A Night of Dragon Wings

ELETHOR



"Break down the walls!" the beasts screeched outside. "Break them down!"

They huddled in the darkness—a few hundred Vir Requis, perhaps the last of their kind. They were ashy, bloody, and famished. They crowded together, mothers embracing weeping children, youths clutching swords, elders whispering. Around them rose the walls of the ancient temple—mossy bricks, roots and branches pushing between them, as old and brittle as the scrolls of ancient scribes.

Outside the horde cried for blood. White eyes like smelters blazed at every window and hole. Claws tore at every brick. The ceiling was crumbling, and through it the Vir Requis saw no sky, only more fangs and blazing eyes and claws that thirsted for blood. Countless of the creatures swarmed there; they covered the sky, the forest, and the ruins, breeding and multiplying until it seemed the world itself would crash beneath them.

Elethor shifted into dragon form, moved toward a gaping hole in the wall, and replaced a weary silver dragon who blew fire there. The silver stepped back and shifted back into human form—a weary, gaunt woman. Elethor placed his maw into the hole and blew his flames, driving back the nephilim who clawed and bit there. His flames roared and crackled, flowing over his vision, but in his brief pauses for breath, Elethor saw the horde and fear clutched him.

Thousands. A hundred thousand. More. They covered the sky and land, a mass of scale and rot; he saw no end to them.

Elethor howled as he sprayed his fire. He could not hold them back much longer. They had moments before they grew too weary for fire, before these walls fell and the demons drowned them.

Finally his fire was drained. He pulled back, panting, and another dragon replaced him. Elethor shifted back into human form and stumbled into the center of the room. His people crowded around him, wailing and staring from wall to ceiling.

At every window, doorway, and hole, dragons stood blowing fire. No more than a dozen dragons could fill this crumbling hall; if more Vir Requis shifted, they would crush one another.

Bricks shifted.

Claws drove past stone.

A hole crashed open in the southern wall, showering dust. A nephil's arms reached inside and slashed, lacerating a Vir Requis child. The boy fell, his belly sliced open. Elethor screamed and swung his sword, cutting the nephil's arm. Black blood showered, and the arm withdrew. At once Yar, the young yellow dragon, leaped toward the new opening and roared fire. The nephilim outside shrieked.

"The ceiling!" somebody shouted.

Elethor looked up to see bricks shift. Fangs burst between the stones, and a hole gaped open, raining rock and dust and moss. A nephil's jaw thrust in, snapping, and Vir Requis screamed.

"Burn it!" Elethor shouted, and one Vir Requis—an old graybeard—shifted and roared fire at the ceiling.

Claws thrashed at the northern wall, tearing a window wider. A nephil reached into the hall, claws lashing, and a woman fell, her arm severed.

Elethor shifted back into dragon form, raced toward the new opening, and blew more fire. The nephil screeched. Elethor's flames were weak now, mere sparks. He was too weary. When another dragon replaced him, Elethor could barely stand. He shifted into human form and looked around him.

"Mama," whimpered a child and clutched her mother.

"Stars of Requiem," whispered an old woman, holding her husband.

And so it ends, Elethor thought. His armor felt so heavy; such a weight to bear. So does Requiem fade away, a small lingering light crushed under darkness.

He looked up. Claws and teeth lashed at the ceiling, tearing stone from stone. All the terrors and evils of the world were digging in.

"Requiem," he whispered. "May our wings forever find your sky."

These were the ancient words of his people. Now the survivors repeated them as the claws tore the walls. A hole cracked open in the ceiling, and bricks rained, and a sickly red light fell. The nephilim shrieked and cackled.

No, Elethor thought. He snarled and drew his sword. No, we will not fade like a guttering candle. We will die in a great pillar of flame.

Yar stumbled toward him, panting and coated in sweat; another replaced him at the window. He stood by Elethor and bowed his head.

"My king," the boy said.

No, not a boy, Elethor thought. He is a man today.

He clutched Yar's shoulder.

"Yar, you fight nobly for Requiem." He looked up at the ceiling where claws tore brick from brick. He lowered his voice. "Yar—fly with me."

