A Night of Dragon Wings (23 page)

They filled a basket with bread rolls, a jar of preserves, smoked sausages, a slab of butter, a wheel of tangy cheese, and hard yellow apples.  They took their meal outside and sat upon the grass beneath the cypresses.  She wore nothing but the blanket wrapped around her shoulders; he wore only his woolen trousers.  Below the hill where Elethor had built his home rolled the city of Nova Vita:  the palace of marble columns, the domed temple, and the cobbled streets that snaked between birches.

That palace is empty now,
he thought. 
The day is ours:  a day of sunlight, a day of peace, a day of Solina.

"What will we do today?" he asked as they ate.  "Walk through the forest?  Go swim in the lake?  Maybe visit the library and read old books?"

She yawned magnificently.  "Too hard."  She lay back on the grass, and her hair spread out around her like molten white gold.  The sunlight danced upon her face.  "I'm just going to lie here all day."  She reached out, grabbed him, and pulled him back.  "And you will lie here with me."

He lay on his back watching the clouds, and she nestled against him, and soon she slept again.  He kissed her forehead and held her in his arms, and her breath danced against his neck.  He closed his eyes, Solina warm against him.

This is the best day of my life,
he thought. 
Here and now, this is perfect.  This is all I ever want.  Never let this end.

A shriek tore the day.

Elethor opened his eyes and found himself in darkness.  Solina slipped into shadow, and he tried to grab her, and his heart ached at her loss, and then the shriek sounded again and he covered his ears.

He rose from the cold stone floor and looked upon a shadowy, dusty tunnel.  His body ached, and dried blood covered his left arm.  At his side, children cowered and held one another.  The shriek sounded again, coming from far above through walls of stone—the nephilim circling above the temple ruins.

Elethor clenched his jaw.  His dream faded, the last warmth of sunlight and Solina's embrace falling into a deep, throbbing cold.

He grimaced.  He had slept in his armor, and every muscle and joint in him groaned.  The mossy brick walls pressed close around him.  The root of a great tree thrust down through the ceiling, splitting the room.  Behind the root, a dozen more Vir Requis huddled—the young twins and ten others who had scurried inside.  They had been hiding here for six days now, drinking what rainwater dripped through the ceiling and eating only what supplies they had carried in their packs and pockets.

The screech sounded again from outside, a cry torn in agony.  The tunnel where they hid shook and moss rained from the ceiling's bricks.

"Something is going on out there," grumbled Garvon.  The leathery, one-eyed man huddled against a wall, his white beard caked with mud.  "I don't like this."

Elethor frowned and found himself agreeing.  The past three days had been eerily silent.  They had heard nephilim pacing and grunting outside, sometimes shrieking in rage.  They had heard other Vir Requis shout from their own hideouts in abandoned cellars and halls.  But this—this cry of agony—was new.

"Something is hurting them," Elethor muttered.  "That is no scream of rage or hunger.  It's a scream of pain."

Were the other Vir Requis emerging to fight?  No; he heard no dragon roars.  Did Bayrin return with the salvanae or Lyana with griffins?  Elethor could not hear them either; salvanae bugled and sang in battle, and griffins let out eagle cries.

Garvon rose to his feet.  His hoary head nearly hit the ceiling.  He drew his sword with a grunt.

"Get ready," he said and spat.  "They're planning something."

The nephilim screeched again, and a new stench flared from outside, one of blood and sour milk and worms.  Elethor could not see outside from here—the tunnel curved, sealing them in shadow.  He began walking toward the bend.  He had to look outside, to see what new devilry festered there.

Garvon grabbed his shoulder.  "I go first."

The old man shoved Elethor back, trudged around him, and walked down the tunnel toward the exit.  Elethor drew Ferus, his old longsword, and walked close behind.  The stench invaded his nostrils as violently as demons thrusting into mortal women.

The crumbly doorway stood before them, lichen hanging from the lintel.  Elethor frowned and Garvon muttered.  For the past three days, nephilim had stood here, reaching claws and teeth through the doorway like cats pawing at mouse holes.  Today Elethor saw sunlight through the doorway, no claws or teeth blocking the exit.  The screeches rose outside, and the stench of blood and rot swirled so powerfully Elethor nearly gagged.

Garvon kept advancing toward the doorway, sword raised.  Elethor walked close behind.  Soon they stood in range of thrusting claws; Elethor saw their grooves cut into the walls and floor.

