furs and old cloaks, leaves in their hair and mud on their cheeks. Some wore armor; these ones guarded the palisade of wooden stakes that surrounded their camp. Others wore bandages, still wounded from the war. Some lay in carts, limbs missing, flesh scarred, eyes anguished or burned away. A few men stood around a mossy boulder, praying and chanting from old scrolls. A girl was weaving blades of grass into dolls, which she then handed out to younger children.

One thousand and fifty-seven.

They had set camp here nearly three moons ago—Elethor, Lyana, and fewer than a hundred others. Their scouts had since been combing these forests, seeking more survivors. At first they would find bloodied and bedraggled Vir Requis every day, and their camp had swelled rapidly. By now few other survivors remained; Elethor's scouts had found only two—young twins, a boy and girl—over the past ten days.

Is this all there is? he wondered, looking down upon the camp. Are these all who live from our nation? He grasped the hilt of his sword, and his throat constricted. Where are you, Mori?

Once more, Solina's words returned to him, echoing through his mind as they did every day and night.

She lives, Elethor. She lives.

He closed his eyes, and his fist trembled around Ferus's hilt.

"I will fly to your desert, Solina," he whispered. "I will rain my fire upon you. If you took my sister, I will free her, and you will burn forever in my flames."

One thousand and fifty-seven. He opened his eyes and looked at them again—frightened children, wounded women, tired old men. Yet he would lead them in flight, and they would blow their fire—like the great last stand of Lanburg Fields where legendary King Benedictus had led Requiem's survivors against the griffins.

He turned to look at Lyana. She stared back with huge eyes like green wells, and he knew that she was thinking the same thing.

"Will it be enough?" he whispered.

She squeezed his hand. "I don't know." Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but deep and haunting like ghosts in an ancient forest. "Maybe not, Elethor. But we will lead them nonetheless, and we will burn the enemy upon her towers, even if we fall in flame too."

"For the glory of our stars," he said. "For Requiem."

Her eyes dampened. "For Mori."

A scream rose from the camp, and Elethor sucked in his breath and spun his head around. He stared at the forest and the scream rose again—a scream of such terror and pain, for an instant he thought the Abyss had risen into the world.

The camp below stirred. Requiem's survivors rose to their feet and spun toward the sound. Steel hissed as Elethor and Lyana drew their swords. His heart hammered and his old wounds blazed.

She found us. Stars, Solina found us.

The trees stirred, and Elethor prepared to shift into a dragon, to blow his fire, to burn and die. Yet it was no Tiran troops who burst from the trees, but a single, haggard man with wild hair and wilder eyes. At first Elethor thought him some mad woodland hermit; he was shirtless even in the cold, his ribs showing beneath his skin. His teeth were missing, and dried blood caked his hair. He ran barefoot toward the cave, fell to his knees, and howled to the sky.

"Stars," Lyana whispered and gasped, and then Elethor recognized the man, and his breath caught.

This man was no wild hermit.

He was Vir Requis.

He was Leras Brewer and three moons ago, he had been strong, somber, a warrior of Requiem. Elethor had sent him south to spy in Tiranor before Requiem's survivors attacked.

He returned to us a broken beast.

Jaw clenched, Elethor sheathed his sword and marched down the mountainside toward the fallen, wailing man. Lyana rushed at his side, and guards of the camp, clad in armor and holding spears, hurried forward too. Soon a ring of people surrounded Leras.

The young man—Stars, he looks old now, Elethor thought—lay trembling, knees pulled to his chest. Tears filled his eyes, and his toothless mouth smacked open and shut. A memory flashed through Elethor's mind, a vision of shriveled beings of the Abyss, sucking the air and smacking their gums.

Elethor's head spun. He knelt by the trembling man and touched his shoulder. Leras cowered and wailed.

"Please," he begged, "please don't touch me, please don't hurt me. No more. No more."

Lyana stood above them. She raised her head and coned her palm around her mouth.

