A Night of Dragon Wings - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,77

the ruins before him: the forest floor, the trees, the crumbled walls, and the sky. He could see nothing but them, a tapestry of the Abyss. Their eyes blazed, burning white. Their tongues lolled, raining drool. Some had swollen, distorted heads that leaked pus. Others had gaunt, long faces lined with spikes. Some had nothing but great mouths full of teeth, their entire heads made only of jaws.

"Elethorrr…," one hissed, a great nephil that hovered among them. Its wings spread wide, and it sat upon a throne of flame. A halo of fire wreathed its brow, shrieking like a storm, and blood coated its maw. It was the largest among them, a leader of darkness.

"You will leave this place," Elethor called to it, standing before the temple window. "You will return to the Abyss."

The nephilim tossed their heads back and howled. They laughed and snapped their teeth and beat their wings. Severed heads and limbs cracked inside their jaws. Their leader rose higher upon a throne of fire. Its halo blazed white-hot.

"I am Legion!" it screeched, its voice so loud and shrill, Elethor roared in pain and trees cracked across the ruins. "I am Prophet! I serve the great Queen Solina. I have feasted upon the sons of dragons. I will feast upon their king! Your doom is near, King Elethor of Requiem. Your blood will be my wine, and your spine will feed my children." It howled, pus and blood spraying from its maw. "The time of the dragon ends, King Elethor. Your kingdom is fallen. The world burns and we, the Fallen, feast. The nephilim rise!"

All around Legion, the thousands of nephilim repeated the cry. "We rise! We rise! We feast!"

How can we fight such evil? Elethor thought in a daze. His head spun. He felt weak. He could barely cling to his magic. How can we fight countless of these demons, creatures risen from ancient evil? How can Requiem survive such malice, such might?

He thought of Lyana, his wife, the love and light of his life. He thought of Mori, his sister whom he had vowed to find. He thought of all those people who had died under his banner, and those who still lived behind him.

I am still their king. Even now. Even as our light fades. If we die here, let us die with a roar that will sound across the world.

He sounded his roar. He blew his fire at the Prophet of the Fallen. The blaze crashed into Legion, and the nephil screeched to the sky.

Elethor shifted into human form and leaped through the window. He rolled into the temple and the arms of fellow survivors. At once two dragons thrust their heads to the window and shot fire outside, holding the swarm back.

Elethor lay in human form, bruised and cut and bleeding. He struggled to his feet and looked around him. His breath left his lungs and the weight of mountains seemed to lie upon his shoulder.

So few still live.

Several hundred Vir Requis huddled here, bloodied and bruised, clinging to one another. This was all that remained of his father's nation. Dragons stood along the walls and clung to the ceiling, blowing fire outside, holding the nephilim back.

But they will break in, Elethor thought. They will break these walls and they will tear us apart—elders, mothers, children. They will feed the horde and King's Column will fall.

"Come back to us, Lyana," he whispered, voice hoarse. "Come back to us, Bayrin. Bring what aid you can. We cannot wait."

He didn't even know if his friends could find them now. If Bayrin and Lyana returned to their abandoned camp, would they know to head to Bar Luan? Were they alone here, and no aid could reach them?

The sun set outside. Darkness covered the world. The nephilim howled and slammed against the walls. Dust and moss fell and babes wept. Fire blew. Elethor shifted back into dragon form and replaced a young dragon at a window. He blew his fire, not knowing if they'd last the night.

LYANA

They flew north across the plains, heading toward the ancient capital of Osanna, and found it burning.

Lyana had been to this place, the legendary city of Confutatis, many times. She had flown here with her father to visit the king of men, a wise old grandfather with a flowing white beard but pitch-black eyebrows. The people of Osanna had no magic; they could not become dragons like the children of Requiem, but rode horses and shot arrows, forged steel and