A Night of Dragon Wings - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,55

Lyana and Lord Bayrin have flown to fetch aid; they will return with it, I promise this to you. But now we must move. Now we must flee danger. I will lead you north through the forest, and we will hide among the ruins of Bar Luan. We will find safety there until help arrives."

The people exchanged dark glances. They whispered prayers and curses. One old man drew his sword and a child whimpered. They had all heard stories of Bar Luan, the fallen temple of the Ancients. In a thousand bedtime stories, they had heard of the ghosts who wandered there, the spirits that sucked the blood of the living, and the old pain in the rocks.

Yet what choice do I have? Elethor thought. We can face old stories. Or we can face beasts that fly upon the sky.

The distant shrieks rose higher—cruel, inhuman shrieks, high-pitched like shattering glass. A stench wafted on the wind, scented of corpses. A child began to cry, and a few of the wounded whimpered. A young woman cursed and drew a chipped sword.

"Be calm!" Elethor said. "Danger approaches; the enemy flies from the south. We will hide in the temple, and we will find safety there. I promise this to you. I swear it on the name of my fathers. Now move! Walk in human form. Stay under the trees and wear your cloaks of leaf and vine. Move silently, move fast, and stay under the cover of the branches. The temple is three leagues away. Follow me now!"

He stepped off the log. The ring of people parted, and Elethor began walking north. His heart pounded so madly he thought that, were he not wearing a breastplate, it could leap from his chest. He walked silently, lips tight, hand still gripping his sword. Around him, the people glanced at one another uneasily.

"Follow, now!" Garvon hissed, moving from survivor to survivor. "Do not pack. Leave your things! Move—no, leave your supplies. Move!"

Behind them in the south, the nephilim shrieked. Elethor marched among the trees, leaves and twigs snapping under his boots. Behind him the people walked, faces pale, clutching spears and swords or simple staffs they had carved from fallen branches.

Please, stars, don't let them see us, Elethor prayed silently. Let us live until Bayrin and Lyana return.

They moved through the forest in single file, silent. These people had fled the phoenixes into the tunnels under Nova Vita, then the wyverns; they knew how to move silently and swiftly. Strings of leaves covered their heads and cloaks, red like the forest around them. Eyes darted. Voices whispered. Fingers twisted around weapons.

"Legion, Legion!" rose a distant shriek behind them, curdling Elethor's blood. "You promised flesh! You promised dragon bones. We hunger! We thirst!"

Elethor gritted his teeth. Around him, the survivors whispered and a few mewled. The shrieks still sounded distant—leagues away—but louder than the crash of columns.

"We must feast! We must drink dragon blood." The cries rolled across the sky, loud and shrill as snapping bones. "Where do dragons hide?"

Requiem's survivors watched the skies, clung to one another, and raised their weapons.

"Keep moving!" Elethor hissed. "Garvon, keep them moving."

A hundred men and women served in their new army, a force Elethor had dubbed the Camp Guard; old Garvon led them. These soldiers, clad in dented armor and bearing longswords, moved along the line of survivors, rallying them forward. They kept moving through the forest. Elethor quickened his walk to a run; the others ran behind him.

"I am Legion!" rose a cry from behind. The stench of rot blazed. "I am Prophet. I lead you to dragons! A camp, a camp! Dragons were here. Dragons are near! I smell them, brothers and sisters. I smell sweet dragon blood to drink, and bones to crack, and marrow to suck, and meat to lick, and souls to break. Dragons flee! Dragons will die."

A shadow shot above the branches overhead. The survivors bent, wailed, and pointed. The shadow circled, then soared again, and Elethor snarled.

Stars save us.

He had seen illustrations of nephilim, those spawn of demons and their mortal brides, great lanky beasts with bat wings. In real life, they were more hideous than anything an artist could draw. The nephil above looked, Elethor thought, like a strip of dried meat, its fingers clawed, its mouth full of teeth like swords. A halo of flame encircled its head. The creature howled, and trees shattered, and the survivors covered their ears. The sound was so loud Elethor shouted through his