"Piri!" she cried. "Piri, we need you and your healers! Bring silverweed!"

Elethor looked down at the trembling man. Burn marks stretched across his chest. They had tortured him—burned him, broken his teeth, maybe broken his mind. Bile rose in Elethor's throat, thick with guilt.

I sent him south. I sent him to this.

"Nobody will hurt you here, Leras," he said softly. "You are safe here. You are home. You are home. We will heal you."

Leras stared with wild, red-rimmed eyes. He reached up and clasped Elethor's cloak, fingers bony and digging. His breath trembled and his ribs rose and fell like twigs upon a stream.

"You… you must flee!" he said, voice slurred with pain. "You cannot fly south. You cannot. She… she is freeing the nephilim, my king. The… stars!" Tears rolled down his cheeks. "Flee, King Elethor! Take these people and flee north—as far as you can—and never return."

Feet stomped through the crowd, and Piri Healer came walking forward, clad in the white robes of her order. With Mother Adia fallen and the Temple destroyed, young Piri had become the closest thing Requiem had to a new High Priestess. Her dark braids were stern, her eyes sterner. Behind her trailed her pupils, a dozen young women in white silks, baskets of herbs and bandages in their hands. Piri knelt beside the wounded Leras, reached into her robes for a bottle of silverweed, and broke the wax seal with her thumb.

"Drink," she said, holding the bottle forward. "Drink and you will sleep and heal."

Elethor raised his hand, blocking the bottle from reaching the wounded man.

"Wait, Piri," he said softly. He kept his voice steady, but his insides roiled.

The young healer's eyes flashed. "My king! I—"

"Wait." His voice was harsh. He looked back at the trembling, wounded man. "Does Solina fly north? What do you know? Speak, Leras. Tell me everything."

The man's raw fingers groped at Elethor's armor, smearing blood. His eyes widened and his body shook.

"She is sending men to fetch the key. The key from…" He coughed and shook for a moment, then spoke in sobs. "From the tower! I saw the bodies. Stars, the bodies that fell from the tower. Cut, mangled, twisted. She wanted to send me in too. She pulled me from the dungeon. She wanted me inside. Please. Please! I shifted. I flew. I came here. She will free them!" His voice rose to hoarse, anguished shouts. "She will find the key and she will unlock the Iron Door. The nephilim will fly. You cannot fight them. You must flee! Fly north, King Elethor. Fly north. Never return!"

Leras's tears flowed, and sobs racked his body, and Elethor only held the man, unable to speak, barely able to breathe. His fear pulsed through his chest, and he felt the blood leave his face.

Herself pale, Piri poured the silverweed into the man's mouth, but he sputtered, unable to swallow. He hacked and laughed and wept.

"Fly," he whispered, "and never return."

His eyes rolled back, and he fell limp in Elethor's arms.

"Leras!" Piri cried. She pulled him from Elethor's arms, laid him upon the ground, and tried to revive him. She pounded his chest, poured more silverweed into his mouth, and shook him, but he would not wake. He lay with a smile—a last smile of peace—and staring eyes.

The people of Requiem stood all around, whispering to one another. Many trembled. Elethor rose to his feet and turned toward them.

"You have nothing to fear!" he called out. "Vir Requis, return to your tents and caves. You are safe here. I promise you this. You are safe."

Yet as the crowd dispersed, Elethor heard them whisper, and a few wept. As Elethor stood above the body, he realized that he had drawn his sword. Cold sweat drenched him and his breath quickened.

Lyana looked at him, eyes wide, her own hand around her sword's hilt.

"He spoke of the nephilim," she whispered. Her face was ghostly white. "The Fallen Ones. I've heard of them, Elethor." She spun and began walking through the forest. "Come. I will show you. Stars save us if he spoke truth."

Teeth clenched and sword drawn, he followed, and the man's dying words echoed in his mind.

Fly, King Elethor! Fly and never return!