A Night of Dragon Wings

ELETHOR



They charged down the hall, a thousand warriors swinging blades, trampling corpses beneath them. The soldiers of Requiem charged with longswords, clad in breastplates bearing the Draco stars. The soldiers of Osanna fought at their side, bull horns engraved upon their armor, their one-handed swords lighter but fast as striking asps.

"Get to the staircase!" Elethor cried, sword drenched in blood. He swung that blade with both hands, cleaving the armor of a Tiran warrior. "Take those stairs!"

This place had once been a banquet hall, Elethor thought; faded murals of feasts covered the walls, featuring the Ancients dining on roasted ducks, bowls of pomegranates, and peacocks still bright with feathers. This had been a place of life; today death filled the hall.

Dozens of Tiran soldiers stood between Elethor and the staircase leading deeper into the fortress. They wore armor so pale it was nearly white, the breastplates sporting the Golden Sun of Tiranor. Their sabres swung, spraying blood in arcs, the pommels shaped as sunbursts. Their visors swooped like beaks.

Columns rose every few feet, supporting a low ceiling. Torches crackled. Along the walls, archways led into deeper shadows; more soldiers fought there. There was no room here for dragons or nephilim; here was a war of blade and armor, of hacking forward every foot through blood and entrails and corpses.

"Elethor!" Treale shouted at his side, her sword clanging against Tiran sabres. "What's up those stairs?"

Elethor took a sword's blow to the breastplate and cursed. He swung Ferus down, severing the Tiran arm that had attacked him. With another swing, he slew the man.

"I don't know!" he shouted back. "But we've got to move deeper. Let us fill every corridor, chamber, and staircase in this place."

He had no map of the palace. He did not know where Solina hid. We will fill this mountain like water spilled into an ant hive, he thought. Wherever you lurk, we will find you.

Finally, with a sword swing that clove a man's helmet, Elethor reached the stairway across the banquet hall. He shouted orders, and his forces split into five phalanxes. Each phalanx—a hundred soldiers strong—dashed into another hallway or chamber, leaving the banquet hall littered with corpses. Elethor ran up the staircase, leading his own phalanx, a hundred warriors of both Requiem and Osanna.

You cannot hide, Solina, he thought as he raced upstairs. We will bang down every door and overturn every brick until we find you.

Tirans raced down toward him. Blades swung and men fell dead, and Elethor kept climbing. Treale fought at his side, eyes narrowed and lips tightened; the staircase was only wide enough for two to fight abreast. Their hundred warriors ran behind them, awaiting their turn to fight.

"Solina!" Elethor shouted. He slew a man and climbed another step. "Solina, come and face me! Emerge from hiding, or are you a coward?"

A Tiran ran down toward him, thrusting a spear. Elethor cursed and dodged the weapon; it thrust between him and Treale. Their swords both swung, tearing into the man. They kept climbing. Through the walls, Elethor heard the battle ring across the palace; thousands of his troops were racing through the darkness, filling the mountain.

They fought for every step. They slew a dozen men before they burst into a second chamber—a columned hall lined with archways and torches. Murals covered the ceiling, depicting birds with the heads of men, and a dusty mosaic sprawled across the floor, its stones forming dolphins in a green sea. Fifty Tirans filled this chamber, and with battle cries, they charged forward.

"For Requiem!" Treale screamed and ran toward them.

Elethor ran at her side, and blades swung, and behind them their comrades burst into the chamber. Steel rang and blood washed the floors. Sabres slammed into Elethor's armor, denting it; he could feel his flesh bruising beneath. One sabre cleaved his pauldron, cracking the steel but only nicking his flesh. He kept swinging Ferus, painting the room red.

"Solina!" Elethor shouted. "Damn it, Solina, come face me!"

He snarled as he fought. Sweat drenched him. His wounds blazed. Solina could be anywhere in this fortress; how could he find one woman in this labyrinth? Perhaps she wasn't even in the mountain; perhaps she had fled to fight at another front. He swung Ferus at her men, craving to swing the blade into the queen.

"Solina!"

He charged through the chamber, his warriors at his sides. They barged through a doorway, fought up another staircase, and ran down a corridor, cutting men down. All across the fortress, Elethor heard steel ringing and men shouting; his other phalanxes were spreading across the place, filling every hallway, staircase, and chamber like poison seeping through veins. When he passed by an arched window, Elethor saw griffins and salvanae still fighting outside; the onslaught of Tiran fire had ended, and now nephilim—too large to fight in these halls—were charging at the beasts.

