A Night of Dragon Wings

BAYRIN



He rocked on his heels, rolled his eyes, and blew out his breath.

"Lyana!" he said. "You've been reading for ages. Will you tell us what the book says?"

She sat before him on the rug, huddled against the cave wall. The ancient codex lay open before her, a tome the size of a suckling pig. Lyana raised her eyes from the pages, glared at him, and held her finger to her lips.

"Shh!" she said and returned her eyes to the book.

Bayrin groaned. "Lyana! Merciful stars, you heard what the spy said. War and destruction. End of the world. Toes stubbed left and right. Will you please quit your pleasure reading, stop shushing everyone, and tell me what the book says about these Falling Ones?"

Lyana groaned too, an enraged sound like a mother bear disturbed in her cave. She bared her teeth at him.

"Bayrin!" she said. "It's the Fallen Ones, or nephilim in their tongue. And maybe if you had spent fewer years chasing tavern wenches, and instead learned to read and write, you could study this book too."

He raised his hands in incredulity. "I know how to read and write!"

"Scribbling rude limericks on alehouse walls doesn't count, Bayrin. Now please shut that blabbering hole in your face and let me read."

Bayrin let out the longest, loudest sigh of his life. He turned to face Elethor, who stood at his side in the cave.

"Do you see, El? Do you see what I've had to put up with all my life? Bloody stars, since becoming queen, her tongue's only grown sharper; you could slice a wyvern to ribbons with it, no sword necessary."

He expected Elethor to laugh; his friend would always laugh whenever he'd mock Lyana. And yet today Elethor only stood solemnly, face frozen, staring down at the book.

Stars, Bayrin thought, you can barely even see his face anymore behind that dreadful beard of his.

Where was the Elethor he had known, the young man who'd laugh or groan at his jokes? Where was the Lyana who'd leap up to punch him, not just glare and bury her nose in a book? Bayrin would welcome groans and punches over this tense silence, this… this wait for an evil he didn't understand.

Stars, Mori, I miss you, he thought and closed his eyes. A lump filled his throat. He would have given the world to have her here now—to hold her, kiss her, never let her go. The beauty of silver rain on autumn leaves, of stars in purple sunset, of Requiem's fallen columns; all paled by the love, beauty, and goodness of Mori. He thought of her pink lips that would kiss him, her gray eyes looking up at him in wonder, the smoothness of her hair, and the purity of her heart as he held her against him.

Where are you now, Mori? Do you too have a cave to hide in, somebody to talk to?

Elethor believed her a prisoner in Tiranor; others whispered that the princess lay dead among Nova Vita's ruins. Bayrin knew that she lived; he refused to believe anything else. And if she was Solina's prisoner…

Bayrin clenched his fists. If you hurt her, Solina, I will crush you in my claws, and I will burn down your city with my flames.

He shook his head wildly.

"That's it!" he said. "I've waited long enough. I want to fly. I want to burn." He walked around the book, sat down by Lyana, and shoved her aside. "Let me see what this storybook of yours says."

"Bayrin!" she began and launched into a lecture, but he ignored her.

He stared down at the cracked old parchment. A baker's boy had saved the book, an ancient tome titled Mythic Creatures of the Gray Age, when fleeing the city. Upon its pages appeared illustrations of a thousand beasts: griffins, dragons, undead warriors, and every other creature that had ever walked, slithered, or flown. Lyana had the bestiary open to a chapter titled "Nephilim".

On the left page sprawled an illustration of a battle. In a valley stood an army of knights and archers. Toward them swarmed a host of rotting, twisted giants. Each stood thrice the height of a man. Each wore motley pieces of armor over rotten, scaly flesh. Some were bloated, their skin oozing; others were lanky and covered in spikes and horns. All bore tattered wings tipped with claws. A crimson serpent appeared upon their shields and helms, their sigil.

"Merciful stars," Bayrin said. "Ugly bastards, aren't they?" He leaned down and squinted at the opposite page. Lines of text appeared there, nearly too small for him to read. "What's it say here, Lyana?"

Sitting beside him, she groaned. "I thought you said you could read, Bayrin."

"I can! But these letters are so small and faded, and they're written in the tongue of Osanna, which only old priests and shriveled-up scribes can read anyway."

"Well I can read it, and the only thing shriveled up here is your brain. I'll read it for you; if you squint any harder, your eyes will be sucked into your skull." She shoved him aside, cleared her throat, and began to read from the page, translating the words as she went.

"Ten thousand years ago, the children of darkness emerged from their Abyss, crawled upon the earth, and took human wives. Thus were born the nephilim, the Fallen, the spawn of darkness dwellers and human wombs. Tall as giants they grew with rotted flesh, blazing eyes, and wings like black banners. They roamed the land, and their cries shook the mountains, and their claws tore down the walls of cities.

"The Ancient Ones, the desert dwellers whose daughters birthed the nephilim, raised a great host. They drove the nephilim into the Palace of Whispers, their great fortress in the desert, and sealed them in a deep chamber. An iron door they wrought for the prison, which they locked with an iron key.

"The fathers of the Fallen, demons of the Abyss, raged at the shame of their children. They took the iron key into Tarath Gehena, a dark tower, and placed guardians around it, so that none will see the shame of their fallen spawn."

