A Night of Dragon Wings

ELETHOR



They streamed across the desert, thirty thousand strong, a swarm of dragons and griffins all bearing archers of Osanna upon their backs. The dunes raced beneath them and the mountains loomed ahead.

Elethor bared his fangs.

Thirty thousand. It was the number of souls who had lived in Requiem before the wyverns attacked. Thirty thousand. They would crush the Palace of Whispers and they would catch Solina and they would burn her.

"We will show you no mercy today, Solina," he hissed as he flew, flames in his mouth. "We will take no prisoners. You will stand no trial in our fallen halls. Today you die."

Scales clanked and fire blasted. Treale darted up to his side. The black dragon stared with narrowed eyes, teeth bared. A snarl left her maw, and a dragonhelm rose upon her head, crowned with blades.

"My king," she said and gave him a deep stare. "I fly by your side. I will kill for you. I will burn the enemy for you."

"Not for me, Treale," he said. "For Requiem. For the souls of our fallen. For the souls who still live."

All around them flew their warriors: dragons of Requiem with flames in their nostrils, true dragons of the east with fluttering beards, griffins with beating wings and yellow eyes, and upon every beast's back a warrior of Osanna bearing arrows and spears. They flew grimly, staring ahead in silence, rising and falling like waves upon the wind. Thirty thousand—a great northern host of light and fury.

The dunes rolled below, soon giving way to rocky fields, boulders, and hills. The noon sun pounded when the host flew over the mountains, and their shadows raced across rocky slopes. Nothing lived here; Elethor saw no plant or beast. There were only these rocky peaks, this white sky, and this glaring sun. The silence unnerved him and he growled.

Where are you, Solina?

They kept flying, a cloud of scale and steel. The mountaintops jutted beneath them like the fallen bones of ancient stone gods. Finally they saw it ahead, and Elethor hissed and his heart twisted.

The Palace of Whispers.

It still lay leagues away, but even from here, Elethor could barely believe its size; it looked larger than a city. He could not decide whether the Palace of Whispers was a mountain covered with towers, archways, bridges, and walls, or whether he flew toward a fortress so massive it had grown to mountain size. Hundreds of towers rose here, and hundreds of windows and archways led into shadows. All were built of the same tan, hard limestone of the mountains around them; Elethor could see no other color. The Ancients had built this place thousands of years ago, and time had done its work. The towers rose, craggy and twisting like stalagmites. The walls lay crumbling and bent like castles of sand after a wave. And yet, despite its age and dilapidation, this place still held power; Elethor felt it emanating like heat.

He kept flying toward the mountain. His host flew behind him. Elethor growled deep in his throat.

It's too silent, he thought. Damn too silent.

He could see no movement upon the towers or walls of the great fortress. No nephilim shrieked or flew. No banners fluttered. The ruins seemed dead, and that unnerved Elethor more than a cloud of demons.

"I fly with you, my king," Treale said, voice strained. Upon her back, her rider—a young man named Jadin—nocked an arrow.

They flew closer. The mountain grew ahead. Soon it loomed before them, a monolith large enough that nations could live within it. Still silence covered the land; Elethor heard nothing but the beating wings and snarls of his host. No Tiran soldiers. No nephilim or wyverns or phoenixes. Nothing but desert wind and those old stone battlements.

Only a league separated them from the palace now. The towers and walls dwarfed them. Thousands of windows and archways peppered the mountain like maggot-holes. And still—silence. Stillness. Nothing but rock and wind.

A creak sounded.

A twang followed.

Something moved upon a tower ahead.

Elethor growled.

A lone trebuchet had fired. The missile flew their way—a round ball of clay. It arced in the sky, dived down toward them, and slammed against a griffin.

An explosion tore the sky.

A boom rang out so loudly Elethor screamed. Light blasted. The impact tore the griffin apart; the beast scattered into gobbets of flesh. Flames burst out in rings. Ten more griffins—those who surrounded the one hit—tumbled down, lacerated and bloodied, wings and limbs torn off.

"Tiran fire!" Elethor shouted. "Keep flying—topple those towers!"

He had barely finished his sentence when a hundred twangs sounded ahead. A hundred clay balls flew toward his host.

"Dodge them!" Elethor howled. "Fly higher!"

He soared. Upon his back, his rider—a gruff, mute knight of Osanna—fired an arrow and hit a clay ball two hundred yards away. It burst with light that blinded Elethor, and the blast of air sent him spinning backward. He crashed into a griffin, beat his wings, and rose higher. His warriors were scattering. Explosions rocked the sky, one after another. One clay ball slammed into a dragon, light blazed, and blood and flesh flew. A single, severed arm tumbled down toward the mountains.

"Keep flying!" Elethor roared. His ears rang. He did not know if anyone could hear him. "To the towers! Burn those catapults. Treale—with me!"