They raced through an ancient library, its shelves rotted away, its scrolls disintegrating under their boots. By a stone door, Treale slew a man, letting the crumbling papyrus drink his blood. For a moment no Tirans charged at them, and Treale leaned against a wall, lowered her head, and breathed raggedly. Blood covered her armor, helmet, and sword. Elethor stumbled toward her, leaned against the same wall, and for a moment they panted together.

"El—" Treale said, coughed a few times, and tried again. "Elethor, I… I can smell them. Rot. Worms. Nephilim are here."

Elethor nodded and wiped blood and sweat off his brow. Northern men, both of Requiem and Osanna, trudged through the dust toward them, blades raised and armor dented.

"The bastards are fighting our griffins outside," Elethor said.

Treale shook her head. "No, Elethor, there are nephilim in here. Inside this mountain. The rot is rising from somewhere deep inside." She shuddered. "There's something festering in the heart of this mountain. It's the stench of nephilim, but somehow worse, more powerful."

Elethor sniffed. He could smell the blood, the crumbling scrolls, and their sweat—and overpowering it all, the stench of nephil rot. Treale was right. This stench wasn't coming from outside—at least, not all of it. A hive of these creatures lurked deeper. He raised his blade.

"Follow your nose, Treale. Wherever this smell is coming from, I wager that's where we'll find Solina."

They broke down a door, charged into a corridor, and slew three more men. Their warriors ran behind them.

They combed the palace for hours. They kicked down doors of corroded bronze. They swung their blades. Blood washed the palace and corpses piled up. A hundred warriors followed Elethor down a columned hallway; a dozen died when Tirans charged from one chamber. A dozen more replaced them, rushing down a staircase from a room they had claimed. This palace was a great, dusty hive of ancient stones and smashed statues. They fought hallway by hallway, room by room, bridge by bridge. Elethor thought the labyrinth would never end, and yet the smell grew stronger, and he moved deeper into the mountain. He left all windows far behind. The only light here came from the torches men carried. These halls were old, older even than the ruins of Bar Luan. Dust rose to their ankles, and wind moaned like ghosts.

"Down here, Elethor!" Treale shouted at his side. Her eyes were wide, and her chest rose and fell as she panted. "I can smell them. Here!"

She ran down a spiraling staircase. Elethor ran at her side, and dozens of their men followed. The stairs corkscrewed around a towering statue of an Ancient, his face stoic and his sandstone robes cascading like silk. At the foot of the statue, the stench of rot flared so powerfully Elethor nearly gagged.

A rough hallway plunged downward, its walls lined with torches. At the tunnel's end rose doors of bronze, large as the gates of palaces. Firelight limned the doors; flames burned behind them. Grunts, snorts, and gurgles rose from the chamber beyond.

Nephilim.

Elethor paused and looked at Treale. She raised her blade and stared back with tightened lips. Their men crowded behind them, armor dented and bloody, eyes grim.

"Once we enter, Treale, shift into a dragon," he said. "If nephilim are back there, the place is large enough to shift."

She nodded. "We'll break down the doors and burn them all."

She took a step back, raised her shield, and made to charge down the corridor. Elethor placed a hand on her shoulder, holding her back.

"Wait, Treale," he said softly. "Before we go in there…"

She looked up at him with huge, dark eyes like pools of endless night, and Elethor swallowed, suddenly not sure how to proceed. They had survived this far, but now a fear gripped him like icy fingers around his spine. Treale's eyes seemed so large to him, so young, so loyal. Despite all the men she had slain, she seemed a mere youth to him now, an innocent young woman blinded by love for her king.

And he was afraid for her. He was afraid for all those who followed him, who obeyed his orders without question, who plunged into darkness to fight at his side. If too many nephilim lurked beyond these doors, there would be no sky to flee to.

It is victory now, Elethor thought, or death—death for me, my men, and this young woman who only a few years ago placed a frog on my dinner plate, then fled squealing and laughing, a child with no care in the world.

"El?" she whispered. "Are you all right?"

He held her shoulder. "Treale, if we don't make it out of here, I want you to know something."

Her lips parted, and Elethor knew she was remembering that night—that night upon the hill where she had kissed his cheek, where they had talked about their lives, where for one night Elethor had forgotten about Solina, forgotten about Lyana, and had almost loved her, almost left the world for her. He had thought about that night often, and today in her eyes, he saw that she had never forgotten—that she had relived her lips upon his cheek countless times.

"What is it, El?" she whispered.

"Treale, you fought bravely. You proved your honor. Whatever happens beyond those doors, you are Requiem's finest; never doubt that. Will you kneel before me?"

She gasped, swallowed, and nodded. She knelt, caked with blood and ash, and held out her sword in open palms.

"I, King Elethor Aeternum," he said, "knight you a bellator of Requiem, a warrior of starlight. Rise, Lady Treale Oldnale."

