A Night of Dragon Wings (30 page)

"We will live there together someday, Elethor," she had whispered so many times in the halls of Requiem, her eyes rimmed red and her fingers clutching him desperately.  "It will be our place, our secret land of magic.  We will rule there together, queen and king of the desert, so far from the dragons who hurt us."

Elethor had never been to Tiranor, the land that Solina's heart had always beaten for.  Now he would see those towers, those oases, and those statues and steel and treasures.

And we will burn them.  Stars, Solina, we will burn your land and burn you.
  He clutched his sword so tightly his fist trembled. 
You drove me to this, Solina; now Tiranor will rise in flame.

"The north has mustered!" he cried to his army, palm coned around his mouth.  "We have gathered our hosts, and we will crush the desert.  We fly at dawn tomorrow.  Rest tonight, northern warriors.  Tomorrow we fly to victory!"

They cheered, a hundred thousand warriors roaring for victory and vengeance and flame.  But Elethor only stood, jaw squared, chest tight.  He could not roar with them.  He could not find joy in this; the fires of war had never lit his heart, and even now, with so many dead behind them, he could not summon the flame that drove Solina, that drove these warriors below the mountain.  He held Lyana's hand tight and looked at her.  She looked back up at him, lips tight, and nodded.

"I fly by you, my king," she said.  "Tomorrow and always.  Our wings beat together, and our fires will light the long, cold night."

He spent that night in a tent the men of Osanna had brought upon griffinback.  The tent was wide, its walls woven of thick green cloth, and they had set a bed, a table topped with candles, and a tall bronze mirror within it.

Elethor stood before that mirror and gazed upon himself.  It had been moons since he had looked at his reflection.  Tonight he barely recognized himself.  Two years ago, when Solina had invaded Requiem with her army of phoenixes, he would look into his mirror and see a thin, pale young man with soft cheeks—a boy who pined for his lost love, who shunned the court, who hid within his walls, sculpting his desire over and over.  Today, Elethor did not find that boy staring back from the mirror.  He was not yet thirty, but looked older; his beard had thickened, his body had grown gaunt and hard, and lines marred his brow.  Instead of the soft woolen tunics of a prince, he wore the steel plates of a soldier.  Mostly his eyes had changed; they were sunken, hard, and dead as the ruins of a fallen kingdom.

I look ten years older than I should,
he thought. 
And I have the eyes of an old man.

Lyana came to stand by him and placed her hand on his shoulder.  She was barely taller than that shoulder, and so thin, but her eyes stared into the mirror with all the strength and grief of an aging, hardened warrior.  If he was a battered longsword forged in dragonfire, she was the blade of a knight, scarred with a thousand nicks but strong as the steel of ancient heroes.

She helped him unclasp his armor, piece by piece.  She placed his pauldrons on the table, then his greaves and vambraces, and finally his breastplate.   When he stood before her in his damp woolen tunic, she placed her hands on his shoulders.  She stood on her toes, her eyes still haunted, and kissed his lips.

He began unclasping her armor, buckle by buckle.  He moved slowly at first, placing every piece of steel aside.  But soon his fingers grew rough, and she gasped as he pulled at the straps, tore her breastplate off, and tossed it aside with a clang.  His chest was too tight.  His heart pounded with too much pain.  He clenched his jaw and swallowed, forcing the terror down, and tugged the lacings of her tunic.  Fabric ripped in his fingers, and he let out a hiss that felt almost like a snarl, and tore at her clothes.

She winced and sucked in her breath.  "El…"

He put one hand on the small of her back and pulled her against him.  He tugged at her clothes almost violently until she stood naked, and his eyes stung, and his heart thrashed against his ribs, and his fingers trembled, and he kept seeing them—kept seeing the demons tear at the walls, pull brick from brick, slash his people apart until their blood gushed and their limbs fell.

"El, please," she whispered.

He realized that he was grabbing her so tightly his fingernails had cut her.  He released her and took a shuddering breath.  She stood before him, naked in the candlelight, her hair a pyre of flame.  The scars of war covered her flesh, but she was beautiful to him.  He sat on the bed, and she stood before him, and he reached up and touched her cheek with trembling fingers.

