A Night of Dragon Wings

A NIGHT OF DRAGON WINGS

DRAGONLORE, BOOK THREE

by

Daniel Arenson

Copyright © 2013 by Daniel Arenson

All rights reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

 
 
ZAR

The ropes chafed his wrists, and the blindfold squeezed his head like a vise, but Zar kept walking.  He must have been walking for hours.  A spearhead goaded his back, and he stumbled forward, breath rattling in his lungs.  They had stabbed his back so many times, he imagined that it looked raw and red like minced meat.  He could smell his own blood.

"Move it, scum!" said the guard behind him.  Again the spearhead goaded him, a thrust too weak to puncture his flesh, but strong enough to shoot pain through him.  "We haven't got all day!"

So it's still daytime,
Zar thought.  He would have thought night had fallen hours ago.  The gravelly road stabbed his bare feet.  His calves, his back, his head—they all throbbed.  The wind blew hot and sandy against him.  His throat was parched, his lips cracked; he wondered if thirst would kill him before the guards could.

Around him, he heard a hundred boots thumping, armor clanking, and scabbards clattering against greaves.  A grunting sounded to his side, then a whip lashing flesh and a croak.  Zar wanted to call out to his friends; even just speaking their names would comfort him.

They're taking us to die,
he thought. 
They will whip and stab and march us until we perish, and our bones will lie in the wilderness for crows to pick on.

"Move, damn it!" cried the guard behind him, voice as gravelly as the road.  "Faster!"

A whip cracked and pain exploded across Zar's back.  He bit down on a scream.  If he screamed, they would hurt him further.  He had learned that lesson in the bowels of Solina's palace. 
Never scream.  Never make a sound.  If you show pain, they will laugh, and they will crave more.

He tried to remove his thoughts from this march, this thirst, this pain.  He thought of his wife, a demure desert daughter, her hair so pale it was almost white, her skin deep gold, and her eyes blue like sky over dunes.  He thought of his son, a suckling babe who would never know his father.  He had done it for them. 
All my crimes—for you.

He had left his phalanx only for his family, only to be with them.  He had abandoned his barracks to squeeze his wife's hand, to soothe her, to help the midwife guide his son into the desert.  He had left for but a day, that was all—a dawn, an evening, a night of stars.  That was all.  The barracks guards had caught him holding his son, wrenched the babe from his arms, and dragged him back in chains.

But I saw my son.  I saw him.  I will die with a memory of his eyes.

He thought of those eyes as they walked the road, moving higher and higher, climbing a mountain that seemed to never end.  As his feet bled and his back blazed, he thought of his son's eyes and his wife's smile, and Zar knew that no matter how much they hurt him, he had a pure memory.  This memory they could not take away, not with all the blades and whips in the desert.

The wind lashed him.  They marched.  They marched endlessly.

Finally, after what seemed the ages of empires and the lifespan of mountains, he heard the guards inhale sharply.

"The tower," one man whispered.

Cold sweat washed Zar.

There was only one tower—
the
tower—which men spoke of with such reverence, such fear.  The Ancients had called it
Tarath Gehena
—Tower of the Abyss—but few dared speak that tongue now.  In his childhood, his grandmother would whisper that demons punished errant children in this tower.  His friends would point at steeples in the city of Irys, trying to convince one another that here stood Tarath Gehena itself, the place of whispers and screams.

The tower.  The place of the key.  Sun God, the queen seeks to open the Iron Door.

Zar's knees shook and his breath rose to a pant.  In the dungeon, he had prayed for death, comforted himself with the thought of thirst or injury sending him to eternal rest.  In the shadow of Tarath Gehena, no such comfort could find him.  No pure memory or hope could soothe him here.

Here there were only screams, terror, and undying agony.

They kept walking, quiet now.  Zar could barely hear the clank of armor, the thud of boots, or the moans of his fellow prisoners.  Until now every step had seemed an eternity; now Zar wished time would slow down.  Too soon, far too soon, they stopped.  Rough hands ripped the blindfold off his eyes.

Sun God save us,
Zar thought, blinked in the sunset, and trembled.

They stood upon a mountain that rose from the desert:  three haggard prisoners, bloodied and clad in rags; fifty soldiers in pale armor, golden suns upon their breastplates and their helms shaped as falcon heads; and a desert queen all in gold and platinum, twin sabres drawn in her hands.  These soldiers of steel had tortured him, and this desert queen had ordered him broken, yet as night fell around them, Zar did not fear them.  They were mere mortals.  Before him it rose, a skeletal finger reaching into a crimson sky.  The tower.

Zar had never before seen this place, not with his waking eyes.  But he had dreamed of it countless times, then woke up in a cold sweat.  He had seen it in his mind—when his grandmother whispered of its secrets, when his childhood friends bragged that they would climb it, and when Queen Solina's guards whipped him until the pain exploded into dreamscapes.

"The tower," he whispered, lips chapped and bleeding.  "The place of the key."

Tarath Gehena rose knobby, black, and twisting like a melted candle of stone.  The sun set behind it, spilling rivers of blood across the sky, the mountain, and the desert below.  The tower's jagged crenellations rose like the crown of a demon king.  At its base loomed a doorway, gaping and black like a cave.  As the crimson clouds moved, the tower seemed to tilt.  A shadow stirred between the battlements, and Zar's heart thrashed.  He expected to see demons swarm toward him, but then the shadow vanished, leaving his heart racing and his clothes drenched with sweat.