"Careful, Garvon," he said.

The old soldier froze, spat, and cursed.  Elethor looked over Garvon's shoulder into the forest.  He felt the blood leave his face.

"Stars," he whispered.

The nephilim stood in a ring outside between fallen statues, crumbling walls, and trees that grew from cracked flagstones.  Between them lay a howling nephil.  She was a female, Elethor saw; her rotted breasts hung loose like bags of sour milk, and her shrieks sounded almost human.

They are half human,
he remembered with a chill,
the spawn of demons and human mothers.

The female nephil dug her claws into the earth, tearing stone and root.  Her screams rose.  Her legs lay open, and blood sprayed from between them.  She gave a great howl, and a warty head began to emerge from her womb.  The mother screeched.  Her spawn's head burst out, coated in blood and mucus, and screeched.

"Stars damn it, oh stars damn it," Elethor hissed through clenched teeth.

The nephil spawn thrust its claws out, tearing the opening wider.  Its mother wept and screeched, and the nephilim around her roared and reached for the heavens.  The spawn fell into the dirt, coated with blood, and bit off its umbilical cord.  It stood the size of a man, its wings limp and dripping, its flesh already rotten and covered in boils.  It wailed and leaped onto its mother.  It grabbed onto her breast and began to feed, not drinking milk but tearing into the flesh, feasting like a wolf upon prey.

Garvon growled low in his throat.  "Bastards."

More blood gushed from the mother.

Another spawn began to emerge, wailing and clawing and biting its way out.  Soon the second beast began to feast, ripping into its mother's flesh.  Across the forest ruins, more shrieks sounded, followed by the shrill wails of spawn.

"They're small enough to enter the tunnels," Elethor said softly.

Garvon stared at him, teeth bared.  "They're too young; they're babes."

"Babes who are tearing apart grown nephilim and eating their flesh."  He grabbed his shield from over his back and slung it onto his arm.  "Garvon, I—"

A squeal rose outside, cutting off his words.  One of the spawn leaped off its mother, face smeared with blood, and stared right at them.  Its eyes burned with white fire.  Its lips pulled back, revealing long teeth like daggers.  It came racing toward them, squealing and snapping its jaws.

Garvon cursed and raised his sword.

The spawn reached the doorway, leaped into the tunnel, and crashed onto the old man.

Elethor yowled and thrust his sword, but could not reach the spawn without cutting Garvon too.  The old soldier screamed and hacked at the creature; it was nearly as large as him.  Garvon fell.  The spawn opened its jaws wide, bit down, and tore into Garvon's head.  With thick claws, it cracked the skull open and began to feast.

Elethor screamed, heart thrashing, and thrust his sword.

The blade slammed into the spawn's chest, and blood sprayed.

The beast writhed upon the sword.  It lashed out its claws, mewling.  Elethor raised his shield, and the claws slammed into it, scattering chips of wood.  Screaming hoarsely, his boots sticky with blood, Elethor pulled his blade back and swung it down.  He cleaved the demon open from collarbone to navel, and centipedes fled from its body to scurry across the floor.

Elethor gagged.  His head spun.  The spawn fell dead, and Elethor stepped toward the doorway and chanced a look outside.  He cursed.  More demon spawn were racing across the forest and leaping into burrows, doorways, and tunnels.  Among the ruins, other pockets of surviving Vir Requis fought.  They swung swords from under fallen statues and collapsing roofs.  Beyond an expanse of trees rose a crumbling hall; great stone faces stared stoically from its walls, mossy and green with vines.  Nephil spawn were climbing the walls and trying to crawl into holes and windows.  Fire blasted from within, roasting the beasts; dragons hid inside.

Shrieks sounded ahead.  Elethor snarled.  Two demon spawn came racing toward his tunnel, eyes blazing and teeth stained with blood.

Elethor raised his sword.  The two nephil infants crashed into him, jaws snapping; they were nearly his size.

He roared and shoved one back with his shield.  The other lashed claws, scratching across his breastplate and raising sparks.  Elethor drove his sword's crossguard into the beast, and its skull cracked, and it howled.  The demon behind his shield began biting at the wood, and Elethor drove forward, crushing the beast between his shield and the wall.  Another spawn came racing from the forest and leaped onto him, and Elethor crashed down.  Within an instant, three of the beasts were atop him, biting and slashing, and one's claw broke through his breastplate to scratch his chest.  Elethor screamed and saw nothing but their rotting faces.