She rose, tears in her eyes.

"But I ran from battle," she whispered. "When the wyverns attacked, I—"

"You flew to find your family," Elethor said. "I will not fault you for that. And damn it, Treale. You saved my bloody sister, for stars' sake. That's got to count for something, no?"

She laughed, eyes damp. "A knight, Elethor! Bloody stars. Two years ago I thought I'd be a puppeteer." She wiped her eyes, clutched her sword, and nodded down the hall. "Now that I'm a knight and about a hundred times braver, are you ready to go kill the queen?"

He nodded. She clasped his shoulder and bared her teeth. He gripped her shoulder too. They shared one long, final stare, then turned and ran shouting down the hallway. Their men screamed and charged behind them. They smashed against the bronze doors.

These doors were ancient, forged thousands of years ago, and they crashed open, and Elethor and Treale burst into a great chamber.

Countless nephilim screeched, white eyes blazing like molten fire.

Elethor shifted into a dragon and spewed his flames. Treale shifted too and her fire screamed across the chamber. Nephilim shrieked. Fellow Vir Requis burst into the room behind them, and more dragons blew fire, and nephilim crashed against the ceiling and walls, and a column cracked.

The hall blazed, an inferno of flame and flesh and scale and tooth. A nephil burst through fire and thrust claws, and Elethor roared, blood upon his chest. Another nephil leaped onto Treale and knocked her down, and she rolled and wrestled it, her tail flailing. The beasts flew everywhere, a great living mass, and Elethor lashed his claws, bit maggoty flesh, and whipped his tail.

A flaming halo crackled, and a towering nephil rose ahead, wings spread out like the sails of a demon ship. Lord Legion shrieked, and the sound cracked the walls, and rubble fell from the ceiling. Men died in his jaws, and the Nephil King laughed, and all around him his minions spread, an endless sea of the fallen.

We cannot win this, Elethor realized, and fear clutched him, and for a moment he froze. They are too many. I led my people to death.

Legion chewed and swallowed men, licked his lips, and charged toward Elethor. Legion's great arms swung, and Elethor blew his fire, but the arms slammed into him. He flew and crashed against a wall, cracking it. More nephilim mobbed him. Three beasts dragged Treale down and bit into her back, and she screamed.

"Enough!"

The voice rang across the chamber, clear even over the shrieks and roars.

The nephilim froze.

Elethor fell, wheezing, and his wings draped at his sides. He looked up to see Solina sitting upon a throne of living flesh and scales. One of the nephilim formed her backrest, its head above her own, drooling upon her. Two more nephilim formed her armrests; she laid her hands upon their ridged spines. A crown like claws of gold rose upon her head. Nephil drool and pus covered her white gown, and the creatures of her throne licked her with long, white tongues.

"Elethor," she said with a crooked smile. "You cannot win this war. Look around you! A thousand nephilim fill this hall. You have brought…." She squinted. "Oh my, Elethor, but you have only one dragon left, a scrawny female one too."

Elethor growled and looked around him. A hundred men of Osanna and Requiem had charged into this chamber with him. They lay dead upon the floor, torn apart, limbs scattered and bodies crushed. Already nephilim feasted upon them, sucking up bodies like owls sucking up mice.

Only Treale still lived. The young black dragon lay on her belly, and Legion stood above her, his claws pressed down against her neck. Treale growled and tried to rise, but could not. Legion smiled above her, tongue darting, and his halo flamed blue.

Elethor looked back at Solina.

He roared and blew a jet of fire toward her.

She leaped back, and several nephilim slammed against Elethor. Claws swung. Fangs dug into him. He screamed. He burned them. His fire exploded and showered back upon him. Blows thudded against him, and a nephil clawed his cheek, and pain blazed, and more claws slashed his belly, and he roared. Claws drove into his back, and Elethor howled, and his magic left him.

He crashed to the floor in human form.

Legion lolloped toward him, grinning. The Nephil King reached down, wrapped his claws around Elethor, and lifted him like a demonic child lifting a discarded toy.

Elethor hung in the air, dazed, the claws nearly crushing him. Legion shook him wildly, and Elethor's head spun, and he could not see or breathe. All around him the nephilim leered and howled.

"Enough!" Solina shouted again.

The nephilim froze. Legion stood holding Elethor in one fist, pinning his arms down. Blood dripped into Elethor's eyes, and he could barely breathe. It felt like Legion's grip would snap his ribs.

He looked aside and saw that Legion was clutching Treale in his other hand. She too had resumed human form, and she hung in Legion's grip only feet away from Elethor. Blood dripped from her, and her face was pale. She whispered to him, but her voice was so weak Elethor could not hear.