Tarath Gehena,
he thought. 
A shattered bone of the Abyss risen into the world.

Queen Solina walked forward, shoving her guards aside.  Her eyes gleamed and a smile twitched across her lips, those lips twisted with an old scar.  Despite the long march, she seemed unwearied, and little sand or dust clung to her breastplate and silken cloak.  Her hair billowed, a pale banner.

"This is the place," she whispered, eyes alight and teeth bared in a grin.  "This tower holds the key."

The sunset blazed against her, painting her blood-red, and madness shone in her eyes.

"You cannot open the door!"  The words fled Zar's mouth, hoarse and shaking.  "You will unleash something you cannot contai—"

A whip lashed his back, and a soldier kicked him, driving a steel-tipped boot into his side.  Zar fell to his knees, gasping for breath.  Tears budded in his eyes.

"Please," he whispered, trembling, remembering the stories his grandmother would tell: stories of demons peeling the skin off children, of reptiles writhing, of a horde of chaos with tarry wings and fangs to suck the souls of men.  "Please, my queen, do not enter this tower.  Do not take the key from within."

The soldiers raised whips and spears above him, and Zar winced, expecting the blows, but Solina held up her hand.  The soldiers froze, weapons raised.

The Queen of Tiranor walked toward Zar, head tilted and lips still smiling, though no mirth filled her eyes, only cruelty like a scourge.  She stood above him, a golden queen and him a wretched, bleeding shell of a man, wrists bound and body emaciated and broken.  She spoke, voice soft and smooth like a morning breeze stirring the desert sands. 

"You fear the tomb the key can unlock."  She reached down and touched his forehead.  Her hand was gloved in white moleskin, soft and warm.  "You fear the creatures that dwell beyond the Iron Door."

Zar shivered on the ground.  He feared this tower, this jagged sentinel; his stomach clenched and his skull seemed ready to crack.  Yet this tower, for all its evil, merely contained a key.

But the door this key unlocks…  The fortress it will allow her to enter…

He found himself weeping.  "Please, my queen, please.  Listen to the priests of the Sun God.  Listen to the whispers of desert tribes, to the tales of grandmothers, to the horrors in old scrolls.  Do not take this key."

Her face softened, the face of a woman seeing a wretched, kicked animal.  She caressed his forehead, dirtying her gloves with his sweat and grime.

"Oh, dear miserable beast," she whispered.  "
I
will not take the key from this tower.  You and your friends will."

Sun God.  Oh, Sun God, please no.

He flattened himself on the ground and kissed the dust at her feet.  His body shook.

"Please, my queen, forgive me, I only… I only wanted to see my son, to—"

She spat on him.  "Stand this wretch up," she said to her soldiers.  Disgust now suffused her voice.  "Let him enter last.  I want him to watch his friends suffer first."

Guards grabbed Zar and yanked him to his feet.  He writhed and kicked, heart thrashing, but could not free himself.  After moons in Solina's dungeon, he was too weak, his arms thinned to the bone, his head always spinning, his heart always like a wild hare caught in his ribcage.  To his right, he saw his fellow prisoners, two more souls who had languished in the queen's dungeons.  They too were struggling in the grip of soldiers.  They too were pale and emaciated, mere shells of humanity, their hair wispy and their eyes bulging.

"Send the first one in!" Solina shouted, voice echoing across the mountain.  Zar thought that even the desert below, for leagues around, could hear her voice, the cry of a gilded goddess.

The soldiers dragged forward a prisoner—a cadaverous, bare-chested man named Rael, his back lashed and his left eye swollen shut.  The man struggled, whimpered, and begged, but he could not free himself from the soldiers' grips.  These were Queen Solina's personal guards, towering men—they stood near seven feet tall—bedecked in steel and platinum, automatons of metal, their faces hidden behind visors shaped as falcon beaks.  Sometimes Zar wondered if any flesh lived beneath that metal, or if inside their armor they were nothing but godly flame.

"Please, my queen," Rael pleaded.  As the soldiers dragged him toward the tower, he looked back, and his good eye met Zar's gaze.

Zar froze, his breath dying in his chest.  He saw such horror, such grief in the man's one eye—a soul crumbling.

"Rael," he whispered.

"If you make it back, Zar, tell my wife I'm sorry," the haggard prisoner said.  Blood flecked his lips.  "Tell her I love her and I'm sorry."

Zar nodded, throat constricting.  Rael had stabbed the man raping his wife; he had been caught, knife bloody in his hands.

"I'll look after her, Rael," he said, knowing that he was lying, knowing that he would never make it back home.  "I promise.  I—"

With a grunt, a soldier kicked Zar's back, sending him facedown into the dirt.  His cheek hit a rock; he felt it pierce his skin.  He coughed and spat blood, raised his head, and saw the soldiers shove Rael into the dark doorway of the tower.

"Find me the key and you will have freedom!" Solina shouted into the darkness, voice echoing.  A grin played across her lips, twisting her scar, the old burn the weredragons had given her.  "Find the key and the jewels of Tiranor will be yours!"