A Night of Dragon Wings - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,13
behind. She found herself between brick homes whose roofs overflowed with gardens. Palm trees lined the streets, heavy with dates, finches, and scurrying monkeys. In gardens between the houses grew fig trees and grapevines on lattices. Treale had grown up in northeast Requiem, a land of pines, birches, and maples—cold and stately trees. This place was lush, the hot air thick with the scents of fruit and leaf and soil.
A child ran by her, racing a barrel hoop, and nearly crashed into a group of maidens bearing baskets of grapes upon their heads. Three priests rode down the street upon white horses, swinging bowls of incense and blowing ram horns in prayer. Soldiers marched around a silo, spears clacking against the cobblestones, their faces hidden behind ibis helms. Treale's head spun. She had never seen so many people crammed into one labyrinth; the city of Irys was like a great book overflowing with countless characters.
It seemed that she walked for hours. Treale had grown up on farmlands where only a couple hundred people lived. Whenever she would visit Nova Vita, the capital of Requiem where fifty thousand had dwelled, she would think it massive; her head would spin to see those crowds. This place dwarfed Nova Vita; beside it, the old capital of Requiem had been but a humble town.
Did we ever stand a chance in this war? Treale wondered. Was there ever a hope to defeat this southern empire where millions live?
As if in answer, shrieks sounded above, and Treale raised her eyes to see a flight of wyverns.
There were four of them; they flew in battle formation, two attackers flanked by two defenders. Treale leaped, driven by instinct, and crouched behind an abandoned cart. Her heart hammered, her head spun, and her hand closed around the hilt of her dagger. The wyverns screamed overhead, and once more Treale was running through the forests of Requiem, bleeding and burnt, seeking a place to hide and a hope to cling to. Then the wyverns disappeared over the roofs of the buildings, flying north to sea, and Treale breathed shakily.
"I'm safe here," she whispered to herself. "I'm only Till here, Till the refugee from Osanna, not Lady Treale of Requiem. These wyverns will not hurt me."
She released her dagger, and was about to stand up, when a shout rose.
"Girl! Girl, you, behind the wheelbarrow. Come over here."
Treale's heart hammered. She rose to see soldiers staring at her from their ibis helms; she could not see their faces. Each bore a spear, a sabre, and a round shield emblazoned with a painted sun. Each wore steel plates. There were twenty of them, automatons of metal, and Treale clenched her fists to stop them from trembling. She realize that her hood had fallen off, revealing her black hair, olive skin, and dark eyes, foreign colors in this realm of platinum hair, golden skin, and eyes like glimmering sapphires.
As the soldiers approached her, Treale struggled not to tremble or flee. She thought of King Elethor, and of Mori, and of the courage of Requiem's warriors, and she bowed her head.
"My lords," she said. "I am new to this city, and I seek work. Would you know of any seamstresses looking for help?"
One of the soldiers marched up to her, grabbed her arm, and stared through his visor. She could see his eyes—blue and shrewd. He grumbled deep in his throat.
"Osanna scum," he said over his shoulder to his comrades. "I know the accent. The bastards have been overflowing the port since their Undead War started."
Treale couldn't help but breathe out in relief. Her accent, learned from flying across the border into Osanna many times in her youth, had just saved her life.
If they knew I am Vir Requis, a daughter of their sworn enemies, they would execute me here on the street.
"Aye, my lord," Treale said and curtsied, as the daughters of Osanna were wont to do. "The undead rise from Fidelium's mountains and march across our realm. They slew my father; he was a weaver. I can weave too! Would you be so kind as to direct me to a seamstress? I will work for room and board."
The soldiers grumbled, and one laughed and whispered to his friend; Treale caught something about how she would better serve as a whore than a seamstress, which was all Osannan women were good for. Treale bit her lip. Osannans were perhaps scum to these tall, noble sons of Tiranor; scum could be spat upon, cursed, and