Yar followed his gaze. The ceiling was trembling. Bricks and dust and moss fell, and the nephilim howled there, eyes blazing.

"To the sky," Yar whispered.

"To death," Elethor said. "To glory. To our starlit halls."

Yar bared his teeth, nodded, and clutched Elethor's shoulder. "We will fly, my king. We will fly there together."

The temple shook and the shrieks nearly deafened them. King Elethor gave the orders, and the dragons pulled back from the walls, and the survivors crowded in the center of the hall. All around them the walls shook, the claws reached in, and the shrieks echoed. Elethor held his sword high.

"Vir Requis!" he shouted, voice nearly drowning under the screams of the horde. "We fly now. We find our sky. Shift, dragons of Requiem, and sound your roar! Let the sky shake with the song of dragons!"

In the darkness of night and demon siege, after seven days of hiding in shadow, the dragons of Requiem emerged from their temple and crashed into the sky.

Elethor led the charge, a brass dragon with rippling scales and bright horns. His fire rose before him, a pillar of flame to lead their way. At his sides flew his soldiers, battle-hardened dragons with dented scales and broken claws, and their fire rose like the columns of afterlife. They shot through the collapsing roof and soared into a sky of demons. The nephilim spread endlessly into the night; thousands upon thousands covered the sky, a sea of rot and scale and blazing eyes.

The dragons soared upward, flames and claws carving their way. Behind Elethor and his warriors flew his people, the elders and mothers and children, and they too roared and blew their flames. The dragons of Requiem rose, a few hundred souls in an endless ocean, and all around them the darkness closed in.

Requiem! We will find your sky.

To the stars that hid above beyond the cruelty of Solina. To that sky. To the white halls of afterlight. They flew to glory and death.

"To death!" his warriors shouted at his side. "To fire!"

From the east, dawn broke and distant cries answered their call.

Elethor turned and saw light blaze over the battle, overflowing him with white. The eastern cries rose, and the nephilim howled in fear, blinded with the light, their dark scales bleached. They hissed and clawed at one another and wailed to the sky. Elethor looked into the light, and his eyes watered.

"Lyana."

She flew from the dawn, a blue dragon with sunrays bursting around her. She sounded her roar, the song of Requiem, and blew her fire. She charged toward the nephil horde. Behind her from the light emerged more dragons—thousands of them in every color, all blowing their flames, a great host of Requiem roaring its song.

Tears filled Elethor's eyes.

More Vir Requis live. Lyana found them. We are not alone.

The nephilim howled, heads whipping from side to side. Some turned to flee. Others screeched and cowered. Some bared fangs and raised claws. Lyana and her dragons crashed into them, and the world exploded, and beams of dawn blazed through the Fallen Horde like spears of light.

Eagle cries rose in the north, and Elethor turned to see a griffin host—ten thousand beasts or more—their fur and feathers golden in the morning, their beaks wide and their talons outstretched. Riders sat upon them, clad in the armor of Osanna, bearing bows and spears. This host too charged toward the nephilim, ablaze in light and crying for battle. The nephilim wailed and fluttered before them, pierced with arrows.

From the west rose a keening song, clear and cold as winter dawn.

Elethor turned and lost his breath.

"Salvanae," he whispered.

The true dragons flowed from the west, wingless and long, coiling and uncoiling in the sky like serpents upon water. Their beards fluttered like banners. Their crystal eyes shone. Their scales rippled and they trumpeted their song. Among them flew several Vir Requis, flapping wide wings, and Elethor wept in the sky.

A golden dragon flew among them.

Mori. Mori.

From the west, the salvanae crashed into the nephilim, and lightning flowed from their mouths, and their teeth bit the demon host. The nephilim howled in fear. They scattered. They fled. They died and fell upon the scorched earth.

The battle raged through the dawn and day, a tapestry of light and darkness, a song of blood and fire. The armies of the world crashed over the ruins of Bar Luan, and nephilim rained dead, and finally the survivors of the horde turned to flee. Screeching and licking their wounds, those nephilim who still lived flew southward, and the griffins and salvanae chased them and slew them over the forest, so that only a handful escaped bloodied and wailing to their desert queen.