When she finished reading, silence fell upon the room. Elethor stood frowning down at the book; he had not spoken all day. Lyana hugged herself.

"I don't get it," Bayrin said and furrowed his brow. "If you wanted to seal these critters, why even make a key? Why not just… build a door that cannot open, or destroy the key—why hide it in some tower?" He sighed. "Of course some madwoman like Solina would eventually seek this key. Didn't the Ancients have any sense?"

Lyana glared at him. "They had more sense than you, Bayrin, and so do most bricks. They didn't use a regular door. The nephilim would smash through it. They used a magical door, a Door of Sealing; nothing can break through those. The Ancients lived ten thousand years ago, before Tiranor and Requiem even existed, and they crafted many magical artifacts. If you had ever paid any attention to your tutors, instead of scribbling naked ladies into your books, you'd have known that." She reached into her pocket and drew a filigreed key, identical to the ones Elethor and Mori wore around their necks. "Seen this key before, Bayrin? That's right. The key to Requiem's library, Chamber of Artifacts, and… the Gates of the Abyss." She shuddered and pocketed the key. "Doors of Sealing exist in Requiem too, though their history predates our own. Without a key, they're forever closed."

"Somebody should have used one of these keys on your mouth," Bayrin muttered. "Seal it shut forever." He sighed. "So, what do we do now? Fly south and try to grab the key before Soli? Or do we fly north and hide like our spy Leras politely opined?"

For once, Lyana had no answer. She looked up at Elethor; so did Bayrin. The young king stood above them, silent, staring at the book as if he hadn't heard the conversation. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and his brow was creased.

Damn it, Bayrin thought, he's too young for wrinkles, too young to look so tired. His friend was not yet thirty but lately, with that ridiculous new beard of his and long sleepless nights, he looked ten years older.

"What do you think, El?" he asked softly. He rose to his feet and stood by his friend. "What do you make of all this mess?"

For a long moment, Elethor remained silent and stared at the book. When finally the king looked up, Bayrin lost his breath; a deep, haunting pain lived in Elethor's eyes, a demon's shadow twisting underwater. For three moons now, Bayrin had never stopped thinking of Mori, and her memory tore at him; looking in Elethor's eyes, he knew that the king felt the same pain for myriads of souls, for all those who had died in Nova Vita under his reign.

"We cannot run," Elethor said. His lips were pale, his voice ghostly. "We cannot run now, or we will always run. If Solina awakes the sleeping nephilim, her wrath will flow across the world; there will be no more places to hide." He gripped the hilt of his sword. "We must fly south. We must burn her land and topple her court. But not alone. With the nephilim, Solina will crave the world entire, and the world entire must fight alongside our banners. Dragons. Salvanae. Griffins. Men. We must fight as one or the world will fall."

Lyana sighed, a deep sigh that clanked her armor. "Elethor, the world abandoned us," she said and touched her husband's arm. "We tried to rouse them. We begged for aid when wyverns flew. Our friends forsook us. Where were the salvanae when acid flowed? Where were griffins when Solina murdered our children? Where were men when our columns fell? We are Vir Requis; we have no friends in this world. All we have is our fire, our claws, and our roar."

Bayrin nodded and pounded his fist into his palm. "Damn right! We fly alone. To the Abyss with everyone else. I'm going to roast Soli's backside myself."

Elethor turned away from them, walked toward the cave's entrance, and stood staring outside at the rain. From below rose the sounds of the camp: babes crying, children playing, and elders praying. The soft light limned Elethor and silvered his armor. He stood silently, one hand on the pommel of his sword.

"No," he said finally, not turning back to face Bayrin and Lyana. "Too many died. Too many voices are silenced. A thousand live here, a last light for our race. How many more hide in the wilderness? Another thousand? A hundred? Even if Solina empties her land of wyverns, if she wakes the nephilim, they will slaughter us in the desert. We cannot face this threat alone." He turned back toward them. "Bayrin, my friend, fly west from here. Fly west, take this book with you, and raise the salvanae to our cause. Lyana, my love, fly east and rally men and griffins to our banner. Our neighbors did not fight the wyverns, it is true. They will fight to stop Solina from unleashing the nephilim, or the world will burn—their lands too."

Bayrin bit his lip and tugged at his hair. "I don't know, El. I don't know. Flying to raise help will take a while. If Solina is working to find this key, we can't waste time." He blew out his breath. "But I'll fly west if you ask me."

Mori might be hiding out west. Will I find her in the golden halls of the salvanae?

Lyana gripped her sword and raised her chin. "And I will fly east—to the courts of men and the isles of griffins. If aid lies in the east, I will bring it here."

They left the cave. They stood outside above the forest, and the rain pattered against their armor. Bayrin looked at his companions: his friend and king, tall and gaunt Elethor, all the joy and life gone from his eyes; his sister, now his queen, her hair fiery and her fists clutching her sword and dagger. A lump filled his throat.

I love you, Elethor, he thought. I love you, Lyana. More than I can ever tell you.

He opened his arms. They crushed him in their embrace. For long moments the three stood silently in the rain, holding one another. The rain was cold and their breath plumed warm against their cheeks. The lump refused to leave Bayrin's throat and his eyes stung.

If you hide in the west, Mori, I will find you. Wherever you are in this world, I will bring you here. I promise, Mori. I promise.