A Night of Dragon Wings - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,59
a snarl, she drew her sword, but the brothers only snickered.
"No need for blades here, my queen," Grom said, speaking the last word as an insult. He led them around a boulder and pointed at a thick oak. Upon its trunk, tied with ropes and chains, hung the corpse of a nephil.
"Stars," Lyana whispered.
Nausea rose in her. She had never seen one of the beasts so close before. Patches of dank scales covered its flesh like lesions, and its claws curved, long as sabres. Its bloated head bustled with insects; the eyes were already gone. Worms crawled upon its cleaved skull, and dried entrails hung from its slashed belly. Half the body was burnt with dragonfire, the other half lacerated with claws.
Squat young Gar smirked. "Figured we'd leave the bastard here—a warning to his comrades. I killed this one myself." He thrust out his broad chest. "Burned him dead."
Lyana spat in disgust. "Bury it," she said. "It stinks."
"We want it to stink, your highness," Gar said. "Let its brothers smell it. Let them smell their death on the wind and know that more death awaits them here."
Lyana whipped her head toward the brothers and glared. "You are a boastful couple." She growled. "You hide here in disguise, and you dare not shift and fly, yet you brag of slaying nephilim. Do you know how many of these creatures fly in Requiem, seeking us? Thousands. Tens of thousands. Armies of them muster, and more keep flowing north from the desert. You burned one? Swarms of them will fly here; they will cover the world. Do you think the stench of one will deter the rest?" She marched toward Gar, grabbed his collar, and bared her teeth at him. "You are a foolish boy, and when this corpse's comrades arrive, you will die squealing." She twisted his collar tight, constricting his breath. "I've seen many boys like you die squealing."
The young miner paled, and for an instant his lips shook. Then he raised his chin, shoved her off, and smoothed his tunic.
"Be silent," he grumbled, though his voice shook slightly. "Follow. We're almost there."
They walked past the corpse—Lyana nearly gagged as the flies buzzed near her—and moved down a leafy slope toward a stream. The water rose past their ankles, and beyond it stood a hill with trees so thick, they had to push branches aside and climb over roots and boulders. Finally, below the hill, Lyana saw the camp.
Her heart leaped and tears dampened her eyes.
"So many," she whispered.
Only a thousand Vir Requis lived with Elethor in the west; Lyana had thought them the only survivors of Requiem. Yet here lived many more—this camp was twice the size of the one Elethor led, maybe larger. Children ran playing around boulders, holding dolls woven of leaf and grass. Young women whispered around campfires. An old man stood upon a boulder, leading a congregation in prayer. A palisade of spikes surrounded the camp, and men stood guarding it, armed with spears.
A tear streamed down Lyana's cheek, and her legs trembled. "So many still live."
The brothers tried to grab her arms and lead her. Lyana wrenched herself free and began marching toward the camp, holding her head high. She let the wind billow her cloak open, revealing her knightly armor. At times like these, Lyana missed her old mane of fiery red curls; it used to draw people's attention like a beacon of fire. Solina had sheared that hair last year, and now only a finger's length grew upon her head. Today these embers, a memory of a great flame, would have to do.
"My lady!" Gar cried behind her. "I mean, Lyana! I mean—newcomer. Halt! We will escort you into our camp."
Lyana ignored him and kept marching. She made toward a gateway in the palisade where two guards stood, bearing cracked shields and makeshift spears. They wore old, dented breastplates; one from the armories of Requiem, another stolen from a dead Tiran and still bearing the Golden Sun of Tiranor. When Lyana tried to march between them and into the camp, they moved closer together, making to block her way.
"Move!" Lyana barked and shoved them back. When they tried to grab her, she glared and bared her teeth at them. "I am Lyana Eleison, Queen of Requiem, your mistress. If you touch me, I will cut off your hands."
She gripped her sword's hilt and drew a foot of steel; it gleamed and the guards hesitated. Not wasting another moment, Lyana strode into the camp.