A blade whistled overhead.  Steel crashed into a spawn's head, crumpling it like a tin mug, and the creature fell.  Elethor leaped to his feet, swung down his sword, and slew another.  At his side, he glimpsed one of the survivors, a boy of fourteen named Yar.  The boy was trembling but managed to swing his sword again, stabbing another spawn.  They swung their blades together, and soon the last of the creatures lay dead.

Yar shook, bent over, and gagged.  Elethor placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.  The corpses lay stinking; cockroaches and worms fled from them.

Elethor stepped over the corpses and looked outside.  Across the forest, more female nephilim were falling over, howling and tearing down trees, and spawning their vermin.  Hundreds of the infants shrieked.

At least,
Elethor thought wryly,
we didn't meet any ghosts.

"We can't fight them," Yar whispered, trembling.  "So many.  Hundreds."

Elethor grunted.  "We're trapped in here."  He stared at the youth.  "Yar, carry the toddlers with you; they are too young to shift.  Fly behind me.  We're breaking out."

The youth trembled and clutched his sword before him.  "There are thousands of nephilim out there.  Where will we go?"

Elethor stared outside into the forest; he could see the vermin emerging from rotten wombs, crawling to the breast, and feasting upon the meat.  In moments, they would be racing here to feast upon Vir Requis too.

He clenched his fist. 
Damn you, Solina.  Damn you, Nemes.
  With Garvon dead, Yar was the only survivor in this huddle old enough to fight; the others were mere children. 
There is no more safety here.

"Yar," he said, "listen carefully.  There is a wide hall among the ruins—about five hundred yards from here.  There are stone faces on the walls, and the roots of trees clutch the place, sending trunks up through the ceiling.  Don't look outside now!  Some Vir Requis hide there, and they hide as dragons; I saw their fire blasting out the windows.  Our burrow is too small; we cannot hold back these spawn with our swords.  The great hall is wider.  We can crouch there as dragons and join our fire to those who already hide there."

Yar's hands shook around his hilt.  "My lord, five hundred yards… stars, we'll never make it.  They'll tear us apart."

Ahead in the forest, the fresh spawn raised their faces from the bloodied torsos of their mothers, stared toward the tunnel, and hissed.  With screeches, they came racing toward them.

"They'll tear us apart here," Elethor said.  "Yar, get the others!  Follow me to the hall!"

Snarling, Elethor raced outside into the forest, shifted into a dragon, and blew his fire.  The nephilim howled and swarmed toward him.

 
 
BAYRIN

Bayrin had heard tales of Har Zahav, the mythical golden mountain of the salvanae.  In old books, he had read how Kyrie Eleison and Agnus Dei, the great hero and heroine of Requiem, had visited this place to summon the salvanae to aid them.  Those books described a volcano of pure gold rising from the forest, above it a sky full of the true dragons.  In countless illustrations, tapestries, and paintings Bayrin had admired the scene:  the two Vir Requis, among the last of their kind, flying to the golden hall under a sky of coiling, glittering salvanae with flowing beards and crystal eyes.

During the journey here, Bayrin had imagined himself like Kyrie Eleison, the old prince of Requiem, and imagined Piri as Agnus Dei, the fiery warrior-princess.  He had imagined them too flying among wise salvanae toward a mountain of wonder and magic.

Now Har Zahav rose before him, the golden mountain of legend, and Bayrin's eyes dampened at its glory lost.  Nephilim had flown here.  Whatever beauty had once shone here had fallen to their rot.

"Stars," Piri whispered, flying beside him.  Her eyes dampened.  "Stars, Bayrin, we're too late."

A battle had raged here not long ago.  The pines lay smashed and burnt below.  The mountain did rise ahead—triangular and golden like in the paintings—but blood and ash now coated it, and the corpses of both salvanae and nephilim lay upon its slopes.  More bodies littered the forest below:  salvanae torn into segments, the glow of their eyes dimmed, and nephilim charred with lighting, their corpses bustling with maggots.

"When the wyverns attacked last year, we found no allies," Bayrin said softly.  "The world did not believe that Solina could threaten it too.  Stars, Piri.  Look at this world now."