When the sun began to set, Elethor landed upon the ruins of the world, his scales dented and chipped. Nephil corpses piled around him, hiding the forest; countless rotted and bustled with flies, and even the crows would not touch them.

He looked toward a crumbling wall that rose from the carnage. A golden dragon perched atop it, gazing upon the battle with soft eyes. Elethor flew and landed upon the wall too, and the golden dragon looked at him. Elethor's limbs shook and his eyes stung.

"Mori?" he whispered.

She shifted into human form and stood before him, as pale and wispy as a ghost, and her hair fluttered in the wind. Her gray eyes stared up at him, huge pools like oceans under clouds. Elethor shifted too. They stood upon the wall, and he touched her cheek, not sure if she was real or a spirit.

"El," she whispered. "El, we saw the ghosts! The ghosts of Bar Luan! We arrived at your forest camp, and they were fleeing the nephilim, and they summoned us here. Ghosts are real!"

Right then, Elethor did not care about the dead, only the living. He blinked tears from his eyes. He pulled his sister into his embrace and almost crushed her, and he rocked her in his arms, and he whispered her name again and again.

A cackle rose beneath the wall.

His sister still in his arms, Elethor turned and looked down. Upon a pile of nephil corpses lay a bloodied, laughing man. His left arm and both his legs were severed. Blood oozed from his stumps, caked his long white hair, and covered his face, and yet still he laughed hoarsely and coughed.

Elethor growled.

"Nemes," he said through clenched teeth.

The traitor looked up at him, spat blood, and laughed some more.

"You have failed, Elethor," he said, blood in his mouth. "My Lord Legion has left this place; you could not kill him. He returns now to his palace in his southern empire, and he will return, mightier than ever before." Nemes had only one hand left, but he clenched that fist as if clutching onto life itself. "You will bow before him!"

Gently, Elethor removed his arms from his sister, climbed off the wall, and stood before the hacking man. He drew his sword and held it above Nemes.

"You did this, Nemes," he said, chest tight. "You caused this death. You were a son of Requiem! You lived under my roof."

The wretched, dying man spat blood and hissed. His eyes blazed. "I served under your roof—like a worm crawling through the dirt. My father served you, as did his father; our backs nearly broke from bending to you and yours." He spat more blood, spraying Elethor's boots. "But now I bow before Legion, a great lord of darkness. Soon you will bow too, and your back will break, but that will not save you, boy king. You will beg and plead for mercy, but my Lord Legion will lock his jaws around your spine. He will snap you in two before devouring you." Nemes snorted and swept his one arm across the battlefield. "Who do you bring for aid? Griffins? Dragons of the west? Pathetic creatures. Do you think they can hold back the darkness that rises in the south? You have tasted but a bite from Lord Legion's feast. His greatest power still lurks in the desert, and he is coming for you, boy king. You cannot hide from him, only die. Only die."

Elethor growled and placed his sword against Nemes's neck.

"Soon you will be silent," he said. "You have betrayed your people, Nemes; for this you will die."

Silence fell over the battlefield. Elethor was vaguely aware of more Vir Requis coming to stand behind him: Bayrin, Lyana, Treale, and others. They stood silently, watching.

Nemes hacked more blood and laughed again. "I'm already dead, boy king," he said. "So are you. You don't know it yet. But you will. When the jaws of my lord close around you, you will." He coughed blood. "Go on, boy. Go on. Kill me. You were always a coward. You cannot even do this. But I am strong, Elethor, more than you can imagine. I—"

Elethor drove his sword down, piercing the traitor's neck.

He pulled his blade back, stumbled away, and Mori crashed back into his embrace. Bayrin wrapped his arms around them, and Lyana followed, then the others. They stood together, wounded and burnt and bloody survivors upon a mountain of corpses.

Holding his sister, wife, and friends, Elethor looked south. The ruins and bodies stretched for miles, but beyond them hung a cloud and dark mist.

Solina waits there, he thought. That is where we fly. Into darkness. Into the very lair of madness.

He held his friends and family close and shut his eyes, and the pain grabbed him like demon claws.