A Night of Dragon Wings - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,12
slew my family and burned my village. I can survive the desert too."
The old silkmonger scratched his stubble, hawked, and spat overboard yet again; Treale did not know how any man could produce so much spit.
"The desert is crueler than any undead host," he muttered. "You should have stayed in Osanna and faced its ghosts. There you can fight on the ground with sword and shield; here weredragons swoop and rain fire from above."
Treale looked across the water at fish that leaped between barges. Weredragons. It was a foul word, a slur she hated. She was a Vir Requis, a daughter of noble Requiem, a child of starlight, not some filthy beast. Yet she bit her tongue and swallowed her anger. Here she must not be Treale Oldnale, a lady of Requiem, but Till the refugee from Osanna, the humble daughter of weavers come to seek her southern fortune.
But I will not seek fortune here, she thought. I will seek you, Mori. And I will find you. And I will free you. And we will escape this cursed desert and fly away together.
The city docks spread before them, great cobwebs of wood and rope upon the water. As the boat rowed closer, Treale watched, cloak wrapped around her and hood pulled low despite the heat. Hundreds of people, maybe thousands, scurried upon the docks and boardwalks. Treale saw sailors in canvas pants, golden rings in their ears and sweat glistening upon their bare chests; wealthy merchants, bellies ample, sauntering in plumed hats and priceless purple robes; dockhands lifting caskets, sacks of grain, barrels of wine, and cages holding exotic birds of many colors; women swaying in silks that barely covered their flesh, their navels jeweled, accepting coins from sailors and leading them into alleys; and soldiers clad in pale steel, sunbursts upon their breastplates and shields, their spears bright. Above the docks loomed five craggy towers connected with a wall. Arrow slits peered from each tower like eyes, guarding the entrance to their realm.
Tiranor, Treale thought and clasped her hands behind her back. Scourge of Requiem. Land of sun and heat and steel. I will find you here, Mori, and I will bring you home—wherever we find a home now.
Soon she had paid the old monger and climbed off his boat onto a rickety dock. She took two steps, her head spun, and she reeled for a moment before taking a deep breath and walking on. Her legs felt like boneless chickens. How long had she been at sea? Treale could no longer remember. It had been three moons since Requiem had burned, maybe four. The days all blended into a great nightmare of running through forests, hiding in fields, finally reaching the great plains of Osanna in the east, then hitching rides with wagons to the southern port of Altus Mare. From there, Treale only remembered countless hours in a tottering boat, gagging into the Tiran Sea and baking in the southern sun. Three moons, maybe four; was that all? It seemed ages to her.
But I still remember your columns, Requiem, she thought. And I still remember you, Mori. If all of Requiem lies fallen, and all her people but us lie dead, I will still save you.
Children ran across the dock, carrying baskets of oysters, and nearly knocked Treale into the water. She tightened her lips, steadied her legs, and walked on. The planks creaked beneath her, and between them, she saw silvery fish whisk between weeds. When she raised her head, she saw the city of Irys before her, a great hodgepodge of sandstone and wood.
She walked between two guard towers, following a troupe of merchants riding donkeys. Soon she was walking along cobbled streets. Multitudes of people crowded around her; even before the wars, fewer people than this had lived in all of Requiem. Women walked bearing baskets of fruits and fabrics upon their heads. One man led a small, leashed monkey, an animal Treale had only seen in books. Priests walked in white robes, chanting and bearing lamps even as the sun blazed overhead. Mudbrick buildings and wooden stalls covered the roadsides. Shops and carts sold vases, fabrics, fruits and spices, dried meats and fresh seafood, iron tools and golden jewelry, and even—Treale gasped to see it—slaves in chains. Everywhere wafted the scents of freshly caught fish, wine and beer, a hundred spices, and beyond them all the sandy smell of the desert.