"Lyana," he whispered.  "I…"

I'm afraid,
he wanted to say. 
I can't stop seeing the blood.  I want to roar in rage and fly to battle as a hero, but I can't stop my chest from hurting, or my stomach from feeling so cold and tight.

But he could say none of those things, and he knew she understood.  He saw it in the softness that filled her eyes, and he felt it in her fingers as they touched his hair.

He pulled her onto the bed, and placed her on her back, and when he climbed atop her and loved her, he closed his eyes, and he could barely breathe.  But he made love to her—no, not love, but something rougher this night, something that felt more like a battle, like a war against demons, and sweat drenched him, and he
hurt
her.  Stars, he hurt her until she gasped and bit into the blanket and cried.

When it was over, and he lay beside her, he found that tears filled his own eyes, and he pulled her against him and held her so tight he nearly crushed her.

So many died.  So many gone.  So many will still die as we fly into the southern horde.

She kissed his lips.

"I am yours," she whispered.  "In bed.  In battle.  In the glory of our halls when we rebuild them—or in the starlit halls of our fathers.  You are my king.  You are my husband.  You are my love."  She held him tight and closed her eyes.  "We fly together, Elethor; always."

They slept holding each other through the long, cold night.

 
 
TREALE

She stood upon the cliff, the wind in her hair, and looked at her king.  Treale had dreamed of this for so long—to finally stand beside him again.  He was so close now she could reach out and grab him, yet he had never seemed farther to her, not in all the forests and deserts she had hid in.

Once more they stood upon Ralora Beach.  Last year she had stood here with Elethor and three thousand dragons, a green army awaiting the southern fire.  Today a hundred thousand warriors covered the cliffs, hills, and beach:  griffins, salvanae, soldiers of Osanna, and dragons of Requiem.  Last year Solina had lured them here, allowing her forces to crush Nova Vita.  Today Elethor had decided the queen's fall would begin in this same place.

You are thinking of her now,
Treale thought, looking at the young king.  He was staring south, the wind ruffling his dark hair. 
You are thinking of Solina, the one you loved, the one you vow to kill.  But I am thinking of you, Elethor.  I am thinking of the night I kissed your cheek, and I am standing here beside you, and you cannot even see me.

Treale lowered her head, and the wind played with her long black hair, scented of the sea.  She closed her eyes.  So many nights she had dreamed of him!  When she had lain curled up in charred forests, fleeing the wyverns, she had pretended to still lie by his side like that night upon the hill.  When she had huddled in alleys in cruel Irys, or crawled over dunes that burned her, or trekked through the swamps of Gilnor to seek sanctuary in the north, she had thought of him.  She would remember talking to him about her puppets, and kissing his cheek, and sleeping all night by his side under the stars, feeling safe by her king.  And then… and then after all those long moons, she had met him again!  She had returned to him.  She had flown with true dragons and fought by his side, driving the nephilim from the ruins of Bar Luan.

And he had gone into his tent.

And he had taken Lyana into his bed.

And her heart had been broken; it still felt like shattered clay in her breast.

Oh, he had given her a compulsory embrace, and squeezed her shoulder, and thanked her for saving his sister.  He had kissed her forehead, then pulled Mori into his arms again and nearly crushed her, and not a moment later he was walking with his soldiers and talking of battles, and Treale had remained standing in the ruins, cold and alone.

You have Mori now,
she thought, looking at him. 
You have your sister whom I saved.  And you have your wife, whom I serve.  And you have me, Elethor.  You have me always; you had me since that night upon the hill.  And still I wait for you.  Still I stand by your side, but do you see me here?

She walked across the cliff, moving closer to him, until she stood a foot away.  Lyana stood at his other side, clutching her sword and also staring south.  Mori stood beyond her, clad in armor—Treale had never seen the princess in armor before—and hugging herself.  None seemed to notice her.

"My king?" Treale said softly.  He seemed not to hear her, and she touched his arm.  "Elethor?"

He seemed to wake from a dream.  With a quick draw of his breath, he turned toward her, and his face softened.

"Lady Treale," he said.

