A Night of Dragon Wings - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,54

specks from here, but when he squinted, Elethor could see beating wings, glints of sun on armor, and lanky limbs.

Nephilim. The spawn of demons and mortal mothers. He gripped his sword tight. Stars, Solina, what have you done?

He looked below the mountainside to their camp. A thousand souls lived there—people who depended on him, people he had protected for moons now, people who might die this evening. They could hear the distant shrieks; as they moved between the trees, the survivors cocked their heads, listened to the southern cries, and began to whisper. A few men drew swords.

Elethor snarled, fear gripping his heart like claws. He stared at the spreading shadow. It was buzzing and shimmering, a foul tapestry. How long before it reached them?

He missed Lyana and Bayrin so fiercely his chest tightened. He did not relish the thought of fighting without them, yet they had flown west and east, seeking aid.

Will you fetch aid for a pile of corpses?

An old man walked up the mountainside, clanking in armor. A scar rifted his creased face, and braids filled his white beard. A patch covered his left eye, and his gnarled hands clutched a sword and shield.

"Garvon," Elethor said and nodded his head. The old man had fought in the City Guard for forty years; he was one of the only guards to survive Nova Vita's fall.

"My king." The old man's breath rattled. He spat, then turned to stare south. His eyes darkened and he grumbled. "Bloody bollocks, what are those?" He covered his eyes and squinted. "Wyverns? Stars, there's an army of them."

Elethor shook his head and spoke softly. "Not wyverns. Nephilim."

Garvon grunted and stared at him with his one narrow, shrewd eye. "Nephilim? My king, they're only a legend. Don't tell me you believe—"

"I believe what I see, Garvon, and those are no wyverns." Elethor inhaled deeply. "They're flying our way. They know we're here."

Garvon flexed his fingers around his sword hilt. "They're just scanning the forest. We've seen Solina patrol here before. We're hidden under the trees; they won't find us."

Elethor looked down at the camp. A moon ago, leaves had covered these trees, and not even wyvern eyes could see through their cover. Today the branches were bare. From here upon the mountainside, Elethor could see huts and tents. They had covered their dwellings with woven curtains of leaf and vine, but that would not fool seeking eyes.

"These are no scouts, Garvon. This is an army, as you said." He grunted. "Solina would not invade Salvandos with an entire army; she would not risk angering the salvanae. Not unless she knew we were here." He began walking downhill. "We evacuate. At once."

"My lord," Garvon began, chin raised, "I say we stay. We fight. We slay them upon the—"

"The days of fighting are over," Elethor said, still walking downhill. "At least until Lyana and Bayrin return with aid. We flee to the temple."

Garvon muttered as he walked downhill, breath snorting and armor clanking. "That temple might make us miss the nephilim. I prefer fighting beasts I can see, rather than ghosts. Beasts you can cut and burn."

They had discovered the temple three moons ago, a network of ruins a few leagues north in the forest. Elethor had wanted to set camp there, to hide among its fallen statues, crumbling archways, and dungeons. The others—everyone from Garvon to Bayrin and Lyana—had adamantly refused, quoting old tales of the ghosts who dwelled in those ruins.

The Ancients built those temples, Lyana had warned, and some say their ghosts still haunt the place. Let us hide among trees, not old stones that still whisper.

Yet now these trees were naked, and stones could protect them, even if they had to share those stones with spirits.

He reached the foothills and entered the camp. The distant shrieks rose louder now. The survivors stood still, staring south. Children raised wooden swords as if, with enough courage, they could slay any enemy. Wounded men lay legless in carts, faces pale. Mothers clutched babes to their breasts.

One thousand and fifty-four souls. The last lights of Requiem.

Elethor climbed onto a fallen log. He gripped Ferus's hilt so tightly his fingers ached. The people came to stand around him, forming a ring in the forest. Elethor looked from face to face. They were pale. They were afraid. These were not fighters; nearly all their fighters had died in Requiem. These were elders, children, mothers, wounded.

"People of Requiem!" Elethor said, looking from face to face. They stared back silently. "Queen