The black dragon flew above, scales splashed with blood. She nodded, dived, and flew at his side. They drove toward the fort's towers. Hundreds rose ahead, and more catapults fired. More balls of clay arced through the sky.

Elethor darted left and right, dodging the missiles. Treale flew at his side, whisking around like a bee set to sting. The clay missiles missed them, and explosions blazed at their backs, blasting them with heat. The two dragons flew toward twin towers that rose ahead upon a peak; each held a catapult and Tiran soldiers in tan cloaks.

"Treale, burn the left one. I've got the right!"

He swooped toward the tower. The Tirans fired arrows. Elethor roared. One arrow snapped against his shoulder. Another thrust into his leg. He spewed a jet of fire.

The tower top blazed. Men fell burning and rolled. The catapult rose in flame. To his left, Treale blew fire against the other tower, and its men burned and fell like comets to thump against the mountainsides.

Elethor looked back at his army. Most were still flying toward the fortress. From a hundred other towers, more missiles flew. Every second, a blast blazed across the sky, and more dragons and griffins fell dead.

"Attack the catapults!" Elethor shouted. "Tear them down!"

A flight of griffins—four swooping birds—flew down toward one tower. A clay missile flew and slammed into one beast. The griffin burst into blood and gore. One other griffin shrieked and tumbled, burning. The remaining two swooped and their talons tore down the catapult. Arrows pierced them, they crashed upon the tower, and the Tirans leapt onto them with swords.

"Treale, there, the walls!" Elethor said. "Dive with me."

She snarled and flew toward him. They swooped together. Below upon a snaking wall Tirans were firing three more catapults. Behind them in a ditch, baskets lay stacked with balls of Tiran fire—a hundred or more.

The two dragons blew their fire, drenching the wall.

"Treale, soar!" Elethor shouted. "With me!"

They began to rise, flying straight up.

White light flooded them.

The sky burned.

Flames licked their feet and Elethor could hear nothing but the ringing, see nothing but white light. He thought that he had died, that he flew in the afterlife of starlight.

He could see the faces of his family—Orin, his father, and his mother. They awaited him, clad all in white, and smiled. They reached out to him.

"Elethor!" they cried. "Elethor!"

I'm flying to you… I can almost reach you… I…

"Elethor!"

A tail slapped against him. He looked and saw Treale flying by him. Ugly welts spread across her tail and back legs.

"Elethor!" she said. "The fortress—look."

He turned his head and looked down. He flew so high, he could cover the fortress with his feet. Dust rose in clouds. Elethor spun and began to dive, Treale at his side. When they grew closer, he saw it.

A great hole stretched across the fortress where the Tiran fire had burst. The opening loomed fifty feet wide, large enough for dragons to fly through. Inside, Elethor saw burrows and halls where men raced.

"We're going in, Treale," he said. "Can you fight? Is it bad?"

She snarled and howled in rage. "I can fight! I fight for you, my king."

For the first time, Elethor saw that the rider on her back was gone. Her saddle was singed black. When Elethor looked over his shoulder, his stomach plummeted and he wanted to gag. His own rider still sat upon his saddle—a charred corpse with a gaping skull.

Elethor cursed, tore off the saddle, and let the man fall; they would have to bury their dead later. He dived. Treale dived at his side. They pulled their wings close and curved their flight, racing toward the opening in the mountainside.

"Griffins and dragons!" Elethor roared as he flew. "Into the mountain! Into their halls. Rally here—we enter the darkness."

Thousands of dragons and griffins heard his cry and flew around him. Clay balls shot toward them. Blasts flared. Fire blazed. Griffins and dragons tore apart. Elethor roared, shot a stream of fire into the hole, and men inside burned.

He was first to enter. He dived into the opening and blasted fire in every direction. Upon staircases, bridges, and crumbling floors, men screamed and burned and fell. Arrows clattered against his scales. One slammed into his chest, and Elethor howled and snapped it off. He blew more fire.

He landed upon a rocky floor. Around him loomed a cave carved by the blast. Along the walls, halved hallways and chambers crumbled. It looked like a great ant hive that a giant had punched. Men scurried everywhere, firing arrows, and Elethor blew more flames. Treale and other dragons flew into the cave behind him, and their fire turned the place into an oven.

When the flames died, they revealed a chamber full of charred Tiran corpses. Elethor flapped his wings, grabbed onto the opening of a corridor, and shifted into human form. He ran into the shadows to find more Tirans firing arrows. He raised his shield, and the arrows peppered it. Men shouted and raced toward him, swinging swords.

Treale leaped at his side, her own sword blazing. Elethor raised his blade and snarled. Behind them, more of their warriors—soldiers from both Requiem and Osanna—raised their swords.

They had entered the mountain. The search for Solina began.