"Treale!" he cried hoarsely.

She gave him a pleading look, eyes full of pain. Her lips uttered his name silently.

"Legion, hold them before me," Solina said. "Hold them still."

She rose upon her throne. The nephilim that formed her seat shifted, creating a ramp of spines and ribs. Solina descended and walked across the bloody floor, hands on the hilts of her sabres.

When she reached Legion, the nephil lowered Elethor and Treale in his claws, holding them a mere foot above the floor. Elethor struggled and kicked and screamed, but could not free himself.

Solina touched his cheek, and her eyes softened.

"Still you fight," she whispered. "Even when all your hope is lost. Still, here in my hall, you struggle."

He spat out a tooth. Blood filled his mouth.

"Fight me," he said. "You and me. No dragons. No nephilim. Just the two of us—sword to sword."

She raised her eyebrows. "Are you…" She laughed. "Are you challenging me to a duel? This is no epic poem of olden days, Elethor. This is no romantic farce." She caressed his hair. "I don't wish to fight you, El. I never did. All I ever wanted was peace."

He laughed mirthlessly, hanging in the claws. "Peace? You wanted peace when you slew my family? When your beasts crushed my city? When you slaughtered children in our tunnels?"

She placed her hands in his hair. She kissed his ear—her lips were soft and full—and whispered.

"I slew them, Elethor, so that we could have peace. So that all those who taunted us, who tried to stop us, who whispered against us—so all of them went away. I killed them, and I will kill everyone else, until all the world is just you… and me." She nodded up toward Legion, whose head drooled above them. "Show him, Legion. Kill the girl."

Elethor shouted.

Clutching Elethor in one hand, Legion tossed Treale down from his other hand. She slammed hard against the floor, and her blood splattered.

"Treale, shift!" Elethor cried.

She looked up at him. Legion's claws thrust. Treale rose to her feet and began to shift.

A claw crashed through her breastplate.

Treale gasped. Her magic vanished. She hung upon the claw, head and limbs tossed back, gasping. Her legs kicked in midair. Blood filled her mouth.

Legion shook his claw and flung her back down.

"Treale!" Elethor shouted. He howled. With strength he had not imagined in him, he tore at the claws that clutched him.

"Let him go, Legion!" Solina said and laughed. "Let him see her!"

Elethor crashed to the floor, banging his knees. He rose, rushed to Treale, and knelt over her.

His eyes stung. His breath caught. She lay on her back, a hole in her chest. She trembled and gasped, and her hands reached toward him. Blood poured from her chest.

"El," she whispered.

With shaking fingers, he tore off her armor. He rifled through his pack, pulled out a bandage, and placed it against her wound, knowing that it was too late; the blow had pierced through her. He held her, one hand under her head, the other against her cheek.

"I'm here, Treale," he whispered. "I'm here."

She convulsed, legs twitching, chest rising and falling. She could barely speak.

"El," she whispered. "El, do you… do you remember that night?" Her body shook like a fish on a boat's deck. "Do you… do you remember? Under the stars, how… how I kissed your cheek?"

He held her and caressed her hair. "I remember, Treale. I never forgot. Ever."

Her blood flowed, and her trembling eased, and she smiled with blue lips. "El, do you remember how we talked about puppets?"

He blinked tears from his eyes. "I remember," he whispered.

"I… I liked that night," she said. Her breath shook. "El, can I… Please, can I kiss your cheek one more time? Please. I want to… I want to pretend I'm there." Tears flowed down her cheeks. "I want to be back on that hill under the stars."

He lowered his head, and she kissed his cheek with trembling lips, smearing him with blood. He kissed her forehead and caressed her hair.

"Don't leave me," she whispered.

"Never," he said. "Never, Treale. I'm here. I'm right here. Tell me about your puppets. Tell me about all the shelves and piles of them, and all the puppet shows you performed."

She placed her arms around him. A soft light touched her eyes. She trembled against him.

"I had…." Her tears fell. "I sewed them, Elethor, so many… so many. Hundreds of puppets. Green ones. Yellow puppets. And…"

Elethor lowered his head and a silent sob shook his chest. He laid Treale down upon her back. She stared up, mouth open and eyes glassy. His tears wet her face, and with a bloodied hand, he closed her eyes.

Goodbye, Treale. Fly to your puppets. Fly to our starlit halls and wait for me there, and one day you will tell me all about them again.

He rose slowly to his feet.

He turned toward Solina.

He raised his sword, howled, and lunged at her.

She only stood, sighing, as nephilim swooped toward him, and claws grabbed him, and he screamed as wings and scales and rot covered his world.