A Night of Dragon Wings - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,109

sides. They barged through a doorway, fought up another staircase, and ran down a corridor, cutting men down. All across the fortress, Elethor heard steel ringing and men shouting; his other phalanxes were spreading across the place, filling every hallway, staircase, and chamber like poison seeping through veins. When he passed by an arched window, Elethor saw griffins and salvanae still fighting outside; the onslaught of Tiran fire had ended, and now nephilim—too large to fight in these halls—were charging at the beasts.

They raced through an ancient library, its shelves rotted away, its scrolls disintegrating under their boots. By a stone door, Treale slew a man, letting the crumbling papyrus drink his blood. For a moment no Tirans charged at them, and Treale leaned against a wall, lowered her head, and breathed raggedly. Blood covered her armor, helmet, and sword. Elethor stumbled toward her, leaned against the same wall, and for a moment they panted together.

"El—" Treale said, coughed a few times, and tried again. "Elethor, I… I can smell them. Rot. Worms. Nephilim are here."

Elethor nodded and wiped blood and sweat off his brow. Northern men, both of Requiem and Osanna, trudged through the dust toward them, blades raised and armor dented.

"The bastards are fighting our griffins outside," Elethor said.

Treale shook her head. "No, Elethor, there are nephilim in here. Inside this mountain. The rot is rising from somewhere deep inside." She shuddered. "There's something festering in the heart of this mountain. It's the stench of nephilim, but somehow worse, more powerful."

Elethor sniffed. He could smell the blood, the crumbling scrolls, and their sweat—and overpowering it all, the stench of nephil rot. Treale was right. This stench wasn't coming from outside—at least, not all of it. A hive of these creatures lurked deeper. He raised his blade.

"Follow your nose, Treale. Wherever this smell is coming from, I wager that's where we'll find Solina."

They broke down a door, charged into a corridor, and slew three more men. Their warriors ran behind them.

They combed the palace for hours. They kicked down doors of corroded bronze. They swung their blades. Blood washed the palace and corpses piled up. A hundred warriors followed Elethor down a columned hallway; a dozen died when Tirans charged from one chamber. A dozen more replaced them, rushing down a staircase from a room they had claimed. This palace was a great, dusty hive of ancient stones and smashed statues. They fought hallway by hallway, room by room, bridge by bridge. Elethor thought the labyrinth would never end, and yet the smell grew stronger, and he moved deeper into the mountain. He left all windows far behind. The only light here came from the torches men carried. These halls were old, older even than the ruins of Bar Luan. Dust rose to their ankles, and wind moaned like ghosts.

"Down here, Elethor!" Treale shouted at his side. Her eyes were wide, and her chest rose and fell as she panted. "I can smell them. Here!"

She ran down a spiraling staircase. Elethor ran at her side, and dozens of their men followed. The stairs corkscrewed around a towering statue of an Ancient, his face stoic and his sandstone robes cascading like silk. At the foot of the statue, the stench of rot flared so powerfully Elethor nearly gagged.

A rough hallway plunged downward, its walls lined with torches. At the tunnel's end rose doors of bronze, large as the gates of palaces. Firelight limned the doors; flames burned behind them. Grunts, snorts, and gurgles rose from the chamber beyond.

Nephilim.

Elethor paused and looked at Treale. She raised her blade and stared back with tightened lips. Their men crowded behind them, armor dented and bloody, eyes grim.

"Once we enter, Treale, shift into a dragon," he said. "If nephilim are back there, the place is large enough to shift."

She nodded. "We'll break down the doors and burn them all."

She took a step back, raised her shield, and made to charge down the corridor. Elethor placed a hand on her shoulder, holding her back.

"Wait, Treale," he said softly. "Before we go in there…"

She looked up at him with huge, dark eyes like pools of endless night, and Elethor swallowed, suddenly not sure how to proceed. They had survived this far, but now a fear gripped him like icy fingers around his spine. Treale's eyes seemed so large to him, so young, so loyal. Despite all the men she had slain, she seemed a mere youth to him now, an innocent young woman blinded by love