A Night of Dragon Wings

ELETHOR



He stood upon the mountain, the wind ruffling his hair, and gazed upon a host like a frozen sea. Snow swirled through the air, coating the mountainsides, pines, and wrath of wounded nations.

Below him in the valley stood the survivors of Requiem, all in dragon forms—over three thousand of them, joined from his camp and Second Haven. Every Vir Requis old enough to fly and breathe fire stood here in the snow, smoke pluming from their nostrils, frost upon their scales.

East of them stood a host of griffins, over twenty thousand strong, snow in their fur and rage in their eyes. King Vale stood at their lead upon a boulder, the greatest among them, his head raised and his talons like great swords.

Beyond the griffins, an army of salvanae coiled above a frozen lake, as large and mighty as the host of griffins. The true dragons hovered, their long bodies undulating like waves, scales chinking like purses of jingling coins. Their beards were long, their eyes blazing, their breath fuming.

Finally, in a field of grass and stone, stood the soldiers of Osanna. Fifty thousand rallied here, each warrior bearing a sword, spear, and bow. Their breastplates and shields sported engraved bull horns, the sigil of Osanna's Earth God, a deity of all things growing and good and a nemesis of Tiranor's flaming lord. These warriors would ride to battle upon the beasts that flew. From the backs of griffins and dragons, they would shoot their arrows and toss their spears, and when they landed in the cities of Tiranor, they would draw swords and fight the enemy in streets and halls.

"A hundred thousand men and beasts," Elethor said softly as snow swirled around him, coated his beard, and frosted his armor. "Will it be enough?"

He turned to look at Lyana who stood at his side. She reached out, took his hand, and squeezed it. Their leather gloves creaked.

"All free nations fight against the evil in the south," she said. "It will be enough, or we will perish. But fly south we must. I would rather die charging into evil than waiting for it to come."

Her hair, shaved off in her captivity last year, now grew several inches long. It fell across her brow and ears, little cascades of orange curls kissed with snow. Her eyes, green as a spring forest, stared deeply into his. Fields of freckles spread across her pale face; Elethor knew and loved every one.

He looked south over forest and mist, imagining the desert. Tiranor, he thought. So many times, Solina had lain in his arms, or walked with him through the forests, or stood with him upon the hill, and spoke of her desert realm. She would describe dunes kissed golden with dawn, oases lush with palms and birds, and towers of limestone that rose capped with platinum. She spoke of the dragons burning those trees and toppling those towers, and how one day she would restore her land to glory. She spoke of a magical realm of secrets, a desert paradise of pomegranate wine, figs sweet as honey, smooth myrrh and chinking gold—a land of beauty, of wonders, of ancient wisdom.

"We will live there together someday, Elethor," she had whispered so many times in the halls of Requiem, her eyes rimmed red and her fingers clutching him desperately. "It will be our place, our secret land of magic. We will rule there together, queen and king of the desert, so far from the dragons who hurt us."

Elethor had never been to Tiranor, the land that Solina's heart had always beaten for. Now he would see those towers, those oases, and those statues and steel and treasures.

And we will burn them. Stars, Solina, we will burn your land and burn you. He clutched his sword so tightly his fist trembled. You drove me to this, Solina; now Tiranor will rise in flame.

"The north has mustered!" he cried to his army, palm coned around his mouth. "We have gathered our hosts, and we will crush the desert. We fly at dawn tomorrow. Rest tonight, northern warriors. Tomorrow we fly to victory!"

They cheered, a hundred thousand warriors roaring for victory and vengeance and flame. But Elethor only stood, jaw squared, chest tight. He could not roar with them. He could not find joy in this; the fires of war had never lit his heart, and even now, with so many dead behind them, he could not summon the flame that drove Solina, that drove these warriors below the mountain. He held Lyana's hand tight and looked at her. She looked back up at him, lips tight, and nodded.

"I fly by you, my king," she said. "Tomorrow and always. Our wings beat together, and our fires will light the long, cold night."