Not his love,
she thought. 
Not his wife or sister or even a friend.  A lady.  A cold title for a court.
  Her eyes stung and she blinked.  She wanted to grab and shake him, to yell at him: 
Don't you remember that night?  Don't you remember how you told me your story, and I told you mine—about the puppets, and Oldnale Farms, and… I kissed your cheek, Elethor, and we slept side by side.  And now I am only a lady, this… this cold warrior like the thousands of them?

But she could say none of that.  Not with his wife by his side or even with Mori there.  So Treale only swallowed and spoke soft words.

"I will fight by your side, Elethor," she said.  "I will not leave you.  I promise.  You have my fire—always."

She lowered her eyes, the shame burning through her. 
Of course,
she thought.  Of course he was so cold to her.  She had abandoned him in battle last year.  When the wyverns had flown toward Nova Vita, she had defected.  She had left his army despite his orders, had flown to Oldnale Farms and found her parents dead.  She had deserted him; of course he would not show her the warmth he showed Lyana and Mori.

I'm a traitor to him,
she thought, and her throat constricted.  She looked away lest he saw the tears in her eyes. 
I saved his sister, but he still remembers my sin.

The wind blew, and she lowered her head.

The invasion of Tiranor began with rain, wind, and beating waves.  The dragons of Requiem took flight first, three thousand in all—all Vir Requis old enough to shift into dragons and fight.  Today they were all soldiers.  They roared and their scales clanked and their wings thudded, rippling the sea.  Upon every dragon's back rode a soldier of Osanna, clad in steel and armed with bow, spear, and sword.  Their bull horn banners streamed, and their shields caught the sun.  They shouted for their land, and the dragons roared, and they raced across the sea into a horizon of rain and cloud.

Behind them, the salvanae and griffins took flight too, a great host nearly fifty thousand strong.  Upon their backs too rode soldiers of Osanna, clinging to their saddles.  The army soon covered the sea like a great cloud, shimmering and snorting and rippling the water beneath them.

Never had the world seen so many beasts fly together, Treale thought.  Poets would sing of this day until the world fell.

She flew, a slim black dragon with fire in her nostrils.  Upon her back rode an Osannan soldier, a young man with a stubbly face, an impish grin, and a shock of brown hair.

"Stop dipping so much!" he shouted down to her.  "By the Earth God, you do wobble when you fly."

She growled over her shoulder and found him grinning.

"Be quiet, Jadin," she said and gave him her best glare.  "Stars, you farm boys do whine a lot."

He snorted.  "I haven't seen my farm in a year now.  I'm a soldier; don't you forget it.  If we meet any nephilim, it'll be my bow shooting at them."

It was her turn to snort.  "And my fire.  I think they will barely notice your puny little arro—OW!"

He had dug his heels deep into her flanks.  Treale grumbled and cursed.  She was a dragon of Requiem!  It was ridiculous that she should wear a saddle like a horse.  And yet the Osannans had insisted, saying something about how otherwise, they would fall and drown in the sea.  Flying with Jadin upon her back, Treale did not think that would have been so tragic.

"If you do that again," she said, "I'll bite your legs off."

He flashed a grin.  "I'll stop if you stop wobbling."

She grumbled, looked back forward, and beat her wings with grim intent.  She tried to forget he rode her.  It would be a long flight.  The sea stretched for many leagues between southern Requiem to the northern shores of Tiranor.  Even flying at top speed, it would take hours to reach Tiranor, perhaps all day.

Jadin began to sing old, rude limericks—something about the beasts he'd slay, the women he'd bed, and the gold he'd plunder.  Treale grumbled and snorted fire and kept flying.

She looked to her left.  Elethor flew there, Lyana and Mori at his sides. 

The royal family of Requiem,
she thought. 
The man I love.  The man so close and so far from me.

Behind them, the army spread like a great tapestry, a league long.  Treale looked over her shoulder at them, so many dragons and griffins and men.  She imagined this army sweeping across Tiranor, claiming city and fort; the world had never known such might.  And yet…

Fear pounded through her.  She had seen the nephilim.  She had seen them slay so many.  She had seen the Lord Legion rise, a great beast all of scales and horns and rot, his halo flaming like a sun.  Could they truly kill this dark god?  Even with all their might, could this northern alliance truly defeat Solina, or would they crash against the shores of Tiranor?