A Night of Dragon Wings - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,8

Requiem lay but a league east from here; the forces of Solina dared not yet burn this land of Salvandos, still fearing the wrath of its leaders who dwelled far in the west, guardians of this forest.

Yet if her power grows, Elethor thought, she will burn this place too. Birds called overhead, flying south for winter, and Elethor watched them. They are heading to Tiranor. To Solina. Soon we will fly there too.

People moved about the camp, clad in furs and old cloaks, leaves in their hair and mud on their cheeks. Some wore armor; these ones guarded the palisade of wooden stakes that surrounded their camp. Others wore bandages, still wounded from the war. Some lay in carts, limbs missing, flesh scarred, eyes anguished or burned away. A few men stood around a mossy boulder, praying and chanting from old scrolls. A girl was weaving blades of grass into dolls, which she then handed out to younger children.

One thousand and fifty-seven.

They had set camp here nearly three moons ago—Elethor, Lyana, and fewer than a hundred others. Their scouts had since been combing these forests, seeking more survivors. At first they would find bloodied and bedraggled Vir Requis every day, and their camp had swelled rapidly. By now few other survivors remained; Elethor's scouts had found only two—young twins, a boy and girl—over the past ten days.

Is this all there is? he wondered, looking down upon the camp. Are these all who live from our nation? He grasped the hilt of his sword, and his throat constricted. Where are you, Mori?

Once more, Solina's words returned to him, echoing through his mind as they did every day and night.

She lives, Elethor. She lives.

He closed his eyes, and his fist trembled around Ferus's hilt.

"I will fly to your desert, Solina," he whispered. "I will rain my fire upon you. If you took my sister, I will free her, and you will burn forever in my flames."

One thousand and fifty-seven. He opened his eyes and looked at them again—frightened children, wounded women, tired old men. Yet he would lead them in flight, and they would blow their fire—like the great last stand of Lanburg Fields where legendary King Benedictus had led Requiem's survivors against the griffins.

He turned to look at Lyana. She stared back with huge eyes like green wells, and he knew that she was thinking the same thing.

"Will it be enough?" he whispered.

She squeezed his hand. "I don't know." Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but deep and haunting like ghosts in an ancient forest. "Maybe not, Elethor. But we will lead them nonetheless, and we will burn the enemy upon her towers, even if we fall in flame too."

"For the glory of our stars," he said. "For Requiem."

Her eyes dampened. "For Mori."

A scream rose from the camp, and Elethor sucked in his breath and spun his head around. He stared at the forest and the scream rose again—a scream of such terror and pain, for an instant he thought the Abyss had risen into the world.

The camp below stirred. Requiem's survivors rose to their feet and spun toward the sound. Steel hissed as Elethor and Lyana drew their swords. His heart hammered and his old wounds blazed.

She found us. Stars, Solina found us.

The trees stirred, and Elethor prepared to shift into a dragon, to blow his fire, to burn and die. Yet it was no Tiran troops who burst from the trees, but a single, haggard man with wild hair and wilder eyes. At first Elethor thought him some mad woodland hermit; he was shirtless even in the cold, his ribs showing beneath his skin. His teeth were missing, and dried blood caked his hair. He ran barefoot toward the cave, fell to his knees, and howled to the sky.

"Stars," Lyana whispered and gasped, and then Elethor recognized the man, and his breath caught.

This man was no wild hermit.

He was Vir Requis.

He was Leras Brewer and three moons ago, he had been strong, somber, a warrior of Requiem. Elethor had sent him south to spy in Tiranor before Requiem's survivors attacked.

He returned to us a broken beast.

Jaw clenched, Elethor sheathed his sword and marched down the mountainside toward the fallen, wailing man. Lyana rushed at his side, and guards of the camp, clad in armor and holding spears, hurried forward too. Soon a ring of people surrounded Leras.

The young man—Stars, he looks old now, Elethor thought—lay trembling, knees pulled to his chest. Tears filled his eyes, and his toothless