A Night of Dragon Wings (9 page)

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.

 
 
NEMES

They had left their wyverns below the mountain.  This was holy ground; they would not profane it with beasts that drooled acid.  They walked.  It seemed like they walked for hours.  The trail coiled up the stony mountainside; they must have climbed a league high.  All around them rolled the desert, lifeless and golden, nothing but endless sand and rock.

The sun dipped below the horizon, a shimmering drop of blood, then vanished.  Only their torches now lit the night, and still they climbed: a golden queen, fifty men in steel, and a prisoner robed in black.  Step after step.  Mile after mile.  And still the mountain loomed.

They had chained his arms.  The rusty iron chafed his skin, and Nemes bit down hard against the pain.  He could endure some pain, some humiliation.  For a hundred years, the weredragons had shamed his family, forcing them to clean plate, floor, and chamber pot.  What was one more night of chains for a lifetime of glory?

I will fetch you your key, Solina,
he thought and gritted his teeth. 
I am no weakling, no craven like Leras.  I will fetch the key, and I will stand by your side as you release the nephilim, as you crush the weredragons, as you rule the world.  I will be no servant then, but a lord of your court.

The night and trail stretched on.

It must have been midnight when they reached the mountaintop.  Clouds covered the sky.  A hot wind blew and their torches crackled.  There above them loomed the tower, a coiling shard of obsidian like a rotten nerve.  The torchlight flickered against it, and Nemes bared his teeth and hissed.

The night was hot, but an iciness flowed from this tower; it invaded his cloak, cut his skin, and froze his very bones.  He felt his talisman burn against his chest; the iron serpent cried out for its lord.  This tower itself, Nemes realized, was like a serpent of stone, rising from the earth to scream at the sky.  His breath came fast.  His blood pounded in his ears.

"Yes," Nemes whispered.  "Yes, my lord!  I come to serve you here.  I come to seek your treasure.  I am Nemes!  I am your dark blade to thrust."

His head spun.  For years in the Weredragon Court, he would study the books of Lord Legion.  He would twist the animals of the forest to please his lord.  He would suck and chew their innards to taste Legion's truth.  He would study the Old Words and learn the dark magic: to cloak himself in shadow, to move in silence, to see where others were blind.  And all the while, the stars of Requiem burned him, the cursed Draco Constellation that had doomed him to servitude.  Yet here… here no stars shone.  Here the power of Legion reigned.

Nemes fell and kissed the ground.  Tears filled his eyes.

"I serve you, Fallen Lord!" he cried.  "For years I sought you, Lord Legion, and now I kiss your holy earth.  You will rise!"

Somewhere behind him, Solina spoke in disgust.  "Stand him up.  Toss him in.  I'm tired of his whining."

Hands grabbed Nemes's shoulders and tugged him to his feet.  They yanked his arms up, unlocked his chains, and shoved him forward.  Nemes stumbled, looked over his shoulder, and hissed at the men.  His wrists blazed with pain as the blood flowed back into them.

"You will show this place respect!" Nemes said.  He snarled at the soldiers; fifty of them stood behind him, clad in steel, faces hidden behind their falcon visors.  "You walk on holy ground, and I am the servant of Lord Legion.  One day you will bow before me—and before him—or your bones will be his feast."

For an instant the guards hesitated.  Nemes hissed again, savoring the taste of power, the scent of their fear.  Then Solina marched toward him.  Her eyes flashed, and her scarred lips twisted in a snarl.  She grabbed a sabre from a guard and thrust it into his hands.

"Fetch me the key and you can hiss like a snake," she said.  "For now you are still a worm.  Go!  Enter the darkness."

He stared into her eyes; he guessed that few men dared to.  For a moment the two stared in silence, neither one blinking—a desert queen and a dark priest, for a moment locked in silent struggle.

Finally he snorted and tossed the sword down.  It clattered against the ground.

"I need no blade," he said.  "Return me my staff; it is more powerful than any shard of steel."

Still Solina dared not break the stare.  Silent, she walked toward a soldier, grabbed the staff from him, and tossed it at Nemes.  He caught it in one hand.  Only then did he looked away, bowing theatrically.

"I shall see you again, my queen, with the key in my hand and the power of Lord Legion at our doorstep."

The guards made to drag him into the tower, but Nemes glared at them, a glare of all his simmering pain, rage, and lust.  It held them back.  Nemes straightened his back, smoothed his robes, and raised his head.  He walked toward the tower.  The doorway loomed before him.

Heart thrashing, he stepped inside.

He walked through darkness.  The sounds of wind and men faded behind him, leaving only silence.  Shadows parted before him, wisps like serpents of smoke.  Nemes found himself in a round, stone chamber.

An obsidian table stood here, piled high with platters of raw, bloody ribs.  The bones looked human and flesh still clung to them.  An obese, naked man sat at the table, his back to Nemes.  As the man feasted, grunting and huffing, blood and gobbets of flesh flew.

Nemes gripped his staff tight, lips curling in disgust, and a grunt fled his lips.  The feasting man froze, squealed, and spun toward him.

Nemes gritted his teeth, struggling not to faint.

This was no man, he saw, but some creature of pale, fleshy rolls, his eyes mere slits.  The creature's mouth opened, revealing sharp teeth and chunks of half-chewed flesh.  Blood smeared his cheeks.  He gave a shrill cry that Nemes thought could shatter glass.

"The key!" Nemes demanded.  He gripped his staff, hand shaking.  "Where is the key?"

The creature stared at him, blood dripping from his mouth.  Slowly he raised a pudgy, clawed hand and pointed to the shadows, where Nemes could just make out a second doorway.  With that, the creature returned to his meal.  When Nemes looked at the table, he grunted in disgust.  The bones
were
human; a severed head rotted among them.

Nemes stared, sucked in his breath, and found that his mouth was watering.  He craved a taste.  He craved to crack the bones in his mouth, suck the marrow, and feast.  But there would be time for that later.  Once he freed the nephilim, the earth itself would be his table, and the flesh of the world would lie rotting before him, ripe for the feeding.

Nemes turned away.  He stepped through the second doorway and onto a staircase.  The stairs wound upward, a corkscrew of bloodied bricks, and brought him into a second chamber.

A pile of raw, writhing flesh lay curled up here, draped in sagging gray skin.  Nemes raised his staff, stepped forward, and frowned down at the wriggling mass.

The creature leaped up.  Teeth shone and eyes blazed.

Nemes leaped back, swiping his staff.  The wood
cracked
against bone.  The creature fell into the corner, scampered up, and howled with two bloated heads.  It looked like a furless, muscular dog, but its two heads were humanoid—the wrinkled heads of waterlogged corpses.  Black drool like ink filled its mouths.  The creature raced toward him again, claws clattering against the floor.

Nemes snarled and swung his staff.  It hit one of the dog's heads.  The second head latched onto Nemes's shoulder, and teeth drove into him, stinging like a thousand fires.

He screamed.  He drove his staff into the biting head.  The creature squealed but would not release him.  The second head bit his left arm, and blood spilled to the floor.

No.  No!  I have not flown through fire and rain and sand to die here.

He looked around the chamber.  Would there be room enough?  Would the tower collapse around him?  The teeth drove deeper and he screamed again.  He had no choice.