A Night of Dragon Wings

LYANA



The sky burst with the demon horde.

The beasts swarmed from the sands, myriads like clouds of locusts. Lyana roared, beat her wings, and drove forward. Her fellow dragons roared at her sides, and behind them cried the griffins and salvanae. The beasts ahead shrieked, their voices so high-pitched and deafening, the dragons' riders screamed.

Stars save us, Lyana thought, fear chilling her. They knew we were coming. They knew where we'd land. These are no mere sentinels patrolling the border; this is an army bred to crush our invasion.

"Hang on tight, Wila!" Lyana shouted to the woman who rode her, a young captain of Osanna. "This is going to get rough."

She stormed forward. The nephilim shot toward her, eyes blazing and jaws snapping and bat wings wafting their stench.

The two armies crashed above the beach.

Dragons slammed into nephilim. Fire exploded and rained and shot in pillars everywhere. Claws lashed and fangs bit, and from the backs of dragons, a rain of arrows whistled, red shards in the firelight.

"Lyana, your left!" Wila cried from her back.

Lyana banked and saw a nephil swoop her way, claws outstretched. Wila shot her bow, and an arrow slammed into the beast; it bucked and shrieked and kept swooping. Lyana roared her fire, and the nephil blazed.

Lyana banked again, narrowing dodging the flaming beast as it fell. Wila screamed and held out her shield, and the nephil's claw scraped against it before the beast crashed against the beach below. Lyana soared and blew more flames. More nephilim fell before her. Claws and teeth shone everywhere.

Stars damn it! Lyana thought. With Wila on her back, she could barely fly properly. She could not soar straight up, or spin, or whisk like a bee between the swarming enemies; Wila would fall. Lyana gritted her teeth and flew onward, lashing her claws and blowing her flames as Wila shot arrows.

"Crash through them!" Elethor roared somewhere above her. "Past those cliffs—land above them!"

Lyana looked up, seeking her husband. The sky was burning. Dragons, salvanae, and griffins flew everywhere, crisscrossing and scattering and regrouping and all roaring their cries. Nephilim crashed against them—some of the beasts swung curved, rusted blades—and blood splattered. Bursts of dragonfire exploded. When howls sounded in the south, Lyana looked to see new combatants arriving: hordes of burly wyverns blowing acid and phoenixes crackling with fire. They too crashed into the battle. The sands below turned red with blood. Bodies rained and piled up and drifted into the sea. Lyana couldn't even see the sky, only beasts and men screaming and killing.

This should not have happened, Lyana thought in a daze. Her eyes blurred. They knew. They were waiting for us. They are too many.

For an instant Lyana froze, barely able to fly, barely able to breathe. She had fought many battles. She had slain Tirans in the Phoenix War when they first invaded her land. She had walked through the Abyss and fought its creatures. She had defended Nova Vita even as it crumbled under wyvern acid. She had fought hordes of nephilim above cities and temples. And yet this… Lyana had never seen a battle like this. Hundreds of thousands of creatures flew and died here, spreading for a league around. To call this a battle, she thought, diminished its magnitude; here was a great song of blood and flame and carnage.

I never knew, she thought, eyes stinging. I never imagined. We should have run. We should have hidden. We will burn the world from this place.

"Lyana!" Elethor shouted. He dived toward her, blew fire over her shoulder, and a nephil shrieked behind her.

She snarled. She soared. She fought.

The battle raged through the night—a night of dragon wings and fire and rot. The dead covered the beaches and cliffs. They bobbed upon the water like thousands of fallen leaves. When dawn rose, it rose upon a world drenched in blood. When the battle finally ended, there were no songs of victory: there was only weeping, screaming, and everywhere the dead and wounded.

Lyana landed upon the cliffs of Tiranor. She shook so badly Wila nearly fell off her back. When the woman dismounted, Lyana shifted into human form and stood trembling.

Stars save us, she thought, looking over the beaches below.

"We won," Wila whispered. Blood splattered the soldier's pale face, and she clutched an arm that still sizzled with acid.

"Nobody won this slaughter," Lyana replied and leaned against her, so weary she could barely stand.

The hosts of the enemy lay dead, but so many of their own lay among them. Tens of thousands of corpses covered the beaches: piles of nephilim bustling with gulls and crabs, men and women slashed with claws and burnt with fire, and salvanae and griffins torn apart.

Among the dead, thousands of wounded screamed and wept and begged. Men clutched at stumps or spilling entrails, calling for their mothers. Young women—torn from their homes into a war their brothers could no longer fight alone—lay burnt and swollen and screaming. Healers in white robes rushed among them, trudging through puddles of blood, but there were so many hurt, so many dying; every moment, another screaming warrior fell silent, voice forever lost.

Elethor landed beside Lyana, brass scales charred and chipped. He shifted into human form. Blood splattered his armor and sweat dampened his hair. He took Lyana's hand and they stood together, gazing down upon the landscape of death.