A Night of Dragon Wings - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,113

She could smell the rot of nephilim, but could not decide if they lurked here in hiding, or had left their stench and fled. She flew higher and over the walls. Below her, the streets of Iysa spread like a barren labyrinth. Shops, temples, forts, homes—all lay silent and still. Lyana saw no movement but for a few flapping tunics upon lines and a dog that fled into an alley. Docks stretched into the river, naked of ships.

When Lyana looked south of the city, she saw many footprints in the sand heading toward distant hills. She squinted and gazed into the horizon; she could just make out fleeing beasts aflight, perhaps wyverns or nephilim.

"They fled the city," Lyana said. "They heard of our approach. They ran rather than fight."

Lyana heard the creak of Wila tugging her bowstring.

"I don't like this," the rider said. "Nephilim—the spawn of demons—fleeing from battle? Something is wrong here. This is a trap."

"Let's be careful," Lyana agreed. "As far as we know, Solina loaded up the city with Tiran fire, and some poor bastard down there is just waiting for us to land so he can blow the place up."

They circled above the city—dragons, griffins, riders. Their wings scattered dust and leaves and bent the trees below. By a domed temple, movement caught Lyana's eyes. She stared down, squinting, to see several men cowering in a courtyard. They wore rags, iron collars encircled their necks, and dust filled their white hair. Welts and blood covered them. Chains ran from their ankles to heavy iron balls the size of watermelons, too heavy to even drag.

"The city folk left their slaves," Lyana said. "Those too old, weak, or wounded to flee with them."

She circled above the temple. Rough bricks formed its dome, and several palm trees swayed alongside it. When her shadow fell upon the slaves, they wailed and covered their heads. They were thin, ribs showing between the tatters of their rags, and whip lashes covered their backs. Blood stained their lips.

They're dying of thirst and heat, Lyana thought. She looked around the city, cursing. Damn it. She could still smell rot here somewhere—did nephilim hide in these houses, or did their stench merely linger? Was this a trap and the slaves the bait?

She looked over her shoulder at her rider. Wila sat with an arrow nocked, her face stern and her golden hair billowing. Her breastplate bore the bull horns of Osanna in silver, and a golden pin—shaped like the walls of Confutatis, the White City—clasped her gray cloak.

"Wila," Lyana said, "keep that arrow nocked. We're going to help these men."

Wila frowned. "My lady, I don't like this. Nephilim waited for us on the beaches. They hid along every league of the river. This place is too quiet. I say we burn the damn city from the air."

A sigh clanked Lyana's scales. "I would, but… Wila, too many innocents have died. We have slain too many women and children. How many cowered in the hulls of the ships we burned—the wives, sons, and daughters of merchants shipping supplies to Irys? How many women and children now hide in that northern capital as dragons rain fire upon it?" She shook her head. "We do not crave the death of our enemy's innocents. We are not Solina; she slew our children with relish. I have killed my enemies, Wila, and perhaps while doing so, I have killed innocents too, bystanders whose only sin was standing too close to those who seek my own death. This will haunt me. This blood I cannot wash from my hands. This blood I had to shed. But here in this city, seeing abandoned slaves cowering below me, I cannot blow my fire. If I did, would I not be as Solina is? Fighting a monster, would we not become monsters ourselves? I will save them if I can. If I can save the innocents of the enemy, perhaps after all this blood and fire, I can save my own soul."

She dived toward the courtyard. Her claws clattered against the cobblestones, and the chained slaves whimpered.

Lyana whipped her head from side to side, sniffing the air. The drool and pus of nephilim seeped between the cobblestones and puddled in a corner; the stuff reeked. The creatures had been here not hours ago.

"Please," whispered a slave, an old man with a white beard. "Please don't hurt us, don't burn us, please…"

Still in dragon form, Lyana approached the chained men. In the sky, griffins and