A Night of Dragon Wings - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,112
Elethor shouted. He howled. With strength he had not imagined in him, he tore at the claws that clutched him.
"Let him go, Legion!" Solina said and laughed. "Let him see her!"
Elethor crashed to the floor, banging his knees. He rose, rushed to Treale, and knelt over her.
His eyes stung. His breath caught. She lay on her back, a hole in her chest. She trembled and gasped, and her hands reached toward him. Blood poured from her chest.
"El," she whispered.
With shaking fingers, he tore off her armor. He rifled through his pack, pulled out a bandage, and placed it against her wound, knowing that it was too late; the blow had pierced through her. He held her, one hand under her head, the other against her cheek.
"I'm here, Treale," he whispered. "I'm here."
She convulsed, legs twitching, chest rising and falling. She could barely speak.
"El," she whispered. "El, do you… do you remember that night?" Her body shook like a fish on a boat's deck. "Do you… do you remember? Under the stars, how… how I kissed your cheek?"
He held her and caressed her hair. "I remember, Treale. I never forgot. Ever."
Her blood flowed, and her trembling eased, and she smiled with blue lips. "El, do you remember how we talked about puppets?"
He blinked tears from his eyes. "I remember," he whispered.
"I… I liked that night," she said. Her breath shook. "El, can I… Please, can I kiss your cheek one more time? Please. I want to… I want to pretend I'm there." Tears flowed down her cheeks. "I want to be back on that hill under the stars."
He lowered his head, and she kissed his cheek with trembling lips, smearing him with blood. He kissed her forehead and caressed her hair.
"Don't leave me," she whispered.
"Never," he said. "Never, Treale. I'm here. I'm right here. Tell me about your puppets. Tell me about all the shelves and piles of them, and all the puppet shows you performed."
She placed her arms around him. A soft light touched her eyes. She trembled against him.
"I had…." Her tears fell. "I sewed them, Elethor, so many… so many. Hundreds of puppets. Green ones. Yellow puppets. And…"
Elethor lowered his head and a silent sob shook his chest. He laid Treale down upon her back. She stared up, mouth open and eyes glassy. His tears wet her face, and with a bloodied hand, he closed her eyes.
Goodbye, Treale. Fly to your puppets. Fly to our starlit halls and wait for me there, and one day you will tell me all about them again.
He rose slowly to his feet.
He turned toward Solina.
He raised his sword, howled, and lunged at her.
She only stood, sighing, as nephilim swooped toward him, and claws grabbed him, and he screamed as wings and scales and rot covered his world.
LYANA
Ships burned along the Pallan, a line of fire blazing across the desert. Once this river had teemed with life. Merchants, soldiers, and fisherman had sailed upon their barges and cogs. Reeds, palm and fig trees, and rustling fields had lined the riverbanks. Ibises, falcons, jackals, and hundreds of other animals had drunk from these waters. Today under the cruel sun the river crossed the desert like a scar, her sails, trees, and farms burning, her animals fallen or scattered.
This place was the vein of Tiranor, Lyana thought, pumping blood to her capital. Today we burned this vein and left Irys to choke and rot.
The capital perhaps was choking now, but her sister city—Iysa, great southern jewel of the desert—still pulsed. Lyana kept flying south, her host around her: thousands of dragons and griffins all bearing riders. Before them in the desert, the Pallan widened into a sprawling oasis, and here rose the white walls and towers of Iysa.
Lyana had heard stories of this city. Here did Tiranor build her ships, forge her steel, and mine her jewels. She had imagined a place bustling with enemy forces: battalions of archers upon the walls, phalanxes of wyverns and phoenixes circling overhead, and swarms of nephilim festering and screeching for blood.
Instead, as she flew toward the white walls, she found a ghost city.
The walls of Iysa stood barren, their battlements like sun-dried jaws upon sand. The towers stood silent; no war horns blew upon them, and only a single, tattered banner flapped from one, hiding and showing the Golden Sun. Lyana frowned, flying closer. Behind her flew her warriors.
"It's too quiet," said Wila, her rider. "Nephilim guarded every cog along the river. Won't they guard a city?"