He spent that night in a tent the men of Osanna had brought upon griffinback. The tent was wide, its walls woven of thick green cloth, and they had set a bed, a table topped with candles, and a tall bronze mirror within it.

Elethor stood before that mirror and gazed upon himself. It had been moons since he had looked at his reflection. Tonight he barely recognized himself. Two years ago, when Solina had invaded Requiem with her army of phoenixes, he would look into his mirror and see a thin, pale young man with soft cheeks—a boy who pined for his lost love, who shunned the court, who hid within his walls, sculpting his desire over and over. Today, Elethor did not find that boy staring back from the mirror. He was not yet thirty, but looked older; his beard had thickened, his body had grown gaunt and hard, and lines marred his brow. Instead of the soft woolen tunics of a prince, he wore the steel plates of a soldier. Mostly his eyes had changed; they were sunken, hard, and dead as the ruins of a fallen kingdom.

I look ten years older than I should, he thought. And I have the eyes of an old man.

Lyana came to stand by him and placed her hand on his shoulder. She was barely taller than that shoulder, and so thin, but her eyes stared into the mirror with all the strength and grief of an aging, hardened warrior. If he was a battered longsword forged in dragonfire, she was the blade of a knight, scarred with a thousand nicks but strong as the steel of ancient heroes.

She helped him unclasp his armor, piece by piece. She placed his pauldrons on the table, then his greaves and vambraces, and finally his breastplate. When he stood before her in his damp woolen tunic, she placed her hands on his shoulders. She stood on her toes, her eyes still haunted, and kissed his lips.

He began unclasping her armor, buckle by buckle. He moved slowly at first, placing every piece of steel aside. But soon his fingers grew rough, and she gasped as he pulled at the straps, tore her breastplate off, and tossed it aside with a clang. His chest was too tight. His heart pounded with too much pain. He clenched his jaw and swallowed, forcing the terror down, and tugged the lacings of her tunic. Fabric ripped in his fingers, and he let out a hiss that felt almost like a snarl, and tore at her clothes.

She winced and sucked in her breath. "El…"

He put one hand on the small of her back and pulled her against him. He tugged at her clothes almost violently until she stood naked, and his eyes stung, and his heart thrashed against his ribs, and his fingers trembled, and he kept seeing them—kept seeing the demons tear at the walls, pull brick from brick, slash his people apart until their blood gushed and their limbs fell.

"El, please," she whispered.

He realized that he was grabbing her so tightly his fingernails had cut her. He released her and took a shuddering breath. She stood before him, naked in the candlelight, her hair a pyre of flame. The scars of war covered her flesh, but she was beautiful to him. He sat on the bed, and she stood before him, and he reached up and touched her cheek with trembling fingers.

"Lyana," he whispered. "I…"

I'm afraid, he wanted to say. I can't stop seeing the blood. I want to roar in rage and fly to battle as a hero, but I can't stop my chest from hurting, or my stomach from feeling so cold and tight.

But he could say none of those things, and he knew she understood. He saw it in the softness that filled her eyes, and he felt it in her fingers as they touched his hair.

He pulled her onto the bed, and placed her on her back, and when he climbed atop her and loved her, he closed his eyes, and he could barely breathe. But he made love to her—no, not love, but something rougher this night, something that felt more like a battle, like a war against demons, and sweat drenched him, and he hurt her. Stars, he hurt her until she gasped and bit into the blanket and cried.

When it was over, and he lay beside her, he found that tears filled his own eyes, and he pulled her against him and held her so tight he nearly crushed her.

So many died. So many gone. So many will still die as we fly into the southern horde.

She kissed his lips.

"I am yours," she whispered. "In bed. In battle. In the glory of our halls when we rebuild them—or in the starlit halls of our fathers. You are my king. You are my husband. You are my love." She held him tight and closed her eyes. "We fly together, Elethor; always."

They slept holding each other through the long, cold night.